I've landed in Japan during school field trip season. Busload after busload of school kids are on the same tourist trail as me in the Kansai Prefecture, which means the temples are literally crawling with what I would guess are 10 or 11 year olds. Herding them about are teachers and a small army of tour guides - the female ones, unfortunately clad in what closely resembles an airline hostess costume from the early 90's. All school uniforms seem to be navy blue and white or black and white, so at least there's some uniformity to this endless sea of bodies. The only way to have a temple to yourself is to go to a boring one, I've discovered. Plus I visited the city of Kyoto, one of the world's most culturally rich cities (17 UNESCO world heritage sites) on a weekend, so on top of the school kids, their parents, aunts and uncles and grandmas were out in mass as well. How I long for open spaces!
While taking in a bit of culture is part of the curriculum, they also seem to have English language homework as well. I regularly get swarmed by 5 or 6 kids at once - I think being on my own is either working in my favour/going against me, depending on your perspective. At a temple on Sunday afternoon I was quickly surrounded by a group of students who I learned were from the Tokyo area. They were so incredibly polite, it was insane. I'm sorry, but if this was a pack of Canadian kids, forced to wander around five or six hundred year-old churches with homework assignments, I think there would be a lot of grumbling over the stupidity of the whole thing. The group, I kid you not, visibly quivered with excitement when I agreed to answer a few questions. I think they must have had a quota of English-speaking foreigners they had to land by the end of the trip, and given they outnumbered us at least 300 to one, it seemed I was worth celebrating. Typically the questions are fairly routine, the only variation being the ease with which they are delivered. What is your name? Where are you from? Is this your first time to Japan? May we take your picture? At least the questions are less probing than elsewhere in Asia. How old are you? Are you married? Do you have kids? Why you have no boyfriend?
But things do get a bit challenging when I'm asked to write a small essay for them, on the spot. The other day I was asked to share my thoughts on world peace or the friendliness of Japan, for future translation by the class. Suddenly I felt like an ill-prepared Miss Louisiana at a beauty pageant, faced with publicly sharing her thoughts on world peace when she though all she needed to do was look good in a two piece. I dodged the world peace question and instead chose to write many positive comments about Japan's friendly people. It really should have occurred to me to spend a few minutes of my spare time crafting a more eloquent answer to the world peace question, which I could summon if questioned in the future. But of course, I didn't. So I find myself in Hiroshima this afternoon, touring the atomic bomb memorial. Having just finished viewing a memorial to children killed or poisoned by radiation, I suddenly found myself surrounded by four school kids. After the preliminaries were out of the way, I was once again asked to share my thoughts on world peace. While I contemplated responding 'well, isn't that what George W. Bush is over in the Middle East fixing right now before his term ends?', I stopped myself. I rambled on for a few sentences in the vein of highly optimistic 'we must all work together' drivel. Not that I don't mean it or believe it, but upon quick reflection it sounded so ridiculously simplistic to border on plain stupidity. So here I am, standing at the epicentre of a nuclear bomb that killed 140,000 people and I'm busy wondering whether next week, when the kids get back to class and work on translating my thoughts, they'll all have a good giggle over the idiotic ramblings of 'Heather, from Canada'.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Naked Girl in Japan
As a policy, I try to avoid public nakedness as much as possible. There are variations on 'public', but I generally classify it as 'me plus 1', where the 'plus 1' is a complete stranger. There was a lot of public nakedness going on at the ashram in India - for those of you with dirty minds, let me complete that sentence - during my prescribed ayurvedic massage sessions. Since then, I've managed to keep the public nudie time to a minimum.
Tragically, Japan is conspiring against my policy, and the situation is simply beyond my control. For accommodation for my two weeks here in Japan I've booked 3 types - business hotels, hostels, and ryokans, which are traditional Japanese inns. As I discovered last night, and confirmed tonight - public bathing is the norm in both ryokans and youth hostels. By public bathing I mean the following. There's a curtain or opaque glass door (no lock) that separates the change room from the hall. A series of cubicles are available for you to store your belongings while bathing. Through another glass door is the communal bathroom, which features a half dozen open-concept showers, a few toddler-sized plastic stools and a very large tiled tub off to the side, full to the brim with hot water. Here's how it is supposed to work. You soap up and rinse off at the mini showers - the shower head is positioned at chest height so I think the idea is you're supposed to shower while perched on the stool. Once you're clean, apparently you go for a dip in the communal tub. Considering the policy I explained earlier, you can imagine how I was feeling when I sussed out the situation. Genders are separated however, a small victory.
Last night I whipped in and out rapidly, forgoing the dip in the tub completely. Here's my thinking on the communal tub - total and utter grossness. I'm not sure how often they drain the water - there were signs up in the ryokan the other night that instructed bathers not to drain the tub after use. (I'm sure it is cleaned out frequently, but it's simply the fear of the unknown.) So putting aside the fact you might find yourself in a tub with a complete stranger, one who is completely naked, you're assuming everyone before you (and who knows how many bodies that might include!) have soaped up sufficiently. I'm sure someone could make a case that my love-affair with hot tubs really isn't that far off this experience, but my argument is that at least in the hot tub there's a layer of spandex between my important bits and a pool of contaminated water. And there's the immediacy of the communal bath that is much more confronting and therefore panic-inducing. Anyway, I managed to zip in and out so quickly, public nakedness didn't occur. (I've just realized that public nakedness could be interpreted to mean me naked in a public place with no witnesses, but for the purposes of this ramble, let's stick to the original definition.)
After checking myself into the youth hostel, I did a quick tour of the place to suss out the bathing situation. I'd hoped that a hostel might feature western shower stalls in a concession to the foreign tourists, but no such luck. As I'd come in from dinner I noticed a large group of school kids having dinner in the lobby restaurant. Theorizing that I didn't really need an audience of giggling school girls while I shaved my legs, I beat a quick path to the bathroom. For those of you who read about my drama back in Vietnam when my magical quick dry towel was sacrificed to the Laundry Gods, you'll be happy to know I managed to acquire a new towel in Singapore - at five times the cost of the original, but hey, life is hard. The new towel isn't full size, I simply could not justify the price - but it still was triple the size of the hand towel provided by the hostel. So me and my trusty new quick dry towel headed down to the bath. Stepping into the change area I came across my first and thankfully only naked body of the evening that wasn't my own - a middle-aged Japanese lady. We made very brief eye contact then went about our business. As I'd made my way down from my room to the bathroom, I'd decided on my philosophy for the event - act like this whole public naked bathing thing is no biggie, my thinking being if I seemed freaked out by it I'd make an even larger spectacle of myself than my bare ass would manage on its own. And a part of me realizes that given the entirely public nature of bathing, clearly it is in no way voyeuristic for the Japanese. Even accepting this intellectually though didn't prevent me from being mildly disturbed by the whole thing.
After all my apprehension I managed to successfully shower in privacy. Three school girls entered the change room as I was whipping on my PJ's. They must attend an English language school, as they chatted in English. During my eavesdropping I was amused to learn that at least one of the girls was equally disturbed by the public nakedness, as she peaked into the bathroom to first determine whether anyone was bathing, and then attempted to negotiate with her friends that she could go in on her own first, and they could go in after. I guess I'm not the only girl in Japan with a policy against public nakedness.
I have a few nights booked in business hotels (translation - Western style to look forward to. And I'm trying to look at the whole experience from a mature perspective. While I don't think public bathing is going to turn me into some sort of exhibitionist (the world breathes a collective sigh of relief), I think it will lessen one of my many hang-ups. And that's all good.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
A Bit of a Rant/Welcome to Japan
I have to admit, as I was sitting in the boarding lounge at the Hong Kong International Airport, waiting for my flight to Osaka, Japan, about 75% of me wished I was boarding a flight to Toronto instead. I just questioned my ability to summon the energy for another country. Whine, whine, boo-hoo, poor Heather. Pathetic, I know. But people, I was pooped after almost 5 months on the road.
