i got this email from one of my lit students this morning. we're talking about death and immortality. they didn't leave their name:

you intended to kill us ,didn't you?
that 's why you said in the class that we were going to die not you !
oh jon, this morning , the first thing i thought about when i woke up was not a breakfast or what i were going to do or my boyfriend but death with a mountain of work on literature and you force us to pull this huge mountain into a mouse 's belly !
i have to be here to ask you the secret of "everlasting life".
help us !
it's me , who else?

and then it rained.

i slept this afternoon before one of my classes. the sun was bright and brilliant. i woke up and the sky was dark and grey. my stomach suddenly turned inside of me and lurched upwards towards my head. it was afraid i had missed the afternoon and all the responsibility that goes with it. i rolled over and looked at my alarm clock. the sixth storm of the rainy season had rolled in.

movie night. i have been organizing this for the past month and a half. i have written proposal after proposal. finally, everything came into fruition.

we sat in the main hall and watched students pour in. there were about one hundred and seventy students, a wonderful turnout. they all sat and giggled in anticipation. i paced in the back. it's incredibly stressful to organize anything of substance.

the room hummed and i gave a speech. they applauded much too enthusiastically. i walked to the back and the movie began. the sound didn't work and people kept walking in and out. i paced in the back bringing in more benches. the movie lagged on.

eventually, after much inappropriate giggling and too much shuffling, the movie ended. i sighed and watched people leave. a large, iron weight was lifted off of my chest or shoulders. i walked out of the room and smiled. the night was cool and the rain had abated for a moment. we hopped around puddles all the way home.

i can't think of anything else to write. my back is sore, my legs throb and my feet feel like they've walked for miles. here is my life.

the semester begins and i teach three classes. i teach one simple listening and speaking class. the students come on time, understand about one third of what i say, jot things down in their notebooks and leave quickly when the bell rings. that class i don't enjoy teaching. i have to police them. i have to make sure they don't speak english. there's thoroughly too much giggling. giggling should be outlawed.

the other class is a business class taught to people who work in the people's committee. that's a wonderful class but a bit long. it stretches on for three hours with only one fifteen minute break. the students are all curious and ask millions of questions and their english is good. we can talk about things that matter. they do, sadly, have poor pronunciation. the same pronunciation anyone has who tries to learn a language when they've lost their young, malleable brain. their tongue will not adapt. their speach patterns refuse to change.

the last class just began. this is my biggest challenge. we're working on teaching the origins of westen thought. we cover books like gilgamesh, the illiad, plato, virgil, ovid, beowulf, dante and many, many others. the real challenge comes to the surface when we try to post on the internet. the class is streamed with a course being taught at bluffton college. i have the teams in groups of five and they have to write small essays twice a week. they post and respond to what bluffton students write. it's a wonderful idea but the logistics of it are mind numbing. this friday the internet posting begins.

i've also been organizing a movie night. we're going to show a movie every friday night for the next fifteen weeks. the movie night will be a huge success. a lot of students are bored silly on the weekend and rarely have the opportunity to watch a movie let alone a free one. the first movie night is tomorrow at seven. we're showing billy elliot if anyone's in the area.

after the movie, we're having an internet discussion. you see, they're showing the same movie at bluffton on saturday (if you're in that area, you might want to watch) and we're all going to go to a website and talk. organizing a movie night is difficult. i've, so far, written six proposals, attempted to translate them into vietnamese, failed, had someone help me translate them, handed them in and been rejected. 'but you didn't include this.' 'oh, who is going to bring the dvd player to the room?' 'who is going to sweep the floor after?' (this, honestly, was one of the main sticking points. i voulenteered to sweep the floor but they said it wasn't my duty. in fact, i think they were a little offended that i would volunteer. they said a person named cuoi would sweep and that they would pay her ten thousand dong.)

i'm tired. i'm going to sleep; hopefully it's not the same sleep that socrates talked about. i'm interested to see how this all works out. sigh.

i have a class of 104 students that are studying english literature. we are going to be posting on some internet forums and i had to put them in groups. to distinguish the groups, i had them pick names. here are the names they chose in no specific order:

-pluto
-hola
-chocolate
-galaxy
-angel fire
-purple rain
-moonlight
-friendship
-e lit
-lotus
-bamboo
-hapbee
-puppy
-everest
-kurouni kenshin (explained to me to be a samari fighter of some sort)
-little star
-baby sun
-overseas
-mountain

personally, i find their choices fascinating. it says a lot about culture.

i should compile a much more thorough list but i won’t. names in vietnam and america are different in so many ways.

first of all, most westerners have three names; we start off with our personal name, move to our middle name and end with our family name. things are the opposite here. people start off with their family name, move on to their middle name and end with their first name. this causes confusion and i am always called teacher jon instead of teacher moyer. famous people are referred to by their last name. for example, uncle ho was ho chi minh and ho was his last name.

