Hushed

     As the woman absentmindedly hacks away at golden rice stalks, glassy beads of sweat drip down her brow. She stands up abruptly, grimacing as the muscles in her leg begin to cramp. The baby strapped to her back is startled by his mother's sudden change of position. He moans softly as he arises from his slumber. The woman coos to her young child, urging him to return to blissful unawareness.

     The woman looks out into the valley below. The quilt of the countryside is an uneven patchwork of yellow and green. Across the valley, a thick morning fog spills over the peaks of the mountains and washes over the land. The fog attempts to preserve the stillness of the morning, but racket from a village shatters the fragile peace. Dogs bark and children yelp; a new day has begun.

     The woman can taste the salt of her sweat, and yearns for water. Nearby, an apathetic water buffalo noisily chomps on weeds. He shakes his head back and forth, warding off buzzing flies, and the bell around his thick neck gently rings. The water buffalo's young calf peers out from behind his mother's legs, flicking his tail nonchalantly.

     Hearing movement above her, the woman turns around to see a young man and woman hurrying down the muddy hillside. Lugging massive bags of dried rice on their backs, they struggle to maintain their balance. As they pass, the woman greets them: Hello little brother, hello little sister. The man does not take his eyes of his feet as he responds: Rain. He and the young woman rush by.

      The clouds are churning in the sky above, threatening to drench the countryside. Frightened by the tension in the air, the baby whimpers. The young calf empathizes, bellowing deeply. A single drop of water hits the woman's arm, warning her to flee. The woman rushes down the hillside, trailing behind the young man and woman. Soon enough, the sky tears open.

     The morning commotion which the fog failed to mute are beaten down by the relentless rain. Nothing escapes the fury of the rain.  

Sarah Weiner

Nathan E. Cluss

A few weeks ago our class took a trip to Sapa and Ha Long Bay; both were incredible, but vastly different experiences. Sapa was the equivalent to a Vietnamese ski town, with the exception of actual snow. The view of the mountains was unbelievable. I had never seen terrace farming in real life before, and you can't fully appreciate it until you do. The land stretched on for acres and acres as far as the eye could see. At night, the land became a black void, inescapable. Looking from the balcony of my hotel room I stared into this abyss of nothingness for hours chatting away with my roommate. It makes you think about the last time it’s truly been dark outside. Complete darkness is hard to find in this metropolitan world, and you don't think about it until you're staring it right in the eyes, and it has already engulfed you.

Lemon Drops

Elliot Crofton

Family is an odd thing. They are just a group of people that you are stuck with through everything. They put up with your faults and you with theirs. Many people have more than one family; we marry, or our parents’ divorce and we are adopted into their separate families. But being placed into a family you have never met, and being immediately told to see yourself as a member is very unusual. This is the inevitable case with host families.

            My family speaks English very well. Even little Chu Mi, my three year old sister, can speak a few words (however she prefers to make sheep noises.) This makes life easier for me, and our conversations much more interesting, but I don’t get much practice in Vietnamese. So what do I talk about with these people I don’t know but are my family? We talk about a variety of things: Australia, genetically modified organisms, dancing, Hai Phong, etc.

            My father jokes with me hesitantly, because his English is not as good as my mother’s, and I sometimes really have to search for a punchline. But when he delivers he can be quite hilarious. I can’t recall an exact joke at the moment, but he cracked a good one about porcupine meat while we were out to dinner one time. My mother enjoys talking with me, but she often tries to switch the conversation to Vietnamese. Which is good, but it can become frustrating, and the conversation usually becomes pretty dull.  Talking with her in English though never gets boring. Quan, my little brother, enjoys talking about cars and soccer, and testing my knowledge on various trivial subjects. He also asks a bizarre amount of questions about France. It’s likely he’s a Francophile in the making.

            But of all my family members, Bac Chit is possibly the most fascinating. She is our maid/cook, but she has been with the family a long time, and certainly become part of it. She does not speak a word of English. Every day, as I learn a little more Vietnamese, I come closer to understanding her. My family is always very busy, so complete family dinners usually only happen on weekends. Often when I come back from my internship my family has eaten, but Bac Chit will often join me for dinner. There are long silences, lots of laughter when I fail at conversation attempts, and many commands from her to eat some dish or another. Every once in a while though, sometimes through translation from my cousin or just picking up on key words, I can understand her with a little more depth. I think that she likes me. And I think I’m no longer a stranger to her, or my family.

Just Bloggin #2 By: Luke Williams

                22,000 ft in the air and I’m locked inside of a giant metal bird known as an Airbus A320-200 jet. As much as I love flying I’m more than eager to get off this plane after the previous 20 hours of flight. I’m ready to step foot in my new home for the next nine months; my final year of high school abroad in Viet Nam.  I’m tired yet very excited; a combination that left me entrapped inside my head, not quite paying attention to my surroundings.  One thing that did stick out on that plane ride was the beautiful rice terraces on the mountains in Sa Pa. I didn’t know that this postcard perfect scenery sitting outside of a glass frame the size of my head would have anymore meaning to me than the layer of grime and dirt on my face from a couple days of travel.

