i decided to go back to the scene of the tragedy. i went in the heat of the afternoon because i knew it would be a popular place. there’s no one out at that time of day. just too hot.

sweat was pouring down my back when i arrived. my shirt clung to my sides and it was hard to breath. the air was thick with grief. a crowd had gathered across the street from the building that had burned. they all were mounted on their motorcycles and their engines were, for the most part, still running. it was as if they were prepared to speed away quickly if the building decided to fall on them. the exhaust fumes from the motorcycles were trapped. they hung about 8 feet from the ground engulfing all of us.

the top of the building was charred like a burnt cardboard box. the sides of the building were stone and unaffected for the most part. soot covered the ground and everything was very still. the chorus of humming motorcycles was eerie. like a prayer. so many people lost their lives. burnt, trampled, suffocating. each one had a story. they all could smile and laugh and cry and now only memories are left. memories and ashes.

police officers stood silently looking into the crowd from across the way. they still carried large riot sticks and helmets as if we were all about to rush the building. no one noticed them

i walked all around the building. it was a small city block. the other sides of the building were similar except for the side that faced the ben thanh market. that side was charred black and brown. even the blue paint was burned off of the stone and everything looked scarred. another crowd was gathered blocking the road. their motorcycles all hummed softly. the alley was thin and everyone craned their necks upward to take it all in. one policeman was trying to move everyone along. he didn’t have a stick and no one paid him any attention.

i walked into the ben thanh market. finally, after three days i had arrived. it is nothing more than a glorified flea market. people have small booths everywhere that are piled high with the widest variety of goods imaginable. the aisle-ways are small and you have to sidestep through them. the roof of the building is high and arching like a squat barn. it is made out of tin and supported by colorful, stone beams. the air doesn’t seem to move.

there seem to be two types of stands. one is for the regular customer. these stands would sell fruits and meats and plain clothing. they would be manned by a small couple that would sit quietly in the back of their stall waiting for a customer. the other stand was for tourists. these stands all carried jeans, trinkets, coffee, maps, books, pottery, chopsticks, and the same assortment of t-shirts (one that has a yellow star on it, another says, “333 saigon bia” on it, and the last one has a picture of ho chi minh on it). they would be manned by younger people that would sit on stools and yell things. “hello! hello! you buy this cheap! you need t-shirt! you are handsome and need pants!”

there was too much consumerism for my taste. i felt too much like a tourist to really feel comfortable. i walked out the door and down the crowded streets. nothing seemed to be happening. each step seemed to have a life of its own.

i saw a wonderfully interesting shirt. one boy with a sad face was wearing it. i almost asked if i could buy it. it had a picture of george w bush on it and a picture of osama bin laden. they were both looking at each other. staring deeply into each others eyes. they looked, for a moment, like they were in love. it only had their pictures on it with their names under it. that was all. what was it trying to say? the two men that have the world in their hands duking it out? something like that? maybe it was making the point that they were both spoiled sons of oil tycoons. their lives are incredibly parallel.

well, i’ve stopped sweating and i feel at home in my room. everything is settled except my lungs. everything was too thick and i still can feel the soot and the ash that i breathed in. my lungs feel like they are grieving the dead.

i didn’t realize how big the fire was. at school today that’s all everyone talked about. the main student newspaper’s headline read, “500 people trapped in burning building.” the soot and ash that i was breathing was, in part, the remains of humans. some people had heard that 200 people had died. some heard that 150 had died. the lowest number was 100. well, the lowest number came from the owner of my apartment. i saw her this morning and she thought that maybe four or five people died.

guess she didn’t want to scare me off.

i got back from class and turned the tv on. the first story i heard on cnn was about the fire. they said that 59 people had died and that that number was expected to rise sharply. like i’ve said, i didn’t think it was that bad of a fire. the mood outside was like a carnival. no one understood the severity.

today i played basketball again. there weren’t any vietnamese there to play with so me and a couple canadians shot around. it was fun and the sun was burning hot. i sweated and sweated. afterwards we met this very small man. he spoke french with one of the canadians.

they communicated rapidly and it was wonderful listening to them. my canaidan friend would translate for me. this man was small and frail. he wore a round hat that was the color of peas. his face was just like leather and i could see a scar from an earring that he once had in his left ear. he was very nice and spoke wonderful french for all i could tell. he had been practicing since 1950 he said.

he first made us order drinks and food. it was lunch time you know. he was an old industrial mechanic but has been retired for a number of years. he talked about communism and intellectuals. it was all quite fascinating. he seemed to understand a great deal about the world.

we were not allowed to pay for the lunch. he insisted. he invited us to his home next wednesday to meet his daughters and one son. he has 5 daughters that all speak english well. should be interesting.

he thought that a little less than 200 people died in the fire.

ms. ha canceled our afternoon language lesson so i had to do something. i looked over my map of the city and found the one major landmark that i hadn’t visited: the ben thanh market. oh, the allure of a foreign market. there are stories of eels swimming in cages, live frogs tied together at the legs and mounds and mounds of fresh coffee. i was excited to walk around aimlessly.

but, with most things in my life that are planned out, something went dreadfully wrong. the first sign that something wasn’t right was around ngyuen hue street. it’s a small, wide road located in the middle of the tourist district and, as i crossed over it, i noticed that police were blocking it off. they let me by. i thought that they might only be stopping motorcycles for some unknown reason. the road was empty and eerie.

i reached the next intersection. here there were two vietnamese soldiers with riot helmets on and large guns held firmly across their frames. the guns were about as long as their legs. their uniforms were olive green and the helmets made them look powerful. my stomach turned upon seeing these two. it was the first time that i had seen guns except for outside of the american embassy. what on earth was going on?

i kept walking because they didn’t seem to be stopping anyone. why did they have guns in the middle of the street? i walked more slowly and kept my head up. i noticed a large crowd ahead and saw some fire trucks. the crowd slowly swallowed me and i found myself sitting on a curb. i was about 100 yards from the next intersection which was blocked off. about 20 yards down the intersecting road was a large plume of coal-black smoke. the gawking crowd was not allowed on the street. we were told to sit on the sidewalk and wait.

slowly people started to leave the main area. it wasn’t that the fire was going out because the black plume of smoke kept rising and seemed to grow. my only guess would be that they were sick of breathing in noxious fumes. the wind would shift every few minutes and shower us with soot, ash and smoke.

the crowd thinned to a point where i could make it to the edge of the intersection. this crowd ebbed and flowed. people were constantly trying to find better views and one was gently nudged in the stomach, side and butt constantly. after the feeling of discomfort wears off, it’s kind of oddly comforting.

i had a wonderful vantage point and the fire was raging. i was probably 40 yards from it. flames were not licking up the sides of these buildings. they are made of stone and brick. large plumes of smoke would, however, billow out from the top of this small block. the block itself was small and triangular. the fire seemed to come from the center of it and it seemed as if four or five large buildings were engulfed. it was hot on the ground.

there were initially 7 fire trucks there. some seemed to carry only water and others seemed to be a combination of water tankers and pumps. they were large and tall and looked like they came from russia. the firefighters were running frantically in all directions. they wore a “uniform” which consisted of: pants that were either made into shorts or kept long. they had a white stripe around the ankles if they were not made into shorts. a jacket which was consistently too big and had a large white stripe across the chest but not across the arms. when the firefighters would run away from the fire their very large jackets and pants would be soaked with water and it made them look like children. a helmet which seemed to vary with the user. some people had old army helmets. green and metal. some people had firefighting helmets that were red and looked plastic. they made them look absurd. some wore white metal helmets and one man wore a baseball cap. shoes were whatever the firefighter chose to wear. some wore plastic boots which were not strapped. they would slip them onto their bare feet. i saw two firefighters emptying these boots out. they were filling with water. some wore tennis shoes and some were barefooted. i know, i know, they’re not competing in a fashion contest. they’re fighting a fire.

there were some other firefighters that were closer to the fire that seemed to be better equipped. they wore bright orange suits and appeared much more determined.

i assume they decided that they couldn’t fight this fire with the equipment they had on hand. they had two hoses running down the street and one had exploded under the pressure. it shot water everywhere. the other hose was being driven over constantly. out of the blue and much to the crowds amusement, four large army fire trucks barreled into our intersection. they were covered in camouflage and were very new. they had screens over all of the windows and wire nets protecting everything. water cannons were mounted from the roof. it looked as if they would more easily be used for dispersing an unruly crowd then fighting a fire.

the arrival of these machines also brought many army folks. they came in jeeps and all made a point of skidding to a halt. people rolled out and started crowd control. there were some policemen there with very large sticks. there were others there with riot helmets on. some were only there yelling things at everyone. as i said, i was standing closest to the fire and the crowd i was in was thick. thick and always shifting closer.

one man had enough. he was older and his pea green uniform had gotten wet. he yelled at some men and they rushed over. they all wore large helmets and carried large sticks. our crowd surged back a bit. this man was passionately trying to get the crowd to push back but people were resisting. finally, someone came with an electric tazer. now these make distinct noises and he swung it towards the crowd. ‘ta-ta-ta-ta’

the weight of the crowd pushed against me. everyone grabbed everyone and we were all one mass. there was a bicycle behind me that was digging into my calf. some people fell and they were picked up. we were all yelling. i had sandals on and almost couldn’t keep them on my feet as i shuffled backwards trying not to stumble. the ‘ta-ta-ta-ta’ of the tazer made everyone’s heart beat a little faster. i was on the verge of serious panic. because i was in the front of the crowd, i had a hard time getting to the back. the crowd surged and pushed. i was very nervous and couldn’t stop imagining the electricity pulsating through me. it took an eternity to eventually break away from the crowd.