My flights, Singapore to Hong Kong and Hong Kong to Osaka, were pretty magical. I got to see two movies that we on my should watch list, and on the flight from Hong Kong to Osaka they were generous with the red wine. (No one has been generous with red wine in, like, 5 months, so this was big.) It was 13 hours in transit in total, which does seem ridiculously long given I didn't even get of out Asia, but the shiraz made it all quite civilized.
At customs at Kansai International Airport, I experienced the most vigorous questions I've had in 5 months of travel. I think the combination of my slovenly appearance (who doesn't dress for comfort when flying, I ask you?), a backpack that looked like it had been at the epicentre of a nuclear disaster, and my visas for dangerous places like India and Thailand made me a slightly suspicious character. A very polite customs officer pawed through my undies with his gloved hand, and asked with the most serious of expressions on his face, whether I'd smoked any marajuana while in Thailand. I tried not to giggle, but 13 hours in transit does make one a little punchy.
Right. So it was 9:30 at night and I had two tasks to accomplish before I could collapse. Find an ATM and catch a shuttle bus to my hotel. Emerging from customs I spotted a Citibank ATM, my favorite international bank, as my stupid CIBC ATM card doesn't pitch a hissy fit when I stick it in the slot and expect it to perform. Clearly I jinxed myself, though. Because 20 minutes later I still had no money and was highly irritated. I wish ATM machines would speak in plain English when telling you to piss off. I do realize that I was dealing with a couple banks communicating with eachother, but can't the smart people who work at banks dedicate some time to scripting more helpful and informative ATM messages? There was some gobbledy gook sentences that used some big words, but the jist of the message was 'no money for you, loser'. Finally giving up after the same message had flashed at me 8 times using both my ATM and Mastercard, I rummaged in my trusty money belt to see what currency I still had. I gave up on being organized about money a few countries ago. It's simply too much work to get currency before entering a country when I can just zip up to an ATM machine in the airport upon arrival. It's actually more exciting this way - the fancy, colourful dollars with monarchs in absurd hats are sort of the welcome wagon for me, 'Hello beautiful lady, come spend lots of us'. Anyway, clearly this little policy of mine was in the process of backfiring on me. I had a grand total of 2 U.S. dollars, 50 Singapore dollars, and 4 apparently useless ATM/credit cards. At the currency exchange I was disappointed to realize that this only netted me 4000 Yen, which really seemed on the low side. But partially comatose, I decided things would be better in the morning and I stumbled out to the shuttle bus for the 5 minute ride to my hotel.
Fifteen minutes later I was in a puddle on my bed, cracking open my Lonely Planet, looking for the helpful section on currency. I've always imagined Japan to be a utopia of high tech marvels, tiny robots and obscene efficiency. So imagine my surprise when I read that while ATMs were everywhere, the did not accept international cards. This is both inefficient and completely unwelcoming, as far as I am concerned. My only hope, according to the Lonely Planet was to find a Citibank machine or go to the post office, which had ATMs that would accept my nasty foreign cards. Citibank, good times indeed. As I read more, things appeared more bleak. Apparently in Japan, cash is king and few businesses accept credit cards. Lonely Planet's parting words of advice were to stock up on cash and traveller's cheques before entering the country. I could have done something about this 7 hours ago in the airport in Hong Kong, but now I was pooched. My overactive imagination quickly got the better of me. How far could my 4000 Yen stretch? How could I afford to eat? Perhaps I'd finally lose the 10 pounds I was supposed to shed on this trip, as I'd be forced to resort to eating every other day. I slept, dreaming of the complimentary snacks I'd refused on the plane. If I'd only known the hardships that faced me ahead - those peanuts could have kept me going for a couple days.
At 9am the next morning I was back at the Citibank machine, trying to be optimistic, given it was the only thing between me and potential starvation. An international trio of tourists were infront of me in line and seemed to have no trouble receiving cash. Asking what magic buttons they'd pushed, I confessed my problem. A young Japanese woman offered to help. She asked how much money I was trying to take out. I replied 300,000 Yen, as I was concerned about how long it might be before I found another ATM that didn't hate my guts. Upon hearing the amount, she replied 'that is a lot of money'. And that, friends, is when I realized the importance of a simple zero. Instead of asking for $300, I'd been suggesting it cough up $3000. So I'm stupid. I can chalk it up to being overtired, but really it comes down to bad math, really, really bad math.
But let me rant for a second. If ATM messages were in English, I wouldn't have lost sleep the previous night, imagining my own death by starvation. Here's some potential options:
a) Hey loser, $3000 exceeds your withdrawal limit.
b) 300,000 Yen = $3000 Canadian. Keep dreaming, my friend.
Perhaps this is a potential career option for me. Translating bank talk into rudimentary English for the exhausted traveller with the math skills of a 5 year old. There must be other people out there that are equally stupid, right?
My flights, Singapore to Hong Kong and Hong Kong to Osaka, were pretty magical. I got to see two movies that we on my should watch list, and on the flight from Hong Kong to Osaka they were generous with the red wine. (No one has been generous with red wine in, like, 5 months, so this was big.) It was 13 hours in transit in total, which does seem ridiculously long given I didn't even get of out Asia, but the shiraz made it all quite civilized.
At customs at Kansai International Airport, I experienced the most vigorous questions I've had in 5 months of travel. I think the combination of my slovenly appearance (who doesn't dress for comfort when flying, I ask you?), a backpack that looked like it had been at the epicentre of a nuclear disaster, and my visas for dangerous places like India and Thailand made me a slightly suspicious character. A very polite customs officer pawed through my undies with his gloved hand, and asked with the most serious of expressions on his face, whether I'd smoked any marajuana while in Thailand. I tried not to giggle, but 13 hours in transit does make one a little punchy.
Right. So it was 9:30 at night and I had two tasks to accomplish before I could collapse. Find an ATM and catch a shuttle bus to my hotel. Emerging from customs I spotted a Citibank ATM, my favorite international bank, as my stupid CIBC ATM card doesn't pitch a hissy fit when I stick it in the slot and expect it to perform. Clearly I jinxed myself, though. Because 20 minutes later I still had no money and was highly irritated. I wish ATM machines would speak in plain English when telling you to piss off. I do realize that I was dealing with a couple banks communicating with eachother, but can't the smart people who work at banks dedicate some time to scripting more helpful and informative ATM messages? There was some gobbledy gook sentences that used some big words, but the jist of the message was 'no money for you, loser'. Finally giving up after the same message had flashed at me 8 times using both my ATM and Mastercard, I rummaged in my trusty money belt to see what currency I still had. I gave up on being organized about money a few countries ago. It's simply too much work to get currency before entering a country when I can just zip up to an ATM machine in the airport upon arrival. It's actually more exciting this way - the fancy, colourful dollars with monarchs in absurd hats are sort of the welcome wagon for me, 'Hello beautiful lady, come spend lots of us'. Anyway, clearly this little policy of mine was in the process of backfiring on me. I had a grand total of 2 U.S. dollars, 50 Singapore dollars, and 4 apparently useless ATM/credit cards. At the currency exchange I was disappointed to realize that this only netted me 4000 Yen, which really seemed on the low side. But partially comatose, I decided things would be better in the morning and I stumbled out to the shuttle bus for the 5 minute ride to my hotel.
Fifteen minutes later I was in a puddle on my bed, cracking open my Lonely Planet, looking for the helpful section on currency. I've always imagined Japan to be a utopia of high tech marvels, tiny robots and obscene efficiency. So imagine my surprise when I read that while ATMs were everywhere, the did not accept international cards. This is both inefficient and completely unwelcoming, as far as I am concerned. My only hope, according to the Lonely Planet was to find a Citibank machine or go to the post office, which had ATMs that would accept my nasty foreign cards. Citibank, good times indeed. As I read more, things appeared more bleak. Apparently in Japan, cash is king and few businesses accept credit cards. Lonely Planet's parting words of advice were to stock up on cash and traveller's cheques before entering the country. I could have done something about this 7 hours ago in the airport in Hong Kong, but now I was pooched. My overactive imagination quickly got the better of me. How far could my 4000 Yen stretch? How could I afford to eat? Perhaps I'd finally lose the 10 pounds I was supposed to shed on this trip, as I'd be forced to resort to eating every other day. I slept, dreaming of the complimentary snacks I'd refused on the plane. If I'd only known the hardships that faced me ahead - those peanuts could have kept me going for a couple days.
