kindly court workers who invited me to join them for chai

I’m continually humbled by the kindness of strangers and never more so than when I’m traveling in, what from an American standpoint are, remote corners of the globe.  While Mumbai (or Bombay as the locals here still call it) is not exactly a small corner, it’s certainly very remote from my little hometown of Chattanooga, Tennessee.  I had been suffering some incredibly severe pangs of homesickness the past few days.  As if in response to some cosmic cue, a multitude of kind people reached out to me yesterday and invited me to share in some small portion of their lives. I was and am sincerely touched and grateful.

In addition to being incredibly homesick (or heartsick), I had also been feeling overwhelmed by the magnitude of sights and experiences the giant country of India has to offer compared with the relatively small amount of time I had to open myself to her.  It was clear from the start that I couldn’t see it all and eliminating options is not one of my strong suits. Everything seemed of paramount importance as I was faced with every traveler’s choice of spending more time in a few places or little time in many.  Additionally, I had become used to having my own transportation during the 10 months that I traveled Southeast Asia by motorbike. This was not going to be possible for me in India given the particular places I wanted to be on particular festival dates and the vast distances between them.  Accordingly, I had been forced to make train and plane reservations which meant planning ahead – which completely cramps my travel style.  All that combined with a little jet lag had left me feeling less than on top of the traveling world.

Samarsingh Thakur with his amazing art work

Seeking to soothe my soul, I did what every heartsick, jet-lagged, overwhelmed artist/traveler would do … and headed to an art museum.  Bombay’s National Gallery of Modern Art was a help. I enjoyed the eclectic variety of paintings, sculptures and mixed media pieces exhibited there. As is always the case with art for me, I connected with and was inspired by some while others were meant for another viewer. I left feeling better but my heart was not completely full.

As I wondered along a bit farther, I came across the first street vending chai wallah I’d seen in Bombay. Several men were gathered around drinking chai out of small clear glasses and allowed me to photograph them. Then they surprised me by inviting me to join them and treating me to some chai.  They were staffers at the High Court and had stepped outside their offices for an afternoon chai break. They hospitably inquired about my trip and allowed me to practice my limited Hindi with them.  Their hospitality coupled with the the delicious warm, milky, sweet, spiced tea certainly did wonders to warm my heart.

Only about 100 feet or so beyond the chai wallah’s stand, I happened to look into the open door of a building and saw some amazing art work that I’m certain physically grabbed me and pulled me into the building. All I could think was, “Wow!”

The colors were vibrant, the graphics were strong and there was obvious rich symbolism in the semi-featureless women who stared without eyes back at me from the paintings. I was mesmorized. The paintings were filled with movement and great energy but simultaneously conveyed a quiet spirit. I wasn’t sure if I should whisper or shout for joy. The paintings seemed to invite both reactions. The bodies of the women in the pieces were primarily simplistic torsos covered in beautiful swirling wallpaper-like designs. The tops of each of the their heads was missing leaving me to wonder if information was escaping their heads or if they were open to receiving vast quantities of messages and information. In a number of the pieces, one woman would be featured front and center in bright colors while multiple others were gathered behind her in shadowy blacks and grays, perhaps her shadow self.  I was reminded of a number of Indian women I’d encountered who dressed in vivid colors that demanded my attention and yet were too shy to be able to speak to me and only giggled, hiding behind their hands.

Samar and me with more of his art

I was so enveloped by the art that, I’m embarrassed to say, I barely noticed a group of men sitting at a table that I walked past until one of them got up to greet me.  I couldn’t believe my luck when the man introduced himself to me as Samarsingh Thakur, the artist responsible for my momentary shortness of breath.

Samar generously spent quite a bit of time talking to me about his work. He explained his message – his observation that women sometimes use design to conceal their own personalities perhaps remaining strangers even to themselves, while style can simultaneously be an expression of personality and even emotion.

Apparently I was very fortunate in my timing because Samar’s exhibition was due to be dismantled in a matter of hours.  He introduced me to several other artists at the table, many of whom were to be part of the new exhibit being installed immediately after.  Among those I met were Rakesh Kumar Singh (who paints contemporary stylized and symbolically rich scenes from the Gita, the Bible of Hinduism) and Ram Bali Prajapati (who both paints and works in mixed media. His paintings for this particular exhibit focused on a maternal theme but are far from sweet and simple. The preview I saw was simultaneously evocative, challenging, rich and nurturing.) They invited me to join them for chai and we discussed art, travel and the “must sees” of India.  Samar gave me the contact information for an artist/professor friend of his who lives in Udaipur, one of cities I’ll be visiting in the next couple of weeks. They also invited me to the opening reception of Rakesh and Ram’s work the next day at 4pm and emphasized repeatedly that I was to be their guest. Needless to say I can’t wait!!!

I left the men and did a little more clothes shopping as my few changes of clothes were all being laundered and I hadn’t yet purchased enough to use during my trip. In the process, I found and splurged on a beautiful dress for the next day’s special art opening.

Finally, I headed for a late dinner at almost ten o’clock. The restaurant I wanted to try was completely packed. As I waited for a table to open up, a kind family of four sitting by the door saw me and invited me to join them.  Initially, I thought they were inviting me to sit with them just until my own table was free but then they offered me some of their food that had just been served.  I sat with them but was torn about the food, thinking I was just sitting their temporarily. I didn’t want to take part of their meal which they had clearly ordered only for 4, but also didn’t want to offend them by refusing their hospitality.  They insisted repeatedly and it became clear that I was being invited to join them for the entire meal, not just “sitting for a spell.”

post-dinner with Rachel, Dean and their two sweet children

I enjoyed several new and delicious dishes – “lollipop chicken” similar to the drumstick of chicken wings but crunchier and without the buffalo wing sauce. We also had a spicy, somewhat thick beef broth based egg-drop kind of soup that had lots of ginger and spice (here things are called “beef” but because of India’s reverence for the cow, they are often buffalo or camel).  They also ordered two different kinds of fried rice, one spicy and one not. The spicy one was called chicken fried rice but Rachel, the “mom” explained that it was what she called “triple rice” because it had rice, noodles and then a gravy sauce which contained the chicken. It was all delicious.

Over dinner we discussed the delights of Bombay but also its commuting distance problems, what it was like to travel and learn new languages, and how many Indian families had settled into the U.S. Dean, an employee at a call center, was interested in moving there but was having trouble figuring out the logistics of relocation and employment opportunities. He and Rachel wouldn’t permit me to pay a single rupee towards dinner so afterwards I invited them to my hotel where I gave them one of my art pieces which they seemed to enjoy.

All in all, it was a lovely day and my heart is feeling more full, my soul soothed.  What more can a girl ask?

Although this wasn't "my Swami-ji," this most looks like him though he was clad all in white, with a cap and his top fully covered his torso.

Day 2 in India started off interestingly enough. What I thought was a room under construction adjacent to my room turns out to have been the kitchen hotel. Not only did the men working there wake me at 6am chatting and banging their pots and pans but I discovered that they had a view right into my bathroom!  While the toilet under the window was shielded from sight, the European style non-curtained middle-of-the-room shower was in complete view.  While I hadn’t caught any of them trying to peek in, I felt too uncomfortable with the possibility to chance it. So I headed downstairs bright and early to see about changing rooms, hopefully in time for a peep-free shower that morning.

The hotel clerks laughed knowingly as if we shared an inside joke when I asked them if they had another room where men could not see into my bathroom and where I wouldn’t be awakened by kitchen clamor so early. Their chuckles, which didn’t seem to be at my expense, did still seem to say “Ah, yes.  You discovered that did you? We were hoping you wouldn’t notice.”  Given that my night-time shower had gone unobserved (at least as far as I knew) it was really a case of no harm, no foul other than the interrupted sleep so I felt free to join them in smiling about the situation.

The hotel was booked to capacity and I was asked to wait until people checked out to see which rooms would be available.  Concerned they would forget about me and my request in the all the chaos of checkouts and newcomers checking in, I didn’t want to wander too far from the front desk.  I noticed a room labeled “Restaurant” and wandered in to check out the menu.  The room was filled with many men, lots of them dressed all in white. As I looked around attempting to determine who was in charge, one of the white-clad men walked up to me and pointed to another standing right in front of me and said, “This is Swami-ji.” While I don’t know precisely what a swami is, I did recognize that he was some sort of revered holy man in the grand scheme of things. I put my hands together in front of me and gave him my best “Namaste” greeting. He “Namaste’d” me back. I asked him in Hindi how he was and he chuckled, replying he was fine. He began speaking in rapid-fire Hindi so I told him in Hindi that I didn’t understand what he was saying. Several other men rushed over to tell me again that this was Swami-ji. Swami-ji seemed to get a big laugh out of the whole encounter and invited me to join them for breakfast. It was then I realized that a buffet of Indian food was laid out on the table behind the men. The swami seated me and then prepared a plate of food for me.

Roger, I’m very sorry to report that, although I asked the names of the dishes and they told me, I was unprepared to write them down and they have escaped my memory.  Naturally, I didn’t think to bring my camera with me to merely ask to change rooms so I was unprepared to take photos of either the food or of Swami-ji.  But here’s a description of what I was served: one dish was a sweet, sticky rice that had golden raisins in it and perhaps a little cinnamon. The other had the texture and consistency of grits and was a bit spicy. There was also a very pureed chutney the color of chickpeas and the consistency of a watered down puree to mix into the other two.  It was (you know I’m going to say it) very delicious!

The men were eating in traditional Indian style, with their fingers.  When in Rome and all that jazz.  I dove in and did the same.  I thought I was doing pretty well, at least for someone not used to eating grits with her fingers. Someone had pity on me and brought me several napkins and a spoon.

I chatted with the men while we ate.  The group of about 15-20 were from several different cities. Each in turn asked if I had been to his city or state and I disappointed them all as I repeatedly told them that I had only arrived the day before and had only seen Mumbai thus far.  Yet comically they kept asking “What about my city? Have you been to Kerala?” “What about Bangalore?” They admired my daring for traveling alone and said they appreciated how social I was with them. As they filed out of the room, most of them introduced themselves to me and shook my hand. One of the last invited me to join them for dinner that night at 9:30.  Seems like an interesting prospect. If I can make it back in time, I think I might.

After the encounter with Swami-ji and his entourage, I wandered back to the front desk to check on my room.  The men working are highly entertained every time I say a single word in Hindi. They repeat each word, smiling and laughing to each other, the way adults do when a child adds a surprising new word to their vocabulary.  While my efforts seem to be appreciated, I also get the feeling that I’m not being taken seriously. “No madame, we still have no room available.” “No madame, the internet is still broken.”

On the upside, my cotton blouse was returned from the press-wallah.  In India, “wallah” means someone who does something or is from somewhere.  So people from Delhi are called Delhi-wallahs and people who serve the yummy chai tea are called chai-wallahs.  Following this train of thought, the people who iron clothes are called press-wallahs. The press-wallahs typically only charge a couple of rupees to iron a piece of clothing.  Since the price is so inexpensive, Indians regard anyone who doesn’t have their clothes neatly pressed with great disdain as either being too poor to afford even a few rupees or too uncaring about their appearance.  In my ongoing attempts to ingratiate myself to the locals, I had delivered my blouse to be pressed. As always, the hotel tacked on a double or triplicate charge for having served as the “arranger” so my blouse cost 10Rs to be pressed. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing to continually put things in the context of my home economy.  On the one hand, it seems ridiculous to have a discussion over what is literally a difference of either a dime or 15 cents.  On the other hand, I don’t like continually being taken advantage of.  I figured I’d pick my battles and only exert energy over the larger items. As a foreigner, this was clearly going to happen a lot and it was easier not to sweat the small stuff.

one of the funny little "mini trucks" sporting the ubiquitous "Horn OK Please" slogans (the swastika here does not carry any bad meaning or association with Nazi Germany)

I caught a taxi from my airport hotel into the heart of Mumbai. The hour-long drive provided an entertaining introduction to the city. I was happy to spot many motorbikes on the road and noted the names of the platformed kind I preferred to buy or rent (the Activa and Suzuki Access were two) and to spot at least a few women driving them. Also, the traffic wasn’t nearly as congested or as “crazy” as in Hanoi or Saigon and I had easily driven in both places. Horns were more prevalent, however, undoubtedly encouraged by the signs and bumper stickers on the backs of many trucks and auto-rickshaws that read “Horn OK Please.” Although it seemed to me that the slogan was a mere invitation to strike up the so-called symphony, in reality it’s encouragement for drivers behind the “Horn OK”-bearing vehicle to honk before passing to advise of their presence since many of the older vehicles here don’t have side-view mirrors.   Equally amusing was the size of most of the trucks … most had the usual cab and height size but the back looked like it was missing half or even 2/3 of the length.  The cargo portion of some is as short as 3 or 4 feet long!

"New High Class Restaurant"

Mumbai reminded me very much of Phnom Penh, Cambodia’s capitol city.  The streets were wide, littered and dusty and the sidewalk pavers were badly broken and upheaved in many places.  Businesses of all kinds spilled out of their shops onto the frontage sidewalks. The city seemed to be divided – half the people bustled along the street while the other half sat and watched the world go by; half of the vehicular traffic were cars or trucks and half were motorbikes.