the strangest thing was that people were all smiling. even when they were being pushed back. even when they fell and were honestly almost trampled. they smiled. it was an uneasy smile but it wasn’t fear. it was as if they were playing a game. it was like a child testing a parent. i can’t explain it. there was real danger there and the situation was tense. people were running everywhere. people fell. my leg was bleeding but still, they smiled. so strange.

i decided i would make my way to the market because, well, that is why i left my room. i headed in that direction. the fire still burned. i don’t know what exactly it was burning but it couldn’t be easily put out. i walked around the perimeter of the block. one block away on either side. all around police were edgy but i didn’t hear any more tazers or see any more guns. i found the market and walked through it. on the other side there was a small alleyway that directly showed the building that was burning. a crowd had gathered and i went to watch. the allure of the fire. i was under her spell.

all of the sudden the crowd broke into a run. hundreds of people were running down this alley way for, in my best judgment, no good reason. they were running towards the fire. the police took charge of the situation again. ‘ta-ta-ta-ta’ and the crowd fled in the other direction. the police cleared the alley once again. a man with a bull horn and a tazer was walking around yelling at people. people would walk near him with smirks on their faces. it’s as if they knew he wouldn’t shock them. they were defiant yet pretended to be innocent. they were smiling when they ran away. children testing their parents. honestly, that’s my best comparison.

when the crowd ran back the last time i ended up being in the way again. two run-ins with running crowds in one day easily fills my quota.

at the beginning, when i was sitting on the curb watching the smoke billow up to the sky, i felt like i was waiting for a parade. the road was clear and everyone around me bubbled with excitement. when i was in the crowd i watched the fire with zeal. people around me were riveted too. the police and the firefighters all had a wonderful time being hero’s and wielding power. in the end, a disaster that doesn’t hurt anyone is a wonderful experience.

people are all different but, deep down, we’re all the same. there are some things that people do here that really confuse me though.

one: people in pictures don’t smile. well, there’s a few pictures of ho chi minh where he’s smiling. there’s a great one at the post office where he is grinning and very tan. looks like he took to laying out on the beach after the revolution. this is an exception to the rule though. ms. ha showed me the pictures of her family and they were all straight faced. pictures were taken of them standing in and around their home and they all looked blankly into the camera as if trying to preserve their faces in their natural state. there were other pictures with her friends at the beach. some of them were standing on rocks staring directly into the camera. no smile. just a blank face. it’s not like their staring off into the distance contemplating something. there eyes pierce yours. they make me uncomfortable.

two: people blow their noses into their hands and pick their noses out in the open. there’s nothing like seeing a beautiful girl ride on her bicycle and pick her nose to make you furrow your brow in confusion. that just shouldn’t happen, should it? there’s nothing like watching people walk down the street and casually press a finger over one nostril and blow all of the other’s contents onto whatever might be in the way. the nose here is not a taboo region of the body that must never be touched in public. it definitely runs counter to what society has told me ever since i was a child. i wonder who’s stranger, us for cringing or them for picking.

three: men allow mole hair to grow. for me, hair that comes out of a brown molt on ones body should be removed. the thought of allowing a stray mole hair to sprout out make me kind of queasy. moles were created to remind us that we are human and that we have blemishes. (my opinion, obviously) moles are not designed for excessive hair growth and any hair growing from a mole should be routinely removed. (my opinion again) men allow the moles on their faces and necks to grow long sprouts of hair. the sprouts usually consist of five or ten hairs in a small, fertile cluster. the hairs then usually decide to venture out in very different directions creating a kind of mole hair bouquet. my initial reaction is to tell them that, hey, they’ve got a hair growing out of their mole. my thinking is based on the fact that moles are not meant to be the basis for hair growth. moles are the basis for skin cancer and maybe some reminder of original sin.

just some cultural differences. who is to say which is right and which is wrong.

one canadian in my class is named ben. he is an interesting fellow and i think i described him earlier. well, he asked me if i wanted to play basketball with him this afternoon and i happily said yes. of course i would like to play.

i went to the courts which were located in the middle of a water park. they were small and had a volleyball game going on them. the water park was made up of large slides held together by ghastly concrete. it all looked like it was designed by lenin.

our team was quite a rag tag bunch. there were three canadians who were all teaching at schools around the city. they were all in their mid 20’s and spoke perfect canadian. eh? they weren’t very aggressive and smiled a lot. there was also one viet kieu. (pronounced viet q) his family left vietnam after ’75 and he was raised in california. he speaks both vietnamese and english and plays basketball ferociously. then there was me and i haven’t played basketball for months.

we played games against teams of younger vietnamese. they knew what they were doing. their movements were graceful and they played to win. they had beaten all of us foreigners almost thirty odd years ago and they weren’t about to loose now.

i was told to guard a young man with long hair and a head band. he was missing a few teeth and the ones that remained were oddly colored. he was very thin and i towered above him. the court was cleared by our viet kieu friend. he yelled something at the people that were playing at the other end. we said that it was ok, they could stay and we could play down here. he retorted, “oh, they don’t mind.” absurd.

the game began and the canadians and i lumbered around the court and scored on many awkward layups. the vietnamese would deftly move around us. we would barrel through the lane and they would toss up floating jump shots from all angles. we got every rebound and they got every foul.

i was very interested with how much western culture there was in the crowd that had gathered to watch the north americans play. there were many nfl jerseys. many nba jerseys. many fubu hats. they all knew english curse words and they all knew american basketball players. i always grew up in a culture that decided what cool was. i never had to go to another culture to find out what was cool. for better or worse, these young boys all were products of asian mtv and loved it.

well, the north american’s lost the game as they did almost 30 years ago. the determination and the deftness of our competition brought about our demise. nothing too interesting, only fitting.

oh, on another note: i was watching a french news program and they were covering an amreican anti-war protest in washington dc. they interviewed a lady in a counter protest and she said this, “you can’t have dialogue with killers. you just have to kill them.” now, no matter what you think about the pending war, you must concede that a statement like that should cause something to short-circuit in the brain. seriously. do you think that people simply forget to carry out statements to their logical conclusions? do you mean to tell me that the lady that said this didn’t actually realize that if you would kill a killer, you become a killer? even if can justify the killing in your own head, you still are a killer.

today i went to vung tau with ms. ha. i was excited and knew nothing about the place. we woke up early and hopped on a small city bus. the first thing someone said to me as i was crouching, trying to stand up, not hit my head and hold on to something at the same time was, “you are very strong.” it’s always nice to start a day off with a random compliment like that.

we reached the bus station and bought tickets for what would turn out to be a four hour trip. the seats in these busses are narrow and small and they pack as many people in them as possible. it is impossible for me to sit down without being thoroughly uncomfortable after 15 minutes. also, one must get used to being constantly touching someone else. shoulders are always pressed hard up against your neighbor on either side. when you sleep you just choose a neighbor and lean on them. i was disturbed at the beginning of the ride when someone placed their hand uncomfortably high on my thigh. they kept it there too. i decided that i should get used to it and gave up worrying.

arriving at vung tau with ms. ha is quite an experience. since she has been there, i let her take complete charge. she walks around and hires xe oms (the motorcycle taxis that one must argue with) and decides where we’re going. she moves quickly and i sweat trying to keep up. what a motley crew we are: she is a poor housekeeper in her mid 30’s (looks a bit older) and i’m a young, tall white person who looks like he’s 18. she hired two xe oms and they took us to the beach.

oh, the air felt so fresh there! the wind pressed against your face and flew through your hair and everything was so light. the city air weighs heavy on your lungs but this air is fresh and it feels icy blue. the beach was home to a large row of buildings that served as hotels, eateries and houses. they were very close to the water and they were built firmly in the sand.

what is there to do in vung tau since we weren’t going to the beach? the answer is this: a ’40 foot tall jesus standing on the top of a mountain. what on earth. in buddhist vietnam, ancestral venerating vietnam, there is a ’40 foot tall jesus at the top of a mountain. we walked up the road that led to this huge statue. the road followed the shore. the waves were to our left and jesus was to our right.

before making it to the statue, we had to stop off at a very small beach for a bit. she wanted to walk in the water. this turned out to be some exclusive tourist beach and there were about 15 very fat german men in speedos wading through the shallows like pale hippos. ms. ha walked down to the shore and stood in ankle deep water. she just stood there and watched the germans. she had to hold her pants up the whole time but she just stood there watching. i wonder what she was thinking. i must have fallen asleep because, before i knew it, i was surrounded by guttural german men drinking beer. ms. ha was still standing in the water. a few more germans walked out of the sea. i couldn’t stop looking at them. they walked more left to right then straight ahead. they seemed to be waddling their way up to the safety of the umbrellas and beach chairs. i would say that they might have had sand in their swimsuits but i don’t think much else could fit in those speedos.

we finally made it to jesus. now, as i have said, he was waiting for us patiently at the top of a mountain so there was a good deal of hiking to do. the first thing i noticed on the way up the mountain was that there were benches everywhere and they all had a name on them with a location. they must have been bought by people sympathetic to the cause of this giant jesus. i noticed many benches from philadelphia. there was also west chester, downingtown, and new york to name a few. we started hiking up the mountain.

now jesus was looking out over a small peninsula. he was a very white statue with his hands outstretched and his head slightly bowed. it gave me two impressions: the crucifixion and the herding of sheep. i was feeling neither guilty or lost so i left it go. this jesus had a strikingly narrow nose and very large, round eyes. i was surprised that he didn’t look at all vietnamese.

when we reached the top, after sweating and resting a few times, we found jesus was surrounded by some very important things. initially, a statue of mary holding a dead version of jesus. i passed that quickly and moved on to the roses. there were all sorts of pots and vases holding beautiful red roses. there was no one around and being alone with ms. ha, such a large jesus and so many roses made me strangely uncomfortable. i crossed my arms.

