Learning how to prepare "sticky rice" in steamed leaves on a trip to Dung Luan

In my life I have studied, traveled, participated in programs, and led trips to many different countries, but this year is different. I have passed the halfway point of my time here in Viet Nam and feel acclimated, comfortable, and competent. I know where to get the right color compact fluorescent light bulbs, where to get an electric guitar cord repaired, at which hours the gym is less crowded, which fruit ladies or vegetable ladies in the market will not rip me off, which ATMs don’t run out of cash when all the other ones have been empty for five days, and which bakeries have the best baguettes. I’ve learned how to bake dozens of different cakes (last night was mango, ginger, salted plum bread); and how to survive with a refrigerator the size of R2D2, a kitchen with two stoves and a tiny toaster oven. I know how much a taxi should be to anywhere in the city, how much to pay the driver who takes the “scenic route” that adds 8km to a 6km trip, and how much faster my trip will be if I ride my bicycle. The list of mundane things goes on and on. One of the reasons I haven’t written for this blog in so long is that life has become so normal. So, what do I love about my life here. I love climbing the ten floors to my apartment – for the exercise (the elevators work fine, but I try to climb the stairs as much as I can). I love the fact that there is a “farmer’s market” every few blocks where I can buy fresh locally-grown produce, and meat so fresh that was walking around the previous day. I love the constant discovery of new dishes being sold by someone who has set up a small, propane fueled stove on the curb or up some narrow alley. I love riding my bike on the lakeside road or up boulevards with stunningly landscaped medians, or streets lined with giant trees. I love how Vietnamese people will just come up to me on a bus or while eating street food and strike up a conversation to practice their English and find out what I am doing here. Their curiosity is especially aroused by my bicycle – few foreigners ride bikes – most get around by motorcycle. I love my job. It is truly an ideal teaching situation. Fifteen students (now down to 7 in the second term after the semester students went home), two classes per day. I am spoiled by my light workload. It’s not too little, though. It allows me to really think about my teaching, plan ahead, and to address the needs of my students as individuals. I particularly enjoy teaching environmental science and economics together, to the same students. There are so many cross-disciplinary concepts – it is such a natural pairing. I find economics captivating. Now that I have begun to appreciate economic thought, I can see the paradox of how free markets are the underlying cause of our most critical problems, but that these same markets probably offer the only realistic solutions to the social and environmental quagmire in which we are trapped. I have to add that I also love that a teacher’s salary goes so much further here. Back in the US, we always have to worry about how much we can afford for one thing or another. Here, our paychecks go so much farther – when we have the time, we ca hop on a plane and go to another country, we live easily and comfortably without a car. We can out and spend $2.50 for a full Vietnamese or spend $7 or $8 for an upscale western dinner. We are returning in four months and I feel ambivalent. I would love to stay another year, but then it will be even less likely that we would want to go back. I can definitely envision a future as an expat. When and where are up in the air, but I think it likely that Becky and I will find another opportunity to live abroad, when the time is right. In the meantime, I will enjoy our four months that remain. But our friends, families, dogs, and home are calling us back. There are also things I cannot stand and can’t wait to leave behind when we return. The pollution, the smoking, the fact that Vietnamese drivers have no concept of “right-of-way” and will run the red and drive straight at you when you are in a crosswalk with a green pedestrian light, or will turn left out of an alley without stopping and head toward you against the flow of traffic. But that’s about it. There are other things to complain about – how some vendors will try to charge me 2 or 3 times the price for goods that they will charge a local person (not many, but some), and how waiters will hand me a huge menu and then stand there right next to me, expecting my order immediately – such pressure! And then there is the fact that Vietnamese have no concept of standing in line or waiting their turn – getting on a bus, or getting food at a buffet is a free-for-all. But these are minor inconveniences that foreigners learn to deal with. In the end I find that I can adjust easily to life in another culture – even without having learned the language. I wonder how much culture shock I will have to deal with when we return. I imagine it won’t be easy for any of us, especially for Sivan and Amali. A year to me or Becky doesn’t make much of a difference – our lives tend to be pretty static. But to an 11 or 14 year old? Their world is so mutable – will they return to familiar routines? We are starting to think about those transitions. Have I changed this year? Honestly, yes. I need to reflect on those shifts in my physical, emotional, and social self. I think that will be the subject of my next entry. In the meantime, I will upload some pictures and videos over the next few weeks. All my best, Chuck

