my eyes were half opened the whole trip. the van bumped and braked and honked and it all seemed normal. an giang university sent mr. tri to pick me up. he’s a small man with a very large forehead. every time i see him his hair has retreated a bit more. he likes tennis very much and has very sincere eyes.

i was starting my new life in the south. everything was vibrantly green and the world felt cool.

we made it all the way to the ferry and were about to board when a large thunderstorm appeared. all the lights went out and life stopped. people sat along the road in their shops looking dimly out at the cars waiting to board the boat. the only light was coming from the setting sun behind a mass of clouds. everything looked especially foreign. the rain poured down like rushing curtains of water. children ran everywhere laughing.

there was a large cascading funnel of water pouring from one of the sides of a tin-roofed building. it arched down from ten feet in a thick stream. a group of children all tried to stand under it at once. there was much pushing, falling and laughing. no tears. it was a wonderful game for them. all were barefooted and they all wore light colored clothes. someone came along with shampoo and everyone lathered up.

in my life i have never watched people take showers, fully clothed, from water pouring off of a tin roof. they all washed their hair and pushed each other around laughing. one small girl in a tan suit kept pushing much bigger children then running away giggling. she would sneak up behind them as they showered and give them a good shove. everyone was falling and everyone was laughing.

the children washed their hair, faces and arms. it all seemed quite normal.

the rain lasted for a long time and the ferry was late. i sat, exhausted, and watched these children play. i’ve never had to take a shower in the rain. when we were little, my brother and i always took baths before we went to bed. maybe it’s wonderful. in a world where the air is as thick as corn syrup, a torrential thunderstorm presents an escape.

as we were pulling towards the ferry i saw something absurd. it was one of those events that makes you look twice and then furrow your brow in disbelief. there was an overhang in front of the fountain of water. a small boy walked casually under it and observed the children taking a shower. he was anywhere from six to eight and held a lit cigarette in his left hand. his hair was cropped close to his head and he looked off thoughtfully. he seemed quite calm. he would slowly puff on the cigarette, not inhaling, but taking the smoke in his mouth. he would release it a moment later and it would cloud his face.

i was tired and confused as we drove on the ferry. i was excited too. the ferry looks like a hallowed out marshmallow. it’s white and as long as it is tall. we traveled safely in its womb to long xuyen where i begin my new life. it’s a different world down here. i’m sure i’ll have lots of stories.

my last night living in ho chi minh city. i spent the time with ms. uyet, ms. loan and mr. quy. they took me out to a nice restaurant and we all talked and smiled and took pictures. it was wonderful and uncomfortable.

i was wearing jeans for the first time in a while. it was raining and wet and my pants stuck to my legs and were heavy. the night was thick and the air was thicker. i felt heavy. it didn’t help that ms. uyet told me that she thought my face was fatter than normal. people are fairly up front here and, at times, it’s refreshing.

the restaurant was open and the tables were thick and glossy. everyone ordered for me and it was a strange assortment of food. a little chicken, a little rice, a small bowl of something white. we ate and talked and it was wonderful. i guess it was my thanksgiving meal: they are the closest thing i have to family here.

the meal ended and they drove me home. everyone was sad and mr. quy was on the verge of tears. his eyes were swollen and he kept staring off in the distance. i shook their hands heartily and smiled. “i’ll see you in a month. i’ll be back here for christmas.” they said things like, “i hope you never forget us.” and, “life is not the same without you.” and, “forget-me-not.” and, “i like very much being your friend.” and, “you are special to us.” i couldn’t stop smiling. i felt all warm inside like i was really at home.

mr quy handed me a small box and then turned away. he was noticeably shaken. they left and i crawled up to my room. the box held a small gold pen and a note. the pen is heavy and metallic. i’ve never been a fan of fancy pens. i like cheap plastic pens that i can chew on. the note said, “for your friendship. love, quy.”

so, i leave for long xuyen. thanksgiving has past by quietly and i didn’t have the opportunity to watch the macy’s day parade. (it’s not all bad being over here.) i’m thankful for so many things. i’m thankful that i have a wonderful family back home supporting me. i feel wonderfully close to them. i’m thankful for friends in the states. i’m thankful that i’ve had the opportunity to experience this new land. i’m thankful for all the mistakes i’ve made in my life. i’m thankful for vietnamese friends who have embraced me in such a short time. sincerity is so disarming.

well, now i travel down to the mekong delta. the land with rice fields as bright as jade and skies as large as the ocean. what a wonderful, wonderful world.

tonight’s the last night me and mr. khoa spend together for a while. i told him i would be leaving for long xuyen on friday. i think he understood. tonight we met at our usual restaurant. it was really wonderful.

we ate and left. he said we should see something at his house before we went to some large party. his house is a hole in the wall. it’s a hovel. it’s a small box that you couldn’t fit two coffins into side by side. it’s nothing. he’s not proud of his house but he is proud of his new vcd player. he’s connected it to his television and his stereo. it’s very loud and that always seems to make him smile.

we watched some old rock videos that i had never seen before. he asked me if i knew them and i had to admit that i didn’t. long hair and bizarre videos. i was ashamed.

we left for the “big party”. it was a birthday party for one of his friends. i had met him earlier and he rarely spoke. his wife always sat by his side and they both stared at the back wall speechless. tonight he was fairly animated though and he laughed as he greeted me. i felt very welcome. his wife stayed in the corner not saying anything.

mr. khoa introduced me to one of his other friends. this old man had shoulder length hair the same color as his cigarette ash. he talked to me happily and kept practicing his english. he was missing his right hand. it seemed to be missing somewhere half-way up his forearm. he held it behind his back. he seemed to be hiding it.

the party was in a large room full of people and food. there was loud music coming from a small stage in the corner. people were getting up to sing karaoke. they would sing with their whole heart. i was introduced to many people and they all were so friendly. i really felt welcome though i was a complete stranger.

most of the people left the great karaoke hall and it was just our party that remained. people at my table were trying to get someone to sing karaoke. they were egging each other on with big grins. the man with one and a half arms got up and sang something. he was passionate and would shake his salt-and-pepper hair from side to side. normally the crowd would walk up to him with flowers and give them to him. no one was moving and i felt bad. why weren’t they giving him flowers?

i grabbed a flower from the bouquet in the middle of the table. i walked up to the stage proudly and tried to hand it to him. the microphone was in his only hand and his stump hung under his heart. where would i put this flower that i had brought? he moved the microphone in the middle of the verse and took the flower. he looked a little annoyed. no one else got up to give him flowers.

whoops.

then it came my turn to sing. they didn’t have any music for american songs so i was put on stage with the microphone and told to sing whatever i knew. the only song i could think about was “blowin’ in the wind” by bob dylan. i sang my heart out. everyone loved it even though i repeated the first verse twice. they didn’t know or care. lots of people gave me flowers and i happily grabbed them in my free hand.

mr. khoa took me home and i felt content. i would see them all again some day. on the way home mr. khoa kissed my hand. he kept saying, “we are brothers.” it made me feel quite good. brothers. yea, it really made me feel good.

it’s almost thanksgiving. what am i thankful for? i’m thankful i have made wonderful friends in saigon. i’m thankful i’ve gotten a grip on the language. i’m thankful that i have two working hands.

mr. khoa and me go out to eat. the night is warm and the air is thick. the air always feels thick here. like paste seeping down into your lungs. one week left in saigon and i have to say good bye to all of my temporary friends.

we eat at our usual restaurant. the owners haven’t seen me for a couple days and are very concerned. i explain that i’ve been traveling and then i tell them i’ll be leaving next week. they’re shocked. i must repeat myself a couple of times before it sets in. you mean you won’t be eating here every day? mr. khoa didn’t know either. we sit around awkwardly for a moment. they told me to bring my camera tomorrow and we would all take pictures. i told them that when i came back to ho chi minh city that i’d visit them.

mr. khoa and i drive around. he wants to go somewhere and i’m in no mood to argue. we drive out of the city to a friend’s house but no one’s home. movement is perpetual here. noise is also ubiquitous. right now, as i sit in my room four floors above the ground and 100 yards from the road i can hear the honking of the trucks.

he’s noticeably peeved and we drive back to the center of life here. we find another one of his friend’s houses and we go in and sit around chatting. mr. khoa’s friend’s wife is in the united states for some reason that i couldn’t quite understand. she’s coming back next week and he had pictures of her posing all over las vegas. was i ever in las vegas? is it close to new york? (i explain that i’m from philadelphia. when they don’t know where that is i say it’s close to new york. they all know new york.) i explain to them that las vegas is about as far from my home as bejing is from here.