I was pleased to see that there was a designated home for senior women and also a day care for street kids.  I was amused by the dichotomy of a shoddy-looking store front underneath a sign that read “New High Class Restaurant.” I was impressed by the architectural beauty of the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus (CST) train station which has, understandably, been named a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

My new hotel did not have WiFi but they did have their own version of the Gideon’s Bible, so prevalent at American hotels.  Awaiting any guest in a wall storage unit was small book written entirely in Hindi and featuring Ganesh, the elephant-headed Hindu god on the front.

I had read repeatedly that Indians are very conservative when it comes to women’s clothing and that I would receive a greater welcome if I dressed as they did so my first goal was to obtain a couple of “salwar kameez” (also called “Punjabi dress”) – a long, top and scarf worn over loose pants. I love the beautiful Indian fabrics and thought these would also make some interesting souvenirs.

CST - the main train station in Mumbai

As I headed to FabIndia, a highly recommended store which sells such clothes, I was intercepted by a man selling maps of India. He advised me not to go to the overpriced FabIndia but to follow him to a wholesale shop where the prices were much better.  I walked with him for 20-30 minutes to a shop which showed me 4 different pre-made salwar kameez. I wasn’t thrilled with the selection but thought perhaps if the price was right I might buy one so as not to be rude to me “helper,” who was undoubtedly getting a commission for bringing me.  At 4000Rs ($80) each, however, the price was certainly not right!  Clearly my guide was getting a gargantuan kickback! When I told the owner I didn’t want to spend more than 1000Rs ($20) per outfit, he laughed and said it was impossible.  Only half a block later as I wandered through a nearby market, I stumbled upon a tailor who said he would MAKE a salwar kameez for me for 600Rs ($12)!  He also agreed to alter a tunic I had purchased in the US for an additional 40Rs (80 cents). Needless to say, I didn’t even try to bargain. I chose some beautiful teal colored fabric. (tailors shop phoot) My new outfit will be ready a mere 24 hours after ordering it!  Also needless to say, I dismissed the map-seller who was still following me around, undoubtedly trying to take me to the shop of another “uncle.”

Next, I headed to book an interesting tour I had read about of the Dhavi slum.  The Dhavi is the largest slum in Mumbai and apparently it houses quite a number of cottage industries run out of the shanties that comprise it. I’m told that many of the residents collect recyclables and make new plastic, nails and other items that they can sell.

India's "Gideon's Bible"

On my way to the tour office, I encountered another Indian man who began to stroll along beside me, eager to chat me up. I’ve experienced this a lot in the bigger cities in Asia and usually, but not always, the friendly person wants to sell something or take me somewhere where they will get a commission for whatever I’m enticed to purchase.  I don’t begrudge these encounters and have sometimes made legitimate friends through them. More often than not, however, my role is merely that of a meal ticket in some regard so I’m usually a bit guarded. Given my most recent brush with such hospitality, I wasn’t in the mood and was pretty dismissive of this man.  Undeterred, he walked along beside me assuring me that he didn’t want anything from me.  I didn’t particularly believe him and I wasn’t paying that much attention to him but when I’d walked almost to the end of the short street without seeing my destination I told him what I was looking for.  “I WORK at Reality Tours!” he exclaimed, exactly the place I was looking for.  He lead me there (it was down a side street) and delivered me to the booking agent.

After I booked the tour, I decided to search out a different hotel that would be cheaper and closer to the action than my current one. The man spotted me and joined me again.  He introduced himself as Sanju and walked with me to 2 prospective hotels.  Although they didn’t have WiFi (which apparently isn’t as prevalent in India as it was in Vietnam), they were certainly much cheaper and right in the heart of Colaba, the area I wanted to be. I decided to return the next day when they would have empty rooms to make arrangements (call me particular but I have a thing against rooms that smell moldy or blankets that reek of mothballs so I’ve learned that room inspections at the Asian hotels that fall in my price range are necessary).

While walking through the rest of the market area, a young girl approached me and hurriedly tied a bracelet of fresh, fragrant flowers on my wrist.  She also assured me she didn’t want anything but said I could buy her some rice if I wished. I do know that I can be a sucker but I also have a hard time turning down anyone’s request for food. I follower her across the street to buy her what I thought was an evening meal.  Instead, she lead me into a grocery where she pointed to a large bag of rice that must have weighed 10 pounds.  “These are on sale so you can buy me two of these for 1000Rs ($20),” she advised me quite seriously.  “Bilcul nihi!” I exclaimed in Hindi (“certainly not”). “I will buy you one meal,” I told her.  “Milk is even more expensive,” she said rather practically, misunderstanding “meal” as “milk.”  I couldn’t figure out how to explain “meal” to her so I told her I would spend no more than 100Rs, easily enough for one ready-to-eat hot meal.  In response, she picked up 3 smaller bags of rice and pointed to the sign which advised me that 2 bags were 99Rs and the 3rd one was free.  The look she gave me said, “You see! This is a much better deal than a simple meal!” I couldn’t help but laugh at both her ingenuity and her bargain hunting skills so I purchased the 3 bags of rice for her.

Dining companions Sanju and Alastair at Laxmi Vila restaurant

During this whole time, Sanju had tagged along teaching me new Hindi words and encouraging me to use the ones I already knew (hence the earlier “Bilcul nihi!”) He was entertaining company though I still couldn’t figure his agenda. I was getting hungry and, at least at the moment, he seemed harmless enough so I invited him to join me for dinner.  I was headed to a place called Bagdadi that my boyfriend Roger had read about and advised me to check out.  Sanju said he would love to go there but that restaurant only served “non-veg” meals and, as a Hindu, he couldn’t eat meat on Tuesdays (this reminded me of my childhood observation of the Catholic tradition of not eating meat on Fridays). “Besides,” he said, “I know a place that’s much cheaper and serves delicious Indian food!”

He introduce me to Laxmi Vila which I HIGHLY recommend to anyone visiting Mumbai. It’s just around the corner from the famous Leopold’s Cafe.  I love to order thalis at Indian restaurants because you get a sampling of a variety of dishes. Laxmi’s had 4 different thalis on the menu and Sanju recommended the Punjabi Thali for 100Rs ($2). Since there were no explanations beside any of them, I took his advice. Most thalis I’ve ever ordered come with 3-4 different dishes.  This one came with 11 and an endless supply of chapatis! (For my foodie, Roger, who I know is curious, I will list them: chal pulum, palak paneer, dal frey, chana masala, mutter, suki bagi, pur alat, raita, dehea hiwada, achar or lime pickle, and sweet lassi. Please pardon what are undoubtedly some misspellings!)  Sanju ordered the dal durka which was also delicious.  We befriended a Scotland-residing Englishman named Alastair at the next table and invited him to join us.  All 3 of us went away with full bellies.  Total price including 2 bottles of water = $269 Rs (less than $5.50).

Alastair suggested we had to nearby Leopold’s for an after dinner drink.  Sanju warned us that this was very expensive but we went anyway.  As we waited for the drinks to arrive, Sanju pointed out some bullet holes in some of the pillars and in the ceiling, telling us that this was one of the 4 places attacked by terrorist gunmen in 2008. Ten people were killed in the restaurant, another 35 among the other 3 places (2 hotels and the CST train station).  Given how small the restaurant is and how closely packed the tables are, it’s amazing to me that more weren’t killed in Leo’s as there would have been no place to hide and no way to run. I later read that Leo’s re-opened to packed and defiant house a mere 4 days after the attacks; so packed in fact that police closed the restaurant again which reopened the following day.  Sanju was right about the prices. One beer and two cappucinos came to 300Rs ($6). While not expensive by Western standards, to put it in context, the 3 drinks totaled more than our entire dinner!

Punjabi Thali at Laxmi Vila

I said good night to Alastair and Sanju kindly insisted on walking me back to my hotel since it was far away and he was concerned about me walking alone after dark.  He was great at helping me practice my Hindi though he taught me so many new words so quickly, I only managed to retain a few.  My name is universally difficult to pronounce and I wondered what I would be called in India. Sanju was no exception and after attempting “Beverly” several times, he said “Bubbly” is a name people in India will know. You should go by Bubbly here.” I’m called that often enough at home though more as a descriptor than as a name, but that seemed fitting enough so I guess in India I’ll be “Bubbly.”

Aloo Pakoda for breakfast

So as not to leave you wondering, the Milan Hotel did not send an airport shuttle for me but I was able to secure a taxi to the place and they did indeed have my room reserved and ready.

The blankets smelled like mothballs and, due to the close proximity of the hotel to the airport (the reason I chose it after my midnight arrival), I heard planes roaring all through the night as they took off and landed, from the sound of it, from inside my own little room.  The first time I head one, I nearly had a heart attack. I would have sworn an airplane was crashing and headed straight for my hotel! Needless to say, I didn’t sleep particularly well until exhaustion took over and I fell into a Rip Van Winkle-esque slumber around 8am. I slept through my alarm and only woke when the hotel called my room at 1pm to ask if I planned to observe the noon checkout.  They were very kind, allowing me time to shower and pack my belongings.

They referred me to the restaurant in the hotel for “breakfast” where I ordered aloo pakoda, lightly fried potato puffs that were more puff than potato. Two fried chilies came with the dish too and they certainly woke me up! The meal was served with a sweet tomato sauce which had the texture and taste of off-brand ketchup.  Interesting. Not my favorite dish, but still it was nice to start the day off with something other than Wheaties to confirm that I was definitely “not in Kansas anymore.”  Total cost = 100 Rupees (about $2). Given that I know that chai (the delicious milky spiced tea ubiquitous in India) costs 4Rs (vs the 45Rs charged by the hotel restaurant), I expect I could have eaten for about $0.25 if I had headed out to the street!

Rickshaws

While I waited for my food, my attention switched back and forth between the buzz of activity in the street outside and the TV which was set to a local news station with English-speaking reporters.  The hotel was situated in the curve of a narrow, dusty lane which contained small piles of crumbled cement blocks on the sides as if the buildings were tiny mountains that had sustained little avalanches.  The street was lined with black and yellow auto-rickshaws, 3-wheeled golf-cart sized motor vehicle taxis that steer and accelerate with motorbike-like handles.  Many of the drivers loitered about either congregating in small groups visiting with each other, sitting in the driver’s seat chatting on their cell phones or taking a small siesta on the back customer’s bench, all waiting for business.

boy carrying a tiffin

Women dressed primarily in traditional saris hurried past, many with children in tow carrying tiffins (a multi-tiered silver lunch pail that keeps each dish and snack separated from the other), presumably to their working husbands.  I spotted my first unattended cow as it wandered, seemingly somewhat purposefully, in front of the hotel.  In Southeast Asia, I became accustomed to seeing livestock, usually cattle or water buffalo, walk in the roads. There, they were prized possessions and always attended by a “babysitting” youngster who held the beast’s rope “leash.”  In India, cows are regarded as sacred, of course, and are allowed to roam freely as their own masters.  I have read that many are “cared for” by dairy farms during their milking years but let loose to fend for themselves once their milk is dried up.  Though regarded as holy, painstakingly avoided by all motor vehicles and painted up for festivals and holidays, I understand that they actually have rather sad lives, at least in the cities, where they’re left to scavenge, often in the garbage, for their own food; frequently ingesting plastic bags which do horrible things to their stomachs and lead to painful deaths.

The unattended cow was followed several minutes later by a child leading a different cow by a rope.  Hmmmm … I was confused. I’m sure this wouldn’t be the last time I’d be left scratching my head during my stay in this foreign place.  While pondering the fate of the Indian cow and trying to discern the difference between the two I’d seen, the  repeated use of the word “bungled” on the TV news show caught my attention.

bullock cart

A reporter was discussing some criminal investigation that had been “bungled.”  The station switched back to the news anchor who tsked-tsked at the bungling committed by the police department.  Apparently frustrated, she advised the viewing public that “Such bungling has been going on for some time now. Why is such bungling allowed to continue?” Although it wasn’t quite as entertaining as if both journalists had used the word “bamboozled,” the repeated use of “bungling” was enough to flip the switch on my giggle box.

In the next news story, I learned that a “chartbuster” Indian song by the name of Kolaveri-di had inspired a new dessert in Mumbai called the “Kolaveri di-ssert.”  The reporter advised that it was available in only a few places throughout the city at the moment and could be had for 5Rs (about 10 cents US).  Although she didn’t specify what was in the dessert, it looked like some kind of nuts covered with a chocolate sauce.  I was determine to get one if only for the novelty factor.  Sadly, she did not advise where the dessert could be obtained and every Indian person I asked later throughout the day insisted quite fervently that Kolaveri-di was most definitely not something to eat, but only a popular song. I guess I was the only one who saw that news report. Maybe I’ll have to settle for a copy of the song (which is quite catchy).