there were two huge guns at either side of jesus. once again, i couldn’t make this up if i tried. they were probably from the french because they were very old and looked overgrown. i’m sure jesus could have figured out how to use them if the opportunity arose. behind the two huge guns that were literally underneath jesus’ right and left hands were huge monkey cages. actually, many small monkey cages holding many angry monkeys. i walked up to the cage with some absurd image of monkeys in my head. aren’t they curious? and very funny? and always throwing things and laughing?

the cages were full of dead things. the monkeys were alive but most things in their cages were rotting and putrid. i walked up to one of the cages that held a large yellow monkey. haha, a silly yellow monkey. he came over to the side of the cage to talk to me. the cage was narrow here and he couldn’t put his hand through. he edged over to the other side of the cage. i followed and giggled. i took out my camera and got very close to the cage. i was focusing my lense when, “thwap!” and “*expletive*!” the monkey had lured me to the side of the cage with the wider netting. he had reached out and hit me on the top of my head very hard and grabbed a tuft of my hair. he ran in the other corner of the cage clutching it and smelling it. my head really hurt. stupid monkey.

i wondered for a fleeting moment if i could have gotten some disease from the monkey. i then realized that i was standing under a ’40 high jesus.

we waited for the statue to open. oh yea, it opens and you can climb up and perch on his arms! you can stand on the shoulder of jesus and look down on all of nature and humanity! surely that yellow monkey had never stood on the shoulder of jesus!

finally, jesus was opened. there were only 8 tourists there counting me and ms. ha. i was the only white face. the door to jesus lies right between his ankles. you must take your shoes off to enter. they keep jesus’ vital stone inner-workings very clean. climbing up this statue was amazing. the steps are very narrow and circular. it felt like we were climbing up jesus’ intestine. we arrived at the shoulder. we ended up sitting on his left shoulder, not his right shoulder but, technically, if jesus is sitting at the right hand of god, we would want to be on the left shoulder to be closer to god so it all worked out in the end.

the wind picked up around us and felt wonderful. the sun beat down on me and i can tell i got burnt. it didn’t matter though. we stood up there not saying anything for a long time. the ocean churned underneath us and houses stretched on until they reached the horizon. it was a beautiful moment.

i don’t really think that jesus would have wanted a ’40 foot statue of him standing on a mountain with two big guns under each of his hands and a bunch of disgruntled monkeys ready to take out their aggression on any human that they can lure into their deadly grasp. i also don’t think ho chi minh wanted such a huge mausoleum. also, colonel sanders didn’t want himself to be portrayed as a silly cartoon character. it’s interesting what we do with people after their not around. we change their character to suit our needs. i guess we’re just inherently selfish.

i am studying vietnamese at the university of social sciences here in ho chi minh city. the other day my class received an invitation to attend a talent show. we were told that it was basically a show for foreigners and that it would be very interesting.

a guy i my class named ben thought it would be fun to go. he is built tall and has a circular face. i would never have gone if it wasn’t for him. boy would i have missed out.

we met at the local theater-type place and asked around until we figured out where we were to go. we entered the large theater and seemed to be quite out of place. my face twisted to the side and i whispered, “i think we’re in the wrong room.” ben was already sitting down and the show was beginning.

the show consisted of mainly korean, japanese and some vietnamese students singing songs. between the songs there were two comedians that would walk onto stage and slowly read jokes from cards. everyone would laugh. the stage was large and many colorful lights were used. it all seemed like a big joke.

by talent show they meant a karaoke contest. a normal song would go something like this: the music starts and there is no hiding the fact that it’s a synthesizer with a drum kit. the singer walks on stage slowly. the crowd claps politely. it’s a young boy with hair dyed blond. he has a very plump face and a baseball cap on. the lights furiously light the stage: purple pink and light green. colors that furrow the brow and cloud the mind. the person would start singing, softly and tenderly while always glancing about. the singer would walk to the edge of the stage and reach out to the audience with passion. he would reach the climax of the song and tilt his head slightly backwards. he would hold his note long, high, loud. the crowd would erupt with applause and people would stand up. the singer would bow slightly and girls would bring him flowers and everyone would laugh. euphoria.

me and ben were “enjoying” this talent show until two young students decided it was time to talk to us. they walked up to our aisle and asked the two people to our right if they wouldn’t mind moving to another row. for some reason they moved. our new friends has us right where they wanted us. the young boy started, “do you mind if i speak english with you?” he asked right when the show was getting good. some men had come on stage with big sticks and were pretending to beat a drum. my new friends didn’t notice the drummers, so he continued. “i am from vietnam. i am a student and i am a future journalist.” interesting. “who are you?” “i am jon.”

at that moment they were passing around some type of offering. it seemed to be an opportune time to leave so we quickly slid out. we returned and found seats on the other side of the auditorium. the building was about 100 seats across and we were far from our earlier friends. half way through the second part of the show i was passed a note. it said: “ben and jon! we’re sorry cause made you feel (they have a large blank here. guess they couldn’t think of a good word)! we’re really sorry! so, we’ll be the journalists in the future; talking with u will make us do practices so better good. if you’re not busy, i want to talk with us and take a photograph! do you agree with me?! hope you will agree! see you after this performance. wait 4 me! thank you very much!” and that was it. what a wonderful note to be passed in the middle of a hilarious karaoke talent show. everyone should have the experience of being singled out in a crowd of that size and given a note that had that many exclamation points.

the show was about to end. the crowd was restless and i was tired. tired of the lights and the singing and just ready to go home and sleep. everyone walked out on the stage together and the crowd thundered. people were standing up and running on stage to give flowers. then, as if from the heavens, music began churning.

we are the world, we are the children… the performers all rocked and swayed to the music and there was a wonderful solo by a large danish man with huge sunglasses and an ill fitting suit. the crowd continued standing and, unbeknownst to me, the last chorus of the song had to be sung with ones arms above their head swinging from left to right and back again. my arms were raised for me by helpful neighbors and me and ben swayed to the music.

we are the world. it is a terribly annoying song but it did sum up what i was feeling at the moment. everything’s culturally relative.

yesterday i was thoroughly alone and sad. i wrote a long analysis of the situation. i thought it was good but it got deleted. being depressed, i didn’t bother starting over and just left it die.

today felt very different. there was something wonderful in the air. maybe some pheromone or gas leak. whatever it was, i saw the leaves on the trees dance and the sun warmed my back.

i ate alone today at a very small restaurant. the tables were pressed against the walls and there were only four other men eating there. we all faced the road and ate alone. i stared at the man’s head in front of me and munched silently. it felt like we were eating in a garage and on a plane at the same time.

a dog walked by the store apparently busy. he was large and brown with very short hair. all of the sudden he turned and looked directly at me. i had finished eating and stared right into his beady eyes. he turned his body and trotted over to me. he closed the 20 foot gap between us quickly. i had no time to respond. what did he want? why me? there were other people much closer to the entrance than i was. he didn’t seem to notice them. he came with a look of determination and i treated him as a beggar. averting my eyes and trying to busy myself with something in my pocket. he stayed for a bit and then left without saying a word. that is the second unexplainable run in with dogs.

i walked around after lunch and everything was wonderful. i passed a large dead rat on the sidewalk. he seemed to die of some natural causes and laid peacefully, as if asleep, on the dirty sidewalk. he was on his left side. i wondered what his last thoughts were and i wondered what my last thoughts will be. if i’m lying on my death bed with my loving family around me, what will i be thinking? wouldn’t it be terrible to have a really annoying song stuck in your head then? that’s what i thought. maybe, “jailhouse rock”. that’s not a song i want to die thinking about.

also, i had another session with ms. hà. fascinating. we started off talking about the phrase, “money can’t buy happiness.” she asked what i thought. i said that i agreed with the phrase. her face changed quickly and she became very emotional. she works as a cleaning lady here and puts in 12 hour shifts. she said that she has a hard time making enough money to get by and that, yes, money does buy happiness. she notices foreigners spending very much money on trivial things while she sweats and cleans. she thought, if she had more money she would be happy. she isn’t always happy.

how do you respond to that. the world isn’t fair, understood. i couldn’t rectify the injustice and she seemed to understand. “vietnam is very poor, i think”, she said.

she also talked about marriage. she said that, “many, many people think i can not find a husband. i am 33 years old and have no one. they say i should be sad but i am not. i do not want a husband.” i asked her why. in vietnam, it seems that everyone is constantly looking for a mate to start a family with. she explained to me that she sees so many couples arguing and fighting. she is happy alone. everyone lives so close to one another that it’s easy to see what’s going on in another home. she said that she saw her neighbors hitting their wives very often. this makes her very sad. her father used to hit her mother when he made a lot of money. her mother didn’t make any money and needed him to survive. when ms. hà was small she wanted her mother to leave. now her father doesn’t hit her mother because he doesn’t make much money.

her eyes went red. she looked off at the ho chi minh city skyline deep in thought. what must have been going through her head i can only imagine. the rage that those beatings must have caused. no wonder she wanted to stay single her whole life even if it meant 12 hour shifts cleaning rooms for opulent foreigners.

i could have split at the seems right then.

the wind blew all around us on the roof as i thought of something to say. i ended up saying, “ms. hà, i think you are very strong.” she looked at me blankly. “you think i am strong? i can’t be strong because i cry.” she cries. there was another long pause and she looked back over the city. i said, “you know, i cry too. i miss many people at home and i cry too.” i wanted to right there. i wanted to understand everything she’s seen and get inside her head and root around for a while. i wanted to make her life right even though i had no idea what that meant.

