Notes from the other side of the world

Missing eyebrows

If you were ever wondering how much trouble you can get into with a $2 eyebrow arching, the answer is a lot. Well, sort of. I guess it depends on your definition of trouble and how you like your eyebrows. Mine have always been fairly bushy (to the extent that my mom treated me to have a facial when I was about 13 and asked the lady to do something about the “caterpillars” above my eyes) and I am often frustrated by a stray little hair and trying to keep them in some sort of shape. However, despite this love-hate relationship, I am still rather fond of them just the way they are. Or maybe that should be the way that they were.

Having been allowed to take two weeks off over Christmas, I spent a few days over New Years in Hoi An, a town in the south central of Vietnam, which is known for its over 400 tailors and its architecture (it is also the place that Jeremy Clarkson and the boys had their suits made in the recent Christmas special. I am not usually a fan of Top Gear, but as it was set in Vietnam I thought it might be interesting. As usual, Clarkson drove me nuts, not least by constantly mispronouncing Ha Long, the name of the place that they were travelling to). I am not very good at shopping for clothes in normal circumstances, but put me in a situation where I not only have to decide on what garment I want, but also the material and colour I want it in, along with which buttons I would prefer, the type of collar or hem, the length, etc. it all becomes a little overwhelming. So after two days of walking around Hoi An, exploring the sights, and popping into different tailors and shoe shops, comparing prices and materials (not that I know that much about materials but I tried my best to pretend, and to avoid the plastic-looking ones) and going for fittings, V and I decided that we would find ourselves a spa and I treated myself to a facial. Seeing it as the perfect opportunity to deal with my unruly eyebrows, I decided on an eyebrow “arching”, thinking it was just another term for a wax. The problem with assumptions, though, is that they can be wrong just as often as not. I should have known things were not quite right when the lady got out the razor and started to trim around the top of my brows. However, by the time I realized what she was doing, it was too late to say anything. As much as my face feels a little naked with my new slim line eyebrows, I would have looked a little strange with one eyebrow all short and trimmed and the other not, so once the first razor stroke had been made I had to go through with it. They don’t look too bad I suppose, although it did not help that V, an intern at the German project in Dong Hoi who I was travelling with, laughed when she first saw them. The big thing is that I now have tan lines on my face. After ten days on the beach on Phu Quoc Island over Christmas, I have acquired a fairly decent tan but one can see where my eyebrows used to be and it looks a little strange. I suppose the good thing is that they will grow back. I hope.

Cosmetic mishaps aside, Hoi An is a great place, even if it did rain for two out of the four days I was there. Parts of the old city are closed off to all but pedestrians and ‘primitive vehicles’ so there is no need to worry about dodging motorbikes as you wonder from one tailor to the next. The buildings are beautiful, remnants from the French colonial days, often painted yellow, but showing signs of age and the humid climate. The food also shows French influences, and there are some fantastic bakeries and cafes that I was able to shelter in when it got too much to be wondering around in the rain. Warm croissants for breakfast, chocolate mousse cake, passion fruit mousse, tarte au citron for dessert in the evening (not all on the same evening, although I was tempted), Hoi An is not the best place to be if one were on a diet.

And the initial stress of making decisions was worth it in the end. I have a dress I love and a few other bits and bobs, as well as a sparkly pair of ballerinas. When I walked into one of the shoe shops, there was a red pair that I just loved. Unfortunately, they no longer had the red material so I have had to settle for them in brown, but they are now sitting in my room, waiting for a day when the rain stops in Dong Hoi so that I can wear them without ruining them.

Common sense

Common sense, as my sister is so fond of telling me, is not common to all. Unfortunately, I proved this point on Friday evening. My friend A is leaving Vietnam next week and had organized a farewell/Christmas party and I had decided to go to Hanoi for the weekend. I got to the train station with more than enough time, kept my distance from the tracks as I walked to the right coach (you don’t want to get too close to the coaches when the train first pulls into the station. The septic tanks are emptied directly onto the tracks, splashing the nearby platform and there is always a strong stench after the train has been in the station for a few minutes. I for one try my best to avoid being splashed). I found my bunk okay and everything was going well until I had settled in, waiting for the train to leave the station. The conductor asked if I wanted a cup of coffee, and for some reason I said yes. I do not usually drink coffee and the logic of having a cup of steaming caffeine right before I wanted to sleep on a night train still escapes me. The only thing that I can think of is that I was thirsty.

 So instead of sleeping all the way to Hanoi, I lay on my bed (which is actually quite comfortable), unable to sleep, and looked out of the window. I was on the bottom bunk and luckily the moon was out, so I had a very good view of the mountains as we rolled past. I could even make out the water buffalo asleep in the rice fields and the shadows of the trees that carpet the mountainsides seemed to dance as we went past. The world did go black every now and then, as the train plunged into tunnels cut deep within the mountains, but after a few minutes the moonlight would return as the great hulks of rock loomed up above me, before receding slowly into the background.

There was even the occasional little twinkle of light as we passed houses and settlements. Most areas in Vietnam, even the most rural ones, have electricity. The country is in that funny in-between stage of development. It has experienced high levels of economic growth in recent years and will soon move from being classed as a low-income country by the World Bank to a middle-income country. According to the World Bank “In the last years, Vietnam has stood as an example of a development model that has lifted millions of people out of poverty while ensuring the benefits of its vibrant market economy are fairly evenly distributed across society” and in many instances this is true but as in all countries, there are some areas that benefit more than others. When I first arrived, I am not entirely sure what I was expecting but electricity in almost every village, along with schools and clinics is probably not it. Vietnam is certainly more developed than I had initially expected. However, having been here a few months a few cracks have begun to appear in this picture of development. Quang Binh is one of the poorest provinces in Vietnam, and although there is electricity and most of the villages are connected by some sort of road system, that does not necessarily mean that they always work. As I have found on several occasions, when it rains heavily, some roads become impassable to all but light-weight motorbikes (and even these have trouble sometimes). During big storms here, electricity lines are knocked over, and people risk electrocution. Even when there are no big storms, the presence of power lines is not guarantee of electricity. During our visit to the micro-finance projects a week ago, the electricity was out in all expect the big towns in the province, something which I have been told is a fairly common occurrence.

Back on the train, there were two other people in the same compartment as me, a business man and his nephew. It would appear that they could not sleep either, and a few hours into the journey they turned the light back on and had some supper. I was listening to music and staring into space (well watching the scenery go by, but this was more difficult with the light on as I had to look past my reflection in the window) when I got a tap on the shoulder and heard “em oi” (“oi is used here to get someone’s attention, and women younger than oneself are referred to as “em”. A woman who is older than the speaker is called “chi”. A bit like miss/m’am, mademoiselle/madame I suppose). They were eating cassava dumplings and wanted to know if I would like some. The three of us sat in silence, unwrapping and munching on the cold dumplings, which were rather delicious. After we had finished (well had eaten enough. They had a gigantic bag full of the dumplings which were wrapped in banana leaves which would have been impossible to finish. Presents for Quang Binh to friends and family living in Hanoi I assume), the uncle started to chat to me. The only problem was that I had no idea what he was asking, until I rummaged in my bag and found my phrasebook. I do not have occasion to use it all that often at work or at the hotel, but it was rather handy on the train, and through it I explained that I was a student from Africa who now lives in Canada. Very few people here know where South Africa is, and I have received a few blank stares when talking about the continent. It appears that it is not just in North America that African geography is grossly under-represented in curricula.

 There were also the standard questions of how old I am, how long I have been in Vietnam etc. and it was not until about 45 minutes later that they handed my book back to me and the lights were once again switched off. Even after all of that, I was still not able to go to sleep (bloody caffeine) and spent another hour or so just staring out of the window. Luckily, by midnight I was able to fall asleep (the train takes 10 and a half hours to cover the almost 500km between Hanoi and Dong Hoi, so I was able to get a few hours sleep before we rolled into Hanoi station). I will have to be careful not to make the coffee-before-bedtime mistake again, although I suppose, there are worse places than a train traversing moonlit Vietnam to be unable to sleep.   

