via Instagram http://ift.tt/1OgMLVN
Monday, December 28, 2015
Sunday, December 27, 2015
Free Songs for Tchotchke Dealers:
Ukulele songs are the antidote to pushy trinket sellers: "No, I don't wish to buy, but here is a free song." 
Don't Be Cruel seems appropriate. #elvis
Saturday, December 26, 2015
Friday, December 25, 2015
On The Day After Christmas, Viet Santa Gave to Me...
On the day after Christmas, Viet Santa gave to me: Some Phờ. We're done here. Thanks, Viet Santa!
Exhibit A: The Noodles in question.
Phờ is the food of the gods and everybody else, too -- a magic meat and veggie-laden broth that you could look just call "chicken soup," if you wanted. But it's more fun to say "Phờ" to people who will almost certainly look at you in confusion as you speak their most oft-spoken food-centric monosyllabic world. I mean? The only time I don't hear Vietnamese saying "Phờ" is when they're eating Phờ.
Let's practice. Pretend I'm a foreigner and I say: "Phờ, please." You're Vietnamese: Look confused but concerned, while always kind of smiling. Say nothing but look deeply into my eyes. Maybe nod your desire to understand my strange, foreign words. Me: "Phờ." (But with a little more emphasis this time, as if being more abbreviated will help me sound like I have any idea what I'm saying.) You: look confused and shake head vaguely. Me: "Phờ. Phờ! You: Silent, squinting, shaking head in pity and contrition for not understanding. Me: (Gesturing with hands like using chopsticks to slurp noodles and) "Phờ?" You: (Eyes widen in acknowledgement and you cheerfully correct me): "Ah, Phờ!"
Translation: "So sad that poor American does not know how to say "noodle soup" in Vietnamese. Please bring him some Phờ as a gesture of sympathy."
Hope your xmas was merry and bright. Mine was muddy and dirt-road driven. More on that to come... Right after I have some Phờ.
Best Day of my Life So Far.
Happy December 26, from Da Nang, Vietnam, on the other side of the world.
Viet Christmas (Part 1)
Up the dirt road, on the motorbikes, We came around the corner and the first thing I see is the guard station. Uh-oh.
The lowered barrier rail. Checkpoint Charlie? Should we even try to talk to this guy, or just turn around and beat it?
(Note: If you're reading this on Facebook, you really ought to hop over to my blog www.minglefreely.com . You're missing italics, bold, and some photos, how can you stand it? )
The facts are these: We'd planned to plan on something special for Christmas Day, my brother and I. We've spend most of his 47 of them together, for sure.
But I could never have predicted that we'd be yuling by riding a motorbikes in the rain through rural roads, past free-roaming oxen, communities of ducks and a variety of field workers for whom Santa was on his own. And across dinky DIY toll bridges.
But let's back up a bit.
Christmas Day started out fine, or as fine as a day can after you ride motorbikes on Christmas Eve through a well-traveled industrial corridor like we had just done, jousting with everything on wheels or feet. We wisely chose to de-bike at dusk. I don't mind matching wits with the native drivers (bikes, motos, buses, cars, semi's and the all-important "other" category) in the broad daylight, but this industrial corridor had been plenty daunting enough that continuing into the night? No thanks, even though we were late for a train-catching date. So we rolled up at a roadside H O T E L sign and wandered into the sprawling retail joint of some kind into the back seating area, right up onto a couple large tables of locals having dinner.
And drinking rice wine.
And giving us the dinner.
And the rice wine.
And then the ukulele came out. Uh-oh. This seemed like a recipe for a massive hangover. But you do what you have to do to get by here, am I right?
The next morning and I learn from a FaceTime with my family that it's Christmas Day. Right. Kind of forgot that. Also I've got some mild hives. Fuck you, rice wine. OK, then!