                Now fast forward from that moment about 34 days, 9 hours and about 30 minutes. I’m not tired this time. Instead I’m exhausted and about to pass out to the cadence of the bus tires hitting the dirt road. My group is leaving the village of Hmong people with whom we spent the day working.  I look outside of my mud splattered window to see rice terraces on the mountains creating stairways to the heavens. I think about that climb I took all the way to the top terraces up a dirt path covered in mud and manure from the previous day’s rain. I think about the slip and slides we had. However the most resounding thing on my mind is what I learned from this experience: humility.

                Our class spent a good 4 hours bending our backs to harvest the rice in the leech infested mud paddy and climbing a grueling goat path up a slippery mountain. Our reward was the quintessential feeling that you get from a good deed, a chance to exchange yarns with the villagers over a hot meal, and afterwards the comfort of warm beds inside a hotel with running water. The people who constantly work these fields day and night, rain or shine for a majority of the year don’t get even half as much. Their reward was their pay, which is less than two dollars a week. They may come home to a hot meal, but also to a house full of hungry kids and wooden cots instead of a cushioned spring mattress. The houses of the workers that we saw (with the exception of where we ate) were truly humble homes; wooden shacks without indoor plumbing. Nevertheless everyone was happy and not complaining about life’s struggles every two seconds like many of us Americans tend to do. That being said I’m reminded not only is it necessary to work hard to make a living, but also that I’m lucky to be where I am today.  I’m reminded that what we consider basic necessities in America are still luxury pieces in other countries; things that we want, but don’t always need. 

“Giảm giá nhé—Could you lower the price?”

As our bus pulled into Ta Phinh village, we found ourselves besieged on all sides by dozens of Red Dzao women, all dressed in traditional hand-made Dzao clothing and carrying large baskets filled to the top with their wares or small children tied tightly to their backs.

            Our class was staying in Sapa for several days during our week-long trip around northern Vietnam; we’d arrived the day before after spending the night on a train. Since then, we had seen a performance of traditional Sapa music and dance and visited another ethnic minority village, called Cat Cat, specializing in indigo-dyed fabrics.

            From inside the bus, we could see the women talking and pointing at each of us enthusiastically, but only after we got off and began our 20-minute walk to the village head’s house did we figure out why. We were each approached by one or two women, who for the rest of the walk—speaking very good English—proceeded to ask us where we were from, the schools we went to, and our families in America, as well as what we were doing in Viet Nam and how long we would be staying. The saleswomen seemed much less interested in talking about themselves; instead, it was if they were trying to learn as much about us as they could. I found myself automatically saying words in Vietnamese to them, none of which they understood—it felt a little strange to speak Vietnamese better than they did. When we got to the village head’s house, they departed with insistences that we find them later.

            For more than an hour, they all waited outside the house while we ate lunch; as soon as we came out, however, phase two of their strategy had begun. This time, we were assailed incessantly with demands to purchase their—beautiful, it must be said—bags, shawls, and wallets. We hurriedly excused ourselves to harvest rice from one of the rice paddies about a mile away. About an hour later, exhausted, we began to walk back down to our bus—again, closely followed by the saleswomen.

            There were two women in particular (I never learned their names) who kept on saying “come to me, come to me.” At first, thinking that they were working together, I just nodded vaguely and promised that yes, I would later buy from them. When they really started to fight with each other, though, I realized that they were actually competing for my business; now it was as if I were the goods being bargained over, rather than what they carried in their baskets. Their argument continued all the way back to the bus, while I awkwardly and uncomfortably walked in front of them. When we finally reached the bus, I did, in fact, end up buying several bags from both of them, all of which were outrageously overpriced (at that point, I just wanted to get back onto the bus as soon as possible).

            At the time, I felt as though most of the beauty and culture of Ta Phinh was overshadowed by the constant haranguing and bargaining of the saleswomen. However, after visiting Hoan Kiem in Ha Noi, and seeing the multitudes of tourists—who I’m afraid I’ve now begun to view with a certain amount of aloofness—I admire the women for not being openly disgusted with us and our lavish consumption. Without a doubt, if I were in their place I’m sure I would find it difficult not to see all tourists as obnoxious, ignorant money-bags.

Anna Oakes

Discovery

It’s been two months now. Two months that we’ve been thrown in this country and two months that we said goodbye to our families and friends. But also two months that we’ve been visiting the most amazing places. We can call it immersion, discovery, or tourism; it’s all the same in the end. 

When we sit at a café, somewhere in Hoan Kiem, facing the lake, talking about our previous trips, or criticizing the tourists we see, we are, in fact, criticizing ourselves, because, what are we if we aren’t tourists? We can argue that we live in Hanoi, but what are two months compared to a life? We are like babies entering the world with virgin and innocent eyes waiting to discover this new world right in front of us.