names also mean very different things and are given for different reasons. one person i know is nguyen my hoa (i’m excluding all tones). nguyen is his family name. my is his middle name and hoa is his first name. he was given the name ‘my hoa’ because his father was in the my hoa district when he was born. a staff member of the university is named ha tho (i don’t know her last name). she’s called this because her family was from ha noi (thus the ha) and she was born in can tho (thus the tho). i guess a suitable name for me would be bluff mont moyer because i was born in bluffton ohio but my father’s family is from Montgomery county pa. i kinda like the ring of that. bluff mont moyer.

i have a friend named ngo. ngo is the chinese word for horse and he was so named because he was born in the year of the horse. one of my friends is named quoc nam which means southern country. many girls are named ngoc. this means jewel or pearl. i’m not exactly sure. another common name is hoa which is short for hoa binh which means peace. another name is dung, which means courage. another name is thuy which means water. another name is tri which means mind. another name is hanh which means good behavior. another name is hien which means meek, gentle. another name is tam which means heart/mind/feelings.

american names have completely different meanings. we don’t name our children after inanimate objects. all of our names are personality characteristics or something greater. my brother’s name, jason, means healer. my name, jonathan, means gift from god. while some of the names have similar meanings, (dung-courage, that’s similar to a western name) i’ve yet to meet a westerner with a name that means horse or pearl.

the beginning of classes, chaos and heat.

i stood in front of the class trying to explain to them what the story of Gilgamesh was. they all sat quietly and respectfully but obviously didn’t understand the complexity of what we were going to be studying. anyone want to explain Beowulf to a group of students studying a second language?

it started to rain furiously while i was teaching. it was appropriate. i stood in front of the room and my normal cloud of chalk dust seemed to turn into a thin film of chalk slime on my skin.

the day progressed and the semester ended up beginning without a hitch. the students are excited about learning and i’m excited to teach them. they all sit, wide-eyed and i feel ages older than i am.

we went to a town far away to eat a nice meal. we had to get away. the semester starts tomorrow and we all needed a break. the food was nice and the view was excellent.

the restaurant sat directly above the river with all of its traffic. the food came and the conversation flowed effortlessly like when you talk with friends. the music was playing and a song came on. it stuck me.

louis armstrong’s ‘it’s a wonderful world’ poured throughout the restaurant. his gravelly voice, the voice that sounds like it has passed through his ample soul and picked up bits and pieces of it along the way, came humming and flowing. i looked down at my plate and listened. it really was a wonderful world. i had more than i ever needed. i was fulfilling all of my dreams when i looked down. i took another bite of my pasta. how rich and creamy it was. i was warm, healthy and alive in so many ways.

as the song played, i turned my head and glanced out at the shacks that have been built all along the river. they stand out from the shore and are made of tin, plastic and bamboo. the words, ‘it’s a wonderful world’, rang in my ears. they sounded so hallow, even coming from the masterful louis. the world didn’t look so wonderful. the shacks were too rusted and too close. the boats that passed up the river were too old and the engines made too much noise. the man rowing his boat against the current in the sun didn’t look pleasant. it was a wonderful world, but only for me.

the ride home i kept looking at the river and watching the boats pass full of family members. i watched women cooking on the bows and children chasing dogs around the hulls. i kept humming, ‘it’s a wonderful world.’

another line stood out. something about, “when someone says hi to you, what do you do, they’re really saying ‘i love you.’” these people, while the world may not be entirely wonderful, still have each other. they have community and they have relationships. that may be more wonderful than any world i could conjure up.

frustration. the word doesn't do my feelings justice. it's a feeling that actualizes somewhere in the front of your brain. it a dull throb. it feels like the front part of your brain is tightening up like a muscle. you can't stretch it or masage it. you have to let it fester. you let the noisome smell work its way through your body.

i am frustrated because nothing ever goes as it should. i am with a group of teachers at a mountain called cam. we came here for a training retreat. we came here to improve their english and work on motivation. this was supposed to be relativly important and it seemed like we were going to do some tangible good.

the trip started in the early morning. we had to bring the dog because we were going for a couple of days. we don't have anyone we can give him to. he sat on my lap as we boarded a large van. he sat and drooled and eventually vomited between the seats. we thought he vomited everything in his stomach. it was quite a lot. it turns out he still had a bit left over. that he puked all over my shirt and pants. i was covered in dog vomit and had to change clothes in the van before breakfast.

we came to find out that this was not going to be a training retreat at all. the teachers had relaxation and tourism in mind. we ended up going to a variety of mountains and walking up them and ambling randomly. we only were able to have one, short session in which everyone complained. we had prepared for three days. julie, especially, had spent hours gathering information and photocopying it. it all went to waste.

the ten girls on the trip giggled throughout and practiced their vietnamese continuously. every giggle tightened that little part in the front of my brain. every giggle boared into me and burrowed deeply. i need to take deep breaths, go home and do some laundry.

a comedian i heard once recounted a phrase he overheard one day. the phrase was this, (if i remember correctly) ‘if it wasn’t for that horse, i wouldn’t have gone to college.’ if you think about it too long, your brain will inadvertently short-circuit. there’s no sense to it.