we watched mtv. horrible. it was a combination of boy bands from the mid nineties. the plastic expressions and frosted hair were unnerving. the pseudo-emotion was enough to make me sick. mr. khoa and his friend really seemed to like it. it’s odd watching two old vietnamese men watch a teenage boy look into the camera, stretch out his arm and sing, “tonight i give you all my love.” right about the tv was the ancestral alter. i wonder what mr. khoa’s friend’s father would have said about all of this.

he probably would have sat there and watched too.

we drove home and mr. khoa pointed to the remains of the building that had burned a couple of weeks ago. reports said that anywhere from 100-300 people died there. he said in his rudimentary english, “big fire. big. just like new york.” he kept repeating, “just like new york.” made me think.

it’s late, i’m tired and this is “home”. the five hour bus ride went smoothly. i sat next to the driver and listened to some old tapes i brought from home. we drove at dark and the road was chaotic. bicycles were invisible until the last second. trucks wizzed by with horns and lights flashing. there are only two lanes and everyone wants to pass each other. horns, lights and bumps. the drive makes your shoulders tense.

thud, thud. honk, flash. vroooom.

it’s really enough to make you go a bit batty. i listened to larry stephenson. he sings in a bluegrass band and i heard him play when i was in highschool at the tylersport firehouse. songs like, “i see god”, “he was waiting at the alter”, “jesus hears, he cares, he can”, “when the roll is called up yonder”, and “over in glory land”. each song made a reference to heaven. the crisp chop of the mandolin, the soothing strum of the guitar and the ear-piercing voice of mr. stephenson. combine that with chaotic vietnamese traffic and you have quite a bit to think about.

long xuyen was wonderful. i can’t possibly say enough wonderful things about it. it’s such a small little city that hasn’t been tarnished by tourists. everywhere my white face travels i’m stared at. children point and old people smile. it’s all done quite cheerfully and rudely.

traveling from saigon to long xuyen is like visiting another country. it’s like going from philadelphia to wheeling west virginia. the cushy, semi-western culture of saigon is refreshing. it’s almost relaxing compared to the foreign land five hours south. there’s pizza here.

i’m sure you will all hear much more about it.

well, to bed. traveling has a way of sucking energy from you. you see so much and can’t possibly digest it all. your body just shuts down.

long bus rides, dirt and dust. not knowing where you're going but finding your way. oh, my.

i'm in long xuyen and the weather is thick but somehow cleaner. it's a much smaller town. only about one hundred and fifty thousand people live here. i'm staying and the new guest house of the university which is incredibly new. the outside looks like a new hotel. it's curved and chrome and thick. me and jack are the only two people staying in this wonderful house. we each have a relativly large living room, a nice sized bedroom and a small but adequate bathroom. the old guest house pales in comparison this this. i havn't seen one cockroach yet. i think i'm really gonna enjoy it here.

i'm going to live in that house for the next two years.

when we stand on the roof we can look into the windows of the teachers dorm rooms. that's when i feel the terrible guilt of privilege the most. the other teachers live three to a room. the light coming from their rooms seems blue. the students live eight to a room. eight to a room abou the size of my living room. i don't quite know how to have it all make sense in my head.

yesterday i attended my first class. jack was teaching some upper-intermediate students listening. the classroom filled and me and jack sat in the front of the room chatting. everyone giggled as they entered and i blushed a number of times. i tried to look as old as i possibly could: these students are my age. jack introduced me and said i was from philadelphia and that i also would be teaching here. the classroom burst out into whispers and chuckles. sounded like snakes. jack asked if i had anything i wanted to say. i stood up and said, "i'm looking forward to meeting all of you and teaching here." i said it in a deep, booming voice. it sounded strange like someone else was in control of my voice. i've never said anything like that before. i've never taught a class before and, here i was sitting infront of 40 students ready and willing to learn vietnamese. the rush of feelings overwhelmed me.

i bit my tounge when the class left. they all walked up to me and said hi and said that they wanted to meet me. they were all smiling and giggling.

the students appear to be very sincere. long xuyen seems like a wonderful little town. this whole adventure finally is turning into something.

tonight i took the people at the yokohama tire dealership out for supper. i wanted to thank them for teaching me so much about he culture and the language. me, ms. uyet, ms. loan and mr. quy all piled on motorcycles and were off.

i took them to a nice western restaurant. they had taken me to so many vietnamese places that i kind of felt obligated. we sat down and flipped through the menu.

they were not in their league here. everything was drastically different and i noticed a few panicked glances early on. it seemed strange for them to be so far out of their comfort zone. we were still in saigon, just in a western restaurant. they had never really eaten western food. well, mr. quy confessed to eating a hamburger once.

ms. uyet took over and ordered for all of us. it was very vietnamese. she ordered four random dishes: lasagna, some sort of pasta, some bowl full of meatballs and a pizza. the plates all came and were placed on the table; one for each person. i was given the meatball dish. the plates were pushed into the center of the table and ms. uyet requested four small bowls. she wanted all of us to share each dish. she split each dish into four equal sections and handed them out. in vietnam, it’s fairly routine to share dishes but in this restaurant it was quite out of the ordinary. our table was full of four highly decorated plates and we were all eating out of small bowls pretending it was normal. i was fascinated and didn’t want to interrupt and say, “no, when you eat western food you must select only one dish and stick with that.” it was kind of refreshing to try so many foods.

ms. loan doesn’t like to appear too greedy. she took her time eating her first course and only got through two small bowls full of food. she is very timid and quiet and there were moments when i forgot she was there. ms. uyet makes jokes and laughs loudly. she liked all the food. mr. quy was still suffering through his toothache and didn’t like all the food. he liked the lasagna though.

i had to explain all of the dishes even though i didn’t understand the meatball dish. where did pasta come from? i explained that lasagna came from italy but that the concept of noodles and pasta came from china. that’s at least how i remembered it. they were fascinated. you mean this came from china? ugh.

our table was full of dishes and plates and ms. uyet dropped her knife twice and blushed crimson. it was wonderful having everyone there. they talked about when we met and how much fun we’ve had together. they truly like me. they are all very sincere people except for maybe ms. loan. she seems to be afraid of something. she told me once she thought she had bad skin. what did i think?

we left and were all sad. i’ll see them again next week but i’ll be moving down to long xuyen and they don’t want to see me go. i hoped on the motorbike with mr. quy. ms. loan was standing next to us and started to cry a bit. what an incredible rush of emotions. mr. quy’s eyes flushed red and ms. uyet stood on the curb looking sympathetic. they had all come to really appreciate me. i felt like i was at my eulogy though. they kept saying that it won’t be the same without me and that it is hard to see me go. ms. loan didn’t say anything. she stood by the road with her thin arms crossed across her stomach. she looked at me with glazed, red eyes. i could only feel compassion.

they truly are beautiful people. i wish i had the opportunity to introduce all of them to you.

mr. quy drove me home and told me how much he would miss me. i was his first foreign friend. maybe it was the exhaust from the other motorbikes pouring down the road but my eyes kind of welled up too.

tonight i had the pleasure of eating out with some travelers. they were here touring around with luke martin. they had been in vietnam for a couple of weeks and this was their first night in saigon.

luke asked me to eat supper with them and i more than obliged. the restaurant was wonderfully fancy.

i walked in and everyone was already seated. there were about 20 white, retired people looking at me. my face broke into a smile. my, i hadn’t seen this many middle aged white people in a while. i said my hellos and some lady grabbed my arm. she stood up and handed me a bag. she had a thick german accent and the bag was a gift from a friend of mine in indiana.

i couldn’t stop smiling. my face flushed red and everyone stared at me. i felt very awkward standing there but didn’t care at all. i was in ecstasy. the bag was full of candy. i guess people wonder what you would miss over here and send you candy. it’s not such a bad thing even though i really wouldn’t eat it back home. i have a bag of skittles, some m&ms, some harder old-lady looking candy and i just ate a “rice krispies treats double chocolatey chunk”. it was somehow greasy and had an odd, unnatural way of melting instantly in my mouth. the ingredients included: malt flavoring, partially hydrogenated palm kernel (only partially!), glycerin, maltodextrin, acetylated monoglycerides, diacetyl tartacic acid esters of mono and diglycederides, and vitamin a palmitate just to name a few! it should probably be renamed: “guaranteed to give you colon cancer or diabetes”. oh, it reminded me of how little i really missed processed food. why won’t anyone bring me any hummus and fresh pita bread!

