I've had an interesting few days. I finally think I broke out of the unproductive pre-departure funk that I've been in for the last few weeks. I've been helping the International Relations Department edit a proposal for the World Bank. The work's not actually all that exciting, but it's nice to be doing something a little different and I've been able to learn a bit about writing large grant proposals. . .which I feel like could be a useful skill to have. The editing process, however, can be pretty mind numbing at times. Especially when you've got a phrase like "contract disposal recieving providing documentations" to make sense of. . .

Speaking of mind numbing, I may have to cut this blog short because this cafe is playing increadibly loud techno music and it isn't the best writing music. . .rather than typing I find myself either wanting to pull out my hair in annoyance and frustration or dance. Son of a bitch. It feels like someones pounding a dance rhythm inside my head. . .every so often the music stops and some guy with a heavy German accent says: "I know--a girl--she looks--so fine" and then "I dream--of her--all--the time". And this song must have been playing for over 10 minutes soI don't understand how anybody can listen to this kind of music, much less think that it's a good choice of music to play in a cafe. A place that people go to sit and talk. . . .maybe I need to find another cafe. Another strange thing about this cafe is that it's now is playing some movie called Platoon Leader (most cafe's around here have at least one tv and they're always playing a movie of some sort) that's one of those "Nam" movies about "our boys" going in "the shit" which portrays the Vietnamese not as human beings but as "gooks". It's pretty surreal.

Today I went to the orphanage I work with. They organized a sort of party for Vietnamese "reunification" day, May Day, the first king's day, and my farewell all rolled into one. All of the admins of Hoi Tu Thien are former VC and they took turns telling what they were doing on April 30, 1975 (reunification day. . .the day the Americans left). Activities ranged from freeing prisoners, to getting freed, to killing buffalo for a feast, to persuading republican leaders to turn over power, and other similar activities. One of the old guys, Ba, was one of about 4000 political prisoners on Con Dao prison island when the US finally left. He said that he could hardly believe it when he was freed. Apparently the warden of the prison had planned to kill all of the political prisoners on the island in the event of a South Vietnamese defeat, but according to the story Ba told, a priest who lived on the island was able to persuade the warden to allow them all to live and the warden called off the mass execution at the last minute. When the prisoners were finally freed, Ba said that they had to pinch themselves, some people even drawing blood to make sure that they were awake and not dreaming or dead. Of course the prisoners on both sides were in pretty bad shap. Ba said that he went to Con Dao weighing 85 kilos (Ba's one of the biggest Vietnamese men I've seen of his generation) and left weighing only 60. . .which means that he lost about 60 pounds. Some of the men acually died when they ate their first meal because they had been starved for so long and their stomachs were shocked by the sudden reintroduction of real food. It was a little strange to listen to all of the old people reminisce about the day that my country left their country alone.

How long have you been here?

I couldn't guess how many times I've been asked this question in the last 20 months. Ban o day bau lau roi? I bet I get asked this question at least twice a day. About 60% of the time this question is followed up by con ban se o day bau lau nua? and how much longer will you be here? I kind of makes it impossible for the time to sneak up on me. It true that this year has flown by, but I can't very honestly say that I can't believe that I've only got a month left or wonder where the time went, because I have to reflect on exactly how much longer I've got over here on a daily basis. Right now I'm about 50% excited to be heading back to the States and start the long-ass process of going to medical school, about 50% depressed about leaving behind so many great things (Just today for example, I went out to the countryside and helped make banh canh--a kind of thick rice noodle soup made with coconut milk--from scratch on a wood stove, I had a beer with a farmer who invited me to come back sometime and go fishing, got caught in a monsoonal rainstorm on the way back to Can Tho and rode my motorbike through to storm wearing a massive poncho to keep me. . .sort of dry, went to a software store and realized that it was owned by a friend of mine who I play basketball with at the University, stayed and chatted for a few minutes and on the way home for the computer software store ran into two people I know on the street, went to the internet and found out that I have successfully gotten some funding for the orphanage I've been working with), and about 32% depressed that I haven't been able to accomplish more while I've been over here. I've still got a ton of stuff to do before I go, but I've been spending the last week spinning my wheels and not effectively getting anything done.

The real reason that I'm writing this blog. ..I only blog when there's something that I need to get off my chest . . . is that as long as I've been over here, I still can't seem to convince people that I know how to survive in Vietnam. I went to a restaurant for dinner. Just a small rice place. I started eating my dinner with a pair of chopsticks and the lady who served me my rice literally took the chopsticks from my hands and replaced them with a fork. I know that she was trying to be helpful, but this made me sooooo angry that I could barely finish my meal. It would have been one thing if she had suggested that I use a fork. . .I'm used to that, but she took the damned chopsticks away from me. I was denied chopstick privileges. I wanted toss my plate across the restaurant, go home, and cry myself to sleep. Fortunately I realized how stupid I was being before I made a fool out of myself. Instead I smiled and used the fork with a full fist like a barbarian and tried to get as much food as possible onto my lap. . . It's a good think I didn't make a fool out of myself. Now rather than thinking that I'm rude, they probably just think that I've got some sort of mental disorder, and after an episode like that. . .I've got to wonder. I think that the frustration comes from the fact that no matter how hard, or how long I try, I'll never be treated as a local. Of course I know that I'm not a local, but sometimes you just want to eat your rice with chopsticks--the way that feels the most natural to you-- and you don't want anyone to fuck with you.