the same applies here: there is a large football stadium in the center of long xuyen. in front of the stadium is a gym for people to go, lift weights and stare at themselves in long mirrors. the advertisement on the front of the building used to be comical but recently, because of some political news, has turned macabre.

there is a ten foot tall painting of arnold swartzenegar (spelling?). his body is turned to the side and he has raised his left arm up. his right arm is swung below is left and both are flexing furiously. the shadows the muscles produce are vivid. the muscles look ominous. there are muscles i didn’t know existed. arnold is looking to the right, directly at one of the main streets. he is smirking a bit, his hair cut close, and his upper lip a bit too fat. he is wearing baby blue bikini briefs.

if one is dedicated enough, evidently, they can come to this gym every day and stare and mirrors, grunt and sweat, eventually emerging like arnold. now he’s running for governor of one of the most important states in america. if you think about the picture of him standing in baby blue underwear, overlooking a grey street as hundreds upon hundreds of people pour home on their motorbikes, and you imagine the same man running a state, your mind will, eventually, explode.

the semester begins and everyone returns. the school felt a bit empty without all of the students running about, playing their games and courting one another. now we’re back in full swing.

they return carrying one suitcase. one suitcase for the semester. in the states, we use minivans and rented trailers. they pour out of busses and taxis and amble towards their dorms. the freshmen are wide eyed and you can spot them a mile off. they’re the ones that are looking left and right and up and down with a smirk on their face. they’re one of the 10% that passed the entrance exam. they know how lucky they are.

the nights are different, but better. the courting couples sit on benches. they sit in the shadows of the night. they sit next to each other but not too close. they never kiss and rarely hold hands. they could be brother and sister but who, in their right mind, would steal off in the middle of the night to hide in the shadows with a blood relative.

the seniors return proud. this is their campus now. they are the sages that are now responsible for imparting wisdom. they know where to go and what happens, where classes are being held and where the best coffee shops are. this may be the most important they feel for the rest of their lives.

there are no abercrombie sweaters here or creased, new jeans. everyone’s trying to impress each other but much more frugally. most people wear their an giang university t-shirts proudly tucked into their six year old pair of stone-washed denims. no twenty four inch tv being drug up the steps by overweight fathers, nope, just a suitcase.

today is the 115th anniversiry of uncle ton’s birthday. he was the second leader of vietnam after uncle ho chi minh. he is one of the reasons that this end of the world is mildly famous. relatively famous, that is.

you see, he was born in a small shack on stilts situated on an island in the middle of the mekong. the island is called tiger island for a completely different reason which i believe i explained earlier. there is now a nice, shinny house there, a replica of his old house. there is also a museum commemorating his life and a shrine with a large, golden bust. in the middle of long xuyen, there is a large statue. it is bronze and depicts the man standing proudly. it is at least forty feet tall. his head is bald and his nose is round. his eyes are slightly hidden under baggy eyelids. he looks tired and wise. he’s not fat, he’s just healthy. his pants are eternally creased.

there was a large celebration for his birthday. they set up a stage next to his statue and people poured out into the streets. they sang songs and danced and remembered the struggle for independence, liberty and justice.

they also had four or five cars decorated for a parade. they all had large posters of the man on their front and sides. it’s the same, honest, wise face you see everywhere. sadly, they decided to decorate the cars a little too much. they had strings of light all over. they had large, fluorescent tubes around the frame. they trailed streamers. they flashed and honked their way through town, each looking very similar. people stopped and watched the lights and listened to the honking. uncle ton looked off into the distance. i wonder what he would have said 115 years on. happy birthday.

oh, by the way, it's been exactly one year since i started writing here. amazing. thank you all for reading along. i can't tell you how much it means.

we went to eat with some friends yesterday. we ate at a restaurant that had small, bamboo huts placed carefully over ponds. they were separated by large, lush mango trees. the wind blew and it rained a number of times.

one of my friend’s cousins ate with us. he left vietnam in the late eighties and this was his first time back. he was basically raised in the states having only spent ten years of his life in vietnam. he was absurdly fat and his hair was luridly bleached. he had a smart, round face. it seemed to expand as he spoke. he wore a shirt with a number of flowers on it and didn’t bother to button the top three or four buttons. i hadn’t seen that much cleavage in ages.

we talked and had a nice meal. normally, when i meet people who have been raised in america but are vietnamese in nationality, they treat me poorly and tell me things that don’t interest me in the least. we meet them in restaurants. it’s really impossible to pick them out of a crowd, they normally wave you over and a conversation goes something like this:

