An American in Vietnam: Working with UXO Survivors, their Families, and their Communities

Home Sweet Home

2005-02-07T22:28:00.000+07:00

Hi all,

I have safely returned to the land of hot showers (all the time), drinkable tap water, and traffic laws.

But man, do I miss pho ca......

More to come soon once I am truly over the jetlag. So far, so good. I don't know what time zone my body thinks I am in yet since I woke up at 7am this morning, ready to get up and do anything.

My family, who is constantly traveling between Europe and Seattle, has a fond joke that was established many, many years ago after one return from Scandinavia. We all had gone to bed in the evening following our return, but had all also woken up at about 4am, ready to get up and start the day. My brother and I were both young kids at that time, and we all decided that since we had nothing better to do at 4am, we all threw on some comfortable clothes and drove to the best place to get food at 5 in the morning: the local Denny's.

So when I got out of bed at 7 this morning, and met my dad downstairs in the kitchen getting a cup of coffee, he was understandably quite surprised to see me out of bed that early. He asked what I was doing up. "Time to go to Denny's," I answered.

I think I will pass on Denny's this morning though and opt for definitely the next best thing: Tully's in Woodinville.

Rubbing elbows

2005-01-31T06:58:00.000+07:00

A couple weeks ago I received in the mail an invitation to attend the Quang Tri Provincial People’s Committee’s recognition reception for expats in Quang Tri province. Typically this event falls sometime around Tet, this year starting February 8th. Tet is the celebration of the beginning of the lunar New Year, and is celebrated in Viet Nam for one full week.

In case you all haven’t learned this already, Viet Nam is composed of individual provinces, much similar to each individual state in the United States. There is a government that runs each province – the Provincial People’s Committee, usually referred to just as the ubiquitous “PPC.” They are the kind people that let me enter this country with a work visa for three months. Living in a Communist country for three months has brought to light just how closely you are watched if you are an expatriate. Before I arrived in Ha Noi in November, I can bet you that every single person in the Department of Foreign Affairs (DoFA) and maybe every person in the PPC knew my first, middle, and last names; the location, date, and maybe even time of my birth; the color of my eyes; and who knows what else. In not so many words: they know who you are, where you live, what you do, and who you talk to.

You do not refuse or decline an invitation to one of their receptions, especially if it is in your honor.

The small print on the invite said that Dress was Formal. So for the first time in three months, and five days before my departure from Dong Ha, I got to dust off the *really* girly clothes. I had Ms. Tam iron a full-length black silk skirt and a blood red wrap around top that showed off my back and my shoulders (somewhat risqué in Viet Nam). I even got to put on some strappy black sandals. The staff were all quite cute when I came down the stairs from my apartment and walked into the office – the whooped and clapped. I am sure that they wouldn’t have recognized me if I had been dressed like that and had walked past them on the streets of Dong Ha. Seriously – “dressed up” for me these days is anything besides jeans and flip flops. (Counting the days when I go back to Paris where jeans and flip flops are socially outlawed.)

The invite also mentioned we should show up at 4pm. Given that this was to be my first (and last, at least for this year) PPC expat recognition event, I asked the staff what I should expect. They all agreed that it would be like last year’s event: at least 2 hours, more like 3; lots of speeches and toasts given by the PPC; gift-giving to the expats; and a formal dinner afterwards.

I’ll cut to the chase.

Apparently the PPC is either largely disappointed with the work of the expat community in Quang Tri or they are just cutting corners, and this year, the expat reception was what took it in the bud.

Much to my surprise (and everyone else, who had been to last year’s reception) the whole thing lasted 45 minutes. And there was no dinner.

However, that did little to diminish the fun we all had.

So Duc and I jump in the great what beast at 3:50pm and drive to the PPC’s headquarters on the main street of Dong Ha. He says that I should be able to find a ride back to the compound with someone afterwards. I have to admit I felt a little stranded, because I’d also forgotten my cell phone, but the events afterwards turned out just fine.

I parade up the red-carpeted steps of the PPC’s headquarters, where I am greeted by several Vietnamese women, dressed in *their* best formal ao dais (the long, flowing, two-piece traditional dress for VN women). Given they are all with the PPC, they naturally know who I am, what NGO I work for, who my VN staff are, and what my name is, before I can even introduce myself. The first introduction goes something like this:

“Hello! I’m Bri –“
“Yes, hello Brita! How are you! Ms. Toan and Mr. Duc have told me so much about you. Won’t you please come in and join us?”

Right. As with all confusing situations in VN – just go with the flow.

The next one is even better.

I continue up the steps to the meeting room where the reception is going to be held. At the door is a smiling, handsome VN staff member, whose name I have already forgotten, whom I quickly learn is the official translator for the meeting.

“Hello! I’m Bri—“
“Brita, hi! We are so pleased you could come. You are from Seattle. How wonderful. I visited the city last year and found it so beautiful. And you too, look beautiful today.”

He eyes me up and down. Subtlety, like smoke detectors and safe internet connections, and is rarely found in Viet Nam, at least with respect to checking someone out.

Yeah. Go with the flow.

I notice my neighbor from the compound, Gladys, sitting with her two other expat staff on the far side of the room. There is a seat open next to her, and after chatting with the interpreter about Bainbridge, Bremerton, and the Cascades, I move across the room and settle in next to her. Some stragglers show up at just about 4pm, and I meet several new people, mostly from the Finnish and Swedish development projects in Quang Tri.

At about 4:02pm, when nearly every seat in the room is taken, Mr. Mai, the Director of DoFA, a docile man that I have had meetings with before, stands up and addresses the room. Through the interpreter, he first wishes us a very Happy New Year, and then goes on to speak for several minutes about how the work from our NGOs, projects, and programs has contributed to the development of Quang Tri province. He continues to thank us for our collaboration, efforts, friendship, and generosity, and then moves on to a different topic. He stresses the informality of our little reception but would like to hear our views on how we (the working expat community) and the PPC could even better develop our relationship for the new year.

Mr. Mai nods to Jussi, the Director of the Finnish Rural Development Project, a charismatic Fin with vast experience from living and working in Nicaragua, Europe, and SouthEast Asia. I met Jussi through Gladys a couple weeks ago, and he was kind enough to come to my birthday dinner on the 19th.

Jussi stands and takes a look at the notecard he has prepared for his speech. He says that he is honored to begin the group discussion and hopes that we can all give some valuable recommendations as to how to better develop our relationship. He continues for a good ten minutes and then Mr. Mai adds his thanks. It’s just customary that the VN respond to everything you say.

Mr. Mai suggests that we now hear from an NGO. No one jumps up, but a colleague of mine from MAG, one of the Technical Advisors, Brad, stands and gives his thoughts on the topic, and then takes the chance to thank the PPC for holding the reception and to share that MAG looks forward to increased cooperation and the continuation of a good friendship.

From Brad onwards, we shift the focus, and it becomes more of a “Thank you, PPC” discussion. Chuck Searcy from the Vietnam Veterans of America Foundation, another expat that I’d met in Ha Noi two weeks ago at the Landmine Working Group conference, stands and expresses his gratitude to the PPC.

Clearly looking for a change of pace, Mr. Mai suggests that we now hear from some of the female expats in the room. I look at Gladys.

Mr. Mai looks at me, but his attention is drawn to the other side of the room as Eva from the Swedish Development Project stands up. She laughs nervously, and says that she agrees with everything that the men have said and that she really doesn’t have anything new to add. I did have to agree – we had been sitting through 45 minutes of talk already and there is only so much you can say on one topic.

Eva sits down and there is a pregnant pause.

Mr. Mai looks back at me and grins broadly. “Do you want...” His English trails off.

Let me repeat: you do not say No to the man that granted you entry into the country.

Merde.

I pull off the wool wrap I have around my shoulders, since somehow the AC has found its way to my corner of the room.

I have to admit that it is a little daunting to have the Director of the Quang Tri Department of Foreign Affairs specifically call on you to say something.

Keep in mind that I am also the youngest expat in the room by at least 10-15 years.

In my bedroom in the compound I have a heavy silver bird that normally doubles as a Christmas tree ornament, but it is something that can be up all year long. It’s a bird in flight, with Dickinson’s words “We never know how good we are until we are called to rise” engraved on one of the wings.

I also fondly call a situation like this ‘baptism by fire.’

With a quick nod of acknowledgement to Mr. Mai, I stand up, smile at the circle of fifty odd movers and shakers, and introduce myself. I can only give a couple sentences at a time since the interpreter needs to put my words into Vietnamese for the rest of the PPC staff. I thank the PPC for the opportunity to attend the event. I go on to explain that I am new to Viet Nam and Quang Tri province and that I have unfortunately not had much time to work directly with the PPC. I explain that I can speak however to what I have learned and heard from CPI’s staff about the PPC: that the PPC’s dedication to the development of Quang Tri province and to the reduction of poverty is remarkable, and that x, y, and z figures show this; that the PPC’s support for CPI’s work in Quang Tri has made our own organization’s goals a reality; that the friendship CPI and the PPC have developed over the years is trustworthy and amicable; and that we look forward to a new year of collaboration and support in 2005. I explain that even though I have limited experience working in Quang Tri, I agree with the recommendations already offered on how to better develop the relationship between the PPC and the working expat community, and that CPI fully supports this initiative.

The translator finishes with my last words and everyone applauds. I sit down and Gladys taps me on the leg.

“That was great!” She looks at me with wide eyes.

...the really good news is that no one knew my pulse was hammering away at somewhere around 140.

I am the last one to speak and then Mr. Mai gives some closing words. The Deputy Chairman of the PPC also speaks. Someone motions through the glass doors and in sweep three flowing VN women, all carrying trays of glasses of red wine.

They make their way around the group, and sensing that the speech session is over, we all start to mingle with our wine. I meet some more people new to the area and I am cut off in mid-sentence as Mr. Mai starts up again. He would like to offer us some traditional gifts from Quang Tri province. In sweep more PPC staff members, all carrying big red gift bags.

We all receive a big gift bag, which is incredibly heavy, being stuffed with two bottles of rice wine, a bag of whole black pepper corns, candied ginger, green tea, and Vietnamese coffee, and a Happy New Year card.

As I’m standing next to Gladys, Jussi, and Liisa, another Fin with their project, I look sideways at Gladys and murmur, “I was told to expect dinner. What about you guys?” She looks back at me. “Yeah, us too.”

We look at Jussi, the experienced one out of our little group, and he motions for us to head downstairs.

It was really over. Mr. Mai, Mr. Deputy Chairman, Mr. Translator, etc., had all vanished. This is typical of Vietnamese parties. When they’re over, they’re over. Mass exodus.

So Gladys, Liisa, Jussi, and I all head outside to where their project vehicle and driver are waiting. We hook up with Eva and Jenni from the Swedish project, and Torbin, a Dane from a different Finnish project.

We all look at each other, dressed to the nines, and start to laugh.

“We HAVE to go out to the nicest place in town for dinner!” I say. “We really are all dressed up with nowhere to go!”

Jussi suggests the “Floating Restaurant” which I have not been to yet. So we all pile into the Finnish project vehicle and make a quick detour to pick up Petry, Eva’s husband. The eight of us end up having an incredible dinner on the river running through Dong Ha. The weather was beautiful and warm, and the company entertaining, insightful, and quite enjoyable.

As we all walked out of the restaurant a couple hours later, into the waiting car to take us back to the compound, I couldn’t help but regret that I am meeting all these remarkable people five days before I am to leave Dong Ha.

We figured out that between the eight of us, we had lived or worked in over thirty countries.

Expats are expats though – no matter where you go in the world, we’ll be there, and there will always be more people for me to meet and to learn from.

It begins... at long last...

2005-01-25T22:37:00.000+07:00

I have been meaning to write this blog for a long time. In fact, it was one of the very first ones I ever wanted to write. And here I am, sneaking up on the end of my three months here, and I haven’t yet devoted a blog to Vietnamese gastronomy.

My foodie friends and immediate family will no doubt quite enjoy this one. However, if you are not a foodie, I will bet ten fried spiders that I will bore you with the following words and comments, and I suggest you move on to bigger and better things. www.learntobeafoodie.com?

It might even be necessary to divide up the Vietnamese Gastronomy blogs into chapters. I could write a veritable book on this subject. Well, that actually doesn’t say much, because I bet I could write a veritable book on food from a number of countries.

...

Ok, I’ve just sat here for 4 full minutes. I don’t even know where to start.

Heck, I’ll start with the fried squid eyeballs I had last week.

The office staff (myself included) all took off early last Thursday to go out and celebrate Nhi’s 26th birthday. We went to one of their most favorite restaurants (which happens to be one of the last ones that I would pick, if I had the choice) up on a hill above Dong Ha. The specialty of the restaurant is a vegetable and fish soup. I’ll come back to that. As an appetizer, we ordered fried squid (something you will find on almost any upstanding VN resto). Now, it’s not really calamari. The word calamari conjures up images of nice, tender white rings of squid. At this restaurant, it was more like squid pieces. All of them. The pieces. That includes the anchor-shaped tail, the head, the body, the tentacles, and, of course, the eyeballs.

I have a friend who likes to eat the tentacles of baby squid – and I have developed a taste for them as well. I haven’t met anyone who claims to love fried eyeballs. It’s just a matter of time, I guess.

So I had grabbed a chunk of squid off the plate with my chopsticks, and dunked it in some nuoc mam (a brown, salty, fermented fish sauce – it’s really not as bad as it sounds) for added flavor. I’d chosen a piece that had looked from afar like tender baby tentacles. Indeed, there were tentacles. It was a whole squid. After biting off the tentacles and arriving at the head (I’d hoped that the beak had been removed), I realized my food was looking at me.

I looked back.

When in Rome...

They were almost sweet. They luckily didn’t pop in my mouth because I think that would have mildly grossed me out, but I imagine after being in the fryer for a couple minutes, it softened them enough so they’d just kind of ooze in your mouth. And ooze they did.

Ok, I’ve got it. I’m surprised I didn’t think of this before. Food groups. I’ll talk about VN food in the basic food groups.

The chapters will be basic food groups. With appendices.

Dairy is probably the least interesting, and maybe the group with the least to write about.

Vietnamese milk, like it is in most places in France, comes in a box. It is not previously refrigerated. My favorite brand is Vinamilk. Maybe that’s because there is only ONE COMPANY that makes milk in Viet Nam. I don’t drink it from a glass, like I would in the States. I couldn’t tell you the fat percentage, but I’m guessing it’s somewhere right around 2%. I honestly only have milk in my fridge to add to my tea or coffee in the morning, or to add to scrambled eggs or pour over some muesli.

Cheese. My heart *aches* for French cheese. Aches.

Granted, I have spent over two years living in the Repubique Francaise, and I miss French cheese no matter where I am in the world.

But when the only cheese you can buy between Ha Noi and Sai Gon is the ubiquitous Laughing Cow spreadable cheese, you know you have a problem.

In Hue a many weeks ago, I managed to locate one store that had Gouda that I could buy by the slice. I bought almost a kilo. And I just finished it two days ago.

When I was in Sai Gon in December, and ate at La Fourchette with my aunt and uncle, we inquired as to where we could purchase the wonderful cheeses that they served on the cheese platter.

They imported it directly from France.

Merci beaucoup.

Butter, the distant cousin to cheese, much to my foodie dismay, is so rarely used in Vietnam that I could only find it at the above store in Hue as well. I stocked up and bought a slab of salted French butter that has held me for a couple weeks. You may be wondering just what the Vietnamese use instead of butter?

Oil, baby.

And it’s not the delectable Italian or French olive oil you could drink with a spoon. Olive oil can be found at – you guessed it – the same store in Hue. At the Dong Ha market one day, Toan and I tried to find olive oil. Most of the people looked at me like I had three heads. Sunflower oil? Fish oil? Vegetable oil? Dog oil? Snake oil? Sure. But no olive oil.

If I actually knew how much oil I have consumed while living here for 3 months, I bet it would roughly be the equivalent of the amount of oil I have consumed in the past 3 years living outside of this country.

I was stunned one day when I went into the kitchen and noticed that the liter of vegetable oil I had bought for my cook one week prior was gone. Finito. The bottle was there. But no oil.

Wait. Since when did oil belong in the dairy group?

Yogurt. The yogurt here, even if the milk was a poor indication, is not that bad. It only comes in two flavors though. Plain and sweet. No, wait. I’m making things up. That is what is available in Dong Ha. I have seen strawberry yogurt in Sai Gon. It comes in a little white plastic container that resembles those of Pudding Snacks.

