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.