At 9am the next morning I was back at the Citibank machine, trying to be optimistic, given it was the only thing between me and potential starvation. An international trio of tourists were infront of me in line and seemed to have no trouble receiving cash. Asking what magic buttons they'd pushed, I confessed my problem. A young Japanese woman offered to help. She asked how much money I was trying to take out. I replied 300,000 Yen, as I was concerned about how long it might be before I found another ATM that didn't hate my guts. Upon hearing the amount, she replied 'that is a lot of money'. And that, friends, is when I realized the importance of a simple zero. Instead of asking for $300, I'd been suggesting it cough up $3000. So I'm stupid. I can chalk it up to being overtired, but really it comes down to bad math, really, really bad math.
But let me rant for a second. If ATM messages were in English, I wouldn't have lost sleep the previous night, imagining my own death by starvation. Here's some potential options:
a) Hey loser, $3000 exceeds your withdrawal limit.
b) 300,000 Yen = $3000 Canadian. Keep dreaming, my friend.
Perhaps this is a potential career option for me. Translating bank talk into rudimentary English for the exhausted traveller with the math skills of a 5 year old. There must be other people out there that are equally stupid, right?
Monday, May 19, 2008
Princess in the Jungle
I find it ridiculous, but just two days living it up in the lap of luxury that is Singapore seems to have ruined me for roughing it in the Malaysian jungle. I feel like such a sissy girl princess-type, it's disturbing.
I arrived in Singapore last Wednesday night. For two days I enjoyed efficient public transport, excessive air conditioning, soul-less malls, movie theatres (my first popcorn in months!) and quick and easy access to chilled cafe mocha's courtesy of Starbucks. I'm ashamed to admit it, but it was a totally beautiful couple of days. As for cultural experiences? Well I wandered through Little India (where the momos and chai were inferior but comforting) and Chinatown (it felt a little bit like the interior of a miniature snow globe universe - Chinese-like, but a little cold and artificial).
Friday night, I hopped on the train to Malaysia for a little jungle trekking with friends Anne & Brian from Vancouver, who now live in Singapore. We arrived at 2am in the morning and were driven an hour to a national park in central Malaysia in the sketchiest cab I've been in (well, since Mumbai.) We dodged herds of cows amidst inferior visibility due to fog, and I attempted to stay alert, as it was decidedly alarming to hear the driver express such disbelief and terror every time he narrowly missed hitting some cows. For the first time on this trip, I had no idea where we were going - I hadn't even cracked a tour guide on Malaysia, and had to keep asking Anne the name of the national park, as it kept escaping me. (Taman Negara - seriously large ancient rain forest in central Malaysia - I finally retained it! Apparently it's 130 million years old.) Anne even was responsible for holding all the tickets, so I was footloose and fancy free, and it was magical.
Oh, but on to my Princess moments. Right, so as I suspected, it's pretty darn hot in a tropical rain forest in the middle of May. I know I whined last week about the sweating, but this just took it to a whole different level. Absolutely every pore of my body was busy producing excessive amounts of sweat, and it was just sort of gross. I got kind of used to it eventually, but having sweat drip off the tip of my nose for 5 hours on Saturday was a bit much. Anne just sort of glistened in a more lady-like way, but Brian and I were pretty much soaked. I should have wanted to do some serious hiking, but 5 hours on Saturday and 3 on Sunday were enough for this Princess. I chalk it up to the sweat production, because otherwise the scenery was great, and we saw some really weird jungle bugs, which was cool.
And while I tried to internalize it, the coffee at the resort was total crap - having recently had access to Starbucks (and I don't even really like Starbucks when I'm at home), I was all the more painfully aware of how horrid the coffee was. I know, those of you who know me well are wondering what's up with this coffee consumption? Well kids, Heather's growing up. I can now drink beer and coffee without groaning, and am capable of ingesting a fried egg if it's sort of masked by other flavours (e.g. on a club sandwich or on top of fried rice.) The jungle featured excellent BBQ and fruit shakes though, so there was some high points. It always seems to come back to food for me!
Monday morning we caught a boat up the river and then a bus back to Kuala Lumpur. While we had 5 hours to kill before we caught the night train back to Singapore, Brian and Anne's offers to take me on a tourist hike through the city were politely rebuffed. I think 4 and a half months of travelling have tired this Princess out. So we went to K.L.'s Petronas Twin Towers (seriously cool) then camped out in the mall at the base of the towers - enjoying, you guessed it, more air conditioning, shopping and Starbucks!
I arrived in Singapore last Wednesday night. For two days I enjoyed efficient public transport, excessive air conditioning, soul-less malls, movie theatres (my first popcorn in months!) and quick and easy access to chilled cafe mocha's courtesy of Starbucks. I'm ashamed to admit it, but it was a totally beautiful couple of days. As for cultural experiences? Well I wandered through Little India (where the momos and chai were inferior but comforting) and Chinatown (it felt a little bit like the interior of a miniature snow globe universe - Chinese-like, but a little cold and artificial).
Friday night, I hopped on the train to Malaysia for a little jungle trekking with friends Anne & Brian from Vancouver, who now live in Singapore. We arrived at 2am in the morning and were driven an hour to a national park in central Malaysia in the sketchiest cab I've been in (well, since Mumbai.) We dodged herds of cows amidst inferior visibility due to fog, and I attempted to stay alert, as it was decidedly alarming to hear the driver express such disbelief and terror every time he narrowly missed hitting some cows. For the first time on this trip, I had no idea where we were going - I hadn't even cracked a tour guide on Malaysia, and had to keep asking Anne the name of the national park, as it kept escaping me. (Taman Negara - seriously large ancient rain forest in central Malaysia - I finally retained it! Apparently it's 130 million years old.) Anne even was responsible for holding all the tickets, so I was footloose and fancy free, and it was magical.
Oh, but on to my Princess moments. Right, so as I suspected, it's pretty darn hot in a tropical rain forest in the middle of May. I know I whined last week about the sweating, but this just took it to a whole different level. Absolutely every pore of my body was busy producing excessive amounts of sweat, and it was just sort of gross. I got kind of used to it eventually, but having sweat drip off the tip of my nose for 5 hours on Saturday was a bit much. Anne just sort of glistened in a more lady-like way, but Brian and I were pretty much soaked. I should have wanted to do some serious hiking, but 5 hours on Saturday and 3 on Sunday were enough for this Princess. I chalk it up to the sweat production, because otherwise the scenery was great, and we saw some really weird jungle bugs, which was cool.
And while I tried to internalize it, the coffee at the resort was total crap - having recently had access to Starbucks (and I don't even really like Starbucks when I'm at home), I was all the more painfully aware of how horrid the coffee was. I know, those of you who know me well are wondering what's up with this coffee consumption? Well kids, Heather's growing up. I can now drink beer and coffee without groaning, and am capable of ingesting a fried egg if it's sort of masked by other flavours (e.g. on a club sandwich or on top of fried rice.) The jungle featured excellent BBQ and fruit shakes though, so there was some high points. It always seems to come back to food for me!
Monday morning we caught a boat up the river and then a bus back to Kuala Lumpur. While we had 5 hours to kill before we caught the night train back to Singapore, Brian and Anne's offers to take me on a tourist hike through the city were politely rebuffed. I think 4 and a half months of travelling have tired this Princess out. So we went to K.L.'s Petronas Twin Towers (seriously cool) then camped out in the mall at the base of the towers - enjoying, you guessed it, more air conditioning, shopping and Starbucks!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Dining in Danang
Tonight's my last night in Vietnam. I'm in Danang, central Vietnam, which is as far south as I've been motivated to venture, baring my flight via Ho Chi Minh City tomorrow morning. It's pretty disturbingly hot here most of the time, and I just didn't have the tourist juice left to attempt a visit to HCMC in the far south. I've come to the conclusion however, that if the guidebook really does a hard sell, attempting to convince readers that a place is more interesting than it first appears, well, it's not a good sign. I'm in Danang because it has an airport, and really, that's it.