-hey man!
-hi.
-hey, my name’s alex and i’m from california.
-oh, yea?
-yea man. i left this place about twenty years ago and have been working in california. my whole family lives there.
-really. (this is an odd way to start a conversation in a restaurant and, i assure you, i’m not elaborating.)
-yup. i just came back to visit, i don’t live here. it’s nice to be back every once in a while but i like the states more.
-(silence, my eyes dart from left to right trying to think of a plausible reason for leaving)
-so, what’s your name, man? where are you from?
-i’m jon. i’m from near philadelphia.
-oh, yea? what are you doing here? traveling?
-no, i’m a teacher over at an giang university.
-that’s nice. i went to school in the states. got a bachelors but it took me six years. i like the schools in america.
-well, nice talking to you. i’ve got to go and meet someone. (the most general excuse ever. my crocodile brain can never come up with anything too witty. i’m always afraid it’ll backfire. ‘i’ve gotta meet someone’ could go anywhere. it could mean that i hope to meet someone soon because this conversation is going nowhere. that’s what it really means, i guess.)
-right jon. nice meeting you man. hope you stay safe here and i bet you can’t wait to get back home.
-(a comment so brazen deserves a response even if i’m dreading further conversation) well, i actually really like it here. i miss family and stuff back home but this place is wonderful.
-really?
-yep.
-(silence on their part. they’re wondering if i’m serious or not.)
-well, take care.

that’s a fairly normal conversation with someone who was raised in america and then found themselves back in their home town. they would like me to know that they are not like everyone else. they magically bridge both cultures. they come here to see things as a person goes to the zoo.

this man was not like them and it was incredibly refreshing. he talked about how wonderful it was to be back home. he missed vietnam. he loved the place. he talked about the lifestyle and the people and the community. people spent free days sitting around and forging relationships. people didn’t kill themselves working too hard. people cared about their families. people knew about community.

we sat under the thatched roof of our little hut waiting to leave. it started to rain and waited. i sat back and watched the sky open up and the pond jump and bubble. no one spoke and no one needed to.

latin american passion and vietnamese humility. the mixture of the two is too difficult to truly comprehend. the mixture of the two can only result in confusion. maybe when i’m old and wise i’ll understand.

a man from venezuela is here doing some agricultural experiments. he doesn’t speak english or vietnamese. i’ve been an outlet for him, someone to chat to. he’s a hermit. he’s trapped in a place where no one understands him and he doesn’t understand anyone. what an experience that must be.

he came to my room the other day and asked if i could help him buy a chicken. one of his experiments deals with two varieties of chickens. one is a local, skinny bird and the other is a plumper bird imported from china. he asked if i could help him find one of the imported birds, a young one, alive. one of his birds had flown away. it was tired of being in a cage and longed to explore. i naively nodded my head and the next morning we were off.

we went from one market to another. i asked and translated and there were no young birds. there were no birds from china. i asked how old the chickens were. no one knew the answer. they lay on the ground, their feet bound with colorful plastic. they didn’t move and their eyes were fixed on nothing. chickens normally look stupid. these looked forlorn and stupid. they would tell me they were a year old. i told them i wanted a young chicken. they would tell me they were three months old. i said i wanted one that was about six weeks old. they said they had one especially for me sitting here, hidden from the rest. i showed it to my venezuelan friend and he shook his head. it was the same as the rest.

we chatted about changing the world. there’s so much poverty and what not, it’s quite frustrating. seeing what he does depresses me. he’s actually helping people. he’s trying to make farms more efficient. he’s making poor people’s bellies full. i’m only teaching the language of the day which i’m lucky enough to know. i offer no other expertise. i was depressed.

finally, at the last market we went to, after being told that every chicken we were looking at was six weeks old, my friend found one at the bottom of a large pile. he held it up and smiled. we bought it for a dollar and had to convince the sellers not to kill it. we wanted it for an experiment. he decided to name it mercedes because it was so expensive. i laughed for a number of reasons.

we came home and put it with the rest of the chickens. he weighed it, tagged it and fed it. that chicken had no idea how lucky it was. it avoided the executioner’s block for at least a month. well, that’s assuming that a chicken’s life is worth living. i believe that if more chickens had means of committing suicide, they would. if any were self-actualized, they would surely take their lives.

his feed mixtures will help farmers grow chickens more easily and efficiently. he’s doing wonderful work. at least i could help in part.

i sit two stories above creation, surrounded by sky and green.

last night i couldn't sleep so i ambled up to the roof at about five o’clock. the sky was brilliant. apollo was harnessing is four horses about to start another day's work.

the cirrus clouds arc up and out. the sun pains them pink, orange and peach. they glow like fire but the air is cool. in front of the cirrus clouds are large, low cumulous clouds. the sun is at their back and they are dark. to the west there is a large thunderhead billowing towards heaven. it is grey and blue. it looks like a mountain hanging above us all. behind me there is darkness.

the sun begins its march upwards. the cirrus clouds fade from pink to white. the large, cumulous cloud still hands dark on the horizon.

the land is flat and stretches out. this is god's country, just like texas. it all looks like we're standing on a wafer thin catholic communion cracker, circular and fragile.

the sun beams through the ominous clouds. it's furious. the sky clears up and thin, wispy clouds move above my head. the palm trees all stand in anticipation of what the sun will bring. they waitt patiently and still only moving when a slight breeze bumps into them.

roosters crow in teh background and life slowly begins to emerge. birds chirp lazily.

the top of the thunderhead to my west just lit up like a torch. it's a gentle, pastel rock. the bottom is dark and furrows its brow. the top which, at one point looked eerily ominous, bent on sky domination, now looks joyful.

people start to mill about. you can hear them in their rooms talking, opening and shutting doors. people start walking out on the balconies in their pajamas.

