When night's shadows slink in and I am lulled to that place between sleep and dreams, I feel I can reach out and touch the memories. They are close by, like strangers on motorbikes sidled up against the side of my vehicle. Suddenly, I am back in a place illuminated by light, the late-afternoon sun embracing me in a cocoon of warmth, shining on my bare arms as I sit at the corner of a tiny metal table on a little plastic chair. The lilting song of the Vietnamese language swims through my ears as all around me, the customers having lunch at Tung's aunt's noodle shop carry on a casual conversation of their simple plans for the day: visiting family, shopping for dinner ingredients, cooking a special meal out of the blue.
An old lady with a poofy white perm and diamonds in her ears leans in to talk to a young lady with a jade bracelet encircling her slender wrist, both of them wearing a simple, light, satiny outfit to keep cool in the humid heat. The ever-present smoky tinge in the air is mixed with the deep scent of broth from two huge vats simmering rich yellow liquid; onions browning in a pan of oil tease my taste buds and make my stomach rumble. A scent of sweet fruits warmed by the sun rides a soft breeze and wafts past my nostrils; I can taste the goods from the nearby market, a memory ingrained at the back of my throat. Distant motorbikes honk, coupled with the jingly tune of a delivery truck put in reverse. I reach my arms up to the blue sky in a stretch, my cotton spaghetti-strap tanktop moving easily with my body.
I blink, and I am alone, once again waiting at an intersection for the light to turn green. The neat, wide lanes are slicked with rain, the road reflecting the soft glow of the traffic lights above. I am wearing slacks and a long-sleeve, button-up shirt, the collar sitting stiff against my neck. I am once again a tech writer leaving work for the day, a young woman set on ambitions of furthering my career, climbing the corporate ladder, testing out new software, saving up to buy a house and start a family. The sense of responsibility once again weighs heavily on my mind, and the carefree euphoria of a simple life in a village or the freedom of riding waves in a salty sea dissipate like fog.
The light changes color, and I take my foot from the brake and ease on to the accelerator, blinking away vivid visions of warm days and warmer company. The heart remembers what it loves, retaining vestiges of memories long after they fade from the fickle mind. I steer the car down the last few blocks, going back to my house while thinking about my once-upon-a-time journey "home."
Friday, January 23, 2009
Monday, January 12, 2009
A Re-Cap of Things I Learned In and About Viet Nam
- The fanny pack is a lifesaver. I wore it everywhere. We were fortunate enough not to encounter any incidents of theft, but it's like they say: "Out of sight, out of mind."
- Not toting your camera around makes you appear more like a native and, therefore, allows you to command more bargaining leverage.
- Swimming a few times in the ocean gives you a good tan that makes you appear more like a native and, therefore, allows you to command more bargaining leverage.
- $30,000 dong for a pack of postcards is a rip-off.
- The taxi drivers sign to each other as they pass on opposite ends of the road. They have a system of alerting each other to the presence of cops, which tells them to buckle up or slow down.
- "Mang cau xiem" are not edible without sugar. "Chuoi xiem" are the best bananas in the world. I could live off them for breakfast.
- Phan Rang has good chicken rice meals.
- Phan Thiet is known for producing dragon fruit and salt.
- Can Giuoc is a great place to eat the "vu sua" fruit.
- Nha Trang has awesome, fresh seafood, such as crab.
- Da Lat has awesome weather and a great "historical village" called "Su Quan" that specializes in the making and sale of silk-screen embroidery.
- Viet Nam has large "fire ants" that pack a mean bite. Their mosquitos aren't too shabby, either.
- Viet Nam cockroaches are the size of beetles and can fly.
- Viet Nam mice are the size of armadillos. They don't seem scared coming out at night and take their precious time moseying around. River rats are even bigger.
- Snakes like to hang their skins on tree branches when they shed.
- To mentally convert the exchange rate of approximately $17,000 Viet Nam dong to $1 U.S. dollar, it's best to divide by 20.
- For three weeks, I got to be a millionnaire.