she looked at me and said, “maybe you are not strong either.”

maybe not.

i visited the reunification palace today. people who lived through the war might remember because of its gates. they were smashed through by a tank in ‘75. it also was the home of diem. it sits in the middle of the city, right next to the mall, the cathedral and the park with numbered trees.

the gates to the palace are painted off white and are much smaller than they should be. the front lawn is lush and green. it is scarred by a long, curved driveway with flag poles arching out circularly from the building each bearing a solid red flag. a large red flag with a golden star is perched above the building. only large corporate buildings loom higher.

the building is a throwback to the 60’s. the walls are made up of strange geometrical shapes all curving together and all looking well out of place. i was sure that there had to be a bunch of lava lamps inside.

i entered and waited for the english tour. it ended up being me and two australians there on holiday. our guide spoke very rapidly. at first i thought she knew the language. i fired off a question at her and she threw back a blank stare. i asked another question and got another stare. i guess she just memorized what was on the tour. hilarious.

she took us from room to room. we went in the “official meeting room of the american puppet government.” it was full of terrible plush circular chairs. they all looked like they were out of some beatnik nightmare. we entered another room. it was the office of diem. it had a large black lacquer desk at one end. very large. who would have known a puppet government would have so much paperwork. there were also more terrible plush chairs. looked more like jack kerouac’s office.

we went upstairs. there was a movie theater. man, diem had it rough. i laughed out loud. gold trim and red velvet everywhere. i guess the us tax money was used both to keep out communism and keep diem busy watching the latest james bond thriller. there was a “room where the puppet government gambled.” fascinating. there was a large bar shaped like a barrel cut in half. there were circular couches. tacky. tacky. tacky. our tax dollars went for this kitsch? another room housed many, many stuffed animals. skeletons of anything you can hunt, i guess. large elephant feet hollowed out. weird stuff.

we ambled up to the roof. i could only imagine a large tank heading down the main road towards the gates and smashing through them in ‘75. the tanks remained there to this day. they sit of to the side with some jets. now, did the gun of the tank go over the gate? it didn’t work logically. the gun seemed to be lower than the highest point of the gate and it stuck out further than the rest of the tank. did they turn the gun to the side to barrel through the gate? did it fit through the bars in the gate?

the roof housed the all important dance floor. tasteless.

there were two large circles painted in the cement. they were the places where a renegade fighter pilot stole a plane and dropped two bombs. they must have been small bombs. our tour guide says that the pilot then, “flew the puppet government’s plane to the north and he lives there to this day as a hero.”

we ended our tour by heading down to the basement. the walls were lined with maps large telephones were everywhere. desks were crude and everything was cement. this is where all the important decisions were made. you know, decisions like: well, send these group of people with guns here to shoot at these people and if we have more guns and more people we can kill a lot more of those other people.

as ex-eagles’ running back ricky “running” waters once eloquently put it, “for who? for what?”

the tour ended with a quick stop over in the kitchen. it turns out most of the appliances that diem ate off of were imported from tokyo. would there be a worse way to end the tour?

i leave feeling strange. here i am, walking past the huge american embassy on my way back to my small room, felling constantly out of place. the air is fresh and the sky is blue. flags fly around proclaiming every ideology imaginable. from communism to commercialism, the vanguard party to the federal reserve board. the ardent supporters of ideological extremes have caused so much pain in this world. no one is altogether right.

nothing struck me today as being interesting. i bought some waffle looking things from a street vendor. they are very sweet and very hard. they are cooked in a small waffle iron heated by a small stove that she carries around with her.

she carries her goods in two baskets on either end of a bamboo pole. the pole is placed on the shoulder. the baskets hang low to the ground, wide, short. one must take short steps to prevent bouncing. at least that’s as i understand it. i never was forced to carry one. they really look like old fashioned balances. place goods on one side and weights on the other. vendors carry everything in them: coconuts in coolers, small stoves and food to make supper, little waffle irons to cook the paper thin waffles that i ate today, dirt, small handicrafts and much more.

i’m beginning to make friends on the street. i pass taxi drivers waiting on their motorcycles every day. they have stopped asking me if i want a ride and only make some silly comment to me anymore. sometimes they check out what’s in the bags that i’m carrying. today they asked if they could have part of my waffles.

everything seems friendly as i walk around. people stare at me from motorcycles, busses and cars but it’s all routine now. no one seems to stare out of anger. it seems to be curiosity and ho chi minh city isn’t as bad as hanoi. the staring is much more obvious there. how strange will it be when i return home and am assimilated by our white suburbs. i’ll only be a pale face in the crowd. wonderfully comforting.

everyone is friendly except for around the french and american embassy. the embassies are right in the middle of town. right next to the mall. nike, kfc and the american embassy in the heart of saigon. who won?

outside the american embassy there are three armed guards at all times. sometimes four. they are vietnamese. at night they walk around with large thick vests on and metal helmets. they carry large guns. well polished wood and metal. their faces look younger than 20 but very proud. i would imagine that carrying a gun all day does wonders for ones self esteem.

i hate walking in front of their guns. they are normally slung across their backs pointing slightly towards the ground. if fired, they would hit a spot maybe 20 feet away from them. i always shudder as i pass them even though i try not to. i glance at them. it is pointing in the direction that i’m walking. i can feel when i cross the path of the gun. it would hit my leg. the flesh of my leg and tear through me. everyone’s happy but them.

i’ll continue to amble around this city until early december. the cracks on the sidewalks are becoming familiar. the dirt on my feet feels natural. the language is slowly forging its way in my head. someday i’ll know something. until then, there is much to see and say.

so, i went to church today. it is sunday. i met ms. hà early this morning and we headed off to worship.

we boarded a bus that was full and never quite stopped. it was in a hurry. people were packed inside all staring at nothing. some sat but most stood. the ceiling was too short and i kept banging my head. i noticed a vent that was open on the roof. i put my head through it and could stand up. just as i did, the bus swung erratically around the corner and i banged my head at least twice.

the bus slowed but didn’t stop. we hopped off. i was sweating through my shirt from the heat, being directly in the sun and the tension of being on a cramped bus as a stranger. the pagoda stood off in the distance. it’s main, for lack of a better word, steeple rose to the heavens. it reminded me of an accordion.

we strolled through the gates and my head was spinning. i was trying to observe as much as possible but was being mobbed by little kids begging or selling things. i ignored them as much as was possible. they would grab your hand and put things in it. they were all thin tired.

directly inside the gates the ground was stone and dusty. there were people selling an assortment of things. packages of incense. necklaces made from flowers. larger flowers. golden plastic things that seemed to be quite out of place. ms. hà bought a package of incense and a flower necklace.

“we will now meet ms. phýõng’s mother”, she said. she’s the lady that committed suicide because her husband lost 300,000,000 dong betting on football games. i had lots of stuff i wanted to ask her.

we walked past the main temple. it was large and stone. it seemed like it belonged there. behind this house of worship there was another rock building. two sets of stairs wound their way up the front. i felt like i was watching a movie. still, the ground under my feet was soft and the sun beating down on my back was real.

upon entering, the smoke of incense burns your eyes. the room is full of urns. shelves made of ancient wood reach to the ceiling which is at least ten feet away. the urns are dusty and ceramic. they are greenish brown with flowers and gold trim. pictures hang on the front explaining whose charred remains lie inside. shelves were thick with these six inch wide tombstones. the urns were stacked three deep also. this made it difficult to see your loved one if they were placed in the back. thousands of people’s remains were housed here. maybe tens of thousands. if only they would all talk!

people were ambling through narrow passageways. i, being very tall, exercised as much caution as possible walking around the aisles. the last thing i wanted to do was to knock an urn off a shelf with my shoulder and watch it crash to the ground and explode in an ashy puff of dead humanity. we walked up two flights of stairs.

we arrived at ms. phýõng’s temporary resting place. she happened to be in the back row on the third shelf from the bottom. this meant that we had to kneel down to see her. her picture was well hidden but i could make out a soft, smooth face with jet black hair falling perfectly on her shoulders. i could see her eyes. they were calm.

there was a flower by her picture and ms. hà placed the flower necklace on top of it. the walls of the room, as all rooms in the building, were covered with urns. each had a picture on it. some pictures were very old. some were of very young people. it created an incredibly strange atmosphere. that, along with the old wood floors, the dim light and the incense smoke that burned your eyes made the hole experience surreal. we walked up to an alter. she lit some incense and said, “you do what i do.” i complied.

we kneeled down on the wood floor. we held burning incense close to our face. the smoke passed around me thickly. i occasionally opened one eye to see what i was supposed to do. we raised the incense with both of our hands to our forehead. we then arched our hands smoothly down towards our stomachs and quickly returned them to our foreheads. it was smooth, fluid, well practiced and we did that three times. the smoke billowed around us. ms. hà sat still. i assumed she was praying so i decided to pray too. i sat there and shut my eyes and thanked god for life and diversity and peace. i thanked god for love and tolerance. i also asked god to take care of ms. phýõng’s family because her mother had killed herself and her father was as good as dead. i wondered who ms. hà was praying to. i figured it was ms. phýõng’s mother. i decided i would say something to her so i said, “dear ms. phýõng’s mother. i hope you are well.” something like that. what do you say to a dead person that you don’t even know? i mean, she probably didn’t even know english.

i guess it’s the thought that counts.

we went back to the main temple and there were many people praying to different golden statues. there was a room full of people repeating phrases over and over and there was a monk that would hit a bell every once in a while. there were also thousands upon thousands of little pictures set up everywhere. they were all attached to small pieces of square wood. about twice the size of a domino and about the same shape. they were all setting on large wooden platforms. there were row after row of pictures all setting like steps rising towards the ceiling. it reminded me of stadium seating.

the building hummed with action and the smoke of incense burned my eyes. we walked outside to sit down and both had a coconut. just cut the top off and put a straw in. the thick milk inside is wonderful.

i thanked ms. hà for taking me to her church and introducing me to ms. phýõng’s mother. i used the word “nhà thờ” for church. her face wrinkled up and she pointed at me.