oh, it was a wonderful night. i met many people and don’t remember anyone’s name. the food was incredible. it was all decorated to look like different animals or people; really artistic. it was a night full of explanation. i was just constantly telling people what i was doing here and asking them what they did. we didn’t get past the surface stuff but that was, in a way, refreshing. i kept telling everyone how excited i was to be here and they kept saying, “oh, to be young again.”

so i rode a motorcycle taxi home (xe om). the night was perfectly warm and the wind on my face was a breath of fresh air.

i’ve been in vietnam two months to the day.

mr. quy is one of the workers at the yokohama tire dealership. i used to be a frequent guest there until our relationship soured.

tonight he took me out to buy a guitar. my life was void of music and i am a novice guitar player. i want to improve. jack also plays and it’ll be fun to sing together in our small rooms.

mr. quy is very happy to practice his english and speaks well. we drove through crowded streets to a small guitar shop about twenty minutes away. the owner was sitting on a lawn chair outside smoking a cigarette. his face was smug and his shirt was off. he had the body of a 12 year old boy but the demeanor of an old man. he wore green shorts pulled up to his bellybutton. guitars hung all over the ceiling. he picked some for me (the most expensive) and had me try them out. i found one i liked (after playing a rendition of johnny cash’s “boy named sue” to a loud applause) and bought it.

the guitar is dusty and old and seems a bit too tan.

we went to a restaurant and ate. mr. quy sat across from me and ordered for me. it was time for him to tell me his life story. he said it was sad.

mr. quy has sincere eyes. his hair is coarse and cut into a hilarious flat-top. his face is rather normal and he would be attractive if he didn’t open his mouth. his set of lower teeth appear to have a few more teeth than normal in the same space. the extra teeth are all squeezed in sideways. it looks like some are trying to crawl out of his mouth. his tooth problems were greatly exaggerated because he seemed to have a toothache. he would exhale abruptly and wince.

he wore an old polo shirt. it looked like it was from the 1985 jc crew catalogue. it felt as if i had traveled back to the mid 80’s and there wasn’t a dentist for miles.

the story started. “my parents divorced when i was 9.” he was noticeably frustrated by this. he went on to extol the virtues of solid relationships. he was raised by his grandmother until he was 18. she died and he was all alone. at 18 he had not graduated high school and now had to find a way to sustain himself.

he started selling lottery tickets. these ticket sellers are ubiquitous. they walk around every outdoor café and rudely shove tickets between your eyes and your plate. i asked how much money they made for selling a ticket. he said about 200 dong. that’s about 2 cents. he decided that he couldn’t make any money doing that so he got into construction. he did that for a little but the work was too physical for him. he is an incredibly thin man. one wonders where he keeps all of his internal organs.

so, he couldn’t live well on the lottery tickets, he had not graduated from high school and lifting bricks all day was too much for him. what does a man do when he has nothing? he moves to ho chi minh city: the land of opportunity.

he came here when he was 22. he started selling lottery tickets again but couldn’t make ends meet. he found a job in a printing factory working 14 hours a day. he said he would sleep on the table where he worked. he enrolled in english classes. his days consisted of 14 hours of work, school then returning to work to sleep on your work table.

what must it have been like? where would he shower? did he have any earthly possessions? i can only imagine him in some dirty shirt covered in holes laying on a table with a stack of old newspapers as a pillow. would you feel rage at your situation or would you be more fatalistic?

he took two years of english classes and then decided to graduate from high school. he was 24 when he graduated. he then enrolled in college and started working at the yokohama tire factory here. they moved him up to sales because he could speak english and because he relates well with customers.

now he lives with his mother in saigon. he has a girlfriend and a nice motorcycle. he said, “life is beautiful now. i love to live.”

i asked about his father and he scowled. he looked at me coldly as if to ask, “why on earth would you ask about him?” he said, “i have no relations with my father. he had another girl when i was young and my parents separated.” i don’t think i got the whole story. i could feel the hatred. everything fell silent and we both stared at our food not brave enough to say anything.

his mood cooled and he looked at me nicely. he said, “i don’t normally tell people my story.” i thanked him sincerely and am glad that i can share it with all of you. i honestly think he would be flattered but i won’t say anything.

so this man has overcome incredible barriers in his lifetime. at the age of 18 he had to fend for himself. he learned english, graduated from high school and now has a relatively nice job. at 18 i was a freshman in college. i had everyone in the world supporting me. i’ve worked my whole life but not because i had to. i worked to learn how to work. he worked to eat. he graduated from high school when he was 24. i graduated when i was 17.

i sit here now and shake my head. there’s something wonderful and terrible about his story. so much pain and so much success. it makes you think that success is possible. it also makes you think that there’s something wrong with this world. no one should have to suffer what he has suffered. i’ve done nothing in my life comparable to what he has accomplished.

oh, and he paid the bill.

so, why did i have my falling out with the yokohama tire dealership? the japanese bosses don’t like having me around for lunch. they think i interfere with the “morale of the employees.” i’ll spend less time with quy, loan and uyet but their stories will mull around in my head for a long time.

i spent another night with mr. khoa. he’s the guy that always seems to take me to shady places. i seem to keep trusting him though.

tonight, after having our normal cup of coffee, he decided to take me to his house. he kept saying, “we listen to pantera.” i really don’t know who pantera is but they sounded familiar. he kept saying, “american rock.” so we went.

he lives on the third floor of a large apartment building. we walked through narrow hallways. people were sitting everywhere staring and the walls were milky and marble. there was a small gate. we walked through it and down a thin hallway. his room was on the left. it was locked with a small padlock. the lock was a padlock and about half as big as normal. it was thin and narrow.

you could possibly fit two coffins side by side in his room. i don’t even think you could get them through the door. the walls were made of something much thinner than plywood. the door was light. the roof was so low that i couldn’t stand up. the room was no wider than five feet and no longer than six.

there was a straw mat that we sat on. that was his bed. he wanted me to listen to pantera so he searched through his cds. he had a tv, a vcd player, large speakers and an electric guitar. for a tiny hovel, this room had everything. we sat back and listened to rock music. i didn’t know any of the groups but pretended. oh, american rock!

mr. khoa was in his element. he flipped through cds and always found what he was looking for. his smile was genuine and his love for music was obvious. even though his room as small as a king sized bed he still loved me being there.

so, the man with a nice motorcycle, an electric guitar, a tv, a vcd player, a new mobile phone and a set of nice speakers lives in a shoebox. maybe he’s content with his cramped living quarters. i know it would drive me up the wall; even with those nice speakers.

troi oi!

it was bound to happen. i mean, i guess i could have passed it off but, what would that have made me? i guess i accepted the inevitable and went with it.

ms. ha called me the other day. she wondered if i wanted to go out to eat with her on sunday night. i obliged. she wanted me to try dog meat.

we met near my university and walked to a restaurant that she knew. the walk was long and she explained dog to me. you see, she loves her dog. it’s white, shaggy and very compassionate. her eyes flicker when she talks about him. she would never eat her dog because the meat wasn’t any good. there are only special breeds of dog that are meaty enough to satiate the vietnamese palate. she also said that she would like to eat cat. she explained that the government didn’t allow the selling of cat meat because cats were good at catching rats.

i couldn’t make this up if i tried.

i was excited and very, very hesitant upon entering the restaurant. it was dimly lit and there was no sign out front. i really didn’t want to eat dog either. being a vegetarian for a couple of years has really shaped me. meat isn’t a requirement for healthy living and dog is no exception. i still had to try it. what kind of an adventurous person would i be if i didn’t?

the place was about a ten minute walk away. we sat on small seats surrounded by old men. ms. ha explained to me that eating dog meat was a man’s job. oh, ok. everyone stared at us and ms. ha didn’t know what to order. the waiter helped her through the menu and finally our supper arrived. a large plate of leaves was placed next to a large dish of shrimp sauce. the dog arrived. it was cut into small cubes and simmered with some dark sauce. small pieces of flesh covered on one side by a thin layer of fat and another layer of leathery skin. we were instructed to put one piece of dog flesh onto a leaf. we then would grip both the leaf and the flesh with out chopsticks and dip it into the shrimp sauce. the meat would float around in my mouth for a bit. it was tough and warm. it didn’t taste too strongly. i mostly noticed the mint flavor of the leave and the spicy flavor of the shrimp sauce. the layer of skin that covered each piece was terrible. it was like chewing through worn pieces of rubber.

ms. ha asked me why we didn’t eat dog in america. i couldn’t quite figure it out. we eat most other animals without aversion but dogs seem to be holy. cats too. maybe it’s cause dogs are man’s best friend. (women should be occupied with cooking and cleaning mind you. their best friend is the dustpan and broom)

