Christine washed my black pants a couple of weeks ago, and since then
they've smelled so bad! Must have had something to do with the water
and/or detergent and/or the humidity, which makes it impossible to dry
clothes on a line here. Anyway, my black pants have been out of
commission for a while.
Then, I climbed onto the water buffalo, and since then my jeans have
smelled a bit peculiar. Not to me, of course, but to others. Our cat
PERL likes this funny smell (she goes straight to lick the
armpits... weird cat, I know; incidentally, when my sister took PERL
at her home, PERL went straight for her armpits because, after all,
siblings smell alike); normal people (like my wife) do not like the
smell.
And thus I was left without trousers. So I had nothing appropriate to
wear to school today: it was either shorts or pyjamas, neither of
which meets dress code requirements. Pyjamas it was, and I think I was
the weirdest sight around campus today. At least shorts are the mark
of foreigners, but a westerner looking like Chi Fu (the scribe from
Mulan) is another thing altogether.
Sigh! Not enough clothes: the plight of the efficiently-packed
traveller. And poor Christine has been busting her brain looking for a
way to remove the smell from those pants. Soaked them in vinegar last
time I checked; I'll smell like a Greek salad soon... call me Feta Boy
(my new comic book villain who is after helpless sheep and goats). By
the way, the vinegar is sold in reused water bottles, with the vinegar
producer simply sticking their label on a La Vie bottle; impressive
reuse!
Talking about food, we had a delicious meal last weekend at the house
of (yet another) relative. All kinds of meat, and especially those
barbequeued nibblets of the leanest, juciest meat I've had in
Hanoi. You guessed it: I fed on Fido. Dog meat. Yuuuuuuummy!
Christine's aunt Dung and her mom (both visiting from the US)
had some too and agreed; Christine abstained. I figured, it was already
cooked and served, I wasn't encouraging a restaurant, and even though
the thought was (and is) very disconcerting to me, it's a local
specialty and we tried so many others. So why not feast of Fido (just
once)?
It's not just that. It's also the fact that we had returned from the
village, where I petted the pot-bellied pig, rode on the water buffalo
(a large cow really), and saw the cutest chicks running around the
mama chickens. It's amazing how arbitrary it is that we eat those
animals and not dog (or cat). Add to that the fact that Christine and
I both tried fertilized duck eggs (inside of which there is mostly
yolk but also a little gooey mass that is the duckling), and at that
point I could have tried fried silkworms (yes, that's what happens to
the worms which are prevented from forming a cocoon because their silk
is harvested... they die and get eaten).
Anyway, the dog was very good, and at this point I'm getting mighty
close to turning vegetarian altogether.
You see, there are many other pleasures in life in Hanoi, as our
room's little trashcan says on it: "OPA! Make your life to be
conveniently and joyful by Inomata" (yes, I typed this correctly yet I
still have no clue what it means). In case you don't know, that's
especially bizarre to a Greek because OPA! is to Greeks what
Yiiiha! is to Texans (i.e. a common exclamatory yell).
One particular pleasure worth mentioning is watching TV. The other
day, there was a 45-minute program dedicated to the song My
Heart Will Go On from the movie Titanic. No
kidding: it started with the Celine Dion music video, then an analysis
of the pathos in the lyrics in Vietnamese, followed by an analysis of
the literary elements in the lyrics by the same guy who does the
English lessons on another TV program (I could recognize that
hilarious combover from a kilometer away). In-between, we saw clips of
the video again, though the audio and video were off-sync and Celine
Dion's lips were not singing what we were hearing (like Milli
Vanilli). That's because they had edited the video to overlay the text
of the lyrics (in English and Vietnamese) at the bottom of the
screen. Maya Angelou, move over, Celine is here!
Another weird sight from the other day: an overloaded flatbed cart
(like the ones at Home Depot stores) moving by itself down the street,
crossing intersections and all. Well, not really, but there was nobody
in the front, and that thing was piled with stuff! The secret: a guy
with a motorbike behind the cart. The marvel is that the bike and the
cart were not connected by any sort of wire, lever, or anything else:
the guy just pushed the cart forward by putting his foot on it and
driving the motor cycle. No brakes, which made me wonder what happens
downhill. Anyway, the guy couldn't see ahead of him, but that did not
matter one bit. One of these days I'll write a comic book about a
Vietnamese superhero who gained X-ray vision powers from Agent Orange.
And some ruminations to wrap up... The class is almost over. Done with
lectures, done preparing assignments and the final (and all
solutions), done with course evaluations, done with the students'
presentations (they did very well). Only two assignments and the final
to grade, and some wrap-up stuff to go. It was a fantastic experience,
and while I look forward to some rest, I already miss it as
well. Thankfully, they are not speaking English with Greek accents.
A word of advice to all tourists coming to these parts: you won't do
anybody a favor in the long term by agreeing to pay inflated prices.
