SLEEP

This city moves at a pace so busy that it can make you wonder what the rush is. The locals rise early, at 5am they can be seen in the streets preparing for the day. Some are arranging low stools around an equally low table, big pots coming to boil and the steam evaporating into the early morning air. The last of the garbage is being swept into piles, and then shoveled into bins on wheels being pushed by slight looking individuals dressed in safety orange, wearing plastic shoes.

Outside of the local newspaper printing mills, men have large plastic sheets spread on the ground sorting large piles of newspapers into smaller piles of newspaper. These are bound with sting and loaded onto the back of motorbikes to be distributed to local news stands.

Women with big woven baskets tied on the back of their bikes go up and down alleys and roads, calling out what sounds to me like “bunyee”. Fresh hot bread rolls are under the hessian cover and sold door to door, providing a tasty breakfast for a very cheap price.

People are seen on balconies or in parks swinging their arms or marching to their own beat. This country is focused on preventative care, keeping fit the best way to stay healthy.

Soon the horns start blasting, the streets get busier. Everyone is moving quickly, like ants trotting in every direction, each knowing where they want to go but not necessarily taking a direct route. As the day warms up, so does the activity.

Breakfast seems to be quickly followed by lunch, with street stalls crowded again by 11.30.

Then everything stops. With full stomachs, everyone takes off for a nap. School children have either gone home for lunch or, if in daycare, camp stretchers are dragged out for the little ones to nap. Alternatively, piles of mattresses are unloaded from a storage room for comfort. Woven mats are rolled out on the floor for a snooze under a ceiling fan, shop front stalls are draped with sheets to stop theft while the shop keeper snuggles down, an arm draped over the face to provide privacy. Business doors are closed (but not necessarily locked), the lights are turned off and chairs pushed together forming a makeshift bed. I have walked in to an office to pay a bill just at this time of day and found the attendant settling down on the desk top with a stack of books providing a pillow.

The need for rest provides some interesting places to sleep.At midday, bus drivers can be seen swinging in hammocks suspended in the back of the bus, cyclo drivers have their bed on wheels and the xe om drivers (motorbike taxis) hang their legs over the handle bars and lie on their backs, pushing out the zzzzzzzz’s. Construction workers sit on the footpath to eat their lunch then just stretch out, looking like ten men in a bed. It doesn’t seem to matter if it is a busy or quiet part of town, a footpath or the steps of a quiet pagoda, if the need is there, any place will do.

I have seen hammocks hanging on wrought iron fences, suspended between poles with a body cocooned within. If there are possessions to be protected, an arm or leg is entwined to ensure that nobody takes off with the precious goods. But it was the funeral attendant who gave me a good laugh. In the back of the funeral truck, well adorned with elaborate decorations, was the attendant asleep between the wooden rungs that hold the coffin on its way out of town.

Eventually everyone rouses, but never in a hurry to resume where they left off. Slowly the wheels of industry turn while they rub the sleep from their eyes, turn the lights up and eventually return to work. Generally, there is another bowl of noodles to sustain them till it is time to eat again. I can understand the need for siesta, the heat makes you want to slow down. But the day starts early here and children can be heard laughing and playing well after 10pm. Eventually the lights go out, but not for long because tomorrow is only a few hour away.