(sarcasm)

she ordered another dish. i asked what she asked for and she said, “fried dog inside.” what? it turned out that it was a dish full of the fried innards of our canine friend. they were wrapped in the intestine and fried. the concept is similar to scrapple except, with scrapple, there is decent flavor. with fried dog innards, there is something lacking. they were cut into small pieces that were brown and curled. i ate the liver, kidney and heart of dear ole poochie wrapped in it’s own colon. ew.

ms. ha noticed that i didn’t enjoy the fried innards so she ordered another dish. she whispered to the waiter, “do you sell cat meat here?” it was illegal, i knew. oh, to eat both cat and dog meat for the first time at the same meal! the waiter looked to his left and right but reluctantly shook his head. no cat for me tonight.

ms. ha ordered our final dish. it was just plain ole, grilled dog meat. we wrapped it in the leaves and dipped it in shrimp sauce but the leathery skin was still the same. you couldn’t eat a piece of dog without chewing for at least a solid minute.

so, tonight, i learned that dogs can make meals. not wonderful meals but meals none the less. my stomach is uneasy. i keep imagining dogs frolicking in my stomach. agh!

so jack is up here this weekend. he’s an american teaching down in long xuyen. he’ll be here two years too and we’ve led incredibly parallel lives. he spent six months in the same town in spain and we both speak spanish. that really confuses people.

he is very tall. he has a tuft of orangish-blonde hair and thick eyebrows similar to mine. his face is long but comes together nicely. he always dresses casually and is in love with asia: he is a fan of the exotic. he seems to be motivated by curiosity. his experiences are broad and wonderful but i haven’t found him gloating. i really haven’t found him doing anything strange. we are destined to be best friends whether we like it or not. it’s as if we’ll be trapped on a cultural island together: we’ll have to lean on each other when we’re desperate for the familiar.

we have been driving around on two bicycles the hotel provides. one is trusty and grey and the other has no brakes. it’s dangerous but a free spirit. stares seem to be compounded as we slowly cruise around. when you get that much white skin together doing something traditionally vietnamese, there’s bound to be gawking. last night we drove home late. the road was packed with motorcycles and they seemed to flow around us as if we were a rock in a stream. warm, salty nights and thick traffic. two white boys on socialist bicycles trying not to cause trouble but looking for something very real.

well, jack is my blind date and i’m happy for it. we’ve been matched up randomly and we’re destined to spend two years working, sweating and pedaling around together. he has been teaching and so i’ll lean on his experience. i’ve been studying the language so he’ll lean on me too. i’m guessing that me and jack will be good friends long after vietnam. two young men searching for something in a far off land. either we’re crazy, naïve or just wonderfully excited to be alive.

“my name is derek. i’m in 3rd grade. i’m nine years old. i go to penn view christian school. i have lots of pets; five chickens, one cat, two iguanas, two rabbits, three frogs and alots of fish. i have a brother that’s in 9th grade, and one mom and dad. i enjoy playing soccer. i live in a town named Souderton. in the winder it snows at least once. in the summer it’s usually very humid or/and hot. we have mountains, rivers, lakes, creeks, brooks and trees. three things we grow here are grain, corn and carrots. some factories in our community are asher’s chocolate, pilgrim’s, they make chicken meats, byers choice, they make dolls. some special activities in my community are foot ball, and summer bible school. some historical places are valley forge national park, peter wentz, lenape part, pearl buck’s house.”

a package of mail came for me today and it was wonderful. it’s like opening a wonderful present when it’s not even your birthday.

one of the letters was from penn view christian school. it contained a small, manila journal with the words, “my community journal”, at the top. i am to write about my community and send it on to someone in another community who will continue the process. sounds fascinating.

here is what i will write: “my name is jonathan moyer and i am living in vietnam. i am 22 years old and am studying vietnamese. i am a volunteer with mennonite central committee. i have very many books here and spend my time reading and writing. learning another language is difficult! this one is tonal which means that words that sound the same mean different things depending on how you say them. one word can mean six different things! i have a brother that’s a sophomore at college and i have a mom and a dad. they are sad that i am so far away and i miss them a lot. the weather here is very hot. it never gets cold and there are only two seasons: rainy and dry. here we have a jungle with lots of trees and a big river. it’s called the mekong. they grow a lot of rice here and eat it with almost every meal. the city i’m staying in is ho chi minh city. it is very historical. you can go and learn about vietnam’s history as a colony or about different wars that took place here.”

isn’t human development fascinating? i mean, i remember being in the third grade at penn view. vividly. it was in the basement and some of the boys got in trouble for peeing on the floor of the bathroom. i was terrified because i didn’t do it but was lumped in with those who had. now, 13 short years later, i’m on the receiving end of such beautiful innocence.

the allure of the streets grabbed hold of me and wouldn't let go. my gray, soviet bicycle carried me to all corners of this mysterious city. today i really lived.

i hoped on my steed early this afternoon. the heat of the day had driven some people from the roads but those of us who had pressing issues pedaled on. my pressing issue was exploration and adventure. i love feeling the bike strain under me as i head off. i love the effect of having only one gear. there is so much effort required to start pedaling.

first, i headed to send some postcards. traffic was light and i was sweating quickly. one small post office couldn't handle what i required. an old lady came from the back and explained to me how much it would cost. i understood only pieces but pretended to be right with her. deceiving her was fun. she left and told me to head off to the large post office. i left grinning.

the big post office is located right next to the cathedral. the church is placed in the middle of the road and there's a picture of a very sad virgin mary looking off in the distance. for a moment i was shocked at how sad her marble face looked. it quickly passed. the post office is ornate and looks like a barn. the front opens like a mouth into the street spitting people to and fro. i asked a very small man to watch my bike. he smiled and mumbled something. his face was like a dried piece of beef. flesh hanging on ancient bone.

i mailed my letters and came out to find my friend waiting for me by my bike. he was smiling and someone was waiting with him. turns out that his friend had come out early but they had waited for me in any case. what generosity. trust and faith. do nothing out of fear.

i left to drop off some film. heading down into the tourist area is always makes me nervous. many white faces looking at me on my old bicycle. either they're jealous of curious. i pedal furiously to keep up with the motorcycles. it's hard to breathe and the sun is ferocious. sweat. i arrive and talk to the people behind the counter. they know me and we're all smiles. if my job description here was to make friends, i have succeeded.

i left and pedaled back towards home. from my house to the center of saigon is downhill. from saigon to my house it's just the opposite and the sun wasn't giving me any relief. i pedaled and stopped. pedaled and stopped. breathed heavily, looked at people, peddled and stopped.

before i arrived at home i stopped for a plate of goi. it's a hilarious dish of shaved papaya, dried beef and some mint leaves. it's all covered in some sweet sauce that's a little spicy. it's terrible tasty. that refueled my tank and i was off.

i love driving a bike around this great city. it feels like i'm breaking some kind of societal barrier. the only people who drive bicycles are poor people or students. no white faces at all. the only white faces are riding around in tourist cyclos or driving very nice motorcycles. people standing in ditches with their shirts off digging stare at me. people selling fruit on the corner stare at me. poor people stare at me. they're not staring at me because i'm a white face. they're not staring at me because i'm doing something wrong. they're staring at me because i'm becoming one of them. i'm pedaling and sucking in exhaust. i'm sweating and avoiding the city busses. in a way, it feels like i'm doing something good.

some of you may remember the watch i bought about a month ago in hanoi. it was grey and had the word cool! displayed digitally across the top. it also had a glowing butterfly when you pressed a certain button. it was one of the first things i purchased in vietnam and it made me very happy.

well, it’s wearing down now. some water has leaked into the face and now, whenever it’s in a hot and humid place, the face is obscured with fog. it’s hot and humid almost everywhere in vietnam. it does work clearly in my air-conditioned room and for about three minutes after leaving my room. also, the butterfly doesn’t shine so brightly. her top right wing has gone dark. the frustration of having something fail on you is grating.

there is another watch street here, in saigon. it is located, sadly, in the middle of the tourist area. it’s like wading into a vulture’s lair. sly people lurking everywhere. it’s impossible to feel comfortable. people who make a living selling things at incredibly high prices. people who make a living begging. people who try to make you buy gum or shirts but putting it in your hand. they all have glass looks in their eyes and are pathetic in an instant. they don’t seem human at all. i hate feeling like a tourist but i needed a new watch.