Eggs. Now here is a fun topic. I was introduced to goose eggs only a while back. For those of you who have been reading this blog for a while, you will remember the duck eggs I mistook for dinosaur eggs a while back. Goose eggs are huge. Picture the jumbo size plastic easter eggs that fit a whole monster load of candy. Then picture it grayish white. Voila! Goose eggs. I haven’t, at least knowingly, tasted them yet.

A walk through the Dong Ha market will indicate just how many types of eggs one can purchase. Chicken (coming in either “house” or “wild” – the VN equivalent of free range – varieties), goose, quail, duck, and seriously 4 or 5 other ones that I cannot name. Small ones, spotted ones, gray ones, pink ones, splotchy ones, brown ones, round ones. Maybe there are platypus eggs in there somewhere. Right next to the dinosaur eggs.

Wow. It is getting late and I am getting loopy. Time to sign off on the Dairy entry.

Ancestor worship

2005-01-24T19:36:00.000+07:00

The office phone rang at 5:30pm.

I was still downstairs on my computer, finishing up a couple case study narratives.

Preparing for an earful of rapid-fire Vietnamese (the typical response to my English greeting after office hours), I picked up the phone at the edge of the desk.

“CPI, this is Brita,” I said into the receiver.

“Brita!”

“Phuong!” I recognized the tiny voice of our office accountant, a sweet woman that I’ve become quite close to.

“Brita, can you help me?” She sounded panicked.

Thinking something had happened to her 11-month old, or her husband, or her family, I hurriedly told her, “Yes, of course, what’s wrong?”

“I need you to light incense for me.”

Not what I had in mind... I felt strangely relieved.

“Incense?” I asked her.

“Yes, I need to you light incense and put it in the same places we did this morning, you know, outside and in the office.”

Oh, right, or else the spirits of the past will get mad.

I’m not kidding. I learned the Ways of The Incense this morning.

This morning, Phuong arrived with 12 packages of incense, each with 10 sticks per package. Maybe this flurry of incense-burning has to do with Tet in two weeks. Or maybe it's just a special week in Phuong's family.

It wasn’t even past 8am, and she raced into the kitchen. I followed her, just out of curiosity. She unwrapped the red paper from around the incense, and pressed the gas burners on. She lit the paper from the stove flame and as the flames leaped around the small piece of paper, she bent low to the ground and put the burning paper on the floor of the kitchen.

Good thing we don’t have wood floors.

She lit the ends of 10 sticks of incense, and stamped out the paper ashes with her foot, leaving a nice red brand on the white tiles. She rose and handed me three burning sticks. “Here.”

I must have looked slightly bewildered, because she motioned for me to follow her. She pushed me outside and directed me to put the incense sticks in a brick crevice on the side of our building.

Then she disappeared.

I looked at Duc, who had just arrived, and was descending off his shiny blue moto. Apparently also well versed in the Ways of The Incense, Duc showed me where to put the sticks. This had been done before. Many, many times.

I knew from just being here and visiting many Vietnamese homes that incense was used universally. And I knew that it had something to do with ancestors, but I couldn’t quite explain it to someone if they asked me.

So I ventured back into the office, to find Phuong sitting at her desk, plunking away at some Excel file. The room was already smoky.

I noticed several incense sticks, their tips glowing orange, placed in a jar of uncooked rice, sitting on top of the file cabinet.

The notion of “Fire safety hazard” does not exist in Viet Nam. Nor do smoke detectors.

I pulled up a chair next to her.

“So Phuong, when you light all these incense sticks, it’s for your ancestors, right?” I asked her.

She smiled. “Yes.”

I was going to need to be more specific.

“Okay. But why? Is it to honor them? Or show respect?”

She turned to face me, her brow furrowed in thought. She was searching for the right words.

“It’s for the...ghosts.”

“Spirits?” I suggested.

“Yes, the spirits. It’s something for them to smell. Something nice. Something fresh and nice for them to smell.”

“Is that why you also offer fresh things like fruits, that also smell good?” I was referencing the bunches and bowls of fruit that are placed at the base of each family’s hereditary altar in their home.

Every Vietnamese family, if they have the space, and if not, they make a space outside, has an entire room dedicated to their worship of their ancestors. There is a wood altar, usually decorated with dusty and cob-webbed framed photos of those deceased. There are jars and jars of incense sticks, and often many spent red skeletons lying on the ground underneath. There are also drapes of fabric, paper figures, and bowls of bananas, guavas, or oranges offered to ancestors.

She nodded. “It’s just so they are happy.”

Hmmm. I was left to ponder that in the smoky haze filling the office.

The spirits of the past, as Vietnamese belief goes, inhabit and wander the homes and land of the living. They also link past generations to present generations. I have seen the strength of this belief in action: in a district of Quang Tri province, there are Vietnamese who staunchly refuse to leave their land, despite being riddled with mines and UXO, simply because they believe that the spirits of their ancestors still live there and would be quite unhappy with them if they left.

I got up from my chair and sat on the top of the desk, the phone handset cradled between my head and shoulder.

“Ok, Phuong, you want me to put incense sticks in the same places we did this morning.” I wanted to make sure I had this right. After all, in theory, if I didn’t, I could have Phuong’s great-great-great-great-grandmother coming to shake her bony finger at me in my bed tonight. Didn’t want to go there...

“Yes, and also out by the garage.”

“The garage. Oh, I didn’t see those out there this morning.”

“Put some on the left side and right side of the garage.”

“Ok, no problem, Phuong. I’ll take care of it.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much, Brita.”

“Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

I set the phone back down on the desk.

I walked over to the file cabinet and saw the pile of red paper-wrapped incense sticks. I grabbed two packages, just to be safe, and went to find Tam, my cook, who was still lingering in the kitchen after dinner. She saw me come in holding the incense, and laughed, clearly pleased that I was paying homage to my long-lost Vietnamese relatives.

Remember that Tam speaks no English and that I speak VERY limited Vietnamese. So relying again on my blossoming sign language abilities, we unwrapped the incense together, lit the paper on fire, threw it on the ground (maybe that is part of the whole ritual), and lit the sticks.

Holding twenty smoldering sticks, I walked outside and placed five sticks in the brick crevice in the wall of our building. The spent ones fell to the ground as the new ones took their place.

On the left and right sides of the garage, I found the remains of the sticks Phuong had placed there this morning. I put a couple fresh ones in each location.

The next part I knew was going to be slightly disagreeable, as I was still working in the office.

I pulled down the rice-filled jar from the file cabinet, and carefully stuck the ten new sticks in, as I held my breath over the cloud of blue smoke.

I decided quickly that for one evening I could ignore a swarm of hungry mosquitoes. It was better than being smoked out of your own office. I opened a couple windows in the office to aerate the room and keep myself from asphyxiating.

And so as a full moon rises into the clear skies above Dong Ha tonight, I will rest assured that I am being looked after by the spirits of millions of Vietnamese, some tiptoeing across the shimmering black lake outside my window, some sitting in the branches of the rubber trees, and some, no doubt, watching me as I sleep.

'Tis always the season for giving...

2005-01-23T14:21:00.000+07:00

Even the rower in me did not appreciate rolling out of bed at 5am for the four and a half hour drive up to Ha Tinh province last week.

It was going to be a long day: up and out of Dong Ha at 6am; arriving at Ha Tinh General Hospital somewhere around 10 or 11; schmoozing with the VIPs at lunch; attending the ceremony honoring CPI after eating; possibly more schmoozing; then the long drive back to the office, and getting home at around 8.

CPI staff had been invited to come up to Ha Tinh, two provinces north of Quang Tri, to attend a ceremony put on by Ha Tinh General Hospital, honoring CPI’s coordination of a large international medical equipment donation sent to the hospital.

Three days earlier, one international shipping container filled with fifty odd donated hospital beds, mattresses, operating tables, bedside tables, and electric beds arrived at the gates of Ha Tinh General Hospital. As I understood it, the donations had been, for the most part, contributed from nursing homes and hospitals in Canada that CPI had approached seeking support.

We’d been told to expect local camera crews, reporters, and photographers from the area to attend.

That morning, I decided a shower was in order.

We ended up leaving Dong Ha at about 6:30am. Duc, Toan, Hugh, and I were the delegation to attend the ceremony.

Still groggy despite chugging a mug of black tea earlier, I took the opportunity to doze all the way up to Ha Tinh. I caught myself snoring once, with my head lolling on the back of my chair, and as I sheepishly glanced at my companions, I was relieved to see that they too were catching flies. Duc, at the wheel, was kind enough to pretend not to notice us all drooling around him.

I woke up again just as we were entering Ha Tinh. The dust on the road was getting worse as the morning sun baked away the dew from the night before. After asking a moto driver for directions to the hospital, we rolled up to the hospital just past ten thirty.

A sea of various shades of blue greeted us, well before we reached the front doors to the hospital. All the beds and mattresses had been wheeled into organized rows outside, awaiting further direction. Toan had brought along a big bag of CPI logo stickers, with our address, logo, and “Donated By” printed at the top. Part of our work that morning included putting our logo stickers on every piece of donated equipment in front of the hospital. Given the full sunshine and slight breeze, it would be an enjoyable task.

We’d been out of the truck for no more than two minutes when the hospital’s director came out to greet us and whisk us upstairs to his office. A man with a round smiling face and a patch of hair grown long to pull over the bare spot at the top of his head, he offered us strong green tea and he chatted to us about the easy time they’d had with the customs agents. Ha Tinh General Hospital has been the recipient of many international donations, and it seems as though each time it gets a bit easier for them.

He invited us all to meet for lunch at 11:30, and we departed his office, moving outside to the sea of blue mattresses. Toan suggested we start putting stickers on the equipment, just to get some of the work out of the way. We worked in teams of two: Toan and myself, and Duc and Hugh. We had the CPI logo stickers to put on, and then a larger square of clear plastic that would protect it and seal it to the equipment. We worked until 11:25 or so, and then piled in the truck to head to the restaurant.

Thankfully there was not a huge group of hospital staff to meet and greet. Meetings like that really zap my energy. The four of us from CPI sat down with just the director and his wife to one of the best meals I have had in Viet Nam. As an appetizer we snacked on pieces of taro plant stalks that had been marinated in garlic, salt water, red pepper, and lemongrass. I could have eaten just that for lunch. Then we had breaded shrimp, steamed fresh fish with veggies, rice, sweet fresh corn that had been battered and lightly fried, and a couple big plates of wilted greens.

There wasn’t much translation of the conversation that we all had, since we were all so into the food, so I couldn’t really tell you much about it. What was translated though, was about work at the hospital, other equipment donations, and news from the Vietnamese staff’s families.

After we finished, I slowly pushed myself out of my chair, having eaten way too much of that great sweet corn (I have my dad to thank for that gene). The director had arranged a couple hotel rooms for us to relax in after lunch, so we drove straight to the hotel and went to our rooms. I napped for about half an hour, and then tried, with little success, to understand the recent world events through the Vietnamese news channel.

We met in the lobby at 1:30pm and drove back to the hospital, where I guessed someone must have pulled the fire alarm. There must have been 200 staff members milling about, looking at the beds, the big banner that had been set up, the flower arrangements, the tea and bottled water. I learned quickly that they were staff from various departments in the hospital that were going to wheel away their allotted equipment once the ceremony was over.

The four of us went back to placing CPI logo stickers on the remaining equipment for about 10 minutes. I had leaned down to stick the clear layer over a logo sticker when that “you are being watched” feeling arrived... I turned around.

The camera crew had arrived. They were clearly capitalizing on the presence of a tall white woman in Ha Tinh, and whether or not I made the evening news, I don’t know, but they were all beaming, and had two cameras trained on me.

I decided that a couple beds in the shade, away from everyone (and all camera crews) needed to be checked again.... Escape route number one.

I had little time to take refuge however, because the hospital’s director called my name. I looked up, and he was motioning me over to the table placed directly under the green ceremonial banner. The ceremony was about to start.

I smoothed my new CPI polo, took my sunglasses off, brushed back the flyaways, and took my place next to Hugh, slightly overdressed in a full suit and tie. The four of us – the hospital’s director, his assistant, Hugh, and I all stood behind a linen-covered table in the sunlight in front of the main entrance to the hospital. We stared directly into the camera crews camped in front of us.

Toan was the acting translator, and she translated the kind words of appreciation and gratitude expressed by the director into English. He was honored to be cooperating with an organization like CPI and looked forward to many more years of a friendly relationship. Hugh shook the director’s hand, smiled for the camera, and held the other side of a sign made for the occasion.

“Hugh, say something,” Toan ordered.

Hugh jumped but delivered an equally kind and warm response to the director. The director then moved around the table, took up in his hands a beautiful arrangement of roses, gerbera daisies, carnations, and orchids, and presented it to me. I shook his hand, smiled for the camera, told him I was honored to attend the ceremony, and that we were thrilled to have such a large donation go to Ha Tinh General.

A couple more rounds of hand shaking occurred, but we were quickly surrounded by a swarm of hospital staff lunging to scoop up the best of the equipment. The cameras were shut off, and for another half hour, beds were taken up ramps, tables were wheeled down hallways, and mattresses were shouldered into waiting rooms.

We gracefully excused ourselves, citing the long drive ahead of us, and thanked the top hospital staff once again. We climbed back into the truck, slowly made our way through the darting staff, and jumped back onto Highway 1 heading south.

On the way home, we stopped to pick up some traditional sweet snacks from the region: a yummy sandwich of sorts – two tortilla-sized crispy rice pancakes, filled with shelled peanuts and a gooey, sticky, ginger caramel. I had one on the way home, but couldn’t stomach many more since they were so filling.

We arrived safely back at the office at about 7, after almost five hours in the car.

A couple days later, I got an email from the home office, notifying us that another shipping container of medical equipment donated by CPI had safely arrived in Kabul, Afghanistan, for a hospital of civilian war and landmine victims. I was especially moved to learn that another shipping container from CPI will soon be underway to tsunami victims in India and Indonesia. Clearly our target area for CPI’s work is SE Asia, with our three offices in Viet Nam, Cambodia, and on the Thai-Burma border, but we are slowly making a difference in other parts of the world...

Isn’t that what it’s all about?

Something you don't hear everyday...

2005-01-21T22:41:00.000+07:00

I ate fried squid eyeballs last night.

...just another day in Viet Nam.

Happy Birthday!

2005-01-19T18:42:00.000+07:00

I just *had* to post something today, so it would have "January 19th, 2005" on the top.

Thank you all for your kind emails and phone calls to herald my entrance into the realm of the "26-year-olds."

After one Vietnamese birthday cake (quite a suitable stand-in, by the way, for an American one), one bottle of red wine, one manicure, four GIANT bouquets of flowers, and one risque American birthday card that somehow managed to eke its way through the Vietnamese Postal Service AND Customs, AND arrive at my doorstep NOT confiscated (you know who you are), I am officially 26 years of age.

However, there is even more good news. Since I live 15 time-zone hours away from my family and place of birth, I have decided that I am going to extend the festivities 15 more hours until January 19th, 2005 has ceased to exist in Seattle, Washington. That means that I will have a birthday that is 39 hours long, and will officially end at 3:01pm, January 20th, 2005, Dong Ha time.

Now that's what I call a good present.

Vietnamese North Pole

2005-01-17T15:40:00.000+07:00

I am going to have to work on this erratic blog posting that I have started doing. I've realized that I do like two or three in one day, but then leave a big space of four or five days where I write nothing. I hate inconsitency.

However, this time, I do have a pretty valid excuse.

I went to Ha Noi for a long weekend!

Even though this time I didn't partake in the usual massages, facials, etc., it was just as rejuvenating as I'd hoped. I went up with some other people from MAG (Mines Advisory Group), and met with some other NGO reps, got twenty new pages added to my passport (it now weighs an extra two pounds, I swear), ate lots of great food, slept way too little, and enjoyed the offerings of the big city just way too much.

Comparatively speaking, it was freezing up there. I brought all of my "cold weather" clothes, and wore them ALL every time I stepped out of my hotel. Even though I'm sure that it didn't get below 45F, it was *great* to see my breath outside and to have a cold nose for once. I've had a hard time dealing with this "tropical" winter here in Dong Ha, so it was a welcomed change to be wrapped up in a wool coat, scarf, and gloves every day.

I can attribute such a fabulous weekend to the people that I shared it with: thanks to Steve, David, Chuck, Richard, and Llewelyn...

We are looking right now at the looming front end of Tet fast approaching. We are trying to get a lot of work done right now, but the "senioritis" feeling is approaching just as fast.

More to come soon!

In need of a heat wave

2005-01-17T15:25:00.000+07:00

I am going to have to do some heavy lobbying to the CPI home office for a space heater for my room. Oh yes, did I mention that there is no heat in my house?

I went to bed last night wearing full length flannel pj's, ski socks, a down vest, and a fleece-lined wool hat.

