Smells like fogey spirit

While we’re on funerary customs, here’s a post left over from Viet Nam. 

On our way out to the Mekong Delta, we passed many fields with small monuments in them, and our guide confirmed that they were gravesites.  Usually there are just a couple, but a few had half a dozen.  Families want to keep their ancestors close to home, our guide told us. 

I couldn’t get any pictures from the bus—too bumpy, too fast, and too far—but here are some from the islands in the Delta.  These were taken from the pony cart, I think.  An even bumpier ride, but much slower.

The small number of monuments tells us that it is a family plot.  A friend who traveled to Hanoi shed some light on how everyone fits.

The newly deceased is buried in a large coffin, and stays there for three years.  Then, the coffin is opened and the bones are cleaned of the clothing and flesh that remains.  It is considered an honor to be able to perform this service for your loved one, and there is a great ritual aspect to it.

There is also a certain unpleasantness, to put it delicately, and this part is not performed by the family.  As part of the mortuary services, the original casket is dug up and aired out for a week before the family claims the remains.

In this way, the family member’s job is more of an honor and less of an onerous chore.

Spontaneous parade

Searching for pictures for the last post, I discovered this one, taken on a side street in Ho Chi Minh City.  Four kids having a spontaneous dragon parade in honor of the new year.  Some pretty impressive drumming, too.

Hand work

With this voyage comes many opportunities for self-discovery and to try new things.  New food, new behaviors.  New constraints and disciplines on board, with limited resources.  New opportunities on land.

In Viet Nam, I got a manicure, my first ever.  My fat, stubby fingers with the ragged nails are not something I've been interested in pampering, but why not?  For three bucks (four with polish, evidently,  five with a generous tip), why not indeed.

I think you need to go with a friend, for a spa date.  The Saigon Spa is up two flights of stairs, and was deserted except for me.  They post a woman downstairs to reel in customers, and they call someone from a back room to do the manicure.  She did not speak a word of English.  Background music of American tunes from the 60's played on Vietnamese instruments.  The song I slow-danced to on my first date with the high school boyfriend who would become my husband (and later not my husband).  Music from the years of American escalation in Viet Nam, music that took me from innocence to outrage in my years from high school to graduate school.

There is a lot of solitary time in a manicure, soaking and drying.  There is a fine line between relaxing and depression when you are half way around the world, alone in the company of a thousand, in a country which tugs at your conscience and memory.  Who knew a manicure could be so powerful a thing?

On to Singapore, where I found a street artist offering henna tattoos.  "Trust me," he said.  "I am the best.  I do all these free hand!"  I have had bad experiences with "Trust me."  His photo album was impressive, but he makes no money from the lookers, only from the ones who do, ultimately, trust him. We negotiated a little on the size and style and he did a beautiful job.

Trusting was the easy part.  Keeping my left wrist from bending, and my arm from being bumped in the crowds of Chinatown was a challenge.  Using only my right hand the rest of the afternoon was a challenge.  I found some bargains worth pulling out my stash of USD for, which meant going into the bottom of my pack and going into the hidden zippered places of my wallet.  I found pictures worth taking one handed.  I found a 7-11 with Slurpees!  (Asia is full of 7-11s, but this is the only one I saw with Slurpees.

Back on the ship, I put the hem on my new skirt.  I sewed every stitch by hand, including overcasting the (6) seams so they won't fray.  No pattern.  There's a pocket inside to hold my passport.  I used my "graduate" scissors from the office.  Ideal for moms.  We don't let Jim use them.  He has to use the boy scissors.

Handwork score card

Manicure:  won't bother.  Just calls more attention to the dirt under my nails, and I'm not comfortable with having someone working on me.

Henna:  I discovered a common thinking pose is chin in my left hand, elbow on the desk.  Turns out this is ideal for showing off the tat as well.  Fun as long as it is temporary.  An Indian friend tells me it may darken in the days to come.  (The picture is of day 1, before the dye chipped off.  It's not that dark now.)