Duck eggs

Stuck in the mud... again

It had been raining during the night, and A, a Dutch man who works on one of the environmental projects in the national park, had brought along a pair of Wellingtons with him. As way of explanation as we boarded the bus, he made some comment about feeling a bit silly bringing them along, but that you never know what might happen. And indeed you never know what will happen. Yes, once again I was in the vehicle that got stuck, only this time it was not for that long and really we should never had got stuck, but I will come to that. We had just come from visiting a lady who grows mushrooms to sell in her local market and to the soldiers at the nearby army base in the mountains, and were heading towards another village to visit a co-operative, when we came across a construction site, spanning the road. A canal was being built, and there was a little bit of a rise before one was able to get onto the bridge. Now, I may not be the most confident driver in the world, but even I know that if the driver had maintained a little speed and had just gone for it, there would have been no problem and we would have sailed over the bridge, able to carry on on our merry way. Instead, our driver decided to slow down as he came to the rise, and then to stop in the muddiest part of the road, which had been softened by the rain and turned up by the machinery that they were using to build the canal. An ideal spot for the mini-van to sink into the soft red mud. After a few minutes of the driver considering the option, he decided to try and carry on, but by this point in time, it was too late and we were stuck. Everyone had to pile out of the vehicle, and we stood there watching as the wheels spun round and round, sinking further into the mud. A was right to come prepared, and whilst the rest of us were wandering around trying to avoid getting too muddy, he was able to pull on his wellies and stride around the vehicle, inspecting the damage with the driver. It had started to rain again, and it was decided that we should try and push the min-van out of the mud. As the construction workers looked on, several of us leaned against the front of the vehicle, pushing as the driver tried to reverse out of the mud. No luck: the wheels had lost all traction and were simply spinning. A few people from the nearby village came out to see what was going on, and if they could help. Once again, I was asked where in Russia I was from.

After a few more attempts and try a wooden plank, branches and sticks under the wheels to give them something to grip on, we were finally able to find enough shingle to put under the wheels and with one last push, the min-van came free. As I had been using my hands to scoop the shingle under the wheels, they were covered in mud, and I had to find somewhere to wash it off. There was a pond next to the road, so whilst the others were scrapping the mud off their shoes, I climbed down to wash my hands, all the while hoping that I did not slip and fall in. I can be slightly clumsy at times, and the last thing that I needed was to fall head first into the water. Luckily, I was able to make it back to the vehicle without incident. We then visited a rice wine distillery, where I was able to sterilize my hands, using a technique used by mid-wives in rural Vietnam (or so I am told). Rice wine is fairly strong alcohol, and the distillery we visited produced bottles that were 30, 35 and 45% proof. Now I am aware that there could have been all sorts of things in the water that I used to wash my hands (the travel nurse I went to see before I left would have a heart attack if she knew), and I was keen to wash them again, just to be safe. However, soapy water was not an option at the time, and one of the ladies who was with us, suggested that I rub some rice wine on my hands. It was also a way to learn more about the wine. Apparently, it is possible to determine the quality of rice wine by putting some on one’s hands and rubbing them together. If one can smell rice, then the wine is of a high quality. I am not entirely sure about the quality of the wine, I smelt rice but some of the others didn’t, but at least the alcohol should have killed most of the bugs on my hands. Which is great seeing as we were heading for lunch after the distillery: Vietnamese hot pot, with shell mushrooms for the farm we visited. Who needs Purell?

"Only Becca"

We have an expression in my family: “Only Becca”, which is often employed with much eye rolling and a knowing smile by my family members when I once again prove that they really cannot take me anywhere. Today has been one of those days filled with “Only Becca” moments, although I have to admit that I might have outdone myself with my escapades at lunch.

I am currently in Hanoi, having come up over the weekend to see friends. Following a busy morning bustling to and fro, stocking up on supplies to take back with me, and trying to find a birthday present for the friend I am staying with, I decided that it would be nice to have lunch somewhere quiet and to start working on the report that I have to have finished by the middle of next week. All was going well, as I found a seat in Mocha, a not inexpensive café with a nice view of the church, was able to connect to the internet and had ordered my tuna sandwich. I was happily going about my business, catching up on the news and checking e-mails (I can never seem to sit down and immediately start work on what I am supposed to be doing. There is a little routine I have to follow before hand, just to make sure I am up-to-date with everything you understand. Admittedly, it is a rather effective procrastination tool.) Lunch arrived, with chips, and I absent-mindedly picked up the bottle of tomato sauce and gave it a little shake. No, for those of you who were about to jump the gun, the lid did not come off, although the “Only Becca” moment was soon to make an appearance. I was successfully able to right the bottle, lid attached and all, but as I unscrewed the lid to put some tomato sauce on my plate, there was a large pop, and next thing I knew I was sitting there covered head-to-toe in red. Not only was there quite an impressive splatter up the wall (I think some abstract artists might very well have been impressed), but it was all over my laptop and all over me. The lady next to me was very concern. As I tried to wipe the tomato sauce from my eyes, she kept desperately asking me if any of it had gone up her trousers. It was only once I had reassured her that most of it had gone over me, and there was no red on her trousers, that she looked over at me, remarking “you look like you have been attacked” (well, yes love, that is why you will have to excuse my lack of concern over any potential splotches of red on your dark green khakis. I was too busy trying to wipe the sauce out of my eyes, and wondering if I will ever get the stains out of my grey shirt). She then took a picture, making sure that I turned towards her, so that she could forever capture the extent of the damage. Impressed, I was not.

Several waiters rushed over with serviettes and the manager came over to see if I was okay. What does an embarrassed person, covered in tomato sauce say? The manager brought me a Mocha t-shirt and directed me towards the bathroom where I was able to wipe off most of the sauce from my face, arms and hair, whilst someone moved my lunch to another table and wiped the tomato from the walls. By the time I got back to my table, everyone had gone back to their lunches and there were only a few sympathetic smiles from people who were just thankful that it was not them. After that, lunch was a rather rushed affair, I just wanted to get back and wash my hair. When I got back to D’s, I noticed that there were even red splotches on the white t-shirt the manager had given me. I tell you, that stuff gets everywhere.  

I am all cleaned up now; having washed my hair and scrubbed my arms to make sure that there is no tomato sauce hiding anywhere. All I can say is it is a good thing that I came prepared and packed another shirt, just in case I needed it.

Bike chains and bruises

The road that I take to get to work is not lit by street lights, so of an evening, the only light is that provided from the moon (if it is not hiding behind the clouds which seem to have moved in and now occupy the sky most days). Tonight however, there were glowing embers all along the road, like tiny runway lights. At first, my Disney days made me think that it may have been the eyes of little animals, but I realized that this could not be the case, unless there was a sudden rat infestation that was only affecting parts of the city (not that this is not a possibility, rats pop up a fair bit here). Then I noticed the smell of incense and realized that is was the middle of the luna month and that people were burning incense and paper for that. The beginning and middle of the luna month are quite important here, and people burn incense to pay respect to their elders, and burn money, paper etc. to ask for good luck in the coming weeks/ months. At the beginning of the month, people also buy flowers and make rose water. For a few days, every two weeks or so, there is a smell of incense in the air, which can be pleasant when I cycle past.  

I was lucky that it was not raining, something which it has been prone to do now that it is winter and has cooled down. I have a red rain jacket/poncho type thing, which I bought the second week I was here, as the one I had originally bought with me from Canada was soaked through in the first storm we had. Because of its shape, it often flaps out behind me as I ride, a bit like a Batman cloak, but in red, not black, and without the aerodynamics of the Batman’s cape (It does create some drag when I cycle, enough for me to feel the difference, at least).

However, it is not all fun and games on the bike. The chain has come loose, so that the pedals just spin aimlessly, with no power what so every to move me forward. And there is no warning that it is going to happen. Whilst I am cycling, I just keep pedalling, hoping that I will not run out of momentum and fall over before the pedals catch again. Most of the time this works, but occasionally I have had to stop, get off and spin the wheels until the chain starts working again. If I am not yet on the bike, and have no momentum, then it is a completely different story. There have been a couple of times when I have been left with bruises, but nothing that does not heal (knock on wood. I wouldn’t want to jinx it now).  My bike is going to the shop tomorrow, and should be done by the evening. I hope so at least, because I think that I will miss it, if it were not around.

Two bowls of noodles

This morning, I had two bowls of noodles before 10am. Granted, the first one was fried cassava noodles and the second was pork and rice noodle soup. However, this is not really about the food, which was good, but rather about me learning that I should be careful for what I wish for.

Breakfast at my hotel had previously been a fried egg, a mini baguette and some fruit (usually a banana), and after two months of the lure of fried eggs had dimmed and I was trying to find ways to change it up a bit. On my latest trip to Hanoi, I scoured the supermarkets looking for little treats that I could not find in Dong Hoi. I dragged R all the way around Hanoi looking for rooibos tea, which I know I saw the first time I was up there, but was unable to find anywhere this time around. I had to settle for lemon tea and plain black tea, which hit the spot nicely. I found digestives (even the chocolate covered ones) and spent a fortune on a jar of nutella and one of apricot jam (I say a fortune, but really it was the equivalent to Canadian prices, but still the nutella accounted for a fifth of the total of my shop!) I even found some Coco pops and have developed a solution to the problem of keeping milk in a fridge (there are little juice box size cartons of long life milk here that are just about the right size). I also stocked up on other things, like mosquito spray and dental floss. Apparently, floss is considered a luxury item here, and it was only after R had mimed flossing that we were directed to a counter in one of Hanoi’s supermarkets, where it is kept along with the more expensive face creams and other such things. I had run of bug spray, and was using up the last of the bottle left by the previous intern. The mosquitoes in the office love me for some reason, and I am determined not to be their daily buffet. Strangely enough, the spray was fairly difficult to track down, not as elusive as rooibos, but still not on every shelf. It is not mosquito season at the moment, but it is coming. I ended up with an interesting orange scented can, which seems to be doing the job, and a plug-in zapper. I am determined to wage war on these mosquitoes and am preparing myself for when they arrive in force.