i browsed through the watches and found nothing that interested me. they all looked the same. i was about to leave the den of thieves when my eyes were attracted by the most fascinating, incredible, beautiful watch that ever existed. if the song of the sirens could be summed up in a watch, this was it. if the love of a mother could be encompassed in a timepiece, i had found her.

she is a plain watch. her band is brown hard leather. i’ll have to work on breaking her in. her face is an odd shade of light blue. it is large and silver and, on the back, “made in u.s.s.r.”, is clearly stamped in the metal. oh, and the front. the front is blessed with a large red hammer and sickle and the letters “cccp”. oh, to have a watch made in the former ussr! what a wonderful trinket! wearing it makes you feel like you’ve traveled back in time somehow. i feel like i’m a spy.

oh, and, i almost forgot: you have to wind it! i never had a watch that you had to wind! what a wonderful, wonderful watch.

well, i did have to barter for it and was much more successful this time. last time i didn’t know any vietnamese and now my bartering vietnamese is pretty stellar. she wanted 20 american dollars for it. (we were in the tourist area) i pretended to walk away twice (i was only bluffing. i would have never left this joy). she lowered the price. she asked if i wanted a bag for it. i laughed and put it on my wrist.

i hope you can appreciate the irony of this all. i never knew the cold war. i came into consciousness after it ended. i vaguely remember the berlin wall coming down. all i know is that there was some cosmic battle between good and evil (ha!).

oh, it is a bit strange walking around with the hammer and sickle on your wrist: it’s like having a watch with a large american flag on it.

i must tell you what i do with that man that took me to the shady place along the river.

trusting my womanly intuition, i have decided to follow this man to all corners of ho chi minh city to have a cup of coffee. (that or a glass of milk and coffee) we travel at night and he knows every nook and cranny of this great place. normally, a night consists of me and him sitting over a table of coffee and peanuts talking about vietnamese and english. wonderful. i really feel like i’m living.

these coffee establishments consists of a bunch of lawn chairs and small tables facing the road. we’ve been to about five or six of them and they’re all the same. people looking at the traffic pass as loud music blares overhead. it’s rather like a bunch of people sitting around in their lawn chairs watching fourth of july fireworks.

tonight i noticed a small girl. the tables are set near the road and this girl sat in the road on a small stool looking off into the distance. her parents must have been far away because she looked to be in some danger. motorcycles would pass very close and the traffic was thick.

she had her legs crossed and was eating something out of a small bag. her hair was cropped close to her eyebrows and fell about a half of an inch from her shoulders. she wore a pink shirt and small shorts. she didn’t notice us and i kept wondering what she was thinking. she seemed to be looking over my shoulder and i couldn’t figure out what she was looking at. it turned out to be a small television in the back corner of the place. it must have been more than thirty feet away and i could barely make out what was going on there. she had come to watch some television.

when the show ended she left. i remained sitting there, in my lawn chair, drinking my coffee, with my friend. it’s wonderful drinking coffee in this great city. spending time with friends at night is enough to make me smile.

my favorite restaurant doesn’t have a name. i go there about five times a week and it’s cheap as anything. oh, don’t go there for the variety: there are only about five dishes that they serve and two of them look like they’re made of grubs.

it’s located on mac dinh chi street on the lower level of a house. there are six tables inside. chairs are small and low to the ground and the walls are covered with dish soap advertisements. the two dishes i vary between are some sort of pork and spinach over rice and some sort of fish and spinach over rice. oh, and a fanta.

the people there are the main attraction. there are two middle aged women who run the place. they look very similar and are both missing teeth. they are a little chubby and always wear the same outfits. (that’s how i tell them apart) they appear to be in their forties but are probably younger. there is always an older man there too and when i arrive, he always sits next to me and tries to talk with me. he is missing hair and took to me rather quickly. it’s wonderful practicing and the food’s good. you get over the repetition.

there is also a little girl. about six years old. she has long mop hair and always is yelling something. piercing voice. she has no shoes but always finds something to play with. she runs around flatfooted and her feet slap the ground. i always tease her and ask her questions but she speaks too quickly for me to understand. she grows frustrated with my stupidity and quickly frowns. i think she likes me.

there is also an old lady that sits on the floor in the back. she washes the dishes. she never says anything and only smiles when i say something stupid. the two middle aged women bring her dirty dishes and she washes them under a faucet. surrounded by soap and piles of clean bowls. she always wears a tan outfit. looks like pajamas.

you order by standing over the food and pointing. it’s all prepared and sitting out in the open. hygiene? i taught the one lady how to say banana but she only says nana.

i go there because they all know me and they all smile when i enter. it’s a wonderful oasis of sincere relationships in my present desert of loneliness.

another saturday alone. no appointments and nothing to do.

i got caught in the rain today and it was the highlight of my day. the rain poured down heavily on my head and shoulders. i was walking home and everyone stared at me. they were all hiding under overhangs or in doorways. i walked on and felt tired. my eyes are heavy and my vision blurred. the streets are dirty and your sandals feel gritty. like sandpaper. the rain is cool and hard. the noise of the street dies but is replaced by the roar of the downpour.

dry people stared at me as i passed. they laughed at me and pointed. i hated their laughter and wanted to tell them to stop. it all felt so immature. maybe it was just stupid of me to be out in the rain when i could have just waited it out.

i passed the american consulate and the guards with the large guns were carrying umbrellas. large black umbrellas with thick wooden handles in one hand and a black metal gun in the other. you’d think people willing to kill wouldn’t worry too much about getting wet.

all day long alone. no one to talk to except myself. i smile at myself in mirror a lot more when i’m alone. i tend to get lost looking at myself. there’s no one else to stare at and the lack of human interaction makes for interesting mental exercises.

nietzsche once asked, “is language the adequate expression of all realities?” after attempting to communicate my limited experiences through writing, i believe it’s not. maybe i just don’t have the right words but i’m more inclined to believe that they do not exist.

being alone is a sensation that is very difficult to define. extended periods of time without meaningful human interaction always make me ________. i think anyone who has spent considerable time alone can fill in that space. it’s a wonderful way of defining who you really are and understanding that you’ll really never know.

look in the mirror and say hello to yourself. ignore everyone else for a bit and just feel your weight press against the chair.

haven’t said anything about construction workers or auto mechanics.

the mechanics set up on street corners with a small drum to drain oil into and a few tools. they make the most of a very small amount of space. they set up in the middle of foot traffic and have people moving among them all day. they wear shower shoes. they are white, plastic sandals that are black from the grease. these mechanics are normally seen on their haunches next to a wounded motorcycle.

construction is a bit more interesting. everyone works with small plastic sandals on. i was always under the impression that, to be save, everyone must have calf high, steel tipped boots. there is a construction project going on at my university and i often sit and watch the men work. it looks very medieval. they have wheelbarrows. square and short. the one wheel is metal and bangs and clanks along. they have small carts that a single person can haul. they are worn and wooden with metal wheels. they shovel sand and rocks from different piles and mix them all together. all in their shower shoes mind you.

there are normally very many people working on any given construction project. there is a demolition project going on near my house. i walk by it every day on my way to lunch. there are maybe twenty workers all swinging sledgehammers and crowbars. they are all constantly moving. as you walk you must watch for flying stone and i’ve already been hit by a sizeable chunk. just smile and keep walking. the building could be taken down with one bulldozer in half a day.

i’ve also seen road demolition crews. sometimes they don’t have jackhammers. they use large wedges and large steel rods which are driven into the asphalt. men work with out shirts in the heat of the day prying apart the road. it seems unforgiving and i feel nothing but empathy as i walk by.

electric crews are also quite a sight. all of the electrical poles are concrete. they are home to a nest of wires. about ten to fifteen individual wires run from pole to pole and they tend to bunch up. the workers wear a loose blue uniform and helmets. they also have sandals on. the electricity and phone lines go down fairly regularly. right now the phones are not working.

at the yokohama tire dealership, i was given a song to learn. the words go something like this (loose translation): uncle ho, to respect and love. (that’s the title)

“who loves uncle ho chi minh more than the little children. who loves uncle ho more than the little ones. our uncle stands very tall and bright for our people. our uncle stands for the brown skin because it is the wind and the dew.”

this afternoon was boring so i decided to walk around aimlessly. i walked in a direction i never head in just to see what there was out there. didn’t get too far before i realized that there was still one war museum that i hadn’t visited.

the ho chi minh city campaign museum. the front area was littered with old tanks and airplanes. they were covered in pealing paint and rust. the yard was not well kept and there were no other tourists there. no other people there. just me and the three ticket takers.