Skirt:  I like the skirt.  A pattern would have helped, as would a measuring tape, room to lay out the fabric, and an iron. Although it goes with all the t-shirts I brought, I reserve the right to cut it up for a shirt once I get home to my seven sewing machines.  Trying new things doesn't mean I can't go back to the old me.

War and Viet Nam

On my last day in Viet Nam, I went to the Mekong Delta on a trip organized by Semester at Sea.  Our guide, in his early 40s, talked a bit about how the war (they call it “the American War” ) affected his family.

His father was a South Vietnamese Army intelligence officer, working closely with the US government.  He was even brought to the US for training.  This worked out well for a while, but after Saigon fell in 1975, Hau’s father was sent to a re-education camp for 5 years.  Then the whole family was made to go work in the jungle for several more years.  The family’s house was seized as well.  It was a very hard time, and Hau remembers foraging for food.

When Hau came of age, his father advised him to avoid military service by running away, but Hau decided to fulfill his obligation.  He says the whole family would have faced prison if he hadn’t.  But his father was so upset by the decision that he disowned his son.

Hau finished his term of service and asked the government to give his father back his house.  He said, “I am a good man.  I have served my country, and this is all I ask.”  He pursued this for about five years until the government finally gave the house back.  Because of this, Hau was able to reconcile with his father.

I find this story very moving—and astonishing.  Hau’s persistence and his success amaze me equally.  Because of his father’s work for the US, three generations of his family are denied membership in the Communist Party, a huge impediment to economic success. 

The Vietnamese approach to the war seems to be, “it’s over, move on.” Certainly there are war museums, and the old news footage they show has a strong anti-American slant, but in the present, there’s no animosity towards Americans.  As Hau said, “Viet Nam is a small country.  We can’t exist on our own.  We have to get along with everybody.”

I was talking about this with one of our professors, who made this observation:  for me, there’s nothing between the Viet Nam war and my trip to Viet Nam.  Those are my only two points of connection to the country.  But for Viet Nam, the American War, destructive as it was, was only one of many wars.  Not their first, not their last.  Since then, they’ve invaded and they’ve been invaded.  There’s also a big element of civil war in that conflict.  The Americans spent a lot of time and money intervening, but we did not divide the country into two.  The South had benefitted from capitalism and many in that area worked willingly with the US.

Earlier in the week, I visited the Reunification Palace, which was the South’s government headquarters before and during the war.  It’s four floors plus a basement.  The top floor is a rooftop garden.  The three floors under that are largely ceremonial.  It reminded me of the Shogun’s Palace in Kobe (someday, perhaps I will write about that, too), with rooms for presenting credentials, and waiting, and being received by the President, the Vice President, or the First Lady.  A cinema, a room for gambling.  Several dining rooms and conference rooms.  A private apartment and a library/classroom.  In all three floors, there are only two for conducting what looks like business.  The President had an office (with a secret passage to the basement for a quick escape), and there’s a map room.

In contrast, the basement is a hive of radios and phones and teletype machines.  And maps.  While the President was in his chair on a raised platform receiving guests who sat in chairs with varying heights indicative of relative power, the Americans were in the basement, running the war.

It’s a jumble of images, not easy for me to sort out.

Water puppets in Saigon

Meanwhile, back in Viet Nam...

In our global society, sometimes it seems like there are few surprises.  Most everything I saw for sale in Japan or China or Viet Nam, I could also buy in the US (with the exception of foods).  My home town has lots of choices of ethnic food.  And people throughout Asia are driving the same cars, using the same cell phones, and listening to the same music as Americans do.

But I am told that water puppets exist only in Viet Nam.

I saw two different water puppet performances while I was there.  These pictures are from the theatre attached to the history museum.  They have an open air stage with rows of simple chairs, which give it a garden feel.  Before each little story, a woman gave us the plot line.  Fortunately, the plots are pretty simple to pick up, because I couldn't get onto the woman's wavelength.  Something about her intonation made it very difficult to tell she was speaking English.