Danang's Museum of Cham sculptures is the tourist desination of interest. I spent about a half hour there this afternoon, but the fact that I was starving and tired somewhat impeded my ability to really revel in all the history it had to offer. At least I tried.
So I've come to the poshest restaurant in Danang - partially because it's super close to my hotel and mostly because I felt I deserved an excellent final Vietnamese meal. While I did it completely unconsciously, I find it ironic that instead I ordered sushi and Singapore noodles - food from the two countries still on the 'to do' list on this little adventure.
The wasabi was like, completely over-the-top and snot inducing (sorry about the graphic nature of that), which I think is appropriate given so far Japan's been a pain in the butt to plan. Finding a cheap flight was like the bane of my existence for a week straight. And I've just realized today that I've left it a little late to book accomodation in Japan, given it's high season. I'm so past dorm beds in hostels at this point in my life, but it appears they're the only easy accomodation to book.
I know absolutely zilch about the food for Singapore. Well, other than I'll obviously have to have a Singapore Sling while in town. And according to the expensive new tv commercial campaign currently on all English language tv stations, courtesy of the Singapore tourism board, the city also has some to-die-for desserts. I've done absolutely zero research on Singapore - the joys of staying with friends from home. It's positively decadent to travel to a country (or city state, whatever Singapore is!) and not have to make any plans - I feel spoiled! Anyway, while I don't think Singapore can boast of internationally revered and distinct cuisine like some of the other countries I've visited, my Singapore noodles were satisfying but somewhat lacking in punch. (Which is sort of how I envision Singapore, but I'll have to report back.)
I find I measure countries by how comfortable I am dining out on my own. Paris, for example, is a city that I just can't seem to dine alone in comfortably. I'm constantly self-conscious and feel like I'm inconviencing the wait staff by wandering into their restaurants and expecting to be fed. I didn't quite feel it in Thailand either. That may have something to do with the fact that Thailand seems to attract more than its fair share of two demographics - a) 21 year olds determined to drink their faces off and, b) young couples in their 20s travelling together for the first time, testing whether their love can handle so much quality time together. Vietnam has rocked in this regard (and in many other ways). I've met lots of great, independent travellers to hang out with and share a plate of fresh spring rolls. And even dining on my own, it's fantastic. So I ordered my sushi and noodles and relaxed over a lovely glass of Aussie red, closely watched by two attentive wait staff. Even if Danang is a bit of a dud, good food and drink can cure a lot of things.
Danang's Museum of Cham sculptures is the tourist desination of interest. I spent about a half hour there this afternoon, but the fact that I was starving and tired somewhat impeded my ability to really revel in all the history it had to offer. At least I tried.
So I've come to the poshest restaurant in Danang - partially because it's super close to my hotel and mostly because I felt I deserved an excellent final Vietnamese meal. While I did it completely unconsciously, I find it ironic that instead I ordered sushi and Singapore noodles - food from the two countries still on the 'to do' list on this little adventure.
The wasabi was like, completely over-the-top and snot inducing (sorry about the graphic nature of that), which I think is appropriate given so far Japan's been a pain in the butt to plan. Finding a cheap flight was like the bane of my existence for a week straight. And I've just realized today that I've left it a little late to book accomodation in Japan, given it's high season. I'm so past dorm beds in hostels at this point in my life, but it appears they're the only easy accomodation to book.
I know absolutely zilch about the food for Singapore. Well, other than I'll obviously have to have a Singapore Sling while in town. And according to the expensive new tv commercial campaign currently on all English language tv stations, courtesy of the Singapore tourism board, the city also has some to-die-for desserts. I've done absolutely zero research on Singapore - the joys of staying with friends from home. It's positively decadent to travel to a country (or city state, whatever Singapore is!) and not have to make any plans - I feel spoiled! Anyway, while I don't think Singapore can boast of internationally revered and distinct cuisine like some of the other countries I've visited, my Singapore noodles were satisfying but somewhat lacking in punch. (Which is sort of how I envision Singapore, but I'll have to report back.)
I find I measure countries by how comfortable I am dining out on my own. Paris, for example, is a city that I just can't seem to dine alone in comfortably. I'm constantly self-conscious and feel like I'm inconviencing the wait staff by wandering into their restaurants and expecting to be fed. I didn't quite feel it in Thailand either. That may have something to do with the fact that Thailand seems to attract more than its fair share of two demographics - a) 21 year olds determined to drink their faces off and, b) young couples in their 20s travelling together for the first time, testing whether their love can handle so much quality time together. Vietnam has rocked in this regard (and in many other ways). I've met lots of great, independent travellers to hang out with and share a plate of fresh spring rolls. And even dining on my own, it's fantastic. So I ordered my sushi and noodles and relaxed over a lovely glass of Aussie red, closely watched by two attentive wait staff. Even if Danang is a bit of a dud, good food and drink can cure a lot of things.
Superficial Rant about a Towel
The other afternoon I found myself in one of those mortifying situations - you know the type, where you desperately want to extricate yourself from the situation immediately but doing so prematurely would actually make an even larger spectacle of yourself. Mine was of the 'spoilt tourist/sissy girl' variety.
It started out innocently enough. After a hard morning trying to cram myself into tailor-made clothes that didn't fit, I retired to the hotel pool for some R&R. While I was busy blathering on in my journal, my trusty quick-dry towel blew off the back of my lounger and into the very dirty rice paddies below the hotel deck. The deck is about 12 ft above the rice paddy fields, so there was no obvious way to rescue my towel. Now I know, you're thinking, 'it's a freaking towel, get over it', but having travelled with this towel for the last 4 and a half months, I assure you, it is a gem. I bought it in the bargain bin at the Europe Bound store in Toronto and it is a pale pink colour that is offensive to me, but it's a quick dry towel that's almost full-size, and that, my friends, makes it one of my prized possessions. Other travellers I've come across over the last few months have actually expressed a bit of jealousy over my towel, so my attachment to it is justified.
Anyway, after an inquiry with the girl at the reception desk I was supplied with a duster with an extremely long handle to attempt to fish the towel out of the water. While I was able to reach it when I layed down flat on the ground and stretched, the towel at this point was so water-logged that I couldn't get a grip on it. The girl from reception assured me that help was coming, so I sat back down on my lounger and attempted to look as inconspicuous as possible. By this point the Australian lesbian couple who were enjoying beers at a table nearby were chuckling at me and suggested that perhaps I should consider the towel my gift to the nation of Vietnam. I laughed along with them but still hadn't given up on a potential rescue. My 'help' quickly emerged from the hotel - a small middle-aged lady from the cleaning staff who was prepared to lauch herself off the patio and shimmy down a cement pole to rescue my towel, if I'd just help with the launch. Absolutely horrified that she was prepared to do what I was not to retrieve my towel, I communicated as succinctly as possible that the towel wasn't worth it, we would leave it there, and not to worry. She just kept smiling and saying 'you no worry, no problem'. I was horrified. While I wasn't about to shimmy down a cement pole in my bikini, there was no way I wanted her to think that I expected her to do exactly that. (But not in a bikini, obviously.) The Australian couple piped up that maybe I should go after it myself. A part of me felt like I needed to prove to them I wasn't the large sissy girl I appeared to be, but heck, I was that sissy girl, no doubt about it. Thankfully the cleaning lady seemed to understand what I was saying, but still hovered disturbingly close to the edge of the patio. A couple minutes later one of the young boys on staff came out, quickly scrambled down the pole like he could do it in his sleep, and 2 minutes later my very dirty towel had been returned to me.
