My first impressions

The day I arrived in Vietnam, I thought it was a bad dream, I couldn’t believe what was in front of me.

You know, even before I came out of the airport, I could feel the heat on my face, and the smell of dust in my nose. And once I got through the exit doors, I realized that I wasn’t in France anymore, and that I was about to live in this country for a whole year.

At first, it sounded extremely exciting, and I really enjoyed the fact that I would live abroad for quite a while, even if I knew how it felt to be alone in a foreign country. I have been far from my family and friends before. I was happy, and proud of representing my country here. Here, in this country my ancestors invaded and destroyed hundred years ago, I could find a kind of mea culpa for the past, for what we did.

Indeed, when I found out that I was in the program and told my friends about it, the first thing they all asked me was: “with the wars and everything, they might hate the strangers from France and the US, and you could be killed!” It made me laugh because I knew that none of this was true. In fact, the Vietnamese are probably one of the most welcoming and warmhearted people I’ve ever met.  They care for everyone around them, they are nice, and they like interacting with strangers. Of all the people I’ve met since I’ve arrived in Hanoi, not even one has been rude or impolite to me.

It has been three weeks now that I’ve lived in Hanoi, and I love it. I know I will have some moments when I will miss my country, my friends, my brother, but it’ll be fine, because I’m not alone here, and I’m happy to be part of it.

Perrine Aronson

Flower Village

On Sunday, my family and I biked to the flower villages a few kilometers from our house. With my mother and sister on one motorcycle, my two cousins on another, and I on a bike, we headed out. The path was bumpy, with puddles and rocks, dips and curves. It took my complete concentration to avoid falling off and severely injuring myself. Up the road, there was a short, older woman burning something (God knows what) in the middle of the road, and the smoke filled my nostrils, reminding me of summer campfires. Not too many smells in Viet Nam remind me of America, but for some strange reason, this did.

             After biking a little ways, green fields began to fill in on either side. Cone shaped rice hats stuck out from the plants, small patches of palm trees sprouted, little dirt paths were to the left and right. It was beautiful. Life looked so simple out in this flower village. Every person had their own duty, whether to water the plants or tend to the flowers. It was a completely different world. My mother kept on shouting back at me “Looook! How beautiful are the flowers, yes?” Our first stop was at a little plot of land growing the most beautiful crimson and pink roses. We walked along a narrow, muddy path, hop-scotching to avoid puddles, observing each bud and bloom we passed.

            After another kilometer or so, we got off at a larger plot of land. The first thing I noticed was the water. Everywhere, it was shooting out of hoses, watering cans, and sprinklers, quenching the plants’ thirst. One man in particular stood out in my mind. He was carrying a long, wood stick over his shoulders with one watering can hung over each end. This, I thought, would never be seen in the U.S. Nowadays, nobody waters plants by hand. An automatic sprinkler, or maybe even a hose would be common, but watering cans? I felt as though I had stepped back in time about two hundred years or so. The sinking sun cast a sepia glow over the fields. For about twenty minutes, the sun was in this perfect position, and it msade everything look beautiful. As opposed to Ha Noi's noise and dust, the air was clear and it was quiet enough that I could hear myself think. This was the first time I saw the natural beauty of the country I am in. Previously, I had found beauty in the people, the culture, and the language, but that day, I saw beauty in the land.

Saturday (9/17)

Maddy Blais

Saturday morning I was only able to sleep in a little bit, until around 7:45 AM, because my group went on a day trip to Bat Trang. Bat Trang is a small craft village about twenty minutes outside of Ha Noi that specializes in ceramics. My host sister Hà decided that she wanted to come so at around 8:00 Nan, Hà, and I all piled into a cab and set out for the bus station where we would meet our group. Our taxi driver (a man we hired who drives us to school every day) got a little lost and we were almost 20 minutes late! Everyone was waiting for us at the bus stop!

Anyway, Thay Vuong had planned for us to take public transportation because he thought it would be a really good experience for us, and it WAS! We all wore our backpacks on our chests (wary of thieves) and piled into the tiny bus, which seemed to be about 30 people beyond capacity. On our way we stood next to a little boy who must have been only five years old. Noticing that we were foreign he decided to give us a tour of the outskirts of Ha Noi passing by our windows. The only problem was, he spoke no English. This didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest, however, and he babbled on in Vietnamese and occasionally looked at us for approval or understanding (of course we always nodded feigning deep understanding and interest).