I was rather pleased with my little stash (although for some reason I decided to buy a pillow in Hanoi, just a little one for my bed, but still a pain to get back on the train) and was actually looking forward to opening the nutella and eating it with a baguette at breakfast. After weeks of grumbling about fried eggs and five days in Hanoi eating anything but (R and D introduced me to Café 129, a tiny place in Hanoi which serves the most delicious meals. I was able to tuck into a British breakfast, with scrambled eggs and HP sauce, whilst R and D enjoyed breakfast burritos. I even had freshly squeezed apple juice, which I was previously unaware that one could squeeze by hand), I was prepared and even looking forward to the ‘usual’. Only, the usual is no longer the usual. I appear to have graduated to Vietnamese breakfasts, which at my hotel tends to be some variation of noodle. I guess that I am going to have to make a trip to the bakery to get something with my nutella and jam. That will teach me to grumble about fried eggs.

Today has been certainly been a little different from most Mondays, and not just because of my two bowls of noodles. From what K tells me, most people here do not eat breakfast at home, but rather eat at one of the small ‘restaurants’/food stalls that line the busier roads in Dong Hoi, which is where we ended up today as K had not had time to have breakfast that morning, and as the boss was out of the office we took 20 minutes to go and grab something. As the boss and most of those over thirty are out of the office, the atmosphere was slightly different, and perhaps a tad more relaxed. Now, don’t get me wrong, we were not slacking off, and apart from out breakfast break, we had a really productive day, ploughing through the forms that still threaten to topple over and trap me at my desk. But after a few weeks of running around and helping K prepare for conferences in Laos and Hanoi about the Convention on Cluster Munitions, we both certainly benefited from some comic relief, which we found in the form of youtube videos. K sent me the link to one of a laughing baby, who burst into fits of giggles when he ripped a piece of paper his dad was holding out for him, before falling over and then starting all over again. I sent her the one for “Charlie bit my finger again”. I have seen the video several times, and it always makes me laugh, more so since my mom told me that I used to do the same thing with my sister to try and get her into trouble when we were younger. However, the funniest thing about the video today was K’s reaction to it. She just cracked up and got the giggles, which set me off. Even when G, whose office is next to ours, stuck her head in to see what was going on, it was hard to stop. For the entire afternoon, K would randomly say “Ow, Charlie, Charlie, that hurts”, which set us off again. For a Monday, it was a pretty fun-filled day.     

Bouncing off the walls

Yesterday was a fun-filled and eventful day though. G called me at 8 o’clock to ask if I wanted to go for coffee, which meant that the day got off to an early start, but it seems that people here get up early and go to bed late. Sleeping in over the weekend does not seem to be that popular, and the coffee place was absolutely packed. After we finished there, G offered to chow me where the supermarket was. I did not even realize that Dong Hoi had a supermarket, so it was very interesting when we got there. The building is in one of the newer parts of town, and the supermarket is situated above a motorbike dealership. I got the impression that it was quite an exclusive place, although the prices aren’t necessarily that much higher than the mini-mart that I have been going to. There were security guards all over the place and there was an escalator up to the second floor (for some perspective, one has to take the stairs to get to the second floor of the Department of Foreign Affairs office in Dong Hoi). I have been told that people in Vietnam do not go to the supermarket very often, and that when they do it is often considered quite a big deal. I am not sure if the supermarket in Dong Hoi fits into the category of those that are reserved for only the occasional visit, but I have to admit I was a little bit like a kid in a sweet shop, even if I didn’t actually buy much (apart from a pack of Oreos). I now know where to go to get a kettle so that I can have tea in my room, and I saw a hair dryer for $3, so I might invest in that for the winter months when just letting my hair dry might not be such an attractive option (although temperatures don’t drop that much here, especially compared to Canada). I also know where to go if I ever fancy Italian pasta and spaghetti sauce in a bottle (the only problem with this plan is that I have nowhere to cook such a meal. But it is nice to know the option is there). I looked for some skin cream, but the only ones I could find contained whiteners, so I will have to continue my search. I have planned a trip there on my bike during the week to stock up on all sorts of things.

After the supermarket, we then went to the market, where most people tend to do most of their shopping (that and in many of the small shops that line the main road). G took me to the person who she usually buys from, and helped me buy some pomelo and a kilo of pears (not a fruit I usually eat, but I quite like these ones. If I get a bowl from the shop this week, I might even be able to make myself a fruit salad). G told me that if I liked the fruit, I should go back to the lady we went to yesterday as she would not charge me more. The last time I went to the market with K, she told me to go for a walk whilst she bought the fruit for me. However, it was my first weekend here and I kept walking past the stall to make sure I didn’t lose K, so I think I blew my cover and K had to bargain a little harder so that we weren’t overcharged. Now I know which lady to go to, I think it should be easier. Yesterday, G also showed me where to get some delicious fried cakes. The ones I had yesterday had green bean filling, but there are also sweet ones, and I think I might become a regular there, once I brush up on my numbers and bargaining skills. (I have asked G if she knows anyone who can give me Vietnamese lessons, as I think I need a more structured approach to learning the language. As G pointed out when I asked her, I don’t actually need it to work and the people at the hotel speak English, but I feel bad not being able to speak to the guards and the cook at work, and it makes me less confident to go out over the weekend, knowing that if someone says something to me I will have no idea what they are saying.)

Today has not been quite as eventful. I have hot water (which is not always the case) so I have had a long shower and washed my hair (it’s so much nicer to be able to stand under the shower head and not freeze as the water splashes over me), and then I did my washing. I have discovered that my feet strongly dislike the washing powder that I am using. I have to stand in the shower to do my washing, which means that the soapy water often gets on my feet, but I bought a big bag of the stuff and don’t want to waste it, so am still using it. This weekend, I did not have so much to do, so my feet are quite happy and not red and blotchy like last time. My clothes are now drying in the door way, and I have to remember to watch where I am walking as the tile floor is a little slippery if I do not want to break something.

Maybe if I have a nap, it will stop raining…

Weddings and budget cuts

Weddings appear to be big business in Vietnam. In Dong Hoi, a fairly small town, there are at least six bridal shops, and even the smaller towns/villages in the surrounding areas have one. Each one is full of brightly coloured dresses, ranging from what can only be described as bright orange meringues to neon green mermaid dresses, with cream and white dresses interspersed. Woman here tend to rent their wedding dresses and I am told that a bride usually changes several times throughout the wedding, hence the abundance of choice in both colour and cut. When I did catch a glimpse of the bride, she was wearing a traditional Vietnamese outfit and was standing at the head of a procession that was forming to take the new couple to the groom’s house. I stood on the steps of our office with K, who explained what was going on. Couples and their families consult with astrologist to determine the best time for the new couple to leave the bride’s house and go to the groom’s. At the chosen time, friend and family walk them through the streets, accompanying the bride to her new home. Apparently, during this part of the ceremony, brides traditionally wear red, and their mothers are not allowed to accompany them. This is because, when a woman gets married, she is considered to be leaving her family and joining a new one, and from what I understand from K, the bride’s mother tends to get very upset by the ‘loss’ of her daughter and so is not allowed to accompany her. Three days after the wedding, the bride is allowed to return to her parents’ home to visit her parents.   

It was not only the bride and groom that had a procession of people following them this week. On Friday, I somehow managed to acquire one of my own, albeit on a much, much smaller scale. There is a school on the road that I take to work, and every morning I cross children in their uniforms on their way to class. They usually shout out hello and wave as I go past, and I wave back and say hello, which reduces most of them to fits of giggles for some reason. On Friday, a group of eight to ten year olds and I arrived at one of the intersections at the same time, so I slowed done to let them through. We exchanged the usual hellos and waves and I carried on to work. They, instead of going straight to school, apparently decided to follow me to see where I ended up. So as I arrived at work, it was followed by a small group of boys shouting out “hello, how are you?” I thought that the guards were going to wet themselves, they were laughing that hard! One little boy, who must have been about eight, cycled right up to me and asked how I was. When I replied that I was fine thank you, and asked him how he was, he just looked at me blankly before smiling and cycling off to join his friends who were watching from the other side of the road. It certainly made the guards’ day, and I have to admit it did make me smile.