Paradise Lost .... and Found

Paradise Lost.....and Found

We knew it was going to happen. The buzz in the alley months ago was about the widening of the alley, there was protest and petitions to The Committee. The majority of the residents didn't want it to happen, there was the disruption coupled with the cost but, to stand against the government was a hard task. After all...it is The Party. Our landlord told us it would be a few weeks, other residents said a few month before anything happened. We were worried it would happen when our visitor were here. I kept thinking "this wouldn't happen at home" but a distant memory of compulsory land requisition was hidden somewhere in the memory bank.
Letters were slid through the gate written in Vietnamese, so we had no idea what they were about. I asked the neighbour, she said it was about to start. The plan was that the alley would be widened, knocking about a meter off the front of every house. We just couldn't understand how they could do it or more to the fact ...why!!!
It started with our water meter being moved. Now, this is Vietnam. Phone call from the landlord, don't go out, we will be there. I change my plans and wait. Another phone call, sorry... not today, parts not available. Waiting, waiting. The jackhammer, chisels, thumping and bashing have become part of our daily life.
To walk outside the door is like stepping into Saigon in the 60's. There is rubble piled up and dust filling the air. We wake to this seven days a week, from 7.30 to 5. The workmen take the mandatory 1 hour for lunch, sleeping where they sit.
Men and women are toiling to create the new alley, they are knocking down walls, smashing brick columns only to rebuild them. Concrete is mixed by hand, a small mountain of sand and cement dust making a volcano into which a bucket full of water is poured, then mixed with a trowel. Gravel is moved down the lane in what we describe as a back to front ute, pedal powered by youths tanned by the hot sun but with strength that defies their bodies.
The view over our balcony shows the inside of our neighbour's house, their own balcony destroyed to expose the reinforcing mesh and the room below. Uninvited, I can see into their lounge room, a film of brick dust resting on the heavy wooden furniture. What a mess.
Before work starts in earnest on our house, the landlord arrives with flowers an incense, offerings to the spirits and a tiny alter is set up in our porch, just to make sure that all works are approved by all concerned.
We try to escape this demolition site, setting off every morning to sit in a coffee shop and read a book until it is time to return home and get ready for work. The weekend poses a bigger challenge because there is no refuge in the workplace. There are more hours to fill, where do we go, what do we do?
Paradise found....I had seen it on the map, checked it out on Google Earth. There is an oasis hidden in the bustle of this city and I know where to find it. This place is a gem. Among suburbia is a park, the brochure said a tourist park, but it looked like more local than tourist. As westerners we are one of the attractions. In a city where every inch is claimed for one reason or another, sits acres of land devoted to recreation and pleasure. There is a pool surrounded by palm trees where you can lie on a sun bed sipping coconut milk while the lifeguards keep watch over the children splashing. The perimeter of the park is studded with small huts with chairs and platform beds where you can laze away the day, small bbq's at the side where you can cook your lunch. A lake fed by a rather questionable river is central to the complex, with gazebo like structures sitting over the water and looking so inviting. You can book a table here and have a pleasant meal while cooled by the breeze that blows over the water. The food is not as cheap as we have come to expect at other Vietnamese restaurants, but entry to the complex is free and the cost of amenities have to covered from somewhere. This place is now on our list of escapes, somewhere that is just a few right turns from our house but miles from the noise of destruction of our alley.
There are undercover tennis courts, a toy shop with toys for the children to try, bicycles to ride around the wide paths and acres of grass on which to walk bare foot. I can't understand why this place has not been on the ex-pat hit list of places to visit. It is close to the city, cheap and very clean. No body else seems to know it is there.
What a gem, paradise lost but reclaimed.

Sun Sea and Traffic Jams

Sun Sea and Traffic Jams

The people of this city are no different to others in wanting to make the most of a few public holidays. Trouble was, we were part of that throng of humanity that made their way out of Ho Chi Minh City on Wednesday morning, planning a few days of sun and relaxation. A week or so ago we had decided to combine the two days of National Holiday with our weekend, joined with a day off from work, to create a five day break.

Catching the bus at 7.30 we joined half of the cities population at the bus station, before we found the rest of them a few miles down the track. Now, we talk about traffic jams but this was crazy. We traveled about 20 kms in just over 2 hours. The roads were packed with cars, buses of all sizes, trucks and of course motorbikes. The bikes had an advantage in that they could leave the roadway and travel along the dusty verge, creating another lane to the highway. Local buses were packed and the aisles full, a seat space that should hold two had six. People were perched on the window sills of the opened windows. We were going to Mui Ne, a fishing village come tourist resort at what is normally about a four hour drive from the city. This journey took us a little over seven. Mind you, just leaving the bus station was a challenge with 10 tour buses all going to Mui Ne that morning. Normally there are 2, one in the morning and one in the evening. No wonder we had trouble booking accommodation. Thanks to a good book and good conversation, the trip was enjoyable enough if not long.

We arrived at our water side hotel, settled in and took a walk along the beach. The sky was a little cloudy but the air was fresh. Shells of all sorts had been washed up on the beach and there were children digging in the wet sand and jumping the waves.

There are two towns close by here. Phan Thiet is famous for its production of fish sauce and salt harvesting. The stench that filled the air made no mistake of thinking you were somewhere else. Mui Nei, about 20kms further on, is a little fishing village which is well supported with tourism. Fortunately we were staying in Mui Ne, away from the fish sauce. I had been here before but it was James first visit. Oh, the other thing Phan Thiet is famous for is its golf course.

While James played golf, I lazed under the palm trees, watching the kite surfers playing in the wind. Before he was off the course, I changed hotel. No, not to get away from him, he knew about it. Because of the difficulty getting accommodation, we had to change hotels after one night.