For example, when a motorbike driver asks for 30k while the going
price is 5k, and you agree, you are screwing over the honest guys who
charge fair prices (they exist) and instead you encourage the
crooks. Worse, future tourists will get even more unrelenting
motorbike solicitations. And the prices get inflated, which hurts
local residents who eventually will not afford the services. In other
words, paying high prices is not a nice thing to do to help the poor
people; it's encouraging scam artists and helps nobody (except those
thieves) --- it's not real need that drives up prices, it's greed,
pure and simple. If towns like Hanoi are to retain their local
character (whatever it is), they cannot become gentrified. Not that
anybody will listen to me... sooner or later, Vietnam will be like the
Greek islands: too expensive for locals (Greeks) to visit. And
whatever foreigners do visit, they are served a faked up Hawaian
resort, not the real thing, because the real thing no longer exists.
Anyway, another very interesting personal realization I made in Hanoi
is that race matters here. You see, in Greece and even in the US, I am
part of the white mainstream. In the US, I'm not treated in any
special manner (good or bad) because of the way I look. But here, I am
obviously a westerner, and subject to whatever stereotypes the locals
have of westerners. It's not something I can change about me, much
like somebody black will always be black (Michael Jackson aside) or a
woman will always be a woman. So the main stereotype here is that I am
Mr. Moneybags. Ironically, it is true: Christine and I are upper
middle class by American standards, which makes us richer than Midas
by local standards. But, attitude-wise, I am a total cheapskate, I
don't enjoy consumerism, I don't enjoy waste, and sure as hell I don't
enjoy going shopping for useless knick-knacks (though I admit I asked
Christine to buy a pink Ao Dai for herself). Stereotypes are indeed
accurate statistically, but they are downright annoying if you are not
near the statistic mean; even Christine is well off the mean, despite
her shopping excursions. A primary reason I detest the thought of
living in Greece is that there are all sorts of social expections,
propriety rules, and other such bullcrap based on how others perceive
you; same in Hanoi, though, for a short month, the stereotypes are
just funny (and same in Greece for short visits). Anyway, this whole
experience made me thankful that I live in the US where stereotyping
is much, much less common (despite the occasional exteremist idiots
like the KKK or the religious right; these are the rare exception, not
at all the rule, despite the publicity they get).
Back to my ramblings... The annoyances of the westerner stereotype are
the incessant "motorbike?" "cyclo?" "photo?" "buy a book?" as you walk
on the street or even if you want to sit by the lake (though there is
a park where you have to pay $0.13 to get in, and that buys you peace
and quiet... which many a local couple also do, too, to kiss on the
benches). These annoyances go away in time, as I walk the same route
day in, day out, and the motorbike drivers figure out I'd rather
walk. The somewhat positive flip-side of the westerner stereotype is
that, not only can you live like a king because your money goes a hell
of a long way here, but you are also treated with sincere admiration
sometimes. I'm not talking about the exploitative "oh your husband is
so handsome" that Christine hears time and again from shop-keepers who
are simply throwing compliments her way to get her to buy their wares
(though non-overweight westerners are, in general, exotic enough to be
indeed perceived as good-looking). I'm talking about the simple fact
that a lot of what is old, obsolete, or mainstream knowledge in the US
is worth admiration here. For example, sharing my 6-year old computer
graphics tips with the local Pixar. Or teaching Operating
Systems... the pay I get here relative to US pay is meager, but if you
adjust for the cost of living, education here is highly valued. Or
simply speaking French or English with locals who want to improve
their own language skills. Or being a Greek who immigrated to the US
via scholarships, which so many students here want to do.
In other words, pond size matters. The pond here is small, so a fish
that is small in the US is a big one here. Frankly, to the extent that
this enables me to help others, I enjoy it. But the moment this (well
intended) admiration leads to more stereotypes and subservient or
otherwise odd behaviour, it ain't welcome. Here's a simple example:
the family with which we stayed has two daughters. They both speak
very good English, but because they saw me as a Venerable Teacher at
the "Grand School of 100 Disciplines" (yes, that's the literal
translation of the Hanoi University of Technology, Dai Hoc Bach Khoa
Ha Noi... think "Upper-level Polytechnic"), they were way, way too
embarassed to talk to me. See, this sort of admiration built a wall
instead of a bridge. Only now that we are about to go is the wall
coming down and I talk with them fairly often. It took many an
occasion where I made a fool of myself (esp. with regards to my
insatiable desire for ice cream, called Kem in Vietnamese) for them to
realize I'm only human (and neither critical of them, nor
status-conscious). In short, until I was officially renamed by the
family "the Kem guy", I was a Teacher first, a regular Nguyen (Joe) next;
now I'm Kem, who also happens to teach. Incidentally, I think Mattel
should make a Vietnamese Barbie who looks like Christine; we'll be
Barbie and Kem.
That's just me. I've seen enough examples already where this kind of
stereotyping is seen as most welcome for many a foreigner, esp. Greek
immigrants to the US who then return to Greece, of Vietnamese who
return to Vietnam. Treated as royalty, spending money to show off
their wealth, and oftentimes, taking on a mistress and dumping their
spouse in the US (I've seen both men and women do this). I mean, why
bother learning modesty, being faithful, and appreciating the
independence of your spouse (and learning give and take), when instead
you can splurge, cheat, and be as arrogant as you want?
I think there is a special circle in Dante's Inferno for those who
succumb to this temptation. And I bet it's next to the one for the
religious right. Which is right down the aisle from us dog
eaters. Pass on Fido, will ya?