Christmas in Mai Chau. The First Day.

The first of two three-day weekends, and we're itching to get out of town, so we booked an Expat Weekend Package at the Mai Chau Lodge. The village of Mai Chau is in the mountains about 75 miles from Hanoi. We were picked up Christmas morning in a Mercedes coach along with six other people and driven through Hanoi traffic (no holiday for the Vietnamese), then over twisting mountain roads by a graduate of Mr. Toad's Driving Academy (which is apparently very popular here). About three-and-a-half hours later we reached the serene little valley and its beautiful lodge.

Into the cloud-shrouded mountains.

The lodge itself.

The pool.

Our room.

After a fine lunch, we decided to explore.

A hammock beckoned.
That grin means Hanoi is far away.

Beautiful grounds.

The village itself was only a short walk away.

We saw many chickens.

The village women weave gorgeous fabrics reminiscent of those we loved in Guatemala.

O. made some new friends who were ready to follow her anywhere.

We also had a close encounter with a water buffalo.

After our walk, we napped. The beds were blissfully soft. Dinner was delicious, especially the traditional squid stuffed with minced pork, and the bartender made an excellent mojito.

All in all, a beautiful, tranquil Christmas day.

Next: Day 2. Hiking and biking through the rice paddies.

P.

Still Under Construction. Phase II

We thought it was over. Apparently there's more.

First, they drive bamboo pilings to stabilize the foundation.

Later, they will pour the concrete over the pilings.

Then brick over the concrete.

The rebar skeleton comes next.

It's a process. But they have to be done by the time the rainy season starts in March.

P.

A Sign of the Apocalypse?

It may signal the end of the world and all we hold dear, but it's so darn cute.

P.

Ba! Eryn's First Word Was "Grandma!"

We never realized quite how precocious Eryn was. Her first word--Ba!--which we all thought was so cute, turns out to mean grandmother in Vietnamese. So all those months that we thought E. was just babbling, she was actually trying to communicate with her beloved grandmother.

Ophelia Becoming a Cat Once More.

When I first met Ophelia, she was a cat. That is, I had a beloved cat growing up named Ophelia, so when I met O. I knew we were meant for each other. Well, O. has for years had a chronic pain in her right shoulder. She has tried many different treatments for it, but few have provided more than transitory relief. Lately the pain has gotten worse, so she went to a local acupuncture doctor to see what she could do. The doctor recommended an exotic treatment: she inserted 15-20 minute pieces of cat gut into various acupuncture points. This is supposed to attract chi to those points as the body attempts to expel the foreign material, promoting healing. We will see. But in the meantime, I've got my cat back. Meow.

P.

I Can Hear Numbers!

Our street survival Vietnamese is improving. We've learned how to direct taxi drivers: "Straight ahead. Left. Right. Stop here, etc." We know a lot of words for food and drink items. And we're getting pretty good with numbers, in fact I can usually now hear what numbers the vendors are saying when they quote a price to me. This is made easier by the fact that the Vietnamese numbering system is pretty simple: once you learn 0 to 10, hundred, thousand, and million you've pretty well got it. Everything is a combination of those basic words: so twenty-five is hai (two) muoi (ten) nam (five) and two hundred fifty thousand is hai (two) tram (hundred) nam (five) muoi (ten) nghin (thousand). The only exception is 15, which is lam instead of muoi nam. It helps that most pricing is in very round numbers: 5000, 10,000, 150,000. Of course, they can also just write it out or hold up their calculator or the correct bills, but it's fun to be able to use my words.

P.

Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Minh!

There are far more Christmas decorations about than I would have imagined. I was especially struck by this vaguely Ho-ish Santa. I mean the guy wears a red suit and his first name is an anagram of "Satan." You figure it out.

P.

Not Now, I'm On The Phone.

While O has sworn off xe om (motorbike taxi, literally "hug machine") I still embrace them. They're more convenient (door-to-door service), faster (mainly because you can go through tiny alleys and the wrong way down the many one-way streets), and a little bit cheaper (though not a whole lot) than the regular taxis.

The drawbacks, of course, are breathing more exhaust fumes, exposure to the heat or rain, and the risk factor. Until now, I haven't seen many accidents, so I felt okay about the risk factor, especially since the guy who usually drives me isn't a speed demon. Last week, however, he was sick and sent a substitute who I believe must have studied under Mr. Toad. He zipped in and out of traffic, not hesitating to use the sidewalk when the street was jammed (in fairness, this is a common practice, not pretty when you're on the receiving end as a pedestrian). He also knows all the back alleys, and so was able to avoid all the most crowded intersections, thus delivering me to my destination in about half the time. All this is attended by constant near misses and wild evasive maneuvers.