During a commercial break, I learned that a non-profit group in India is sponsoring a “Save Our Tigers Campaign.” I thought of my boyfriend’s 10 year old daughter, Lauren, who big-heartedly asked Santa for a donation in her name to “Save the Tigers” for Christmas this year.  I know she would be thrilled at India’s conservation efforts.  Roger, please be sure to tell her for me.

the boys from breakfast

When the news came back on, I learned that Ghandi’s family is still involved in Indian politics (Sonia Ghandi – perhaps a grand-daughter? – held a press conference in which she claimed that “the government had betrayed the people” but I never caught exactly how), that the plans of Rushdie, a controversial Indian author living abroad, to return to India and participate in the upcoming annual literature festival were being hotly debated (though everyone interviewed universally opined that he should be permitted) and lastly, that Oprah Winfrey was also in Mumbai.  Somehow, I suspect we’re staying at very different hotels.  Such was my news for the day.

After I finished eating breakfast, a young boy approached me and asked if he could have his photo taken with me. I was tickled at his request, thinking how ironic it was that I wanted to come to India to take photos of their culture and found myself a subject of equal curiosity. I happily obliged and then three others approached with the same request. We took turns taking photos all around.  It felt like an auspicious first morning in India.

In all the flurry of activity the week prior to my departure, it slipped my notice that I had received no confirmation email from the hotel regarding my requests.  The lack of communication occurred to me as I was in flight somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean.  During my 4 hour layover in Amsterdam, I used Skype to attempt to contact the hotel and confirm my booking and additional requests.  My trepidation grew as I was advised that the phone number I was calling was no longer in service.

So I’m crossing my fingers that I have a hotel to stay at when I arrive … at this point, a shuttle will merely be a bonus.  Then again, a post-midnight search for a hotel could definitely provide some instant adventure, though I think most everyone would agree such an event would more fairly simply fall under the “hassle” category.  Cross your fingers.  I certainly am.

me holding the title to the new motorbike

In December of 2008, when I first arrived in Vietnam, I attempted to take a motorbike tour of the northernmost regions of the country but turned back because the weather was so cold, the trip would have been absolutely miserable. I ended up motorbiking from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City instead and loved every minute of it. Leaving the North unexplored, however, meant I had unfinished business in Vietnam and I intended to tie up those loose ends on this visit.

On my previous 6 week tour from Hanoi to HCMC, I was accompanied by a Vietnamese man named Zoom. He worked at the hotel I stayed at on Cat Ba Island and came to my rescue at the beginning of the trip when my motorbike, a Chinese knock-off of a Honda, “fell ill” and into the hands of a talentless mechanic. Zoom showed me to a qualified mechanic in mainland Hai Phong and then traveled with me for 4 days to Ninh Binh, my first destination, for good measure.

We had such a delightful time traveling together and business was slow at his hotel that he took off an extra 5 weeks and traveled with me all the way to Dalat, just shy of my HCMC destination. When he returned to Cat Ba Island, he discovered that his father had overloaded his (Zoom’s) motorbike and that it was broken beyond repair. He asked me to buy him a new motorbike, but I was at the end of my trip and out of money.

I had thought about Zoom’s request many times in the six months I was in the US before returning to Vietnam this fall. Every time I bought something, I would think “only $250 would buy Zoom a motorbike.” Granted, it would be a crappy motorbike, but it was possible. I had understood him to say that $500 would buy a decent motorbike. Needless to say, in the six months I was home living the typical US lifestyle, I could have bought Zoom’s motorbike many times over with the money I spent on … well, just stuff.

When my own car died unexpectedly and I bought a new one, I thought about Zoom’s motorbike. When I bought a new camera and lens to replace those stolen in the spring, I thought of Zoom’s motorbike. And when I pulled the plug and finally bought myself a house, I determined that I was not going to let Zoom go “motorbikeless” any longer. I knew that I would need a motorbike if I were to tour North Vietnam in the manner I loved best. To rent one would cost about $100 to $200. For an additional $300-400, I could buy a motorbike, use it for my tour and then give it to Zoom, likely changing my dear friend’s life or at least greatly improving it.

a very happy Zoom ... proud owner of a Yamaha Mio

I contacted Zoom when I arrived in Vietnam and told him I wanted to buy him a motorbike. He was ecstatic. We met in Hai Phong and began our search.

We both agreed that we needed a good strong bike, as different as possible from the one I had before which I unaffectionately called “the Fonda” (a contraction of “fake Honda”). Zoom was concerned that I planned to drive in the high mountains, obviously remembering how the Fonda couldn’t make it over the mountains from Nha Trang to Dalat, leaving us stranded overnight in a minority village where no housing could be found. We ended up spending that night under the stars in some lounge chairs kindly offered to us by a family who owned a cafe. Their hospitality was great, but their home wasn’t even large enough to accommodate their own son who slept on plastic cafe tables with a mattress thrown on top. We had to have a truck taxi drive from Dalat the next morning to ferry us and the uncooperative Fonda over the mountains and into “the city of love” as Dalat is known in Vietnam. At that point in the trip, I’d spent $150 US and much lost time on repairs for the Fonda and had lost all confidence in her. As the last leg of trip from Dalat to HCMC also passed through mountainous regions, I gave up and put us both on a bus. I ultimately sold her in HCMC for a very cheap $200 to a mechanic who told me “this bike not good.” Like I didn’t already know. The greatest consecutive number of days when she didn’t need repairs maxed out at the unimpressive number of two. Time consuming near-daily repairs that added significantly to her $400 purchase price had soured my feelings toward the Fonda. I was determined not to get another lemon so all Chinese-made motorbikes were automatically ruled out.

me on the "new" motorbike

Zoom had his mind made up that only a 3-year old Yamaha Nuevo would get me safely through the mountains and not need a single repair. We looked for one for two days but could only find them in the $900 range, well out of my budget. At last we came across a 6-year old Yamaha Mio. Although this bike was small and the seat uncomfortable for many hours at a time, Zoom was convinced that the bike would be reliable and strong enough for mountainous terrain. I was familiar with the Mio, having rented them in Bali and in Thailand. Although the bike slowed considerably when challenged with steep mountains in Thailand, it did make it through them so I felt comfortable with the Mio too. A stronger bike would have been preferable but this one would do. The Mio owner was asking $700 but we negotiated the price down to my budgeted $500. At last, we had a motorbike!

During my last Vietnam tour by motorbike, I had people I met and liked to sign my helmet. It was filled with signatures at the end of my trip and was one of my favorite souvenirs. I bought a new helmet this time, determined to start a signed helmet collection. My first helmet had a funny “Asianism” on it: “Lovey&Stweet.” (No typos here. That’s actually what it said.) Unfortunately, I couldn’t find anything along those lines this time so I chose a cute little red helmet with blue flowers.

I remembered that when Zoom would drive during the last trip, he would frequently complain about insects getting into his eyes. Actually, the first time he told me, he said, “I have an animal in my eye.” When I corrected his Engligh suggesting he use the word “insect” instead of animal, he laughed that the insects were so large, they felt to him like elephants or buffalos. At one time, he was in such pain that he said he was convinced that a buffalo has walked 20 kilometers in his eye. We decided that trekking in Zoom’s eyes was the newest excitement on the animal frontier. As a constant rider/photographer on the bike, I was shielded from all the insects by Zoom. Remembering his unpleasant experiences and frequent stops for insect removal, I made sure to buy a helmet that had a glass I could pull down to cover my eyes.  

At the mechanic again already. Uh oh. I hope this is not a sign of things to come. Here, it seems to take 4 guys to repair the motorbike. Too much testosterone for me! I'm gonna check into the hotel!

After we bought the bike and the helmet, we took the bike for an oil change and to get some lunch. About an hour later, we set off for Hanoi. An hour after that, as we slowed to ask directions, the Mio was making a funny sound. Uh oh. Here we go again, I thought. From all the trouble with the Fonda, I knew exactly the sign to look for and we pulled into the first “xe may” (mechanic) we saw. Zoom’s friend Nguyen lived near the town we were stopped in and came over to see if he could help. About an hour into the repair when I last saw, three guys were leaning over the motorbike, observing the mechanic’s actions and offering advice and ideas. Sheesh. There were too many cooks in that kitchen already and I had nothing to offer. It was 8pm. I could see we weren’t going to make Hanoi that night so I checked into a hotel and went to sleep.

The next morning, Zoom retrieved the motorbike from the mechanic (it was almost a $20 repair; expensive for Vietnam) and got the opinion of a second mechanic who was reputed to be the best in town. “I know that the bike is fixed now and everything will be fine,” he said encouragingly. But I remember him saying the same thing EVERY time the Fonda broke down and was repaired. I’ll never know if he just presented a sunny picture to keep me from worrying or if he naively believed that all would be well. Either way, I had little confidence in Zoom’s reassurances at this point. Only time would tell. Hopefully the Mio just needed a little attention after sitting unridden for sale so long. I crossed my fingers and knew I’d find out soon enough.

one of the many overloaded motorbikes in Vietnam

I arrived in Hanoi International Airport at 10:30 am October 2.  I have returned to beloved Southeast Asia for 3 months for the purpose of setting up photo tours for 2010, to finish some unfinished “business” from my last trip and, naturally, to explore and adventure!  The rough itinerary this time around is 1 month in Vietnam, 4 days in Cambodia, 5 days in Borneo and 6 weeks in Bali.

As the shuttle drove the 45 minutes from the airport into central Hanoi, I had the odd sensation of being surrounded by sights that were simultaneously strange, foreign and comical yet as familiar to me as my own hand.  Returning to Vietnam felt in part like coming home, yet also otherworldly.  Many sights that had once greeted my eyes daily had slipped from my memory in the mere 6 months I’d been away … overloaded motorbikes; cows wandering freely in the busy interstate type roads; tall, skinny pastel colored houses with terra cotta tile roofs nestled amidst lush green palm and banana trees; vendors selling their wares in the middle of the busy interstate roads and motorbikes, motorbikes, motorbikes.

this xe om (motorbike taxi driver) clearly has not had business for a while as he's taking the most serious nap I've seen yet!

This surreal feeling of foreign familiarity continued as I settled back in to Vietnam and roamed the streets of Hanoi while waiting for my Indonesian visa to be ready. (Vietnam is the only country, to my knowledge, in Southeast Asia which requires you to turn over your passport to your hotel for the duration of your stay there.  Accordingly, until the Indonesian embassy returned my passport to me, I was unable to leave Hanoi as I would not be able to check into any other hotel.)  Memories of my previous 2 month stay in Vietnam earlier in the year flooded back:  the tiny plastic stools that serve as chairs at sidewalk food stalls, the strong bitter taste of the tea in the North (versus the smooth sweet nutty flavor of teas further South), the way the women wear high heels while driving motorbikes and the way xe om (motorbike taxi drivers) use their motos as lazyboys on the sidewalk in the middle of the afternoon when business is slow … it was all coming back to me and welcoming me back to Vietnam, one of my new favorite homes in the world.

a little girl coloring in the park Vietnam style

As I spent the next few days in Hanoi, I discovered new things I hadn’t seen before.  I discovered children “coloring” in the park by sprinkling colored powders onto sticky papers.  It’s kind of like “color by number” … they have a small picture of what their big picture should look like.  If, for example, the girl they’re coloring has a blue hat, they pull the strip of paper away from her hat to reveal a white sticky paper underneath.  They sprinkle blue powder on the sticky part and Voila! a blue hat!  Peel away the paper from her lips and sprinkle red and you have red lips.  Of course the smallest kids (or some might say the more creative ones) ignore their “goal picture” pull all their sticky covers off at once and end up with a colored page that looks nothing like the small picture they’re given.

a beautiful Vietnamese bride with her groom posing in front of the Hanoi Opera House

Also new to me, I saw brides and grooms having their photos made in front of the Hanoi Opera House.  The girls were stunning and were happy to let me take their photo as well.  “Chuc may man! (good luck)!” I wished them as I left.

the new Honda SH I'm not embarrassed to admit I covet

Lastly, I saw the new Honda SH … a spiffy looking motorbike released in March 2009, the month after I left Vietnam earlier in the year.  It seemed to have both the power and the baggage storing area I sought for my upcoming motorbike trip to the north.  Immediately, I had motorbike fever and began noticing every Honda SH that drove by me.  I quickly let that pipe dream go when I discovered that they were retailing in Vietnam for $8,000 new!  And from what I was told (and what I witnessed on the streets), the Vietnamese were lining up to buy them!  The very few second hand SH’s that were on the market were selling for about $5,000.   Apparently business was good in Vietnam  for so many people to own them.  I definitely had motorbike envy.  With more realistic expectations I began my own search for a motorbike to purchase ….

If you’d like to see more photos in and around Hanoi, check out the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of my blog.

my friend Zoom and I are our 6 week motorbike tour of Vietnam in early 2009

new artwork I made after returning from Southeast Asia

It’s with a happy heart that I announce that the travel blog you thought had died (“7 Months with Carry-on Luggage”) has now been revived! I offer my sincere apologies for leaving you hanging in the beginning of my 6 week motorbike trip throughout Vietnam last winter. During the trip, I traveled fairly long distances each day and encountered daily adventures that frankly left me only time to take notes about my experiences and upload the 500+ photos that I shot each day. In short, motorbiking Vietnam was the highlight of my 7 months in Southeast Asia, but experiencing it as fully as I did left little time or energy I needed to write about that experience.  