We came back two weeks ago now from Sapa and Halong Bay, where we stayed for a week.  There, we discovered the pleasure to swim in the quiet cove of a lost island, to observe fish just caught from the ocean, choose one or two, and eat them two hours later on a boat flowing through the spots of land gushing from the water. In Sapa, we climbed all the way to the top of rice terraces, cutting fresh rice, helping people who live off their harvests. That made me realize how different our lives are: when I go to school in the morning, a kid my age will be digging in a field, just to provide for his family. And probably, miles from that mountain, on a tiny raft, in the middle of a beautiful bay, another kid, even younger, won’t take the time to admire the beauty of the place because he’ll be holding a fishing net above the water, to catch some fish he’ll sell to tourists like us.

We all came here for a reason, certainly different, but something motivated our choice. I decided to come because I wanted to discover a new part of the world; I wanted to see, to experience and to feel what I had only heard about. I’m not disappointed at all by what I’m discovering day after day. I’m impressed by the differences between our cultures, the gap between our worlds, and each time I think I know more about Vietnam, a hundred new things occur to me, present themselves to me , saying: you’ve got miles to go before you know this place. 

San Mae

After harvesting rice in the paddies of (village name), I stepped onto the dirt path with mud caked on my feet and legs. I was sitting down, attempting to remove the inch of brown from my body, when a young woman offered me a bundle of leaves to help do this. She looked about forty years old, with a kind face and stained blue hands. Once my legs were fairly clean, I stood up and began the descent down the mountain. The many women who followed us up the hill made it look so easy to just waltz down the mountain path, but it is difficult when the slope is practically vertical and the footing is a slippery sludge. Thankfully, the woman with stained blue hands took my hand in hers and helped me down the mountain.
         Once we got to the bottom, we started talking. She introduced herself as “San Mae” or the “Second Daughter.” She told me that she lived in this village, pointing out to me where in the mountains her house was. She also told me how she had six children, and a few grandchildren as well. I asked how old she was, and she replied, “I am forty year old.” I tried to hide my surprise, unable to comprehend how someone so young could already have “a few grandchildren.” We continued walking, and as time went on, I was more and more impressed with the extent of her English speaking. As we walked through the village, little children ran in front of us, waving and playing. I saw the village through her eyes: the familiarity of the hills and fields, the scent of the corn roasting, the faces of friends and relatives. San Mae transformed me from a person staring from a bus window to a friend walking hand in hand with a villager.
        When we were approaching our bus, she pulled out one of her hand-made scarves. It was an array of oranges, reds and yellows, with the occasional stripes of black and yellow, pink, and green (the Black Hmong’s trademark colors). It was beautiful, and I knew I wanted it not simply for its beauty, but to remember this remarkable woman I had befriended. I asked her “Bao nhieu tien?” and she responded, “One hundred thousand.” Remembering how my other friends had bought similar scarves for two hundred and even three hundred thousand, I placed the bill in her blue-stained hand without even thinking twice. As my classmates were heading back into the bus, I took a picture with San Mae and gave her a hug. Suddenly, back in the bus, I became a tourist again, separated by a glass window from the rest of the villagers. But, I will always remember that for a short while, I was San Mae’s friend.

October 25

Julia Shumlin

I am proud of how I have acclimated to Vietnamese culture and society over the past six weeks.  I finally feel comfortable haggling with vendors, navigating the bustling streets, and successfully ordering a bowl of pho without ending up with a hardly-edible mystery dish.  I view awestruck Western tourists with a smug contempt- for in my mind I am no longer one of them, but a true Hanoian.  But every once in a while I am still struck with wonder at how different this culture is from my own, and I go back to being a mere tourist ogling at the beautiful insanity that is Viet Nam.  The family wedding that I attended this past weekend returned me to this sense of bewilderment.

            When I think of American weddings, I think of touching toasts, dancing, shaving creamed-getaway cars, and a few drunken mishaps by overzealous friends of the bride and groom.  American weddings are personal- every aspect of the event from the guest list to the bride’s dress is tailored to fit the fiancés’ wishes.  This weekend, however, rather than listening to endearing toasts about the bride and grooms’ high school days, the Vietnamese wedding was spent bringing the bride from her parents’ house to the groom’s family’s house; to “hand her off” to her new family.  Unlike American weddings, this seemed less about the union of the bride and groom and more about the union of the two families.

What surprised me most was the actual marriage ceremony.  It occurred while the guests were eating lunch, and few paid much attention.  Some guests ate and ran, not even pausing to give a few words of congratulations to the bride and groom.  It was quick and unsentimental- no tears or heartfelt vows like in the United States. 