This week has not been all fun and games, however. It has been a very busy week at work, with us trying to prepare for two conferences, sign up to another and ensure that we will be able to meet an end of October deadline for data entry. I have also been introduced to some of the frustrations of working for an international NGO. Not only are we trying to communicate with people in three different time zones (which works fairly well until we need to make a decision quickly, and then having everything delayed by at least 12 hours can be problematic, although the office seems to have developed a system to deal with it), but this week we were also dealing with misunderstandings and the general failures in communication that result when five or six people are all trying to co-ordinate their activities, whilst being in five different countries. Not that this was a particularly serious problem, it just meant that Thursday evening, K and I had to scramble to prepare her presentation for a conference that she will be attending in Laos next week and that twelve hours before she left, we still did not know which hotel the conference organizers had booked her into.

We also received word from our head office that our budget for next year will have to be reduced by 10%. It appears that it is not only the banks and “Joe Six-pack” who are suffering from the effects of the credit crisis. My friend who works for the Population Council in Hanoi was talking to me about the effects that the crisis having on her organization a few weeks ago, but for some reason I never really imagined that it would impact LSN-V. It makes sense that it would, as most of our funding comes from governments, and particularly the American Centre for Disease Control, through our head office and mother organization (Survivor Corps). With governments spending billions to bail out the banks and the financial system as a whole, that money has to come from somewhere. I now know where a little bit of it will be coming from. Money, as they say, does not grow on trees.   

Although I am here as a monitoring and evaluation officer (a fancy name for the person who collects information and data about the people that we work with and then writes reports about it, trying to find ways that we can improve our effectiveness), LSN-V in general and K, in particular, (the other M&E officer) are currently very involved in advocacy work surrounding the Convention on Cluster Munitions which is due to be signed in Oslo on 8 December. We are trying to raise the convention’s profile in Vietnam and to encourage the government to sign it. We have been working with other NGOs and the UNDP to organize a national workshop in Hanoi on the issue, due to take place in two weeks time. The government’s reaction has been very positive thus far, and they have even asked to upgrade the event to ‘official’ and want to take a larger role in organizing and running it. All of which is fantastic, and when we first head about it, I will be the first to admit that I was very, very excited. However, we are now ten days away from the event and we have not heard very much back, and the time and date remain to be confirmed. We have also received word that the government may exclude NGOs from the workshop, instead increasing the participation from experts and those government officials whose responsibility it would be to ensure that the convention was implemented correctly in Vietnam. This has presented me with an interesting challenge. On the one hand, I realize that the new developments mean that the government is taking the issue very seriously and this is a very positive sign for December, which is the main thing and the ultimate reason for us organizing the workshop in the first place. Therefore, whether or not we are included in the workshop is not really important as we have already achieved one of our main objectives: to raise awareness about the convention and the ban on the use of cluster munitions that it entails (Vietnam has never produced or used cluster bombs, but given the country’s history it is one of the areas the most affected by them. Thirty years on from the end of the war, and people are still being injured by cluster bomblets which remain on the ground and rivers/lakes). This feeling is counteracted slightly, however, by a certain frustration at the fact that we might not be able to see the project all the way to completion. In the bigger scheme of things, my personal wish to be involved in the final workshop is far out-shadowed by the fact that the workshop is taking place and the potential positive developments that could come out of it, and I suspect that this is not the last time that I will be faced with a similar situation, working in this field. That doesn’t stop me being frustrated, but I guess it helps a little.     

Although K will be away next week, I have plenty of things to keep my busy. The deadline for all of the outreach workers to hand in the forms that they complete during their visits to survivors was last week, and there are now piles of paper all around my office, waiting to be entered into the database. As all the forms are in Vietnamese, K and I have developed a system which allows me to enter in the multiple choice data, whilst leaving the bits that require typing in information for K. I have been practicing typing Vietnamese and can now type names, but I think that entire sentences may take me a little bit longer than we have if we want to meet the 30 October deadline that we have been given by the head office in Washington. I have been left in charge of the database, and am responsible for backing it up each night and making sure that it all works properly. Given my love-hate relationship with technology, I can only keep my fingers crossed. As of last Friday, we were probably about 25% of the way through the forms, so this week will be devoted to getting as many done as possible before I go boggle-eyed. Still, I am getting to learn the Vietnamese words for pain, gangrene and osteomylitus, so it’s not all bad.  

Do you know what you are eating?

“Do you know what you are eating?” Fairly simple words, but ones that brought my chopsticks to a screeching fault on their journey to my mouth, and left them hovering there as I conducted a mental check of everything I had eaten since arriving at the restaurant. K and I had gone for dinner at a restaurant just down the road from work, having finished later than usual, and were in the process of making our own ‘spring rolls’, rolling lettuce, bean sprouts, cucumber and meat on a bamboo stick up in rice paper (a really delicious meal, and a speciality of the region, I think). I was fairly certain that she would never let me eat anything ‘unusual’ without telling me what it was first, but the meat was an unknown factor. I was relieved when she confirmed that it was indeed pork, as I had guessed, and not dog as I had feared.

Dog meat is mostly a northern dish and it is often a special meal, so I am fairly safe in Dong Hoi, where people tend to eat more pork and seafood (from what I have seen, shrimps are a big part of the diet, as is fish), and occasionally beef. That doesn’t stop me from being suspicious of some meat dishes every now and again, and I find that it is usually better to ask first, if I want to be able to eat something. Otherwise the what-ifs and maybes make it catch in my throat, a rather unpleasant experience. The only other time I was hesitant about the meat I was eating, it turned out to be pork teats… at least that is how it was explained to me.  

As I do not have anywhere to cook in my room, and my fridge turns itself off when I leave my room, I tend to eat out a fair bit at many of Dong Hoi’s food ‘establishments’. I call them that because many do not really fit the description of what might be considered a restaurant, and can simply be a few plastic tables and chairs on the side of the road, near a place to cook. One of the places that serve chicken and sticky rice of an evening is actually part of a builders’ yard during the day. The types of food available are fairly limitless, and range from phu (a type of noodle) to the spring rolls and soups that K and I were eating. There are also little jelly-like disks made from rice, and I am told that there is one place in Dong Hoi (an established restaurant) where I can get pizza, although I have not tried this yet (the first and only time I have tried pizza in Vietnam, in Hanoi, it made me ill, the only time, so far, that food here has had that effect). 

Not that I always know what I am eating. There have been a few instances when I have simply had to pop whatever it was into my mouth, and hope that it would not make me sick. So far, touch wood, I have done fairly well and am discovering that I actually like more things than I originally thought. Although I am not sure what I think about the mushrooms and shrimps encased in a jelly-substance and then wrapped in banana leaves, or curried frogs legs, I have discovered dragon fruit and jackfruit, and have found that I actually do like mangoes (perhaps not my favourite fruit, but certainly better than I thought it would be). The giant grapefruits and pomelos that can be bought in the market are absolutely delicious, and often serve as a snack when I get home from work. I still have not found out what the green veggie that I eat at lunch is, but it is becoming a favourite, and I love it when it is cooked with just a little garlic and oil, rather than when it is boiled, which can make it a little bland.

I have even begun eating seafood, something I would have shied away from before. There are usually shrimps at lunch at work, but I have not quite figured out the best way to eat these. Copying the others, I should really just pop them in my mouth, and the spit the head back out, but I really don’t like the legs and get worried they will stick in my teeth. I have discovered that I like crab though, and the prawns that we were served, sitting at a small place right on the beach, when my friends were here from Hanoi. I think, however, that even though I really enjoyed the meal (which was incredibly messy as I tried to learn how to crack open the crabs), it would perhaps be better next time if I do not see them alive before I eat them. When ordering, we had to go into the main building, where the crabs, prawns, shrimps and sea snake (didn’t try any of that. That would probably have been a tad too adventurous at the time) are kept, and select the ones we wanted. One of the crabs tried to make a mad dash for it, and ended up falling from the scales and onto the floor, where it scuttled away towards the door, only to be scooped up and plonked back into the tank again. 

My chopstick skills are getting a little better. I am now able to eat all of my rice with them (and not just the clumps where it has stuck together) and can pick up a boiled egg and transfer it to my bowl. I am also eating a little faster than I was in the beginning, when I was too busy concentrating on not dropping what ever was perched on the end of my chopsticks. I have been told that the best way to eat is to hold one’s bowl up and then bend down, almost shovelling the rice in, which certainly speeds up the process. Doing the same for noodles, or bending one’s head closer to the bowl, is also a good idea, and slurping them is not considered bad manners. As C, the intern who was here before me pointed out, Vietnamese meals can be noisy affairs, although it is not considered impolite.

I still have quite a way to go however, before I can consider myself fully proficient with chopsticks, as I still clutch them about half way down whilst everyone else holds them near the top (I am making progress, half way down is better than that two-thirds of the way down I started with) and I am not yet able to strip fish off a bone using chopsticks, and have to rely on a spoon if I want any fish at work, and even then there are still a few bones that sneak their way past me. Maybe in another month or so, I’ll be better at it…The fish, I think, will be the ultimate test.     