The second show was at a fancy theatre, with a live orchestra and plush movie theatre seats.  I loved having the orchestra, which played a central role in commenting on the action, as well as providing background music.  But the juxtaposition of plush seats and a pond of water was jarring for me.  (I was asked to step in to lead a trip of students to dinner and the show; I am not becoming a water puppet junkie.)

Several of the stories were exactly the same at both theatres, which leads me to believe that they are beloved folk tales.  Here, the man and his wife argue, a cat comes to steal one of the ducks and causes mayhem.  In another, the man is fishing with a net and the wife the idea to fish with a basket.  The fish jump wildly, the woman finally catches one, and the scene ends with the man being overwhelmed by the fish jumping into his net.

All of this is accomplished by four (or six, in the larger theatre) puppeteers who are standing waist deep in the water.  You never see them until they come out at the end to wave and receive your applause.  The puppets are on long rods the color of the water, which you also do not see.  The dragons spit fire and water at each other, the fish jump, the swimmers do acrobatics and wind up making a tower.  It's very impressing stuff for eight hands and a few rods.

In America, puppets are generally for children.  (Ignore Avenue Q.)  In the rest of the world, they have a more central place in the culture and in religion.  In Viet Nam, they are literally making waves.

Aging Aquarius

Doc Micah started us off in Hawaii with “The Volcano Song,” a little ditty his children sang in preschool.  He got his three sons, ages 9-15, to sing it in front of an audience of 500 people, an impressive feat.  We had a parody of “Call me maybe” before Japan, sung by the Resident Directors, struggling to keep their footing as we fought our way through hurricane force winds.  (If we had one before China, it escapes me at the moment.)  Here, for your enjoyment, the words to “Malaria,” sung to the tune of “Aquarius.”

When the moon comes out in Vietnam
And nights are sweltering hot,
Then bugs shall rule the planet,
And all of us begin to swat! 

It is at dawn and dusk we think of malaria
Don’t let it scare-y ya
Malaria!
Malaria! 

Malarone and doxycycline.
Larium is not exciting.
Use your netting while you’re sleeping
Wear long sleeves while bugs are leaping
Use your DEET when skin’s revealing
Stay in at night!
Malaria!
Malaria! 

When the food is looking tasty,
And water seems so clear
Beware, it might be nasty
And mi-ight come out your rear! 

So in the dawn you might wake up with diarrhea-ea
Doc Mike will have to see-ee ya
Diarrhea! 
Diarrhea!

Sympathy is notwithstanding
Roommate not too understanding
Keep yourself up off the toilet
It is best if you can boil it
Wash your hands while on your pub crawl
And take pepto! Pepto Bi-ismol!
Pepto Bismol!
Pepto Bismol! 

The saloon turns to a party house.
And you and her have gone too far.
Be sure to use a condom,
And keep out of her boudoir! 

This is the time that you should think about STD’s
Not drink ‘til you’re on your knees
Delirious!
Precarious!
Hilarious!
Malaria!

Growing up, Aquarius (the end of January and beginning of February) was a big deal, with three birthdays, my parent’s anniversary, and Valentine’s Day, all packed into less than three weeks.  From far away Viet Nam, I send greetings today to my dear sister Ellen, who celebrates her birthday today.  XOXOXO

Watching the world go by

If you are big, you do what you want.

If you are small, you do what you can.

Everybody honks, but only once.

I waited for the bus for about half an hour today, watching the people and watching the traffic.  I find both fascinating.

Our guide told us yesterday that there are 3,000,000 motorbikes in Saigon.  There are 8,000,000 people, and half of them are children, so this adds up to a lot of motorbikes. 

Our guide, Huang, said his grandmother walked from the Mekong Delta (about 40 miles away) to sell her wares at market.  His father road a bicycle and he has a motorbike.  He hopes that his children will one day drive cars.