Salsa and Songs
When we first arrived here, Becky researched a dance studio only a few kilometers from our apartment. We visited it at that time, but no one was home. There was a phone number on a sign, which Becky entered into her phone. This was before we knew which digits are added to a Ha Noi cell phone to make it work. Becky tried the number, but it never went through, so we gave up, not knowing that we didn't have the right number. A couple weeks ago, when we were pedaling past the street with the studio on a Sunday afternoon, I suggested we check it out again. There were two couples dancing, practicing in a big dance space, open-air, with a slick tile floor. I don’t recall the names of the two men, but the two women were both named Ha. (Funny -- Ha Ha!) One Ha speaks English well and goes by the name of Tracy.
They were some of the leaders of a salsa group that meets at the studio twice a week – once to work on couple moves, the other two work on “shines” – slick individual moves – and styling. We watched them a while – pure LA style salsa – lots of fancy turning, and dramatic hand gestures and constant hair tosses by the women. Not exactly our style, but they were good dancers.
Becky asked if they knew Rueda de Casino, a Cuban Salsa Mixer that Becky and I have been studying for a number of years. They showed us a choreography that they had memorized from youtube (in fact, most of their dance moves were learned from youtube). Becky explained that in a Rueda circle, people don’t memorize a choreography, but follow a caller who yells the moves a measure ahead. The sequence of short moves is improvised by the caller. We offered to show them and spent an hour teaching some basic Rueda figures.
They invited us to their Salsa class that night. The shorter man, who is an amazing self-taught dancer, taught a complicated dance sequence. Becky caught on quickly, while I struggled (mostly with the pace of the teaching – they didn’t really break things down as much as I need – they just demonstrated the move and expected my uncoordinated feet to know what to do). Fortunately, a very patient English speaking Vietnamese woman named Mai came to my rescue and patiently worked me through the sequence (which I have since mostly forgotten). When we said our good-byes, Tracy asked if we would be willing to teach Rueda to their class (about 50-60 Vietnamese people) the following Friday?
So Friday night (11/4), Becky and I headed down to the studio via Xe om – motorbike taxis. We were the first to arrive. Vietnamese people are much like New Mexicans – The “start” time for an event is really the time that the first people arrive, and the next half-hour to 45 minutes are still part of that start. Couples and singles trickled in. Some practiced, some just talked. After long warm-ups in which the male leader (I think his name is Minh, but I might just be making that up) had me trying to isolate my shoulder, torso, and pelvis in ways that just aren’t physically possible for me. Standing a head taller than everyone else doesn’t help either. Fortunately Vietnamese are not very self-conscious and similarly are not at all judgemental. So I threw my inhibitions away and tried every shoulder roll and pelvic thrust. Not a pretty picture – but I never claimed to be pretty.
Then Tracy introduced us to the group and translated Becky’s explanation of Rueda. The six of us who had practiced together the previous week demonstrated the moves to Becky’s calls of “da me” and “enshufla doble.” For the next hour or so, Becky, with the help of Tracy and me, taught eight or nine moves. The 50 Vietnamese people were quick learners and want us to return. Afterwards, we were invited to drink some lemon tea at a streetside stand by the studio with many of the dancers. From there, the group was heading to a Salsa club downtown. Becky and I wanted to go, but Sivan was home alone (Amali was in Laos captaining her team at a basketball tournament -- another story) and we hadn’t eaten dinner. After quick goodbyes, Becky and I set off to find a restaurant.
We walked to a strip of restaurants that we had passed on our way to the studio and were drawn to the one where we saw a group of four older men at a little plastic table, drinking beer and singing boldly, to the guitar that one was playing. We sat at a table next to them and listened as they sang a variety of Vietnamese songs – some patriotic marches (you could tell by the rousing choruses of "Viet Nam! Ho Chi Minh!" and some that sounded more like traditional folk songs.
We ordered beers and looked over the menu. All the dishes were goat. Headlining the menu was a choice between grilled and fried goat penis. I thought about ordering one, but they were pretty pricey, so we got grilled goat, and a dish of fried goat skin and whole garlic cloves that I did actually order. While we were literally chewing the fat (Vietnamese love to include as much fat and gristle in their chunks of meat as possible), the men at the table next to us continued their serenade. Suddenly I recognized the guitar riff as the opening bars of "Hotel California," which they encouraged us to sing. I knew the words, but it is not an easy song to sing, so while Becky rolled her eyes at my struggles to find the key and keep up with his fast tempo, I did my best. So to get back at her, I gestured for them to give Becky the guitar (again more eye-rolling), but Becky took it and played “Let It Be.” For the next hour, they sang for us and we for them. We toasted and shared beers. Their American song selection was mostly early 60s stuff that Becky and I recognized but couldn’t recall the lyrics. I noted that most of the English language songs that they knew were the same ones on the lists at the Karaoke bars. Then they sang the song Tumbalalaika in Vietnamese and then in English, to which I responded with a verse in Yiddish. These guys were young when the Soviet presence here was strong.
The restaurant staff were putting away the kindergarten sized plastic furniture all around us. The lights were dimmed and we had one more toast and shared our good-byes.

Jaya Sahihi meeting her host family for the first time.