“not “nhà thờ”! the french brought “nhà thờ”. it is not vietnamese. this church is “nhà chùa”. that is vietnamese.”

i had used the word for catholic church. the french brought that over here when they colonized indochina on their mission to bring civilization to this dark part of the globe. civilization and slavery.

badminton. what a wonderful sport. i had the privilege of taking two badminton courses when i was in high school. somehow i slipped through the cracks. you see, you had to take two physical education courses in your junior and senior year. i choose badminton twice.

the thrill of smashing a birdie. lifeless drop shots that deflate your adversary. shuttlecocks flying in all directions. what a wonderful sport. i was invited to play badminton this saturday morning. i’ve noticed many games taking place randomly around the city. people tie nets between signs or trees and go at it. we have street hockey, they have street badminton.

one email i received said that i was to meet my badminton competition at 6:30 in the morning. the other said 6:50. i awoke at 6:15 and dressed. oh, i was excited. i could imagine running around on a sidewalk swinging deftly at the birdie. the eyes of the vietnamese would open and they would all proclaim, “oh, the american is a wonderful badminton player!” we would all be taken out for fresh lemon juice or maybe coconut juice with ice. it would be wonderful. i walked outside to wait.

outside the city was already bubbling. people seemed quite awake for 6:30. i stood in the threshold of the narrow alley that stretched from my apartment. i stood behind a wall so all of the oncoming traffic wouldn’t stare. there was an old man selling lottery tickets across the way. he stared at me frequently. 6:40. the old man was brought an iced coffee by a young girl. she smiled and said something while quickly walking away. 6:50. ok, i was too early but no worries. they’ll still be coming. i kept thinking that my promptness was a true reflection of my culture. if someone said 6:30, they meant 6:28. if you arrive late you must come with many excuses and apologies. 7:00. the traffic flowed by in neat patterns. there was a light up the road and it would let a rush of motorbikes pass. there would be a pause as the light would change. this went on and on and on. the little girl brought more coffee to another vendor further down the street. the old man kept looking at me. 7:10. a bug bit my ankle and i thought, only for a brief moment, that i had contracted malaria. maybe the dengue. it was fleeting. 7:15. now, this was getting on my nerves. they might have been late, but this late? 45 minutes standing in one place looking quite out of place. 7:30. ok, i’ll wait until the next rush of motorbikes passes. it did.

i ambled back to my room and fell asleep. before i slept, i remembered a conversation with ms. hà. she said that ms. phýõng was sick and wouldn’t be playing badminton today. i told her i was emailing someone else and that he was going to pick me up. surely this game of badminton didn’t hinge on the health of one person. the guy i was emailing said surely they would play. he didn’t say anything about ms. phýõng. ms. hà insisted that because ms. phýõng was sick there wouldn’t be any badminton. i refused to listen. i was arrogant. just another lesson to learn.\

well, i stood on the corner of the street for an hour this morning. i got to watch the city wake up and it was wonderful. maybe i’ll play another day.

i had my vietnamese lesson with ms. hà as i do every afternoon. we both sit on opposite sides of a large marble table on the roof. it’s pleasant and neither one of us have successfully cracked the language code.

today she asked me to tell her a story so she could practice her listening skills. she said “snowy white.” i though she wanted to hear about snow seeing as how this part of the world would never have that experience. she said, “no.” she wanted to hear about “snowy white” the fairy tale. snow white. i’m not all that familiar with the story. i know there are seven, or twelve dwarfs. i know that she ate an apple and almost doed. there’s a mirror involved somewhere. oh, and she’s woken from a coma by a kiss.

thinking she had never heard the story and maybe been told about american fairy tales in her language class, i imagined i could make a few details up to fill in the gaps. whoops. i started, “there was this princess, with a crown and she lived in a small hut.” what on earth. a princess in a hut? that’s what i said though, honest. “she had seven or more friends who were dwarfs, you know, very small people.” she nodded. “she ate a bad apple given to her by her mother-in-law.” wait a minute. how on earth, if she was a single princess, did she have a mother in law. i paused for a moment, thought i was an idiot and continued. ms. hà sat stone faced. “the princess was in a coma because someone put a magic spell on the apple. she was fast asleep. her small friends scurried around and were very worried until a handsome man rode up on a horse. he kissed snow white and she woke up. they married and lived happily ever after.” i thought i had done the story justice. sensing that something was wrong with her expression, i added, “oh, and the dwarfs were named grumpy, sleepy, daisy and something else.” she scowled.

she grabbed the dictionary and found two words. they were, “overlook” and, “fact”. she said, “you overlook many fact.” she was very disappointed in me and it wasn’t a joke. “has no one ever read you this story when you are a child?”, she said. i said, “well, i don’t think so.” oh my, that put her over the edge. she threw a couple hands over her head and muttered something in vietnamese. she ended our session with, “i thought all vietnamese and american children knew this story. i am very sad that your parents never taught it to you.”

she thought we had at least one story that we both knew. there is not much that a privileged american life and an underprivileged vietnamese life have in common. while i may have studied more and seen more of the world, she understands where the mirror fits into the story and i do not. in some ways i envy her.

i was also confronted by a vietnamese dog today. it was small and had a chip on its shoulder. i was walking down the street in the middle of the afternoon, not going anywhere. avoiding the cracks and the trash on the sidewalks is a challenge. trying to watch what’s going on around me at the same time compounds this challenge. if you look down, you miss the world around you. if you look up you stumble. you end up switching between up and down and stumbling all the while.

i was walking in a small crowd. there was a restaurant to my right and i noticed the dog from a distance. the dog struck me because it was sitting upright and observing the world. i thought, if i was a dog, i would probably act similarly. the dog wasn’t looking at me. not yet.

then it all happened. chaos. the dog found me and started barking and yelling and ran up to me. i kept walking. maybe if i ignored it it would leave me alone. it was only a small dog. nothing to be afraid of. maybe it would bite me and draw blood but if i acted as the dominant species, maybe it would leave me alone. it did. it left me and walked back to where it was sitting.

why did this strike me? well, i was walking in a crowd and was singled out. this dog found characteristic of mine so unappealing that s/he decided to yell at me. was it possible that the dog knew i was a foreigner? are animals able to notice and distinguish races? i didn’t possibly think so. did i smell horribly? no, i had showered this morning. was i wearing anything to make me stand out among the people with which i was walking? no, just khakis and a black tshirt. well, what was it? could this possibly involve the spiritual world? i mean, i really don’t even believe that there is a chaotic spiritual world. i don’t think i’m surrounded by ghosts and demons and what not but i’ve already exhausted all of my possibly earthly explanations! if i can’t rationalize it, it must be irrational. either that or i don’t have the capacity to rationalize it. maybe this little pooch noticed some evil spirit surrounding me. maybe s/he was trying to do me a favor and scare it away.

honestly, my first thought after exhausting all of my earthly rationalizations was that maybe this was some crazy spiritual dog just sitting on the corner looking out for evil. it really unnerved me.

tomorrow: badminton with the vietnamese friends that sang karaoke. should be fun.

i took a bicycle out today and it was quite an experience. it was a small shiny bike with large, curving handlebars. the frame was blue and rusted. the wheels were covered with old pieces of metal that served as mud flaps. a large basket hung loosely from the front. the seat was wide and low and my lanky legs stretched up awkwardly. people stared.

i rode around town for about an hour enjoying the flow of the traffic and the wind blowing against me. riding fast wasn’t an option and i ambled along. my body was curved around the bike and my arms bent around my legs as they rose and fell.

people stared for a number of reasons. having a tall blonde haired young man riding around on a bicycle was strange. also, because the bicycle was too small, i was forced to ride it oddly. the seat was too low and the pedals were under me completely. i rode like a catcher crouching behind home plate. here, people ride bicycles with perfect posture. their backs are straight and their chins are up. their faces are stone and their legs move rhythmically. they ride on the right as traffic mauls by. turning involves a lot of anticipation and patience. one must slowly move through traffic and find the left lane. other motorbikes and cars will avoid you.

i never reached my destination because i didn’t have one. after i felt thoroughly stared at, i headed home. not much of a story but it provided me with a few nice chuckles.