- Viet Nam vans have musical tunes when put in reverse. This is apparently a popular add-on option when buying a mini-van.
- In most open-air markets, there is no such thing as a "trash can." They'll laugh if you ask for one.
- U.S. bills that are torn, have been written on, or have been folded across the president's face are de-valued. You get less dong for them when exchanging currency. Torn Vietnamese dong are not acceptable currency on the street.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
With Wings Outstretched
Time to take off. We flew out of Viet Nam and had a two-hour layover at the airport in Taiwan. Tung and I wandered around the airport, stretching our legs before the long flight back to the States, exchanging currency to get Taiwanese coins and buying bottled water from vending machines. We played at the huge Hello Kitty store, sporting pastel colors and kiddy, cartoonish decor.
We browsed shelves of intricate, flowery fans and opera dolls.
We looked through the paper cut-out artwork on display.
We visited the potted orchids, hung heavy on their stalks in a wash of pastel colors.
As my travels draw to a close, I think about all the sights, scenes, and people whom I'll miss when I'm back in the States. I am by nature wary of strangers, so receiving such a warm welcome from family whom I'd never met greatly astonished me. They hugged and held my hand and bestowed familial kisses on the cheek as if I were their own daughter, coming home after having spent a long time away.
As I boarded the plane out of Viet Nam, I passed a young woman already strapped into her aisle seat. She was wearing an elaborate traditional "ao dai" and had gold and pearl jewelry around her neck, wrists, and fingers. But what was most striking about this woman was that she held up one hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, trying to contain the tears trickling out of her eyes. Two older people sat to her right, slightly looking away as if to give her time to come to peace with herself. As I took my seat and clicked on the seat belt, I couldn't help thinking about what her situation may be. Perhaps she was scared, having never flown before. Perhaps she was a new bride, leaving behind the country she had grown up in to start a life with a strange husband in a foreign land. Perhaps she was thinking about her family whom she may not see again for a long while, if at all, still standing outside the glass doors of the Tan Son Nhat Airport, peering in at the place they last saw her, trying to memorize the gait of her stride, the scent of her perfume.
There is a Vietnamese song that I really like, "Giac Mo Canh Co," about a white crane that spreads its wings to fly the world far and wide. The lush, golden rice fields of Viet Nam knew the crane when it was young. They throw their longing melody up to the heavens, and season after season, they wonder when the crane would hurdle the obstacles of tall mountains and deep seas, once again flying back to land in fields that it once called home.
Even before this trip, the song brings tears to my eyes, as if I were hearing the whispered longings of some voice that beckons me back to my homeland. There is also a famous Vietnamese saying about rural areas with patches of rice fields, stretching the horizon as far as the eye can see. The Mekong Delta, in Vietnamese known as "Dong Bang Song Cuu Long" (Nine Dragons River Delta), is an area especially conducive to fishing commerce and vegetation growth. They say these lands are where the crane can "bay thang canh"--fly with wings outstretched.
The city is crowded with people, traffic, and dense houses built with barely an alleyway in between, but I've been fortunate enough during my trip to South-Central Viet Nam, to be able to see these fertile, green-and-brown fields marked off like a giant checkerboard. I was born and raised a city girl, but it is there, in that clean air and open space, where my heart felt free and at home, as if it could suddenly sprout white wings and help me soar.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Night
In the morning, Tung went to visit his grandma for the last time, and also to return the wooden placard bearing his family surname because it wouldn't fit in the luggages. I used the cell phone Chu Nhan lent me to call my relations and my parents and let them know I'd be flying home tomorrow.
In the afternoon, Di Oanh took her lunch break off from work to come pick up the cell phone. Today is my vegetarian day, so Di Oanh and I went on a spur-of-the-moment lunch to Viet Chay Restaurant for an unusual vegetarian buffet meal. The place was the ground floor of a temple currently being built, sporting modern design after Chinese decorative influences and a spacious, cool interior with good wood furniture (instead of the more common, low, plastic chairs in cafes and diners). Even with three rooms of tables, the restaurant was so packed that we ended up having to share a long table with two other parties. This is a common scene in Viet Nam, with strangers sharing tables during rush hour, and people hurrying to finish their meal to make room for waiting customers.