No, I was not outside on the porch. I was not in the car under the carpark.

I was in my own bedroom.

Like I mentioned a while back, it's just like camping.

But in your own house.

Almost making the Darwin Awards

2005-01-12T22:23:00.000+07:00

This afternoon I took a 15-minute break to make a quick trip down the road to pick up a baggie of che (pronounced, roughly, like "chay") -- a sweet soup made of coconut, red beans, green beans, white beans, crushed ice, and sweet, tiny sticky rice balls. I had just left the compound and was cruising on my hooptie up the red dirt road that leads out of the compound.

Ahead of me on the left, I saw three of the eight resident water buffalo that live just outside the compound in a neon green swampy mess. It really can't be healthy. The three ladies were making their way down the road, coming towards me, no doubt heading back to said neon green swampy mess. I have no idea where their caretaker was, but it looked to me like they were out for a leisurely afternoon stroll by themselves. Not uncommon, actually. The people that are often assigned to watch cows and buffalo honestly aren't the most responsible people in Viet Nam.

(An aside: a gecko just jumped INTO the fax machine next to my computer. That can't be healthy, either. I wonder what would happen if I pressed "send.")

So I slow down to take a look. My obsession with these animals has not abated, by the way. For anyone who has not seen a water buffalo (come on, the Discovery Channel has them on all the time, so you all should well know what I am talking about), they look nothing like a regular buffalo. They are steel gray, with little to no hair. Just a couple wiry ones that stick up from the top of their backs. They are really ugly. They are short and fat. We're talking double-wide fat. And they are dumb. We're talking dumb-as-a-post dumb. Maybe even dumber than that. All of them, regardless of sex, have horns that head straight out from their heads and then curve back towards their face. But I digress.

So I slow down to take a look. I notice ahead of me a particularly large rock in the middle of the road and swerve quickly to avoid it. Now, I don't know if my bike in general startled them (who knows how well they actually see) or if the sudden swerve of the bike startled them, or whatever, but nonetheless, the girls are not happy.

The one bringing up the rear lowers her head and butts the end of the one in front of her. The middle one kicks up her heels at the one behind her. The one in the front remains totally oblivious to what is happening behind her. The third one, either in frustration or just plain stupidity, who knows, twists her head and butt at the same time, as if being attacked by a swarm of flies at both ends.

Just as we pass eachother going opposite directions, the third one takes off bucking. I keep on trucking, in hopes to not be run over by Stampeding Buffalo #3.

Now, I really don't know how any *sane* buffalo can do this. That's what we all think when we read about the people making the Darwin Awards.

She keeps on going, twisting her head and bucking like a madwoman.

And runs headlong into the back of a white car parked in front of her.

Full on. Miss Buffalo, meet Mr. Car.

Now that's gotta hurt. I wonder if the car is covered by Wild Animal Insurance.

I let go of the throttle and my bike slows immediately. I turn to watch the crazed creature stumble after the impact. The other two buffalo, speaking to their intelligence, have seemingly not even noticed what has happened.

She bumbles through the weeds next to the car and slows down. And then continues on her merry way, as if *nothing* had happened.

She joins the other two, they hang a right, and make their way down the road to their little bamboo shack.

I repeat: dumb-as-a-post dumb.

It's almost too bad that she didn't make the Darwin Awards. I would seriously worry about the life expectancy of any progeny, with a mother like that.

Little miracles

2005-01-12T14:39:00.000+07:00

Last Thursday afternoon, I was working in the office, writing some sort of report, when the great white beast (our Nissan Patrol) rumbled up to the front door of the office. I thought, wow, Duc is back early. He’d left that morning at 5:45 to drive down to Da Nang to pick up Ha, CPI’s poster child I wrote about several blogs ago.

I naturally glanced out the window, and through the thin pane, I made eye contact with the dancing eyes of Ha, sitting primly in the front seat of the Patrol. Duc had brought her by the office on the way to her village.

I jumped up and almost upended my chair. “Holy cow, you guys, she’s here!”

The rest of the staff frowned and turned to see what the heck the Intern was so excited about. Once they’d seen her face through the window, it was contagious – they followed me out the front door as if a fire alarm had just sounded.

Duc was already out of the car, on the passenger side, opening her door for her. We all cheered as the door came to a rest and she sat there in front of us, her left hand rising in embarrassment to cover her smile. Her other hand pulled anxiously at the hem of her white jacket. Duc opened the other door, pulled a pair of crutches out, and held them out to her. She took them graciously and stepped down from the high truck.

Chi, Mr. Media, already had one of our camcorders going, and was circling the group trying to get the best angle on our cover girl.

She took a couple steps with the help of her crutches and moved to the office entrance, where she leaned her back against the brick wall. She was beaming. She fussed with the legs of her pants, getting the blue fabric to fall right. Toan bent down at Ha’s knees and pulled her pants leg up to the knee on both legs.

The white scar tissue covering nearly the entire portion of both of her lower legs was a stark contrast with her dark skin, typical of other Bru ethnic minorities like her. The staff asked her a number of questions about her past month or two at the Da Nang Orthopedic Rehabilitation Center. Her answers, peppered with short bursts of laughter, rolled of her mouth in nervous tones. She was clearly surprised to see us all there, smiling and giving her our full attention.

I watched her as I leaned against a column opposite the brick wall. There is something about her, apart from any of the other dozens of beneficiaries that I have met here, that completely captivates me. Maybe it is her courage to undergo such a dramatic physical change at such a young age. Maybe it is her dedication to her physical therapy regimen. Maybe it is that she lost both of her parents before she was 20… and will take care of her younger siblings for many years to come. Maybe it is her resolute optimism that she will one day walk again by herself.

I thought of her parents who would have been beside themselves to see their beautiful daughter on her own two feet again. I thought of her younger siblings, who may not even recognize her now. I thought of the long, difficult road ahead that she must take to further strengthen her leg muscles. I thought of the endless days she spent at DNORC, some days in such pain that she couldn’t sleep for hours on end. I thought of the confidence she placed in her surgeons to take care of her, time and time again. I looked at her, and it hit me.

There is nothing…absolutely nothing…that can conquer the human spirit.

I put my own hand to my face this time, and rubbed my eyes, pretending I had something bothering my contacts. Works every time.

I sniffed and watched as Chi prompted Ha to take a few steps for the camcorder. She didn’t hesitate, and moved behind the back of the Patrol, where she stepped out away from us. It was clear that she would still need her crutches for several more weeks, maybe months, until she has the strength and balance to safely walk alone. When she turned around and came back, Chi had handed Duc the camera.

Chi looked at Ha with a straight face.

“Let’s race.” He bent down as if he was a sprinter, ready to go from the starting blocks.

Ha nearly fell over she was laughing so hard. It was glorious.

Duc, ever time-conscious, said that they had to get going if they wanted to get to her village before it got dark. We took some more pictures and then watched as she backed herself into the high seat of the Patrol – by herself. Duc put her crutches back in the second row of seats, and shut her door. She rolled down the window and I didn’t waste a second.

“Chi, quick, can you take our picture?”

A moment later, Duc slowly backed the truck up and turned around. We all waved as her cheerful face passed us.

She will be back in her village for a couple months to begin to integrate back into village and family life. There is a good chance, however, that she will head back to Da Nang in about three months to visit with an American doctor who might be able to perform her last surgery, enabling her to walk more upright. We will see as time passes.

We all returned to our desks in the office and resumed our work.

I shook my mouse to get rid of my screensaver that had turned on in my absence. The first week I was here, I changed it to three words that zoom around my screen, changing colors as they go: “Change a life.”

I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I clicked on the report I was working on before and smiled to myself.

“Change a life.”

Check.

Breaking bread

2005-01-06T13:04:00.000+07:00

Monday night of this week, it was a typical exciting evening at Casa Brita. The geckos were taking part in the Vietnamese Winter Games -- wall-sprinting and corner-jumping. It was cool and damp outside. And I was watching a DVD down in the office. I had the sound for the movie turned up and it was playing through the nice set of speakers we have down here for CDs. I kept hearing a recurring thumping, and since I'd seen this movie before, I was wondering if there was something wrong with the speakers. I leaned over and turned the volume down. Still thumping.

Someone was knocking on my door!

Let me back up. Let me remind you that I live in a barbed-wire, 7-foot high cement-walled compound that has a gate at the front that is manned nearly every hour of the day. (Parents: never fear, such substantial protections surrounding your daughter are entirely unecessary) ANYONE knocking on my door, past working hours, is an *event.*

I turned the lights back on in the office, opened the interior door to see who had come to pay me a visit, ask for a cup of sugar, or rob me. At first glance it looked like a small Vietnamese woman (did I say small? I meant normal height. Anyone over 5'2" is considered tall). I opened the exterior door with a smile and said hello.

"Hi, I'm your new neighbor!" she chirped in perfect english.

I paused for a fraction of a second. As far as I knew at that point, no one else was new in the compound. "Oh really! Well, I'm Brita," I said, putting my hand to my chest to indicate ownership (something I have started to do just to help Vietnamese understand me better), and then extending it in greeting. She shook it and introduced herself as Gladys.

"I'm working for the Finnish development project," she explained. "I've only been here for 3 weeks and Mr. Tho (our compound owner/manager) had told me that there was an American living down at this end, so I thought I would come say hello!" She smiled and looked at me expectantly.

I welcomed her to our little bubble and we ended up chatting on my porch for a good twenty minutes. She was originally from the Philippines, but had married a Fin and had completed her Bachelor's, Master's, and Doctorate in the States. She was clearly giddy to talk to someone from the Western end of the world, and she gushed about how hard it was here, what foods she missed, and how different life was here. She giggled and leaned towards me. "I have been eating nothing but yogurt... You know what I really miss though?" she confessed in a guilty whisper.

I had no idea.

"Real BREAD!" she erupted in embarrassed laughter.

Bread?

"Gladys, come on inside."

I led her into my kitchen/ant commune and opened the fridge. I pulled out a tiny plastic shopping bag and produced a small baguette I'd bought earlier that evening to make some bruschetta with.

Her eyes grew wide. "Where did you get that?"

"Oh, there are several little bakeries all around Dong Ha that sell bread like this. The vietnamese eat them with shredded dried pork for breakfast."

I put it back in the bag and held it out to her. "Here, go on, take this home and savor it crumb for crumb." I smiled.

She was beside herself. "No, no, maybe just half of it." I shrugged and cut it in half for her.

We turned back to the main door and as she was about to head off, I remembered that I had an informal dinner get-together with another expat from MAG (Mines Advisory Group) later on that week. I took the opportunity to invite my new neighbor to come along. I was sure that Llewelyn wouldn't mind. She was thrilled. "Oh, I would LOVE to," she crooned. "It is SO good to speak ENGLISH with someone!"

We made plans to speak the next day, after I'd consulted with Llewelyn. She thanked me again for the baguette, waved, and headed off to the far end of the compound, where her house was located.

I returned to the office, dimmed the lights, and turned my movie back on.

Quickie

2005-01-05T18:10:00.000+07:00

Gack! No blogs for so many days! What has become of me?

Last weekend we had a four-day New Year's break, and I took the opportunity to head down to Hue for the festivities.

The weather however, and thus my mood, dampened any true fun for the big 0-5. As opposed to the big 5-0.

More to come, I promise. Just wanted to have something up here so no one wondered where I'd run off to.

BLS

The Twelve Cows of Christmas

2004-12-29T21:44:00.001+07:00

The same day I photographed the scrap metal dealers on Highway One (December 17th), Chi, Nhi, and I attended a cow party in Vinh Linh district. There really is no other way to describe it. Twelve calves, twelve new owners, and happy CPI staff. Party!

Nhi is the CPI staff member in charge of the activities, beneficiaries, and assistance that takes place in Vinh Linh district. She is also the one who just happens to be in charge of any and all programs CPI has that involve animals. She proved her innate ability that day to bargain, negotiate, compromise, and resolve any disagreements between the CPI beneficiaries and the cow supplier.

A little history: There are some UXO accident survivors that we work with who simply benefit more (after their initial injury assistance) from tangible help from CPI. As there are only six of us working full-time at CPI, our resources and time are limited, and we cannot afford to be out in the field as much as we would like to.

We’ve decided to outsource our work to bovines.

Farmers that have sustained UXO injuries often sustain these injuries while working with animals: herding them, feeding them, chasing them, plowing with them, or cleaning up after them. Animals, too, are often fatally injured or killed if they are involved in an accident. In order to alleviate the physical demands on farmers living with UXO injuries, CPI, for three years, if I’m not mistaken, has facilitated the purchase and delivery of numerous four-legged creatures to be put to work helping UXO victims. And this morning was to be a great example of that assistance.

We left early – at about 7am – and rode on our bikes up Highway One for a little less than an hour, towards Vinh Linh. The location we were going to was quite out of town, so we made many turns off of nicely paved roads onto smaller dirtier roads – till eventually we were cruising along a red dirt road in the morning sun. As we drove along, I had the luxury of riding behind Chi on his bike, so I could look at the scenery as he focused on the road. We passed immaculate fields of taro plants, row after row of big, leafy, droopy, bright green foliage. Set between the fields were spindly little naked trees with a pompom of small green foliage at the top – cassava plants. Chi also pointed out acres of tall cashew trees as well. Then came the green vines of the black pepper plants. I wish I’d taken pictures of the taro plants – all green thumbs reading this would appreciate the velvety look of the big leaves in the sunlight.

As we approached a group of people and their motorbikes on the left side of the road, Chi slowed down and over his shoulder told me that this was the group of our beneficiaries. We came to a stop in the road and said hello, but continued on shortly after, as the calves were hanging out at a farm farther up the road. The group of us (twenty or so people) rode for a few minutes more before turning right into a clean but simple farm, with chickens trotting about and two larger cows tied to a cement wall, one batting her eyelashes at us, the other stomping his foot in impatience. No doubt wanting to get a better view of the twelve babies penned behind him.

Being the animal-lover that I am, one of the first things I wanted to do was to see the wee ones, but I was whisked away by Chi and Nhi as we set about with the proper introductions. It was one big group, and quite informal, so we did some group introductions. As I was the white giant in the group (see picture), many pairs of eyes were on me, and as Chi got to me and introduced me to the group, everyone started whooping and clapping. Well, I thought, this is quite the welcome.

I leaned over to Nhi, sitting next to me, and said something about this group sure being welcoming.

She smiled and looked sideways at me. “Chi just said you were here to find easy men.”

Ahh, yes. That explains it. Now I am not only the giant foreigner, but I am promiscuous as well. Perfect. Thanks, Chi.

My embarrassment was soon forgotten though as we got to the business at hand: baby moos! At that point, I wasn’t aware of how this would all turn out: if each person would pick a cow and walk off with it, or if we would draw straws, or if there would be a lottery, or an arm wrestle, or a rooster fight. We all moved from the “dining room” of the farm (a lean-to and a wooden table placed on a compact dirt floor) to the cement paddock where the babies were being held.

Since all of the beneficiaries that day were farmers, they were without a doubt great judges of cow flesh. They surrounded the pen and see-sawed the calves this way and that to get a better look at them. The females (7 of them) were a beautiful soft brown, and the males (5 of them) were mostly a rusty brown color – considerably darker than the females. They were all about the same size, with one or two noticeable smaller or larger than the rest. I would have taken any of them home with me. They could have definitely substituted for the water buffalo in a pinch. I still want one. A water buffalo, that is.

After about half an hour of critical calf judging, we moved back in to the dining room to begin negotiations. The cow supplier (whom I had earlier mistaken as a beneficiary) was a younger man, dressed in a silk shirt, with a “no frills” look on his face. We took a look at the price list he produced.

The contract between the three parties stated that CPI would contribute about 75% of the price of each calf, and the beneficiaries would pay the remainder of the price of the calf to the supplier. The prices ranged considerably, with one of the males being the most expensive, and one of the females being the next expensive.

In an earlier meeting, CPI staff and the beneficiaries had already determined who would get a male calf and who would get a female calf.

We decided to deal with the male calves first. Five beneficiaries and five calves had to be matched. But there was one hitch: the farmers were not happy with two of the male calves provided. They said that they were too small and did not have good build. The five beneficiaries quickly adopted the pack mentality and simply told the supplier that they would not take the two calves, and that he needed to drop the price of the remaining three. This was one proud cow supplier, though, and he would have nothing of it. He said that the cows he brought were fabulous and that you couldn’t buy a cow like that anywhere else for the price that he was asking.

Everyone sat back in their chairs and pondered for a minute or two. We all decided to go back out and to look at the five males once again. More butt-slapping and ear twisting occurred, and we retreated to the negotiating table once more. This time, four of the five beneficiaries said that they were ok with the calves. The fifth person decided to refuse entirely and stepped out of the negotiations. One little dark cow would be going back home with the cow supplier.