I had high hopes of finishing the blog when I returned to the States in March, but life interfered. I spent 1 month nose to the proverbial grindstone in the studio preparing for art shows in Texas. I then spent one month in Texas exhibiting and selling work at those shows. I returned to jump into the whirlwind of wedding showers and ultimately my brother’s wedding in July. And then to keep things from getting dull, I bought a new car followed by a house in Chattanooga, TN … which I hurriedly remodeled and moved into in one month.

my new house in Chattanooga, Tennessee

I would love to tell you that now that all those exciting things are behind me, that I will pick up where I left off in the story (which was just getting to the exciting part!), but instead I’m afraid I’ll only tease you and say that while I WILL finish the story, I’m hoping to publish it in the form of a book. To whet your appetite for it though, here are some of the highlights of my Vietnamese adventure: I was the guest of honor at a local wedding, spent the night in many homes throughout Vietnam (several of them homes of very interesting indigenous people), drank wine with former VC war heros, learned to speak rudimentary Vietnamese, befriended villages of minority people and gave English lessons to one group, got a cooking lesson from some locals, was taught how to row one of those little round boats by a woman who adopted me as her sister, endured almost daily motorbike breakdowns, bribed a police officer … the list goes on.

But at the moment, rather than reliving old adventures, I’m ready to dive into new ones. I have returned to Southeast Asia for 3 months.  I’m starting off in Vietnam for 1 month.  I’m returning to Cambodia for 4 days, hoping to find some of the children who used to live at the dump which I’m told is now closed.  I will then travel to Borneo for 5 days (a new destination) and lastly return to beloved Bali for 6 weeks where I’ll be visiting old friends and laying out photo tours which I’ll start leading in the fall of 2010. I would love to have you enjoy these upcoming adventures with me. So … welcome back to “7 Months with Carry-On Luggage.”

mapping the start of my motorbike trip

(These events occurred January 5, 2009.  Thai Binh to Ninh Binh – 70 km by motorbike)

On January 5, I attempted for the third day in a row to make it to Ninh Binh.  The first two days had been foiled by the Fonda’s temper tantrums, but with only 70 km to go, I was determined that today was the day.  I was anxious to see the caves, karsts and countryside for which the area was known.

After a breakfast of bun (pronounced boon; it’s noodle soup with pork), Zoom and I hit the road.  Although it was cold, the sun came out a little bit.  I thoroughly enjoyed a second day photographing from the back of the bike with Zoom’s skilled driving assistance.  

overloaded push bikes

My fascination with overloaded motorbikes continued and I enjoyed photographing them transporting piglets, an unbelievable quantity of flowers and even one carrying live scorpions.  In addition to the motorbikes, I encountered and photographed push bikes precariously loaded over twice the height of the bike with unidentifiable objects in plastic rice sacks.  And then there were the buses.  

Tet holiday celebrated on January 26 was fast approaching.  Tet for the Vietnamese is like Christmas, New Year’s and birthday all rolled into one.  Those who can afford to do so buy new clothes, new motorbikes and a myriad of items for their homes.  That stuff has to come from somewhere and I encountered bus after bus completely filled with cargo that literally overflowed out the back and sides and onto the top.  Every new bus sighting prompted a round a giggles from me while Zoom would chase after each one with the Fonda trying to put me in perfect position to capture the absurdity.

overloaded bus

I was also tickled to see another novelty regarding transport.  Cyclos are three wheeled carts/bicycles that are sometimes used to transport people, but more often these days, used to move cargo.  As in the case of the motorbikes, buses and pushbikes, cyclos carrying cargo are more often than not overloaded and very difficult for the driver to pedal.  Frequently, the cyclo driver will enlist the help of his motorbike driving friends, though, who will push him along using one leg while driving their motorbike.  In the larger cities, this practice has been deemed by authorities to be unsafe (surprise, surprise!) and is only utilized when the participants believe no police are around.

Every hour or two, I like to stop for breaks. If you’ve ever ridden a motorbike for any length of time, you know how hard it can be on your bum after a bit.  The breaks not only provided a respite from that, but also gave me a chance to sample the varieties of coffee and tea and how they changed subtly the farther south I traveled.  It was also a chance to meet the locals and chat with them for 15 – 20 minutes before hopping back on the bike.  

giving a friend a boost

On this particular day, we stopped to get coffee and snacks.  The old woman who owned the cafe sat chewing something called trau cau (pronounced chow gaw) which is a white powder (nam stone according to Zoom) combined with some kind of fruit and root and is all wrapped together in a leaf.  The combination turns red when chewed and makes the chewer look like she has a bloody mouth.  Zoom says chewing it makes you warm which I interpret to mean that it gives you a little buzz.  It’s quite popular with the old Vietnamese ladies and reminds me of the betel nut chewed by the old women in Bali.

The old lady’s cafe was also a pseudo gas station.  Instead of having tanks in the ground as we do at home, however, she had a 55 gallon drum of gas that she would pump by hand up into a giant syringe that was fitted with a garden hose instead of a needle.  After pumping the desired number of liters into the syringe, she would use gravity to empty the contents from the syringe into the motorbike’s gas tank.  As she got to the last bits of liquid, she would have to move the hose by hand in a wave-like motion  to empty all that the customer had paid for into the gas tank.  Over the next six weeks, I observed that life in Vietnam is lived and worked by hand.  This was just one of many examples.

Vietnamese schoolgirls' way of holding hands

While we were drinking our coffee, a nearby school let out for lunch.  Children from grade school to high school ages all dressed in neat blue and white uniforms flooded the streets, mostly on bicycle.  Many rode two kids per bike; some rode three on a bike.  Early practice for moto driving, I thought.  Frequently, they would peddle three or four bikes in a row and the girls or boys driving would keep one hand on the handlebars and use the other to hold hands or arms with the child on the bike next to them.  

Seeing this caused Zoom to reminisce about his own childhood.  He told me that unlike today when almost every child had a bike, there weren’t many bikes then and they used to ride three to four children per bike.  

This lead to other happy memories.  When he was a boy, he and his friends tended water buffalos.  They would take their charges to the lakes and rivers, climb on their backs and use them as diving boards.  They would also engineer buffalo races which is pretty comical given how incredibly slowly the beasts move.  

Most homes in Vietnam, even the poorest, now have TV’s.  Interestingly, according to Zoom, they didn’t arrive in homes in Vietnam until about 20 years ago.  Color TV has only recently made its appearance in the last 6 to 10 years.  Zoom remembers when the first few homes in his village got their TVs. The lucky owners would sell tickets to the other villagers to come in and watch them.  

a typical Vietnamese living room

I enjoyed hearing his memories and marveled at what different childhoods we’d had.  Part of the difference was that he grew up a country boy while I was a city girl, albeit from a small town in Western Kentucky.  Still, I didn’t have cattle or chickens much less buffalos to race or or use as springboards.  Perhaps some of the country kids I grew up with had experiences more similar to Zoom’s, but I suspect that his childhood stories are probably much more like those of my father or grandfather than of my contemporaries, even those from the country. 

“Bum break” over, we hit the road again.  When I stopped to photograph a Christian cemetery (the first I’d seen in this predominantly Buddhist and ancestor-worshipping country), I heard a funny clunking sound coming from my motorbike. After having had only 1 day out of 6 actual road days without any mechanical difficulties, I admit that I was hypersensitive to any unusual noise, rattle or thump that emerged from the Fonda, but I just knew this sound wasn’t right. 

a Christian cemetery

Zoom agreed and we stopped at the next “xe may” we found.  A screw had broken loose inside the fan that cools the engine, but luckily we caught it in time before it rattled around and broke the plastic fan blades causing greater damage.  Zoom suggested we also take this opportunity to add some kind of glue to the back wheel that would work as an automatic puncture healer.  It turned out to be a great suggestion because, for all the trouble I ultimately had with the Fonda over the next 6 weeks, I never once had a flat tire although there was evidence of many punctures that were filled with glue.    

While the mechanic was repairing the broken screw and filling the tire with glue, I noticed how the non-occupied mechanics would “squat around” instead of “sit around” and commented to Zoom about what I’d come to call the “Asian squat.”  All over the world, people squat, but in Southeast Asia, the squat is more compressed with all the weight on the person’s heals instead of their toes.  Apparently, it has a name in Vietnamese – ngoi xom (pronounced noi some).  Naturally, it looks different from the way we westerners squat.  The Asian squat is a position of comfort for most, the equivalent of sitting in a chair.  In fact, even when chairs or benches are available, many Southeast Asians will opt to squat instead … sometimes ON the chair or bench!  I tried repeatedly to squat Asian style but within fifteen to thirty seconds I would fall over backwards.  Zoom laughingly compared me to a Weeble Wobble which I thought was generous since I only seemed to wobble, not weeble.  

ngoi xom ... aka the "Asian Squat"

While we waited for the repairs to be finished, we went across the street for lunch to a little “hole in the wall” roadside restaurant.  Most of the places where we would stop to eat would not have menus.  You simply look at the what they have in glass cases or see the ingredients on the counter and order based on that.  As the self-designated “culinary tour guide,” Zoom almost always ordered our food.  That day’s lunch was rice, chicken, some vegetables – for once, nothing out of the ordinary.  When the bill came, it was four to five times as much as it should have been. 

This had happened to me before on a couple of occasions in Cambodia.  As a result, I generally made it a habit to ask the prices before ordering which usually prevented such exploitation and the unpleasant feelings arising from such ugliness.  That didn’t happen on this day, however.  I don’t like to be taken advantage of but it’s equally important to me that I’m fair.  Zoom told her that he felt her prices were unfair and that her bill was high only because my skin was white.  He asked her to reconsider her bill.  She refused to budge an inch.  We both discussed the matter with her, but she was unwavering.  I refused to be exploited.  Zoom and I calculated what we thought the food should have cost, erring on the high side.  I then doubled that amount just to make sure I was being fair (perhaps in this town the food prices were considerably higher; doubtful, but possible) and paid the woman about 70% of what she was asking.  She and Zoom began to argue.  I had had enough and walked out of the restaurant.  The motorbike was ready, so I paid and we were on our way.

the platter making process

Later that evening, as Zoom and I were rehashing the events of the day, he told me that, although he hadn’t agreed on an exact price for our lunch in advance, the woman had quoted him a price range that was consistent with our lunch prices elsewhere and that, indeed, the bill was four to five times more than her initial quote/range.  So I felt better that we hadn’t been unfair to her, but wondered why he hadn’t shared that information with me in the restaurant.  Had he reminded her of their previous discussion when he discussed the bill with her?  I had no idea what was said to whom and could only rely on his translations to me which, although good, were far from fluent.  Ah, the frustrations of language barriers!  I was aghast when he also told me that, as we walked out of the restaurant, the restauranteer threatened to have people kill us if we didn’t pay the remaining third of her outrageous bill.  According to Zoom, he responded, “No one buys the meat of people in the market.”    Wow!

The rest of our trip to Ninh Binh was scenic, but otherwise pretty uneventful.  We stopped to see a platter maker at work and accepted his invitation to have tea in his home.  Eventually, we arrived in Ninh Binh.  It took me four days beyond my scheduled ETA to arrive, but we had finally made it.  I settled in to my hotel for the night, enjoyed reviewing photos from the previous two days with Zoom and looked forward to getting out to the countryside which was the magnet drawing me to Ninh Binh in the first place.

Total cost of motorbike repairs to date:  1,340,000 Dong ($79)

Number of consecutive road days without motorbike repairs:  0/7

Although I didn’t capture the old betel nut chewing lady pumping gas by hand on video, I did capture another lovely lady on a different day doing the same thing from a free standing drum.  To see a short video of it, click here.

magic eyes

(These events took place January 4, 2009.  Cat Ba Island to Hai Phong to Thai Binh.  130 km.)

Very early in the morning, my new friend Zoom and I left the hotel on Cat Ba Island where I stayed and he worked and drove the Fonda 30 km to catch the high speed hydrofoil to the mainland port of Hai Phong.  Zoom had decided to accompany me to Hai Phong for two reasons: to help me find a reputable garage to fix the brake and gas leak problems on my motorbike and to show me the wild and wacky animal market whose reputation for interesting and illegal animal sales spread far beyond the port itself.  

I wasn’t sure what we would see at the animal market, but no matter how interesting or exotic, the thing that held the greatest fascination for Zoom were the chicken fights.  He loves every aspect of chicken fights and was anxious to introduce me the “sport.”  “Some chickens have good kung fu,” he said in all seriousness.  I confess I wasn’t too keen on seeing two chickens maul each other to death, but learning what exactly constituted “good chicken kung fu” did intrigue me a bit.  

The hydrofoil that transported us to Hai Phong was at the opposite end of the spectrum from the slow, clunky, old-lady-and-vegetable-packed boat that the Fonda and I had taken from Hai Phong to arrive in Cat Ba in the first place.  This boat was new, smooth and fast.  I would be willing to swear on a stack of bibles that once the hydrofoil started, it never touched the water but merely hovered above it during the thirty minute ride.  This was light-speed transportation compared to the three hour slow boat I’d taken previously. 