When we arrived in the village we strolled through the market and looked at all of the various products for sale. There was everything from teapots to rings. From intricate Buddha’s to paint-your-own sculptures. The market wound around in a really confusing but intriguing manner. We walked in one direction and suddenly ended up back where we started without even knowing we had made any turns!

Later we went to a shop where we were allowed to make our own clay pots. We were each given a wheel and a lump of clay to play with. The women who ran the shop helped us get started with our projects pressing the clay into a cylinder and in seconds, creating a hollow interior in two simple motions. Feeling a bit cocky I squished her work back into a ball once she had left, determined to create something entirely on my own. I rolled the clay into a ball (just as she had) and placed it in the middle of the wheel, giving it a good spin. I wet my hands and prepared to mold the blob. To my surprise the instant my hand touched the clay it jumped from the wheel and, with incredible force, smacked into my leg leaving a dark gray splotch on my previously clean calf. After a few more futile tries, I finally accepted some help from the professionals. In the end I created a beautiful (albeit rather misshapen) bowl.

When I got home that afternoon I crawled right into bed covered in clay and sweat. Only a half an hour later I was awakened and told that we were going to my mother's parent's house for dinner. JOY. I was a little grumpy but tried not to show it (the last time we went to her parent's house I nearly swallowed several fish bones and the power went out). We arrived at their house and I was greeted warmly as usual. For dinner I ate and ox's tail, which was pretty… err… interesting. In case you were wondering an ox's tale is all fat! I also very narrowly escaped eating duck brains. Phew!

After dinner, my 16-year-old cousin, sister, grandfather, and I all went out for a walk. We got chocolate ice cream bars and walked to a department store. At the store we found an arcade and I played Dance Dance Revolution! We also played a shooting game and "stomp-a-'roach" - the Vietnamese equivalent of "whack-a-mole".

When we finally returned to my grandparent’s house my eyelids were heavy. Trying to be as chipper as possible I warmly thanked my extended family, yawning all the time. Finally when we arrived at home I fell asleep thinking about my amazing day in Viet Nam. 

September 30, 2011

Julia Shumlin

The past two few weeks in Ha Noi have been an overwhelming yet exciting blur of mopeds, rice, street vendors and strange, new words.  In this short span of time I have eaten things I never thought I would eat, crossed busy streets that I don’t know how I survived, and said enough xin lois to fill a book or two.  But the most difficult and significant part of my time here has been adjusting to the rhythm of the family that has accepted me into their home.

            My host family has been nothing but kind and welcoming to me so far, but it definitely takes some time to get comfortable as a daughter in a family that I hardly know.  For every moment of laughter and joy, I have had my fair share of embarrassing cultural mishaps and times of extreme homesickness and anxiety.

            Strangely enough, the time that I have found myself most at ease as a member of this family has been in an action of pure menial labor; washing the dishes.  The most significant advice that my parents gave me before I left for Vietnam was to help my family out around the house as much as possible.  Desperate to express my gratitude and to dispel the stereotype of Americans as lazy and unobliging, I set out to be useful in the first few days.  Due to my ignorance in the kitchen and at most other household chores, washing dishes became the one way that I could help without becoming too much of a hindrance.

            At home in the United States I will do anything to get out of cleaning up after dinner.  The idea of taking time to scrub at crusty, partially-eaten food has never held much appeal for me.  Here, this chore takes new meaning- a way to bridge the cultural gap between my family me.  It feels natural to stand beside my host siblings or cousins or grandmother, in sync as we send each dish down the assembly line of soaping, scrubbing, and rinsing.  With each dish I fall more into the rhythm, much like the comfortable flow into which my life in Ha Noi has fallen.

            Fresh in my mind is the memory of a Friday night almost two weeks ago when my mom delegated the dish-washing job to my brother and me.  All week I had not exchanged more than a few words with my brother Minh- a seemingly surly teenager of 17. As we jokingly grumbled about the tedious task (while I was secretly jumping for joy at this moment of potential sibling-bonding,) we talked more than we had the entire past week of living under the same roof.  I now realize that what I first mistook for resentment in my host brother was no more than my host brother’s shy demeanor.