That hurdle cleared, Nhi proposed we do a number drawing to determine who got what calf. The calves had been numbered in silver paint on their rumps before they’d arrived, so we decided to simply put 1 – 4 on little pieces of paper, and if you drew #3, then you’d get calf #3. Everyone agreed. The four farmers pulled the wads of paper from Nhi’s cupped hands and opened their fortunes.

A little old lady, who had been more or less silent throughout all of the negotiations, beamed and slapped her paper down on the table. Calf Number Four! Aka The Most Wanted Calf. He was larger, darker, and had a more suitable farming build than any of the others. The other three beneficiaries frowned when they saw their numbers, since they too had wanted Moo #4, but the calves they were getting were, in my mind, just as lovable. Lovable being the most desirable characteristic of a farming cow, of course.

Money exchanged hands according to the price of each cow. Signatures were inked and the cow supplier was looking happier and happier as the hours wore on…

I followed the group out to the pen again to watch the four babies being led away by their new owners. It was like watching a cat being forced into a bathtub. In other words, it wasn’t happening.

Some of the calves balked. Some of them bucked. Some of them raced forward, then veered right into the neighboring taro crop, scattering chickens as they went. Some of them required two or three people to just get them out of the pen. Some mooed in anguish as they were led away from breakfast. Some put their noses to the ground, eyed their handlers, and charged. Some did all of the above. I stayed well out of charging range, near a pile of firewood that I could easily scramble up if need be.

I hoped that the girls would be a more docile bunch.

I watched as one of the beneficiaries carefully positioned the rope around his calf’s neck, his one remaining eye glancing quickly to make sure that it was not too tight. He slowly moved a scarred hand to one of the calf’s ears and gently ran three fingers across the soft skin. The calf nudged his new owner’s thigh. I could see his face under his dirty baseball cap…

There was one tear stuck in the corner of his eye.

It was like one of those moments in a movie when everything around the subject goes into super slow-mo and the only thing that you want to focus on is the subject.

He saw me quietly watching him, and smiled. He ducked his head in the Vietnamese “Thank you.” Picking up the rope and squaring his shoulders, he moved on down the road.

It was immensely gratifying to know that twelve other farmers just like him, sporting scars and permanent wounds, or worse yet, having lost a relative in a UXO accident, were having their lives made just a little bit easier by the simple gift of a new cow from CPI.

Things moved more quickly now as we’d already determined the selection process for the next seven calves. Seven more numbers on pieces of paper. Seven more selections. More money flew across the table. I have never seen a bigger pile of money anywhere. Keep in mind however that there are 15,000 dong to one USD…

We paraded back out to the pen, where the girls were chewing their cud and swatting flies.

Appearances can be deceiving.

They were worse than the male calves. Repeat above antics of the boys and apply to each female cow. Twice.

When the last calf was pushed, pulled, and/or bribed down the road away from the farm, Chi, Nhi and I met with the cow supplier to make sure that all the correct funds had been transferred over. We signed the several copies of the contract and shook hands. My stomach grumbled as I climbed back onto Chi’s bike a few minutes later. We made our way back out of the taro, cashew, pepper, and cassava fields, towards the bustling metropolis of Dong Ha.

From Dong Ha to Hoi An: A Perilous Pilgrimage

2004-12-29T11:35:00.000+07:00

On Friday, December 24th, I was up and ready to leave Dong Ha by 6am. Duc came to the office and picked me up just a few minutes past 6. The plan was to take a minibus (a step up from the local buses, but not luxury tourist class) from Dong Ha to Da Nang, and then either a taxi or another bus to Hoi An, where I’d spend the next three days enjoying the sun and white sands of the South China Sea for the holiday. Duc and I met the minibus on the way to the bus station; the minibuses leave every half hour, and we’d just crossed paths with the one just leaving.

Duc hangs a right and follows the minibus for a minute or two, then pulls up on the left side, flagging them down, and waving his hand, indicating for the bus to pull over. Silly Western me wonders where the next “stop” is for the bus and where we can catch it.

The next bus “stop” is when the driver decides to pull over, preferably for some tourist that he can rip off.

The “bus” is some antiquated version of a 8-person van. It’s been retrofitted however with new seats to cram even more people in it; 14 people can fit in this little sucker. Let me clarify: 14 Vietnamese can fit in this van. Still an 8-seater for westerners, no matter how many seats you put in. We pull the CPI truck up in front of the bus, and the ticket collector/cashier jumps out of the bus and comes to the truck. Duc explains to her that I want to go to Da Nang and that I have a big suitcase. I look at the bus and the complete lack of trunk space (persons 11, 12, 13, and 14 sat in the trunk space) and think there is no way me and my bags would fit. She looks at me, then at my bags, and seizes upon the opportunity to charge a foreigner a ridiculous sum of money.

“Seven dollars,” she says, looking at Duc, not at me, of course. The early morning sun reflects off the Nike emblem sewn onto the front of her tan baseball hat. I can’t help but notice that for a bus cashier, she is dressed remarkably well.

Duc laughs and interprets for me. “She wants 100,000 dong but I think you should only pay 50,000.” I feign disappointment in her offer and retort, “okay, well we will just go to the bus station and find someone else willing to make money.” I close the truck door and make to move back into the truck.

“Eighty thousand,” she says in Vietnamese, her painted lips set in a straight line.

I shake my head, knowing full well that she’s not yet offered 50,000 dong. “Let’s go, Duc.”

Duc moves around the front of the truck and the cashier waves her hands to us in capitulation. Duc smiles and says that she’ll go for 50,000. Ha! Brita, One, Cashier, zero.

So we move my bags to the minibus, and the three other passengers welcome me with toothy grins, sizing me up from head to toe (imagine three, no, four plus the driver, heads looking at my Calvin Klein jeans, Asics running shoes, and J Crew sweater, no doubt wondering what planet I’d just arrived from). The cashier jerks my bag from Duc and opens the back of the minibus. I look at the 0.2 cubic feet of trunk space and hope that my bag will instead have a place next to me on the bench seat in the bus. No such luck. She heaves my suitcase into the back, and then takes my laptop bag from me – I quickly ask Duc to tell her that it is FRAGILE.

He does, and apparently in Viet Nam, Fragile means Go Ahead And Cram The Bag.

I grimace as my laptop bag gets stuffed in a corner, and realize as she’s shutting the back that it would indeed clear the quickly moving door. My suitcase and laptop now safely and irreversibly wedged between seats 11, 12, 13, 14, and the back of the bus, the cashier takes me by the arm and hurries me onto the bus. I have just enough time to shout Thank You to Duc before the driver lurches off onto Highway One, honking, and narrowly misses a motorbike flying by on the left side. (See Pavement Baptism for similar incidents.)

My fellow passengers, seated in rows one and two (I was in row three, the next-to-last row) turn around to take a look again at their new bus-mate. The guy in front of me on the left winks and shows at least three teeth (top and bottom included). The guy next to him, directly in front of me, is wearing a ski hat of some western design (keep in mind that the day promises to be in the mid-eighties) and nudges his friend, and mutters something in Vietnamese. They nod emphatically to eachother, smiling all the while. The third passenger is up in one of the seats next to the driver. He slings his arm over the back of the bench seat and turns to look at me full-on. He beams and says something to the driver. The drive adjusts his rearview mirror so that the mirror now fully reflects yours truly. Forget the bikes, motorbikes, buses, and people running and flying by.

It was like in Dumb and Dumber when Lloyd is driving Mary to the airport, and he turns totally around in his seat to talk to her, while driving down the freeway.

I imagine several collisions if this goes on for much longer, and I quietly pull my hood up over my head. Thank you, J Crew.

The minibus gathers speed down the highway as the driver turns his attention back to the road.

I regret not having yet written a blog about Highway One. You would already have an idea of what to expect.

The rule of the road on Highway One is simply survive from Point A to Point B.

One might get a better impression of the clamor on Hwy 1 if I were to describe it as a mixture of British driving (on the left-hand side of the road), French driving (on the right-hand side of the road, and fast and wonderfully erratic, I might add), Dutch driving (picture 80% of the traffic being bicycles), a dairy and buffalo farm (picture cows and buffaloes – water, of course – wandering across the road to find a greener patch of weeds), a scenic path around Green Lake in Seattle (picture families out for a morning walk), the stretch of I-90 through the Gorge (picture nothing but mammoth shipping trucks, full of anything and everything – NOT the beautiful view), and a training day at Indy (picture really, really fast motorbikes that are still testing their brakes to see if they work).

Now inscribe all of this onto a two-way, two-lane road. Put it to the tune of the video game Frogger and you’re set.

Welcome to Highway One. I fondly call it Death Drive.

And so into the foray we go. Our driver, sporting a tan fisherman’s hat and an omnipresent cigarette hanging from his lips, hangs his left arm out the window as he drives. When the time comes to pass a truck, no, swerve around a truck, he manages to get two hands on the wheel, keep his foot on the gas pedal, accelerate, and get around it, narrowly missing the OTHER oncoming minibus, passing the OTHER truck in HIS lane.

I start to really wish for a seatbelt, or at least a crash helmet.

Forty minutes of honk, swerve, and miss goes by, and I start to feel better as we haven’t yet hit anything, nor has anything hit us.

I settle back in to Chair number 7 and doze for an hour or two. I wake up just in time to see the start of Hai Van Pass looming in front of us, in all its green splendor. Hai Van Pass is the one and only way to get to Da Nang from the North. A new tunnel through the mountain is opening next spring, and it will be a blessing for everyone. We make it over the pass in record time, and I thank the beautiful sunny weather for evaporating the continual clouds and mist at the top of the pass. We descend towards Da Nang and I start to plan my route to get to Hoi An from Da Nang. I get out my guidebook and point to the words “bus station,” motioning to the bus cashier. “Yah, yah, yah,” she nods. Good, I thought. We ARE ending up at the bus station.

No, that would be too easy.

We pull over at a gas station once we’re in Da Nang, and at least 8 guys come running up to the minibus. The cashier jumps out, goes to the back, extracts my suitcase and laptop bag, and waves her hands at me, as I am the only one left on the bus.

Oh great. Here we go. This IS the last stop. Commence The Adventure, Part 4382.

The eight moto drivers look at me with dollar signs in their eyes. One guy, luckily knowing some English, blurts out, “Where you go?”

I smile, hoping my answer will thwart some of them. I slowly get out of the bus, and put my left hand deliberately on the top of my large suitcase, the other in my right-hand pocket of my jeans.

“Hoi An.”

The English-speaking guy jumps up and says, “Yes, yes, I take you!”

Right.

I point at myself. Then at my suitcase. Then at my laptop bag. Then my purse. Then at the moto, and I shake my head, hoping my blossoming Vietnamese sign language will do its trick.

I still need to work on it.

He quickly motions to some of his comrades, who go get his bike for him. Group action rules in VN. He takes my suitcase and stuffs it between the handlebars of his bike and the seat, so that it is wedged upright, high enough for him to rest his chin on it as he sits on the bike, looking in front of him.

You have got to be kidding me.

“Five dollar, Hoi An,” he smiles.

Definitely not kidding. “Four dollars,” I counter.

“Okay, okay, yes, yes.”

I shake my head, questioning my sanity, as I climb on the remaining 1 foot of space on the end of the seat. Safety-conscious me spies his dusty helmet in the basket at the front of his bike, with a pair of driving gloves stuffed inside. I point to it, then at my head, asking, “Ok?” and he places the helmet in my hands. I put it on, and I have to lose a few brain cells in order to get it over my big western head. I fasten the clasp below my chin and it promptly falls off.

Of course it falls off.

I figure that a helmet is better than nothing, and keep it on. I sling my laptop bag onto my lap, wedging yet another piece of luggage onto the poor bike. The laptop bag acts as a nice buffer between the driver and myself. I throw on my sunglasses to ward off the glare and the dust, and the plastic visor of the helmet falls in front of my face. Well, at least something still works on the helmet.

With my left arm cradling the laptop bag, snaking around the driver to grasp the side handle of my suitcase in front of him, I manage to secure myself, and my right hand moves behind me to grab the metal bar attached to bikes just for this purpose.

With a jerk, the driver pulls out towards the main road in front of us. He adjusts quickly to the heavy and cumbersome load both in front and in back of him and pulls out into the traffic.

I am quietly amazed that this is working. The bike settles into the road and my driver shouts something about “Hoi An forty kilometers.” I shout something in response. I doubt he heard it with the wind pulling the words from my mouth.

The day is gorgeous. There is traffic, but we work our way through it, and travel on for about 20 minutes. We enter into a residential area, then a more sparsely populated area, shaded by some trees. We gradually slow down, and I wonder if he is stopping to say Hi to a friend living nearby (not uncommon). The bike sputters and I realize that it is not a friend we are stopping for.

It was just like in Dumb and Dumber when Harry and Lloyd are crammed on the put-put bike they’ve traded the Shaggin’ Wagon for, and it sputters, blows a tire, and they are forced to pull over in the middle of nowhere.

Our bike was dead.

The driver laughs nervously and motions for me to get off. Yes, sure, no problem. Whatever will fix the bike and get me to my hotel in Hoi An.

I feel the heat from the midday sun overhead, do a quick inventory of how much water I have, and wonder how quickly the buzzards will be arriving.

He puts my suitcase in the middle of the road, and as a loud truck approaches, I pull it quickly to the side to avoid a hit and run accident. My driver asks a lady who has come out of her house where the nearest fill station is.

Miraculously enough, it was two houses down. My driver balances the suitcase on the seat and walks the bike down the street, where we find a tanned grease monkey wiping his small hands on a black cloth. They chatter excitedly and push the bike together into the shed. No more than ten minutes later it comes out in reverse, and the driver is beaming. “No problem!” he apologizes.

He rearranges himself and the suitcase on the bike again, and waves for me to get on. I do as he says, and off we go again.

Thirty minutes later we pull into the narrow and decorated streets of Hoi An. He asks a couple people where the Ha An hotel can be found. After two or three wrong turns and just as many u-turns, we pull up safely to the white gates of the Ha An hotel.

I thank him for the ride, hand him a fistful of dong, and wearily make my way up the brick pathway to the front steps of the white, French-inspired villa.

Just another day in Viet Nam.

Negative on the tsunamis

2004-12-29T11:31:00.000+07:00

To calm a number of you dear souls that have either called or emailed me in panic regarding the earthquake last weekend in the Indian Ocean, I can tell you right now that there were no tsunamis in Viet Nam. I didn’t even feel a shudder from the earthquake. It really could have been bad news bears if the waves DID come to the Central coast of Viet Nam – I don’t think I would be writing right now. Maybe my own obituary, I guess.

The news of landmines washing ashore in parts of the affected countries really struck a chord with me. I watched BBC news from my hotel room as they showed pictures of floating UXO and felt sick. Dealing with UXO victims and casualties at a time like this, amidst everything else happening, with trying to ward off disease and widespread sickness, has to be horrendously difficult for the governments of these countries. I feel tremendously saddened by the body count from this earthquake, and as it continues to rise, I can only wish those people still stranded the strength to make it through another day, as help is on the way, in one form or another...

2004-12-22T08:33:00.000+07:00

Never doubt a determined Stevenson. I am the proud owner of a brand new, 5'10" Ever-Last Christmas tree. What are the white things? Hand-cut snowflakes, of course. I am going to leave this thing up until February.

Gecko, not Geico.

2004-12-19T22:49:00.000+07:00

I'm a little concerned about one of my roomates.

An eensie-weensie baby gecko has been living on a spare CPU next to my desk all weekend. He's no bigger than half the length of my pinky, and is about the width of two pieces of spaghetti. He is so dark green that he is almost black, and I don't even know if his eyes are open yet.

Are baby geckos born with their eyes open?

He doesn't move much, if at all. When I touch his tail, he runs away, but comes back about 10 minutes later. Right now he is peering at me from behind the far side of the CPU. I can barely see the tip of his nose.

I wonder if he wandered too far away from his siblings... Is this an orphaned baby gecko? I'm contemplating calling VBG-CPA -- Vietnamese Baby Gecko - Child Protection Agency.

Oh no, now he's gone. Maybe he's looking for food.

What if he's too little to catch an ant? He might starve to death...

I almost want to find an eyedropper and try to feed this little guy.

Would baby geckos eat Gerber Ant Puree? Can someone please ship me some Preemie Formula, preferrably moth-flavored?