But you get used to the near misses, and really you're not usually going fast enough to do much real harm. For example, the other day we were walking around downtown when we heard a loud crash. We looked up and saw that two motorbikes had collided and their drivers were lying on the pavement entangled with their machines. We were initially concerned, but the two quickly got up, and we noticed that one was still talking on his cellphone (everyone does it here). He kept talking as he brushed himself off and righted his bike, pausing only to hurl a few brief imprecations at the other driver before driving off, still talking. Must have been an important call.

Or not. A whole different relationship with cellphones here: they come first, always. In meetings, in the classroom (you have to be firm with the students about talking and texting during class), in the middle of a conversation or sales transaction, at the movies (they tend to crank the sound way up to drown out the people talking on their cellphones), the mobile rules.

Another thing we're getting used to. Sort of.

P.

Loll Cat.

Though they fill our nights with the most ungodly howling at all hours, they're pretty cute during the day, if semi-feral and skittish.

"i can haz rid to amerkan cheezeburger?"

P.

No Exit?

The flurry of construction in our alley has reached new heights, or actually new depths. Now they are tearing up the whole front section of the alley itself to install new drain lines.

What lies beneath.

This has not only added greatly to the dust and filth level, but has completely blocked our closest access to the street.


At first we could squeeze through the blocks they put up, but then it became totally impassable.

We therefore have had to discover new outlets. So we have spent the last few days exploring parts of the maze of tiny alleys we live in and finding all sorts of interesting locales.

The area we live in was once a small walled village known for flower growing.

We have found several of the old gates.

Many old temples and lakes.

There are dozens of stores and street vendors selling everything from meat, vegetables, and fruit to plastic shoes. There are barbers and beauty salons and tailors.

In one shop we saw them making blocks of fresh tofu using an old wooden press.

Just about everything most families need is available right in their neighborhood, so most would never need to leave the maze except on rare occasions.

So far we have found at least five additional ways out. The way to the west eventually leads back to Doi Can, but the way is long and narrow and tortuous, with many places barely wide enough for a motorbike (which doesn't stop everybody from barreling through it at top speed when possible).

There's also a section that is always awash with foul-smelling water,
the source of which we prefer not to contemplate.
We are very glad that it's cool enough to wear close-toed shoes.

The way to the east is less daunting, but quite a bit longer.

No filthy water, but lots of obstacles like construction zones.

Vacant lots where everyone dumps their trash.

It eventually leads to the east end of Doi Can through this construction area we call the War Zone:

Turning north on this route leads us past the B-52 lake, or with a slight turn, almost directly to our favorite beer garden behind the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum.

There's at least one other route that runs north and west. It's actually reasonably clean and wide enough for a taxi almost all the way to the alley that leads to our alley. Altogether it has been a fascinating exploration, and there's still more to see. But we'll be glad to have our old access back.

P.

Punk Rock in Hanoi!

Tonight we were scheduled to meet our friends Justin and Jyoti to see an Australian/Vietnamese punk band called Offensive at Cuba Cafe, but O. was overtired and developed a splitting headache. Not the best way to appreciate punk. So I went to meet J&J by myself.

The club was small and crowded, packed with young Australian guys drinking copious amounts of beer and smoking continuously. Actually about a quarter of the crowd was Vietnamese, and probably a third of the Australians were gay. One guy pulled down his pants and mooned his mates (and everyone else). A perfect Hanoi punk rock crowd.

The sound system was terrible and the ventilation practically nonexistent. Perfect venue. Then the band started up. Check. Perfect choice of an opening song: the Ramones "Commando"--"From old Hanoi to East Berlin, Commando, involved again."

They did mostly Ramones and Clash covers, as well as a great version of the Stooges "I Wanna Be Your Dog." The singer was more than adequate and the drummer and guitarist were terrific.

We left partially deaf and mostly satisfied. My skin and clothes are saturated with cigarette smoke, so there's a shower in my future. And I'll probably have to burn my clothes. But it was worth it to hear punk as punk should be heard.

Tiny, hot, smoky, loud.

Justin and Jyoti (well, Justin) bemoaned the lack of a mosh pit.

I was just glad no one was spitting.

P.

A Chilling Portent.