Rice Wine and Uncle Ho

I need to remember not to wear my black trousers when going out into the field, especially not after it has just rained. It takes forever to rinse out the red mud that I inevitably get all over the back of my legs, and black shows up the mud much more than another colour. Knowing me, it will take me a few more trips to remember this.

This week was a very busy one, especially after we lost a day on Tuesday and we received new deadlines from the office in Washington by which all the data we have collected needs to entered into the database. There have also been a few hiccups with the workshop we are organizing at the end of the month in Hanoi. Nothing too serious, but enough to warrant a frenzied morning of e-mails and toing-and-froing. Thursday afternoon, however, was an opportunity to escape from the office, to visit the working area of another organization, Flora and Fauna International (FFI), which also works in Quang Binh. FFI was hosting the quarterly meeting for international non-governmental organizations working in the province (there are about ten from what I understand), which was held in the Phong Nha-Ke Bang National Park. These quarterly meetings gather together the diverse groups that work in Quang Binh (activities range from landmine disposal to wildlife preservation, from community development to education and health care, and the support for amputees and landmine survivors). Representatives from the Department of Foreign Affairs (DOFA) were also present, and the meeting provided an interesting insight into how international organizations work in Quang Binh. I had expected that some of Dong Hoi’s ever elusive ‘foreigners’ would be at the meeting, but I was the only non-Vietnamese speaking person in the room. For the point of view of the sustainability of the activities, this is exactly what one would hope for, but I must admit that I was slightly disappointed at first. This feeling soon faded however, as the afternoon progressed.

After we had heard presentations from the different organizations present, and had then found a suitable spot to “send our love to the ground (one of G’s expressions for how to deal with the absence of a toilet) we all piled into our cars and headed further into the national park. The Phong Nha-Ke Bang National Park, and particularly the Phong-Nha caves, was recently recognized as a World Heritage site by UNESCO, and stretches across Quang Binh right to the border with Laos. I visited the caves with two friends who are also here on Saint Mary’s/CIDA-sponsored internships. My friends work in Hanoi, but had come down for the weekend, with another friend, and K had taken all of us to visit the river and caves, which stretch about sixty-five kilometres underground. Water dripping from the cave of the ceiling is said to very lucky, and to increase the chances of having a son, and if this is true then it is probably safe to say that should I ever have children, my mom is going to have a fair few grandsons, as I was constantly dripped on from above.

The caves were carved by what is possibly the longest underground river in the world, and one has to take a boat to access them. During the rainy season, it is impossible to access the caves, as the water rises to seal off the entrance. While visitors are only allowed to enter about 1.5km into the cave (the rest is considered too dangerous at the moment), the rock formations are beautiful and we were able to see one of the grottos in which the writings of an ancient civilisation can be seen on the walls. The language is so old that it is said that when the caves were explored in the 19^th Century by a European priest and his team, they were only able to decipher one word, Champa, the name of the people thought to have left the writings. To this day, no-one has been able to decode the message from the past. This particular grotto also has a more recent history though, as it was used as a meeting point and war room by the Viet Cong and the caves were also used as storage depots by Vietnamese fighters during the Vietnam/American War.

Out trip on Thursday did not take us to the caves, however. We were originally meant to visit a hot spring in the park, but the recent storm had left the road flooded and we went to the botanical garden inside the park instead. This was my first trip outside Dong Hoi since Mekkhala had struck, and was an opportunity to see how the rural areas had been affected. Parts of the area were still flooded, and electricity poles were down all in many places. Throughout the park, we had to avoid rocks that had come tumbling down onto the road, and recent erosion from fast-running, swollen rivers was evident. I have been told that five people were killed, and three are still missing. Three thousand homes were damaged, as were several schools which lost their roofs.

Our first stop on our tour of the park was the Cave of Eight Women, which has a history linked to the war. Apparently, during a bombing raid, eight people (originally thought to be eight women, but later discovered to be four men and four women) had sought refuge in this particular cave, but the impact of several shells had caused the roof above the entrance to collapse, leaving the eight trapped inside the cave. It is said that people in the areas could hear them calling out for nine days, before they fell silent, and there is now a shrine erected where the entrance of the cave used to be. On our way up to the cave, one of the people working with FFI had stopped to get several packets of incense for us to burn upon our arrival. Incense plays an important role in showing respect for the dead in Vietnam. When we visited the Village of War last weekend, we had stopped to burn incense to warm the souls of the dead soldiers. The Village of War is a replica of one of the subterranean villages which were essential to survival during the war, and was built and is maintained by local volunteers. Walking through the trenches that criss-cross the village, connecting the underground hospital, school and crèche to the houses was a slightly strange experience. Having learnt the American side of story about the Vietnam War in school, it was interesting to see how the Vietnamese remember the American War.

Outside the Cave of Eight Women, G explained how to correctly burn incense. Incense sticks are to be placed in odd numbers (I am not entirely sure, but from what I understood, this is because in Vietnam odd numbers have some link to death). If a person has yet to be buried, one is to bow twice before placing the incense in the burner, but if the funeral has already taken place then one should bow three times before placing the incense. Having bowed three times in front of the shrine, we placed our incense and then proceeded on to the Botanical gardens, just as the sun was setting and the mist was rising from the river.

 When we got to the gardens, it was completely dark, but a party had been planned and provisions had been made. In the middle of the courtyard at the entrance to the gardens, a giant bonfire was burning cheerily, and a generator had been hooked up to power several light bulbs which had been hung up in the trees. At least fifty people were standing around the fire, chatting and waiting for the party to start, which it did with a meal. Rice and bamboo shoots had been cooked and transported to the gardens, but those who wanted to eat meat were responsible for cooking for themselves. Chunks of pork and bamboo stakes were provided, and one by one people speared the meat and set about cooking it over the fire, offering pieces to others once they were done. Although I had been given chopsticks, eating ‘braai’ed’ meat with anything other than my fingers seemed a little excessive. Others seemed to agree with me. Once everyone had eaten their fill, the real party got underway with rice wine and singing and dancing. I was offered a thimble-sized glass of rice wine, but after a sip (which burnt all the way down) I decided that it was probably safer not to finish the rest of the 45 percent proof alcohol. Several songs about Uncle Ho (Chi Minh, former leader of Vietnam) were sung, as well as a few with a regional flair, as we danced around the fire. I was not sure about this at first, but one of the ladies from DOFA grabbed my hand and sort of pulled me along with everyone else. She more or less adopted me for the evening and provided a translation and explanations about what was going on at the different points of the evening. I was introduced to some of her colleagues, and was very amused when one of them started berating the other for being a “drunkard” who did not respect women. He, on the other hand, was not sure that ten glasses of rice wine qualified him for the label of alcoholic. I was just surprised anyone could still stand after that much of the stuff!    

When we finally got back to Dong Hoi, I collapsed into my bed, knowing I would have to be up early the next morning to go to work, but not before spending ten minutes rinsing my trouser legs to get rid of the mud.   

Tropical Storm Mekkhala

It seems that there is never a dull moment in Dong Hoi. The weather here has been quite pleasant over the past few days, warm and sunny but slightly cooler than when I first arrived, and this weekend it was absolutely beautiful. This morning, however, was quite a different story. Rattling windows and the sound of the door to my balcony being knocked against its frame woke me up at around 5.30am, as the wind whistled in under the door and through the ventilation shaft in the bathroom. It seems that Tropical Storm Mekkhala, which had been forecast to strike further north sometime this afternoon,  had changed course and slammed into the centre of Quang Binh, drenching Dong Hoi and the surrounding areas (I have since heard on the news that the government has ordered the evacutaion of some low-lying areas in the province, and that two fishing boats were lost at sea. No word on the crews. As the storm was not expected to make land in this area, few people were prepared for it and many of the fishing boats were still out at sea last night).  

I got up and looked out my window, only to find that my balcony was under several centimetres of water, and that it was starting to lap under my door. I  watching in amusement as the little lizard that I share my room with surfed the incoming ‘waves’ as the wind pushed the water under my door. I grabbed a towel from the bathroom and put it up against the door, thinking that this would at least stop any more water coming in. I grossly under-estimated Mekkhala. By 7.45am, the wind had worsened and the level of water on my balcony had risen, allowing more and more to flow into my room. Being on the third floor, one would not expect one’s room to flood, but flood it did, to the extent that not only was my entire room under about a centimetre of water, but the water also made it into the hallway, and was running down the steps, into the carp pool in the lobby. I even lost a flip-flop for a little while, as it floated off out of my room and down the hall. By the time the water made it to my bed, which is on the far end of the room, away for the balcony doors, I went in search of someone who worked in the hotel, who might be able to give me a mop (or at least a few more towels). I found one of the ladies coming out of the room just across from mine, which was also flooding, although not to the same extent. She got more towels, and the tray in hand, marched out onto the balcony to begin bailing it out. The wind took hold of the door, and it took a lot to get it closed again. I was worried that she was going to get blown away, as she stood trying to get rid of as much water as possible. It seems that the drainage hole that should have kept the balcony clear had been blocked, so, fighting the wind, the lady came back inside and asked if I had a pen she would use to unclog it (I haven’t seen the pen again, but my room is now water-free so I think it was probably a fair swap). The drain successfully unblocked, she came back inside to help me mop up my room, but as she was just about to close the door, an extra-strong gust of wind took hold of it and ripped it away, leaving the door knob in her hand. Closing the door after that was certainly not a practical endeavour.