The Irony of It All: Scrap Metal Collectors

2004-12-19T14:59:00.000+07:00

As Chi, Nhi, and I made our way north on Highway 1 at 7:30AM, last Friday morning, we passed numerous interesting characters traveling at a much slower pace than we were. It was a beautiful, cloudless morning, and the wind and sun felt good on my back as I hunkered behind Chi on his motorbike. We were heading up to Vinh Linh district to oversee the distribution of twelve calves to CPI beneficiaries. Chi and I were in front of Nhi, who followed behind us a good hundred feet. I felt my body lean into Chi’s, indicating that he was slowing down. I looked up from my fetal position and noticed that we were trailing 8-10 men, all riding bicycles on the side of the road. Chi raised the visor on his helmet and yelled to me that these men were scrap metal collectors. I noticed that each of them had strapped to their bicycles a shovel or two, a couple burlap bags, and a larger bag containing, as Chi told me, the metal detector.

For many poor people, landmines and UXO are a vital economic resource in spite of the danger they pose. The metal both inside and outside can be sold as scrap, providing a little cash for people unable to make a living any other way. The explosive content of mines and ordnance is sometimes used for fishing (think: blown up fish bits) or is sold at the market.

I remember the first time I heard about and saw pictures of people searching for scrap metal, unknowingly picking up the nice, shiny object, only to have their lives irreversibly altered a fraction of a second later.

That people continue to search for scrap metal, particularly UXO, knowing the potential for serious harm, even death, baffled me for a while. It indicates the lack of awareness in the common citizen and frustrates me to no end. These people knowingly put their own lives in danger, and often the lives of others, by tampering with UXO just to earn a few extra bucks.

Keep in mind, however, that you’re reading the blog of a safety fiend – I put on my helmet even going to the internet café, two minutes down the road…

Regardless, something has to be done about this. Mine and UXO awareness programs in place are clearly not achieving the desired affect. What keeps people coming back to scrap metal is the price – it can be lucrative, depending on the metal – and the threat of physical harm is simply not enough to deter people from this lethal part-time job. It makes me want to bang my head against the wall.

We had a new accident a couple weeks ago in a nearby scrap metal shop here in Dong Ha. A man was trying to pry off the aluminum of a small UXO. Luckily the UXO did not actually detonate, but the round top flew off, hitting a nearby worker in the head and causing both a concussion and brain damage. I visited the woman with Phuong at the Quang Tri general hospital, where she lay in a nearly comatose state. He brother-in-law was at the hospital to help Phuong and I better understand what had happened. The owner of the scrap metal shop had lied to the police when they came to investigate the accident, claiming that the woman was hit in the head by another piece, coming from a different object. You see, collecting and selling UXO metal is illegal in Viet Nam. The shop owner did not want to claim responsibility for the true nature of the accident and risk a huge fine, the closure of his shop, or worse yet, imprisonment. When we drove to his shop to see the site of the accident, he pleaded us for help in dealing with the police.

I don’t think so, buster.

Accidents like the one above are multiplied exponentially in provinces like Quang Tri and Quang Binh.

They also get much worse.

The following story provides a good illustration of the pressures that drive people to salvage from mines or ordnance. One man, we'll call him Sam, has been injured twice by mines while gathering scrap metal on the mountainside behind his home. The first accident happened when he triggered a V69 that tore a hole in his stomach. Two of his friends were killed in the accident. Two years later he lost three fingers and an eye while taking apart a blast mine.

Sam's children have also carried on the family legacy; they continue to collect unexploded ordnance. In 1995, his eldest son brought an 82mm mortar back to the house (why, oh why, would anyone do that) and attempted to remove the aluminium from the fuse. The mortar detonated and the explosion killed four of his siblings and wounded two others. Sam’s son and daughter still live with him - bearing the scars of the accident that killed their brothers and sisters. Removing the saleable scrap metal from UXO is extremely dangerous in itself; additionally the activity of gathering UXO leads people into mined areas.

Despite this devastation, people like Sam remain dependent on the income that scrap metal provides.

I pulled out my digital camera as Chi slowed down. I took two pictures of the men on their bikes, knowing full well that there was a good chance I could see them too at Quang Tri general in the very near future.

I sighed and we drove on.

An FYI on UXO

2004-12-19T13:51:00.000+07:00

As I was working at the end of this week, I thought that it would be useful for anyone following my little blog to know some more about the things I am working with. Well, avoiding, rather, not working with.

In conflict – domestic or international -- many types of weapons are used and many of these fail to function as expected. A failure rate of 10% is generally accepted for all munitions. Munitions can remain undiscovered for decades after hostilities have ended. Both civil wars and international disputes may leave a deadly trail of unexploded weapons of various types. These various types fall into two major categories: unexploded ordnance (UXO) and landmines.

UXO has many definitions, but for the purposes of CPI, the term applies to all munitions other than landmines. UXO has far superior destructive capabilities than landmines. Explosive ordnance (and thus unexploded ordnance as well) includes, but is not limited to, bombs, grenades, sub-munitions, small arms ammunition, torpedoes, depth charges, cluster bombs and munitions, electric explosive devices, mortar, warheads, and guided and ballistic missiles… just to name a few. These weapons contain explosive that has been used, or has been primed, fused, armed, or otherwise prepared for use. UXO may have been dropped, launched, or projected but remains unexploded either through malfunction or design or for any other cause; it lies in an extremely sensitive state.

UXO is not a weapon that respects a cease-fire agreement.

Landmines and UXO are wholly indifferent to the distinction between soldiers and civilians. A staggering statistic: more people have been killed by anti-personnel (AP) mines than nuclear and chemical weapons combined -- while the figures vary, it is generally accepted that AP mines kill or maim around 26,000 individuals per year, many of whom are innocent civilians.

AP mines differ from their cousin, the anti-tank or anti-vehicle mine, in the weight required to activate the mine. The latter are activated by the weight of a vehicle or tractor, whereas the former are usually activated by the force of an object weighing less than 200 kilos. AP mines are laid or dropped on the ground where they serve one distinct purpose: kill or maim the individual who detonates it by accident. An AP mine can take its toll even decades after it is initially placed, as the detonating system will not warp or erode over time.

UXO and landmines cause deaths and injuries to people carrying out their everyday activities; the majority of victims are farmers or people taking care of animals or searching for food/firewood. Even small items of UXO, through fragmentation and a powerful explosive charge, are capable of claiming many victims in a single explosion. For example, in January 1998, in Xieng Khouang Province, Lao PDR, seven children were killed and another was seriously injured when a 'bomblet' that they had found exploded. Bomblets are live munitions that are packed together in cluster bombs; they are no bigger than a clenched fist. As well as blast and fragmentation effects, UXO can include a range of other mechanisms to enhance the damage that is caused. White phosphorous will create a pyrotechnic effect, burning through or igniting materials that it comes into contact with – most often skin, muscle, and bone. This is the same material that caused the debilitating injuries to Ha, the courageous young woman mentioned in an earlier blog.

UXO creates CPI beneficiaries.

The harm caused by UXO and landmines is not limited to purely physical injury. The emotional trauma is less tangible but no less real, as they can affect those who are not even direct victims by inflicting a debilitating psychological effect. Citizens are denied movement, leaving communities socially and economically isolated. UXO ensures refugees and internally displaced people remain alienated from their homelands.

UXO leaves populations living in fear.

They also have long-lasting social, economic, and environmental implications. UXO and landmines deny communities access to their economic resources; pasture and arable land, water sources, woodland, and roads and bridges can be rendered unusable. This unusable land perpetuates a vicious circle, causing food insecurity and poverty. They prevent or hamper rehabilitation and post-conflict reconstruction. Moreover, humanitarian relief organizations and peacekeeping personnel cannot fully complete their tasks in regions still contaminated by mines simply because it is too dangerous. Most mine-afflicted countries are very poor, and many lack the resources to provide both immediate and continual aid to victims.

This is where CPI steps in.

Our assistance comes in many forms: emergency medical assistance, home grants, scholarships, and much more. I just wish we could help MORE people. The number of UXO accident survivors is chilling – especially here in Quang Tri province. Our province and the one north of us, Quang Binh, were the two that were the most heavily bombed and attacked during the war. Over here, it’s known as the American War...

On average, we get a call once a week notifying us there has been a new accident. I dread those calls, in spite of how much I learn from them and the ensuing outreach of assistance. After all, that is what I’m doing here – learning how a small, grassroots NGO functions and interacts with both citizens and the government.

And I can’t imagine doing it anywhere else.

Vietnamese rub-downs

2004-12-15T17:03:00.000+07:00

Anyone who has been to Viet Nam, or has spoken with people that have, are usually familiar with the (in)famous massage parlors that dot the landscape of larger cities. A good percentage of these massage parlors cater to the weary tourist in need of a little relaxation, and are for the most part upstanding businesses that offer clean, comfortable, and safe services. Another good percentage of these massage parlors cater to the weary and deprived tourist in need of a little extra, shall we say, handling, and are for the most part also upstanding businesses that offer clean, *very* comfortable, and safe services. There is another smaller percentage that caters strictly to the locals who naturally pay a fraction of what the tourists fork over.

When my aunt, uncle, and I checked into our hotel in Ho Chi Minh City, I noticed with significant satisfaction that the hotel’s services included massages and other beauty salon/spa services. Once we were in our room, I called the massage parlor and inquired about their rates for such indulgences:

“Hello, Massage Parlor.”

“Hello! Can you please tell me what the cost is for a one-hour massage?”

“Yes, massage? Yes, ten o’clock.”

“No, I would like to know how much it costs, the price, for a massage?”

“Ah, yes! Massage from ten o’clock to half past ten.”

Hmm. New plan of attack. I paused.

“Dong? How much dong for massage?” I queried in vinglish.

The voice on the other end disappeared after a mumbled sentence in Vietnamese. A new voice came on the line.

“Hello, may I help you?”

“Hello, I was wondering if you could please tell me the price for a one-hour massage?”

“Yes, yes, massage is one thousand dong for one hour.”

One thousand dong for one hour! That’s seven bucks!

“Ok, thank you very much!”

The new voice attempted to pull me back. “You make appointment now?”

“No thank you, I will call back later.”

“Yes, yes, okay. Thank you. Bye-bye.”

I hung up thrilled. Seven dollars for a full-body massage! I have never seen prices less than $50 an hour for a one-hour body massage in the States.

I stopped short and my happiness quickly disappeared. I wondered if somehow I’d made a mistake in trusting the services of the hotel. Was this going to be a “special massage?” I was not in the business for a special massage, and I mulled over my decision during dinner that night and into the next morning. When I called the massage parlor that morning, I’d convinced myself that I was going to be okay, and that if things got ugly, I probably weighed more than twice of what my masseuse would weigh, and could defend myself in hand-to-hand combat if it came to that. I made an appointment for 5 o’clock that evening, two hours before our dinner reservation.

At 4:50, I pranced down three flights into the lobby wearing a hotel robe and slippers. Some French guests in the lobby eyed me suspiciously and rather disdainfully as I flip-flopped by them in my short white garment. I made my way around the far end of the lobby and up the stairs to the first floor, following the signs for the massage parlor.

I walked up to the check-in desk, where a smiling young man was sitting behind a white appointment book and a jar of blue Bic pens. I smiled back and told him that I had an appointment at five for a massage under the name Stevenson.

“Massage? Yes.”

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

“So…….do I wait here?”

He smiled. “Yes.”

I looked around. There were no waiting chairs, and when I glanced directly behind me, I noticed a door with a plaque marked “Waiting Room.”

I looked at him again. “Should I go into the Waiting Room?”

His smile disappeared. I wondered if I’d offended him.

“Room? Whass your room number?”

My room?

“Room 304, Stevenson.”

He looked relieved and the smile reappeared. “Yes, your room. Please, your room.” He motioned with his hand in a sweeping gesture.

“You want me to go to my room? The massage will take place in my room?” I asked slowly, raising my left eyebrow.

He looked at me again. I could see the wheels turning slowly. He became flustered and his English turned staccato. “Massage? Yes. You, ok?”

I frowned. This was going nowhere quickly.

“I have a massage, today, at five,” I emphasized, pointing at my wrist. “Massage, now, at five o’clock.”

His face brightened and he stepped out from behind the desk. “Yes, yes! Massage!” He walked past me and put his hand on the doorknob of the Waiting Room.

He opened the door in front of him, waved me inside, and followed closely behind. “You want to see for massage?”

I sighed. “No, I have a massage, NOW, an appointment, at five, for a massage.” I felt like a broken record.

Luckily a bevy of blue-suited beauties came around the corner and saved the receptionist from further embarrassment. They all looked at me in my white robe and chattered about who was to take me. I now know what a calf at auction feels like.

While they sized me up, I looked back at them. They were all no taller than five feet, and in most cases, considerably shorter than that. They all wore stewardess-cum-playboy-bunny outfits, royal blue in color, with a western collar, button snaps down the front, culminating at some point quite high on the thigh.

I clenched and unclenched my fists in the pockets of my robe. I revisited my previous concerns regarding the intentions of such an establishment.

I had little time to consider anything, as one of the masseuses stepped forward, took me by the hand, and led me down a short hallway, past numerous doors with small windows in the center of each. She stopped at a doorway on the right hand side, pushed the door open, and motioned me in. I hovered in the hallway, inspecting from afar my room for the next hour. It looked safe enough, and I walked in and sat on the side of the padded table. I looked around for a sheet or a fitted body wrap to change into. No such thing. My masseuse looked at me from the doorway, and motioned with her hands for me to take off my robe. Um, no not yet. I invented some quick sign language for “I am not wearing anything under this, do you have a towel or something?”

She nodded and closed the door as she moved back into the hallway, clearly cursing herself for claiming the tall white prude. I saw her disappear and I wondered if she had understood me, after having already dealt with Mr. Receptionist at the check-in desk. A number of small, painted faces passed by my window and glanced inside. I now know what a fish in a fish tank feels like.

My masseuse came back with a pair of gray wanna-be gym shorts. Ah, better than nothing, I thought, and slipped them on. I took off the robe and hung it on the hook on the wall. I quickly moved to the table and settled face-down into the soft towels covering the table. My face was cradled by a big overstuffed oval cut into the padding, and I looked down first at the blue carpeting and then the painted toenails of my masseuse as she passed my head and dimmed the lights. I took a deep breath and tried to relax. All I could think of was “special massage, special massage.” Thanks, James.

I heard some rustling above my head to the left and then the familiar sound of a bottle being shaken - massage oil. My masseuse moved to my gym shorts and pulled the elastic waistband just low enough to predict a full moon that evening... Just great, I thought. Keep breathing.

The next thing I knew, I had a 75-pound masseuse sitting on my backside, pouring massage oil over my shoulders. Maybe they are so short that they simply have to compensate by being on top of their subject.

After a good 15 minutes of rubbing, stretching, and squeezing, I turned into a human punching bag. She balled her fists and beat a contemporary tribal rhythm on my back and shoulders as I tried not to laugh.

She stopped and I felt her shift her weight. I was alone again for 3 seconds as she repositioned herself. I heard hands on….metal. She was holding onto a metal bar fixed to the ceiling.

She was standing on my butt.

Now, one’s first reaction is of course to clench. She almost fell off. She admonished me as she gripped the bar tighter and I tried to relax. Keep breathing.

She made her way up and down my spine and succeeded in cracking my back with her toes. I wondered if monkeys could even do that.

After my back had been taken care of, she moved to my legs.

“Ahh, you save hair?” I heard her ask with a smile.

……do I save my hair?

I figured in the Vietnamese accent and realized she was telling me I needed to shave.

I forced a laugh through the padded oval, “yes, yes, I know.”

Once my legs, calves, and feet had been rubbed and then pounded, she asked me to turn over. I hesitated.

I raised my head from the foam and pushed myself up with my arms.

God bless her, she was waiting with a towel.

I settled in on my back and she worked my quads, arms, hands, and shoulders. One last thing.

She placed her hands on the sides of my head and quickly turned my head to the left so she could get my neck muscles on the right side. She did the same with the left. I think she actually pulled a muscle as she was flipping my head from side to side.

Then she had me sit up so she could get the back of my neck and the base of my hairline.

They definitely are thorough at the Grand Hotel. Luckily not as thorough as I had feared.

“Ok, all finished!” She proclaimed happily, and slapped me on the back.

I jumped and had fleeting glimpses of the red handprint now on my back.

I turned so I was sitting on the edge of the table, and pulled my robe off the hook from the wall. I thanked her and gave her my room number to charge the beating to.

Up next: perhaps my all-time, life-long favorite subject - Gastronomy.

Cheers –
BLS

The Quiet American

2004-12-11T10:51:00.000+07:00

Holy cow, this city is cool. I am in Saigon for a long weekend with my aunt and uncle from Sweden and I am having a fabulous time.