            In my quest to become a part of this culture, this ordinary, brainless task has become a vehicle to achieve a level of ease with my family.  I’m sure that as I continue to get to know them better, it will become no more than a vaguely annoying chore. For now, though, I will continue to jump to action at the prospect of working beside my host family members while elbow-deep in fragrant, soapy water.

Just Bloggin: A Series of Blogs Devoted to My Final Year of High School by Luke Williams

As a 5’11, 16 year old American teen I see this place through my own set of eyes.  In the night the flashing lights and tall structures stand out like fireflies on a starless night.  In the morning, construction cranes are like fishermen, reeling giant concrete fish and stacking them into piles to help this metropolis bloom into a modern, urban environment.  These times of day share the same hot, sticky, and humid air. People are packed like sardines in the streets trying to get from one place to another.  Most people would use these words and phrases to describe some urban city in the US like Los Angeles or New York. However what I’m describing is a city about 8600 miles away. I’m talking about Ha Noi, Viet Nam; a wondrous place where motorcycles run rampant. More importantly it is the outcome of the most important decision of not only high school, but my life so far; the decision to spend my senior year abroad.

                I guess I should start with the “why I decided to come here” story. If I had a nickel for every time someone has asked me “Why Vietnam?” I could take a vacation to Hawaii every day of my life. This typically led to more questions and statements such as “Why during your senior year?”, “You’re crazy!”, “But you won’t be able to go to prom!”, “You’re not going to be able to do marching band at all there!” or the “Why are you going to give up your senior season of football, a starting varsity position on a field that you have put blood, sweat, and tears on for years, and two amazing hours under those beloved Friday night lights that seem to act as a beacon attracting the whole town?” This is not to mention the adrenaline rush and the happiness received from putting that orange and black uniform on; especially when I had to endure the torture of not being in pads and a helmet last season.

From my fundraising website to the day to day conversations with people who know me and who don’t, I’ve had to constantly state my two main reasons for going; I want to make a difference in the world and I want a new experience. I knew what I was going to be giving up and I knew I was going to miss some of it, but I also knew opportunities like this came few and far between. I saw that this experience was going to help prepare me for the real world, put me on the path to achieve my career goals and a better life. I could clearly see that the benefits were going to far outweigh the costs (both monetary and personal). I expected to be slightly surprised by some of the culture and customs, be in a rigorous academic environment, and by the end of nine months to have a completely new perspective on the world. I certainly didn’t plan on experiencing the latter of these so soon.

It’s not that I had a flat out epiphany, nor did I go on a soul searching journey in the Sapa Mountains to find inner meaning. It was more of a kindling, gradual realization. With a little help from a glance into my past and a story I was told, it began to ignite into a wildfire; one that’s going to impact not only my decisions in college, but for the rest of my life.

 I was at an art gallery this afternoon and someone was telling me the Vietnamese legend about how after fish swim for miles and miles, they reach this gate and become dragons. It was one of those fables about how hard work pays off, and I started thinking about home and how much time has passed since I started kindergarten and how I never would have pictured myself being in Viet Nam this year. My attention then drifted to all the things that were done to get me here. My parents sacrificing their hard earned money and me sacrificing my sleep and extracurriculars are just examples of things given up to move forward.

It’s kind of ironic that it took me three weeks abroad to fully grasp the American Wall Street catch phrase of “There is no free lunch.”This concept is a saying that I’ve heard all my life, all boiling down to one point that is made very clear from my experience here; you have to give things up to make room for something better. I’ve come to realize that everything comes at a cost. Normally that cost requires hard work and devotion to the task at hand which by nature has you lose out on something.  It’s this mindset that I’ve learned and developed from being here that’s going to influence my decisions. It makes me appreciate things more because of what it took to get them and it makes me understand that the only way I’m going to achieve my goals is through hard work and sacrifice. It’s been 3 weeks and I’m already starting to look at the world through a different lens. I’m really looking forward to my next eight and a half months here. I can already tell it will have some of the most important decisions and learning experiences not only in my school year, but in my life as a whole.