During my five day stay on Cat Ba, I had been giving much thought and energy to my recently broken heart.  Eric and I had discussed the idea of rejoining forces for the motorbike tour after taking a few days apart, both in the Ha Long Bay area.  After taking that time, however, I knew I still needed time and space to allow my heart to fully heal and sent Eric an email to that effect.  As I flew across the water headed toward Hai Phong, I counseled myself to take this opportunity of high speed travel to leave my broken heart on Cat Ba and not to look back.  And for once, I took my own counsel.  

the Fonda on the operating table

Zoom and I arrived at the port about 15 km outside of Hai Phong and started making our way into town.  We were happily discussing chicken kung fu and what new dish Zoom would introduce me to for breakfast when the Fonda apparently grew bored with our discussion and quit.  Just like that.  She wouldn’t restart either.  Uppity Chinese bike.  

We pushed her about 1 km to the closest xe may (Pronuouced “say my” or “see my” depending which part of the country you’re in.  In case you forgot, that means mechanic. Don’t worry, after a few more blog entries, I’m sorry to say that you’ll recognize “xe may” without prompting.) who gave the battery a jump start and sent us on our way for a measly 5,000 dong ($0.30).  Five minutes later, the Fonda again voiced her objections.  I didn’t have the patience to find a xe may jump start every five minutes so instead we flagged down a small truck and loaded the Fonda up in the back for a tow.  We didn’t have straps to tie her securely into place so the truck driver took it slow, but I held my breath with each turn or big bump that we encountered.  

I let my breath out when we pulled up in front of a real garage.  This place practically had a pit crew of mechanics on staff.  They had about seven platforms which I called the motorbike operating tables and, as Zoom had promised, they stocked parts upon parts upon parts.  Hallelujah!  I had entered motorbike mechanic heaven!  Surely if anyone could fix the won’t-start-won’t-keep-going problem, it was these guys.  I felt great confidence as they rolled the Fonda up onto the operating table and began to look inside.

While we were waiting for the diagnosis, Zoom and I walked across the street to grab some breakfast.  For this meal, he wanted to introduce me to a Hai Phong specialty.  Noodle soup is a favorite of the Vietnamese for breakfast.  Most of the time, it contains chunks of pork or beef along with the noodles and broth.  Hai Phong, however, is apparently famous for a type of noodle soup called banh da cua (pronounced “bine da qua”) in which ground up crab meat is used for the broth and there are fish chunks in the soup instead of pork.

banh da cua

There are certain protocols to eating in Vietnam.  The first thing you do once your food arrives is to take the toilet paper, kleenex or squares of wax paper sitting on the table in lieu of real napkins and wipe down your chopsticks and your spoon.  Failure to do so will draw disapproving looks from fellow diners.  One doesn’t eat noodle soup of any kind without first squeezing in lime juice and then adding chili sauce and garlic sauce.  I was well practiced because of my experience with pho and Zoom nodded his approval as I observed the pre-noodle-slurping ritual.  With chopsticks in one hand and a Vietnamese spoon (like the short fat Chinese spoons) in the other, I dug into my banh da cua.  Oh man was this ever good!  It was spicy and flavorful and I garnered brownie points from the locals at the communal table when I pronounced it to be ngon (delicious) – at least that’s how I interpreted their giggles.

Bellies full, Zoom and I waddled back over to the garage.  The Fonda was still being examined so we pulled up chairs and waited.  Zoom took the opportunity to take a hit from the thuoc lao (pronounced took now), a tobacco’d water pipe that is ubiquitous in North Vietnam, but is mysteriously absent the further south one travels in the country.  Every restaurant, tea shop and apparently garage in the North have one.  They are about two feet long, three inches around and made of wood.  The pipes are kept in a bucket under a table and are considered communal and available for anyone to use.  The tobacco is always complimentary.   Zoom tells me that the effects are quite strong and that you can get drunk from smoking, but the buzz only lasts for 5 or 10 minutes.   I tried smoking one once, but it had no effect on me.  

After a bit, the mechanics announced that they had figured out the Fonda’s problem.  I was never clear what the original diagnosis was, but mechanics are all Greek to me anyway (a deficiency which I plan to remedy once I’m back home).  Zoom seemed satisfied that they were onto the right solution so we hopped on moto-taxis in search of some good displays of chicken kung fu while the repairs were underway.  

Because of all the delays due to the Fonda’s temper tantrums, it was already 1 pm by the time we arrived at the animal market.  As we wandered through,  I saw many different sizes of turtles for sale; some for pets and some for soup. There were ducks of many ages and sizes ranging from eggs to adults and all stages in between.  In fact, it seemed that all of the animals for sale came in all stages and sizes.  After five minutes, Zoom announced that we had missed the best of the market which starts around 6 am and ends by 11.  “Stupid motorbike,” I sputtered.  “It’s Chinese,” he responded.  

ducks of all ages and stages

Against all odds, Zoom held out hope that a few chicken fights might still be underway.  I was secretly relieved to see that all the winners of the morning’s matches were already tucked under their proud owners arms or locked away in their bamboo baskets all on their way home.  Disappointed, Zoom settled for showing me the fighting chickens that were for sale.  As in the case of the ducks and turtles, people were selling baby fighting chicks that still had their fuzz, the molting adolescents (puberty is apparently ugly no matter your genus, phylum or species) and the full fledged adults.  

In the same way that many American men like to flex their muscles by displaying a knowledge of cars or sports, Vietnamese men take great pride in knowing how to select a good fighting chicken.  At first, Zoom and I observed the testosterone-charged man-meets-chicken machismo from the sidelines, but after 5 minutes, he couldn’t stand it anymore and had to jump into the fray.  It’s just one more thing about Asia that makes me laugh.  

Zoom reluctantly dragged himself away from his beloved chickens to show me the remains of the market.  Puppies, kittens, cats and dogs galore were for sale.  Given the overcrowded conditions of many of the baskets and cages, I was at first afraid that my furry favorites were being sold for that night’s dinner.  Only ten minutes before when we were still in the chicken section, I heard Zoom say, “Look. Someone just killed a cat.” I let that go in one ear, out the other and refused to turn my head in the direction he was pointing.  I couldn’t escape from the sound of a meat cleaver on the chopping block though. Apparently and oh-so-thankfully, the cats and dogs I saw in the cages were all being sold as pets (Or maybe Zoom just took pity when he discovered my hypersensitivity to these particular tail wagging and paw licking critters.  If so, I was happy to believe the lie.) 

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according to the seller, this chicken has good kung fu. lol

After the cats and dogs, we saw monkeys and many many different kinds of birds.  To my knowledge, none of the animals I saw were endangered or being sold illegally.  But as Zoom had pointed out, we were catching the market’s dregs so it’s possible that the rarer animals had already been sold or taken back home.  

Eventually, all the sellers packed up their wares to head home so we took our cue to head back to the garage and check on the results of the Fonda’s outpatient surgery.  The mechanics reported that she was ready to go.  Starter and keeper-going thingy (Yes, yes! I recognize my deficiency here!) were fixed.  Brakes were repaired.  The gas leak wasn’t fixable, but they advised that if I only put 40 to 50,000 dong worth of gas ($3) at a time instead of filling the tank up to the top, the leak wouldn’t occur.  Fine – I could live with that.  The repairs totaled 450,000 dong (about $26).  

It was now 3 pm.  I had been planning to drive 150 km that day.  There was no way that I would make it to Ninh Binh before dark. 

“You know, I have a few days off from work,” Zoom started. “After all that’s happened with the bike and the late time, I’m concerned about you driving to Ninh Binh on your own.  How about if I come with you that far and then I’ll just take a bus a home?  If we leave now, we won’t make it before dark, but I think we can get there tonight.  What do you think?”  

“I think you’re a doll, Zoom.  That sounds great.” 

So we loaded up the Fonda and headed out of town.  Five km from the mechanic, the Fonda let us know that all was still not completely right.  Ugh, ugh, ugh!  We headed back to the mechanic and, an hour later, with a few more parts changed out, we were on our way one more time.  

Riding on the motorbike instead of driving was quite advantageous from a photographic standpoint.  From the back of the motorbike, I was able to photograph so much more than if I had been driving.  The everyday life types of things I like to document often involve people. Because people rarely sit still, most of these compositions come and go in a matter of seconds … often longer than it takes to stop a motorbike and grab the camera.  Because I never had to put the camera down, I was able to capture many more of these moments.  

someone's getting a new washing machine

Zoom was fabulous to ride with.  He had a keen sense of the kinds of things I liked to photograph and not only pointed potential subjects out to me, but drove in such a way that maximized my opportunity to capture them.  His absolutely thrived when either of us spotted an overloaded motorbike carrying interesting cargo.  “I can catch them for you!” he would exclaim like a happy child. “I can drive very fast!”  

After a few practice rounds of “catching motorbikes,” we became quite a team.  He knew that I preferred to get one shot from behind, one from the side and one from the front.  He learned how much distance I needed between our bike and the subject bike for an optimal shot and, unless safety kept him from doing so, did his best to accommodate me.  He also went above and beyond by talking to the drivers as we approached.  He would not only get them to look at us, but whatever jokes he told them often made them smile for the camera.  

Zoom enjoyed reviewing the day’s photos with me in the evenings and early on noticed that I would often catch the Fonda’s mirrors in the corners of my shots.  I was touched the next day that he began folding the mirrors in when I was shooting so that they weren’t an obstruction to my shots.  He seemed to take as much joy in helping me get the shots as I got from taking them.  When he would ask, “Did you get it?” what he was really saying was, “Did WE get it?”  He never lost patience on the occasions when I told him I didn’t and asked for another pass.  He would just rev the engine and catch the subject bike all over again.  This was the most fun I’d had behind the camera since I arrived in Vietnam.  Half of the fun was being able to control the shot from a moving bike more than I had when hiring non-English speaking moto drivers, but I think just as much of the fun came from having a partner with whom I could enjoy it.

Zoom also loves to sing. Apparently, the Vietnamese have folk songs about many parts of the country.  As we drove toward Ninh Binh, he sang songs to me about that province.  I couldn’t understand a word of them, but I thoroughly enjoyed hearing them as well as the sweetness of the moment as he sang without inhibition.  

a very heavy looking load of bricks

Although it was a surprise to Zoom-the-perpetual-optimist, it was no surprise to me that, leaving Hai Phong at 4 pm, we did not make it all the way to Ninh Binh that first night.  We did make it a respectable 100 km to Thai Binh though, arriving at 8 pm.  The freezing cold, the dark and the long drive zapped our energy and it was all we could do to drag ourselves to dinner after thawing ourselves out with hot showers.  

I’m convinced that riding a motorbike adds a 20 degree wind chill factor to the actual temperature … and the temperatures in North Vietnam in early January were already cold.   To counter the biting air, I routinely biked wearing three pairs of pants, two pairs of socks, boots, three shirts, a sweater, two winter coats and leather gloves. Seriously.  I looked like the Michelin man, but I didn’t care.  Even then, I would still get cold. 

Virtually all Vietnamese homes, restaurants, shops and hotels are all open-air … even in winter.  They don’t heat their homes or building interiors – probably because they can’t afford to.  With the temperatures and wind chill factor so cold, heat and the ability to get warm became a major point of interest and priority for me.  Although many hotels would tell me their rooms were heated, in reality they only had air conditioners whose thermostats could be set at 30 degrees celcius (that’s 86 F).  Theoretically, that should work but try running your a/c at 86 and see if it feels the same as running your heater at the same temperature.  It doesn’t work.  Hot water became my best friend over the next month until I reached Hoi An.  Fortunately for our friendship, Zoom also detested the cold and shared my sensitivity to it.  He was equally adamant about checking the hot water in a room before we actually agreed to take it as many hotels will often say they have hot water, but don’t.  (My insistence on checking such things has driven some people crazy in the past.)  

in the Vietnamese trinity, Uncle Ho rules

Luckily, the hotel we found in Thai Binh had water so hot, I could only tolerate what they considered “warm.”  After we had defrosted from our bike ride, we went out to find the only remaining restaurant open in this tiny little town.  It happened that the family that owned the place was Catholic, evidenced by the pictures of Jesus and Mary on their wall.  I couldn’t help but notice that in between those pictures and raised slightly above them hung a picture of Ho Chi Minh.  I giggled at what I dubbed the Vietnamese trinity.  Truly, Uncle Ho is considered a god here.  

The Vietnamese are amazingly friendly and curious people.  It was the rare occasion that Zoom and I could enter a restaurant or coffee shop and leave without having been invited to join a group for dinner, tea, coffee, wine or at least just chatter.  I don’t know if that would have been the case if Zoom were traveling by himself or with a Vietnamese woman, but people were definitely curious about the foreigner in their midst.  Zoom later told me that traveling with me meant the end of full meals for him as he invariably had to talk for and translate to me.  

It had begun earlier that day when we stopped for a “bum break” and the family that owned the coffee shop engaged us in conversation.  That night, while we were waiting for our dinner, the Catholic family entertained us.  After asking all kinds of questions about me, the man told us that he had served in the Vietnam military in Cambodia for ten years and told us stories about his travels there.  The lady and her sister kept asking  jokingly (I think!) for my coat.  The Vietnamese holiday, Tet, was fast approaching and getting new clothes for Tet is considered to bring good luck for the year. 