It is hot here but not unbearably. It's about 30C in the heat of the afternoon. When it gets that bad, we duck into a cafe for a drink and a little time-out.

I think the reason this city speaks to me is that it reminds me so much of Paris. Of course there are the obvious historical explanations for that. A lot of the people I have talked to that have been to both Ha Noi and Saigon have preferred Ha Noi for its charm and smaller size. Saigon is big and brassy and edgy and proudly throws out its chest and says, "Here I am." I love it.

I haven't seen a whole lot yet but we are making the rounds. We saw Notre Dame yesterday, the Continental Hotel, the Caravelle hotel, the beautiful central Post Office, about 4235 silk shops (it's bad news when the two women in your party are both silk fiends), and several gorgeous city parks and fountains. We are going to go to one of the major markets this afternoon, partake in Handel's Messiah (Part 1) this evening at a concert hall, and log many miles on our shoes. We had dinner at a fabulous French restaurant last night called La Fourchette just across the street from our hotel, the Grand. Good sturdy French fare with way-too-drinkable red table wine.

Ok, I better run. More to come!

Pavement Baptism

2004-12-08T16:44:00.000+07:00

Well, I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later. Preferably NEVER, but there are just some things you cannot control.

Like young, inexperienced, irresponsible, careless moto drivers who pass you on the LEFT SIDE as you are preparing to make a LEFT HAND turn, with your turn signal and brake lights clearly on, and in doing so, tag the front wheel of your hooptie as they go racing by, pushing your bike out from underneath you, letting you and the bike go spinning onto the pavement, covered with fine gravel and traces of stinky petrol.

Besides dirty pants, a bruise on my right pointer finger, and a left hand palm tattooed with pits of gravel, I am just fine. I got to exercise my proven hereditary ability to perform surgery on myself with the bare necessities of water, soap, and a fine needle to dig out the gravel with.

I guess I was lucky. If I had turned later, he could have very easily tagged ME and I could be writing you from the comfy bamboo mats at the local hospital.

Don’t worry Mom and Dad, I was wearing my helmet. It is true though that I am the only person in the town of Dong Ha to wear a helmet. No, that’s not true. The other staff of CPI wear their helmets during work hours. But once 5:01 chimes, it’s the wind-blown hair look for them.

He did have the courtesy to turn around and come back to make sure that the bike was still operable. Or that I still had a pulse. Who knows. I still yelled at him. Highly effective, of course, when your subject’s range of foreign language knowledge starts and stops at “Hello!” But I gave him a piece of my mind, wildly gesticulating, pointing innumerable times at my turn signal and pointing at my eyes, then his. After I had said all I wanted, and made it clear that he needed to go back to Lesson One of Driver’s Ed, I shook my hands at him and said I was not hurt and that he should get on his merry little way.

Moral of the story: Wear driving gloves.

Arachnophobia

2004-12-06T11:52:00.000+07:00

Anyone who has arachnophobia would not do well in Central Vietnam.

In fact, anyone who has arachnophobia will not do well reading the rest of this blog.

I have just come face-to-face with the biggest spider I have ever seen in my entire life.

I’d just gotten back from a late-nite stint at the internet café down the road. I was getting ready for bed, and was putting on my flip-flops to go into the bathroom (the permanent ant exodus across the floor of my bathroom warrants flip-flops) to brush my teeth. I had given them a little nudge with my big toe (since they had been in the same place all weekend, and could easily be the new site for a large-scale ant housing complex) and when nothing crawled out of, or from under them, I deemed them safe to slip on my feet. And I did. When something caught my eye at the base of my armoire, next to which my flip-flops had been placed. I moved back a step to give the spot some better light.

Godzilla’s arachnid cousin was crouched on the base of my armoire.

I did a double-take. Is that….

No way.

I stooped down and looked again.

Yes way.

I moved back so fast I almost knocked over my bedside table.

Holy huge spider, Batman.

My mind raced. What to do… Kill him? No, the mess would be too big. It would require a full-blown utility mop to soak up his squished innards. Plus he probably ate one of the orange and black-striped bees for dinner. This is a good thing. Trap him? Yes! In what, I asked myself. A garbage can? I quickly did a mental inventory of all the bowls and cups in the kitchen downstairs. I have two new beer mugs in which I drink fresh orange juice every morning (why beer mugs, you ask? I don’t question my housekeeper/cook anymore. I just eat what she gives me) and I hoped that they would be big enough to do the trick.

I told him to stay put (I’m sure he didn’t understand a word of my directive - he is Vietnamese, after all) and raced down the stairs to the kitchen. I grabbed a mug and took the stairs two at a time back to my room. He was still there.

Cue Mission Impossible theme.

I moved in with the mug at an angle but he was so close to the floor that I couldn’t cover all his escape routes - and he pulled his enormous legs towards his body.

Let me pause here to give you an idea of how big this spider is. When I first saw him with all of his legs out at full length, he was easily 3/4 the size of my palm. His body is about 2/3 the size of my thumb. His legs aren’t hairy, though. Maybe it’s a girl spider. Then again, I didn’t see a bow on her head.

And I can see all of his eyes from 3 feet away.

So I try again. I turn the mug at a new angle, and he starts to get an idea of what is going on.

And takes off at full sprint around the corner of the armoire.

He is one fast spider. I guess when you have eight legs at that length, you can cover a lot of ground in very little time.

He takes refuge between a stack of magazines on the floor and the wall. I think I see him panting.

I mutter unprintable words to him and shove the magazines away from the wall with the help of my hair brush.

He makes a run for it and moves off at mach 3 through my bedroom doorway. I am in hot pursuit and I see him teeter around the corner and jump the tiled step into the bathroom. I hit the light switch outside the door, determined to see this guy into his new glass beer mug home.

I peer around the door, and he must have seen the whites of my eyes, because he jumps onto the wall and starts exhibiting moves that any experienced vertical rock-climber would be jealous of.

Not so fast, sucker.

My moving target is now at head-height on the wall (I told you he could move fast) and with a whoop of victory, I bring the mug down over his legs and trap him against the tiles.

I slowly edge the glass down to the floor, carefully negotiating the tricky angles near the floor that got me in trouble earlier.

I move the mug into the corner of the bathroom, where he now sits, most likely quite unhappily. TFB. He will have to spend a cold night on the floor until I can relocate him tomorrow, somewhere outside, far from the office.

If I had waited 24 more hours, I could have added one more category of insects and animals to the Zoology 101 blog: Vietnamese Spiders and the people who hunt them.

City lights

2004-12-05T13:07:00.000+07:00

Well, I opted for a change of scenery this weekend at the very last minute and decided to jump in the truck with Hugh and Toan to come to Hue. The BIG city! Although a weekend spent touring the roads of Dong Ha on my hooptie in was mighty tempting, I thought I should "get out" for a little while.

More travel plans are in the air! Next Friday, Dec 10th, I am jumping on a plane and heading down to Ho Chi Minh City (aka Saigon to a privileged few) for a long weekend. My aunt and uncle from Sweden are coming to Viet Nam for about a week to attend a UNDP conference in HCMC and I will be staying and visiting with them. I'm so excited! I really didn't have any plans (let's be honest -- or time or money) to
go down to HCMC while I am here, but there is never a better excuse than to visit relatives when they are coming to the developing country you call Home for the present time.

Another note on my hooptie. Has anyone ever heard of a "Halim" motorbike? Me neither. That's the company that made mine. (Did I mention that it's dark purple with white accents? The red mud from our dirt road makes nice splash marks, too, showing off the purple even more.) This is just the greatest cacophony of cultures: an American, in Viet Nam, working with Brits, Fins, Germans, and French,
who now rides an Allah-endorsed motorbike. Who knew?

I took a boat ride on the Perfume River today! Man, that was a good time. So was the price. We departed at 8am, toured the Thien Mu Pagoda, the Hon Chen Temple, the mausoleums of emperors Tu Duc, Khai Dinh, and Minh Mang, had lunch on the boat (fried tofu, rice, green beans, soups, spring rolls), and washed ashore at about 3pm this afternoon. Buck thirty. Lunch included. Speaking of food and prices
– I think I have already been Vietnamized. I look at a menu for dinner, and if any of the meat & noodles or meat & rice dishes are above one dollar, it's out of the question. Overpriced and probably just as good as the street kitchen one block down.

So back to my boat tour. For a water-loving creature like yours truly, it was heaven. Even if said water was brown and polluted. The Thien Mu pagoda was the site of major Buddhist opposition to colonialism in the 1930's and 1940's, but it because instantly famous (infamous, perhaps?) in 1963. One of its monks, the Venerable Thich Quang Duc, burned himself to death in Saigon, in protest of the excesses in President Diem's regime. Duc drove himself from Thien Mu Pagoda to Saigon in a powder-blue Austin car, which is now on display at the pagoda. It gave me goosebumps when I walked up to it and saw a framed copy of the picture that shocked the world.

Duc arrived at Saigon, parked his car, and lifted the hood. He took out a long plastic pipe and siphoned the gas from his gas tank, and when it was free flowing, doused himself from head to toe in gasoline. Some people say that he wore three robes so that more gasoline would be absorbed and the flames would be higher, brighter, and hotter. He sat himself down in the full lotus position…and lit himself on fire. It was this instant that was caught on camera. He never moved from
that position.

Despite the political significance of the pagoda, it is a peaceful place. There is a tiled terrace high above the boat dock that looks south and west over the Perfume River and the Central Highlands, from which I got several good photos of river life.

The Hon Chen Temple was a beautiful structure, built into a rocky promontory overlooking the river. The three mausoleums were all very different, all speaking to the style, personality, and wishes of each emperor. Some of the tombs were planned and developed way before the emperor even died. One of them even came regularly to his own mausoleum to write poetry and go fishing. The three that we visited were the "best" of the seven total mausoleums that are situated around
Hue. It started to get a little rainy when we got to Tu Duc's tomb, so the eleven of us on the boat (2 Japanese, 5 Germans, one Aussie, and three Americans) had to run for cover in the pine trees. Overall though the weather was nice – translation: no downpour – and good for photography.

Then I came back to my hotel, took a 30-minute power nap, and went back out to go shopping at silk stores. I had a great light dinner at an Indian restaurant around the corner from my hotel. I had homemade tomato soup with some wonderful, subtle spices, and a drizzle of cream on top. As someone close to me would say, "I wanted to pour it all over me and then lick it off." Names will be withheld to protect the
innocent. Or not so innocent. I also had two lamb samosas on the side. As I was coming back to the hotel (all of 200 meters), I stopped at the boulangerie on the main floor and bought a tarte au citron! (Mom, you can scoop your mouth off the floor.) I could have eaten three. Hundred.

And here I find myself, propped up on my bed, banging out this blog. Outside I can hear just about everything. A shout from someone across the street. The two-beat honk of every single moto that speeds by. The squeaking brakes of veteran bicycles. Food peddlers shouting one-liners as they walk or drive by.

I hope that I will be able to find an internet café in Hue that accepts floppies. Or else this sucker will just have to be posted on Monday in Dong Ha.

More to come!

Cheerio -- BLS

Intro 101

2004-12-04T14:20:00.000+07:00

I promised you this was coming.

WARNING: For the following readers who are squeamish about creep-crawly, stingy, furry, and/or slimy creatures, may I strongly suggest you move on to the next blog. This is not for the faint of heart.

Get in, sit down, shut up, and hold on: here comes the Zoology Lesson 101 of Brita’s Living Quarters.

For your reading ease, I have divided this into categories. Ants; Moths; Geckos; Bees; Cockroaches; Dogs; and Chickens.

Ants: There are many different kinds of ants. How many? I don’t know. I have grouped them according to size, which seems to my untrained ant eye to be the most logical segregation.

Dwarf ants: these little suckers like computers and the insides of computer keyboards. They also really like candy bar wrappers. Purpose: general annoyance. They are good targets for quick annihilation by a thumb.
Average Ants: these are the floor foragers. They travel in squads of 10 – 20,000. These ones are the permanent residents of the Ant Commune, aka the kitchen.
Big Ants: these ones like to go for a lethal swim in Tonic Water cans. I learned the hard way to always check your can before you pick it up again to take a drink.
Ants You Wouldn’t Want To Meet In A Dark Alley: Purpose: instill fear in foreigners. These ants can sit on their last thorax and clean their fingernails with a toothpick, if needed. They are that big. There is one on my windowsill right now: his feelers are like little flagstaffs, twisting this way and that way. I can see him staring at me, sizing me up, thinking, Holy stinking fish heads, that girl is white. Then he’s going to run off and tell his squad to come investigate my luggage.

Moths. These suckers (word of choice for annoying insects) have 5-inch wingspans. They are actually quite attractive. The biggest ones I have seen have black, white, and orange spots. If they are in the office or in my room, they are unfortunately dead 24 hours later, displaying their legs and underbellies on the stairs, rigor mortis already in full effect.

Geckos: Your next best friend. They are colorful, moving wall hangings and permanent fixtures on the ceiling of my bathroom. They come in through the electrical outlets or fan vents. Everyone is telling me that they are uber useful – and keep the insect population down. Gecko eggs look like tiny white oblong marbles. I haven’t seen them eat any moths yet, but apparently it’s quite a sight, with wings and feelers sticking out of their mouths until they can swallow the whole moth.

Bees: The first time I saw a Vietnamese bee, I though it was a furry flying hamster. Seriously. Anyone who has ever had a Teddy-Bear hamster knows that there are a ton of different colors, and that more often than not, Teddy-Bears are one solid color with a second color band going right around their middle. Tan with a white band, for instance. Gray with a white band. Well, Vietnamese bees are black with an orange band. They had their national Bee Pride day on Halloween. And these bees have hair. Hair as in hair that is similar to fuzzy caterpillar hair. But longer. And scarier, because somewhere in there is a stinger that will numb your right arm from fingers to shoulder -- these bees can reach two inches long, not including feelers. And to make matters worse, we have a beehive that resembles a granny sack bag right above the main entrance of CPI, in the rubber tree. It moves, writhes, sways, and threatens to fall any day now. And when it does, I hope that I am NOT in Dong Ha.

Cockroaches: Total sightings: three. One on the streets of Hue, one next to my face lotion in my room (gross – that one met a timely death with my hiking boot), and one inside the CPI truck, at my feet in the front seat. I asked to switch seats with Chi, who was sitting in the back, but he laughed and said that I needed to meet the cockroach. This is what I will be dealing with everyday for the next 3 months.

Dogs: I’ve seen two inside the compound. A couple, apparently, who have had 4 litters already. They’re black (once upon a time) miniature versions of the akita, who stand at about knee-height. The male has widespread male-patterned baldness over his hind haunches – I wonder how he ever gets any.

Chickens: We have two cocks who are stand-ins for my alarm clock. They crow at 7am, 11am (the lunch bell, of course), 1pm, and around 5pm. Obviously they didn’t get the inter-farm memo regarding proper crowing hours. There are also a bunch of cute little chicks that run around, avoiding dogs and the bigger birds in the pecking order. Ha! The hens just mill about, doing nothing really of any importance besides roosting on the backs of the motos and teasing the dogs with juicy thoughts of a nice chicken lunch (which has happened before -- see above male dog).

Love from VN, surrounded by every creature great and small -- BLS

My two-wheeled hooptie...

2004-12-02T18:53:00.000+07:00

Yes folks, I have arrived...

...on my VERY OWN MOPED!!!!!

More to come. I am so excited I think I just might ride around town in the rain all night...

Angels in Da Nang

2004-12-01T20:48:00.000+07:00

Well, who really knows when this blog will be posted since our internet problems are so bad. But I'll write it and save it to disk so that when I CAN send email and post things, I'll have it all ready.

I have a backlog of blogs to write... So I'll start with the most dated -- one whole week ago! I am ashamed.

Last week on Wednesday, when Hugh, Duc, and I drove the three hours south to Da Nang for our overnight and "Thanksgiving Party," we had the opportunity and the time to stop at the Da Nang Orthopedic and Rehabilitation Center (DNORC). The DNORC is one of CPI's primary hospitals to which we send our beneficiaries in need of a prosthetic arm or leg and those in need of structured, affordable, and reliable physical therapy.