Feeling ridiculous and highly appreciative of the efforts they'd gone to, I awkwardly attempted to tip both the boy and the cleaning lady. The lady, having felt she'd actually not contributed to the rescue of the towel as she hadn't launched herself off the patio, took a bit of convincing. But I persisted, passed along the tip with a big 'thank-you' and attempted to beat it out of there as quickly as possible. I dropped the now filthy towel off at reception for laundry service, and retreated to my room feeling highly ridiculous.
So imagine my annoyance early this morning when I found out that the hotel laundry service had lost 3 items of clothing - a gaudy but flattering blouse I bought in India, a trusty pair of quick-dry underwear, and yes, the cursed towel. I kicked up a bit of stink - I've had laundry done all over Asia for the last four months and haven't yet lost a thing. (Which I do realize is a small miracle.) The girl at reception, having assured me that they'd checked numerous times, communicated that 'no one would steal your underwear, they can't use them'. I replied that yes, I didn't suspect deliberate theft. I didn't bother getting into the jist of the problem. Every pair of underwear is vital when you're backpacking - so losing a pair that isn't granny style (25% of my undies) or falling apart (another 25% of my undies) is a complete tragedy. As I paid my bill she attempted to smooth things over - discounting my laundry bill a whole $1.60. Given I'd tipped $2.50 for the rescue of the towel, this did little to calm me, but getting into a long conversation would have probably contributed even more to my reputation around the hotel as 'stupid spoiled girl obsessed with her towel' , so I dropped it.
A part of me realizes that this whole incident is highly superficial. And I do feel like a spoiled tourist expecting others to go to such lengths to help me. Clearly I was meant to leave a part of me behind for Vietnam to enjoy. I just wish it didn't have to be my prized quick-dry towel and undies. I'll get over it though, drinking seems to help.
It started out innocently enough. After a hard morning trying to cram myself into tailor-made clothes that didn't fit, I retired to the hotel pool for some R&R. While I was busy blathering on in my journal, my trusty quick-dry towel blew off the back of my lounger and into the very dirty rice paddies below the hotel deck. The deck is about 12 ft above the rice paddy fields, so there was no obvious way to rescue my towel. Now I know, you're thinking, 'it's a freaking towel, get over it', but having travelled with this towel for the last 4 and a half months, I assure you, it is a gem. I bought it in the bargain bin at the Europe Bound store in Toronto and it is a pale pink colour that is offensive to me, but it's a quick dry towel that's almost full-size, and that, my friends, makes it one of my prized possessions. Other travellers I've come across over the last few months have actually expressed a bit of jealousy over my towel, so my attachment to it is justified.
Anyway, after an inquiry with the girl at the reception desk I was supplied with a duster with an extremely long handle to attempt to fish the towel out of the water. While I was able to reach it when I layed down flat on the ground and stretched, the towel at this point was so water-logged that I couldn't get a grip on it. The girl from reception assured me that help was coming, so I sat back down on my lounger and attempted to look as inconspicuous as possible. By this point the Australian lesbian couple who were enjoying beers at a table nearby were chuckling at me and suggested that perhaps I should consider the towel my gift to the nation of Vietnam. I laughed along with them but still hadn't given up on a potential rescue. My 'help' quickly emerged from the hotel - a small middle-aged lady from the cleaning staff who was prepared to lauch herself off the patio and shimmy down a cement pole to rescue my towel, if I'd just help with the launch. Absolutely horrified that she was prepared to do what I was not to retrieve my towel, I communicated as succinctly as possible that the towel wasn't worth it, we would leave it there, and not to worry. She just kept smiling and saying 'you no worry, no problem'. I was horrified. While I wasn't about to shimmy down a cement pole in my bikini, there was no way I wanted her to think that I expected her to do exactly that. (But not in a bikini, obviously.) The Australian couple piped up that maybe I should go after it myself. A part of me felt like I needed to prove to them I wasn't the large sissy girl I appeared to be, but heck, I was that sissy girl, no doubt about it. Thankfully the cleaning lady seemed to understand what I was saying, but still hovered disturbingly close to the edge of the patio. A couple minutes later one of the young boys on staff came out, quickly scrambled down the pole like he could do it in his sleep, and 2 minutes later my very dirty towel had been returned to me.
Feeling ridiculous and highly appreciative of the efforts they'd gone to, I awkwardly attempted to tip both the boy and the cleaning lady. The lady, having felt she'd actually not contributed to the rescue of the towel as she hadn't launched herself off the patio, took a bit of convincing. But I persisted, passed along the tip with a big 'thank-you' and attempted to beat it out of there as quickly as possible. I dropped the now filthy towel off at reception for laundry service, and retreated to my room feeling highly ridiculous.
So imagine my annoyance early this morning when I found out that the hotel laundry service had lost 3 items of clothing - a gaudy but flattering blouse I bought in India, a trusty pair of quick-dry underwear, and yes, the cursed towel. I kicked up a bit of stink - I've had laundry done all over Asia for the last four months and haven't yet lost a thing. (Which I do realize is a small miracle.) The girl at reception, having assured me that they'd checked numerous times, communicated that 'no one would steal your underwear, they can't use them'. I replied that yes, I didn't suspect deliberate theft. I didn't bother getting into the jist of the problem. Every pair of underwear is vital when you're backpacking - so losing a pair that isn't granny style (25% of my undies) or falling apart (another 25% of my undies) is a complete tragedy. As I paid my bill she attempted to smooth things over - discounting my laundry bill a whole $1.60. Given I'd tipped $2.50 for the rescue of the towel, this did little to calm me, but getting into a long conversation would have probably contributed even more to my reputation around the hotel as 'stupid spoiled girl obsessed with her towel' , so I dropped it.
A part of me realizes that this whole incident is highly superficial. And I do feel like a spoiled tourist expecting others to go to such lengths to help me. Clearly I was meant to leave a part of me behind for Vietnam to enjoy. I just wish it didn't have to be my prized quick-dry towel and undies. I'll get over it though, drinking seems to help.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
yes, my thighs really are that big
I've gotten a bit lazy recently - oh, let's be honest, extremely lazy. I'm in Central Vietnam in May which equates to disturbingly humid weather. Just walking a block, I sweat from parts of my body that I didn't actually realize produce sweat. I used to think the only people who sweated profusely from their foreheads and upper lips were overweight old men, but apparently, in the right weather conditions, I can join the ranks of the damp and irritated. Enough on that though - I've probably just crossed some invisible line of good taste with all this chat about me sweating. Anyway, the combination of my laziness and the obscene humidity has me either under an umbrella or in the hotel pool most days between 1 and 4pm. At most other times, I'm shopping.
It seems highly frivolous, but I've spent the last 4 days shopping. I've chosen to get lazy in an excellent location - Hoi An - a paradise for the materialistic and commercial side of me. There are 500 tailors in this town, which basically means if you spit a metre, you'd hit 5 tailor shops. (And they wouldn't mind you spitting if you did some shopping!) It's the low season here right now, and it's very evident that there are not enough tourists here spending adequate amounts of money to keep the locals happy. You cannot make eye contact with anyone, nor can your eyeballs rest for more than a nanosecond on any product that could be sold. Well you can do these things, but then you'll find yourself in an awkward conversation where you can't help but feel rude and crusty because you don't want to buy some peanuts. (I'm not kidding, peanut sellers are on every street corner.) I turn down at least 50 offers a day 'lady, you come buy something', 'lady, I have cold drink for you', 'lady you come see my shop, looking is free'. I made the mistake the other morning of going into the cloth market - a large market full of mostly ugly fabric and small tailor stalls. It was clear that I was the first tourist that had ventured in all morning, because I was practically mobbed like I was a minor superstar. After ordering a dress I was literally dragged to a shoe stall and forced to order a pair of shoes. I mean, yes, I could have escaped, but when they're charging $15 to make me a pair of shoes, it sort of seems really mean to say 'no, too much money'.