i walked around eerily hearing only my footsteps echo off the stone walls. the museum was dedicated to the fall of saigon and it’s walls were covered with black and white portraits of soldiers. heroes. they’re probably still alive today. old guns and ghostly mannequins lurked around every corner. it was just one of the many memorials around the city recounting its tragic and terrible history. so full of death that it takes four museums to hold it all.

nothing was interesting. i had already grieved for the war and walked around seeing everything but not taking anything in. all the soldiers looked the same. i went upstairs. there was a large golden bust of ho chi minh. it stood at least 10 feet off the ground. like a cross. to my right there were stained glass windows depicting the fall of saigon. soldiers shooting and people dying. just like christian martyrs. everyone seemed to have a holy glow about them and my thoughts raced to the similarities between ideologies be them religious or political.

wall street is mecca.

i left the building. my head was cloudy and my eyes didn’t want to focus. the dead army vehicles caught my attention and i walked around them blankly. then, off in the distance, “hey you!” a small pudgy man called me over to where he was sitting. i walked over slowly, with curiosity. who would be sitting in this parking lot full of dead tanks and planes. what would they want with me.

his face was round and flat. his nose turned up and was his nicest feature. hair fell all over his face and didn’t seem to be cared for. his fingernails were bitten extremely low.

he said, “sit down. i want to know about your culture. what state are you from?” i cautiously told him who i was and what i was doing. he was reading. he asked me if i believed in jesus. i paused. he asked me what kind of christian i was. he said he was baptist and evangelical. he wanted me to get him a visa to study the bible in america. i told him about being a mennonite. told him that we believed that war is morally unjustifiable and a bit about their history in europe. he knew a lot about the history of protestants and talked about luther.

he asked if i wanted to start a mennonite church here. i said i didn’t want to. he didn’t understand. wasn’t i a christian? i told him i wasn’t evangelical. didn’t i have money though? i could “save so many souls.” i seemed to pass the question off and this irritated him.

“what do you do for god?” my head turned towards his. up to this point i wasn’t really taking the conversation too seriously. “well”, i started, “i try to understand the nature of god through thought and meditation. i believe that god is love in its purest form and truth free from relativity. i am constantly searching for god.” that suited him.

our conversation continued and i was concerned (paranoid) that he might be an agent of the state trying to understand my true nature here. i mean, what on earth was he doing reading in the middle of this crazy war museum? all my fears subsided when he started singing, “what a friend we have in jesus.” it was time to go. i couldn’t stop giggling. here i was, in the middle of this war museum listening to a flat faced, pudgy man with no fingernails sing, “what a friend we have in jesus.”

he asked that, before i leave, could i possibly pray for him? sure. why not. i shut my eyes, folded my hands and prayed. i asked that this man find peace and true love. i asked for guidance and what not. it was quite the prayer. as i was standing up he said, “do not tell anyone about me (i already broke that promise. what i guy i turned out to be.) and we’ll see if god answers your prayer. if you have faith then someone will come and visit me and allow me to come to america.”

well, maybe god will answer my prayers and bring this man peace. i walked home thinking about ideology and religion. i went to a museum glorifying the communist victory over saigon and i bowed before the holy statue of uncle ho (figuratively). i walked out into the courtyard and was proselytized to about christianity. what a strange, strange world. where was god in all this?

there was a beautiful blue butterfly that flew all around me. she sat down on a tree in front of me and i watched her twitch and turn. this world is full of mystery. it’s a crazy place if you let it be.

this afternoon was boring so i decided to walk around aimlessly. i walked in a direction i never head in just to see what there was out there. didn’t get too far before i realized that there was still one war museum that i hadn’t visited.

the ho chi minh city campaign museum. the front area was littered with old tanks and airplanes. they were covered in pealing paint and rust. the yard was not well kept and there were no other tourists there. no other people there. just me and the three ticket takers.

i walked around eerily hearing only my footsteps echo off the stone walls. the museum was dedicated to the fall of saigon and it’s walls were covered with black and white portraits of soldiers. heroes. they’re probably still alive today. old guns and ghostly mannequins lurked around every corner. it was just one of the many memorials around the city recounting its tragic and terrible history. so full of death that it takes four museums to hold it all.

nothing was interesting. i had already grieved for the war and walked around seeing everything but not taking anything in. all the soldiers looked the same. i went upstairs. there was a large golden bust of ho chi minh. it stood at least 10 feet off the ground. like a cross. to my right there were stained glass windows depicting the fall of saigon. soldiers shooting and people dying. just like christian martyrs. everyone seemed to have a holy glow about them and my thoughts raced to the similarities between ideologies be them religious or political.

wall street is mecca.

i left the building. my head was cloudy and my eyes didn’t want to focus. the dead army vehicles caught my attention and i walked around them blankly. then, off in the distance, “hey you!” a small pudgy man called me over to where he was sitting. i walked over slowly, with curiosity. who would be sitting in this parking lot full of dead tanks and planes. what would they want with me.

his face was round and flat. his nose turned up and was his nicest feature. hair fell all over his face and didn’t seem to be cared for. his fingernails were bitten extremely low.

he said, “sit down. i want to know about your culture. what state are you from?” i cautiously told him who i was and what i was doing. he was reading. he asked me if i believed in jesus. i paused. he asked me what kind of christian i was. he said he was baptist and evangelical. he wanted me to get him a visa to study the bible in america. i told him about being a mennonite. told him that we believed that war is morally unjustifiable and a bit about their history in europe. he knew a lot about the history of protestants and talked about luther.

he asked if i wanted to start a mennonite church here. i said i didn’t want to. he didn’t understand. wasn’t i a christian? i told him i wasn’t evangelical. didn’t i have money though? i could “save so many souls.” i seemed to pass the question off and this irritated him.

“what do you do for god?” my head turned towards his. up to this point i wasn’t really taking the conversation too seriously. “well”, i started, “i try to understand the nature of god through thought and meditation. i believe that god is love in its purest form and truth free from relativity. i am constantly searching for god.” that suited him.

our conversation continued and i was concerned (paranoid) that he might be an agent of the state trying to understand my true nature here. i mean, what on earth was he doing reading in the middle of this crazy war museum? all my fears subsided when he started singing, “what a friend we have in jesus.” it was time to go. i couldn’t stop giggling. here i was, in the middle of this war museum listening to a flat faced, pudgy man with no fingernails sing, “what a friend we have in jesus.”

he asked that, before i leave, could i possibly pray for him? sure. why not. i shut my eyes, folded my hands and prayed. i asked that this man find peace and true love. i asked for guidance and what not. it was quite the prayer. as i was standing up he said, “do not tell anyone about me (i already broke that promise. what i guy i turned out to be.) and we’ll see if god answers your prayer. if you have faith then someone will come and visit me and allow me to come to america.”

well, maybe god will answer my prayers and bring this man peace. i walked home thinking about ideology and religion. i went to a museum glorifying the communist victory over saigon and i bowed before the holy statue of uncle ho (figuratively). i walked out into the courtyard and was proselytized to about christianity. what a strange, strange world. where was god in all this?

there was a beautiful blue butterfly that flew all around me. she sat down on a tree in front of me and i watched her twitch and turn. this world is full of mystery. it’s a crazy place if you let it be.

the sky was grey and looked as if it could fall at any moment. looking out my window, in my air-conditioned room, i watched the rain fall. slow suicide. it felt like i was at home on a cold autumn night. outside everything seemed to be moving slowly; weighted down by the rain.

outside felt nothing like pennsylvania in the fall. it felt like you were holding your head above a boiling pot of water. the humidity and moisture creep into your pores and sweat runs down your face like tears.

on days like this, the weather controls the mood. that is, if you allow it to. it’s when there’s time to stare at the clouds and notice that they are all hanging a bit lower than normal. when you watch traffic flow by and only hear the hissing noise that tires make on wet roads. when you can never dry off.

people drive their motorcycles covered in ponchos. they drape them over the front of their bike and only their faces and lower legs get wet. they all should have been miserable but seemed to be driving with the same irrational ambition. i stood inside the yokohama tire dealership talking to the ladies. they were also being irrational. irrationally happy. they seemed to be unaffected by this ubiquitous rain. a rain so constant that it pounded its way into your head.

it was also a cleansing rain, i’m sure. i didn’t really notice.

it ended after i ate bun rieu. it’s a strange soup full of all sorts of oddities. some shellfish, some processed pork and some gelatinized pig’s blood. it was tasty but only because i loaded it with chilies. i left and the sky was clear and dark. i did my penance and the rain gods let up. it was as if i atoned for my attitude and was given a new lease on life.