8am came and went, and we were still mopping up the water in my room and the hallway, using towels to soak up as much as we could and wringing them out in the bathroom, as the wind and rain continued to pound Dong Hoi. I am supposed to start work at 8am everyday, and as I was wringing a particularly water-logged organge towel, I wondered how I was going to get there. I am not entirely sure of what storm etiquette is in Vietnam, and did not want to not show up for work if everyone else was there. Equally, I did not fancy riding my bike to work through the wind and rain. I decided that I would get my room dried first, and would then see if I could get hold of K to ask her opinion. Several more rounds of mopping and wringing, and most of the water had been soaked up. The rain outside had slowed a little, although the wind was still gusting. We had lost electricity, the cable brought down by one of the falling tree branches on my street. The phones were still working at this point, so I used the one in the lobby to call K, who informed me that the best thing to do was stay where I was and that the office would not be opening today. She also warned me to stay away from all things electric: good advice when one’s room has flooded. I went up to my room again, and tried to phone my mom. I had been talking to her when the water had started coming into my room and had had to end to conversation to start mopping duties, so I knew that she would be worried. Unfortunately, sometime during the time it took em to climb three flights of stairs, the phone line had also gone down so there was no way of making contact.

I was not quite sure what to do with myself. I had a bit of battery left on my computer, so I was able to listen to one of the podcasts I had downloaded, but I decided that the best thing to do was take the manager’s advice and go back to sleep. So I spent most of today reading my book (I am running out of reading materials and will have to stop and get some more when I am in Hanoi next. I haven’t seen any English, or French, books in Dong Hoi). By about 11am, the worst of the storm was over, and the winds had died down but the electricity was still not back on, and I knew that I would not be able to work on the database today, so I stayed where I was, watching from the balcony as people came out to assess the damage and to begin cleaning up. There are several trees and countless branches that have come down, and the tin structure on the roof of the building next to mine has collapsed, whilst the boiler has been blown off a house down the street. Electricity and phonelines in most parts of the city were down for most of the day, and I was convinced that we were going to spend the night without electricity.

At around 4pm, I decided that I needed to get some fresh air, so I went for a walk. It also gave me an opportunity to see how other streets had faired. As I left the hotel, one of the ladies who works in the hotel was up a tree outside the front door, attempting to see if she could connect the power cable back up to the mains herself. One of the young children who live in the hotel was pulling on the downed phone cable. She wasn’t successful, and when I got back from my walk, the electricity was still off. It gets dark here at around 6pm, so I made the most of the light by sitting on the balcony and reading my book. However, just as night was falling the lights flicked back on and I am now sitting on my bed, writing this, with my computer plugged in (to charge up the battery, just in case the electricity goes again).

Mekkhala was certainly an experience, but I have been warned that once one has been here long enough, one will realize that it was actually fairly mild in comparasion to some of the storms that are to come. 

Pineapple and hot orange juice in Hanoi

Hanoi is one of those cities that I am not sure if I like or not. I am not generally a big fan of the hustle and bustle and crowds of big cities, and Hanoi has those in spades, but there is a certain charm to the city. Old French buildings (usually painted yellow) rub shoulders with new modern ones, as well as a few that probably wouldn’t pass even the most basic of inspections. There is money in Hanoi, but there is also great poverty, the same as most capital cities I would imagine. My experience there was an interesting one, as I travelled up to the capital with my Vietnamese co-workers and spent much of my time with them. This meant that I got to eat in real Vietnamese restaurants, with chopsticks (I’m getting better at using these now) and to visit some parts of town that not many tourists ever make it to (I shouldn’t exaggerate, we did do all the touristy things as well, going to see the single pillar pagoda and Ho Chi Minh’s museum and mausoleum, an interesting experience as I went with a girl who had fled Vietnam as one of the boat people in the 1980s). I also spent some time with Canadian friends, working in Hanoi through the same CIDA/ SMU internship programme that I am involved with. This meant being introduced to the expat community in Hanoi, which certainly was an experience. From an Irish pub (no matter where I am in the world, there is always at least one Irish pub somewhere nearby), we went to a club which would have been at home on any street in Halifax, all the while bumping into the same people and not a word of Vietnamese to be heard (although I must admit I was very impressed with my friend’s ability to negotiate the price of a scooter ride back to her house). It was almost as if I had been granted temporary access to some sort of world within a world.

I was very excited to find rooibos tea in one of the mini-marts that we visited on a trip to buy the necessary ingredients to make sushi. There are certain shops that cater to the expat community, and one can find all sorts of things there, from nutella to coco pops. I think I may even have seen a jar of marmite, but I can’t be sure as I was too busy looking for sushi ingredients. Ever since I was little, my dad, a marine biologist who works with seaweed, has been trying to get me to eat nori. In primary school, I used to have to explain that he wasn’t one of the cool marine biologists who worked with dolphins or sea turtles, but rather one of those who made his family travel for eight hours in the South African heat with wet seaweed in the boot of the car, and tried to get his kids to eat seaweed. Nowadays, people might consider it a great idea to broaden children’s exposure to different foods at an early age, but at the time I was not impressed. I think my dad would be pleased to know that I made and ate sushi, all wrapped up in nori. I even think I liked it.

There were several funny moments during my trip. Firstly is the pineapple story, which taught me that pineapple in Hanoi is very expensive, and is still being told at the office when people are in need of a giggle. There are many women on the streets of Hanoi who carry around big baskets of fruit and other assorted things to sell (some sell meat and fish, others plastic containers, but it is mainly fruit). These baskets are balanced on each end of a thick piece of wood. As I was wandering around downtown Hanoi with K and C, one of the ladies, who was selling pineapple, came up to me and placed her baskets on my shoulder, and her conical hat on my head, whilst her friend did the same to C. I smiled and posed for a picture, and then took out some money, knowing that the experience was not for free. She put a bag of pineapple in my hand, and said that she wanted 80 000 dong for it (which is a lot here. To put it in perspective, a meal for two people in Dong Hoi cost me 120 000 dong, and a new rain coat cost 55 000d). I was a little taken a back but already had a 100 000 dong note in my hand. She took the money and then sort of threw change at me before beating a hasty retreat. It was not really serious (80 000 dong is worth about $5, or ₤2.60), but K was furious at the lady and I felt a bit stupid. I’m still a little embarrassed about the whole thing, but I now know to stay away from people who want to let you hold their stuff for a picture and that pineapple is an expensive fruit in Hanoi.

The other moment can only really be explained as a “lost in translation” moment, and although it was not really funny for the girl involved (she had just fallen off her scooter in torrential rain coming to meet us, and was having a bad day). We went for brunch with some Australian and American expats who work with my friends in Hanoi, and had found a nice little place that served good food, even if it was not Vietnamese. A came in a bit late, having had to go home to clean up after her accident, and ordered an orange juice. However, she then also ordered a hot chocolate in order to warm up. The waitress did not understand what A wanted, so A said ‘hot’ in Vietnamese, thinking that the waitress had heard her say ‘chocolate’. The waitress nodded her head, and returned a few moments later, with hot orange juice! What she must have thought as she was warming the juice I do not know. A tried to explain what she wanted again, stressing the word chocolate, and pointing to her orange juice whilst saying ‘cold’. She ended up with cold chocolate milk. It was very difficult not to laugh, and in the end she did get her cold orange juice and her hot chocolate, but by that point in time I am not sure that she really wanted either of them.  

If I thought that the traffic in Dong Hoi was a little overwhelming, it did nothing to prepare me for the monster that is rush hour in Hanoi. The roads in Vietnam are notoriously dangerous, with close to 12 000 deaths each year. If traffic in Dong Hoi is somewhat like a ballet, then the Hanoian equivalent is closer to the dancing at a rave: noisy, wild and a little out of control. There are bikes, scooters, cars, and buses, as well as the occasional truck, everywhere and they are all constantly honking their horns, as they weave around obstacles and each other. Traffic lights and road markings are mere suggestions, with some people (especially those on scooters) going through red lights, and taxis over crossing unbroken white lines onto the other side of the road when the lanes are congested. Three lanes very easily become four or five. Crossing the road is a nightmare, but as we were doing a lot of sight-seeing on foot, it was unavoidable. The three co-workers I was with had all been to Hanoi before, and advised me that the best thing to do was wait for a small gap, and then walk slowly across the road, giving the traffic time to swerve around me. The first few times I did this, I think it may have been more effective for me to just close my eyes and say a little prayer, but after a while I sort of got the hang of it and no longer walked as close as possible to C and K. I never stopped muttering “I am going to get myself killed” under my breath though.