Oh, but back to the tailor shops. It took me a couple of days to get warmed up, I'm ashamed to admit. Highly indecisive at the best of times, it was ridiculously stressful for me at first. You know how quite often the friend that you can count on for brutal honesty has a better idea of what clothes look good on you than you do? Well, I was friendless in Hoi An, adrift amongst 500 tailor shops with millions of styles and fabrics to choose from. Life is hard, people, it really is.
What I didn't factor in is when you order a whack of tailor-made clothes, you have to keep returning to the shops for multiple fittings. And, as I mentioned, when you're sweating from every pore of your body, this is a real trial. I mean, it really isn't my idea of a good time to be trying on wool trousers in 35 + degree heat. And of course nothing actually fits at first. I think it's quite possible that after my measurements are taken the sales girl and the tailor confer in the backroom and are in debelief at the width of my hips in relation to my waist. This has been my own personal cross to bare since I hit puberty, but I'm now generously sharing this with the tailoring industry in Hoi An. And I do feel bad about that, because I wouldn't wish this on anyone. (I do believe that in some culture somewhere, my torso-waist-hip ratio is revered as being the ultimate in female beauty, but Vietnam isn't it, unfortunately.) Not believing my measurements to be physically possible, the tailors go ahead and make trousers that they think will fit. But they are wrong, and 4 fittings later, the trousers that accompany my lovely new suit jacket still don't fit. After the second fitting when they realized the seams couldn't be let out any further, they replaced that back panel of the trousers with more material. At the third fitting we discovered that something had gone wrong, as standing still in the trousers produced a wedgie, and they were still too tight in the thighs. At one point this afternoon during my fourth fitting I was surrounded by five sales associates (all petite young Vietnamese women who I could snap in half with my powerful thighs!) all nattering in Vietnamese and gesturing at my hips. I think the rough translation was probably 'ah, look at this cow, can you believe it?'. I was then told that most ladies like a slim fit and my response was 'yes, but I'd like to actually be able to sit in these trousers without cutting off the circulation to my legs'. I'm getting in a taxi tomorrow morning at 10am to leave Hoi An, and hopefully the trousers are in the backpack with me.
For the unfortunate tailor shop that took my order for an Asian-style silk dress, I think there was a lot of celebratory drinking that happened last night after I finally left with the dress, 5 painful fittings later. The poor ladies had to deal with the entirity of my bust-torso-waist-hip ratio - and that really isn't good times at all. First of all, I'm not Asian, so I quickly realized that the style was completely unflattering on me. But you can't really give up at that point, and I think it became a matter of pride for the ladies for the dress not to look like a burlap sack on me. It was touch and go though, and after fitting number four I announced that I'd just take the dress, that I couldn't sweat through another fitting. The ladies were horrified at the idea however, and magically after loosening the bust once, loosening then tightening the torso, and adjusting the waist and hips about 5 bezillion times, the dress actually is wearable.
I met a pain specialist at the ashram in India a couple months ago. Consulting him for the lower back pain I was experiencing at the time, I got a full-body evaluation. Unprovoked, he told that me there was no amount of time in the gym that would whittle my thighs - according to Dr. Pain from Texas, I'm storing massive amounts of negative energy in my thighs. (I suppose that's as good a place as any!) He gave me a series of exercises to do that would, according to Dr. Pain, shrink my thighs to such a point that a new wardrobe would be required. I tried the exercises a few times, but they're like super hard, so I've procrastinated and told myself that I'll do them once I'm home. I'm guessing now the tailors of Hoi An wished that I'd actually toughed it out a bit more!
It seems highly frivolous, but I've spent the last 4 days shopping. I've chosen to get lazy in an excellent location - Hoi An - a paradise for the materialistic and commercial side of me. There are 500 tailors in this town, which basically means if you spit a metre, you'd hit 5 tailor shops. (And they wouldn't mind you spitting if you did some shopping!) It's the low season here right now, and it's very evident that there are not enough tourists here spending adequate amounts of money to keep the locals happy. You cannot make eye contact with anyone, nor can your eyeballs rest for more than a nanosecond on any product that could be sold. Well you can do these things, but then you'll find yourself in an awkward conversation where you can't help but feel rude and crusty because you don't want to buy some peanuts. (I'm not kidding, peanut sellers are on every street corner.) I turn down at least 50 offers a day 'lady, you come buy something', 'lady, I have cold drink for you', 'lady you come see my shop, looking is free'. I made the mistake the other morning of going into the cloth market - a large market full of mostly ugly fabric and small tailor stalls. It was clear that I was the first tourist that had ventured in all morning, because I was practically mobbed like I was a minor superstar. After ordering a dress I was literally dragged to a shoe stall and forced to order a pair of shoes. I mean, yes, I could have escaped, but when they're charging $15 to make me a pair of shoes, it sort of seems really mean to say 'no, too much money'.
Oh, but back to the tailor shops. It took me a couple of days to get warmed up, I'm ashamed to admit. Highly indecisive at the best of times, it was ridiculously stressful for me at first. You know how quite often the friend that you can count on for brutal honesty has a better idea of what clothes look good on you than you do? Well, I was friendless in Hoi An, adrift amongst 500 tailor shops with millions of styles and fabrics to choose from. Life is hard, people, it really is.
What I didn't factor in is when you order a whack of tailor-made clothes, you have to keep returning to the shops for multiple fittings. And, as I mentioned, when you're sweating from every pore of your body, this is a real trial. I mean, it really isn't my idea of a good time to be trying on wool trousers in 35 + degree heat. And of course nothing actually fits at first. I think it's quite possible that after my measurements are taken the sales girl and the tailor confer in the backroom and are in debelief at the width of my hips in relation to my waist. This has been my own personal cross to bare since I hit puberty, but I'm now generously sharing this with the tailoring industry in Hoi An. And I do feel bad about that, because I wouldn't wish this on anyone. (I do believe that in some culture somewhere, my torso-waist-hip ratio is revered as being the ultimate in female beauty, but Vietnam isn't it, unfortunately.) Not believing my measurements to be physically possible, the tailors go ahead and make trousers that they think will fit. But they are wrong, and 4 fittings later, the trousers that accompany my lovely new suit jacket still don't fit. After the second fitting when they realized the seams couldn't be let out any further, they replaced that back panel of the trousers with more material. At the third fitting we discovered that something had gone wrong, as standing still in the trousers produced a wedgie, and they were still too tight in the thighs. At one point this afternoon during my fourth fitting I was surrounded by five sales associates (all petite young Vietnamese women who I could snap in half with my powerful thighs!) all nattering in Vietnamese and gesturing at my hips. I think the rough translation was probably 'ah, look at this cow, can you believe it?'. I was then told that most ladies like a slim fit and my response was 'yes, but I'd like to actually be able to sit in these trousers without cutting off the circulation to my legs'. I'm getting in a taxi tomorrow morning at 10am to leave Hoi An, and hopefully the trousers are in the backpack with me.
For the unfortunate tailor shop that took my order for an Asian-style silk dress, I think there was a lot of celebratory drinking that happened last night after I finally left with the dress, 5 painful fittings later. The poor ladies had to deal with the entirity of my bust-torso-waist-hip ratio - and that really isn't good times at all. First of all, I'm not Asian, so I quickly realized that the style was completely unflattering on me. But you can't really give up at that point, and I think it became a matter of pride for the ladies for the dress not to look like a burlap sack on me. It was touch and go though, and after fitting number four I announced that I'd just take the dress, that I couldn't sweat through another fitting. The ladies were horrified at the idea however, and magically after loosening the bust once, loosening then tightening the torso, and adjusting the waist and hips about 5 bezillion times, the dress actually is wearable.