Anyway, I feel better now.

So for those of you who are curious, I've been over here for about 18 months (from september 2006-now minus two months last summer), and I'm only going to stay for another month and a half.

It was bound to happen. I've been here for over a year and a half now, and that's a long time to go without. . . it happening.

Montezuma's revenge. I finally got my inaguaral case of dysentary. . .amoebic dysentary. The last few days have not been too fun.

Thursday night I went out with some friends for dinner and didn't have an appetite because it felt like something crawled into my esophogus and died. Later that night. . .it crawled out . .. so to speak. Friday, I thought I was going to get better, but Saturday and Sunday, it came back. I got real sick and I became much more intimate with the porcelain than I'm comfortable with.

On Sunday afternoon I intended to go to the doctor, but the one doctor that I know in town isn't available on Sundays, so I figured I'd try to wait it out. Later that afternoon, my good friend, Duy, had a housewarming party. I really wasn't in any shape to be going to a party, but I knew that he'd be pretty disappointed if I didn't at least show up. Anyway, since his new house isn't to far from mine, I decided, "what the hell". In an emergency I could always make a mad dash back to my beloved porcelain bowl. Anyway, I arrived at his party a little early and I was telling him a bit about my condition, and he got an idea. He got on the phone and called up his friend, Dr. Nguyen. Nguyen speaks English and French fluently and Duy says he's the best doctor in town. I'm skeptical already. It isn't that I don't trust Duy, it's just that he. . .he tends to overestimate the quality of some of his drinking partners.

I think I was right in being skeptical. When the doctor arrived, he asked me basically one question, diagnosed my condition as gastroenternitis and wrote a prescription for five different meds. Then he told Duy to drive me to pharmacy, buy the meds, and bring me back to the party. He said after I took the medicine, I could lay down for about 15 minutes (I refrained from mentioning that I didn't think I could sit or lay in any one place other than the wc) for that long and then join the drinking party. He didn't care to mention that one of the antibiotics that he prescribed is strongly contraindicted with alcohol. The scary thing was that I think he was serious. He actually would have allowed me to take a bunch of antibiotics and other meds and then sit down and drink a ton of rice wine.

I finally had to insist that they let me go to the pharmacy on my own and then go home and rest. Which I did (and later that night my fever rose to over 103 degrees--further confirming that drinking that afternoon probably wouldn't have been a good idea). I do, however, have that doctor's number in case I ever need to get him to fill out another prescription for me.

Anyway, I feel considerably better today. I little worn out, but glad to have recovered from my first bout with a tropical disease. I feel a bit of giddiness. i'm not sure if that's cause by lack of fluids or the hot weather or just being elated about the fact that I don't have to go to the bathroom every 10 minutes, but it's a nice feeling.

Yesterday was a difficult day for the English department at Can Tho University. A student of the English class of 2006, Bui Duc Toan, came to the English department with a knife and attacked 5 teachers and staff of the department. A day later, two are still in the hospital in stable condition, and three have been released. Toan has been arrested and is awaiting conviction in Can Tho city jail.

Toan was my student last year. I taught him for an entire year. He was clearly a disturbed student, but I never thought that he was capable of something like this. One time he came to my house to discuss some of his problems with me. He said that his classmates were ganging up against him. He drew 5 or 6 diagrams using circles, lines and x's to illustrate the various scenarios. In one, his classmates were standing on one side of a fence and he was on the other. They were laughing and throwing things at him. In another, he was in the middle of a ring of his classmates and they were calling him names and laughing at him. He also described how his class monitor (a very nice guy) attempted to throw him off of the third story of a cafe on night. I could tell that he was very upset by all of these stories and he absolutely believed them to be the truth. I tried to convince him that, although it may seem like his classmates are against him, in reality they aren't like that, but I don't think he bought it. I told him to talk to me any time he had some problems with anyone, but he never really talked to me in confidence again after that. Another time, he told me that he believed he was great. . ."like Einstein or Bill Gates" and that most people are weak and unintelligent.

I have no idea what was going through his head, but I'm sure that he is a truly disturbed person and I think the way he experiences reality must be a very frightening thing. I don't know what we could have done to stop this from happening, but there were certainly warning signs and I feel some small sense of failure for not having recognized them. . .or for recognizing them, but for not making them my concern.