The bride and groom themselves seemed no more than nervous kids, overwhelmed by being the center of attention and by their passage to adulthood.  They seemed almost like actors hired to perform these ceremonial acts- going through all the correct motions, but in a tentative, shy manner, as if they were stuck in strangers’ bodies and unsure of how to act.  I’m sure that they were no less happy and in love than doe-eyed American fiancés, but then again, this was not an American wedding. Vietnamese weddings are about honoring tradition and family rather than celebrating the bride and groom’s overwhelming love for one another.

 Yes, weddings in the United States are more emotional and “fun” in the traditional sense of the word, but the Vietnamese wedding was charming as well.  I was overcome with joy while walking through the streets of Ho Tay with scores of jovial cousins, shiny confetti raining down over our heads.  I felt welcomed and loved drinking cups of strong tea at the homes of various smiling relatives and taking photo after photo with my aunts, dressed like them in a beautiful ao dai.   Although different from the Western ways to which I am accustomed, a Vietnamese wedding brings to life the strong sense of family loyalty and tradition that is at the core of Vietnamese culture.  

Majestic Jaunts

While American students back home are studying for run-of-the-mill quizzes and tests on the economic supply and demand system, I have been confronted with an immense amount of culture shock. Our visit to the Hill Tribes of Sapa was truly eye opening. School Year Abroad-Vietnam journeyed to Sapa and Ha Long Bay, which sufficed for a week of classes: an educational vacation. Sapa, originally built by the French as a resort town, is in the mountains of Northern Vietnam. The views were breathtaking. After a mostly sleepless night of playing cards and chattering the night away aboard the overnight train, we got on the bus heading to Sapa about 5:30 on Monday morning; everyone was tired, cranky, grumpy, and antisocial. The bus, literally, chugged up the mountain to Sapa which offered us splendid views of the Vietnamese mountains. Upon our arrival, we hiked a mountain and explored local villages. On the mountaintop, we watched a touristy cultural dance show, and got a wonderful view of Sapa at the summit. After the mountainous trek, we headed to Cat Cat Village which specializes in producing gorgeous indigo fabric.

The second morning, we went to the village of Ta Phinh where we were doomed to meet the Red Dzao women entrepreneurs; the tourist business is their specialty. When we arrived in the village, the Red Dzao sellers were huddling among one another and preparing to pounce on us. It was pretty amusing at first, but then things took a turn for the worse. I purveyed the situation and made a cognizant decision because of an epiphany that hit me: I needed to spend my money in order to promote the village’s local economy. The merchants were desperate for my business and money, so I gave it to them. I opted into buying a piece of merchandize, in some cases two, from every Red Dzao entrepreneur who approached me. I wanted to spread my wealth because I pitied their life. It is my nature to be sympathetic and generous. This was my downfall. I fast became the main target; the women followed me with unceasing persistence, and they would not rest until I gave into making yet another purchase. The worst element of this venture: all the tribal sellers spoke fluent English. Therefore, the language barrier wasn’t a valid excuse for walking away, so they haggled me nonstop. Thankfully, Co Becky, our English teacher, saved me from the chaos, and from losing more money. Nevertheless, the Red Dzao women are hardworking and goodhearted citizens, and they deserve a higher level of prosperity, most definitely a chance at achieving affluence. I will never forget being confronted by these tenacious Red Dzao women. The Red Dzao people are a unique group that I appreciate, and that I will never forget because of the profound impact their vending extraordinaire had on my unconventional and sensitive psyche. 

Neighborhood Adventure

Maddy Blais

Motorcycles whizzed by me as I sat in my taxi making slow progress down the street. I was on my way home from school looking out the window of what seemed like a cage, bored with my usual routine. My thoughts drifted to a letter that my brother had written me before I left, “Let me be the one to say that you need to take some little risks… Most of the great stuff I remember from abroad was the spontaneous unplanned disasters that turned into something meaningful to me.” I was suddenly struck with a sense of captivity and a need to escape and pursue some “spontaneous unplanned disasters.” Yelling stop to the taxi driver and shoving some bills into his hands, I hurriedly climbed out of the car. It was a breath of fresh air to be free—I mean this figuratively because at that moment I seemed to be barraged by the putrid smells of burning trash and cooking dog meat! Still, I was excited for my adventure and I carried on without any complaints. Winding down the street I stopped in stores trying on clothes and browsing for fresh fruit. I practiced my Vietnamese, poorly I might add, with some vendors and managed to buy a bouquet of flowers. When I finally reached my house, about an hour later, I found myself locked out! Often in the afternoons the maid in my house takes a walk with my brother, and today seemed to be one of those days. Leaving my flowers on the driveway, I walked back down the street in pursuit of a café. Finding only a small drink shop, I settled down and attempted to get some homework done. Unfortunately this is quite difficult to accomplish when you can feel 10 sets of eyes on you at all times! Apparently I had caused quite a stir by sitting down at this corner shop which is usually only inhabited by Vietnamese men. Finally one of the men approached me and asked me where I was from. I was surprised he spoke English, but I must say that I was really glad to have someone to talk to. We talked for a while and eventually when the conversation died out I began doing homework again. I struggled for a while with the difficult Vietnamese assignment until I realized I have the perfect resource at my hands! A native Vietnamese speaker! The man helped me to finish my homework until finally I heard my name called from down the street. I wondered vaguely how my maid had managed to find me but eventually gave up the peculiar thought when I could find no reason. Later I found out that Co Thuy (my maid) had seen the flowers I had left in the driveway and had gone searching for me. She hadn’t walked far when she heard two men talking about an American girl they had seen walking down the street. Moving along she heard two flower vendors laughing about the silly blonde girl who had paid twice the going price for a bouquet of flowers. Finally she heard two little girls giggling about a white girl who was sitting around the corner at a drink shop! Who knew that just walking down the street could leave such an impression! That day proved to me that one of the most important things I can do in Vietnam and in life is to be spontaneous. 