oh, to be alone for long stretches of time! to not have other people changing your pattern of thought! to sit for hours and wonder, “why, why, why?” and have no one give you an answer! it’s wonderful. there is no limit to what i can possibly imagine and create in my silly little head. the thoughts get more and more crazy as i have no one to bounce them off of. the questions search deeper and deeper. soon enough i’ll be at the center of it all. won’t that be scary!
to have another language running around in your head for days! to listen to someone say something and then repeat it over and over again! oh, to not understand simple phrases like, “what does your mother do?” absolutely wonderful. it makes you feel like a child. there is so much out there for all of us to think about and learn. there are so many barriers to break down. 80,000,000 vietnamese and they all want to tell me something! think of all of the wisdom! if everyone holds a piece of the puzzle, maybe, by listening, we can finally put it all together!
look at the world around us! see how the leaves dance and feel the wind press the shirt against your back! think about the sky and the clouds and notice how they pass slowly over our lives! as if they watch over us. oh, and think about putting a seed in the ground. a small seed feeds off of the dirt, the muck and the waste of our lives to produce food and flowers! they take all of our crap and turn it into beautiful tomatoes and lima beans! one reason i like food here is because it’s real. the meat is on the bone and there are bits of internal organs in everything. chicken’s feet and cow’s heart. pig stomach (cold) and scrimp that must be eaten with the shell on. it feels like you’re eating an animal and not a mcnugget! isn’t that how it’s supposed to feel?
oh, and then the friends that i’m making here. such wonderful relationships in such a short time. everyone is interested in the american and i’m happy to oblige. here’s an email i got from one of the people i went out to karaoke with the other day. isn’t it wonderful?
“Ciao Jon!!!
I'm already your mail and i try reply for u 'cause i haven't more free time.
I'm very honour and happy when i met you today. 'cause i always wish to have relations with foreign people so that improve my language.
How do u feel when u go out with us? And at this time u doing?
When u have many free time u can go up net and chat with me. From 21:00 to 22:30 on yahoo messenger, in monday,wednesday,friday.
See u saturday morning at 7:00 o'clock.and t foget write to me when u have free time.
Goodnight, and have more beautiful dreams.
Miss u everytime......”
why are we all so afraid to say what we mean? maybe, no, probably, this guy didn’t have any idea what he was saying but it was so wonderful to get an email from someone wishing that i, “have more beautiful dreams” and that he, “miss u everytime.” blunt but wonderful, honest and innocent.
email people what you really think! tell the world the truth! hope that people have more and more beautiful dreams! what a wonderful thing to wish for.
well, i truly hope that everyone has magical daydreams and can sit back in their office and look up at the sky and think about this crazy world spinning through the universe. i hope that everyone can lay down at night in a warm bed and dream about sailing on a warm and windy night. i hope you all wake up and smile at yourself in the mirror. i hope you all can feel yourselves breath and notice your tongue in your mouth! oh, eat good foor, hug people often and live, live, live!

i was one of those incredible days when i could fill a book. really was.

i meet with a one of the maids where i live. her name is ðinh thị hà. ms. hà for short. i wrote a bit about her the other day. she recently thought it would be a good idea if i met some of her friends. oh, already i’m meeting vietnamese people my own age. how exciting.

2:00 was the time and the sommerset hotel was to be our meeting place. the girl i was meeting is 20 years old. i walked around my little apartment very nervous. i’m always nervous when i meet new people. i arrived a bit late and she was waiting there with ms. hà. she was small and thin and had a very compact face. her hair was held together by some large apparatus. her name was ms. mai phýõng.

oh, to meet someone and feel like a rock star! ms. phýõng couldn’t stop laughing and smiling. she wouldn’t walk near me leaving a safe five foot gap between us. i tried to introduce myself in vietnamese and english but got no where. she kept covering her mouth. we walked down the street to meet her friends. oh, to meet people and feel like a rock star twice in one day! it was amazing. i was 22 (older, very important in this culture) and american (oh, the allure!) and all five of the girls huddled off in a corner and chatted and laughed and refused to get near me. the men, or boys, or young men all came up to me and introduced themselves. one spoke very good english. his nickname was “pig”.

we quickly hopped on their motorbikes and headed off. i had no idea what we were doing but it felt good. we arrived at a karaoke bar. oh, my. i have sang karaoke a handful of times. my karaoke song is, “okie from muskogee” by merle haggard.

it was very neon but well lit. it felt like a dirty bar and a set from a movie. we all huddled in, girls giggling the entire time, and trotted up three or four flights of steps. i felt like i was intruding and yet welcome at the same time. a very strange combination of feelings. the world seems to be staring at me, not uncommon here, and there was something in the air that made me grin. going out to karaoke on a muggy tuesday night with a group of “friends”. oh, i felt so wonderful but nervous. so happy but unsure. i was being thoroughly critiqued by everyone following me but loved every minute of it. grin.

we entered out special room. it had a u-shaped couch in it and a large television screen. and oh, the walls. they looked like they were painted by someone who had studied both picasso and andy warhol but didn’t study too hard. terrible. just terrible.

they wanted me to sing right away but i wasn’t really sure. how did this all work? there was a slimy book that was full of different songs. the english section was full of songs i had never heard of. okie from muskogee wasn’t anywhere to be found. they started singing. mr. derstine, my old choir teacher, would have been hysterical. they sang loud and through their noses.

the microphone was tossed in my direction. i was going to sing a duet with one of the guys. he was thin and had a face that looked like an apple. he held the microphone at a strange angle and sat on the edge of the couch. someone asked me, “do you know ‘my heart will go on’?” sadly i did. i left my inhibitions at the door (or maybe back at the los angeles airport) and proceeded. the first verse was in vietnamese. i butchered the pronunciation and had no idea what was being said. everyone in the room was silent. when there was a pause in the music i said, “thanks y’all for commin’ out tonight” as a joke. no one laughed. of course they didn’t laugh. we finally got to the english. i let it rip and me and my thin friend were floating on air. apple face and all. we almost stood up and started dancing. what a beautiful moment. the room burst out into applause and we both shook it off, “oh, it was nothing. i just love that ‘my heart will go on’ song.” sarcasm doesn’t work here.

they asked me to sing again. that was a mistake.

i found a song i knew. “come on baby light my fire” by the doors. i just love the organ part. it started and didn’t sound anything like it. it sounded like music from a chinese buffet with the words to “light my fire”. i sang with fervor. when i got to the high part i screamed, “fiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrreeeeee!!!!!!!” oh, the room rumbled with applause. a rock star three times in one day! unheard of!

we left because i had to trade english lessons for vietnamese lessons at 4:00. when i got home, after saying goodbye to my new friends, i met ms. hà on the roof. she said to me, i want to tell you about ms. phýõng (the girl i met earlier). “ok” i said.

she proceeded to tell me that ms. phýõng’s mother had committed suicide about, “100 days ago.” i was shocked. “what?!?” it turns out that both ms. hà and ms. phýõng were in the house when it happened. it turns out that she stabbed herself, “in the heart.” ms. phýõng, her only daughter, witnessed it. she ran to her mother and tried to pull the knife out, “of her heart” but couldn’t. ms. hà was downstairs and ran up to see what the commotion was. she found the middle aged lady on the kitchen floor and her daughter, ms. phýõng, holding her head and sobbing. they called the ambulance but it didn’t arrive for an hour. she died in the hospital. before she died, she asked ms. hà if she would take care of her family for her. “would she look after ms. phýõng and her younger brother? would she take care of the house?” ms. hà agreed. ms. hà told me that ms. phýõng’s mother and her are, “chị em kết nghĩa.” In my dictionaries, one says that they are, “blood sisters” and the other says that they are, “spiritually married.” i sat there and wanted to cry.

ms. hà asked me to go to church with her next sunday. i was honored. i’m sure it isn’t a protestant church and it’s probably not catholic either but she says it’s the oldest church in saigon. she wants me to meet ms. phýõng’s mother. she said she’ll be there.

i am overwhelmed. read the next post to find out how much ms. hà works. on top of all of that she’s responsible for ms. phýõng, her younger brother and the house. it makes me burn up with rage inside. compassion but rage.

oh, and why did commit suicide? because her husband lost 300,000,000 ðồng betting on football games. and how’s he doing? well, ms. hà cleans his house and takes care of his kids for him. she and ms. phýõng’s mother are, after all, “chị em kết nghĩa.”

i have a lot to think about before tomorrows vietnamese lesson with ms. hà. i have to swallow a big ball of rage welling up inside of me.

i wrote this yesterday. the internet didn't work here then. i'll see if it works tonight and post something then too.

oh my. i had my first language class (again). the change occurred because the other class was not meeting as frequently as this one will be. i will be having class every morning from 8-10. this class isn’t full of old women hiding behind four inches of makeup. this class is full of young korean students that don’t raise their voice, one chinese man that decided he should be called philip cause no one would understand his other name and an older american business man who continually tells the teacher, “well, that’s not how i normally do it” and, “when i was in singapore, we normally…” he wore a polo shirt. that says it all.

my vietnamese language studies must be as intensive as possible i am thoroughly afraid that i will leave this country without mastering this forked tongue. there is a small cleaning lady here and she’s adorable. she walks around everywhere and sweats. her hair flows around her face and sticks to her cheek in clumps. she always looks like she’s been running. or lifting weights maybe. no, more like running for she’s much too small to lift weights.

she asked me one day if i would teach her english. i said that i would if she would teach me vietnamese. today we spent 3 hours on the roof trading vietnamese lessons for english. when i talk to her she sits and listens and says, “yea, yea, yea” even if she doesn’t understand a word i tell her. i told her to raise her hand if she doesn’t understand me. she ignored me or, more likely, didn’t understand me. we’re making swell progress.

she also brought up some kitchen utensils and asked me to write down what each of them are called. is it really terrible to make words up when you’re teaching someone another language? what do you call one of those things that you use to sharpen knives. it’s round and long and you run the knife up and down. i called it a “sharpener”. i even wrote it down. what do you call one of those cups that you fill with milk to pour out into coffee? i called it a “pourer”. wrote that one down too. oh, and the best one. she asked what i called the countertop. instead of calling it countertop i said “formica”. didn’t write that one down though.

i’m a lousy teacher. at least when i don’t know what things are called.

when she teaches me her entire demeanor changes. she goes from receiving information to dispensing it and it always makes her grin. she turns her head sideways and puts on her best serious face. it’s the face you put on when you’re trying to tell someone a joke. she says something and i don’t understand. i roll my eyes, bite my tongue and do everything to make it look as if i’m deep in thought. she frowns, well, more of a smile than a frown but it’s supposed to be a frown, and tells me that i’m wrong. i’ve never had someone tell me i’m wrong when i haven’t even given an answer. obviously i was wrong.