Hanoi: January 12 - January 15.

I visited Hanoi over the break. Partly out of obligation (I've spent almost 2 years in Vietnam. . .I've got to at least try to see the north), and partly out of curiosity. I've got to say, it's a different world up there. A little cold in the winter. Laid back. Called the Paris of the East. I've never been to Paris, so it's hard for me to know what to make of it, but it definately has some charm. Narrow streets, old buildings, old money (there are some really weathly folks in Hanoi), tree lined boulevards, a lot of lakes and parks and museums.

Hanoi's filled with lakes. Altogether there's probably two dozen of them scattered about the city. I spent most of my time walking around the city. . .visiting my erstwhile roomate, Wes, finding the major lakes and hitting up a few museums. It was not a particulary bad way to spend a few days.

There's a ton of expats living in Hanoi, and I can sort of see why. It's a lot more livable than Ho Chi Minh City and the infrastructure's pretty well developed. It would actually be possible, as a foreigner, to raise a family here. Hoan Kiem district, the city center, is particularly developed . . . to the extent that it's hard to believe that you're still in Vietnam. Somehow, I think living here would feel incredibly empty, though.

The next night (my last night in Hanoi) I went on a bit of a bender with Wes. Wes was living in a sort of blue collar neighborhood on the outskirts of the city that was described to us as being a "very dusty" place. . .maybe Hanoi's answer to Long Island. There's not much out there but the school that Wes was studying at, a few hotels, some factories, and a bunch of "bia hoi" places. Hanoi's famous for a sort of shitty homebrewed beer called bia hoi, and once you get outside of the prohibitively expensive city center, every other storefront sells the stuff. Wes and I decided that we were going to go down the street that he lives on and visit as many pubs as we could manage order a beer and the most disgusting thing on the menu. That's how we ended up drinking some 10 glasses of barely potable malt beverage and eating everything from horse to deer to rabbit to buffalo innards. One of the places we ended up drinking at was without a doubt the sketchiest place I've ever drank in my life. This place was apparently some sort of decrepit soviet-era chemical warehouse that doubled as a bar at night and sold alarmingly cheap beer (1,300d per glass . . . about 10 cents) that tasted like metal. Wes and I decided we'd finish only one glass of the stuff and then move on out of fear of mercury poisoning, but there were a couple of friendly guys at the table across the way. . . Maybe at this time a more accurate description of this place is in order.

This pub was quite literally a warehouse with a big sliding entrance gate, rusted out tin walls and a partially caved in ceiling. The rafters supporting ceiling and keeping the walls from collapsing on themselves were also partially destroyed. Flourescent tuble lights were hanging from half fallen rafters and swinging precariously above our heads. There were two rows of filthy child sized tables and chairs lined up in the center of a large warehouse space. Conspicuous barrels of what could have been toxic waste were stacked haphazzardly along the sides of the building. In the back there were six massive kegs where the beer, and/or chemicals were apparently being made. I asked to use the bathroom and was pointed to the back. It took me a few minutes to realize that they were telling me that the bathroom was actually just a room for pissing. There was no toilet, no light and I'm not sure that there was even a drain, just a floor and some walls and the overwhelming smell of urine.

So why did we stay? These guys were really nice and damned entertaining. One was wearing a 2-pac hat and said absolutely nothing, but seemed immensely content. We were told that he just met his girlfriend and that he's in love. Perhaps that explains the enlightened peacefulness about him. . .maybe he's just a chill guy. His friend on the was one of the most garralous fellows I've ever met. It was a study of extremes. This guy did not shut up for more than thirty minutes and spoke Vietnamese at a breakneck pace of which I could only understand enough of to keep him going. it was ridiculous.

We continued the night, visited a total of 6 bia hoi places, outside of one we were offered a toke of some sort of traditional tobacco pipe that old folks smoke on the sidewalk in Hanoi. It was pretty harsh stuff, but the old guys loved us for joining them for a few minutes and it was nice to give it a try (although not being a smoker, inhaling that stuff felt like a kick in the head) and I ended up catching the last bus back to the downtown area at 11pm.

The next day I went to the Ethnic minority museum which was actually pretty cool. They had an exhibit about centralized planning which was surprising critical of the government before the open door policy in '87.

I left that evening on a train bound for Hue. . .I still felt a bit shitty from the excesses of the night before.

There's a certain visceral intensity to the images that I take away from Vietnam. Often I'll catch a glimpse of something from my motorbike that leaves a deep impression on me. I don't usually carry a camera or when I do I tend to avoid taking pictures, so most of the clearest images that I take away, I take away as memories.