Mai

by Jaya Sahihi

Part of what makes this experience in Viet Nam so incredible, are the people with whom we suddenly find ourselves crossing paths. From our families, to the people on the street who recognize me on my commute every day and smile, they make the trip all the more fulfilling. There is one woman in particular who made a deep impression on me. She is one of the most hardworking, kind women I have ever met. Her smile is one I never want to forget. You might say I am jumping to conclusions, having known her for such a short amount of time. It is true, we barely knew each other. But I want to tell her story:

            Mai lives in a small village near Sapa. Surrounded by mountains that are carved into steps of rice, it is supported by the men bent over in those fields day after day and the crafts the women make. One thing that struck me about these women is that their hands have been dyed blues and oranges from making their fabrics for so many years. The bags and scarves they have created take months, but are then sold for around $5 depending on how good your bargaining skills are. It is a village filled with colours of the trash lining the streets, the light shining off the bottles, and the intricate embroidered clothing and wares worn and carried by all the women.

            One reason Mai stood out so much was the difference in the way she acted compared to the other women of the Village. The moment the bus pulled up, the women ran after us, each snatching someone to walk with. They were pretty nice but a fair amount of the charm was ruined by the way they made you promise over and over again to buy their products. And this mask could fall in a second if you refused. They would go from chatting on and on, to flinging insults in their language, which I am glad I couldn’t understand.

            By the end of the day I was broke,exhausted, and had a woman continuously glaring at me from the corner of her eye. So, when Mai, a woman who had been accompanying our group on the walk, came up next to Maddy and me on the way to the bus, we quickly told her we had no money left. She laughed and said she just wanted to talk.

            She is a round, smiling face with a beautiful skin colour, complimented by the red cloth she has tied around her head. While a lot of the woman plucked all their eyebrows and hair out, she doesn’t. She told us she doesn’t think it is beautiful, only painful. Her English, like that of the other women, was very good but we learned they had all picked it up from the tourists. Most had not gone to school. That led us into the conversation about how she grew up.

            When Mai was eight, her parents became very sick. Being the eldest in the family, she was suddenly in charge of the rice fields and her two younger siblings. The work was gruelling; every day she would bring in the load on her back. She said between the exhaustion and the loneliness, she would cry every day. Yet, she managed to earn enough money to send her siblings to school. She is still supporting them in school now, In addition to her children. She says she is happy now. She is married with a family. Although it may seem hard for some to imagine a woman so happy with a life like this, trust me, her smile was big and true.

            These women make me think that fate is such a funny thing. Mai is a sweet, hardworking, beautiful woman whose life a person could read so easily that they might be mistaken for a fortune teller. I know how her days will go on for a very long time, just like the day I met her. But she has taken what she was given and turned it into genuine happiness. A giant feat when you consider how unhappy so many of us are.  

As we left she gave both of us a handmade bracelet as a gift. I am still wearing it now and it reminds me to always be thankful.

A Wedding in Vietnam

Abby Ripoli 

Having been in Vietnam for two months already, I am finding new experiences around every corner. This past weekend however, I had a particularly unique experience, a Vietnamese wedding.

Weddings in Vietnam are a lot more similar to American weddings than I had expected. For example, the bride wears a white wedding dress, the same style as we find in the U.S. Most interesting of all was that the wedding was three days long, and each day the bride wore a different dress. The first part of the wedding was on Friday night, which seemed to be some kind of a preview night for the couple. The whole family came to see the couples wedding pictures, which were surprisingly already taken. I drank tea and ate cookies and candy, while all the adults chatted about the couple, speaking way too fast for me to understand. 

The following Saturday festivities were the equivalent to our post ceremony reception in the U.S. There was a big brunch with around 500 people. Everyone sat at nicely decorated, the American equivalent of “white table cloth dining,” and served the Vietnamese version of an elegant platter. From what I was able to observe, the purpose of this day was simply to take pictures with the bride and groom. They were busy posing for photographers the entire afternoon, while the rest of us dined. 