I met a pain specialist at the ashram in India a couple months ago. Consulting him for the lower back pain I was experiencing at the time, I got a full-body evaluation. Unprovoked, he told that me there was no amount of time in the gym that would whittle my thighs - according to Dr. Pain from Texas, I'm storing massive amounts of negative energy in my thighs. (I suppose that's as good a place as any!) He gave me a series of exercises to do that would, according to Dr. Pain, shrink my thighs to such a point that a new wardrobe would be required. I tried the exercises a few times, but they're like super hard, so I've procrastinated and told myself that I'll do them once I'm home. I'm guessing now the tailors of Hoi An wished that I'd actually toughed it out a bit more!
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
A Day on a Moped
I’m on the back of a moped on a random highway in Vietnam in a rainstorm, wearing a plastic bag, a pink one at that. It’s raining so hard, water is slashing in between my sunglasses and my face, running into my eyes and I can’t actually see anything. Wiping my eyes would mean I’d have to remove my hands from Thai’s waist (the driver), which currently seems like a very bad idea. The rapidly increasing puddles are so large that when we drive through them the friction of the bike's tires seem to be heating up the rain water and my toes are experiencing a warm, high-pressure shower. (I think this may finally wash off the elephant dung that's been clinging to my foul sports sandals for the last 3 weeks.) Oh, and there's a very large vehicle looming up behind us, its size obvious from the gigantic beep of its horn that's rattling about in my helmet-clad brain. A tour bus just thundered past as I managed to crack an eyeball open. The sign I just saw says 65 km back to Hue. Good times. I say that without sarcasm. I could be dry inside that tour bus right now, but how boring would that be?
Given that a mere 2 weeks ago I was skittish about getting on the back of a moped to zip around Hanoi, heading off on a 6 hour moped trip does seem like a bit of a leap, I admit it. But the DMZ, or demilitarized zone is a mopedable distance away from Hue, the city I've been staying in recently, so it seemed like a good idea. And the trip was great. A large bug smacked into my forehead, and left some sort of residue. My guide/driver, Thai, did offer a massage in my hotel room post-ride, but I laughed off the suggestion quite successfully. I toured the Vin Moc tunnels, which apparently are quite authentic. I saw the river that formerly divided North and South Vietnam. I accidentally wandered a little too close to a live mortar area, but Thai yelled at me in time. And I lost feeling in my right thumb after an hour and a half in a rainstorm, but a half hour soak in the tub has restored feeling, so no amputation will be required.
Responsible Tourism?
I’m trying to imagine how I would react if a mini-bus pulled into the mighty village of Thedford, and puked out a half-dozen sweaty tourists onto the sidewalk, all keen for a bit of authentic village life and a chance to spot locals in their natural habitat.
Quick, get your cameras ready, folks, local resident Heather Anderson is just exiting the grocery store. We’re quite lucky - based on the mud splatter pattern on her car it’s clear she’s from a more remote gravel road outside of town. And just as promised - she’s clad in traditional dress common to the area and it looks like she’s having a bad hair day. Yes, you’re right, it does seem she’s sporting pajama bottoms - traditional dress for the unemployed 30-something who’s moved back in with her parents. Now remember to be a responsible tourist and ask permission before you take her photo. Oh, it looks like she’s camera shy today, she’s sprinting back to her car. A back shot will just have to do. Come along everyone, if we hurry down to Caroline’s we can sample the local delicacy, date cookies, and see the village elders gathering over coffee.
Ok, so perhaps I’m exaggerating a bit. But spending 3 days in the northwest of Vietnam, in hill tribe country, has me reflecting on how invasive tourism can be, and the nature of the exchange between locals and tourists. The mountainous north of Vietnam is home to a variety of ethnic minority groups - some who have lived there for thousands of years, others emigrating in the last couple hundred years from China. Land ownership here in Vietnam seems to be a first come first served system, and as a result, many of the tribes eek out a very tough living on the sides of mountains, growing corn on patches of ground so steep that the average tourist would be unable to stand upright. The countryside is absolutely gorgeous, fantastic views. But what tourists really go north to experience is the colourful hill tribe people, the majority of whom wear traditional dress, whether they're ploughing a field of selling postcards.
The guidebooks don't lie. Over 3 days we visited four markets and as many villages and 90% of the women, just going about their business, did so in traditional dress. Each tribe can be identified by their clothing, as head gear, colour schemes and amount and style of ornamentation vary by tribe. We soon discovered which tribe were the most persistent business people, as we were constantly trailed by small ladies and girls, who were ready to sell us the bracelets off their wrists, which seemed very wrong. On one afternoon walking tour through villages that stretched across a valley floor, our group of six tourists was escorted for two and a half hours by 20 women from the Black Hmong tribe. I had a personal escort of 3 ladies and a baby (who was strapped to his mom's back) who stopped with me each time I paused for a photo, and were ready to assist me as I navigated slippery rocks while crossing streams. Their intentions were fairly obvious from the outset - we'll let you wander through our backyards and at the end of the afternoon you will buy some embroidered bags that you neither need nor want.
And here's the bit I find especially interesting - how tourists react to the clearly set out rules of engagement in hill tribe country. As far as I'm concerned, if I'm allowed to wander through small villages, invading their privacy, then sure, it's only fair that I spend a couple dollars on an embroidered whatever that will collect dust in my closet at home. (Well, if I had a home with a closet!) I won't be please if the ladies try to rip me off excessively, but by all means, let's negotiate. Other travellers I've met refused to purchase anything, with the argument that it just 'encourages the behaviour'. I personally think that view of things is a bit naive. The 'behaviour' of trying to support your family is completely legitimate. While it may be unfortunate, you can't expect tourism not to impact remote regions. If tourists can afford to fly halfway around the world to hike through the countryside of Vietnam, how can they balk at spending a couple dollars on hill-tribe souvenirs, when each dollar matters so much to people who have so little?
Ah, enough of my rant. My collection of photos of the ethnic minority people of northwest Vietnam is a series of backside views - partially because I'm not a National Geographic photographer, but primarily because the people there believe photos will capture their spirit. Beyond not wanting to inadvertently snatch someone's spirit, I also find taking close-ups of perfect strangers a complete invasion of their privacy. I mean, would I want my photo taken on the main street of Thedford? Decidedly not. At the end of 3 days I had acquired enough random embroidery that a trip to the post office was required. If the boat from Vietnam ever arrives some of you lucky people may be recipients of some perfectly stunning embroidered handbags. (Note, sarcasm has been engaged.) Please, no fighting, people. Tragically there's enough for all of you.
Quick, get your cameras ready, folks, local resident Heather Anderson is just exiting the grocery store. We’re quite lucky - based on the mud splatter pattern on her car it’s clear she’s from a more remote gravel road outside of town. And just as promised - she’s clad in traditional dress common to the area and it looks like she’s having a bad hair day. Yes, you’re right, it does seem she’s sporting pajama bottoms - traditional dress for the unemployed 30-something who’s moved back in with her parents. Now remember to be a responsible tourist and ask permission before you take her photo. Oh, it looks like she’s camera shy today, she’s sprinting back to her car. A back shot will just have to do. Come along everyone, if we hurry down to Caroline’s we can sample the local delicacy, date cookies, and see the village elders gathering over coffee.
Ok, so perhaps I’m exaggerating a bit. But spending 3 days in the northwest of Vietnam, in hill tribe country, has me reflecting on how invasive tourism can be, and the nature of the exchange between locals and tourists. The mountainous north of Vietnam is home to a variety of ethnic minority groups - some who have lived there for thousands of years, others emigrating in the last couple hundred years from China. Land ownership here in Vietnam seems to be a first come first served system, and as a result, many of the tribes eek out a very tough living on the sides of mountains, growing corn on patches of ground so steep that the average tourist would be unable to stand upright. The countryside is absolutely gorgeous, fantastic views. But what tourists really go north to experience is the colourful hill tribe people, the majority of whom wear traditional dress, whether they're ploughing a field of selling postcards.