her teaching method is also interesting. we spent a lot of time working on handwriting. she didn’t like how i made my q’s and my d’s. we worked on that. i think i’m getting the hang of it but it’ll take some time.

after all this language study i was tired and ready for a nap. after the lesson she went to work. she didn’t go back to work, she started work. she works until 6:00 in the morning. she used to work from 6:00 in the morning till 6:00 at night and then go to school until 11:00 but she could only do that for a couple of years. i guess it got too tiring. i couldn’t even describe how hard she works. words wouldn’t do it justice.

she said, “i used to drink a lot of coffee.”

there’s something terrible and wonderful about learning another language. it’s like cracking a code. it’s getting invited to a really fantastic party. it’s like finding out a really great secret. it’s really one of the most rewarding things i ever did. oh, but right now i’m frustrated. it feels like the only language forged in the pits of hell. i can’t see much past that description.

well, who really wants to hear about language study in vietnam.

an explosion in bali kills 180something. people running away from a nightclub with body parts missing. looks like the stage from some war film. stories of people being trapped inside as the building collapses and flames that boiled flesh. i'm sure it was on the news somewhere at home.

maybe bali doesn't strike a chord with you but it's pretty close to where i'm sitting. maybe the phillipines doesn’t' strike a chord either. that country lies to the east of me. our christian holy war against islam is fairly interesting. we seem to feel that we can irradiate "terror" (as "we" defign it) with more "terror" (as "they" defingn it). half a million children killed in sanctions on iraq. i don't think saddam suffered too much. he still holds the reigns. three thousand people die at work on a september morning. i don't think american aristocracy suffered. they still hold the reigns.

do we think we can destroy small groups of dedicated people bent or attacking western "civilization" at its core? let's look at some examples of similar groups, historically. one example would be the irish republican army. they carried out their ruthless attacks on british "civilization" and now have a country to show for it. let's look at eta in spain. they've been waging a bloody war for 35 years because they want their own homeland. they've yet to achieve that goal but the spanish authorities still suffer and eta flourishes. let's look at palestinian groups. they've been under the thumb of america/israel and before that britian since world war I. somehow they still are able to recruit people to blow themselves up in market squares. who is winning that battle? tit for tat. oh, and let's look at some revolutionary "terrorists" that carried out guerrilla attacks on an army from behind trees, from church steeples and used disease to dispel the native population. that is how america was formed.

how do you stop people from attacking innocents when you don't even know who the attackers are? how do you do it when they can slip past you at any moment with a haircut and a nice suit. how can you stop a movement when there are only 100 people involved? not with force.

with force you only create more support. if you kill the "mastermind" of a "terrorist" attack in palestine but also wound a 10 year old girl selling apples, did you achieve your goal? what if you alienated more people because of poor jane-appleseed. are we possibly going to eradicate everyone who hates america in our wild-wild-west campaign against "terror"? you think it's possible? or do you possibly believe that by killing innocents we make more people angry.

are we fighting an army that wears red coats and marches and shoots in straight lines or are we fighting an army that hides behind trees and doesn't play by “the rules”? sound familiar?

so, what's the solution. dialogue. oh, it's not petty idealism, it's possible. let's sit down and find out what's wrong and fix it. if it means sacrificing some army bases in oil rich saudi arabia, so be it. if it means giving palestinians a homeland and some autonomy, so be it.

bali is too close to me right now. i could scream i'm so frustrated by all of the suffering and all of the inconsistencies in definitions and actions. we are so blinded by nationalism it makes me want to vomit up everything i ever ate. it's all too incongruent. there is not much black and white in the world. it's all made up of beautiful grey.

today i busied myself ambling around town. i walked the better part of the morning and sweated through my shirt. it began to rain and i found a nice vietnamese restaurant to eat lunch in. the rain had killed the power so i ate tomato soup by candle light. the rain was hard and life outside slowed down considerably. people still drove by on bicycles and motorcycles but they looked more determined than ever. cyclo drivers covered themselves in tarps on street corners and waited the rain out. you could see smoke creep out from under the tarps but couldn’t see their faces. they looked like dead bodies covered in trashbags.

when it rains it rains loudly. it’s as if the sky wants to dump its load as quickly as possible to let the sun shine again. i was trying to decide whether the rain was louder than the traffic or whether it was the other way around. apples and oranges i decided. when the rain stops, it does so efficiently. there is an absurd silence as the road is empty. it’s as if everything in saigon pauses for a moment. it makes you smile.

the moment hangs perfectly but is quickly destroyed by a fresh wave of motorcycles. the cyclo drivers crawl out of their trashbags and wipe down their vehicles. it all starts over.

that was the morning. in the afternoon i visited the “revolutionary museum”. it’s one of the last ones on my list here but wasn’t very exciting. there were many pictures of the beginning of the communist party and old boats and motorcycles used to smuggle secret documents around. i was the only tourist i could see and the building is gorgeous. it was the old mansion of the french president of cochin china. it was being used for wedding portraits. there’s something strange about walking around an old war museum and being surrounded by photographers, brides and grooms. “there, stand next to the picture of the buddhist monk immolating himself. smile!”

there was a gift shop that i passed through. it was selling original lighters from american soldiers for 45$. they all had things etched into them and they made me think about war. they made me sad. i would have left sad but their was an english sign hanging above some dolls that said, “these dolls were made by the unhappy children of district 7”. i could imagine a room full of frowning tots all stitching dolls. no wonder they were unhappy. they were making dolls all the time.

i haven’t even touched on the best part of my day.

my hair has become shaggy and curls over my ears. that’s no way for a teacher to look so i was off to get my hair cut.

oh, to get a hair cut in another land. in vietnam you can get your hair cut on the street. the barbet sets up a little tarp overhead and places a small mirror on the wall. you sit facing this wall and starring into this mirror as the world around you whizzes by.

the wall was yellow and plaster but falling apart. it felt as if it had been there since the beginning of time but could collapse on us at any moment. the mirror had a perfect crack running from top to bottom. water droplets had gathered all over the front and it was hanging by a small thin piece of rusted wire. perfectly straight. the chair was an old wooden chair. it looked like it was stolen from the revolutionary museum.

after arguing price, oh, and i was terrible at it (first i said 50,000 (absurdly high) then i said 2,000 (absurdly low) and finally agreed on 15,000 (just right, 1$)), the barber strapped a sheet round my neck. he produced a comb and rusted scissors from his pockets. one in each pocket as if they were holstered guns. he began to snip, snip, snip-snip, snip, snip, snip-snip. he had a rhythm to it as most barbers do. it was very catchy and i found myself lulled into a daze by it. the scissors cut relatively smoothly but they seemed to say that they were used to thicker hair. he cut all round my head and then, from his bag of tricks, produced some type of razor. it was dark with handles like a scissors. a piece of metal would pass over the razor and it would saw through my hair. it reminded me of a farm implement.

should i have feared such a razor so close to my neck? it wasn’t sanitized. i sat very still and breathed very shallowly. i could just imagine getting some strange infection from a roadside barber and having my head fall off or something tragic. my eulogy: “he was on the right track until he got that cheap hair cut. then his head fell off and he died.” would people cry or laugh?

the hair would not delicately fall to the ground. i was sweating in the humid air. it would collect on my face and stay their. it reminded me of summertime haircuts in the garage at home. he circled my head about three times and finally decided that i looked good enough.

he said i looked, “extremely beautiful”. i smiled and paid. walking home with a new haircut always makes you feel special. there’s something refreshing about changing the way you look so quickly. you feel like you’re starting over.

i saw it all happen. actually, i didn’t see the actual collision, the commotion afterwards caught my attention. people stood around silently. it looked like they were looking down a well as they gathered around the injured man.

cyclos are interesting vehicles. a kind of pedal taxi. at first i thought they were only for tourists but i soon learned otherwise. they were cheap means of transporting people and goods. they are a type of reversed chariot. the horse is replaced with a thin peddler who holds onto the back of the seat of the rider. there is much metal and it, as we know, isn’t forgiving. neither is the pavement.

a cyclo driver was down on the ground as i rushed over to see what there was to see. i would not be able to help for my medical knowledge consists of: put a band aid on it and if it hurts after about a week, get it looked at. i looked at him as he sat there dazed. he seemed to be looking at nothing. for a moment, it felt as if he might be watching tv. the perpetrator was standing overhead with a pale look of repentance.

the first thing i noticed was the blood. it gathered in the cyclo driver’s hand and ran nicely over it, gracefully gliding to the ground. the cut was on his temple and there were a peppering of small cuts on his lower leg. everyone stood around as baffled and content to be observers as i.

everyone except one brave lady. she quickly found a rag and applied it to the man’s temple. the bleeding abated. she bent down to him and yelled at the crowd. having no idea what she said, i looked around for signs of what i should do. by this time the crowd had swelled and there was a low rumble of chatter. people started to help. one picked up a motorcycle. another righted the cyclo and they placed the injured driver in the passenger seat. they looked around. i must have been standing too close to the cyclo, or maybe my expression was too compassionate. maybe they just thought i was big enough to do it. they coerced me to mount the cyclo. i was to drive this man to the hospital.

the crowd mounted their many motorcycles and surrounded me like a flock of geese. i was pedaling down the street, the early morning sun beating down on my back from above. they were yelling things at me but they knew i didn’t understand. the old lady was riding beside me directing me with large gestures.

the injured driver lay in the seat with his blood soaked rag pressed against his head. he would turn to me and touch my arms which were supporting my weight behind his head. he would say something and force a smile. i felt like a king and a servant at the same time. the situation felt desperate and , yet, as if i could guide this chariot to the far corners of the earth with ease. i was awash with a million emotions and fears. i didn’t even know that my legs were burning or that my head had broken out into a thick sweat. sweat like tears.

