From Southeast Asia to Southeast Europe

It's been a long time since I last updated this blog and perhaps that is because there is too much to say and too little time to properly make a blog post about each moment of inspiration or discovery. But to zip though my summer of sultry heat oppressive nights and bank office days in Hanoi, my fall started with moving continents. Now, I have ended up in Southeast Europe. Varna, Bulgaria to be exact. A city on the western coast of the Black Sea if you want to point your finger on a globe.

I started this Europe jaunt in Cologne, Germany working my way East. Getting back to the Western world brought a relief and strange feelings of readjustment. When was the last time I drank from a public water fountain? Without the loud sputter of thousands of motorbikes even the big cities in the West seem rather peaceful. Local people look at me and start speaking the local language. Oh right, I remember, I'm not in the racial minority anymore. Or I just look a lot like a German girl. Before confidently stepping into traffic, I pause, and press the crossing button and wait until the line of transport vehicles has a red light while supressing a drive to saunter across a busy street. But pedestrian crosswalks continue to trip me up. Is this a crossing where cars will stop for me or I have to stop for them? At every intersection I enter a mental conundrum: go, stop, wait, walk, pause, wait. Ah, which one is it? It's nice not being hassled on the street to buy antique lighters, fruit, or various assortments of plastic sandals but where is the pho soup vendor? Because all I want now is to squat over a plastic stool and have my insides warmed by steaming broth. Not to mention the fact that everything seems incredibly over-priced to the standards I adapted to.

But after I realize that yes, I can drink the tap water, life is pretty good.

But back to Varna, Bulgaria. I never consciously planned to travel to Bulgaria and it remained distant enough to make me question whether or not it had it's own language. (It does. Here people speak Bulgarian and not too much English). But pulling into the decrepit dusty bus station in the border town of Ruse and having a Bulgarian friend I met on the bus from Bucharest, Romania help me buy a ticket to Varna, I feel washed over by nostalgia. If things hadn't been written in the Cyrillic alphabet, I could have been waiting for a minibus in Southeast Asia. Huddled in the corner of the bus while I cringe at the driver's breakneak pace I cannot help but feeling incredibly excited about travel again after incredibly efficient Western European trains. This is not to say that I despise any form of rules, regulations, and safety, but perhaps I have learned to appreciate and enjoy places and things that are a bit (ok, maybe a lot) rough around the edges. And that is exactly what Southeast Europe has been so far.

This coastal town is starting to boom with tourism. In the local markets there is a row devoted entirely to kitschy tourist items, Currency Exchange Bureaus on every corner, and a 20 meter length of second home real estate listings in the middle of main square. Yet with a central area that seems to be mainly comprised of pedestrian only streets and a 8 kilometer stretch of public park overlooking the Black Sea, Varna is charming enough that I don't seem to mind the washout that tourism occasionally brings. As much as I was giddy to dip my feet in the discovery of a new body of water, the Black Sea, (which to be honest, didn't seem that black to me, I would say, a deep blue) I am very satisfied to report that the results are in and Bulgaria is my 30th country! So let's go swimming in the Black Sea!

Spa Menu Du Jour

Before I came to Asia I count count the number of massages and times to a spa on one hand. Now I am enjoying exponential growth rates in my spa experiences.

While living in Hanoi my weekly routine consists of a 2 hour massage at a price that isn't completely outlandish and is actually less than it would cost me to eat out at a restaurant in Hanoi. I now have 'my spa' which I frequent and I think I'm just about a regular.

Massages in Asia are cheap enough, more than good enough and can even be socially responsible enough in the case of one outfit in Cambodia. When passing through the Cambodian capitol city my friend, Miriam, and I wandered over to the "Seeing Hands" massage shop. Our muscles were streched and pounded by legally blind masseuses. A win-win bargain for all.

Beyond massage, I have discovered new ways to relax.

In Singapore there was the FISH SPA. I was attracted to the spa when I passed by what I presumed to be a pet store or at least an exotic fish breeder. They I spoted the young couple around the corner, their feet dunked in a large long fish tank. Little minnows swarmed around their feet at lower calves. Fully intrigued, I made a note to stop by on my walk back and check out this strange spa treatment. I signed myself up for 20 minutes in the fish tank. After my feet were rinsed with water, the fish mistress lead me over to a bench in front of the tank. She explained the technique of fish spa which is to start on the smaller fish and once you get used to the little nibbles, you can move to the tanks with the bigger suckers ready to eat every single dead skin cell on your lower limbs. I eventually took the plunge with the bigger fish and watched the 200 or so fish swarm even between my toes.