now i’m able to celebrate again. i celebrate the republicans controlling the house, senate and presidency. i celebrate being the richest person here even though i’m a volunteer. i celebrate the heat of the day for cleansing me. i celebrate sarcasm.

when it rains it pours, right?

i went to the yokohama tire dealership this afternoon. i thought maybe i could catch some vietnamese before supper. i knew my buddy wasn’t going to be there (he is in long xuyen for the week) but i also knew that there would be plenty of people to talk to. turned out to be quite the language session.

i studied vietnamese with them for a couple hours. they told me i had to be the sales person. i stood behind the counter waiting for customers. i stood there, my pale face to the road, waiting for people to stroll up and look at motorcycle tires. a couple did. i asked them in my rudimentary vietnamese if they wanted to buy something. it sounded rude to me but everyone loved it. “what do you want to buy?” was what i asked. what a rude question for a salesperson. they would rattle something off and i just stood there while everyone laughed. haha.

so, i did that for a couple hours. actually sold a couple tires. they were wrapped in green tape that said “yokohama” all over it. the sales people now wanted an english lesson and i obliged.

today we studied the word, “cool.” how on earth do you explain this. the dictionary doesn’t have anything close and i haven’t found anything suitable in use here. i started to describe someone who was cool. someone who had, “all the girls” and “wore the right clothes.” so, they wondered, were they rich? “no”, i said. they just were cool. they knew how to act. they had tires in the store one of which was, in my opinion, ugly and one of which was very, well, cool. i pointed to them and said, “this is cool and this is not.” so, they wondered, were they just rich? the one tire was much more expensive than the other. i was getting no where so i dropped the lesson for now. i’ll pick it up later.

do teachers give up?

one of the customers asked me to go out and give her english lessons in exchange for vietnamese lessons. she gave me her number and said to call her after 9:00. haven’t decided if i will yet.

after all of this chaos, i decided to go and eat where i always do: a small restaurant that doesn’t have a name. the owners seem very poor and food is cheap. they all know me and i can practice my terrible vietnamese on them. i met a man there who wanted to take me for coffee. i obliged.

we went to the river. i was never there before and it didn’t seem to be moving. it was dark and the lights from surrounding buildings cast their wavering shadow. i looked at it closely. you could see trash slowly floating down. large dark objects jutted out of the water as it ambled by. everything seemed dirty but i told people that the view was, “beautiful.” they loved it. my friend bought me french-fries and coffee. i don’t think i’ll sleep tonight.

he talked to me in his english. terrible. just terrible. the first vietnamese person who spoke english worse than i spoke vietnamese. i guess it’s a milestone. i decided i shouldn’t loose this friend.

at first i thought it was a mistake. some scantily clad women ambled towards us with dyed hair. some was blonde (orange) and some was red (bright, cherry red). i thought, “great, hookers. just what i need.” (sarcasm) i thought maybe my friend thought i looked lonely. he quickly shooed them away. one of them told me, “my god is jesus too.” that disturbed me. she showed me a necklace that had the virgin mary’s face on it. agh. what a terrible combination. hooker with the virgin around her neck.

my friend told me he liked to play pool. (all through hand gestures) i told him i liked it too. we decided to leave the filthy river with it’s filthy inhabitants and head for the local pool hall.

i knew nothing of vietnamese pool. i can play back home but here i’m a novice. the game is played with three balls. one white, one yellow and one red. the red is neutral. the goal of the game (i found this out by making many wrong shots) is to hit your lead ball (either the white or yellow, depending) off of both of the other balls in the same shot. this requires much skill and i was quickly defeated. if you hit your lead ball off of the other two you get to shoot again. my friend explained that one time he succeeded 20 times in a row.

well, i had my fill of vietnamese for the day. i’m going to read now and probably won’t sleep well on account of the coffee. that and the virgin mary.

so, everyone here has a small motorcycle, right? either that or a bike. the motorcycles are small and seem to strain whenever they are asked to accelerate. they also scream when they brake. rush-hour is an buffet for the ear.

i always get a kick of the names. there is the ubiquitous honda dream. there is the dream, the dream I, the dream II, the super dream, the super dream I and the super dream II. it is the ford tarus of motorcycles here. the side panels are a rainbow of maroon, orange and purple. also, there is the max II (which looks like maxi), the best, the future, the spacy (i don’t think i could make this up), the wave, the support (what?), the welcome, the jupiter, the darling, the citi 100, the magic 100, the viva (where are we, madrid?), the boss, the team, the mystery, the deluxe, the vision, the fuzzy (nothing fuzzy about it), the sirus (not the one that goes to salford), the angel, the fx and the astro. those were the ones i wrote down in about 10 minutes of watching rush hour traffic.

i quickly counted all the vehicles that passed me in one minute. the road i’m on is one way and very narrow. one and a half lanes. in one minute i counted 165 vehicles of which maybe 6 were cars/trucks and 20 were bicycles. i thought i may have miscounted so i counted again. i got 177. the flow of traffic is relentless.

the yokohama tire dealership was to my left and a young man walked out and said hi to me. he said, “pleased to meet you, jon.” i pooled my memory but his face didn’t come up. did i know him? “you are 22, right? you look very young. you look too young to be a teacher.” i was dumbfounded, forced a smile and he drove off. guess i’ve been the center of conversation over at the ‘ole tire dealership.

another day that could fill a book. maybe a couple.

it all started out early. i woke up at 6:00 very tired and wished that i could have kept sleeping until maybe 10:00. walked to the supermarket and met ms. ha. she was a little late and i thought that i still might be able to crawl back in bed. we took a local bus to the main bus station. we were going to the cu chi tunnels.

ms. ha asked me to go with her because she hadn’t seen the tunnels yet and wanted to. i had been wanting to see them too. she said that if we did go, would i mind taking a local bus instead of the tourist bus? evidently we took the vietnamese tourist bus to go to vung tau and i didn’t know. i said sure. my face was excited but inside i was concerned. rightfully so.

this bus cost 1000 dong for a one and a half hour trip. that’s a hearty .07 cents. the tourist bus would have cost about 50,000 dong. the scent of state subsidies was in the air. we boarded and there were no passengers. we sat in the back where i could stretch my legs out and avoid the seat in front of me. the bus was very heavy and looked like a throwback to the ussr. the engine screamed and the shocks didn’t absorb. i think a belt was loose.

the bus slowly filled until there were people standing in the aisle. every stop someone would enter and the attendant would quickly dash out and haul a bicycle onto the roof. he would crawl down and back inside while the bus was moving through traffic. the man next to me was very young and had a small child. maybe three years old. the child looked green and that is not a figure of speech. he sat lifelessly next to me with his one hand inadvertently patting my leg as we bounced along. his father grabbed a vomit bag from the attendant (they had them handy) and held it open in front of his son’s face. the son stared at it for a good 10 minutes without puking. just the thought of him being sick almost put me over the edge.

we arrived just south of cu chi and were swarmed by local taxi drivers. ms. ha was trying to organize things but she’s as indecisive as a fawn. we finally got something organized. two moto drivers decided that they would take us the half hour trip, wait for us there, and drive us back. they drove too quickly. like they didn’t care if they died.

the cu chi tunnel parking lot was a small field and a long road stretched off into the jungle. my mind quickly shifted to the task at hand: i was to relive the war. i looked through the jungle growth. it was thick and i imagined you couldn’t see someone if they were only 10 feet in. the sky was was blue as death and the ground bleed red clay. it was a long walk and no one else was really around. then the unthinkable happened.

was i seeing things? i mean, i heard things. someone yelling into a bullhorn. people screaming. was i really seeing what i thought?

there were ten men dressed like guerilla soldiers running through the jungle. my heart stopped and i paused. they wore dark green helmets that spread out as they lowered. their backs were covered with jungle leaves. they held guns and ran low to the ground. i was sure that i was hallucinating.

we rounded the corner and there were about ten busses. they were parked half on one side of the road, half on the other all facing one another. the screaming i heard was that of children. they were all dressed in large green hats. the brims of the hats were round and wide. they all carried small paper vietnamese flags and waved them high above their heads. i was the only white face.

normally i have some idea about when i’m going to feel uncomfortable. i can prepare myself. now, the road led directly through the screaming children and right behind the ten or so soldiers that had just crossed in front of us.

the absurd happens. there is a tank that comes out of the woods right behind us. it’s made of wood and painted to look real. it is covered in leaves and there are many soldiers crouched around it. it is carrying speakers and gunfire can be heard. me and ms. ha are following this small band of ten soldiers and leading a tank. we are right in the middle of the parade. my white face in a sea of vietnamese. in a sea of vietnamese remembering their victory over my country. i was uncomfortable.