Preparation

Jaya Sahihi

     I walk along the paths, eyes darting every which way, a metal detector hunting for gold in a pile of rubbish. Beeep beep beep beepbeepbeep. Got something. As it turns out, there is quite a bit of hidden treasure in these markets because by the end of the excursion my bag always ends up considerably heavier and my wallet much lighter. You see, I am already preparing myself for a return greeted by endless questions and desires for explanations from all those who haven’t been living in Viet Nam the past four months and weren’t satisfied with my pages of letters. My answer, buy them things. I’ll give them a little something straight from the source so they can feel and experience the culture themselves.

     My gaze often wanders to the one hundred eyed, one hundred headed goddess standing by my computer as I write. She is my favorite. Her hands are reaching up in an arch around her, spreading out in all possible directions. I find I am thankful she only has two eyes and the artist took the liberty of leaving the other 98 up to imagination. I don’t know how I would feel with those extra 98 eyes watching me. As if there aren’t enough from my hoarde of Buddhas, wise men, goddesses, elephants, and dragons, which I have accumulated to bring back as gifts. Bits of culture picked up from dusty shelves. Our first memories created out of the meek haggling I take part in, not having the heart to push the price back much at all. They arrive at their new, temporary home covered in crumbs from riding next to a bag of rice donuts; the very best Vietnamese snack.

     Yet, I walk through the door upon my return from a day’s adventure, head hanging a little. This is partially due to the extreme weight of my bag but also because of the looks I am unavoidably going to get from my family as I unpack my haul of the day. With their quizzical eyes, there isn’t a need for words. You bought more?

     And then I position them along my shelves, desk, and bedside table and I think: this is supposed to show them the culture? Of course they are still beautiful but still, I have the sinking feeling in my stomach that they will become stuck, high on a shelf, keeping up a stack of books or something like that.

     But what am I supposed to do? I can’t bring back the steaming hot bowls of pho, the fear of crossing the streets every morning, the deafening laughter filling Vietnamese movie theaters at a not so funny joke. I can’t describe well enough the chorus of smacking and slurping my family creates at the dinner table. There is no way to pack up both the roller blades and my little brother/teacher. No way to bring him back so that together we can continue cracking up, showing off my new skill, as my wobbly legs make my first full lap around the apartment building hallway. No amount of pictures will capture the colors of the fruits, vegetables, and meat sold on the side of the street.
     So for now, I will buy statues. I will fill them up with memories from this wonderful place. And hey, maybe if they rub Buddha’s belly just the right number of times, these memories will somehow find a way out.  (Except maybe not the smells, those aren’t always too pleasant.)

McKenzie Nagle

St. George's School- Newport, Rhode Island
SYA Vietnam 2011-2012

Journey to Pottery Paradise

Waking up at 7am was too early especially on a Saturday morning. I needed my beauty sleep! Nonetheless, my little brother em Ti woke me up, so I would be on time for my “field trip” to Bat Trung—the pottery village. I begrudgingly got out of my wooden bed, and my host mother Chi Linh served me some variation of ramen noodle for breakfast. I headed out and arrived at meeting spot somewhere on the eastern side of the city. At 9:30, the School Year Abroad students and faculty piled into a crowded, public bus headed to Bat Trung—the bus was pushing its capacity, to say the least. There were no seats unoccupied, so we awkwardly squished among random Vietnamese people standing in the middle of the congested bus; I am surprised no one was pick-pocketed! The ride was the longest 15 kilometers I’ve ever traveled, and I was sweating bullets like never before. Honestly, I thought Thay Vuong, our resident director, would’ve chartered a bus, but I guess he wanted us to experience Hanoi’s discombobulated, crowded public buses.

When we arrived in the modest village of Bat Trung, we learned that the town has specialized in handmade pottery since the 14^th Century—it’s the heart of commerce in the village. My friend Sarah and I explored the market which had an unimaginable array of pottery at an inexpensive price. The craftsmanship and ceramics were beautiful. I bought an intricately painted vase for my mother and an orange and green painted teacup set for my grandmother. After the shopping extravaganza, we toured the most renowned ceramics family’s house and workshop. They were building huge urns (imagine massive tubs) to honor a former leader. Finally, we had a tasty lunch of ramen-like noodles and beef and other Vietnamese favorites, and the restaurant was air conditioned luckily.