Afterwards I learned the maneating minnows are called "Doctor fish" and hail from Turkey where they orginally cure a skin disease called psoriasis.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doctor_fish

After, as the fish spa weren't enough, I took on a 20 minute feet reflexology massage. I had heard about these massages since my high school health class, and was anxious to finally try it out. It was rather comfortable to lie back and let someone erase miles of walking around the concrete jungles of Singapore. The science of reflexology is the concept that different pressure points in your feet are directly linked to other parts of the whole body. And the beauty of it is that it seemed to work.

The most recent item on the spa menu du jour is acupuncture. Mind you, I don't have arthitis and suffer from no chronic pain in my pain or any of my joints. Yet acupuncture remained an exotic treatment that I wished to experience. And experience I did in Luang Prabang, Laos. I stepped into reputatbly the most authentic spa in town and there it was the first item on the short list of services. I hadn't planned on receiving acupuncture on this particular day or even at this particular time after I had sweat out my body mass of water. I inquired and before I could change my mind I was swept into the chamber by the physiologist. "Yes, I do acupuncture, where you hurt?"
"Um...I don't...um...actually hurt.."
"Ok, I do acupunture. Ok, your shoulders, upper back. Ok, I do acupunture."

It's not until I can feel the slight electric pulse touching the nerve points of the pins that I begin to question my descision and desire for acupuncture. Suddenly I feel trapped in a science experiment that is about to go wrong. I worry that me, Dr. Jekyll, is undergoing a dangerous transformation into Miss Hyde. The title physiologist seems to be a euphamism for "Pins and Needles Witch". Next, I worry that since I didn't have pain to begin with, maybe I'll walk out with a stiff neck for life. While rubbing my feet together in nervousness all I could think of was, "Am I really paying for this?"

Thankfully she came back into the room before the 20 minutes were up and I pulled together enough courage to glance over at the shiny silver pin sticking out of my left hand. I'm a damn human voodoo doll. "I think I'm ready to be done".
"Oh, but it only been 5 minutes!"
"Well, in one more minute I want my time to be up"
My dance with this devil is over.

Life as a Dao Minority Girl

It's 11 am and the My Dinh bus station is already swampped with holiday travellers returning to their hometowns for a long weekend holiday break.

My friend and I make our way to the bus towards his hometown of Ha Giang province, one in the Northeastern throes of Viet Nam. After being crunched in the first row of the bus. I turn to look behind me at the many pairs of glazed eyes. Several are averted into plastic carsick bags. The bus seems more like a solemen transport to an unknown destination than Hanoians making their way home for a relaxing weekend. I almost begin to feel lightheaded and naueous myself as the bus incessently pounds his horn while taking the approaching curves of the foothills at an uncomfortabley fast speed. I seem to be the only one anxious at the driver's breakneck speed and my concerned eyes find my friend's. "This bus must go to Ha Giang and then return to Ha Noi before dark," he says with a resigned voice of fact. I fold my elbows and rest my forehead on my crossed arms. I look down trying to drown out the noise of truck honks or at least bring them to a dull drone.

My friend nudges me to prepare to get off and informs the driver to stop. The bus slows as it lets off two passengers, unwilling to come to a complete halt. The forlorn passengers seated crossed legged on the bus floor must look hungrily at one new open seat. But I don't dare turn down to affirm my thought, only to catch my backpack that the bus attendant hefts toward me.

After a family meal, I settle into my weekend in the countryside.



Tieing up my mosquito netting and tennis shoes, I start my day.

Breakfast is Pho Chua, a dish that is not found in Ha Noi and one that I have not eaten yet. It is the ingredients of pho, delicious beef noodle soup, without the beef broth but with the sweet and sour fish sauce liquid that I have come to love. I am always happy to discover a new Vietnamese dish. The variety of this cuisine is truly something to celebrate.

Motorbiking up the mountain is our first activity of the day. Rain has muddied the path and I wonder if I should have brought along my helmet. Dark clouds empty onto the mountain and soak my shorts and shoes. Past the waterfalls and mountain springs, we come to a small lake. Large huts quientessential of Vietnamese ethnic minorities dot the shore. Finding shelter under one hut, we park the bike and climb the steps to the hut's open living area.