"No, no!" we said.  "Fight for public transportation!"  Saigon has no subways or light rail and not much of a bus system.  You see a surprisingly small number of bicycles, and they are almost always transporting senior citizens.  Most of the cars are taxis, transporting Western tourists.  More than 95% of the vehicles on the road are motorbikes.

It's hard to get a picture, because they are darting in and out of traffic.  Here are some verbal snapshots.

Helmets are required, but there does not seem to be any standard for helmets.  I saw ones that looked like batting helmets for baseball, and others where the helmet was covered up by another kind of hat.  As with other laws, there are plenty of people who simply ignore the helmet law.

Since motorbikes serve as the family car, it is common to see young children on them.  Children stand in front of the driver, sit between their parents, and are held in their parents' arms.  Today, I saw several motorbikes tricked out with actual chairs for little ones.  They are real chairs, however, not seats designed for motorbikes.  Those are nonexistent.

Both men and women commonly wear masks.  You see a lot of masks on motorbike passengers, but far fewer on pedestrians, unlike Japan and China, where as much as 25% of the population is wearing surgical-style masks.  Women also commonly wear hoodies or a kind of scarf/hat combination that covers their face and front.  I have seen several children with mosquito netting (though I have not seen nor been bitten by a single mosquito, despite my refusal to use DEET).  Very young children are often completely wrapped up in blankets.

Motorbikes are used for transporting goods home, and for operating mobile businesses.  They might have a big cardboard box strapped to the back, but I didn't see motorbikes with storage built into the design.  And none pulling trailers of any kind.

On the way back to the port, the bus driver came to an intersection, gave a blast of his horn, and turned left on a red light, blending smoothly into cross traffic.  Honking, in addition to expressing your opinion, can signal intent.

Saints and sinners

I’ll see your Saint Ralph and raise you a Victor Hugo

We Unitarian Universalists are sometimes characterized as believing anything we want to, which is unfair and simplistic, but it is certainly true that we have an eclectic set of beliefs, gathered from religions traditions throughout the world, science, nature, direct experience, and a couple more sources that you can look up if you care to at uua.org.  Ralph Waldo Emerson figures prominently in the American history of the movement, and we fondly call him St. Ralph.

In Viet Nam, I have been introduced to a new religion called Cao Dai, the Esperanto of world religion, founded in 1926, it has between 3 and 6 million followers (depends on who’s counting), virtually all of them in Viet Nam or in communities of Vietnamese immigrants.  Yesterday, I visited the CaoDai temple in Saigon and watched the noon service.

So far on this trip, I have been visited religious sites and services for Buddhists, Moslems, Christians, and now, Caodaists.  I find it interesting and unsettling in equal parts.   As we peer into a chamber reserved for believers, or take pictures of believers engaged in the practice of their religion, I feel acutely what it means to intrude on something holy.  Like so many other things, I view religious sites through the lens of my own experiences and beliefs.  I try to understand the place of the religious practice in the lives of these believers, but I’m largely unsuccessful in putting aside my own skepticism.  Still, it’s particularly interesting to chart the course of a new religion.

Cao Dai is often presented as a made-up religion, an amalgamation of Islam, Buddhism, Christianity, Hinduism, Daoism, and social progressive thought.  If everyone believed the same thing, there would be no more wars.  Its roots, however, are in divine revelation—this all appeared to the founder in a dream.  But the world is full of cults whose founders claim divine revelation.  Which Kool-Aid is safe to drink?  When does a cult become an established religion?  (In this case, 1997, when the government of Viet Nam allowed its practice.)

Fitting in all the beliefs is no easy task.  The symbol for Cao Dai is the left eye, which is the eye of God, seeing directly to the heart.  In the creation story, there is one god, who creates the Mother Buddha, who is (like the one god) male, but in charge of the female side.  This makes equality of the sexes difficult, and in fact, the sexes are side by side, but clearly separate, in the service.  Women cannot be Pope here, either. 