The Vietnamese are also very tactile.  Even grown adults, including men, will touch my hair inspecting each braid.  They’re fascinated by all things foreign to them … my hair, my skin, my full bottom.  They can’t seem to resist patting my bottom (this is primarily the women although one man apparently found it irresistible too).  One woman even felt up my breasts before I knew what was happening!  It’s all in good fun and laughter accompanies it all.  I’m fine with the hair touching and cheek pinching (as in my face cheeks), but beyond that gets a little weird for me. 

After a bit of chatting and hair inspection, our dinner arrived and Zoom and I chowed down on buffalo, frog and eel.  It was a delightful and different start to a new kind of adventure.

Total cost of motorbike repairs to date:  1,180,000 Dong ($69)

Number of road days without motorbike repairs:  0/6

If you’d like to see more photos from the road and of the Hai Phong animal market, check out the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of my blog.

If you’d like to visit the Hai Phong animal market and learn about “good chicken kung fu,”  click here  to see my video.

a spread of delicious Vietnamese food

I came to learn that traveling with Ngueyn Manh Dung (pronounced When Mine Zoom) is always an adventure, particularly of the gastronomic type.  The first dinner I shared with him on Cat Ba Island foreshadowed the experiences I was to have over the next six weeks with this delightfully sweet 35 year old Vietnamese man.   

Zoom, as he’s come to be known on Cat Ba, takes great delight in introducing people to Vietnamese language, culture and especially to the food.  The Vietnamese who live in the South, while certainly no Westerners, are considerably more conservative eaters than their countrymen in the North.  Zoom told me early on about a Vietnamese saying that I’ve come to believe holds true more in the North than in the South:  “Chu cut voi la xoan” which translates “We eat everything except poisonous leaves and shit.”  Having traveled with him extensively, I can attest to this fact.

We first ate dinner together when I treated him as a thank you for coming to my aid in rescuing my motorbike from the hands of an inept mechanic.  During that dinner, Zoom delighted in not only selecting our still swimming seafood, but introducing me to them before they met their ends.  In addition to Joe the Fish, we also ate lobster-size shrimp, snails and clams that squirted water at us protesting their fate.  During dinner, I noticed six large jars of liquid with various objects inside sitting on a counter.  I asked what they were and Zoom became like a kid at Christmas.  

“These are rice wine with different things inside,” he explained.  The “different things inside” were starfish, seahorse & snake (all 3 in one jar), moldy clams, scorpions and tree roots (again, an interesting combo), shark fins, seal penises and last, but certainly not least, goat penises with a bonus goat embryo.  There were 20 goat penises in the jar and one lonely embryo.  They’d all obviously been there for a while because, although they weren’t moldy like the clams, the flesh was only a few shades away from being out-and-out gray and particles from the tissue had separated from the organs and were floating around like a million not-so-brilliant stars in the galaxy of wine.   “We believe drinking this makes the man strong if you know what I mean,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.  “You have to try some of this!”  

"baby goat wine" and "snake wine"

“Well, I’m not a man and don’t really have any need to be strong, if you know what I mean,” I replied.  “C’mon!” he continued. “This is the only chance you’ll ever have!”  If Zoom didn’t know my achilles heal, then he certainly made a lucky and incredibly accurate guess.  I love to try new things.  It takes me a little more time to work up the courage to try some things than others, but if I’m faced with the prospect that I’ll never be able to do it again, that will almost always push me over the edge.  And that’s how I came to drink goat penis wine, timidly I admit, but I did it.  

Oddly, my timidity was caused less by the fact that there were reproductive organs in the wine than by the fact that any almost gray, particle-losing tissue was present, regardless of where on the body it came from.  I made myself ignore the millions of little particles and chugged my half-shot glass size shot glass of the stuff.  Miraculously, it didn’t taste any different from the non-penised rice wine I’d had at the Hai Phong wedding a week before – which isn’t to say I liked it.  I wasn’t crazy about that wine from the wedding either.  It’s pretty strong alcohol (40%) and burns on the way down.  It doesn’t taste exactly like vodka, but that’s probably the closest I can come in describing the taste.  After overdoing it with vodka shots on my twenty-first birthday oh so many years ago, I’ve never particularly liked shooting vodka either.  But there it was … down the hatch.  I could now one more more oddity to the list of weird things I’ve eaten or drunk in Southeast Asia. 

Zoom wasn’t going to let me off that easily.  He didn’t quite feel victorious enough with just the one shot it seems.  “Let’s do one more!” he said excitedly, already pouring me another before I could say anything.  Let’s just say that for many years through college and afterwards, I was no stranger to alcohol.  Although I’m not much of a drinker these days, I somehow managed to retain my tolerance for the stuff and for a little gal, I can hold my drinks with the best of them.  So it was less the effect than the taste that I objected to.  But what the heck? I’d already had one and it hadn’t killed me.  I do like to be a good sport.  

another "Zoom special" ... congealed goat's blood

The next night we ate dishes with buffalo, frog and eel.  Zoom seemed to make it his personal mission to make sure that I not only ate a variety of Vietnamese food, but that the variety included animals that were foreign to me or at least unfamiliar parts of beasts already in my diet.  In hindsight, I can now say that buffalo, frog and eel were pretty tame.

Of course I tried to do what I could to introduce Zoom to America too, or at least to correct his many misimpressions of it.  One of those misimpressions was that it was the normal everyday occurrence for American wives to murder their husbands.  “I see it on Desperate Housewives all the time,” he explained.  Wow!  How to undo that propaganda?  My favorite misimpression, however, was that brilliant American scientists had somehow designed and managed to build an invisible shield over the country that would protect it from missiles and various other attacks.  “Do many Vietnamese people believe this Zoom?” I asked after I picked myself up off the floor.  “Everyone thinks this,” he said, completely serious.  

With beliefs like that, I felt like I was starting in the red trying to answer his questions about what America was like.  I spent much time trying to discover his beliefs about my country and to correct the ones that were as outlandish as those first two.  I’m not sure he ever completely believed me.  There are many ways in which our two countries are alike, but just as many in which we are different.  I realized that, in the same way that I love to photograph everyday life in Southeast Asia, I needed to do the same in America and bring the pictures with me next time to show my Asian friends who were curious to learn about the non-TV version of the stars and stripes.  Without such props, I might as well be discussing a different planet … one with an invisible protection shield. 

8:15 am

Who has a copy of Robert Pirsig’s book “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance?” I need one immediately! Regretfully, I approached my motorbike purchase with about as much due diligence as I had when renting bikes in the past which constitutes a simple ride around the block.  Against my better judgment, I did not take it to a mechanic to have it inspected as I would have when buying a used car.  I didn’t even personally inspect the body for scratches or scrapes to see if it had been in an accident. I failed to notice that my speedometer didn’t work. Hell, I didn’t even check the mileage (or in this case, kilometerage).  

At the time, I had a boyfriend who had purchased his motorbike with no more care either and who I perceived to be overly anxious to hit the road.  He had scoffed at my idea of taking either bike to a mechanic prior to purchase and, like a schoolgirl, I was anxious to please him.  So I stupidly allowed myself to fall prey to a bit of peer pressure (What was I? Thirteen years old again?) and now was paying the price.

Only four days of actual road time into my motorbike trip and I was at the mechanic AGAIN.  Third time.  The first two times were because my bike, after running along just fine for an hour or two, simply failed to start after I cut the engine to get gas or check a map.  I ended up buying a new battery which I’m still not certain is the answer to the problem, but with language barriers, it will have to do until the next breakdown.  I’m currently having a gas leak repaired and the odd sounds coming occasionally from my front wheel have become as continuous, loud and demanding as a hungry, screaming two year old child.

My bike was all packed up to begin Day 5 of my roadtrip to Ninh Binh.  Naturally, before hitting the road, I stopped at the petrol station to fill up … and a good portion of the contents I’d just put in were now pouring out all over the ground below.  As I pulled away from the petrol station wondering whether I could make it the 150 km I had mapped out for the day’s drive, the front wheel scraped, screeched and made horribly angry sounds as offensive as nails on a chalkboard … times one hundred.  Damn it all to hell!  There was no way that I was going to be able to ignore this.  I needed to get to a mechanic immediately.  

I’m studying Vietnamese in an effort to be able to communicate during my time here.  At this point, I’ve picked up a few phrases and am able to read a few words.  Sadly, one of the phrases that I easily recognize on sight now is “xe may” which is, of course, Vientamese for motorbike mechanic.  There are “xe mays” everywhere in Vietnam … which will probably turn out to be a good thing for me if the Fonda continues its war of aggression at its historical pace.  So it didn’t take me long to find one … only about 5 blocks.  Thankfully, when he took the bike for a spin, I heard the wheel/brakes continue to make the same grinding sound that had alarmed me so at least I didn’t have to worry about the age old problem of saying “I swear, it’s making this sound …” and of course it won’t utter a peep for the guy who can actually diagnose and fix the problem … particularly since I haven’t yet mastered being able to say “I swear, it’s making this sound” in Vietnamese.  I’m still working out the tonal arrangements of “How are you?”

Through sign language and silly gushing sounds, I think I was able to communicate also that petrol was leaking out of the tank and onto the ground.  At any rate, I communicated enough that, as I sit and type this, my little Fonda is in pieces all over the mechanic’s garage, stripped down to her skeletal frame and probably feeling as cold as I am.  

I am aware, of course, that by pulling out my laptop and writing while waiting, I’ve probably doubled or tripled the cost of my bill.  Prices in Vietnam, and Southeast Asia in general, are “flexible” and seem to be primarily based on perceived ability to pay.  I’m certain that the sight of my laptop, in addition to my white skin, has just upped my perceived payment abilities astronomically.  Luckily, a standard motorbike fix runs only a few dollars and writing is good therapy for me; therapy which I greatly need in this moment of frustration.  So I’ve thrown caution to the wind.  I figure whatever extra I’m charged I’ll attribute to therapy rather than motorbike repairs.  

10:30 am

Playing and interacting with the kids here is also good therapy for me; not as productive for my blog, but certainly good therapy.  Within thirty minutes of sitting down and starting to type, the mechanics’ two kids and their two friends surrounded me.  At first, they sat in tiny chairs beside me watching curiously as I typed on my laptop.  We exchanged smiles and hellos, but my linguistic skills don’t extend much beyond that at this point.  Kids being kids, however, they’re not daunted by language barriers in the way adults sometimes are.  They began chattering away at me in Vietnamese and smatterings of English.  Children are great language teachers and our play turned into a mutual linguistics lesson; Vietnamese for me and English for them.  

For the past two hours, they’ve helped me learn my numbers.  Their mother got into the action when she brought out children’s books with animals and vegetables in both English and Vietnamese.  The girls, aged 11 and 14, were particularly interested in the language lesson.  The boy who’s about 6 years old is more interested in jumping around on my luggage and playing with the American and Vietnamese flags I carry with me.  

Time for lunch.

11:00 am

Back from lunch.  This mechanic is brilliant!  It appears that he’s solved the gas leak issue AND has discovered that I have a starter  problem (or rather a “keeper-going” in my high tech motorbike linquistics) too.  He’s not trying to recharge my battery or sell me a new one so I think he’s onto the heart of the matter.  Hopefully he’s also brilliant enough to fix it.  And then onto the scraping wheel/brake issue …

12:00 noon

Starter/keeper-going is still presenting a problem.  Looks like I won’t make it to Ninh Binh today.  And an old man has seated himself next to me.  He’s saying things I don’t understand.  He keeps reaching out and grabbing my hands and pinching my chin.  He’s weirding me out a bit.  Thankfully, he can’t resist giving his opinion on my motorbike issues and has gone to tell the mechanic his business.

12:45 pm

I’ve lost complete confidence in this mechanic.  Did I really describe him as brilliant just one hour and forty-five minutes earlier? He keeps requesting payment from me and trying to give me the bike, indicating that the Fonda is fixed, good as new, but now problems exist now that didn’t before.  Ugh!  The Fonda, which started just fine when I brought it to him, will now barely start.  As I try to head uphill to test drive it, the engine sputters and dies within fifteen feet.  How in the world can he possibly be trying to tell me the bike is fixed and ready to go?  I think the problem is the spark plug (I had a similar problem in Bali and a $4 spark plug solved the problem just fine), but the word for that isn’t in my pinky-thick dictionary. I try to draw a picture of one, but can’t remember exactly how they look.  I used to weld them together to make business card holders, but now their exact appearance eludes me.  I had intended to buy an extra before leaving Saigon, but in my rush to get out of town, I let that detail slip.  Shit shit shit … and other expletives.

1:15 pm

I go back to my hotel, looking for a guy named Zoom who works there and who speaks really good English to come and translate for me and hopefully take up my cause.  He’s not there, so I recruit another guy whose English isn’t as good, but it’s better than the mechanic’s (non-existant) and he seems to understand the concept of a spark plug.  We hike back to the mechanic’s, but my escort isn’t much of an advocate. He does at least get the mechanic to replace the spark plug.  Turns out, however, that I’m not much of a motorbike mechanic.  Even with the new spark plug, the Fonda still fails to start and stay running properly.  I’m my best advocate and the mechanic realizes that the current condition of the bike is unacceptable.  He clearly has no idea what to do to solve the problem but goes back to work trying this and that .  