the sun now blazes through the clouds. they move gently out of the way and i'm struck by her power, her heat. i sit and sweat.

dawn has painted the sky and i was lucky enough to watch. it all begins and it will again tomorrow.

here's what's going on in long xuyen, viet nam.

it's the rainy season but there doesn't seem to be any rain. the sky mocks us from above and the clouds have either scattered or been kidnapped by an angry sun. she screams from on high.

it is the beginning of a new semester. new students are arriving in droves. they gawk at the buildings and mull about. classes are all handed out to teachers. we prepare and talk about who is teaching what and why teaching that class will be terrible because such and such is in it and how he never listens and always disrupts. our bosses are more stressed than normal. they call and quickly give instructions and then hang up. none of the mid-summer formality.

everyone's preparing for the fall children's festival. hundreds of moon-cake stands have sprung up on corners throughout the city. moon-cakes are a traditional food eaten during festival. they are full of mysterious things and i'm not a big fan of them. one should never combine eggs, old pork, fruit and vegetables with bread. jota seems to enjoy them.

people still wake up in the morning, make money, feed their families and go to sleep at night. they all want to be happy and smile. they all want to be loved and popular. they all want to have soft lives where they don't have to worry about things. sometimes they go crazy and end up working too much or too little. sometimes they hurt each other. other times they say special things and laugh like children. it's a lot like harleysville, pennsylvania.

yesterday was the vu lan holiday. it’s basically buddhist mother’s day, invented long before hallmark was around. well, i heard two stories. one person told me the holiday originated when a young girl went off to be a buddhist nun. she worked her whole life and was an excellent nun. her mother, on the other hand, was an evil woman. she did everything that one could do to be down right terrible. she died one day and her daughter was distraught. she could barely stand the thought of her mother spending the rest of her life in the underworld so she created this holiday to celebrate her life. she prayed every day for her mother’s forgiveness.

i went to pray for my mother’s forgiveness today. i went a number of times.

the day started early in the morning when we were picked up by some students. they took us to a pagoda and drove remarkably slow. the pagoda was a quiet building surrounded by flamboyantly green rice paddies. the farmers were bent over and appeared still, silent, as if in a picture. the early morning sun was cutting a path through the thickly-leaved trees. the shadows danced as the wind blew. the sun would beam through the shadows and bounce off of the incense. the streaks of light were like the fingers of god.

we walked into the main building, removed our shoes, were handed flaming incense sticks and proceeded to pray. i prayed for many things, including my mother.

on the vu lan holiday, one is not allowed to eat meat and the convent is happy to give away free vegetarian food. the nuns with their shaved heads and grey robes all walked about handing people bowls of rice and soup. people ate happily and everything felt festive.

we left and spent the rest of the day working and sleeping. at night, i was invited to go pray again.

we prayed at a pagoda in the middle of long xuyen. the pagoda was trapped between two industrial buildings and didn’t seem peaceful. it was built up off of the ground and was circular. people were everywhere. you couldn’t fight through the crowd even if you wanted to. you had to simply let the crowd dictate where you were going. we marched up some steps and entered the main sanctuary where we removed our shoes and were given more incense sticks. we prayed again.

we walked around the building and found a poster on the wall. i was with five or six vietnamese friends who didn’t know english so they tried to explain its significance. it showed what would happen to you if you died. first of all, if you were bad, you went to a type of hell. there, if you were good, you went to heaven. if you were bad again, you went to a place that, as depicted, was plagued by starvation and malnourishment. if you were good when you died, you went to a higher form of heaven where the “phat” god’s lived. there were a number of other spaces that they couldn’t explain to me or i simply didn’t understand.

i spent the day floating in incense smoke which carried the prayers of people to god. i’m sure some of the residue was still on me when i went to sleep. i slept covered in the powdered prayers of others and myself. maybe they’ll wash off in my morning shower, travel down to the river, evaporate and finally float up to the sky.

another catfish farm, another meal.

we went to another friend’s catfish farm on tiger island (it’s a small island in the middle of the mekong river. it’s quaint and lush.) we arrived at about eleven and fished for our food.

surrounded by brilliantly green mango trees, we threw lines into fish ponds. they were rife with fish but we couldn’t tell. the large fish weren’t biting. they must have been sleeping at the bottom. the ponds were about ten feet wide and about two hundred feet long. the water was murky brown and every once in a while a few fish would lazily float to the top, flail a bit and then sink again. we sat on bamboo bridges holding small bamboo poles. the bait was a mealy combination of rice and other things. you could easily ball it in your hands, roll it on the hook and toss it in the water. it had the same texture as bread dough that doesn’t have enough flower in it.

we caught small fish. they were large and you could have eaten them but we were going for the real thing. we threw them all back. we went home with nothing.

the mother of the house was distraught that we hadn’t caught anything. she put on her hat, grabbed the pole and headed off. i followed her because i was curious and bored of talking. she said, “giu im lang!”, with one finger to her lips. i was to be quiet as we trudged through the mango grooves and weeds. she was old and thin but full of energy. she was going to catch our lunch.