I was on the back of a motorbike in Ho Chi Minh City a few weeks ago. . .going to visit my friend in a part of the city known as little Hong Kong (part of the massive Chinatown district). We were cutting through narrow sidestreets and I catch a glimpse of this man squatting on his haunches on the sidewalk and shaping some piece of metal. He had a hammer in one hand and a glowing red hot shank of iron in the other. He was wearing an apron and over his face was a demonic, chinese-style silver mask. The mask was made of some varnished, silvery looking metal, with horns and the face of a ferocious looking scowling beast. As I looked down the alley and saw him he looked back at me our eyes met. . .or rather, my eyes met the holes in the mask through which his eyes were, supposedly, looking. The mask was terrifying, but perhaps the most unsettling part of this encounter was the apparently no one else noticed this beast man working metal on the sidewalk. Other than this bizarre mask, there was nothing unusual about the scene. I felt as though I was the only one on the street who noticed.

Yesterday I caught a glimpse of a begger on the street. He was nothing but a skeleton with filthy matted hair and was wearing only a dirty old pair of shorts. He was in front of the market. Evidently he couldn't walk because he was working his way down the side of the street on his back, moving like a worm throughout the crowd of people and motorbikes above and around him. That this man was alive is amazing in itself. That he was on the street trying to make some money to support whatever sort of life he may have is nothing short of a miracle. This haunting image, for me, is the definition of true poverty. It is something we do not have in the United States.

Just this morning as I was heading down a street named after the military genius, Ly To Trong of the 11th century, I looked to the side and between half opened gate of a rusty, tin-walled house, I saw an old, old man who was peaking outside, wearing a pair of shorts and an enormous smile. He was vigorously rubbing, perhaps scrubbing his back with what looked like a rag--half the size of a t-shirt. On either side of this house were new, modern buildings, with this old man standing firm, feet--shoulder length apart, peaking out through the crack in the old door of the middle house, standing guard as if he were an extremely good natured sentinel.

I've got sort of a love hate relationship with travelling. I've reached this point over here where I'm tired of being a foreigner, and when I travel, I'm definately that. People see me walking down the street in a tourist area (which, these places are hard to escape as a tourist. ..maybe not in a place like NYC, but in Vietnam, it takes work) and people see dollar signs. They look at you like a walking money bag. I alternate between being im- and depressed by the amount of things that are thrown at me. Useless "authentic" war era zippos (complete with rust-like finish), maps, motorbike rides, boom boom (sex), drugs (marijuana, xtc, probably heroin), drinks, food, cookies, lottery tickets, the sort of cheap plastic toy things you can buy at firework displays, bad jewelry, sunglasses, hammocks, cigarettes (american--real), massage, gay massage, books (these are carried in stacks of, I shit you not, 30 or more, and always by women), candy, chewing gum, and so on. All of this is constantly being offered to you by an endless progression of sad looking women and angry men. Every exchange leaves me feeling like an asshole or a sucker. It wears on you.

In Can Tho, I'm largely able to avoid this. CT is not a tourist town and I'm able to actually able to have something of a normal existence here. I've got friends who treat me as a person and not purse. I'm able to talk to people in Vietnamese without drawing a crowd (this still happens, but somehow a foreigner speaking Vietnamese is less of an anomoly here than other places where there are actually a lot more foreigners). Of course everywhere I go people watch me, but it's not a particularly bad watching and they don't usually try to get anything out of me, so I'm okay with it. Occasionally, an asshole will make a smart remark, but that's the same everywhere you go.

Anyway, it's nice to be back and it's nice to be working again. It makes me feel like a valuable person again. I'll be making a few posts, cataloging my travel in the coming days, and I'll try to even upload a few pictures so if your interested in mediocre travel writing, check back for updates.

I wanted to ammend that last post with a follow up on the storm. Although in Can Tho we were relatively unaffected. . .I have heard that a couple of trees were toppled, about a hundred miles away nearly a hundred people died and the storm destroyed tens of thousands of houses. Two things occurred to me.

1.) There seems to be no sort of adequate warning system in place to deal with these storms. Nobody had any idea where this thing was going to hit or how strong it was going to be and there was absolutely no call for evacuation. If it had been a little more powerful, there would have been thousands of deaths instead of a hundred.

2.) The people who's lives were affected by this storm are exactly the people who cannot afford to deal with the clean up. A family who loses their tin roof is a family who often must rebuild with banana leaves and the next time a storm comes through they must do it again. The families who can afford a solid house lost nothing. Its the ones who have these little thatch houses who have lost everything. A friend of mine described his trip back to one of the most affected areas: "everything was destroyed, every house was damaged except for the few concrete houses. . .there was a woman sitting in a pile of rubish that used to be her home. Personal belongings were scattered across the yard and her children were running around. Nobody bothered to pick anything up, but it wasn't for lack of pride, laziness, or even depression, but where was she going to put it. What do you do with your belongings when you don't even have a shelf to store them on or a room to put them in?"

And I never would have known that anyone was affected only a hundred miles away.