Wait Just a Ho Chi Minute!

Ho Chi Minh Highway, Vietnam. The Ho Chi Minh Trail was an ingenious supply line that the North Vietnamese devised to safely ferry war materials from one end of the country to another. The trail covers over 1500km of vertiginous landscape, snaking up and around jagged peaks between dips into dense jungle. To think that human beings, flesh and blood human beings, carried heavy artillery over this mountainous terrain for such great distances truly boggles the mind.

Today, portions of the Ho Chi Minh Trail have become the Ho Chi Mihn Highway, an equally daunting drive across a narrow stretch of broken tarmac spiraling through this same terrain. And what spectacular terrain it is. The mountains along the west edge of Vietnam are like nothing I have ever seen. Imagine, if you will, the scope of the Rocky Mountains combined with the striking sheared rock faces that embody Yosemite National Park. Sounds nice, right? Now drop a verdant jungle on top for a little extra pizazz, and maybe a few cloudscapes for some nice framing. My brain nearly exploded trying to take in the grandeur.

The road itself resembles more of an overdeveloped sidewalk as opposed to a highway, lined with small concrete posts every few yards--an unlikely impediment when hurtling off a curve into the infinite abyss. After some serious consideration, I settled on the best possible way to experience the thrill of the ride. Trekky had served me well but she would need a major upgrade to handle this type of challenge. So I traded her 21 gears of human powered pedals for 125cc of thrust, I swapped her modest braking power for stop-on-a-dime disk brakes, and I traded her ass-chafing seat for a comfortable saddle of relaxed leather. I was fairly certain that the Honda Master motorcycle I purchased, even second-hand, would tackle the curves with aplomb.

With the face shield up the wind whipped across my face, nicely cooling the inside of my helmet. It was way too hot for cycling anyway. I relaxed my body in a slight recline as I negotiated each curve, every peak and trough, each narrow straightaway. Very few people live in this part of the country. Even less could be found zipping along this hidden road. The screeching, belching trucks of the highway were no where to be found. The road was mine and mine alone. I raced around Eden with a smile on my face, leaving nothing but a whisper of my happiness in the wind behind me.     

Another Huế-Dunnit...

Huế, Vietnam. Shifting back into tourist mode has been a bit jarring for me. I had gotten so used to my routine--waking up at ungodly hours to load the boat, diving until midday, lending a hand at the dive shop in the afternoon, teaching English at night, hitting the sack early, rinse and repeat--that the days now seem rather long and empty. I have to admit that I have not been overly enthused about the touristy happenings around Huế, though I will admit to childish enjoyment while pronouncing it: HOO-eh. Like a Canadian owl.

There is nothing inherently wrong with Huế. It is yet another UNESCO World Heritage Site, rife with ancient things of historical importance, and blah, blah, blah. The city is a bit of a jigsaw puzzle. Surrounded by modern buildings stands a massive walled Citadel, inside of which sits a walled Imperial City, inside of which reveals the walls of the Forbidden Purple City, so named due to its--I am making an assumption based on visual evidence--complete and total exclusion of the color purple.  The city is the architectual equivilent of a Russian matryoshka doll. And since anything Russian is evil, we completly bombed the shit out of the place during the war, despite its location south of the DMZ. What a mess. And all this due to an errant conversation involving a child's Tonka toy sinking in the bathtub. (Sigh)

The Imperial City is actually quite striking, so I my interest in history may just be waning. There's just too damn much of it. Maybe I was just tired. Regardless, a great deal of restoration work was going on inside of the Citadel. Scaffolding covered many of the building, others were fully restored, as good as new, and I got to thinking. Let me pose a philosophical question here, if I may. At what point does restoration work become so extensive as to no longer be productive in its aims? Can excessive restoration work diminish the historical significance of its subject? Are we interested in a Huế that is frozen in time, a Disney-esque theme park, replete with costumed characters and musical numbers? Or would we prefer it splintered and broken, a tragic reminder of...um...not to forget the, uh....oh fuck it, lets just bomb Iraq.

Here's Cooking with You, Kid

Hoi An, Vietnam. With my Divemaster certification complete, I felt the sun begin to set on my time in Nha Trang. Basic training was over, the DMZ was looming on the horizon. Though I was going to miss my new friends, my wonderful English class and the slow, systematic liquidation of my liver, the open road was calling. It was time to head Up Country.

Hoi An was such a striking change from Nha Trang that at first I had a bit of trouble adapting. A UNESCO World Heritage Site, the French-influenced architecture of Hoi An, although maddeningly uniform at times, is simply stunning in its homogeny. Endless rows of crumbling, mustard-colored colonials line the narrow, crowded lanes, each housing another cheeky cloth merchant, aspiring artist, illegal DVD vendor or assertive restauranteur. Hidden in the nooks and crannies of this orgiastic market are a handful of buildings of pure historical interest or provincial importance, including, I shit you not, the Hoi An Department of Managing and Gathering Swallow's Nests. This may sound like pork-belly politics at first blush but lets see if you still think so after you've collected two tons of feathery, spit encrusted swallow's nests.

Hoi An is also home to a staggering 500 or so tailors (no exaggeration), all of whom were vying to measure every inch of my anatomy. Sure I was flattered, maybe even a little curious, but not one of them even so much as bought me a drink first. I don't know about you but I need a little alcohol in my system before I'll let a strange women pull out a ruler and start putting notes in her diary. I'll admit, it was tough to resist the allure of an inexpensive, handmade, double-breasted wool suit for relaxing in the 95 degree heat. And with the humidity pegged at 100 percent I could have easily steamed some rice in my pocket for an on-the-go lunch.