we sat on a bamboo bridge again, her squatting flat-footed and me sitting cross-legged. the wind was at out back and it stirred the water. the water moved with a purpose towards the other side. the sun came and went being masked by flying clouds. we didn’t make a sound, only the leaves in the trees danced and bumped into one another.

she tossed the bait into the water softly. it sank and she held the pole still. it was about an inch above the surface of the water. we watched the black string. it would tighten a bit, twitch violently and she would tug. she knew how to catch fish but they were all too small.

she caught a few fish in succession and then there was a drought. all of the fish were bored with our bait. they all sank to the cool bottom and chatted quietly. they knew our game. the line would tighten a bit but it wouldn’t twitch. i tried not to blink and watched.

after ages of silence we saw something. her brown arm was tensed and holding onto the even browner bamboo tightly. she was ready to strike. she was a predator, a lion stalking an antelope. the line moved only so slightly and she tugged. a large fish was begrudgingly dragged to the surface of the water. it was silver and gigantic. she quickly dragged it to shore and it sat in the leaves flopping. it struggled to stay alive. it needed the water. it was going to die soon and we all knew it. it still struggled. i was tempted to throw it back in the water out of pity but something stopped me.

she asked me to take it home and i did. i carried it by the tail and it struggled to free itself. i gave it to some women and they hit it over the head a number of times and cut it into pieces. it arrived on the table five minutes later fried. it came to the table so freshly fried that the skin was still bubbling from the oil. it tasted salty and juicy. the pieces of white meat fell apart in your mouth if they didn’t in your chopsticks. we ate it with soy sauce and chilies. we ate it and gave the bones to the dog. the fish had died but our bellies were full. the dog licked his paws.

the rain beat down on our face as we drove through traffic. we were following someone who was driving too fast. his tail light trailed in the distance. it was a firefly impossible to catch. we turned right. we turned onto a well beaten road. we turned right again. we drove over broken up bricks and old logs. we turned right again not thinking the road could get any worse. it was made of old concrete slabs that were a foot and a half thick. it was like driving on a semi-developed sidewalk.

we arrived at karaoke. the building was remote, surrounded only by mud, sand and stray dogs. it was someone’s house. there was one pool table out front with children playing. they were yelling and cursing in vietnamese.

we walked inside and sang songs and danced. everything was lively and beautiful. we sang an old abba song: ‘happy new year.’ we sang it with passion and fervor. the vietnamese students we were with sang too. they threw their heads back and pushed air past their vocal chords. it was august and we sang ‘happy new year.’

nothing seemed awkward and that’s what made it all so strange.

today we were invited to go and partake in a engagement party. we were promised rural areas and adventure.

we boarded a small ferry which took us to a remote island where the groom lived. we drove our motorbikes over muddy, dirt roads. we arrived at a small clearing. after chatting for a bit and exchanging odd formalities, we left our bikes and began trekking through the woods. we reached a small monkey bridge. for those of you that don’t know, a monkey bridge is made out of bamboo poles. it’s like a balance-beam with a handrail. there is an incline on one end, a straight part in the middle and a decline on the other. this monkey bridge was out of the ordinary. it must have been about seventy yards long and stretched across four different fish ponds. the bamboo parts in the middle were not made for large anglo-types. we had to maneuver them carefully. at one point we had eighteen people on one bridge. i counted.

after safely landing on the other side, taking a breath and being grateful that you didn’t fall into the muddy water, we took in our surroundings. we were completely surrounded by fish ponds. the ponds were about the size of a basketball court and seemed a bit mundane. after all, it’s only brown water. then some people threw in some fish food. the surface of the water broke and thousands of fish fought for the morsels of food. they struggle on top of one another wildly thrashing. it looked like a small island of flesh that one could easily step on and walk across.

after our brief foray into fish feeding we moved on to where the part was to be held. it was to be held on top of a small, african fish breeding pen. to get there we had to cross another bridge. this bridge wasn’t perched high above the water. this bridge was barely an inch above. there were large, blue buoys that held it up. at one moment we had four people on it and it sank. everyone’s shoes were soaked and people started to panic. a lot of the girls didn’t know how to swim and some boys turned heroic. they were going to, much like me, save the world.

we all arrived safe and a bit wet. we sat down over our graceful, african fish and ate. they bred under us. no one noticed.

we were sitting on top of the mekong. the breeding house was placed about one hundred yards from shore. boats chugged by and the wind cooled us all. the day was beautiful and the conversation flowed smoothly. it started to rain and the tin roof sang. it hummed for a bit and every once in a while decided to shout. no one noticed.

they called a boat taxi for us to go back to shore. the monkey bridge was wet and we were in danger of falling in the water. the boat chugged and puttered us to shore. we drove home past small shacks and shoeless children. we hummed along in the hot sun and gathered a film of dirt on our sweating skin. i didn’t notice any of it.

european music. was there ever a worse creation?

the large group of international agricultural students gathered in the main lobby for a party with their british teacher. he had a wonderful idea. the students were from laos, thailand, cambodia, venezuela, cuba, the uk and the states. we were an odd group and i wasn’t sure there was an activity created that could satiate all of our entertainment needs. i was sorely mistaken.