The guidebooks don't lie. Over 3 days we visited four markets and as many villages and 90% of the women, just going about their business, did so in traditional dress. Each tribe can be identified by their clothing, as head gear, colour schemes and amount and style of ornamentation vary by tribe. We soon discovered which tribe were the most persistent business people, as we were constantly trailed by small ladies and girls, who were ready to sell us the bracelets off their wrists, which seemed very wrong. On one afternoon walking tour through villages that stretched across a valley floor, our group of six tourists was escorted for two and a half hours by 20 women from the Black Hmong tribe. I had a personal escort of 3 ladies and a baby (who was strapped to his mom's back) who stopped with me each time I paused for a photo, and were ready to assist me as I navigated slippery rocks while crossing streams. Their intentions were fairly obvious from the outset - we'll let you wander through our backyards and at the end of the afternoon you will buy some embroidered bags that you neither need nor want.
And here's the bit I find especially interesting - how tourists react to the clearly set out rules of engagement in hill tribe country. As far as I'm concerned, if I'm allowed to wander through small villages, invading their privacy, then sure, it's only fair that I spend a couple dollars on an embroidered whatever that will collect dust in my closet at home. (Well, if I had a home with a closet!) I won't be please if the ladies try to rip me off excessively, but by all means, let's negotiate. Other travellers I've met refused to purchase anything, with the argument that it just 'encourages the behaviour'. I personally think that view of things is a bit naive. The 'behaviour' of trying to support your family is completely legitimate. While it may be unfortunate, you can't expect tourism not to impact remote regions. If tourists can afford to fly halfway around the world to hike through the countryside of Vietnam, how can they balk at spending a couple dollars on hill-tribe souvenirs, when each dollar matters so much to people who have so little?
Ah, enough of my rant. My collection of photos of the ethnic minority people of northwest Vietnam is a series of backside views - partially because I'm not a National Geographic photographer, but primarily because the people there believe photos will capture their spirit. Beyond not wanting to inadvertently snatch someone's spirit, I also find taking close-ups of perfect strangers a complete invasion of their privacy. I mean, would I want my photo taken on the main street of Thedford? Decidedly not. At the end of 3 days I had acquired enough random embroidery that a trip to the post office was required. If the boat from Vietnam ever arrives some of you lucky people may be recipients of some perfectly stunning embroidered handbags. (Note, sarcasm has been engaged.) Please, no fighting, people. Tragically there's enough for all of you.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Things Seen on a Moped - Vietnamese Edition
I've been amusing myself recently with an old favorite - entertaining things seen spotted on the back of a moped. I'm finding here in Vietnam, the people are more creative and industrious with what they'll strap to a moped - it transports a lot more than just the odd monk or gaggle of toddlers, as witnessed in Thailand and Cambodia. Tragically I'm usually on a bus and whip by these fascinating scenes too quickly to capture them, but I'm managed to include a couple shots.
Here's a quick list of my favorites.
1. Trees
I've frequently seen trees, complete with root systems and trailing clumps of dirt, strapped to a rack on the back of a moped. And we're not talking about small shrubs, but full-on trees, my friends.
2. Vases
Vases on a moped - seems to me like you're just asking for trouble doing this. Oh, and the size of the vases? Well, that's what makes it truly ridiculous. Last week I saw two vases attached to the back of a moped, and without exaggerating at all, each vase was about as tall as I am. How crazy is that?
3. Piglets in Burlap Sacks
I went to a market last week in northwest Vietnam. The weekly market had an active animal trade business going on, with piglets, dogs and horses doing a brisk business. After trading was done we saw 3 piglets ingeniously strapped to the back of a moped, and the only visible parts of their bodies were their snouts, poking out through holes cut in the bottom of burlap sacks. If you didn't look closely you couldn't even tell what was in the sacks. Oh, except for the occasional squeal that pierced the air - that sort of gave it away.
4. A Moped
Yes, that's right, I saw a moped on a moped. Let me explain. Behind the driver of moped A sat a passenger. The passenger had moped B gripped in his arms, with the front tire balancing precariously on the seat between himself and the driver. Can you imagine if it fell off as they whipped down a highway? OUch!
5. A Bed
Now, I have entitled this one 'bed' for dramatic effect. It was actually a headboard and footboard for a bed, with the headboard on one moped and the footboard on another. Still, I was mildly amused.
6. Dogs
Ok, this one actually makes me pretty nauseous. The Vietnamese eat pretty much anything they can catch. This, unfortunately includes dogs. I met some truly obnoxious Americans last week who seemed to be proud that they'd sampled dog from a Vietnamese restaurant. They deserved to be slapped - partially for being obnoxious Americanos, but mostly for eating dogs. (In my opinion it's one thing to eat dog because it's part of your culture, but it's another thing entirely to do it just so you can run home to your idiot friends with a story. Stupid people can be found everywhere - they don't stay at home, unfortunately.) Ok, enough ranting. Back to how this relates to mopeds. On a highway the other day our bus passed a couple of mopeds, each with two cages loaded on the the seat behind the driver. The cages had about 4 small-medium sized dogs squished into each one, so I imagine I saw about a dozen dogs out for their last joy ride. As we drove past I saw one sloppy pink tongue whipping about in the wind, so the pup on top of the pile was enjoying himself, but the rest looked miserable. Who can blame them? (Now granted, I found this more traumatic than the piglets, and they were on their way to an eventual death as well. But somehow, its very, very different.)
7. Me in a Pink Garbage Bag
I just spent 5 hours on the back of a moped, touring the demilitarized zone. An hour and a half of that was in a downpour. Seriously good times.
Here's a quick list of my favorites.
1. Trees
I've frequently seen trees, complete with root systems and trailing clumps of dirt, strapped to a rack on the back of a moped. And we're not talking about small shrubs, but full-on trees, my friends.
2. Vases
Vases on a moped - seems to me like you're just asking for trouble doing this. Oh, and the size of the vases? Well, that's what makes it truly ridiculous. Last week I saw two vases attached to the back of a moped, and without exaggerating at all, each vase was about as tall as I am. How crazy is that?
3. Piglets in Burlap Sacks
I went to a market last week in northwest Vietnam. The weekly market had an active animal trade business going on, with piglets, dogs and horses doing a brisk business. After trading was done we saw 3 piglets ingeniously strapped to the back of a moped, and the only visible parts of their bodies were their snouts, poking out through holes cut in the bottom of burlap sacks. If you didn't look closely you couldn't even tell what was in the sacks. Oh, except for the occasional squeal that pierced the air - that sort of gave it away.
4. A Moped
Yes, that's right, I saw a moped on a moped. Let me explain. Behind the driver of moped A sat a passenger. The passenger had moped B gripped in his arms, with the front tire balancing precariously on the seat between himself and the driver. Can you imagine if it fell off as they whipped down a highway? OUch!
5. A Bed
Now, I have entitled this one 'bed' for dramatic effect. It was actually a headboard and footboard for a bed, with the headboard on one moped and the footboard on another. Still, I was mildly amused.
6. Dogs
Ok, this one actually makes me pretty nauseous. The Vietnamese eat pretty much anything they can catch. This, unfortunately includes dogs. I met some truly obnoxious Americans last week who seemed to be proud that they'd sampled dog from a Vietnamese restaurant. They deserved to be slapped - partially for being obnoxious Americanos, but mostly for eating dogs. (In my opinion it's one thing to eat dog because it's part of your culture, but it's another thing entirely to do it just so you can run home to your idiot friends with a story. Stupid people can be found everywhere - they don't stay at home, unfortunately.) Ok, enough ranting. Back to how this relates to mopeds. On a highway the other day our bus passed a couple of mopeds, each with two cages loaded on the the seat behind the driver. The cages had about 4 small-medium sized dogs squished into each one, so I imagine I saw about a dozen dogs out for their last joy ride. As we drove past I saw one sloppy pink tongue whipping about in the wind, so the pup on top of the pile was enjoying himself, but the rest looked miserable. Who can blame them? (Now granted, I found this more traumatic than the piglets, and they were on their way to an eventual death as well. But somehow, its very, very different.)
7. Me in a Pink Garbage Bag
I just spent 5 hours on the back of a moped, touring the demilitarized zone. An hour and a half of that was in a downpour. Seriously good times.
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