I had never eaten at a vegetarian buffet before, and they had such interesting dishes as "banh canh" (fat, round rice noodles in clear broth), "bun rieu" (rice vermicelli with ground "pork" and "crab" cakes), "hu tieu xau" (rice noodles sauteed in garlic), fried "fish" cooked with soy sauce, jackfruit wedges marinated in soy sauce, veggie eggrolls, "ca phao" round eggplants prepared kimchee style, and fried rice. Everything was completely vegetarians and made from either tofu or gluten.
For dessert, there was "che bi" (tapioca-enclosed palm seed kernels), fresh fruits such as pineapples and bananas, and fresh fruit juice. The restaurant was on the ritzy end--right away, you could tell because it cost money to park your motorcycle, the service staff was in full "ao dai," the furniture was real wood, and the decor was modern. It cost $89,000 dong per person for the buffet (around $4-$5: cheap for us, pretty high-scale for Viet Nam). A $10 U.S.-per-person restaurant was expensive-wedding-meal quality. I was really excited to see Di Oanh and ride her motorbike again.
At night, we had our last meal with Co Xuan and an adopted daughter of hers named Phuong. Phuong is a journalist, and she offered to take us on a tour of Downtown Saigon. When people in the city ask, "Have you been to Saigon," what they mean is, "Have you been to Downtown Saigon, where Ben Thanh Market is?" To locals, this area is the heart of the city, and you really haven't visited "Saigon" unless you've gone downtown. At night, it is a whole different place. Familiar daytime cityscape warp into a show of Vegas-like neon lights.
The Cathedral of Notre Dame illuminates in a show of gold, the star in its center pulsating an erratically blinking rhythm.
As we stood in the little square in front of the cathedral, Phuong turned to me and asked, "What do you see and hear around you?" And with those words, from one writer to another, my gawking tourist brain shut off, and on flicked my creative-writing mind. I saw the world around me as only writers could see: everything was sharpened--my hearing more accute, my sight more selective.
I smelled the squid from the little cart as the vendor flattened the pieces between a metal contraption before roasting them on a little burner.
I felt the motor-scooters zipping closely by, a steady emission of honking like the throbbing heart of the city.
I saw youths in hip, trendy clothes, their futures stretched ahead, distant and bright.
I heard the church-goers' chanting prayers, an ethereal wailing sent to their gods upon the air.
I told Phuong all these things, and she told me I was right. She also told me that many of these sights and sounds and smells may not be around for much longer. The government has more than once threatened to shut down street-vendor business in this plaza; under the guise that the food and litter have been making a mess of the city, they wanted all vendors to close up shop. Phuong said countless families had afforded to put at least one of their children through college by hoarding the meager profits from their sales of cuttlefish, fried squid balls, cotton candy. When I asked why the city simply didn't put garbage cans around the plaza and enforce a "No Littering" policy, Phuong smiled at me with a look in her eyes that said, "If only it were that simple."
Phuong continued to guide us around the city, taking us on walks and taxi rides. We saw the magnificent architecture of Town Hall, now called the People's Committee Building, where political leaders gather for meetings.
Five-star hotels decaled their front windows with pictures to welcome the Year of the Ox. Phuong poses in front of one, below:
A woman ran a soup kitchen right in front of her clothing shop, dispensing a warm meal for the poor and homeless once every month.
Young ladies make paper orchid arrangements and sell them to wandering tourists.
The indoor Ben Thanh market closes its doors by evening, and nighttime vendors set up tents outside along the street aisles, selling souvenirs of polo shirts, purses, mother-of-pearl lacquered paintings, and figurines for display. If you didn't know how to drive a bargain, you were certain to get ripped off. Initially quoted prices are usually double or triple what vendors are truly willing to sell at.