Sunday, the final and most important day of the wedding, we all dressed up in our au dais (the traditional Vietnamese dress) for the official marriage of the couple. Starting at 8 am, we had an early morning of hair, makeup, and photo-taking. The whole family piled into the shared-family cars and headed to the family of the bride’s house. Here we ate cookies, drank tea, and took more pictures. After about an hour of sitting, we piled back into the vans and headed over to the Westlake district, to the family of the  groom’s home. This stop was a little more eventful as we were able to see the room in which the bride and groom would be living, which of course led to more picture-taking. This was also where the bride and groom said they’re prayers to their ancestors, asking for blessing upon their marriage. After this part of the ceremony was over, we walked to a nearby restaurant where the couple was married. 

In contrast to the U.S., the marriage was not performed by a clergy official, but just a guy with a microphone. The couple went on stage to be married along with both the parents of the bride and the groom. The funniest part about this ceremony, was that all the guests were being served lunch while the couple was getting married. Our focus was on which foods to try rather than the actual purpose of us coming. However, no one seemed to mind. This is just another example of some of the cultural differences I’ve noticed here and come to appreciate. Even when it comes to weddings, there is more than one right way to do things. 

It Takes a Little Patience

Anna Leah Eisner

I have never been good with chopsticks. It is a fact that I have been painfully reminded of when the sushi that I have been attempting to shovel into my mouth conveniently ends up on my lap. It is strange to me that I didn’t even think about the difficulties of eating with chopsticks here in Viet Nam until my first meal. I had uneasily glanced down at the chopsticks and picked them up, watching as my other classmates didn’t even hesitate before digging in. My clumsy American hands gripped onto the twigs for dear life and attempted to spear and attack the food that was meant to be gracefully uplifted by a pair of lithe wooden utensils. When it came to rice on that day, the best I could hope for was that the whole bowl didn’t end up in my lap. After that day, my hands had to adapt fast because chopsticks were used to eat every single meal.

The next time that I came into trouble with the chopsticks was my first night eating dinner with my family. As we awkwardly sat around the dinner table (what is it, exactly, that you say to your new daughter/sister from America?), I watched them eat their food with a certain grace that I had not been using with my chopsticks. Each dip into the bowl, an elegant reach for the meat-it all became a dance around me as I sat holding my chopsticks for dear life, petrified that if I were to attempt an act of consumption it would be offensive to the grace around me. Eventually, I chanced a piece of a spring roll and was overjoyed that it didn’t end up in my lap. I happily continued my quest for a full belly, grabbing spring roll after spring roll until I noticed that my sister was laughing at me. She corrected my hold on the chopsticks, and I was off again, attempting to eat my meal unnoticed by my family. I got a few more chuckles from my host parents and several stares from my brother, but otherwise my chopstick usage was not mentioned.

Weeks went by, and I gradually am growing accustomed to using the new utensils. I have been able to eat slippery fish, rice, pho—basically anything that has been put onto my plate. There are still certain mishaps that happen, and every night when the table is cleared, my place is still the messiest, but my family doesn’t point out my clumsiness anymore, so I take that as a good sign. I hope to someday gain the grace that my family has with eating their food, but right now, I am content with having my food make it to my mouth.

The monastery in the mountains

        A real highlight of the Sapa- Ha Long Bay trip was our visit to a Buddhist monastery, Set in a valley, surrounded by forested hills, completely separated from the rest of the busy, crowded society. Our bus slowly wound its way up the hills, then back down into the basin, before driving through the gate. Once we got out and stretched our legs after a long bus ride from Ha Noi, we made our way up the giant staircase to the monastery. Inside, we were greeted by a young monk, who spoke a little English, and he gave us a brief overview about Buddhism and its philosophies. Then, after a prayer demonstration, we met an old monk, who was going to be our meditation teacher. He gave us a brief history of his interesting life. He left his family when he was still very young, and joined the revolutionary army and fought against the French in the 50’s, and then against the Americans in the south in the 1960’s. He was wounded, and left the army, eventually becoming a monk later in his life.

Next he gave us a lesson in meditation. First he taught us how to sit, crossing our legs in ways that would snap my knee off, so I had to settle for plain-old criss cross apple sauce. Then he demonstrated proper technique: Stare at something three feet in front of you, then clear your mind, and count down from ten.

After our lesson, we got another treat - eating lunch with the monks. That was a very strange experience, because the monks eat in complete silence. First, before the food was served, the entire room lit up with the sounds of all the monks chanting their prayers. Then, for the next half hour, there was complete silence. After another chant, the silence was broken, and the meal was done. This visit was an amazing experience, and was definitely a major keystone of our journey.  