Yes, there is a Pope and a Holy See.  But no competition for Benedict’s successor, I think.  There is also genuflecting and crossing oneself three times, and kneeling with touching forehead to the floor, and repetitive prayer chants and gongs.  Music carries the prayers to Heaven, where God lives, and where you will eventually live, too.

The temple is a colorful place.  The worshippers were almost all dressed in white robes, but the number of shoes by the door suggests they are not monks who live and work in the compound.  We were told the ones with white headdresses are in mourning (mourning periods are long, explaining the large numbers of mourners). 

As we left, I saw this picture of the three saints,  Sun Yat Sen, Victor Hugo, and a poet laureate of Vietnam in the 16^th century, Nguyen Binh Khiem.  No matter how I parse it, that one seems arbitrary.  I heard today at breakfast that Thomas Jefferson is also revered (of COURSE he is) and Joan of Arc in an important figure.  So it must have been hard to pick just three.

I would like to be more open to this religion.  I like the idea of finding commonalities among religions, of unifying people, of working towards love, equality, justice.  I root for the underdog in many things.  But the choreography of yesterday’s service might as well have been the Hokey Pokey.

Which is, after all, what it’s all about.

Picture Perfect

The muddy water and drab buildings en route were poor representatives of the Saigon we got to see today.

The official name is Ho Chi Minh City, but Saigon is commonly used.  Although the State Department's CSI warns that blogs critical of the government can land you in prison, the government is not much in evidence on the streets of this city, which seemed today much more interested in having a good time than in asserting itself politically.

We are a couple of days into Tết, the new year's festival.  The streets downtown are a blaze of color, with flowers everywhere, of the real and the artificial kind.  Nguyen Hue street is closed to traffic, with block after block of floral displays, like the Rose Bowl parade standing in place.

Many of the stores are closed.  This is a time to dress up and greet friends, not to make money. All along Nguyen Hue, families are strolling from display to display, stopping to have their pictures taken.  Many are in traditional clothing, others are dressed in Western party clothes, and some are in everyday clothing, but cameras are everywhere.

I know it's rude, but it's impossible not to stare at the spectacle, and I surreptitiously take lots of pictures of the people taking pictures.  I love the way they strike poses, as if the camera is a novelty in their lives.  

One group of five people is taking turns.  One person shoots the other four, then another rotates out to be the photographer.  As I often do, I approach and sign to ask, would they like me to take a picture of the whole group?  Yes, please!

I hand the camera back and stroll on.  A moment later, two of them approach me and sign they want to have me in their picture.  They put me in the middle, and each of them makes the V for peace sign as we smile for the camera.  (It's ubiquitous.  I have seen it in Japan, China, and now Vietnam.  Wherever tourists take pictures, they make the V.  No waves, no thumbs up; always the V.)

I imagine the slide show.  "We couldn't figure out what this American lady was saying.  Why did she want to take our picture?  But she was offering to take a picture for us.  Isn't that sweet?"

Later, the favor is returned.  I am taking pictures of the streets lit up, and a vendor comes over and gestures at my wrist.  He's not grabbing at it; he obviously doesn't want my cheap K-mart watch.  He reaches for my camera strap and makes it clear he thinks I should carry it on my wrist.  Lady, you're asking for trouble standing that near to the street without securing your camera better.

Just a simple kindness to a stranger.  Life is full of sweet moments today.

Stepping out in Saigon

During the preport, our Executive Dean (Tom) demonstrated the proper way to cross the street.  Walk purposefully and without hesitation into traffic, and it will flow around you.  Do not change speeds, and do not, under any circumstances, stop. 

This is, in fact, the only way to cross a street.

Traffic does not stop for crosswalks.  Traffic lights are rare and considered optional.  Remaining in the actual street is also optional, as far as we could see.  Motorbikes came up quite randomly on the sidewalk, as well as on streets that were putatively closed to traffic. 