I bought Tung a twisted-wire figurine of a palm tree and a siclo, which he made good use of for his iPod:
In the afternoon, Di Oanh took her lunch break off from work to come pick up the cell phone. Today is my vegetarian day, so Di Oanh and I went on a spur-of-the-moment lunch to Viet Chay Restaurant for an unusual vegetarian buffet meal. The place was the ground floor of a temple currently being built, sporting modern design after Chinese decorative influences and a spacious, cool interior with good wood furniture (instead of the more common, low, plastic chairs in cafes and diners). Even with three rooms of tables, the restaurant was so packed that we ended up having to share a long table with two other parties. This is a common scene in Viet Nam, with strangers sharing tables during rush hour, and people hurrying to finish their meal to make room for waiting customers.
I had never eaten at a vegetarian buffet before, and they had such interesting dishes as "banh canh" (fat, round rice noodles in clear broth), "bun rieu" (rice vermicelli with ground "pork" and "crab" cakes), "hu tieu xau" (rice noodles sauteed in garlic), fried "fish" cooked with soy sauce, jackfruit wedges marinated in soy sauce, veggie eggrolls, "ca phao" round eggplants prepared kimchee style, and fried rice. Everything was completely vegetarians and made from either tofu or gluten.
For dessert, there was "che bi" (tapioca-enclosed palm seed kernels), fresh fruits such as pineapples and bananas, and fresh fruit juice. The restaurant was on the ritzy end--right away, you could tell because it cost money to park your motorcycle, the service staff was in full "ao dai," the furniture was real wood, and the decor was modern. It cost $89,000 dong per person for the buffet (around $4-$5: cheap for us, pretty high-scale for Viet Nam). A $10 U.S.-per-person restaurant was expensive-wedding-meal quality. I was really excited to see Di Oanh and ride her motorbike again.
At night, we had our last meal with Co Xuan and an adopted daughter of hers named Phuong. Phuong is a journalist, and she offered to take us on a tour of Downtown Saigon. When people in the city ask, "Have you been to Saigon," what they mean is, "Have you been to Downtown Saigon, where Ben Thanh Market is?" To locals, this area is the heart of the city, and you really haven't visited "Saigon" unless you've gone downtown. At night, it is a whole different place. Familiar daytime cityscape warp into a show of Vegas-like neon lights.
The Cathedral of Notre Dame illuminates in a show of gold, the star in its center pulsating an erratically blinking rhythm.
As we stood in the little square in front of the cathedral, Phuong turned to me and asked, "What do you see and hear around you?" And with those words, from one writer to another, my gawking tourist brain shut off, and on flicked my creative-writing mind. I saw the world around me as only writers could see: everything was sharpened--my hearing more accute, my sight more selective.
I smelled the squid from the little cart as the vendor flattened the pieces between a metal contraption before roasting them on a little burner.
I felt the motor-scooters zipping closely by, a steady emission of honking like the throbbing heart of the city.
I saw youths in hip, trendy clothes, their futures stretched ahead, distant and bright.
I heard the church-goers' chanting prayers, an ethereal wailing sent to their gods upon the air.
I told Phuong all these things, and she told me I was right. She also told me that many of these sights and sounds and smells may not be around for much longer. The government has more than once threatened to shut down street-vendor business in this plaza; under the guise that the food and litter have been making a mess of the city, they wanted all vendors to close up shop. Phuong said countless families had afforded to put at least one of their children through college by hoarding the meager profits from their sales of cuttlefish, fried squid balls, cotton candy. When I asked why the city simply didn't put garbage cans around the plaza and enforce a "No Littering" policy, Phuong smiled at me with a look in her eyes that said, "If only it were that simple."
Phuong continued to guide us around the city, taking us on walks and taxi rides. We saw the magnificent architecture of Town Hall, now called the People's Committee Building, where political leaders gather for meetings.
Five-star hotels decaled their front windows with pictures to welcome the Year of the Ox. Phuong poses in front of one, below:
A woman ran a soup kitchen right in front of her clothing shop, dispensing a warm meal for the poor and homeless once every month.
Young ladies make paper orchid arrangements and sell them to wandering tourists.