 Driving there is not much better, even when being driven in a taxi. On my last night in Hanoi, as I was attempting to get to the train station, the first taxi I got into (from a well-known company here in Vietnam) had no idea where the train station was, and the second one was involved in a minor accident within seconds of pulling away from the curb. The driver had been arguing with someone on his phone when we got in and obviously wasn’t paying attention as he rear-ended a scooter, sending me flying into the back of the driver’s chair (I had been in the process of putting on my seat belt at the time) and causing my friend (another intern who works in Hanoi) to brace herself against the dash board.

After that, the traffic in Dong Hoi does not seem as daunting, which is just as well as I now have my bike and use it to zip back and forth from work everyday. Although, saying that, my trip home this evening was hardly event-free. Having stayed later than usual, it was dark when I started back and not many of the streets are fully lit. I was about half way back to the hotel, when, having just dodged some chickens that had wandered into the road, I had to swerve to avoid a little girl who ran out in front of me. I wasn’t going very fast (the chickens had slowed me down), so I was did not hit her, but I did go over something. It was only small, so I am not sure whether it was a rock or a branch, but the little girl’s frustrated shouts led me to believe that I may have broken a toy, or something of the sort. I didn’t stop as it was dark, I was by myself and I’m not sure how I would have explained anything to anyone. I now feel really bad and now slightly worried about going down that street tomorrow on my way to work.  Maybe I’ll find another route to take…

Just one of those days

I should have known that Friday was going to be one of those days from the moment that I woke up. If the mosquito bite on my foot (the first since I got here) was not sign enough, combined with the puddle on my floor and the drip drip of rain water seeping through a crack in the ceiling should have raised red flags. But no, I had to find out the hard way. Friday was the day that I had a meeting with the deputy director of the Department of Foreign Affairs (DoFA), here in Dong Hoi. I was not entirely sure what the meeting was about. My boss had said something about an introduction and a “presentation” and my head was filled with Hollywood-esque notions of the way that a Communist state functions. I had, until then, resisted thinking too much about the fact that Vietnam is a Communist country, and one would have thought that political science would have taught me that not all countries are North Korea. However, I was still a little nervous about my meeting, and wondered what underlying purpose the meeting could possibly have. I didn't go as far as wonder if I was being sussed out as a spy, but had made sure that I had washed my hair the night before, so that I could make it to the office early and be ready on time to go to DoFA. Wanting to make a good impression, I even put on a little makeup to hide the black bags that have taken up residence under my eyes. The mosquito bite had been strategically placed so that when I put on my shoes, they rubbed it, ensuring that it would drive me mad for the rest of the day.

A colleague, K, had offered to come and get me on her scooter (my plans to find a bicycle are not proceeding as hoped). So I waited in the lobby of my hotel. And waited. And waited some more. By which point, one might think that I would have made alternative arrangements, but just as I was about to ask the lady in reception to call a taxi for me, her phone rang. It was my boss, wondering where I was. The lady at reception offered to give me a ride to work, so we jumped on the back of her scooter. The road that had flooded with the heavy rain the night before had now drained so I did not have to worry about my laptop getting wet (there were a few nervous moments the night before when we had driven through the water clogged roads on K’s scooter, my laptop by her feet and the water coming up to my toes on the back of the scooter. Luckily, no harm done and only the strap of my bag got wet, but as I had pulled it out of my bag the night before I was holding my breathe). 

As we were coming up to the intersection with the main road, a car took the corner too wide, and came straight at us. The receptionist had to slam on the brakes and swerve. I just clung on for dear life, and prayed that I didn’t cause the scooter to wobble and us both to fall off. Luckily, the car stopped as well and we were able to move out of its way and before zooming off to the office, where I jumped into a taxi and raced over to DoFA, profusely apologizing for being 20 minutes late. Sweating like a pig, I climbed the stairs up to the second-floor office of the director, my helmet in tow, only to find that he was running late and had not even noticed that we had not been there on time. The meeting went well, I think. There was even a joke about me working there as a translator when I had finished with LSNV. The deputy director has a sense of humour it appears. I’m still not entirely sure what it was all about, and by the end of the meeting I was still dripping in sweat, wondering if this made me look suspicious, which in turn made me sweat even more. However, I think the meeting was more of a courtesy call than anything else and way to highlight LSNV’s activities to the government.

The meeting successfully concluded, and my boss seeming to have forgotten the fact that I had been late, we headed back to the office and I breathed a sigh of relief… probably too soon. The secretary was still a little miffed with me, and tersely told me that she had found a bicycle that I could use. LSNV has a bike that the cleaner/cook uses to go to market, and I can use it of a morning and an evening to get around, which is great. Thanking her, I smiled and settled down to do some work. Only at the moment, there is not a lot of work for me to do. I am supposed to be a monitoring and evaluation office (fancy way of saying someone who reads reports and analyses data), but the database that I am supposed to be working on is not yet fully up and running and cannot generate the reports I am supposed to analyse and all the raw data is in Vietnamese. We had asked the DC office if I could become more involved in the advocacy work that LSNV is doing on the Cluster Munitions Convention, which is to be signed in December, but, with the time difference, etc. I had yet to hear back from them. K had given me some background information to read, as well as the reports that she had so that I could familiarize myself with the work, but by about 11.30 I was done and had already checked the headlines on the BBC and a variety of other news websites. When I asked K if there was anything I could help her with, she couldn’t think of anything at the time, so it was back to twiddling my thumbs and catching up on e-mails.

Noon is lunchtime at the office, and there is a cook who prepares meals for the staff. On Thursday, I had tried valiantly to eat my not-so-sticky rice with chopsticks, but had ended up admitting defeat and attacked it with a spoon instead. On Friday, I was determined to use the chopsticks, and to finally get a hang of it. As we sat down to eat, I looked at how everyone else was holding theirs and tried to copy them. After much laughter (not mine) and some patient explanation from one of the guards, I was finally able to pick up, not only my rice (well sort of), but also different pieces of pork, egg and fish, as well as some sort of leafy vegetable that resembles a cross between spinach and asparagus. I thought I was doing pretty well, but then my boss, who was also eating with us, asked why I was only eating my rice! I tried to point out that I had been eating other things, but to no avail, and I had to make a show of eating tofu and some more of the green vegetable. On the plus side, she was impressed (and so was I, to tell the truth) when I managed to pick up a large chunk of the greens and safely transfer it to me bowl. The cook, on the other hand, seemed a little upset that I was not eating more. The intern before me, a 6ft-gigantic guy in his twenties, apparently had five bowls of rice for lunch everyday. My two bowls, which is in line with what everyone else eats, apparently aren’t enough. I should add that I also eat a bowl of soup and then several pieces of fruit as dessert (Thursday it was Jack fruit and Friday was pomelo), so it is not as if I am not eating, just that I cannot keep up with the previous intern. Still, I smiled sweetly, and hoped that eventually the cook will accept that two bowls of rice is not an insult to her cooking, which really is very good, or that I will learn to squeeze in a third bowl.

That afternoon, I was given more work to do (finally), and spent the rest of my time searching the internet for funding opportunities. I scoured embassy websites, got lost on the EU one, and even found some interesting leads on Facebook. By 6pm, most people had gone home and I was looking forward to getting on my bike and cycling off. One catch, the bike was broken and would have to be fixed. I was a little disappointed, having gotten excited about it, but I suppose one can’t really miss something that one never had. K offered to give me a ride home, and just as we were pulling away from the curb, I thought about how nice it was to have survived the day. Trust me to tempt fate, for as we reached the middle of the road, there was a loud blast of a horn and another scooter, which had appeared out of nowhere, can rushing past us, barely missing us. 

I realise that nothing very serious had happened on my eventful Friday (apart from the brush with the car and the scooter), but the different little things had made me feel a little down and a tad home sick. After stopping at a bakery to buy a meat and egg filled dumpling for supper, K dropped me off at my hotel, and I curled up in bed, thankful that t has internet so that I could chat to my family on MSN. I was just about to drop off to sleep when the drums started. This weekend is the mid-Autumn festival, a family-centred event which involves street parades and giving gifts to children. From my balcony, I watched as a small group of children and their parents set off from the restaurant across the street, the kids dancing in dragon costumes to the beat of the drums. Once they were gone, I crawled back into bed, and drifted off to sleep, wondering what my first weekend in Dong Hoi would hold in store for me.

So far my weekend has been fairly relaxing. I went for a walk yesterday, down to the beach and along the water front. I even dipped my toes in the China Sea. I did, however, get absolutely soaked by a thunder storm that had rolled in, down off the mountains, as I trudged back from the bakery, the roll I had purchased from supper swinging triumphantly in a plastic bag in my hands. Although the transaction had really only involved me pointing to what I wanted and holding up one finger, whilst the lady held up five to indicate the price, I still felt good about being able to buy something all by myself. I spent the rest of the afternoon reading and watching a film, before going out onto the balcony to watch some more children dancing in the street after dusk.