we reached intersections and other motorcycles gave way. their was always a flurry of horns and their must have been 15 other motorcycles leading me. we arrived at the hospital and pulled into the emergency area. i flopped to the ground and my legs gave way under me. is sat there and felt like a hero and an intruder. i felt so many emotions so intensely that my entire being screamed. i sat their and breathed.

none of this happened. my day was fruitful but boring. i read “the stranger” by camus and “the affluent society” by galbraith. they were fascinating but no one wants to hear me rant about existentialism. i conjured up this story out of boredom.

i repeat, this didn’t happen. it was a figment of my imagination. a fantasy.

today, i asked a lady if she was tasty. i thought i was asking if her food was tasty but that wasn’t the case. the flawed sentence fell out of my mouth and the table shook with laughter. i blushed but will never make that mistake again.

i also visited a fair trade organization. fair trade is different than free trade, although it works along the same lines. the basic idea behind it is that we should be giving the producers (those that really need it) more than the middle man. it was a well run organization and we were working on polishing a speech they were about to give in italy. an example of fair trade would be 10,000 villages. not mcwal-mart.

i ended up sitting around all day reading and writing letters to people. nothing extremely interesting struck me.

i thought more about what i wrote yesterday. i think there are more connections between societal pressure and religious pressure that we don’t normally see. is it simply the pressure to conform? maybe that’s it.

maybe i’m just uninteresting and uninterested today.

streets full of small motorcycles precariously packed with a wide variety of goods. large blocks of ice tied on the back dripping a trail of cool water under the hot sun. six or seven large boxes balanced and tied down with twine. bicycles carrying two or three or four people. two people on a motorcycle supporting a large four or five foot glass window pane between them. cages full of chickens. three and sometimes four live pigs tied on the back kicking and squealing. either their uncomfortable or they know their about to become part of a spring roll. most people wear small masks because of the exhaust. it looks, at times, like a small mobile army of doctors responding to a catastrophe.

most of the girls wear long gloves that stretch up to their shoulders. they are grey or tan and look miserable. they also wear large hats to shield them from the sun. they normally wear long pants when outside in the sun. on their faces, instead of a small mask covering their nose and mouth, they wear a large bandana that covers them from the lower part of their eyes all the way to their shirts. sunglasses complete the costume and they’re ready to mount their motorcycle. why, you ask? surely it isn’t for comfort. i sweat enough and i wear shorts and a light shirt. if i would have covered every square inch of my body in such a manor i would be a walking salt lick. it is because of beauty. white skin is beautiful.

now, for the other side of the coin: at school, a lot of girls spend much money and many winter hours tanning in beauty parlors. they will leave at given times for their “fake bake” and return a nice shade or orangeish brown. sometimes more orange than brown. the amount of money they spend on such beautification might well be a months or years wage over here. brown skin is beautiful.

i don’t think vietnamese women or american women are forced to undergo such measures for their beauty. i can’t imagine that covering every square inch of skin in the baking sun is fun. also, i wouldn’t describe spending money and time laying in a fluorescent light coffin for hours as being a party. well, what forces these women to do it? won’t they be beautiful without all this extra work? are we all just striving for some perfect shade of light brown? is that beauty?

the first thing i thought of when i saw these women driving around on their motorcycles covered from head to toe was fundamentalist islam. what are the similarities between women who are forced to wear clothing from head to toe and women who choose to suffer in a similar fashion. also, what similarities are there with american college girls wasting away their winter months fake baking? what about women being forced, or choosing to wear coverings? with black strings? what part of it is religion and what part of it is accepted social standards?

why do women have to go through with all of this?

it’s easy to ask a lot of questions. it’s a lot harder to come up with any substantial answers. if anyone has any insight please email me.

“oh, my! i never though weasels would do that!” it’s called chồn and it’s a type of coffee. if you get the authentic kind it costs 600$ (american) per pound and originates from indonesia. i never knew that weasels would eat coffee beans but they must.

i guess this is how it originated: one day, on the pretty island of indonesia, some weasel must have eaten a coffee bean. do they even have weasels in that country? i guess so. anyway, a weasel ate a coffee bean and they must not have chewed properly. a better description would be to say that it swallowed a coffee bean whole. i guess, because the weasel is pretty small (i guess, i’m no weaselologist) and the coffee bean is, well, pretty tough, they couldn’t digest it. it just passed right along and plopped right there on the ground. some enterprising indonesian must have been living in the same area as this weasel. s/he must have seen the weasel poop on the sidewalk, or dirt path or whatever and must have gone looking through it. who would look through weasel poop. i guess with a stick or something. hopefully not their finger. like i said, i’m not a weaselologist so weasel poop might be just small turds and the bean could just have landed on the ground. now this indonesian had an idea: what if i have the weasel eat more beans and then grind them all up into some super weasel poop coffee. s/he did it and, well, i guess it just took off.

now you can have weasel poop coffee, or better known as chồn, whenever you really want to at these special cafes. the stuff we were drinking was not authentic. it was some special chemical synthesis. evidently some scientist took enough time to copy the weasel’s digestive tract, enough so that there is no real distinction between the two. i wonder what that machine looks like.

600 bucks a pound! that’s even a little steep for starbucks! so, what does it taste like? well, it comes served as any other vietnamese coffee would: in a little tin container with grounds and hot water in it poised over an empty glass. we had ours over ice because that’s just how you drink stuff here in the south. i stirred it and stirred in only able to think about the origin of this process. weasels. i had a hard time picturing one but could easily picture the closest thing to a weasel that i knew: my brother. it was a disturbing image. the coffee tasted strong but not bitter. it left a thin layer of something in your mouth that was not terribly unpleasant. like very malleable wax. it sure wouldn’t have been worth 600$ a pound though.

i can see where the high price comes from. you would have to teach weasels how to eat lots of these beans (not chewing them mind you), you would pay someone to gather the brown gold, there would be some machine to cleanse the beans (hopefully huge, powerful and very sanitary) and you would have to pay someone to taste the coffee to make sure it was, well, clean. if anyone is interested in me sending them any chồn (not the real stuff, the fake stuff) i could find out how much it costs. just email me.

this also makes me wonder what else we’ve been missing out on all this time. there should be a special research and development team that feeds animals different foods and sees how their digestive systems alter the flavor. maybe, well, almonds would taste incredible after passing through the intestine of a golden retriever. perhaps gum-drops would have an extra punch after passing through a zebra. or what if gummy-bears were bestowed with healing powers after passing through domesticated cats. it’s all about the proper combination. we are missing out on this digestive gold mine.

i don’t know how much chồn i’ll drink while i’m over here. one glass may suffice.

“oh, my! i never though weasels would do that!” it’s called chồn and it’s a type of coffee. if you get the authentic kind it costs 600$ (american) per pound and originates from indonesia. i never knew that weasels would eat coffee beans but they must.

i guess this is how it originated: one day, on the pretty island of indonesia, some weasel must have eaten a coffee bean. do they even have weasels in that country? i guess so. anyway, a weasel ate a coffee bean and they must not have chewed properly. a better description would be to say that it swallowed a coffee bean whole. i guess, because the weasel is pretty small (i guess, i’m no weaselologist) and the coffee bean is, well, pretty tough, they couldn’t digest it. it just passed right along and plopped right there on the ground. some enterprising indonesian must have been living in the same area as this weasel. s/he must have seen the weasel poop on the sidewalk, or dirt path or whatever and must have gone looking through it. who would look through weasel poop. i guess with a stick or something. hopefully not their finger. like i said, i’m not a weaselologist so weasel poop might be just small turds and the bean could just have landed on the ground. now this indonesian had an idea: what if i have the weasel eat more beans and then grind them all up into some super weasel poop coffee. s/he did it and, well, i guess it just took off.

now you can have weasel poop coffee, or better known as chồn, whenever you really want to at these special cafes. the stuff we were drinking was not authentic. it was some special chemical synthesis. evidently some scientist took enough time to copy the weasel’s digestive tract, enough so that there is no real distinction between the two. i wonder what that machine looks like.

600 bucks a pound! that’s even a little steep for starbucks! so, what does it taste like? well, it comes served as any other vietnamese coffee would: in a little tin container with grounds and hot water in it poised over an empty glass. we had ours over ice because that’s just how you drink stuff here in the south. i stirred it and stirred in only able to think about the origin of this process. weasels. i had a hard time picturing one but could easily picture the closest thing to a weasel that i knew: my brother. it was a disturbing image. the coffee tasted strong but not bitter. it left a thin layer of something in your mouth that was not terribly unpleasant. like very malleable wax. it sure wouldn’t have been worth 600$ a pound though.

i can see where the high price comes from. you would have to teach weasels how to eat lots of these beans (not chewing them mind you), you would pay someone to gather the brown gold, there would be some machine to cleanse the beans (hopefully huge, powerful and very sanitary) and you would have to pay someone to taste the coffee to make sure it was, well, clean. if anyone is interested in me sending them any chồn (not the real stuff, the fake stuff) i could find out how much it costs. just email me.

this also makes me wonder what else we’ve been missing out on all this time. there should be a special research and development team that feeds animals different foods and sees how their digestive systems alter the flavor. maybe, well, almonds would taste incredible after passing through the intestine of a golden retriever. perhaps gum-drops would have an extra punch after passing through a zebra. or what if gummy-bears were bestowed with healing powers after passing through domesticated cats. it’s all about the proper combination. we are missing out on this digestive gold mine.

i don’t know how much chồn i’ll drink while i’m over here. one glass may suffice.