I sit cross-legged on the mat and drink Vietnamese bitter tea from my miniature teacup. I look out past the open air windows at the lake, the mist, the green tea plants. I seemingly could spend hours with a pot of Green Vietnamese tea. It's affect is calmly arroussing. Perfect for good conversation or meaningful comtemplation.

We meet some friends preparing lunch in a nearby hut. I dry my shorts by the fire and watch the defeathered chickens roasting on peppermint bark sticks. Lunch includes four sliced and diced chickens. People place food in my rice bowl as is polite and customary. My new friend, Tuan, next to me takes some sticky rice, molds it into a small ball and hands it to me. I accept this gesture with a smile along with the numerous shots of Vietnamese ruou, or glorified vodka, that he invites me to. I can't say no as one after another from the friendly group lift their tiny glasses to a toast. Tuan moi Emily. He lifts his glass. I am bound to reply with some social Vietnamese grace. Emily moi Tuan. Drink. Even before someone proposes another toast, someone else has already filled my glass from one of the white porcilen bowls containing the Vietnamese spirit.

They string the chicken heads on a wire and hold them in front of my face. I strunch my eyes and shake my head. Everyone laughs.

It goes like this for another hour.

Wine.Chicken.Rice.Wine.Chicken.Cucumbers.Rice.Wine.Wine.Cucumbers.Sticky Rice Ball.Wine.Chicken.Cucumbers.Wine.

Tuan asks me if I can see the future in a chicken foot. "Khong" I shake my head and puff out my cheeks as I sound out the Vietnamese for No. Too bad, as he plucks the talons and chews on the cartilidge.

I sleep off the early afternoon drizzle in a small Ethnic Dao hut spraweled over a comfortable wood slated mat.

As the rain subsides, I am dressed in traditional Ethnic Dao fashion. The Vietnamese girls help me tie the silver plated vest and wrap the red cloth around my waist before expertly wrapping my head into the black and red headdress. I giggle in the mirror at my blonde hair peeking though the scarf. A tour guide takes me and my friend to the Dao village.

I feel rather flustered visiting these people dressed in their own traditional clothing. It might as well be last year's Halloween's costume for me but a tradition passed down through many generations in their eyes. Nonetheless, they smile. Dep! Beautiful! One woman admits that now, the Dao people only wear such traditional costumes for special ceremonies and festivals as one outfit takes two years to properly prepare. We meet two old Dao ladies on our walk and they stop to pose in a photo with me. One woman is half my height with legs like that of a marathon runner. The other has a full set of black-stained teeth from chewing betel leaves. I pose for another picture by a water-operated rice thresher. I might as well be the poster child for their model community: boasting traditional clothing and their main source of livelihood.

I feel reluctant to take off my new outfit. The girls giggle and reach up to help me unwind the brightly colored cloth bands from my headscarf. Putting away another life I could have been born into.

Bizarre

It's been eight months since I've been in Vietnam and nonetheless there is something everyday that stikes me as bizarre. Here is a short list from the past several months.

-puttering along on my motorbike en route to the university I see a deer tied to a post outside the goat meat restaurant. On second thought it must be a large species of goat.

(On a side note: Goat meat is quite tasty. I first tried it in a fresh spring roll with fresh herbs and starfruit. I'm surprised that this meat has flown under the radar in the States for so long as it contains higher protien than beef and even less fat than chicken. Spread the word.)

-a truck rambling past on the freeway to Hanoi full of puppies. These little furry guys aren't going to end up as cuddly pets.

-a gigantic green squash rides shotgun on one man's old Honda Dream Motorbike.

-a old woman seating on the back of a park bench combs through a younger man's (her son?) hair picking out (lice?).  An image banally instinctual to the extent of divine beauty.

Not even realizing it, most of these strange moments here are culinary in nature. Which naturally I find fitting in Vietnam especially when my students inquire about my favorite Vietnamese food before they ask where I'm from.

There are not too many foods that I don't like and dog meat is one of them.  I must be the one who is bizarre, the Tay (Vietnamese slang for Westerner) who detests the filet minogn of meat.