2:30 pm

The Fonda is still not driveable.  I walk down to the rock climbing gym hoping to find my friend Tim who has toured Vietnam extensively by motorbike.  I’m certain that he’ll know what the problem is or at least have some ideas.  Probably with the amount of time he’s spent in Vietnam, he probably speaks Vietnamese too.  Not there.  Drat.  On my way back to the mechanic’s I pass my hotel and find Zoom standing in the doorway, smoking a cigarette.  

“Zoom!” I exclaimed and excitedly launched into the day’s events in such rapid-fire English I’m sure all he probably heard was what Charlie Brown heard when his teacher talked, “Muah, mah mah mah mah muah mah mah.”  “Slow down,” he said calmly  “What’s the problem?”  Right.  I composed myself and retold my story in a much more understandable fashion.  Zoom became incensed on my behalf (Excellent! Just the reaction I was hoping for.) and said, “Why didn’t you come to the hotel for help sooner?”  Pfffft, I thought.  But off we went on his motorbike.  

When I first met Zoom, I thought that he had a tough, almost mean look about him.  He always wears a black leather jacket that added to this impression. (I failed to notice at the time that stitched on the front were the words “Sport Girl” which of course made me realize that he wore the jacket out of necessity, not to establish a certain look.)  Now having gotten to know him very well, I can’t imagine how I ever thought he looked mean as I’m now convinced that every bone in his body is made of 100 percent sugar.  He’s always smiling and was from the first time I met him when he invited me to join him and some other hotel employees for drinks and karaoke.  At any rate, however, a tough Vietnamese guy was what I saw at the time and a tough Vietnamese guy was exactly what I needed.

When we arrived at the xe may, Zoom calmly discussed the matter with the man.  After five minutes of the mechanic sputtering, Zoom offered some of his own ideas about the solution to the problem.  He then got a semi-stern look on his face and I imagined he said something to the effect of “You have only a short time to fix this bike or else.”  Of course I have no idea what he actually said.  Knowing him as I do now, it was probably more like, “Good luck. We’ll leave you alone to work on it so we’re not in your way and will come back in a while.”  And I probably imagined the stern look as well.  

“We come back here at 4:00,” Zoom told me.  “Go rest and relax for right now.  You obviously can’t leave the island tonight, so I’ll get a new room ready for you and will bring your bag up.  Just take it easy.  You’ve had a hard day.”  Geez.  What a guy.

7:00 pm

Four and a half hours, four mechanics, several arguments and 200,000 dong (about $12) later, the Fonda is back in my hands.  She’s starting and running again, although she still has the gas leak (turns out it wasn’t fixed afterall) and the crunching wheel/brake sound that I originally brought her in for.  In other words, I’ve spent money, energy and emotion and nothing’s changed except that I’m $12 poorer.  The twelve bucks went to some later mechanics to fix the things the first “brilliant” mechanic broke.  Sure, in America we would have tried to get the first mechanic to pay to fix what he broke, but you can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip, it’s only $12 and this ain’t America, Toto. 

Zoom offered to accompany me to Hai Phong, the mainland, the next day to help me find a reputable garage to repair the gas leak and brakes.  He was also going to take the opportunity to show me Hai Phong’s animal market at which there were chicken fights (his favorite) and many exotic, and probably illegal, animals for sale.  

To thank him for his help, I treated him to a seafood dinner at the same restaurant the two Vietnamese couples had introduced me to the night before.  Cousin Joe the Fish got sent to the frying pan afterall. 

hiking in Cat Ba National Park

(December 30 – January 2) The weather forecast for my first full day on Cat Ba Island was overcast with scattered showers. I had heard that it was best to visit surrounding Ha Long Bay on a sunny day because the clouds often obscured the beautiful limestone cliffs, the main feature for which the Bay is famous. Accordingly, I opted to postpone my tour of Ha Long Bay for the following day and instead arranged to do an all-day hike in Cat Ba’s national park that included one of my trip goals: climbing a mountain. I was told that group hikes through the park could include groups as large as 15 which didn’t sound especially peaceful to me. So I booked a solo guide for my hike.

I was waiting for my guide to pick me up at 7:30 am as arranged when a large tour bus pulled up in from of my hotel. An older man came into the lobby. “This man is your guide,” the desk clerk told me. I followed him outside and he motioned for me to get on the bus. I obeyed, but of course a million thoughts began racing through my head. Why, when I had arranged a solo hike, was I on a bus with about 40 other people? Then I began to notice that many of the Vietnamese women on the bus were wearing high heels. Now Vietnamese women wear high heels almost all the time. They go places in them that I would never dream of wearing stillettos. But hiking a mountain??!! Surely there must be some mistake. I must be on the wrong bus. “Are you going hiking?” I asked the stilettoed woman sitting next to me. She didn’t speak English. Learning to suspend my curiosity and my desire to be in control has been one of the greatest learning experiences I’ve had while traveling throughout Asia.

After a thirty minute bus ride, my guide got off and motioned for me to follow. Two other Vietnamese men and three Western women also got off. The bus rumbled on and left us at a trailhead. Long story short (which after 6 months you must know I’m not good at), my solo hike turned into a group one, but at least the group was small and the company fairly enjoyable.  

most water in Vietnam still comes from a well

We hiked up and down for about five hours before stopping at a small village in the middle of a number of rice fields for lunch. Just before we finished our hike, our guide announced that we had just hiked 14 km, up and down three mountains and across the width of the island. THREE mountains? I had only signed up for one. Three was fine with me … except that I never got the spectacular views that I expected from summiting a mountain … or frankly even the knowledge that I HAD summited a mountain, much less THREE. Given that we accomplished all of that in 5 hours, I think the word “mountain” must be used loosely on Cat Ba. Although I got some great exercise, I don’t quite feel like I’ve yet climbed a mountain as I had envisioned it so I’m going to refrain from checking that one off my list.

Lunch in the village was lovely. I tried out the little Vietnamese that I knew on the family hosting us, probably butchering every word (the night before, Chung and his family had taught me how to say delicious, how are you and good bye expanding my vocabulary from mere hello and thank you) and they were delighted. People in these Southeast Asian countries are so gracious. If you make any effort to speak their language, they act as though you are fluent and praise you up and down. As usual, my Western dining companions/fellow hikers, although nice gals, had not ventured beyond the restaurants serving Western food and were pleasantly surprised at how delicious the homey Vietnamese food was.

woman carrying firewood

After lunch, we hiked some more (this time all on flat ground) to the boat which would cruise through Ha Long Bay and take us back to our side of Cat Ba Island. The walk was lovely, cutting through villages and rice fields surrounded by mountains. I saw people using water buffalo to plow their rice fields and a woman carrying two large baskets of firewood using a long piece of wood that stretched across her shoulders and suspended the two baskets. Although most of the houses in the village were made of concrete, about one third were made of mud and straw. I don’t think any of the houses had running water, but instead utilized a well. Almost all the houses, however, including the mud and straw ones, had a TV as evidenced by the old fashioned antennas strung up in a variety of ways outside each house.

The villagers were all quick to either initiate or return smiles and greetings. I caught one old woman as she emerged from behind her house carrying an armload of firewood. When I said hello to her, she smiled so big her face couldn’t contain it. She threw down her load of firewood and ran to hug and kiss me like I was a long lost daughter. She invited me and the German woman I was walking with into her house as did many of the other villagers. At that point, I was greatly disappointed that my solo hike had become a group hike because all the rest of the group along with my guide had walked on ahead, leaving me unable to accept any of the friendly villagers’ invitations. What I didn’t know at the time is that over the next month I would have an abundance of similar invitations as well as the time to accept and enjoy them.  

a typical Cat Ba landscape

The hike became more and more beautiful as we got closer to the harbor that housed our boat. The water was green and crystal clear at the same time. The mountains that surrounded it (probably the same size “mountains” I had hiked that day) reflected in pools that were so still they looked like glass. The sun even peaked out a time or two and everything felt absolutely perfect.

We caught a sailboat back to the side of Cat Ba Island where the hotels were located. I had seen many pictures of Ha Long Bay but could still scarcely believe the beauty of the limestone karsts emerging from the water in craggy, interesting shapes that, like clouds, which simply invited comparisons to animals and people.

In addition to its beauty, Ha Long Bay has a colorful history. Difficult as it is to imagine, during the 1970s, this beautiful water park was once stocked with mines, placed there by the American military during the war. Thankfully, one year later most of the mines were removed although some undiscovered ones still remain and pose threats to shipping and tourism.

me in Ha Long Bay

Pirates roamed the Bay as recently as the mid 1980’s. During that time, many exceedingly poor Vietnamese families, starving and desperate, made world headlines as “the boat people.” They sold all their belongings for gold, packed into small fishing junks and sailed, among many places, through Ha Long Bay headed for international shipping lanes, hoping to be rescued and taken to Hong Kong, China or anywhere where they could find food to eat. These boats were easy prey for pirates who would attack them, kill the people and steal their gold. As the boat people either resettled into refugee camps or met varying other fates, the pirates who preyed on them gradually disappeared as well.

The Vietnamese are very imaginative, poetic people as well as great storytellers. The say that they are the prodigy of a dragon king and a phoenix queen. Ha Long means “descending dragon” and the local legend of Ha Long Bay is that many years ago, when their ancestors were fighting off prospective invaders from the north, a family of dragons descended upon the bay to help the Vietnamese people defend their land. The dragons spat out pearls and jade which turned into all of the thousands of stone islands. The islands created a stronghold which permitted the ancestors to force out the invaders. The dragons were enchanted with their beautiful creation and decided to stay in the Ha Long Bay area. I was enchanted too and decided that the 1 hour cruise through the Bay that afternoon wasn’t enough. I booked a second, full day cruise two days later.  

stunning Ha Long Bay

That evening after the hike, Chung came to check on me to see how it went. (I came to learn that the Vietnamese are very protective of their guests in this way and Chung had come to regard me as his family’s personal guest.) We went for a drink and ran into the girls who had been on the hike with me so we all had drinks together. Chung, ever hospitable and gracious, extended an invitation to all of us to come to his house the following evening, New Year’s Eve, for a crab dinner. “We can all meet here at 5:00 and go to the market together. I’ll teach you how to buy crabs. Then we can go to my village and have dinner with my family. We’ll be finished by 8:00 and then you can go party as I’m sure you must want to,” he told us.

I was thrilled and immediately accepted. My jaw dropped with Abby and Emily declined in unison without missing a beat. “We’re planning on partying really hard for New Year’s so we were thinking we’d go for a really heavy pasta dinner early to soak up all the alcohol. I know you’re probably getting the best cultural experience, Beverly, but I think will pass. Thanks anyway though.”

THIS is the reason I avoid hanging out with Westerners when I travel! I will never understand why people are content to travel to foreign countries, take pictures of the beautiful touristy sights that every other tourist sees, eat only at restaurants that serve Western food and make zero effort to get off that beaten path to discover the real essence of the country, particularly when it’s right in their laps as Chung’s offer was for these girls. I realize that I’m incredibly elitist about this but I think these kinds of tourists might as well stay home, buy a coffee table book and save their money … or spend it getting drunk there. Why obliterate your mind when you can open it by having real adventures just by stepping in a different direction from the crowd? Don’t get me started. Whatever. I got Chung’s family all to myself.

boats on Cat Ba Island

Chung and I made plans to meet at 5 pm the next day. When 5:30 rolled around and I hadn’t seen him, I called. For a while, I stepped into the Twilight Zone. “Are we still going to the market to buy crabs?” I asked. “Oh there won’t be any fresh crabs at the market at this time of day.” Hmmm. “Ok … Am I still joining you for dinner?” “Oh. You want to eat dinner with me and my family?” It was as though the exchange from the previous day had never occurred which was odd because Chung was extremely organized and very punctual.

“I don’t want to intrude if you weren’t planning on me coming for dinner.” “Well, we don’t have much for dinner tonight, but please come out and eat with us anyway. Maybe we can get an extra chicken.” “Oh, I don’t want to be a burden, Chung. I just thought you had invited me to come for dinner.” “OK, then you can buy the chicken.” I laughed. “Sure, I’ll be happy to buy the chicken.”

I drove my motorbike out to Chung’s and when I arrived, we drove down the road to the chicken farmer’s house. Chung selected a plump chicken from all those running around and it was weighed, tied up and carried home. I still haven’t gotten over this live food business. It bothers me terribly, but I still eat the meat which tastes delicious. However, I feel I’m daily becoming closer and closer to becoming vegetarian. I didn’t start that night, however, and dinner was amazing. Chung’s father warmed to me even more than he had the first time I was there for dinner. “My whole family is so happy that you like our home enough to eat dinner here twice,” Chung told me. “Like your home? I LOVE your home!” I told him.  

shrimp boat in the bay on Cat Ba Island

After dinner and a visit over tea, I headed back into town and joined the party already in progress. I’m thrilled to say that not all Western tourists are like Abby and Emily, but the good kind are needles in a tourist haystack. I had managed, however, to meet a couple of really cool ones, both American, who ran a rock climbing business on Cat Ba and was looking forward to winding up the old year with them. Unfortunately, they were no shows at the party (smart guys!), but I met a couple of beginning travelers at the bar. We talked travel, of course, and I evangelized about getting off the beaten path. One, obviously in the Abby-and-Emily camp, drifted away to do shots. The other was obviously like-minded and we swapped stories. After a bit, conversation ran short so I began to speculate with him about who in the bar had the best travel stories. I selected a dread-locked, tattoo’d guy across the room. His appearance certainly indicated that he wasn’t afraid to go against the grain. I asked Ben who he chose. “You! You’re about to motorbike Vietnam! You have the best stories!”