I had thought that I would be able to sleep in on Sunday morning. However, this was not to be the case and I was woken up by someone on my floor retching up their guts at 5am, closely followed by more drums at 7am. Somehow a little boy of about eight years old had gotten hold of one and was sitting in the street pounding away at it. Although it did not last long, it had the effect of leaving me wide awake and unable to go back to sleep. Still, I have had a fairly lazy morning, and am now going to go out and explore Dong Hoi a little more, whilst the sun is still shining and before the afternoon rains start. Maybe a nap this afternoon will be in order.

Venga Boys in Vietnam

One of the key components of the work done by Landmine Survivors Network-Vietnam (LSNV) is to encourage the establishment of ‘self-help’ or peer-support groups amongst survivors, creating a forum in which survivors can come together to discuss common challenges, provide each other with emotional support and, on occasion, form business groups which aim to increase income available to survivors, thus allowing them to improve their standard of living. There are currently 18 such groups operational in the area in which LSNV, and I was lucky enough to be invited along to attend the opening ceremony of one of them. Five of us piled into the LSNV car and off we went to , a community in the rural foothills outside Dong Hoi.

The ceremony itself was a very interesting experience. As Vietnam is a Communist country, support groups have to obtain permission from the local Commune People’s Committee (one of the several levels of the government bureaucracy), and the opening ceremony was held in the CPC’s communal hall, where several survivors, as well as local authorities had gathered. The ceremony itself was fairly interesting, with one of my colleagues providing a running translation, but this was only a sign of things to come. The group had received some additional funding and had used it to buy food and drinks for a party afterwards (a mean feat, considering the fact that the market was some distance away). During the party, we sat at long tables, discussing local affairs, drinking beer and eating a variety of meat based finger foods that had been laid out for us. I say we, but really I just sat there and smiled sweetly as I do not speak a word of Vietnamese. For some people in this remote, mountainous area, I was the first foreigner they had ever seen, and so there were more than a few glances and plenty of smiles. An 82-year-old lady came up to me and complimented me on my complexion, patting my back and touching my hair, stating how young I was. I don’t think I got the entire story, but my colleague gave me the gist of the conversation later.

Many people took it upon themselves to make sure that I ate and that I had something to drink, skewering pieces of meat on tooth picks and kindly offering them to me. Whilst the food was good, after a little while I had had about as much pork as I was able to eat at 11am, and I thought that rather than refuse anyone’s offer, I would simply keep a piece in my hand and slowly nibble at it. This, however, was not as effective a plan as I had hoped it would be, and I continued to accept the proffered snacks. In all fairness, how could I refuse when the person doing the offering was the local police officer, and each piece came with a wish of good health and success?

By 11.30, we were back on the road, heading for Dong Hoi. The roads in this part of Vietnam, which is one of the poorest in the country, as particularly bad, and the heavy rains of night before had pooled in the large potholes, turning them into min-lakes of mud. On the way into the commune, there were several patches where we had had to slow the car, and engage the four-wheel drive before continuing, and during the party, the vice-chairman of the CPC had explained to us that they were hoping to receiving funding from the government to repair and improve the roads, which act as a vital connection to other villages in the area. I did not think much of this until about 15 minutes into our return journey, when I came to fully understand the importance of having passable roads. At one of the sections that had proven difficult for us to pass on our way into the commune, an old truck, heavily laden with timber, had become stuck, its back tires spinning in the mud as its driver attempted in vain to free the vehicle. This only had the effect of splashing mud everywhere and moving the front of the truck, so that it was now diagonally across the road, blocking it both ways and preventing traffic from going around the truck. We stopped our car, and our driver went to see if he could help. An hour later, we were still in the same place, and the truck had not moved, although it had developed a worrying tendency to rear up as the driver put his foot down, threatening to tip over and permanently strand us there. Some traffic was getting through, as there was still enough room for people on scooters and bicycles to get past the truck, and they all smiled knowingly as they passed us, sitting in the middle of the road. About an hour and a half after we had first come across the truck, a group of about twenty high school pupils cycled by, and most of the boys stopped and offered to help, with the girls standing to one side watching. With the boys’ help, the drivers of the truck tried to dig away at one side of the hole the truck was stuck in and then everyone put their shoulders to the truck and pushed. We all held our breathes as the truck lurched forward and it looked like it was going to break free of the mud, but suddenly it fell back. I was convinced that one of the people behind the truck was going to get pulled under or that a piece of timber was going to dislodge itself and knock someone over the head. This continued for a little while, but still no luck and as it began to rain again, the boys got back on their bikes and went home.

Three hours passed, with the drivers of the truck alternating between digging and unloading some of the timber from the back of the truck. By 4pm, one of my colleagues was worried that we would be stuck there overnight, as it appeared that the truck was now even more stuck than before. By 5pm, reinforcements had arrived, in the form of several men with hoes who proceeded to dig out more mud from under the truck, whilst unceremoniously dumping more timber from the back of the truck, and completely blocking the road to all types of traffic. We were back in our vehicle signing along to Michael Jackson’s “Heal the World” that someone had playing on their cell-phone. By 5.30pm, it was decided to turn back and head towards the commune, as it would soon be dark and it would be too dangerous to attempt to free the truck. As dark fell, we bumped back into the commune, and found a small ‘restaurant/bistro’ where a soup of chicken and noodles was prepared for us. The meal was delicious, and whilst we ate, Madonna and the Venga Boys played out over the radio. Even remote areas like the one we were in have electricity, although the general infrastructure is in a state of disrepair. Feeling much better after the meal, we set about deciding where to spend the night. We had finally be able to get through to our boss (the cell phone signal where we had stopped on the road was very poor and she was beginning to worry as we were hours late), who was very concerned that I was traumatised by the whole thing. I reassured her that I could take it all in my stride. I did not really want to confess that I thought the whole thing was one big adventure. We had decided to stay the night in the community centre, but one of the ladies I was with had a young baby and was keen to get home, so it was decided that the driver would stay with our car whilst the rest of us caught a taxi back to Dong Hoi, about an hour’s drive. There are two roads into the commune, but one of them had a suspension bridge that cars are not allowed to cross. After finally convincing the taxi company that it was not a hoax, we set out to the local clinic, which had recently been refurbished with the help of LSNV. The idea was that the driver would be able to sleep in the clinic’s offices and then return to Dong Hoi with the vehicle once the road was cleared. Once at the clinic, however, we were told that special permission could be granted by the chair of the CPC, allowing cars to pass over the suspension bridge in emergencies. Excited that we might all be able to get back to Dong Hoi, we were granted permission and set out to the bridge. The only problem, as we discovered once we got there, is that the bridge was not designed for cars, and as such as too narrow to allow our car to pass. A Twingo or a Smart Car probably would have been ok, but our Ford did not stand a chance. After much “It’ll go through. No, it won’t” “There’s enough room. No there is not”, we finally decided that our original plan was probably the best one, and two of my colleagues and I set across the bridge on foot to meet the taxi on the other side, leaving our driver and Q to spend the night in the commune.

The way home from then on was slightly less eventful, although I did learn that dragonflies are accurate predictors of the weather. Whilst we were sitting in the car, waiting to see if the truck could be moved, L had informed me that, in Vietnam, it is said that when dragonflies fly close to the ground, as they were doing at the time, it is a sign that rain is on its way. When they fly high above the ground, the weather will be fair and sunny. Those little dragonflies were right, and half way home the skies suddenly opened, unleashing a torrent of rain that caused all traffic on the road to slow down as drivers struggled to see through the rain.    

Needless to say, when I finally got home, about eight hours later than originally planned, I was exhausted and crawled into bed. I can’t wait for our next trip into the field!

Scooters and faux pas

It appears that I committed my first social faux-pas today, climbing onto the back of a scooter in a skirt. Without thinking, I swung one leg over either side of the bike, much to the amusement of my colleague who was giving me a lift. Needless to say, it will not happen again. Apparently, women in Vietnam, when wearing skirts, sit with their legs on one side when riding a scooter. I was more concerned about not being thrown from the scooter whilst navigating the obstacle course that is the road system in Dong Hoi, than decorum, but now having ridden “side-saddle” it is not as difficult as it may look. However, I still think that I am a horrible passenger to have on the back of a scooter. My general lack of balance, even when walking on my own two feet, may make it difficult for the brave soul who is giving me a ride.

Other drivers in Dong Hoi, and indeed in the little of the rest of Vietnam that I have seen so far, do not seem to have such qualms about getting on a scooter. Since arriving here, only a few days ago, I have developed a new found appreciation for what can be carried on the back of a bike. Young children are balanced, in a seemingly very precarious manner, between two adults, whilst radiators and agric