The indoor Ben Thanh market closes its doors by evening, and nighttime vendors set up tents outside along the street aisles, selling souvenirs of polo shirts, purses, mother-of-pearl lacquered paintings, and figurines for display. If you didn't know how to drive a bargain, you were certain to get ripped off. Initially quoted prices are usually double or triple what vendors are truly willing to sell at.
I bought Tung a twisted-wire figurine of a palm tree and a siclo, which he made good use of for his iPod:
Friday, January 9, 2009
Slowing
Things are winding down. I've started to gather all my things and pack them in the box and luggages that I've come with. I weighed them on the scale the landlady lent us and literally prayed I'd make the weight limit, shifting around the goods among my three bags to balance the weight.
We spent some time at Maximart, doing last-minute souvenir shopping now that we knew approximately how much weight we were packing. I got a pair of pink heels and a pair of designer flip-flops that made me very happy, since U.S. shoe stores usually run out of my size.
Some guests and family members on Tung's side came to bid us farewell. At night, we ate at a "bun bo hue" (spicy beef noodle) diner that Tung's mom used to frequent with his dad when they lived in Viet Nam. After a relaxing shower and a snack on "banh tieu" that our landlady freshly fried up, I passed out to the droning sound of the TV that Tung had on.
We spent some time at Maximart, doing last-minute souvenir shopping now that we knew approximately how much weight we were packing. I got a pair of pink heels and a pair of designer flip-flops that made me very happy, since U.S. shoe stores usually run out of my size.
Some guests and family members on Tung's side came to bid us farewell. At night, we ate at a "bun bo hue" (spicy beef noodle) diner that Tung's mom used to frequent with his dad when they lived in Viet Nam. After a relaxing shower and a snack on "banh tieu" that our landlady freshly fried up, I passed out to the droning sound of the TV that Tung had on.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Town
In the morning, we went to Tung's grandma's house to say goodbye, since we'll be flying back to the States in a few days. However, I got a surprise when my Ba 1, whom I had invited to dinner, dropped by our hotel early at 6:30AM to drop off gifts I was supposed to bring back to America for my family and relatives. So much dried shrimp would put me over the limit for my already-stuffed check-in box, but I had no choice but to accept it after she had come the long way to call on me.
"Long ago," she told me, "our house used to be packed with family during reunion nights when we gathered to pay respect to our ancestors. Now, everyone's either dead or moved away. It's not really money that I'm lacking to comfortable live out the rest of my days. It's the love and companionship from family long gone; I don't know if I'll ever lay eyes on them again before I die."
At Tung's grandma's house, we had a breakfast of noodles and chicken. He spent some time chatting with his uncle and neighbors and grandma. Seven years ago, on his last visit, Tung's dad was supposed to bring home a big wooden plaque with his family surname etched in gold lettering. It was a board made for a traditional, daily tear-off calendar to be screwed on, and it was supposed to be shipped with their order of furniture, but somehow it got left behind. So today, Tung bade farewell to his grandma and carried home the wooden placard bearing his family surname.
After Di Oanh got off from work, she dropped by my place to pick me up. Together, we went to get my mom's "ao dai" that we ordered during our first week in Viet Nam.
Di Oanh also took me to see two houses. One was the one in which my mom grew up with my uncles. This house is on Ba Hat street, where we dropped off our other "ao dai" fabric. I hadn't realized I've been passing my mom's old house every time we came by taxi along this street.
The other house was on Hai Thuong Lang Ong Street, a commercial district where I grew up. Di Oanh couldn't remember the exact address of the second house, so I took a few pictures of the street and went with Di Oanh to her neighborhood to bid farewell to my relatives.
After I lit incense at my grandfather's altar and asked hime to safeguard our journey home, Di Oanh took me to eat dinner at a little diner specializing in "Mien Trung" (central Viet Nam) food. I had my last bowl of "bun ca," vermicelli seeped in broth, eaten with fish and plenty of green onions. We went out for dessert later at Che Hue Cung Dinh, where I had a strange combination "che" topped with toasted coconut that was quite tasty.