Andrew Sanborn

Pineapple Woman

Sarah Weiner

Smothered by the midday heat, pineapple woman squats on the grimy sidewalk behind her basket of fruit. A conical straw hat shades her eyes from the angry sun. Her stick straight, graying hair is pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. A few strands of hair fall into her face; she swats them away, irritated. Her eyes glint with frustration. She hasn't sold enough pineapples today. Her floppy plastic sandals are broken. Her knees ache from squatting like a frog for so many hours. She's drowning underneath the lazy afternoon sky.
A boy is squatting behind her, poking at a burning pile of trash. The bitter smoke of flaming plastic licks her back, intensifying the already unbearable heat. She grimaces, resisting the urge to tell fire boy to take his matches and mischief elsewhere.

Two American tourists, one man and one woman, walk down the street. The young woman is fair skinned and willowy, with blonde mermaid hair and an inquisitive step. Her husband is tall and built, with scruffy brown hair and glasses perched on his pointy nose. He fumbles with a map, craning his neck to look at a street sign. The woman clicks away with her camera, desperate to have evidence of this dilapidated place. Together, they attract many curious stares.

As soon as mermaid woman and her husband come into view, pineapple woman forgets about fire boy. As if a light is switched on in the attic of her mind, her face lights up. Her eyes are rosy now, gleaming with hope. She is sure that these foreigners will buy her fruit. She scrambles to rearrange her pineapples, putting the freshest, ripest ones on top.

When mermaid woman and her husband are closer, pineapple woman beckons the two over, friends, come here, and smiles kindly. She points at her fruit, encouraging them to take a look. The two Americans are surprised. The woman looks to her husband, unsure of what to say to this little wrinkly woman gazing up at them with her soft brown eyes and crooked smile. The man simply waves his hand dismissively, avoiding eye contact with pineapple woman. Oh, friends, come here, she invites them. But the man pretends not to hear her, and continues walking down the street. Mermaid woman hesitates with her step, feeling a pang of remorse for the old woman. But her remorse is short-lived; she walks away quickly to catch up to her husband.

Hope extinguished, pineapple woman is ablaze with loneliness. Her knees begin to ache once again as fire boy makes another small pile of trash. She turns around to watch fire boy light the match. The reflection of the flames flickers in his eyes. Feeling her eyes etching into him, fire boy looks up at pineapple woman. They make eye contact through a sheet of black smoke. It dances between them, mocking their existence as it rises higher than their reach. Together, they look up to the sky, as if the remedy to their ailments is hidden in the fleeing ashes.

The Aquarium

Elliott Crofton

I would be lying if I said coming to Viet Nam was a well thought out decision for me. I made the choice impulsively, which is a bad habit of mine. After going about things this way one must always consider their decision at some point, and to be honest I’m not completely sure that I have yet.

There are two things that stand out about this place. Both are somewhat insignificant, petty even, but they dominant my life every day. The first of these is food. Everybody eats. I would not say I’m so much of a picky eater as I am a bizarre eater. My tastes are eclectic, and I sometimes welcome anything put in front of me. I had had really authentic Asian food before, and enjoyed it. Nonetheless I had no idea what the everyday Vietnamese diet consisted of, and though I’m sometimes open to new things I did not want to be eating dog every day. My worries were unfounded. The food here has simply been delicious.  Eating mi xau bo (egg noodles with beef) every single day for lunch may seem like it would get old, but only if you have not tried mi xau bo. The food is wonderful I also feel like my diet has improved in general. My host mother’s cooking is sublime. I have become particularly fond of her catfish. There is the occasional dinner where my childlike distaste for anything that is slightly different shows itself, so I end up simply eating rice. Overall I eat well in Ha Noi.

Now the traffic. I often form love-hate relationships with people and things. The roads and I are on very odd terms. Walking makes things fairly simple. Crossing the street with intense traffic is daunting, but you learn the skill quickly. I feel like at this point I’m quite the master of cross-walking. But biking is different. You don’t bike on the sidewalk here, you really can’t.  You bike in the street like everyone else. My first bike ride in Ha Noi was terrifying. I rarely rode my bike in the street of my little Aramco suburb. Riding in a sea of inconsiderate motorcycles and a few rude cars did not seem like a good idea to me. After I bought my bike I had to get it home, and the only way of going about that was riding it. Being part of that traffic soon lost its accompanying horror, and now I find it exhilarating. There isn’t a thing about it that’s terrifying. Being part of all those bodies moving through the city is almost a spiritual experience, and merging left is an adrenaline rush.

So, have I made a good decision by coming to Vietnam? It is difficult to say what a good decision is, and it may seem weird that I would weigh traffic and food as heavily as I have. These two things make life more interesting here, so they make me happier most of the time. As do my friends, my host family, and a lot of other small things. We will see if I’ve made a good decision, but as my buddy Aristotle says, “Change in all things is sweet.”