A Full Passport

What happens when there are no more visa pages in your passport?  You apply for more!  My trip to the American consulate in Hanoi to apply for more visa pages perhaps officially dubbed me as an avid traveller.  Several weeks ago, reminiscing through the pages of my passport, I came to the end and realized there are no longer blank pages waiting to be tightly wound into memories.  Chockfull of entry and exit stamps, three different forms of various visas, and copious nostalgia, my passport is a beautiful art form representing my alternative international universe in the past 7 years of my life.  I am no longer the 16-year-old wondering if a passport could ever be entirely filled with diplomatic markings.  Now I only hope I can make a dent into the next pages in the three years still remaining until expiration.  

A full passport.  A full life.  

Traffic

The billboard on Kim Ma street is rather ominous.  The grand billboard with electric displays lists Hanoi traffic accident and fatality statistics.

As I was roaring past today, the statistics were enough to release the twist of my hand on the handle accelerator.  Number of traffic accidents yesterday: 1.  Number of traffic fatalities: 1.  Most of the time when I make the daily turn from Kim Ma street to Lieu Giai, on my way home from work, I send a passing glance to the board.  0 traffic accidents yesterday.  I send an exasperated, whew, in the midst of the roar of traffic.  Right before I swerve around the city bus.  

156 accidents thus far this year.

142 traffic fatalities thus far this year.

What actually constitutes a traffic fatality?  I was left pondering the meaning of this english translation until I inquired.  Death.  142 people have died so far this year from traffic accidents.  Fortunately I haven't seen any terrible accidents yet or dead bodies sprawled on the street.  

Of course there are the fender benders.  Luckily the most damage that I have incurred thus far is cracking the hard white plastic covering of my old Honda Dream when I toppled over in the FPT University parking lot.  Needless to say, maneuvering the bike in small spaces is one of the harder parts of driving.  Most bikes are expertly parked in tight rows outside storefronts and looked after by an attendant.  Most of the time, the attendant hands you a numbered ticket before you park the bike which you must produce along with 2,000 or 3,000 Vietnamese dong ( about 30 cents) when you retrieve your bike later. 

Helmet laws are enforced and perhaps the pollution masks people wear when driving will become a future law.  The surgical looking mask drivers wear to protect against dust and exhaust fumes also serves as a fashion statement.  My cloth mask is a pink, blue, and green floral pattern.  

In terms of rules of the road, there aren't very many.  Or I should say there are rules such as traffic lights, roundabouts, and one-way streets but followed under your own digression.  The no man's land of the road are fairly busy intersections with no traffic signals.  These are best approached with caution and a heavy foot over the break.  Slow down for the tour bus to pass, swerve around the man slowly making his way across the street, speed up before the student on the bicycle collides with you.  

Cliffnotes

There are numerous blog topics in which I could continue writing about in lengthy discussions and descriptions of even minute things in Vietnam.  And it would take me weeks of non-stop writing and contemplating to have polished prose.  So now I list a random assortment.  Consider these the cliffnotes.

I toured a house available for rent two days ago.  I wondered how much it would cost to buy it.  

I need to buy shower shoes for my bathroom.  There are no shower stalls in Vietnam so you just shower yourself with a hose from the bathroom wall.  The problem is when I reenter my bathroom with dirty feet on a wet floor.  

Three days ago I was bitten by bedbugs.  Now when I say "Don't let the bedbugs bite!"  I will speak with experience.

Today I ate streetside bun cha, a lovely Hanoi speciality of juicy bits of pork in fish sauce eaten with rice noodles and fresh herbs.

I love driving my motorbike.  Even after today when I got pulled over for turning left on a red light.  Frankly I was surprised when the policeman blow his whistle.  People commonly drive through red lights with intent.  Unfortunately the policeman spoke English which ruled out my plan to speak English very quickly and shrug my shoulders and shake my head to avoid a ticket.  But thankfully he let me off with a "Be Careful".  I didn't even have to give him bribe money.

Pollution and Corruption are some of Vietnam's biggest urban problems.  

I sleep under mosquito netting.  

Since being in Vietnam, I have received four scarfs as gifts.

I am currently attempting to learn how to sing a Vietnamese pop song.  

In the future, I want to bring little peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to my students.  

Vietnam does not have ovens.

Last week I was almost pickpocketed.  I screamed and turned around when I felt someone unzip my backpack.  After reassuring my valuables remained I watched the teenage boy slowly scuffle past me on the sidewalk as if nothing had happened.  I walked 5 feet behind him for 100 meters before he turned the corner.  I was shocked by his audacity, wanted to properly scold him, and tell him to try being a little slicker next time.  Those european pickpockets would laugh in his face.