Where have I been these last six weeks? Good question. School mostly – planning two new courses that I knew would be challenging, helping our four seniors wind their way down the tortuous path to college admissions, and administering SAT, PSAT, and ACT tests – three Saturdays in October just devoted to testing (and another in November). A couple short trips with my students, lots of grocery shopping and some creative cooking with very limited ingredients (one of the blog posts, I will summarize my “Expat cookbook”), bike riding on errands to track down lab supplies, playing ultimate frisbee a couple times a week, except for when it has been raining – which has been pretty often, and contending with the even more powerful forces of nature in the form of a hormonally unpredictable 14 year old.

School:

School Year Abroad attracts some pretty remarkable students, especially the students who choose to go to a developing country over more established and predictable locations like France or Italy. Most of these students are mature, daring, perceptive and seem motivated to make the most of their time here. I am teaching AP Economics (Micro semester 1 and Macro semester 2). The problem is that I need to learn much of the material I am teaching, so I try to stay a couple chapters ahead of my students. Studying economics has been fascinating. I enjoy the elegant simplicity of economic models. But the idea that there exists average, predictable, and quantifiable human behavior seems dubious because I doubt that there actually are “free” markets – free from corruption, undue influence by powerful individuals, businesses, or governments, etc.

I am also teaching AP Environmental Science. This course material is much more familiar to me, but I have to provide a lab curriculum in a facility with two classrooms, 3 small tables, no sinks and few supplies. But I manage. In our first couple weeks, we observed exponential population growth of bread mold. Now we are growing radishes, basil and watercress in plastic cups to test effects of ecological competition. There is a pond on campus which we will study to examine community diversity (I brought four small field microscopes on loan from Sandia Prep), and we will survey fish in the pond using bread, and invertebrates using aquarium nets attached to long bamboo poles.

What my students find intriguing about learning Environmental Science and Economics simultaneously is how much the two disciplines overlap, and even more, how they frequently bring students to different conclusions regarding growth vs. sustainability. Environmentalists often disregard the power of markets and the ultimate power of the consumer, while Economists like to ignore those costs that can’t be easily quantified or paid for – such as the actual value of clean air or healthy populations of owls. The debate is between the "Tragedy of the Commons" and "The Invisible Hand." My students present current events each week focused on Economic or Environmental issues in Southeast Asia in which they must connect the article to principles we are studying in each class. I find it the most fascinating aspect of my classes.

Becky and I share College Counseling responsibilities. She will help the seniors edit their essays and the juniors summarize their goals, experiences and interests in anticipation of their future essay writing needs. Two of our seniors will leave in December, and the other two are here for a full year. We will have to help the first two complete their applications, and we will be with the other two through the entire process. It is a challenge to usher students whom we have only known a couple months through this crucial process. It is sufficient to say that these responsibilities keep me pretty busy.

I did spend the first three weeks of school trying hard to keep up with the Vietnamese classes offered to the students, but I had to drop out– I just couldn’t give up 90 minutes each day. Becky has persisted, fortunately, since at least one of us will really learn the language. My command of the language is pathetic. Even when I use the words and phrases that I have learned, the Vietnamese people I speak to look at me as if I was speaking to them in some other language. So my primary means of communication is a rudimentary sign language accompanied by grunts and loud slow words in English (as if somehow speaking slowly and loudly would help a person who knows no English understand me).

Our students arrived on Friday, September 2nd. We spent the first weekend at a hotel in the old district of Ha Noi – Hoan Kiem. Our meals were large and festive, and the students tried hard to keep from falling asleep in their chairs. We had them explore the tourist markets, figuring out how easy it is to get ripped off (a couple students accidentally bought a $15 pineapple). Saturday morning, we woke the students at 5:30am and at 6 had them out and walking around the famous Hoan Kiem lake. It was amazing to see thousands of people out at 6am exercising. There was a weight lifting group that transported all their equipment to the park via motorbikes, several Zumba groups, Some old ladies doing tai chi with swords, several hundred people who would do a bunch of movements and then they would all crouch down with hands on their knees, walking around laughing. Then they would move some more, and then laugh some more. There was a salsa class and a waltz club. There were badminton games (one pair of elderly – 70 something – women were playing badminton, each with two rackets – alternatively hitting the birdie with left and right hands!). There were roller-bladers, runners, and dozens of men and women exercising on their own. Some would twist at the waist over and over again, one man was bent over and kept swing his arms back one at a time, slapping himself on the back. Many men and women simply stood swinging their arms rapidly back and forth. Nearly everyone was active, and no one was self-conscious about what they were doing or how they looked -- very different from the gym experience back home. I have learned that Ho Chi Minh made daily exercise compulsory and the behavior has persisted. Maybe we should do the same in the US.