Our second hotel was smaller but our bungalow opened onto the beach, so at night we were lulled to sleep by the sound of crashing waves. After dinner we would lie outside on sun beds but under the stars, listening to the water and the putt putting of the small fishing boats making their way out to sea. We watched their distant lights bounce on the waves as we consumed a bottle of wine and solved the problems of the world.

On our last day we hired a motorbike and had a look around. We stopped to look at the fishing village of Mui Ne, all of the boats anchored in a bay. Small round boats like woven baskets are used between the trawlers and shore and they are left on the beach filled with nets. Unfortunately, also left on the beach at the domestic end of the town are all types of rubbish, either half buried in the sand or lapping in the water. It is such a shame that this beautiful piece of coast is only kept clean in front of the resorts.

We rode the bike up to the dunes of red sand, children here with pieces of plastic trying to entice the tourists to slide down the dunes. They carry baskets of pearls and shells to sell, it is hard to resist their cute smiles and pleading eyes. I wondered why they were not at school but guess the little cash they get from the tourist justifies to their family the reason for them missing an education. Mind, you I have found these children to speak very good English, a little something extra gained from the tourists.

Further around the coast we stopped for a café sue da, a drink of coffee filtered into a glass, then mixed with condensed milk and topped with crushed ice. Just the thing on a hot day. Then back down for a drive through Phan Thiet before back to the hotel and a swim in the pool with cocktails delivered to the poolside. We had dinner with some friends, as I said everyone from Ho Chi Minh City was in Mui Ne.

The night skies were lit with an electrical storm so we sat on the steps that led from our bungalow to the beach and watched either the lightening or the crabs running sideways on the sand. It seemed a perfect way to end a holiday that was a relaxing respite. The next day we were on the bus but with less traffic, the trip unfortunately had us home too quickly.

Still Has That Grab

It still has that grab, that feeling of delight every time I head out the door.

I sit on the back of the bike, either on the way to work or on a little errand around the town. There is always a child like excitement in seeing or experiencing something new. I have always said that kids before the age of 5 learn something new everyday and, if we kept learning at the rate of a young child, we would all be geniuses. That is sort of what the experience of living in Vietnam is like, there is something to learn every day. And like a child there is a lot I don’t understand, the language keeps me at a distance, signs are in a code I don’t understand, I never know if I’m in the correct queue and I guess I am experiencing it all the same way young children see their world. I feel so naive at times.

This city is seductive and I admit I am in love. Perhaps my viewpoint is tainted and I have to admit that there are some sights that should remain unseen. We always remove our shoes at the door, a testament to the fact that there is excrement in the streets. Children are taught from a young age that “if you have to go, you just go”. The acceptance of people spitting in the street has to explain the incidence of TB. I walk the street with my eyes down, not only to avoid anything that I don’t want on the bottom of my shoes, but also to avoid a bodily injury as the footpaths are in such bad repair. And that is if you can walk on the footpaths. Parking space is scarce and priority is given to motorbikes on the footpath. If you leave the path to walk on the road edge, the gutters are invariably filled with rubbish. This is either bagged or just thrown, to be collected once or twice a day, providing there isn’t a down pouring of rain to wash it further down the drains.

But with all of that taken into account, it is still a beautiful city. The 10 million odd people, who contribute to that rubbish and sticky goo in the gutters, are so happy. There is a comfortably, relaxed, calm that seems to be genetic. I have seen no evidence of road rage, although I think there is sometimes reason for it. Nobody seems to get stressed by the little things, everyone is calm and things still get done, perhaps not with the precision that I am used to at home. But does that matter?

Children are a priority in everyone’s lives, parents and grandparents, aunties and uncles are all devoted to the youngest members of the families. Children are spoon fed sitting in doorways or carried up and down the streets. We watched a group of kids playing on a hill of gravel as the workmen shifted wheel barrows around them. Although the children were spilling gravel onto the road and running down the hill onto the road to dodge motorbikes, nobody chastised them, it was just accepted as kids having fun. I wrote a school report for one of my students who is disruptive and inattentive in class. The grandmother’s response was “he is a child, just give him love’. Family is very important here and their bonds are full of love.

The people here work hard, physically hard. Most people work six days a week, if not seven. Businesses are open till about 10pm having opened at 8am. If they don’t have a place of work to go to, they set up a shop in the front room of their house or a stall on the foot path to sell homemade meals. Physical work is just that…..physical. Building sites are wrapped in striped plastic to resemble a circus tent while behind the screen there are balancing acts with buckets of gravel. Others walk the tight rope of scaffolding with wheelbarrows and motor cycle helmets their only protection. They put on a good show but there are no clowns. Young and old women sit in poor light on concrete floors beading gowns that they will never get to wear. Occupational safety is a concept not yet discovered here. Employees don’t belong to unions who work on their behalf, campaigning against work conditions or long hours. 44 hours a week is more than common, accompanied by pathetic financial reimbursement for their time and effort.