Amazing Cave ... as big as 3 football fields

I appreciated the vote of confidence, but since I hadn’t started my trip yet, my money was still on Mr. Nonconformist. Thirty minutes later, he bellied up to the bar for another round and I took the opportunity to bestow the compliment. “I’m betting that you have the best travel stories here. Will you tell me a good travel story?” I asked. “You have the wrong guy,” he replied. “You ought to talk to my friend here. He’s been traveling for a long time. Jim! Tell this lady a good travel story,” MN ordered. “Yeah! Well, the other day I booked one of those boat tours and we brought tons of liquor on board with us. We started doing shots and by lunch we were so hammered! You should try it! It accentuated the waves of the boat and all the big rocks looked like animals swimming.” Oh my god. That was the best travel story he could come up with? Sheesh! With that competition, I had to agree with Ben. I was bored, but it was 11:45. I stuck it out until midnight, counting the minutes. Midnight rolled around and Ben gave me the obligatory peck then said, “My hotel has a really big lobby. You can park your motorbike there tonight if you want.” Whoa! Time to go … and park my motorbike in my own hotel lobby. So that’s how 2009 rolled in for me. Thank goodness for my Vietnamese friends.  

the friendly Vietnamese honeymooners

The next day, I boarded the boat for my full day cruise through Ha Long Bay. My jaw was on the floor in disbelief at the beauty just as it had been on the first day I saw the Bay. In addition to sailing through Ha Long Bay, we stopped and explored several caves. One was very appropriately called Amazing Cave and it was just that. The interior was cavernous, probably able to hold 3 football fields inside. The rock formations were astonishing. Lit with colored lights, I felt like I was walking through a rocky fairytale land, a stone version of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.

After exploring Amazing Cave, we had a delicious and traditional Vietnamese lunch on board the boat and then went kayaking in the Bay. The sun was out (finally!) and the day was spectacular if a little chilly. It was too cold to swim, but still a fabulous day to be out on the water and I soaked up the sunshine.

On the boat with me were two absolutely precious young Vietnamese couples. It turns out that they had each just gotten married and were on their honeymoon. We all hit it off and they invited me to join them for dinner. They knew of an amazing seafood restaurant where the fish was so fresh, it was still swimming in the tank until you selected the one you wanted for dinner. I realize my hypocrisy in eating meat but not wanting to be the executioner, but that’s just the way it is. Fortunately, my new friends did not have the same qualms and were adamant that they would order for me anyway so I was relieved of any guilt for having sent Ralph the Fish to the frying pan instead of his cousin Joe. Dinner was spectacular and my kind friends insisted on treating as a “welcome to Vietnam” present. Needless to say, I was touched.

All in all, my time on Cat Ba had been lovely, but I was anxious to hit the road and see the rest of the country. So I packed my bags and went to bed by 10 pm so I could catch the early ferry back to the mainland and get an early start for my trip to Ninh Binh.

Take a cruise through Ha Long Bay with me via video by clicking here.

If you’d like to see more photos of Cat Ba Island and Ha Long Bay, check out the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of my blog.

chicken vendors in Hai Phong

(December 29)  The morning after the wedding in Hai Phong, I bought a new battery for the Fonda and a boat ticket to take us both (the Fonda and me) to Cat Ba Island.  To pass the time before I needed to board the boat, I explored the streets of Hai Phong, Vietnam’s largest port.  I came across a small market where women were selling live chickens and ducks.  I parked my bike and walked over to investigate … and of course to take photos.  

As I approached, the ladies waved me away … or more accurately, they waved away my camera.  So I put it aside and started just to visit with them.  Although my Vietnamese has gotten pretty good since then, at the time, the only words I knew were hello and thank you.  I used those but then relied on my smile and willingness to make an absolute fool of myself which usually involves lots of miming.  These methods usually get people laughing and get my foot in the door … and didn’t fail me with these ladies.  

chicken vendor snoozing

I got the sense that they were asking me where I was from, so I ran to my bike and came back with my little American flag along with my Vietnamese one.  The next thing I knew, the women were crawling over themselves (and their chickens and ducks) to get their hands on the flags.  They took turns waiving them and then started requesting to have their photos made.  Now we were talking!  Once the camera was out, these once shy ladies started hamming it up.  They even began pointing out photo opps to me … like one of their peers who was taking a nap and was so far into dreamland, he didn’t hear the commotion they were creating.  They laughed hysterically as I took the snoozer’s photograph.

So it was with happy feelings that I boarded the boat for Cat Ba Island an hour later.  The boat almost overflowed with passengers who filled every seat and then some (all Vietnamese except for me and one other Westerner I spotted who seemed to be trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible in the corner).  It seemed that everyone had bags of fruit, vegetables or some kind of food that they stuffed in all the crevices on the bench seats that bodies weren’t filling and all over the floor. The Fonda was parked outside by the railing and every square inch around it was filled with bags of vegetables and lettuces which islanders were importing from the mainland.  Space was certainly not wasted on this boat.

a Hai Phong mattress vendor with a serious load

Although I enjoyed visiting (or at least sharing smiles) with the old woman seated next to me who kindly shared her fruit, the density of passengers coupled with the lack of air circulation pushed my curiosity about what we were cruising past over the edge and I squeezed past lettuce and vegetables to to out to join the Fonda for a breath of fresh air.  I was photographing some boats as we passed them when a Vietnamese man who appeared to be about my age approached me and started chatting me up in English.

He introduced himself as Chung Ngoc and began asking about my camera.  I don’t like “how much did you pay” questions, especially from people in developing countries about electronic and photographic equipment that usually represents a years’ worth of earnings to them so I dodged it as I always do with “I can’t remember” or “too much.”  Then he started asking me more traditional questions which I’ve since come to learn are asked by almost all Vietnamese:  Where are you from? How old are you? Are you married?  

Not sure if he was just making conversation or making a move, I fibbed (as I often do on this topic to Asian men my age) and told him I was married.  He asked me a few more questions about my fictitious husband for which I made up answers.  The topic changed and I promptly forgot my lie.  Chung was a Cat Ba Island resident who had made a trip to the mainland on behalf of his handicapped brother.  Chung’s father had fought in the American War (as the “Vietnam War” is called in Vietnam) and had been exposed to Agent Orange.  As a result, his son, Chung’s brother, was born with a number of birth defects that rendered him unable to walk or talk normally.  

the Fonda on the ferry before being packed in with lettuce

Somehow, his brother had managed to meet a minority girl (a girl from an ethnic tribe) who lived in the mountains on the mainland, had developed a relationship with her via telephone and had fallen in love with her. Chung was returning from a trip to visit the girl’s family to propose a marriage between the girl and Chung’s brother.  He was returning with good news and was anxious to share it with me.  

He then told me that he was married and had a young son and invited to give me a tour of the island, including a visit to his village to meet his family.  Oh, a family!  He was safe!  So naturally, I accepted. 

It got cold outside the boat and my extra coat was packed away on my motorbike underneath all the vegetable so I excused myself from my visit with Chung and went back inside.  In my absence, the old lady who had been sitting next to me had curled up in both of our seats and gone to sleep.  I wandered into the next compartment and found an unoccupied space on a wooden bench.  The boat rocked me to sleep, but thirty minutes later, I was awakened by some women in their mid-thirties tugging on my hair (my braids are always a source of curiosity for the Vietnamese) and on my coat sleeves.  They seemed equally curious about one as the other.  All five of the women smiled widely except for one who actually looked a bit stern and seemed as though she was reserving judgment about me.  

the "stern looking lady" ... now all smiles

The stern looking lady made sharp gestures that she wanted to try on my coat.  I knew I would be cold without it but I was willing to be a sport for a little bit so I handed it to her.  Once she snuggled into its warmth, I wasn’t sure I was ever going to get it back.  The ladies all tried to talk to me but at that point, I didn’t speak or understand any Vietnamese (just hello and thank you) so they settled for inspecting my hair.  Apparently something I did or said won the “stern lady” over and suddenly she was all smiles like the others.  She began pulling food from her pockets and sharing it with me.  And just as  the boat was pulling into the bay at Cat Ba Island, she grabbed a pen and my hand and wrote her phone number in my palm.  

This wasn’t the first time a non-English speaking Asian woman had given me her phone number.  And I continue to be amused and confused each time.  We are obviously not able to communicate verbally so I’m not sure what they expect me to do with the number.  The best I can figure is that they’ve enjoyed our connection and want to walk away feeling like that connection isn’t lost.  At any rate, I was touched.

When we arrived at the island, Chung waited while my motorbike was unloaded from the boat.  In Hai Phong, I was able to drive my bike right onto the boat.  Not so on Cat Ba.  Immediately after stepping off the boat, everyone had to climb about 15-20 feet up some very steep steps.  There was no way I could drive my motorbike up there so I had to hire five porters to carry my bike up the steps for me.  It was a pretty precarious maneuver and I was a bit anxious for a few minutes, but they made it safely with my little Fonda so, after dropping off my bags at a hotel, off Chung and I went, zipping around the island to his village, Khe Sau.  

view of Cat Ba Island harbor from my hotel room

After showing me around the village, he invited me into his home to meet his family.  He and his wife and three year old child lived in one room (in one bed) in his parents’ house while he saved money to build his own house down the street some day.  His brother was unable to walk up and down the four steps that lead to the family house so he lived alone in a building toward the front of the house from which he ran a dry goods store.  I was present when Chung delivered the good news to him about his engagement.  It was quite sweet to see how happy he was.  

Chung invited me to join his family for dinner which made me quite excited.  It was my first such invitation in Vietnam and my opportunity to see what a Vietnamese home looked like inside. 

a shrimp boat in the harbor at Cat Ba Island

The living room floor, and in fact the entire house, was made of concrete.  As is common in Vietnam, the double front doors which separated the living room from the outdoors were wide open.  It was about 45 to 50 degrees outside … and, because the doors were open, inside as well.  It’s the custom throughout Asia to take off one’s shoes before entering the home.  I can’t tell you how grateful I was that cold night in a room with concrete floors to have on my socks (which are permitted indoors).  Seeing Chung and his family walk around barefoot made my feet feel cold anyway.  I also kept my coat on and I noticed that Chung and all of his family did as well.  

Against the wall was an old leather sofa and opposite it, a wood and glass coffee table and some chairs.  The set up was somewhat formal and also reminiscent, on a much more humble scale, of the living room feeling set up in the Vietnam consulate’s office in Battambang, Cambodia where I received my Vietnam visa.  Against the wall and to the right of the sofa was a formal glass case which housed some seemingly precious, yet dusty and forgotten objects including several lovely tea sets.  In the far corner of the room was a giant entertainment center made of honey colored wood (or pressed particle board) with gold trim that looked like it had come from Sears.  Housed inside – the precious and “always on” TV.  Next to the entertainment center was the bed used by Chung’s parents.  

Chung and his brother who's just received the news that he's officially engaged

I offered to help Chung’s wife cook, but she would have none of it.  So I sat with Chung on his couch in the living room (which also served as his parents’ bedroom and, when the straw mat was placed on the floor, the dining room as well) and shared a beer while we waited for dinner to be served.  

“So why isn’t your husband traveling with you?” Chung asked me.  Husband? What husband? I thought.  Then I remembered the little white lie I’d told earlier in the day.  Embarrassed to admit to my new friend that I had lied to him and not sure he’d understand why if I did admit it, I carried on with the fib.  I know this is going to sound crazy, but I didn’t want Chung to think I was in an unhappy marriage so I told him that my husband was going to be meeting me in one week in Hue.  If you’re going to tell a lie, you might as well make it a good one, eh?  I tried to change the subject, but Chung was relentless with his questions about my husband.  How long had we been married? (Three years) What does he do for a living?  (He’s a professor) Did we have children? (I kept it simple on this one … no).  Why not? Married for three years already.  Did we want children? (Sure … someday).  

Finally dinner was ready.  Saved by the bell.  

dinner with Chung's family

I was a little nervous about meeting Chung’s father.  Afterall, the man had not only fought in the American/Vietnam war, but was still living with its effects on a daily basis in his deformed second son who couldn’t even climb the house steps to eat dinner with the family.  He was the first such person I had met and I figured surely he must be bitter and would not be excited to have an American visiting his home.  To the contrary, when the straw mat was spread on the floor and everyone sat down to eat, he toasted with me and welcomed me to his country as well as to his house.  I was amazed and appreciative.  We didn’t discuss the war.  I was rather afraid to bring it up, but I enjoyed my first glimpse at how Vietnam has forgiven, if not necessarily forgotten.

Goof around with me and the lady chicken vendors in Hai Phong, bite your nails while the Fonda is unloaded off the ferry and join me for dinner at Chung’s house all via video by clicking here.

If you’d like to see more photos of Hai Phong and Cat Ba Island, check out the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of my blog.