he decided we would play a version of european music something or other. i saw it once when i was in spain but i can’t remember what its name really is. the idea is this: every country sings a song and every other country gets to vote on how terrible it was. i can’t think of any other way to describe it.

the first people to sing were the loatians who had teamed up with the thai group. they sang a song and danced around a table. they danced and trotted around a glass table in the center. they waved their arms to and fro and had a good time. the public gave them a seven and a half.

the next group of people to go were the cambodians. they sang a remarkably similar song and danced remarkably similarly. their hands moved up and down waving haphazardly in the stuffy air. they also got a seven and a half. at least we were consistent.

the next group to go was from venezuela. they had teemed up with the cubians. they sang a nationalistic song and did the salsa with one another. their song was full of passion and emotion and the public rewarded them accordingly. they got a nine.

the next group to go was from the uk. they talked about how the uk had lost their ancient culture during the industrial revolution. this was their excuse for singing ‘oh my darling.’ i didn’t say anything but i thought it was american. oh well, they are something of a 52nd state. (51st being israel) they got a seven for some reason. should have been lower.

finally it was the american’s turn. well, jack was up in his room so it was only me standing in front of a room of interested people. i grabbed the guitar and sang, ‘don’t take your guns to town’ by johnny cash. i sang it as passionately as any johnny cash song can be sung. they were all impressed and felt bad for me being the only person up there. they gave me an eight and a half.

those that spoke spanish won. no one felt bad, we all kind of understood that none of our cultures could compete with such hip movements and music that seemed to spring forth out of a well endowed soul. no se puede describir la passion.

when my family was here my brother used to enjoy listening to vietnamese pop music. every song is about love and he picked one out that was his favorite. it’s called, “a lovely declaration of love two.” he likes it because it starts out in english and the singer is hilariously cocky.

we bought the cd before he left. the singer is standing on the front of the cover with his thumbs casually tucked into his belt. he’s standing in front of a teal background which doesn’t help. he’s wearing black jeans, a black belt with a large silver buckle, a denim, button-up shirt tucked in and provocatively opened (it’s torn in several places including the sleeves and the collar) and a large, silver and red chain around his neck. this is pop. he’s staring off into the distance with a large smirk on his face and a dopy haircut. he’s not incredibly handsome nor does he look sharp witted. he looks a little slow and is definitely not threatening. he’s either a paperboy or he bags groceries.

the song talks about love, but not love like we would understand it in american pop. he’s talking about the same love that children routinely discuss in playgrounds all across america.

here is my translation:

(english)
i’m number one!
i’m number one!

(vietnamese)
i swear that i’ll love you for a very long time,
love you passionately for all my life,
(english)
i’m number one!
(vietnamese)
handsome, lovely and with a heart that is steadfast and faithful.

meet each other at night,
it seems like such a long time,
our love already has been given to us.
honey, let’s love each other!
stop worrying anyways,
love me, love me now!

men love you darling
listen to my heart,
listen to the language of love resound,
reserve your love for me!

men love you darling,
a dream, a wish, anyways far away.
you know, right?

(english)
i love you!
i love you!

there are a number of small, glass and chrome carts that sell smoked pig and duck. various parts of the animals hang from meat hooks and small, old ladies sit in lawn chairs waiting for customers. sometimes they cut the meat up and sell it in sandwiches, sometimes they sell it whole for people to take home and sometimes they sell it to make soup. the skin is crunchy, there is a lot of fat but, if you get a piece of meat, it's really quite juicy.

we saw half of a pig's head one day. it was hanging from one of the hooks and we thought it would be a wonderful treat for the dog. we bought it for about a dollar and took it home. we set it on the floor and watched the dog tear into it.

we found out later that the pig's head is used for prayers. if someone wants to offer a prayer of thanks, they can offer a pig's head. if someone really has a sincere request they can offer a pig's head. they will put it on a plate in front of their alter, light some incense and pray. the pig's head is used for prayer, not for dog consumption.

we didn't know and now we have a fat dog, a pig's skull and we have defiled it's intended use. we are bad people.

there's a huge animal experiment going on outside of our rooms. in a country where most of the people are farmers, agriculture is very important. having a university that can specialize in agriculture is a luxury for a province. this province is lucky.

there are teachers here from all over laos, thailand, china, cuba and venezuala. they all stand around in old t-shirts and admire their work. their work is definitely altering our home. they built a large building about fifty yards from our house. it amounts to a small barn. it's filled with small ducks and goats and pigs and chickens. they all peep and bleat and make an assortment of noise long into the night that seems to drown out the constant groaning of the frogs. they've also made a small compost pile. it's enclosed in a small brick square and smells to high heaven. that sits right under my balcony.

i'm sure they're here discovering wonderful, new ideas that will be easily applied by farmers throughout the mekong but they're nothing but a nuisance to us. they have taken our peaceful home and turned it into one large, bleating, smelly experiment.