I still can’t put my finger on exactly what pulls me to this place. I say I was Asian in a previous life. All I know is that I am still happy and loving this country with all it has to offer.

A Day In Dalat

It all happened as part of the Aussie Invasion, no not the one during the Vietnam/American war. It was the one where we were delighted to be able to show some of our friends the beauty of this country. It all started with Brian, another one of those Australians who has decided to make Vietnam a part of home. Brian made the move, joining the growing number of Aussies sharing their English skills. He needed to take a trip to Dalat, in the central highlands, to collect some belongings left there on a previous visit. James was rubbing his hands together. He had already had a weekend in Dalat playing golf and saw this as an opportunity to play there again. Here a problem arose. Brian is not a devotee of the tee.
Malaysian Airlines delivered an unsuspecting victim. Darryl arrived for his little holiday in the country and plans were afoot to show him this particular part of the country. While the boys were planning a weekend in Dalat, I had to work. But not one to miss out, I arranged a flight to stay for a day. Darryl rose to hero status, spending two days on the golf course with James(he said he enjoyed it) and then spending a day with me doing a motorcycle tour of the countryside.
Dalat is a pretty city, resembling a mountain town in Europe. The streets are steep and are wrapped around a hub of markets. The nights are cool but bustling, with stalls popping up on roadsides. A lake surrounded by slopping grass looks up to beautiful old buildings, a remnant of history.
The golf course sits high, looking down on the town. The surrounding gardens are well tended and would be the envy of many living with the droughts in Australia. Dalat is the garden city of Vietnam. Here flowers are grown for the markets throughout Vietnam, picked and shipped daily to the bigger cities.
On our motorcycle tour, Darryl and I stopped to smell the roses grown in glasshouses. Roses, gerberas, lisianthus, gladdies, chrysanthamums, to name just a few that we drove past. Plants were tended by women wearing conical hats, no water restrictions limiting watering.
We were told by our guides that Dalat's main market had been in vegetables but with cheaper goods grown over the Chinese border, demand had dropped off, so flowers became more profitable.
Darryl and I had a bike and guide each and they took us up through the mountains and coffee plantations. These fragrant little bushes were in flower and grow at different heights, depending on the type of coffee. It was while we had lunch that we drank the local coffee which has to be the best coffee I have ever had, just delicious.
We were taken to a silk factory and saw the production of silk fabric, rather smelly as they boil the cocoons before spinning off the fine thread. Large noisy looms weave the thread into the delicate fabric which is transformed into the soft silky garments available just about everywhere in this country.
Through hillside villages and to a fantastic Buddhist temple, such a quiet retreat, peaceful and reviving. The view from the front steps was great and we could hear the roar of the waterfall not far away.
We followed our guides to the fenced edge to look over at the waterfall, a sight spoiled by the bags of rubbish building up against the rocks. Such a great tourist attraction if not for the rubbish. A path led us over a narrow bridge and then down. The steps were rocks, packed out with concrete, steep and uneven. I got half way and was ready to quit. All I could think was what James would say if I slipped and broke an ankle. But with the gentle coaxing of Darryl and our guide I kept going, with lots of help from my friends. I was so glad I did. Apart from being cooler at the bottom, sprayed by a fine mist of falling water, it was so pretty. Well worth the climb. Trouble was,I knew I had to do it in reverse. What a sight I must have been, climbing up, clinging to rocks, on my knees at times, grabbing branches. It was a feeling of achievement getting to the top with all bones intact.
On our way back to the hotel we stopped at a place called the Crazy House. Designed by some famous woman who obviously must have weird dreams, this place is a cross between Magic Mountain and Stormy Summers parlor. It apparently is a hotel, but you would have to have a strange sense of humor to stay there. Created in concrete, each room has a theme, bears, flowers, fake cobwebs, mirror ceilings.....just bizarre, real fantasy land.
As it got cooler and darker we headed back toward the city centre and our hotel. Brian was still there and together the three of us wandered down to the fun of the market. Lots of bargains, smiles and jokes. We wandered up and down, through the dark streets with little stalls, eventually finding a stall that sold a type of tapioca pudding that Darryl liked. Dinner was at a small restaurant with tables on the footpath.
Next morning off to the airport and back to reality with work in the afternoon. Plus, we had to get ready for the arrival of John and Judy, we still had lots of fun to have.
But it was a perfect day.