a man behind me walked in front of the tank. he had a uniform on with many stars and pins and what not. he spoke into a bullhorn. every once in a while the crowd would burst out into applause. i clapped too. it was a futile effort to assimilate myself. maybe if they all thought i understood his patriotic mumbo-jumbo they would leave me alone.

the entourage left us at the gate and proceeded through the jungle. i stood there stunned. behind me there were hundreds of children all dressed with green hat and flag. to my left there was a fake platoon of vietnamese soldiers and a tank. i hadn’t even seen the tunnels and was ready to go home.

we did finally make it to the tunnels. foreigners have to pay 65,000 dong while vietnamese pay only 6,000 dong. guess they figure that if you destroy their country you should pay a bit more to see the tourist attractions.

the tour was fascinating. for those that aren’t familiar with the cu chi tunnels, they are a series of tunnels that stretch for over 250 kilometers just north west of ho chi minh city. they were a strong hold of resistance during the vietnam war. they were all dug by hand in the clay soil. the tour guide said that, “the land around cu chi is good for rice. the land of cu chi is higher and is good for tunnels.” there are three levels of tunnels and some stretch well into the ground. there were hospitals underground and even tunnels that had entrances underneath the river.

we were shown a video. i was in a group of a couple koreans, some japanese and a few people from india. i never heard the phrase, “american-killer” so many times in my life. they kept saying it over and over. “these traps were american-killers. this person was distinguished as an american-killer. this girl killed 15 americans and was given high honors as an american-killer. these bamboo traps were once used to hunt animals. now they hunted americans. they were american-killers.” honest. made my stomach turn. i mean, my stomach would have turned too if someone was saying, “the napalm was a wonderful vietnamese-killer. agent orange has been a wonderful vietnamese-killer because it has allowed for deformities long after the war ended.”

we were shown the tunnels. we were first asked to find the entrance which no one could do. it was right under our feet and well hidden in a pile of dirt and leaves. the entrance was small and my shoulders wouldn’t have fit through. our guide showed us another section that had been remade for fat tourists. we crawled down into the tunnel and scurried through. it was only 30 feet long but scary. you had to run completely crouched over and my head constantly hit the ceiling. my shoulders also constantly rubbed the walls.

we went into another series of tunnels. they were all short and designed to show us how different stages of their operation worked. there were hospitals, store rooms, meeting rooms and a mess hall. at the end of the tour the guide asked if any of us wanted to go on a long tunnel walk. all the way to the river. i guess he didn’t think anyone would take him up on it because we were all breathing heavily. i decided i would like to go.

we crawled into the tunnel, me behind him. he would point out bamboo traps along the way. he scurried through the tunnels like he was born there. without the light from his flashlight i was alone in the darkness, trapped under a thick layer of clay. i felt along the walls to find my way. they were rough and the ground was smooth. the tunnel twisted and turned many times. we had already lowered ourselves into the second tier of the tunnel system. we were about 20 feet under the ground. the air was thick and felt like it had been through fifteen people’s lungs before it found mine. i was covered in dirt. finally i found the exit and made it back to the tour group. there aren’t too many times in my life i’ll be able to crawl through the cu chi tunnels.

at the end of the tour someone asked our guide what he did during the war. he said he was a volunteer and served in the tunnels here. he was born in 1948. the same year both of my parents were born. he showed us his wound. a gunshot had taken off a large part of his left shoulder and now he had a gaping scar there. my parents were his age. makes you wonder.

we left and headed off to the buddhist temple. it is sunday. there we found the american war memorial. this sobering memorial stands in a large room maybe 100 feet across and 40 feet high. the walls are covered in black granite. the names of those that died are permanently etched. the granite stretches up to the ceiling and around the room on three of the four sides. the names are small. much smaller than the vietnam memorial in washington dc. there were many more names. there were so many more names.

i stood in the middle of the room and looked around. the granite walls looked as if they wanted to fall and crush me. they loomed over me. the weight of all of those names seemed to be enough to bring the walls down. why should i carry so much guilt for something i had nothing to do with?

we made it back on the bus. it reminded me of the tunnels. dark, hot, thick air, no space to move. you have to imagine you’re somewhere else to stay sane.

friendly people are incredibly wonderful. they make you feel warm inside. i always seem to trust them instantly and smile a lot.

tonight i went out with a man named phan quoc huy. he works at the yokohama tire dealership which is located about 20 meters from my apartment. i walk by the place every day. at first i just noticed the large red sign. then, i started looking in the shop as i passed it. i always noticed two young people standing aimlessly behind the counter. they looked to be about 30. one day i waved to them. they started waving back. we had a wonderful wave and smile relationship.

at the beginning of this week i bought a paper from the vendor across the street. when i was walking back, phan quoc huy was there, outside his shop, to greet me. he offered me tea and invited me in. i was flattered. i met him and his assistant and we exchanged phone numbers. his assistant is quiet. she smiles crookedly and has bright eyes. she throws in japanese words even though she’s vietnamese. i guess she thinks i know japanese. i just smile. he is tall but shorter than me. his face is well proportioned and he cocks his head to one side when he talks. his hair is cut short and spiked up all over and his teeth all seem to be heading in different directions. tonight he took me out to eat.

he called me at 7:00 and said he had just gotten off of work. we could go now. i walked down to the yokohama tire dealership and hoped on his motorbike. everything was dark and everyone was smiling. i sat snugly against him on the motorcycle. all forms of homophobia have to be thrown out the window. the insides of my legs touched the sides of his hips. i had to press my head against his to hear what he was saying. when we would take a violent turn, i would have to grab onto his stomach. the position would only be uncomfortable if i let it be.

the wind blew my hair everywhere. we drove for maybe 20 minutes and talked. he speaks wonderful english but wanted to practice. the streets are all full of people eating and selling things. small stores are everywhere and everyone seems to be employed by themselves. the fluorescent lights from the shops took the place of overhead street lamps.

we arrived at some small place where we were going to eat. it had a high roof and the walls were a pleasant light blue. we sat down at a table that was very small. it wasn’t more than a foot and a half off the ground. we sat on small plastic seats. they were blue and green and looked like foot rests. they had no back and were only six inches off of the ground. ones legs end up being higher than the table and one ends up eating in the fetal position. he ordered.

the food came and it was spring rolls and squid soup. the place specialized in squid. we talked about many things and i didn’t want to talk to him in vietnamese. i wanted to talk about culture and philosophy. he didn’t care. he wanted to practice english.

“how many hours a week do you work at the tire dealership? i see that you are there all the time.” my words were clear and pronounced. “oh, 80 hours every week. we work very long in vietnam.” wow. 80 hour weeks every week at the yokohama tire dealership. “and we normally take night classes to learn languages. vietnamese people want to learn many things!” he was smiling. i guess ms. ha’s story wasn’t as unique as i thought. we talked about the war. he said that vietnam had seen many terrible things and that his was the first generation to really experience peace. he didn’t want to talk about it and i felt like a tourist for bringing it up. surely i had known that we were well beyond war.

we talked about girlfriends and mothers. he wondered if my family worried about me. i said i thought they did. he thought that his mother wouldn’t let him go so far away for such a long time. she would worry too much. he said that we were part of our parents and that we could not deny that.

i asked him what he thought about the chairs. i said that i really liked to sit like this to eat but he didn’t believe me. i didn’t believe myself either so i made up some reason. i said it had something to do with feeling more alive. more real. i don’t think he understood me and acted like he did. phew. he said that he didn’t like sitting on, what he called, “high chairs” because you couldn’t laugh. he said it was because when you sit on high chairs you are in a big restaurant and that no one laughs there. one time he was in a big restaurant with his boss and someone told a joke but no one could laugh. here, everyone was laughing he said. he started to laugh just because he could.

well, i guess my reason wasn’t too far off. just being alive, feeling more real. eating close to the earth. feeling like you’re camping. he said that we think alike. we both like to eat close to the ground. he thought maybe it was because we were both young.

wonderful. me and phan quoc huy both enjoyed sitting close to the ground because we were both young. i wasn’t american and he wasn’t vietnamese. we were both young enough to understand that it was special even though we really didn’t understand each other.

i’m going to go out with him again. this time his assistant will come too. she had a japanese class tonight.

as he was taking me home he said, “oh, it is 9:00 and very late. i must get to bed to wake up early tomorrow.” he took the only two hours he had free tonight to spend with me. i’m honored.