Sisters

Anna Oakes

            I’ve always wanted to have a sister. Although growing up with two younger brothers has its benefits, I often felt a little separated from them, especially as I grew older and began to sit out on their wrestling and toy-soldier sessions. And though I’m used to being an older sister, until recently I had rarely seen myself as much of a role-model for my brothers; I don’t think they really expected it of me. They seemed perfectly satisfied throwing home-made weapons at each other and ignoring my feeble and completely unsuccessful attempts at stopping them.  That’s not to say that I don’t love my brothers—in fact, although I may complain about them, I don’t think that I’d be able to handle any other sibling configuration for longer than a year.

            In Vietnam, however, I am lucky enough to experience what it’s like to have two younger sisters—their names are Ôc and Chíp, and they’re three and nine years old. Not surprisingly, it’s very different from what I’m used to at home. Although my nine-year-old sister, the older of the two, is younger than my youngest brother, we seem to engage with each other more. We spend about an hour after school every day playing dozens of games of tic-tac-toe, looking at photos on my computer, and drawing pictures. I practice my Vietnamese homework with her, and she goes over her English lessons with me.  The three of us have also had several nail-polish sessions, where Ôc’s still-wet bright pink toenails seem to be inexplicably attracted to my bed-sheets. (Luckily I brought nail-polish remover.)

            Ôc is adorable, even if she doesn’t quite understand the games I try to teach her; hand games are too difficult to remember, and whenever we play hot hands she gets a little over-excited and just hits my hands as often and as hard as she can. She does enjoy, however, being swung around in a circle by her arms, and dancing with me. (The latter can be a little awkward, especially since I’m almost three times as tall as she is.) The constant fiddling with my hair is also quite nice, and she loves when I give her ponytails and bizarre hair-dos.

            However to be honest, it can get a little tiring to be constantly smiling and taking pictures and playing through page after page of tic-tac-toe and making dozens of paper airplanes and explaining every single app on my iPod and looking at every single photo on my computer and singing songs and learning songs and trying to communicate and looking at pictures of Barbies and “oohing” and “aahing” at every single one for what seems like hours and hours and hours. Privacy really doesn’t seem to be a concept that they value, though it may just be my Western way of thinking that causes me to be a little exasperated when Ôc comes into my room for the fourth time in half an hour to demand a spot on my lap so she can “help me with work.” (Very cute but, I assure you, also rather annoying.)

            This being said, I don’t want to seem ungrateful, or as if I don’t thoroughly enjoy my sisters—to the contrary, in fact. I already don’t see them in the context of a “host” family anymore; instead—and I know this is a cliché—they, and my host parents, have become my family away from home. Besides, Ôc and Chíp come in handy whenever I see another alarmingly large ant population in my room; they come running whenever they hear my shriek, and we spend the next several minutes jumping and stomping around my room, causing, I’m sure, great damage to the local ant community.

Andrew Sanborn- A taxi adventure

The day started out slow. My meeting wasn’t until noon so I was able to sleep in for the first time since I left. Then it was on to breakfast, and out to the taxi. It was raining slightly as we drove toward the Co Nhue district, around half a mile or so north of my school. I started out the same way I do with most of the cab rides here; said hello in Vietnamese, regretted it when they started speaking to me super fast, stared at them, said xin loi (I’m sorry) and shrugged. Before I left I checked the directions one last time. I was sure that I knew exactly where I was going; after all it was only a few hundred meters or so off the main road! I expected to see the field soon. What I didn’t count on was the driver not understanding a word of English. So we made the turn off the major street onto a smaller street that dove head first into the chaos of crowded streets and densely packed housing. I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to see the field from the street. I tried to tell the driver that I am looking for a “football” field, but he doesn’t understand that, so I try “SOCCER”. I pantomimed whistling, pointing, and throwing in, but he still didn’t know what I’m was saying. Sitting in my seat as the cab pushes deeper and deeper into the unknown, I asked myself, “Self, what the hell have you gotten yourself into this time? I am sitting here alone in the back of a cab going deeper into the ‘jungle,’ I mean city, oh wait it is jungle. Great. I am in a mix of rice paddies and forest, looking for some crappy soccer field that is most likely an empty lot filled with dirt and broken bottles.” I motioned for the driver to “turn around”. He understood that; well it’s a start. He asked a few people on the side of the road, but no one is helping. He called someone on his phone, handed it to me, and I attempted to communicate with two people in broken English. They finally got what I was saying, and I handed the phone to the driver. YES, he understood! “Ahh, football” he said to me. Yes, that is what I was telling you the entire time. As we continued on our quest, the driver pulled over a few times to ask for directions, and now we were getting some positive results. All of a sudden we come around a corner, and there it was, the Co Nhue Fields, in all its majesty! It was better then I ever could have imagined,; it was a synthetic turf field. The driver looked at me, we started to laugh with joy, we high-fived and I paid as we pulled up. I did the impossible -- broke the language barrier and arrived at my destination. Great Success!