we drove on the motorcycle to the tri ton district again. jack wanted to see the two million dollar hill and i wanted to see a shrine erected in the memory of some of pol pot’s victims.

we drove and drove and drove. the lower half of my body was completely numb. the engine would moan and agh and scream. the traffic was chaotic and i was, on one level, shocked we survived.

the scenery on the drive is breathtaking. we follow long, straight canals with boats chugging up and down. the green rice paddies stretch on and on and disappear into the horizon. children play in old tattered clothes. old men sit on the side of the road and smoke. they wear small bandanas tied around their head. i wonder what all they have seen in their lives. women work tirelessly. everyone seemed to be drying rice along the sides of the road.

there comes a point in the trip where two large mountains appear on the horizon. at first they look like giant cumulous clouds in the distance. they take shape quickly and stand in contrast to the surrounding smoothness.

two million dollar hill hadn’t changed much. there were no tourists today and i didn’t want to climb it again. i sat at the bottom, bought a tour guide a cup of coffee and chatted about the history.

how many soldiers fought on this hill?
i don’t know. a lot.
oh. what year did the fighting start?
humm. around seventy five, i guess.
isn’t that when it ended?
oh, yea. let me ask someone. (goes off and asks the man selling coffee) he says it was in sixty eight.

he didn’t seem to know much about the hill. we moved from there to the memorial commemorating the victims of pol pot’s invasion. the drive was beautiful. we ended up passing between the two mountains. the fields stretched out from the sides of the road. the rice was a lush shade of green that seemed so very alive. there was nothing but paddies until the foot of the hill. that’s where the ground decided to stop being flat and decided to arch up to the sky. the beauty was overwhelming.

the memorial was made out to be more than it was. we drove through ba chuc and had a cup of coffee. we asked directions and they pointed just down the road towards a large tree. there was a sign on the tree saying that it was three hundred years old. i wondered what it had seen in its life.

around a small, octagonal shaped building were about twenty or thirty people. we were swarmed with vendors. they told us we had to buy things in order to pray for the victims. we bought some incense from an older woman who wasn’t too pushy.

the memorial is made up of human bones. each side of it is covered with skulls and each skull is grouped into age and sex. we walked up to the top and couldn’t see anything. there were too many people trying to sell us too many things. we were told we had to buy more incense. we were told we had to buy plates of rice for the dead to eat. we were told that we had to buy lottery tickets. you’d be much luckier if you bought them there. they would not stop harassing us. they were vultures and continued to circle the dead.

jack moved to one side of the memorial and i had a moment away from all of the vendors. i took some time to stare.

the skulls are all toothpaste white and stare vacantly. the bones that run from their skull down to their cheeks past the outside corners of their eyes are so slender and ghostly. some of the skulls had small holes in them, about the size of a quarter. that’s where the bullets went in. some of the bullet holes came out the other side. some of them went in at angles somewhere near the crown and came out somewhere above the ear. some of the holes were right above the eyes. some of the skulls had been smashed with something. i wondered if that was how they died.

it was all absurd. the mountains were in the distance and we were on a bit of a hill. the view was magnificent. i wondered how people could do this. how could you take away so many lives. how could you shoot a small girl in the head. i stood facing the wall of female skulls ranging in age from 2-15. i looked at the small girls selling lottery tickets. they were about 8. i couldn’t imagine killing someone so innocent. i tried to count the skulls on one side. there were about thirty five.

people seemed to ignore the suffering. they were making money to feed their families because of it. the thought of being hungry seemed to push the reality of the massacre out of their minds. maybe they saw too much to care.

vietnamese folklore:

in every vietamese city, the street names are the same. they all commemorate someone who is either a legendary hero or a revolutionary hero. the street i live on, vo thi sau, is named after a woman who fought against the americans. i'm going to tell the story of the trung sisters. throughout vietnam streets are named 'hai ba trung' or the two trung sister's.

vietnam had been suffering under the harsh rule of the chinese around 40 ad. the chinese were mean conqueres and used their power to rape and pillage the land. there was much resistance and the resistance of the trung sisters is legendary and very matriarchal.

the sisters were daughters of very powerful lords. they lived well and didn't experience the brunt of the chinese rule. they lived at a time when lots of vietnamese women enjoyed unique freedoms at such an early point in history. women could inhered property through their mothers, become political leaders, judges and warriors.

the legend goes on to talk about how the trung sisters gained the support of the general public. one story talks about the sisters going out and killing a man-eating tiger. they took teh skin of the tiger and wrote a proclamation urging people to resist the chinese occupation.

the two sisters gathered an army of around 80,000 people to fight against the chinese. the two sisters chose the 36 generals to lead the army. all of these generals were women including the girl's mother. this army drove the chinese out of vietnam.

one of the sisters then went on to become the she-king of vietnam. during her rule she abolished the much hated tribute tax which had been imposed upon them by the chinese. she also restored a simpler form of government more in line with historic vietnamese culture.

over the next few years, the trung sisters engaged in battles with the chinese. they were out-armed and outnumbered and eventually were defeated in 43 ad. rather than accept defeat, the two sisters committed suicide.