After a brief tour of the city, Di Oanh dropped me off back home. It was my first ride on a motorbike since coming back to Viet Nam. When I was a little girl, I sat on a motorbike wedged between my father (who drove and sat at the front) and my mother at the back. It was so different than riding in a sheltered vehicle; on a bike, I could smell the city as it whizzed past in a blur of lights and sounds. Passing by bakeries, the sweet, warm smell of bread and milk cooked with sugar awakened my senses. At night, the city sat aglow with lights, strung up since Christmas and left on to welcome the Western New Year.
Colorful red "li xi" pouches hung with lanterns and golden mai flowers for sale for the upcoming Lunar New Year. The brisk breeze carressed my face as our motorbike bumped along the road, and though I hadn't ridden one for 24 years, somehow the steady pace of a motorbike zooming along during the city's evening traffic made me feel very much at home. Even the balloon vendors marching slowly up and down the streets brought back memories; colorful inflatable plastic cartoon characters bubbled up around a skeletal man, making him seem heavy but light, weighed down by quantity, buoyed up by air.
I had hoped to feel as sense of familiarity as my feet touched the streets in front of the house where I grew up, but everything is so much changed that I was caught up in the hustle and bustle of the evening market scene. I kept telling myself that once upon a time, I ran up and down the sidewalks hugging these wide commercial streets of Hai Thuong Lang Ong, refusing to eat anything but a simple meal of rice and bananas, my mom chasing me with a bowl and spoon. It's been so long and I've forgotten, all except for the sweet taste and milky color of the "vu sua" fruit; the light, mellow flavor and chewy texture of "chuoi xiem" bananas that I've been addicted to since Week 1 of my stay; the refreshing, juicy sweetness and slightly crunchy seeds of "thanh long" (dragon fruit), the overwhelming smell of a hundred food vendors selling their wares on the street in an overpopulated city; the sense of neighborliness among clusters of houses built high and close to each other; the hospitality of families distant and near.
"Long ago," she told me, "our house used to be packed with family during reunion nights when we gathered to pay respect to our ancestors. Now, everyone's either dead or moved away. It's not really money that I'm lacking to comfortable live out the rest of my days. It's the love and companionship from family long gone; I don't know if I'll ever lay eyes on them again before I die."
At Tung's grandma's house, we had a breakfast of noodles and chicken. He spent some time chatting with his uncle and neighbors and grandma. Seven years ago, on his last visit, Tung's dad was supposed to bring home a big wooden plaque with his family surname etched in gold lettering. It was a board made for a traditional, daily tear-off calendar to be screwed on, and it was supposed to be shipped with their order of furniture, but somehow it got left behind. So today, Tung bade farewell to his grandma and carried home the wooden placard bearing his family surname.
After Di Oanh got off from work, she dropped by my place to pick me up. Together, we went to get my mom's "ao dai" that we ordered during our first week in Viet Nam.
Di Oanh also took me to see two houses. One was the one in which my mom grew up with my uncles. This house is on Ba Hat street, where we dropped off our other "ao dai" fabric. I hadn't realized I've been passing my mom's old house every time we came by taxi along this street.
The other house was on Hai Thuong Lang Ong Street, a commercial district where I grew up. Di Oanh couldn't remember the exact address of the second house, so I took a few pictures of the street and went with Di Oanh to her neighborhood to bid farewell to my relatives.
After I lit incense at my grandfather's altar and asked hime to safeguard our journey home, Di Oanh took me to eat dinner at a little diner specializing in "Mien Trung" (central Viet Nam) food. I had my last bowl of "bun ca," vermicelli seeped in broth, eaten with fish and plenty of green onions. We went out for dessert later at Che Hue Cung Dinh, where I had a strange combination "che" topped with toasted coconut that was quite tasty.
After a brief tour of the city, Di Oanh dropped me off back home. It was my first ride on a motorbike since coming back to Viet Nam. When I was a little girl, I sat on a motorbike wedged between my father (who drove and sat at the front) and my mother at the back. It was so different than riding in a sheltered vehicle; on a bike, I could smell the city as it whizzed past in a blur of lights and sounds. Passing by bakeries, the sweet, warm smell of bread and milk cooked with sugar awakened my senses. At night, the city sat aglow with lights, strung up since Christmas and left on to welcome the Western New Year.