Turns out the Obama disco was just the tip of the commie iceberg. Now that our eyes are open, we see signs of creeping socialism everywhere:

Several of the main thoroughfares sport lovely neon decorations, year-round. There are colorful Christmas lights and a cheery snowflake on one block, a beautiful, stylized peony on the next, then the hammer and sickle, then another snowflake. Kind of random, but cool.


Then there's this guy.
(Note the Vietnamized spelling.)

And the usual statues of sturdy, militant proles.

Just a preview of Obama's America, folks.

P.

The Buttocks of a Dog...And Beyond!

Well, another sign of winter here is that everyone's in the mood for dog meat. Apparently, because it's very rich, it's most popular in the cold months. Today as I was cruising along on the back of a motorbike, we went down dog meat street. Literally stacks of whole roasted dogs. Not a pretty sight to us, but there were lots of shoppers who seemed quite pleased.

My students tell me that dog, and to a lesser extent, cat-napping is a big problem here. The dog meat stores apparently pay a premium with no questions asked. My students say it's not uncommon for dogs to be snatched right in front of their owners. I don't know though, I see a lot of dogs around town, there are several in our alley and out on Doi Can, and none of them look worried. Nor do their owners. So I can't vouch for the accuracy of the students' story. But I have heard it from a number of my classes.

P.

Fi, Fie, Fo, Fuh.

FYI--Pho, which we've always pronounced "fo," is actually pronounced "fuh" as in fuhgeddaboudit. Our students were very amused at our pronunciation of such a simple word, as they are at all our comical attempts to speak their language. Sigh. Just when we think we have a word or phrase down, we say it to someone who looks at us like we're from Mars. After many repetitions, they usually get it, laugh and correct us by saying something that sounds exactly like what we thought we said. Or, worse, they say it in a slightly different way, which we faithfully parrot and use only to be corrected with yet another variation by the next person we try it on.

I so sympathize with our students.

P.

The Rain in Hanoi Falls Mainly...Not.

Just wanted to respond to a couple of recent comments. Thanks for those comments, by the way. They inspire us on a number of levels.

We're told that there's a definite rainy season here: June and July. It apparently rains a lot then. That said, we can count the number of seriously rainy days since we came here on one, well, maybe one-and-a-half hands. We are now officially in the dry season with no significant percip since maybe mid September. So to answer Eileen's comment, the snack vendors aren't too worried about rain. On the other hand (that makes two and a half), if the unlikely does come to pass, plastic tarps magically appear to shield said stalls and their owners for the few minutes necessary. We see this with traffic. Everyone's driving along normally when a few drops of rain are felt--instantly and seemingly inexplicably everyone is weaing a plastic poncho.

Steve--On the B-52 Lake: I posted this reply to your comment, but thought it needed wider distribution.
"This is the remains of 'Rose 1', a B-52D shot down over Hanoi during the 'Linebacker' raids on December 19, 1972. The aircraft landed in a lake in the Ba Dinh district, now named 'B-52 Lake'. Of the crew of six, four bailed out and became POWs and the other two were killed in the crash. The buildings, of course, were constructed much later. I'm not sure if there were many houses around the lake at the time."

Keep those comments coming!

P.

Giving Thanks in Hanoi.

It was bittersweet. On one hand, we were thankful that we had friends to celebrate with. That they had an oven. That we found a turkey and just about all the other ingredients to pull off a wonderful feast. On the other, we had to celebrate without our family.

Our friends Justin and Jyoti have a lovely villa with oven that they generously opened to us. We also invited our friends Colin and Nathalie. O. started cooking days ahead of time, baking the cornbread for her pecan-cornbread stuffing, concocting her savory cranberry-jalapeno salsa, and making turkey stock to flavor said stuffing (she actually made two versions--vegetarian and non).

The kitchen was a flurry of mad cookery.

Justin wrestles the 19-pound bird into submission.

Jyoti made some delicious dahl to enhance the feast. She's a strict vegetarian,
so hosting Turkey Day was doubly generous on her part.

O. readies the stuffing for...well, stuffing.

Nathalie brought some amazingly tasty sweet/sour, red/white cabbage
and some excellent macaroni and cheese.
Colin brought his jovial self.
Unfortunately, they also brought the news
that they're moving to Saigon in January. We will so miss them.

I manned the bar. Colin and Nathalie gave us a cocktail shaker,
so Martinis and Margaritas flowed freely.

The results were spectacular, as well as satisfyingly delicious.

A bird we were truly thankful for.

The table heaped with bounty.

Justin even found a patisserie that made us a lovely pumpkin pie.

We were thankful, we were happy, we were stuffed.
(Photo by J & J's housekeeper, who did all the clean-up.)

P.