Following our meal, we headed to a pottery studio to create our own masterpieces; we used the wheel to create bowls and other ceramic creations. Everyone messed up, so the nice Vietnamese women, who were professional potters, helped us center and improve our pieces. Making pottery is exhausting and messy; everyone had clay all over themselves by the end of this ceramic-making escapade. Bat Trung was a magnificent adventure; I came to appreciate the villagers’ work ethic and the sheer brilliance of their ceramic creations.

Foreign Battle Grounds

Abby Ripoli

"No Phuong Anh!” I scream, “Get off the counter!” The stubborn six year old ignores my cries as she cannot understand so much as her name with my pronunciation. She giggles in amusement at my stressed out face. “Khong! Khong!” With my Vietnamese failing me once again, I take a more aggressive approach. Leaping over the fort my younger host sister has built, I grab hold of her, trying to yank her off my counter. Waves of victory wash over me as I plop her on the ground, wanting to scold her for being such a distraction, but knowing she will not understand me anyway. 

My head held high with authority, I am caught off guard by a one of a kind, ear-piercing shriek emerging from the compact beast standing in front of me. My ears bleeding, I return to my makeshift desk on my bed, hoping to make peace.  Sensing my retreat, Phuong Anh declares herself the winner of our pathetic battle and climbs back up to her pedestal. My mind runs through all the possible scenarios of her falling and me being responsible. This cannot happen. She is em, and I am chi. Little sister verses big sister. Game time.

I yank her down once again, ignoring her bloody murder screams with a will-full expression. She tries to dodge around me to make it back on to her claimed position of power, but I’m too quick, too agile for her small legs to beat. As she lays on the floor throwing a fit, this battle is no longer about her safety, but who’s in charge. We eye each other down, the cuteness of the six year old disintegrates. This is war. 

Determined to outwit me, she makes a bolt for the small space underneath my desk. Speechless, I watch in amazement as the once, but no longer, cute six year old rips out electrical cords and makes a fortress, which my battle tactics cannot penetrate. Defeated and discouraged, I retreat to the sanctuary of my older host sister, Hoa Anh. I embarrassingly plead for assistance, and without fail, the true chi comes to save the day. However, with a score yet to be settled, I guarantee that there will be a rematch. 

Culture Shockwaves

             Stepping off the plane into the humid air—is it possible a country could be this hot? The others don’t seem to notice the heat, but it is a blanket, enveloping everything once known and transforming it into something new and different. You look out of a dingy bus window at the passing countryside, astounded at this place. The land bears few similarities to anywhere you have been previously in your life. Not even ten minutes off the plane, you start questioning the safe and sheltered life you lead back home.

The city you eventually roll into has streets that are alive with motorcycles and street vendors. On every corner, an array of trinkets and fruit are paraded before your road-weary eyes. Do you dare try the duck being roasted on the street, amidst a swarm of flies preparing to attack the succulent meat? Or will you choose the bright dragon fruit, with its pink flesh giving way to a sweet white inside? Vendors beckon you with a smile, waiting to lure you in should you show the least interest in their merchandise. 

Waves of heat radiating from the pavement cause everyone to sweat profoundly. The locals know that once the shadows fall short, it is time to rest from the scorching heat. You know nothing of the sort though, and continue to wander aimlessly through the sweltering streets, wondering why the Asian population of Hanoi suddenly evaporated.

When you finally are able to sit down and eat, you are surprised by the flavor and freshness in every course.  What is this, where a bowl of noodles and vegetables can taste like your little piece of heaven? Each drag of the chopsticks and smack of the mouth brings pleasure to the senses. Too soon, you have drained your bowl and are staring at the ceramic bottom as if trying to read the dregs of spices left behind.

You are back out on the street again, blinking in the harsh light and rubbing your full belly. Yet again, colorful scarves and miniature Buddhas swirl in and out of your vision until something catches your eye. Could they possibly be selling a petrified snake in a jar as naturally as if it were water? You dig into your bag, fingers fumbling for money you don’t quite know how to use yet. This will be good for loved ones back home you say. This will make them understand this extraordinary place a little bit more.

You wish you had your family and friends to surround you and delight in this country as you are right now. But you realize that this is your country at the moment-- not theirs, and that it is your responsibility to explore it on your own. At the tips of your fingers, the whole of Hanoi is waiting for you. In the palm of your hand is the ability to make a life, a home here—or not. It is your choice.