I had the opportunity to meet several of the doctors and staff members at DNORC, most notably Dr. Thanh, a young and skilled prosthetic surgeon who has performed small miracles on a number of CPI beneficiaries. We all walked through the humid air in the hallways of the main branch of the hospital and came to the largest room devoted to PT at DNORC. The brown tiled floor was clean and free of dirt, and large pieces of PT equipment were placed in various locations around the room. In one corner, a huddle of men and women of various ages sat in a semi-circle. Each of them wore a prosthetic leg, some wore two. They were all wearing shorts or pants that had been rolled up, so there was no guessing just how high or low their amputation was. They all turned to stare fixedly at the two tall, light-skinned Westerners accompanying Dr. Thanh into the room. We headed into the back right corner of the room, where there were several stationary bicycling machines (I can't think anymore in English -- if that is the right word, fabulous). The two occupied machines were working the legs, calves, knees, and thighs of two women -- one significantly older with long, graying hair pulled back low on her neck. She was pedaling slowly and deliberately, with obvious concentration on her face as her weakened muscles eased each pedal through a complete rotation. There was another physician behind her, steadying her hips so that she didn't tumble off the machine. On the machine over was a young woman wearing a peach-colored top and pants, pedaling at the same speed as the older woman. She had brown skin with straight, jet-black hair and short bangs covering her forehead. I recognized her from the pictures I'd seen at the office. This was Ha.

If CPI could have a poster child, it just might be Ha.

At the age of 12, Ha and her mother were farming near their house in Le Thuy district, Quang Binh province (the province north of ours, Quang Tri). No one has been able to reconstruct what actually happened that day, but the story that the scars and the trauma tell is that a white phosphorous bomb on the family land detonated in front of Ha and her mother. Both women survived, but the physical injuries were terrifying. Ha's mother suffered burns on her face, hands, arms, and chest. The skin on Ha's young legs was burned off and her muscles underneath severely injured. The rudimentary health care that the family received did nothing but ensure infection didn't invade their burns. The top of Ha's left foot eventually fused to the front of her left shin, forcing Ha to give up walking upright on two feet. As she learned to walk on her knees, her leg muscles and tendons atrophied quickly with misuse. Because of the abnormal stress and weight, her knee joints also deteriorated, Dr. Thanh explained to me, warping the natural hinge shape of the joint and erasing any cartilage at the ends of her young bones. To her credit, she could actually get around quite well on her knees.

Her mother died six years after the accident, while giving birth to one of Ha's siblings. Not long after the death of their mother, their father died of a complicated illness, and the eight children became orphans.

During the summer of 2002, Ha’s name appeared on a list of children previously injured by UXO or landmines in Quang Binh province. These children were officially eligible for participation in one of CPI's Medical Assessments. The assessment was conducted in Dong Hoi on October 27th, 2002. The children attending the afternoon session were provided lunch, but Ha refused to eat it -- she wanted to save it for brothers and sisters at home.

Ha had been taking care of her 4 younger siblings, on her knees, since the death of her parents.

Ha was selected as one of the 15 children that could be provided life-altering services on behalf of CPI. When CPI conducted the first visit to Ha’s home in June of 2003, our staff discovered that the family was living considerably below the poverty line, as Ha's mobility was so severely limited, and could do very little farming. A CPI family stabilization grant was provided to support Ha’s siblings while she left for treatment. I've seen the pictures of the new cement house; it is the Ritz Carlton compared to the stick, mud, and fronds structure they were previously living in.

In August 2003, Ha was transported to the DNORC for her final assessment. The physicians sent her to DaNang General Hospital for a series of four different operations on her legs and feet. It was, and has been, a long and painful process, as each operation lengthened the atrophied tendons and muscles in her folded legs, separated her foot from her shin, and reconstructed the bone structure in her foot and of her knee joints. Ha’s first three operations at Da Nang General went very well, and she was transferred back to DNORC for therapy. At the age of 22, on this stint at DNORC, she told her doctors that she didn't want to go home until she could walk on her own -- without crutches.

And here she was, right in front of me.

I felt like I was meeting a celebrity.

Dr. Thanh motioned to Ha, and she slowly climbed off the machine. She grabbed two crutches and made her way over to us. Her walk was disjointed and jerky, with uneven weight distribution on her feet and on her crutches. Her face seemed to open up with each step she took towards us -- her eyes brightened and a thousand-watt smile appeared. Dr. Thanh said something to her in Vietnamese, and her smile got even wider.

She took her crutches, laid them on the nearest machine, and looked out at the floor in front of her.

One step at a time, she moved out from us, on her own, and after about 12 steps, turned around and walked back towards us. It was clear that there was still a lot of work to be done, and a lot of physical therapy to work through. Her optimism and confidence was contagious -- and I smiled. Knowing her full story though, brought tears to my eyes. I turned around for a quick moment and took a deep breath. Turning back to Ha and her surgeon, I knew I was witnessing just one of the many CPI miracles.

Ha paused, took a rocky step towards me, took my hand gently in both of hers, looked in my eyes, and in quiet Vietnamese...

"Thank you."

*This* is why I am here.

Holed up in an Internet cafe

2004-12-01T18:47:00.000+07:00

It is not a good sign when two "pros" at computers, networking, etc. come to the office for 4 hours and the internet is still down, 4 hours later.

Maybe I am an email addict. Quite possible. Maybe I am just used to American connectivity 24/7.

What's worse -- I have a great long blog that I wrote at the office today, saved to a floppy, and now I learn that the internet cafes don't let you use floppies because they're worried you will bring viruses into their systems. I tell you, viruses are the least of the computer problems around here.

The good news though is that they are playing Backstreet Boys here at the cafe. Go boy bands.

Ok, the cafe guy just came over and said that he would extract my floppy from the empty disk drive (ok, ok, so even though they said not to use them, I thought I would try. Too bad there's an empty gaping black hole behind the faceplate of the floppy drive. I'm sure they're filming me too, laughing in the back room, going, Hey, Look at that dumb american! Another one fell for it!!) and that I can use the front computer to upload my blog. We will see what happens.

I think I am developing a tick. Not a blood-sucking one. It makes my right hand start groping for a phantom mouse. Funnily enough, it only happens when the internet is down at the office.

Remember when I said that this week I would start trying to take a nap after lunch? Hmm. Not so much. I've gotten this bee in my bonnet to go running every day at lunch time. So far, so good. I've found that I sleep much better. It's almost like running circles in a Swedish sauna -- that's how much I sweat. And that is before I make it through my five minute powerwalk warm-up. I get home and peel my clothes off of me, step around the puddles of sweat that have already pooled on the floor, and throw my clothes into the washer for a 3-pointer. My housekeeper hates me.

What else... Yesterday Hugh, Chi, Duc, and I drove up to Le Thuy district and visited a children's center we have supplied equipment for: The center is for children that are mentally or physically disabled, and who require special care. CPI has provided the physical rehabilitation equipment. I took lots of great pictures of the kids and I -- they will be up as soon as humanly possible. We were also treated to dinner by our working partners up there -- CPFC -- the Committee for Population, Family, and Community. I had some absolutely fantastic baby deer with ginger, green chilies, starfruit, cilantro, and sesame seeds. Wow.

Ok, I am going to go bat my blue eyes at this guy and see if I can really use that front computer to upload my blog. More to come... Keep your fingers crossed.

Cheers -
BLS

Move over, sliced bread...

2004-11-28T22:17:00.000+07:00

I just discovered possibly one of the coolest things on earth.

Those bananas I talked about buying at the market in the earlier blog?

Oh. My. Gosh. Someone call CNN.

I can see it now: "Banana Bites" takes over fruit market niche in North America!

These bananas are...perfect. They are the most wonderful, sweetest flavor I have ever tasted in a banana. And, as anyone who *really* knows me can attest to, I have an obsession with small things in small packages and small compartments (can anyone say, airplane food?) these bananas are 3-4 inches long and can be finished in three bites. THREE BITES!

They are like Pocket Bananas!

Mini-Me Bananas!

Little People Bananas!

I have found my newest obsession. These bananas have bumped off the throne last week's personal obsession:

Water Buffaloes.

I want one.

Working with the best VN team in Central VN

2004-11-28T13:36:00.001+07:00

I’ve been meaning to write this blog since day one... It is my great pleasure introduce you to the rest of the team here at the CPI VN office...

Before I left to come to VN, person after person told me that the VN staff for CPI were possibly the most hard working, honest, enjoyable, fun, and dedicated team to be working for any NGO in central VN.

They were right.

I am amazed at the depth of knowledge that this team collectively possesses, and at how seamlessly they apply that knowledge to day-to-day activities. Each and every one of them speaks English, all with varying degrees of fluency. To my own personal delight, I have picked up quite a bit of Vietnamese, but it seems almost unnecessary given the linguistic strengths of the rest of my team.

There are five full-time staff members for the CPIVN office. We all work side-by-side, Monday – Friday, and sometimes on Saturdays.

In no particular order...

Le Thi Yen Nhi is one of our Project Officers. When reading a Vietnamese name, the family name is written first, and the given name last. So for all of these names that you will see, the last name is the person’s “first” name... Nhi is two days younger than yours truly. She is married to a charming young man named Vu, whom I met at dinner last Monday night. Nhi is the staff member I went with to Dong Ha General Hospital last week to visit two of our beneficiaries. With our staff restructuring going on right now, her new responsibilities are concentrated within a district called Vinh Linh. Within this district, she is responsible for household grants, scholarships, income-generating activities, and post-trauma medical support. In addition, she supervises CPI’s Outreach Team, a small handful of individuals once beneficiaries of CPI support that now perform household assessments and interact directly with new UXO/landmine victims in the Vinh Linh district.

Tran Duc is 32, married, with a 10-year old son. Duc is our Logistics Coordinator. He is also my cop, my driver, my bodyguard, my visa-procurer, my moto-permit approver, and my market bargainer. I found out that Duc used to be the driver for the Head of the Dept of Foreign Affairs.

Duc has connections. He knows the police and anyone that has ever talked to the police.

Duc is someone you don’t mess with and you don’t piss off. At the same time, he is probably the most charming VN guy I have met here.

Tran Hong Chi is the Project Coordinator for CPIVN. Chi is 31, married, and has two adorable sons that have taken an immediate interest in the color of my hair. He is responsible, like Nhi, for a district called Le Thuy, but in the province north of us – Quang Binh. (We’re in the Quang Tri province, the southern province of the DMZ – Quang Binh is the northern province of the DMZ.) His responsibilities are similar to those of Nhi. Chi is one of the most fluent staff members – he speaks slowly and deliberately with well-chosen words to express himself. He also has an incredibly dry sense of humor... See below.

Tran Thi Thanh Toan is our admin coordinator, and in not-so-many words, the office Head Honcho. The Big Kahuna. Toan is in her late twenties, I would guess, and as far as I know, is single. She is a new addition to CPI, as she joined the team late this summer. Toan has studied and worked abroad, and has also been a professional translator. Her English is also nearly perfect. I also learned on Friday night that she has a phenomenal singing voice and will sing any karaoke song on the screen in front of her.

Phan Thi Ai Phuong is our Accountant/Finance officer for the office, in addition to being responsible for responding to new accidents. Phuong is 26, married, and has a 9-month old baby boy. She is the most soft-spoken of all the staff, but has an extremely calming way of dealing with me and my rapid-fire questions. She is extremely honest (a rare quality for a Vietnamese accountant) and as such, having her as our Finance guru is a priceless asset.

Hugh Hosman is our current In-Country Director. Hugh is American and just married a Vietnamese woman in Hue. Hugh will be moving to a strictly consultant role after Dec 15th and yours truly will be the full-time expat in the office.

Vietnamese are very friendly, smiling, affectionate people. The staff in the office are no exception. They tease and make fun of each other, always with a smile on their face. Hugh explained to me privately in our office (Hugh’s and my office is upstairs in another room) that once the staff start to slap my rear, hang their arms around my shoulders, and whack me on the back, I will have “arrived.”

I quietly rejoiced on Tuesday, after 24 hours of working with these people, when Nhi started poking me in the ribs, Toan sat herself on my lap in the middle of a meeting, and Duc started calling me his second wife.

We all went out for dinner on Monday night to a local restaurant. Chi was sitting on my left. When the food had been served, and we had all had a couple drinks, Chi nudged me. He turned back to his food, and bent over his bowl with his chopsticks. He pulled out a long green onion, and held it at eye-height above his bowl. He looked at me, then at the onion, then back to me. Completely straight-faced, he says quietly and slowly...

“This...is traditional Vietnamese viagra.”

I almost choked on my rice I was laughing so hard.

On Friday night, the staff invited me to come out to karaoke with them. Hugh was stuck in Hue because of flooding, so it was just me and my five cohorts. Now as most of you know, I am musically disinclined. I sing in the shower, maybe, and only if the acoustics aren’t bad.

I am proud to say that I sang five songs! Toan took the video camera to prove it. I figured that I needed to put some time in with the mic if I was to be accepted by the staff. They are ALL amazing vocalists. It was clear that they all do this often. Even Chi’s sons scored in the 90’s on the machine....

One more thought before I go... The Department of Foreign Affairs (DoFA) wants me to do some translation work for them! Does that mean that I am collaborating with the Communists? Mr. Mai, the man who gave me official permission to enter this country in the first place, shared with me that his office has a lot of translation work and that someone in my position with my schooling would be a great asset to DoFA. Sign me up, I said. More on that later.

Ok, I have to go get ready for the wedding now.

Cheerio -- BLS

Weekend ramblings

2004-11-28T12:24:00.000+07:00

Today is Sunday, November 28, 2004. It’s my first full Sunday in the office, and I slept in, much to my surprise, to 9:30. I have been continuously waking up on my own at about 6:00am, well before my 6:45am alarm is set to go off. Work hours at the CPI VN office at from 7:30am to 5pm, with an oh-so-wonderfully-French lunch break from 11am – 1pm. Well, it’s not really French, I guess – Spain does it too, and many other countries, I’m sure. I just like to claim that it’s French. I’m biased, what can I say? I usually spend half that time eating the wonderful food that Ms. Tam makes me for lunch, and then the other remaining hour either reading, cleaning my room, working, or figuring out other ways to entertain myself. I haven’t yet taken that last hour to snooze, like most VN do... Maybe I’ll start on that next week.

This weekend has been interesting. It’s been nice to have some alone time, since I have been with people 24/7 for the last 6 days, including all my meals. Sheesh. Yesterday I really didn’t do much of anything – cleaned my room, put laundry away, wrote some emails, read some of my books on demining and Vietnamese history. When I got up yesterday, and wandered downstairs into the office space (I’ll get to a more detailed description of the office later on), I realized, much to my dismay, that I didn’t have any food since Ms. Tam buys all of my food at the market each day.

So I set to work foraging around my kitchen, which also doubles by night as an ant commune. I had bought some tea in Da Nang, so I boiled some water and made myself a cup of tea. Most of the spices, salt, pepper, cornstarch, etc, are in unmarked plastic containers in the kitchen, and I’m sure Ms. Tam knows them all by heart. But to an outsider, they all look the same. I had to carefully taste at least 3 mysterious white substances, hoping to god that they weren’t cleaning agents, before I located the sugar for my tea. Next on the agenda? Food.

So I rooted around in the fridge, and found some green onions and three mysterious eggs. They were definitely not chicken eggs. But I ate them anyways. I found a couple drops of mystery oil (I made sure first that it wasn’t fish oil by smelling it first -- and good thing I did, because the first bottle I picked up WAS fish oil) and sautéed the green onions. Then beat two of the eggs with a little milk I found. I added some soy sauce for flavor (since the other things in mystery containers were....well....mystery substances) and made a little simple omelette. The cooking surface is basically the equivalent of a whoop-dee-doo camping stove. Everyone's house has the same thing in VN. No oven, confound it. So I fussed around with the stove for about 5 minutes, hoping to not light my hair on fire, while I figured out what was what and where the gas valve was.

So these eggs -- really weird. Maybe they were duck eggs. They were the same shape and size of chicken eggs, but the shells were a light gray, and the shells were harder than any chicken egg I have ever cracked. I think I could have dropped them on the floor and they wouldn't have broken. So I whacked them against the side of the metal sink and they finally cracked. Maybe they were dinosaur eggs. You never know around these parts. They tasted fine, though. I’m still alive today!

Fast forward to 4pm. After having worked most of the afternoon, and since dinner-time was rapidly approaching, I needed to find some more food. If you’re wondering why I didn’t just get off my butt and walk to the store or the market – well, there are a couple reasons for that. My means of transportation right now is rather limited since I have to get a moto permit before I can drive my trusty CPI moped. The office is located a good mile or two from the market, and in monsoon weather, those two miles can seem like 10. So that said, I called Duc, my driver, for some help. He came and picked me up and we went together to Dong Ha’s market. Given the time and the weather, the market was in the midst of closing up early once we arrived. So we ran around in the rain, getting a couple things that I could use to cook with for the rest of the day and today as well. I got some carrots, a big block of tofu, some tomatoes, three mini-baguettes, three satsumas, and a huge bag of tiny bananas.