Colorful red "li xi" pouches hung with lanterns and golden mai flowers for sale for the upcoming Lunar New Year. The brisk breeze carressed my face as our motorbike bumped along the road, and though I hadn't ridden one for 24 years, somehow the steady pace of a motorbike zooming along during the city's evening traffic made me feel very much at home. Even the balloon vendors marching slowly up and down the streets brought back memories; colorful inflatable plastic cartoon characters bubbled up around a skeletal man, making him seem heavy but light, weighed down by quantity, buoyed up by air.
I had hoped to feel as sense of familiarity as my feet touched the streets in front of the house where I grew up, but everything is so much changed that I was caught up in the hustle and bustle of the evening market scene. I kept telling myself that once upon a time, I ran up and down the sidewalks hugging these wide commercial streets of Hai Thuong Lang Ong, refusing to eat anything but a simple meal of rice and bananas, my mom chasing me with a bowl and spoon. It's been so long and I've forgotten, all except for the sweet taste and milky color of the "vu sua" fruit; the light, mellow flavor and chewy texture of "chuoi xiem" bananas that I've been addicted to since Week 1 of my stay; the refreshing, juicy sweetness and slightly crunchy seeds of "thanh long" (dragon fruit), the overwhelming smell of a hundred food vendors selling their wares on the street in an overpopulated city; the sense of neighborliness among clusters of houses built high and close to each other; the hospitality of families distant and near.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Dam Sen
I got to ride on an elephant today at Dam Sen Amusement Park. It was strange to see the culmination of Eastern and Western cultures in the same park; rollercoasters imitating the Vortex at Great America spiraled though the air, above a lane of interesting sculptures of Asian animals and mythical creatures made entirely from diningware: spoons, plates, saucers, and teacups.
A mini Splash Mountain ride coexisted with a habitat for cows, water buffaloes, and goats. We dub the shot below the "Ziggy and Argos" picture--Tung's dog Ziggy is the color of the goat, and my dog Argos is about the size of the boar.
Entering Dam Sen, we walked through a large area showing beautiful varieties of cultivated orchids and bonsai trees.
We also got to see the lovely lilies (after which the park was named) shyly open their petals to drink in the morning sun before shutting them again to "go to sleep" after noon.
This is also a popular destination for brides and grooms--before the wedding because the scenery made for good engagement photos, and for the wedding because there were several restaurants in the park with a large seating capacity. It was strange to go to an amusement park and be the only ones eating lunch at a restaurant so empty we initially thought it was closed. Our various taxi drivers told us that this year, there were less "Viet Kieu" visiting than before, and they've been closely following the U.S. economy because it makes a big impact on their own business. There was so much to see in Dam Sen:
Interconnected shady pavilions modeled in the Chinese style. . .
Dragon sculptures. . .
Sculptures of historical leaders. . .
Exotic flora. . .
Creative architecture (the "lan" below has scales made from CDs). . .
Prehistoric creatures in a dinosaur park (that homosapien on the right is just Tung). . .
A cactus garden. . .
A film crew shooting a movie. . .
Disgusting clusters of snakes. . .
Lovebirds. . .
However, we promise Co Xuan we'd come back to make a brief visit to her, so we only covered a little more than half of the park. That night, we visited some of Tung's former neighbors in a housing complex where only those who worked for the government can live. Here's a little cutie of some-relation-or-another. She can nail the splits way better than I can.
Here is Tung's mom with her goddaughter, whom she hasn't seen in many years:
Bac Loan and Bac Dung invited us over for yet another very filling dinner of several courses: seafood and asparagus soup, chicken soup with peas and a French bread loaf, boiled prawns, and spicy-sour Thai hot-pot. This was how we ate most nights, with friends and family eager to see us again and treat us out, and with us eager to treat them back and return the favor.
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