On Sunday, after brunch at a tasty French restaurant, our bus brought our students to the University of Languages and International Studies where our school is housed. We made our way up to a nicely decorated reception hall (pictures to follow) where our students’ host families arrived one at a time to meet their new sons and daughters. Some who came were parents only, others were just siblings of similar age to our students, while others seemed to come with uncles, cousins and grandparents. Our students were so nervous – it reminded me of the Sorting Hat in Harry Potter. As a family arrived, the students had no idea who was going to be called. The students and their new families sat at decorated tables eating petit fours and trying to make themselves understood. After Vuong, our director, made a short speech, the students and families went off together.

In the next blog post, I will describe our trips to Ba Trang (chahng) and Halong Bay, and a bit on Becky’s trip to Sa Pa and Lau Cai, Amali’s journey to Mai Chau, and Sivan’s to Da Nang and Hoi An.

This is Thâỳ Trúc (pronounced tie choock, which means Teacher Bamboo – my Vietnamese name) signing off.

Hanoi Hash -- Running and Beer through rice paddies

It has been a while since I have had time to add to this blog. I have pictures, stories, and some brief video to share. I will try get to much of it this week and get you all caught up.

The last two weeks have been a whirlwind of activity, preparation, and work. Two weeks ago, on Saturday, we all participated in a Hanoi Hash outing. The Hash is a running/hiking club that started in Kuala Lumpur in 1938, spread throughout SE Asia in the 1960s and 70s and then exploded in the 90s and has almost 2000 chapters, and is on every continent (even Antarctica). The leadership is voluntary. They organize runs every Saturday (and some getaway weekends as well). They hire a bus and a beer/soda truck and head out to the countryside. Some members have scouted out a route, and after an intial beer/soda stop, with brief introductions of new people, the runners and walkers head off. The leaders call “On, on!” periodically to keep everyone on pace.

We met downtown outside The American Club met a few of the veteran Hashers – the first one I met, a tall Kiwi man, introduced himself as “Chicken Legs" and a British woman told me her name was “Shakesbeer.” I met others with similarly colorful Hash names such as “Nice Bitch,” “Spandex Man,” and a diminutive Vietnamese woman with the moniker “Moneypenis” given to her because of her passion for James Bond (somehow derived from Money Penny). Real names were shared as well, but the stories behind the Hash names were much more intriguing.

The bus took us out of town, picking up Hashers at various locations en route, and an hour
later, we arrived at a dam in the countryside west of Hanoi. The 10k route took us through rice paddies, floating lotus gardens, with ducks in pens, and wallowing water buffalo. It was muddy and beautiful, hauntingly similar to scenes from so many war films. We would exit the paddies into small remote villages. Children would call Hello and then run shyly back into their houses. About half-way through, after we were good and sweaty, like an oasis in the desert, there was
the beer truck. Tropical heat, an empty stomach, semi-rigourous exercize, and beer are an interesting combination. I definitely slowed down for the remainder of the hike. When we got back to the starting point, there was the truck again. This time, I had water.

It was nearing sunset and we wondered when everyone would head back to to bus. It wouldn’t be for another hour and a half. It was time for the weekly Hash ritual. A German man, whose name I cannot recall, was the apparent leader of the group that evening. Using some white powder (lime?) he made a circle and everyone stood outside it. He called all new people into the circle, had us introduce ourselves, gave us a cup of beer (soda for the kids) and after the group sang us a song (led by Shakesbeer and Nice Bitch), we had to drink and then were brusquely told to get out of the circle. Then they called in birthdays, people who hadn’t shown up for a while, people who were going away for while, people who started as runners, but finished as hikers, men with really nice bodies who had to take off their shirts before they could drink their beers. With each category, there was a song, and a drink. There was more, and it felt a bit cultish or secret societyish (although there seemed to be no secrets). It was funny for the first half-hour, but got a bit tiresome and Sivan and Amali were really tired. They didn’t start the ritual until sunset, so, after leaving Hanoi at 2 pm, we didn’t get back until after 8 (The bus stopped for more beer on the way – and then, after all that beer, had to stop for a pee break as well).

Becky and I will go back to the Hash, but I don’t know about the kids. They had fun, but felt witness to an adult group that they didn’t feel entirely comfortable with. Personally, I think it was great for them to see adults “playing.” My problem is that it conflicts with Ultimate Frisbee – I’ll just have to choose sometimes.

I will post some Hash pictures, but I left that camera at my office.

Eating on the street

Restaurants set up every evening (after the morning and lunch ones pack up).

Cook it yourself restaurants are among my favorites, but Becky doesn't like to sit that long, especially if it is on the little kindergarten stools.

Crispy Chicken Skin, Sliced Beef, different veggies -- cook them on the skillet, then fill your bowl, dip in soy or fish sauce, or shove into baguettes and "an" (eat)