(Parentheses: Who knew that there were so many kinds of bananas??? All I get at home are the Chiquita brand. At the market yesterday, I think I saw 8 or 9 different kinds of bananas. Various sizes, shapes, colors... Wow. So I went out on a limb and bought a block of bananas – really, truly, a block – they were all attached to the circular round of TREE TRUNK they grow on. The bananas are a very pretty pale yellow and are about the length of my pointer finger. I haven’t tried them for flavor. But they look pretty darn good. End of parentheses.)

Duc dropped me off at home and we made arrangements for him to come get me today at 2pm to go to Hue. I’ve been invited to go to a Vietnamese wedding!!! Our database designer for CPI is based in Hue, and following a meeting with him last week, he invited me to come to his wedding reception. I’m thrilled! It’s at 4:30 this afternoon. I hope that we can actually *make it* to Hue, since the last report I heard was that the roads between Dong Ha and Hue were flooded and impassable. TBD.

More to come!

-- BLS

Thanksgiving in a Land With No Turkeys

2004-11-25T20:30:00.000+07:00

Ok, I am going to be totally honest here.

Today was awful.

I miss my Mom. I miss my Dad. I miss my brother. I miss Nanna. I miss everything about Thanksgiving at the Stevenson household. This is my fourth (am I right, Mom?) Thanksgiving *not* spent with my family. The first was in college, the second was during my first year in Paris, and the third was last year -- also in Paris. But for each of those times, I managed to find all the necessary trimmings to make a proper American Thanksgiving feast. No, wait, I take that back -- the first year in Paris, I bought six whole chickens to feed 15 people, no Tom the Turkey. That was a kick -- cooking six of those suckers in an oven the size of a microwave. I also managed to find many Americans (and often times many Europeans) with which to share this wonderful holiday.

But to spend the actual Thanksgiving evening BY YOURSELF, in a MONSOON, in VIETNAM -- sucks. Yeah, yeah, I know, it's all part of the experience. But screw that optimistic, overly-positive outlook for one day.

I did have the opportunity to go yesterday to Da Nang, three hours south of Dong Ha, to go to a "Thanksgiving party" (in quotes because there is no WAY that that thing could have been called a REAL Thanksgiving party) put on by another large NGO in the area. Ninety-five percent of the staff of this American-based NGO (like how I am avoiding its name?) in Viet Nam are, well, Vietnamese. Cool beans. But not for a Thanksgiving party. I want Americans. How awfully nationalistic does that sound? I am almost embarrassed. But not really. There were, MAYBE, four other Americans at this party of 60-70 people.

I think of my family, my friends, and every other wonderful reason I have to be thankful today.

I am thankful that I have a healthy, loving family.
I am thankful that I have healthy, loving friends who write me from every corner of the world.
I am thankful that there are people out there that I can email one sentence to -- I LOVE YOU REF -- and have them understand with so few words how I feel about them.
I am thankful that I have two legs and two arms, all my fingers and toes, and am healthy myself.
I am thankful, that even though I'm sure this email sounds like a rant, that I am here in this little office and can have this opportunity, yes, of a lifetime, to change the lives of people that are less fortunate than myself. Thank you MH and JH for making it happen -- you guys rule.
I am thankful that I had food in my stomach tonight. There are people living a kilometer away from me that will undoubtedly go to bed hungry tonight.

Wow. There's nothing like a little writing to make you feel better, and to make you realize, on a day like today, just how lucky you and I are...

Happy Thanksgiving to all, no matter where you are in this small world.

And to Maman, Dadoo, and Daneoo -- I still miss you.

Love, BLS

A quickie

2004-11-23T10:30:00.000+07:00

Ok, here we go.

We are having some major internet issues here at the VN office, so I have been going slightly batty without access to email and my trusty blog. We have one computer up, among 7, that has email, so I have to be quick...

To Come:

An Introductory Lesson on The Zoology of the CPI VN office
How Many Bugs and Animals Brita Showers With
A Detailed Description of My Living Quarters
Working With The Best VN Staff in Central VN

"In a nutshell" is nearly impossible to do for the past 48 hours here at the office. I was slightly overwhelmed the first day... Living with bugs, ants, geckos, etc, was *not* one of the facts I was prepped about. :) Hey, it's all part of the experience! It's like camping...in the house.... You shake out your slippers before putting them on, hoping to dislodge any critters who may have taken up residence during the night. You shake out your clothes before you put them on, to tell the mosquitos that they can get the heck out of dodge. I am a huge fan of sleeping under my mosquito net -- kind of like a little princess palace under there.

No GI issues yet -- wahoo! My cook, Ms. Tam, seems to have all this stuff down pat, and my first meal with her was fabulous... I could write blog after blog just about the food I have seen and eaten. I am still not trusting the water I brush my teeth with, so I rinse and spit with bottled water. Seem like a waste? Not when you're talking about the health of your body...

I have met a large handful of characters in this real-life movie I'm living... Germans, Fins, Brits, Aussies, French, the list goes on. Another blog!

I hadn't been here less than 48 hours when we got a phone call telling us a new UXO injury had been reported in the province just north of us... We were having a staff meeting and the phone rang... Nhi answered, and was on the phone for about 10 minutes. She got off, looked at us all and said, "New accident." If I had had a mirror, I think I would have seen the color drain from my face. New mine/UXO accidents are reported to our office in VN at least once a week here, I've been told. I felt like I was experiencing my own show of "Developing Country ER" -- who do we call? How fast? Do we need to go? The accident occurred in a region that is covered by another NGO, so we had to make some phone calls and see what their response had been, if any, to the accident. We've been told that they are "working with the government" to help the 12-year old and 5-year old who were injured by an exploding UXO. More on that later.

I went to the Quang Tri General Hospital Today with Nhi to visit two survivors we've been assisting for about a week. One man, in his fifties, received superficial injuries to his forehead, arms, legs, feet, ankles, and genitalia, when *something* his hoe caught while farming, exploded in front of him. *Deep breath.* His wife had been farming with him and had gone inside the house to prepare lunch when she heard the explosion. Luckily she had gone in the house and isn't sitting by him in the hospital, in the next bed over. He has holes the size of golf balls in his inner thigh of his left leg -- I saw them myself as he undressed his wounds in front of me. His left ankle is so swollen from the lower injuries that he cannot flex his foot.

The second beneficiary we visited was a man who had been injured by a UXO accident in the mid-seventies and had lost an eye in the accident. He decided recently to request financial assistance from CPI for the cost of eye surgery and the insertion of a artificial eyeball. He was wearing a thick bandage over his eye when we arrived at his room -- he had just had surgery to prepare for his new eyeball. We talked with him for a few minutes about his stay at the hospital and how he was feeling. He has 4 children, all of whom are still in school. These four children will be recipients of CPI Scholarships in order to ensure they can still stay in school while their father is in the hospital.

Ok, I feel the natives getting restless... I need to get off this machine!

I will write more when this internet issue is fixed. Hopefully sooner rather than later! In the meantime, please feel free to add comments to the trusty Brita Blog.

Love from VN - Brita

What I am learning

2004-11-20T10:41:00.000+07:00

In no particular order...

- The dogs here have a hunted look about them. ... Oh wait, they are!
- In order to cross the street in VN, you have to surrender all rational guidelines governing traffic and pedestrians. You just... go.
- Having ants on the table while you eat is okay.
- Always have paper and pen handy when bargaining over prices.
- VN uses the same electrical outlets as France!
- When biking in VN, and attempting to cross an intersection, close your eyes and pray.
- Chopsticks are more fun to use than forks.
- Fresh fruit shakes are one of the best things to have when starting the day.
- A smile from a young Vietnamese can melt your heart.
- Tourist traps are the same anywhere in the world, no matter where you go.
- Any lunch costing you more than $1 is overpriced.
- You cannot count to "2" without hearing a horn in the street.
- Finding hair in your food is just another source of protein.

Let's try this again...

2004-11-19T11:04:00.001+07:00

Nothing really upsets me more than when a computer crashes, dies, or gets accidentally turned off with the toe of a shoe while spending an HOUR typing a new blog. Mmm hmm. Here we go again.

All right! I'm in Hue now, after spending the last 4 days in Ha Noi. It's muggy with a capital "M" here -- two days ago, the city's main streets were flooded from heavy rains. And this is apparently a consistently recurring phenomenon. So you just go with the flow. Ha!

Nhi and I arrived here last night at about 7:30 after taking a prop plane with Viet Nam Airlines to the city. *Brita shudders in her seat.* In Ha Noi, we were shuttled out to the tarmac to our waiting plane. The plane was hanging out right next to a snazzy blue 747, also belonging to VN Airlines. As our shuttle comes out, I'm thinking, oh, hey, cool, this flight is going to be great! Our shuttle turns (ok, I just hav to say that the "e" key on this keyboard requires three punches to appear on the scren, so if words start appearing without thir "e"'s, it's because I'm in a time crunch) left and gos right past th nice, big, shiny blue plane and continues on to a white, unmarked prop plane. "Exit left" Brita's stomach. So we get on the plane, which is a type of plane that I have never heard of, and settle in to our seats. I think 96% of the passengers were a French tour group, so that was fun for me. Nhi could do nothig but roll her eyes.

Once we're all buckled in and our bags are carefully stowed in the gnome-size overhead compartments (ok, I just have to say also that being 5'10" in a country whose citizens' average height is 5'3" is challenging, to say the least. My toes hang off the bed. My head grazes the ceiling in the buses. I can see for miles over everyone's head when I am walking on the street. I have to bend my knees in the shower if I want to get anything above my shoulders wet. And at times I feel like a monkey in a cage; a tall blonde with white skin walking down the street is something to look at...), the plane lurches off at a dizzying speed. And we're not even on the runway yet. OUr pilot takes corners like Mario Andretti. I think we were on one of those roads you see on TV where the cute littl sportscar hugs th curves above the cliffs falling to blue water below. We get to the runway and th pilot floors it. Really. Plastered to the back of my seat. After 30 seconds of experiencing G-Forces, the plane leaps into the air like an Olympic high-jumper. "Exit right" Brita's stomach. The rest of the hour and a half flight was uneventful, that is, until we got to Hue's runway. We're taxing in, and the whole time I'm looking out the window over Nhi's lap... "Hey Nhi, is the airport in Hue close to a lake? Because I think I see boats. At least, all the lights I see are reflecting on the water of the lake." "A lake? No, it's not near a lake." She laughs.

No, Brita, that lake is the landing field.

We come in at Mach 2, and by this time I am silently and furiously chanting "I want to live, I want to live." The plane lands with such a force that the Frenchies emit a shriek in unison, and I lurch to grab on to the seat in front of me. The plane bobbles to the left, then decides to not cash in on our collective life insurance policies, and settles down on all wheels and continues forward at Mach 1. Pulse check? Definitely in the anaerobic range.

I glance out the window again and notice the Texas-sized puddles on the runway. One might even call them kiddy pools. We come to a halt, somewhere on the tarmac, and th plane suddenly loses all power -- lights go out, ceases to move. Game over. Apparently operating Vietnamese airplanes in expensive. So our shuttle comes to get us, out in the rice paddies, and we are taken to th baggage claim to get our bags.

The adventure continues.

And, amidst it all, I can say with absolute certainty that I love it here. Foodies, be warned. I thought that I had eaten some crazy things... Nhi and I were talking one night in Ha Noi about foods. She asked about som of th crazy things that I had eaten. I rattle off "escargots, liver, cow brains, blood sausage, etc." (Vive la France!) She looks at me and rattles off "chicken heads, rat meat, silkworms, snake, etc." That shut me up.

Ok this "e" key is really starting to bothr me. And I have to hoof it over to the Forbidden City to start my adventures in Hue. For all of you who have been hounding me to gt my picturs up, just be patient. I will gt them all up once I am in Dong Ha, since they are on my laptop and thre is no ethernet connection at th hotel. I have takn some great ones! I hope you all like them.

Just a quick note: yesterday, my last day in Ha Noi, I went to th Tmple of Literature, a succession of five walled courtyards ad pagodas, designed aftre the birthplace of Confucius, Qufu. Wow. I hope th pictures I took do th gardens some justice.

Ok, ok, I'm really going now. Write me when you get a chance!

bisous - Brita

Glimpses of my new life

2004-11-17T10:33:00.000+07:00

Good morning, Viet Nam!

I have ARRIVED... After two comfortable flights across the Pacific and then from Taipei to Ha Noi, the American has arrived. As James aptly put it, Welcome Home, Brita!

Flying in deluxe class was like being in another world! We were in a Boeing 747-400, so the plane was an absolute behemoth. I seriously questioned its abilty to get off the ground. There were stairs in the plane (truly a full flight of stairs) going up to first class, above all of us down in the slave galley. I had a down pillow, TONS of leg room, at least another 6 -8 inches of width in my seat, my own little TV screen (on which I watched the Manchurian Candidate), wacky Chinese food (something called a Thousand Year Old Egg that I wouldn't touch again with a 50 foot pole), fresh fruit all the time, fun little bags of toiletries, menus, fresh fruit juices.... It ws great! I slept for SEVEN hours on the plane from Seattle to Taipei. I was so surprised when I woke up and realized oh, hey, I'm EIGHT hours into my 12 hour flight. So I watched some movies, had some food, worried about making my flight in Taipei, etc. Any plans I had for making the rounds in the duty-free shops in Taipei were dashed on the rocks, needless to say; I had 16 minutes to deplane, find the right gate, GET to the gate (which involved taking a shuttle, let me point out), and get on the plane before the gates closed. I was the last passenger on the plane... I had visions of me running on the tarmac, arms waving, yelling, "Hold the plane!!!!! I have to get to Ha Noi!!!" Luckily such antics were unnecessary.

I am having an amazing time here. It's so wonderfully different. Yesterday I went to the ubiquitous Metropole hotel, the Opera house (also French influenced -- I wiped a tear as I thought of Paris), the entire French quarter, and just walked around, eyes wide open, camera flashing. Nhi (another staff member of CPI) and I went to a silk-making village and we saw silk being made -- HOLY COW -- and shopped at like 9 different stores. Nhi bought some fabric and I bought a pistachio green silk scarf for $2. Holy cow. part deux. We took the bus back to Ha Noi (a 45 minute bus ride cost me $0.15), where I met with Toan, the consultant that Martha has hired to do some consulting for the office in Dong Ha. We met for about an hour and a half and we talked about his findings, his recommendations, and how I will fit in to their implementation. We went to a little cafe right around the corner from our hotel and had great coffee (I am surprised at how good it is here)... Then I went back to the hotel and got my third piece of luggage that had just been delivered from the airport, after having been delayed in Taipei for 24 hours (and it looks like it all arrived intact), got my digital camera software to try to install AGAIN -- I had serious issues with it at home -- and figured out how to do it, so I downloaded all my pics I had taken (my memory card was totally full!!) so now my camera is empty and ready for a new day. We lounged around the hotel for a while and then went out to dinner.

We took a taxi to the restaurant, and had some excellent food. We started off with clam soup -- the clams were no bigger than the nail of my pinky finger -- and onions and tomatoes, starfuit, and some spicy oil. Then we had some tasty roasted pork, sticky rice, cucumber and tomtato salad, sauteed pork pieces, and roasted chicken. YUM. Nhi and I talked about life in college, politics, religion, and food... She is such a fun woman to spend time with. Very smart and talented -- she has a lot of insight into american politics and world events and I could tell that she is passionate about working with CPI in VN too. We walked back to the hotel after dinner and went to bed after a Korean movie on the TV.

And now I am off to the Ethnology museum, then the some more museums to expand my mind.

More to come!

Cheers -
BLS

'Twas the night before...

2004-11-14T06:35:00.000+07:00

The countdown is on.

Eleven hours, 25 minutes and change until my flight leaves Seattle and heads over the Pacific for Taipei, Taiwan. I have a teeny window of time in which to change planes and then be on my way to Ha Noi, Viet Nam.

To say that I am excited for this new adventure would be like calling Bill Gates "well off." (No offense, Bill.)

I have yet to pack my bags. My room looks like a war zone with socks, belts, shoes, jeans, jackets, workout gear, blouses, presents, books, computer peripherals, and sweaters overtaking any remaining open floor space. I believe the term is "organized chaos."

Oh yes, let me introduce myself. My name is Brita Stevenson and I have been blessed with the opportunity to travel to and live in central Viet Nam for three months while working for Clear Path International. I am a graduate student at Sciences-Po in Paris, France, and this academic year is the second and last year of my Master's Degree program in International Relations. My time with Clear Path is counting as academic credit towards my degree -- and I am not arguing!

Allrightythen. I better get this packing thing started or else I will still be in Seattle tomorrow afternoon.

Wish me a safe flight, and I'll write more from Viet Nam!

BLS