But the best part of Hoi An was the cooking class that I took. Along with a dozen older women, I sailed down Hoi An's lazy river to the Red Bridge Restaurant and Cooking School, easily identified by, you guessed it, a red pier. I have no idea where the bridge comes in. Regardless, the cooking school was fantastic. I learned how to make fresh rice noodles, rice paper, rice pancakes, rice spring rolls and an eggplant claypot, deliciously accompanied by rice. There is not a piece of rice around I don't know intimately. But I knew it was time to pack it in for the day when I started naming each individual grain. When I get back, Snap, Crackle, Pop and I will make a nice meal for you. Dinner is served.

20,000 Leagues, I Have to Pee

Nha Trang, Vietnam. Far be it from me to deny the events of the previous evening, but for the record, it was a really attractive bar stool, and if you look at it with just the right level of intoxication, you could easily mistake it for a dark, bald and shiny headed woman wearing a cushiony leather hat. Behold, the Snorkel Test!

I am primed and ready. Note the look of guiltless malevolence on Martin's face as he prepares to funnel his jungle juice into my adapted snorkel

Down she goes. Mmmmm...is that rice wine, beer, vodka, soy sauce, raw egg and vinegar I taste? Why, yes it it! I start gagging a few moments later.

Jessica (another Divemaster candidate) and I successfully balance ourselves after completing our test. Our night has just begun.

No, wait, Jessica, I'm sure you need to pee but now is really not the best time.

And he is officially down for the count. I got up after this one but was TKO'd in the final round by a bottle of vodka.

Really, what better way has been devised to separate the wheat from the chaff? Though I can't really remember most of it, I have been told that I passed my snorkel test with flying colors. Congratulations to me, I am a Divemaster!

Umm....can someone call in sick for me? I don't think I am going to be able to make it to the boat tomorrow. Cheers!

Minding Nemo

Nha Trang, Vietnam. We had just finished our dinner, eaten, as always, at a small folding table directly on the sidewalk. The single chunk of ice that dominated my beer mug was slowly melting into the frothy foam, further weaking the already stale and bitter taste. My giant American body was crammed into one of the miniature plastic chairs that spawn around every roadside restaurant in town, my knees to my chest. It's Thanksgiving and I am back at the kid's table, except I am surrounded by adult Vietnamese, all sitting comfortably, room to spare. This is not helping my self-esteem.

None of us noticed the man pull up on the bicycle, so we were all startled when the music blasted rhythmically from the precariously balanced speakers strapped to his bike frame. A younger man with shoulder length hair, rail thin yet muscular, stood next to the bike, immobile. You could tell he was waiting for it. When the beat finally hit he snapped his head to the side and exploded into dance. His long black hair flew around his face as he twisted and turned, jived and jumped, a tangle of arms and legs, hip clothing. The electronica was nearly deafening. I asked my students what in the world it was all about. Oh, he selling the peanut candy. 2,000 dong, you try. Heck yes, I tried. This man, who was putting his heart and soul into winning the next Who's Got Talent competition, was selling small peanut candies for a dime a piece. Welcome to life in Nha Trang.
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Living in Nha Trang has cracked the window of Vietnam for me, and the air is awful nice out there. In exchange for my English classes, the girls have been exposing the real Vietnam to me, every nook and cranny, every tendon, tendril, and tumor, all of which is likely in the dish I am not asking about until I am done eating it. I could write dozens of posts about daily life here, so I thought I would share a few of my favorite moments, the one's you probably won't read about in the guidebooks.
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Cycling around in the early evening is delightful. The hellish sun gave me a brief reprieve to clear my head and take in the cool air. I should have been paying more attention, but nothing could have prepared me for the massive, inconceivable paw that swiped at the top of my head. Welcome back, reality. Imagine my shock when I looked up and found two black bears leashed to the back of the pickup truck in front of me. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. After all, the half-dozen exotic birds and three monkey's also loosely tied to the jury-rigged frame in the truck's caboose should have tipped me off. The circus was in town.
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I had just finished showering. I'm used to having a few friends with me when I wash up, mostly waterbugs and the occaisional cockaroach. They generally spend their waking hours--plotting, I gather--in the soggy mop that hang in the corner of the bathroom. Normally, I am prepared to aim the showerhead and wash them down the train. But something caught my eye. Something small, something hairlike, something....wriggling. I looked in horror at the small writhing worm splashing happily in the dirty puddle of water. I still have yet to decide whether he was looking for a way in or recently found a way out. Of where, I refuse to ponder.
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I was cycling down the street when I came upon a military-style, canvas topped truck. In the back were two men holding fiery torches. Another man was throwing handfuls of small, colored paper out of a plastic bucket. They caught in the air, fluttered and danced. Time was stopping. The mopeds all slowed around me. The torchbearers were somber, stonefaced and cold. I followed along for a while before noticing another vehicle filled with women in simple white gowns, strips of white cloth tied around their heads, bundles of fabric around their arms and chests. The lead car, which now came into view, was adorned with religious symbols, flowers and bells. In the darkness of the open cavity, I spotted the coffin. I fell back behind the torchbearers, let the fluttering paper float like a dream past my head. My God, it was beautiful. We rode on in silence.
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One of the most curious cultural aspects of Vietnam is a concept called washing. This has little to do with cleanliness, at least in a practical sense. No, this is far more devilish. Whenever you buy something new for yourself, you need to wash the item with your loved ones, spreading your good fortue by spending money on those (i.e. your friends and family) who are less fortunate. To make it more interesting, washing is a percentage of the value of the item. Recently buy a new pair of shoes? Not too bad, buy a round of smoothies. Thinking of buying a new motorcycle? You best be prepared to double the cost, because you are going to be taking your friends to dinner at Spago's. A few weeks ago I bought a basic Vietnamese phone to keep in touch with the dive staff and my students. I had to wash this $20 phone with dinner and a round of drinks. I don't know, I think I've been had.