Kerri and I headed into the city around three, which is probably the hottest part of the day.  Traffic was very light.  We had been warned by the port agent that everything was shut down for Tết.  No stores, or banks, or restaurants would be open.  Everyone was home (in the countryside) for the holidays.

It turned out there were plenty of people around.  Families were out strolling and posing for pictures.  Lots of shops and restaurants were closed, but there was plenty to see and do.

We spent most of our time on streets that were closed to traffic for a book fair and the flower market.  But as we explored a little further, and the evening cooled off, the traffic got crazy.  It reminded me of summer in resort areas in the States, where teens parade in their cars.  Thousands of young people on motorcycles, two, three or more to a single cycle, strutting their stuff. 

We got pretty good at the crossing routine.  At first we hitched ourselves to the locals, but then we branched out on our own.  The key is to just keep going.  Hesitate and you confuse the drivers, who are compensating for your speed.  It is like stunt driving in car commercials, all perfectly choreographed.  

And it looks a lot easier than it is.

Preport jitters

Before every port, we have a mandatory meeting where we get basic survival information.  We hear what the entry process will be, how to get local money, how to say hello and thanks, and maybe the weather forecast.  We are warned about whether the food and drink are safe.  After our first port, we started to get the "this is serious, this is scary" warnings.  After our second, we started to get the police report.  In Vietnam, half the people are terrified to get off the ship.

In Japan, a couple of people got rufied (drugs in their drinks) and had their credit cards stolen.  Bills up to $8500 (probably credit card max) in fraudulent charges.  A few robbed, sexually assaulted.  In China, three people lost their passports (one stolen, one lost, one lost but subsequently found).  More drugged students. 

In Vietnam, we now hear, people on motorbikes grab your sunglasses or your purse as they race by.  They target people walking and in cyclos, the motorcycle taxis.  People have been injured, dragged behind motorcycles because their purses were strapped across their bodies.  IPhones are particular targets; evidently their screens are particularly valuable.

This fun information comes to us from the Department of State, which provides us "Country Specific Information," most of which is, "Travel at your own risk.  If these terrible things happen to you, don't look to us for help!"  Eight pages for Vietnam.  One of my little jobs is to print and post the CSI, so I read the whole thing.  The other scared people were just paying attention to the dire warnings given to the ship.

In addition, we were treated to slide shows of injuries from the ship's most recent trip to Saigon.  Mostly, these were burns from motorcycles.  A few parasites picked up from swimming in fresh water.  Another slide show dealt with souvenirs we are not allowed to bring back:  liquor bottles with snakes and scorpions, cigarette lighters that look like grenades, varous souvenirs that look like bullets or are made from bullets.  All the pictures are of things confiscated from returning passengers.

Our ship's staff captain, in a rare display of humor, suggested that there were other souvenirs we should be wary of bringing home, as we do not want to have to visit the ship's souvenirologist.  (This was an oblique reference to STDs, for an audience which included the children of faculty and staff.)

We were also treated to a brilliant parody of "Aquarius," sung in harmony, where the first verse was "malaria," the second was "diarrhea," and the third, "gonnorrhea." 

Travel isn't for sissies, I find.  I've been taking my malaria pills, I'll carry bottled water, STDs are not a concern, but I haven't figured out how to carry these essentials without involving a purse:

• Vietnam landing card
• copy of my passport (they recommend two, actually)
• greensheet (emergency information for the ship)
• phone (not IPhone, but smart phone) with local map
• camera
• money
• sunglasses
• hand sanitizer
• toilet paper
• water bottle
• health information (insurance cards for home and ship plans)
• fake wallet with minimal money and old ID cards
• power bar for emergency food source
• bug spray
• sunscreen
• pills for avoiding TD and pills for treating it if avoiding it fails

That 17-pocket vest is looking better after all.

From my desk, I can see the line for the gangway.  Looks like everyone is going to take a chance on it.  Our executive dean did say that we would love it.  Presuming we all survive.