I do my morning routine of writing, playing ukulele, having funny weird transactions with the locals, heavily enabled by the miracle of Google Translate. Figure out that the giant store that's in front of the hotel is kind of a tourist department store -- they've got booze, shoes, toys, snacks, sunglasses, you name it. I figure this out when a tour bus rolls up and unloads a bunch of Viet businessmen who come in, smoke, drink tea, maaaaaybe buy a trinket or two. I show them live FaceTime of Lucy and Libby Lee and they laugh, smile, say "May Kissmas!" and one of them makes the universal "honking boobies" gesture at my wife. Easy, Charlie. Then load back on the bus. Right before they roll out though, I ask to jump on the bus and play Jingle Bells. They clap along in that strange arrhythmic Vietnamese way I've come to know so well. They cheer like I am, actually, Elvis. If they, in fact, actually, knew who Elvis even was. Which I doubt they do.
Do lots of "Merry Christmas" saying.. the Viets love to say it, too, usually accompanied by a very exuberant peace sign, which is the universal photobomb here.
So, great Christmas morning so far: Video chat with my girls. Check. With my mom: check. Breakfast, ukulele, Nescafé: check! Suit up and ride motorbikes 50 miles in the rain with a helmet that has no visor. Mmmmmmm..... yay? I am not enthused at this prospect. In fact, I think "afraid" might be a little closer to the truth. Not "terrified," but let's say "discomforted." It has to be done. We've got a plan and now we've got plane tickets -- "skin in the game," as brother Chris is fond of saying. We HAVE to ride, rain or not or we'll miss our flight.
OK, fine. In the motorbike corral (which has a tin roof, making the light rain sound monsoon-like and maybe it IS), I suit up in the complimentary (as in "free," not as in "slimming") rain suit that came with the bike and which I'd hoped I'd never need.
Fairly immediately the crotch rips out. Good, good...
Now-- right as the rubber is literally about to meet the road, I just can't do it. Not with this helmet. Not without a visor. See, I've got a helmet (we always wear helmets, gentle reader, always), but it's got no visor. Not good. Right now, I feel like the best case scenario is we have to keep stopping so I can cry and curse and try to wipe off my glasses one more time and probably catch a cold. The worst case scenario? Well, let's not talk worst case, I think we can all agree.
So I get an idea: I go to the department store downstairs and find one of my rice wine drinking buddies -- the security guard who looks like he's "in bits" as some of the Euro backpackers describe hangovers. And in that now familiar combination language of speech, pantomime and Google Translate, I summon magic for me, simply by being humble and asking: "Please help me. We ride bikes. It is raining. I am worried about my face. No visor. Buy better helmet?"
Let me stop right here and say something to the Universe: "Universe? thank you for helping me to see my limitations and helping me to ask for help when I need it. It's not always in my nature, or genes to do so. Thank you for helping me with this defining character flaw."
OK, so -- security dude swings into action. He tells me to get my motorbike. I do, and he jumps on back, then he thinks better of my skills, and demotes me to the back of my own bike. Away we go, down a road headed who knows where.
Zooming into the unknown, I remember that Chris was ready and left me with the adviso: "Keep in mind: If we don't get to Hanoi in the next 4ish hours, we're out $150." Right. "Skin in the Game."
Now I'm wondering where I'm headed with the security guard who's driving my bike. Is this going to take 10 minutes? 2 hours? Great plan!
Bumping and bomping down a dirt road in the rain, I'm privately reevaluating. Is it too late for: "Please take me back. I'll be fine." It is, and, furthermore, I won't. I need a new helmet with a visor or it ain't on. Fortunately, in just a short spit, we wind up at some kind of venue, like so many, that's equal parts grocery, home goods, notions, bric-a-brac, living room, maybe bedroom, restaurant, and in this case, motorcycle accessories store! Security guard talks, they nod, and look at me with giggles, shiny eyes and -- thankfully -- head nods, not shakes. A coterie of helmets begins to emerge and .... too small, next... too small, next... way too small, next! It's like a vaudeville act or something, with each one illiciting greater and greater hilarity. (I will take credit for my part in this, since funny faces are the universal language and I'm nothing if not a ham. Plus surely it's karma points, possibly shaving off some "tourist tax." As in all things in this very foreign land: Who can really say?)
Eventually we settle on a shiny newish Honda helmet with a flip down visor that's only about one and a half sizes too small. That'll work. I feel better already. OK, time for me to bite the bullet. I suck it up and ask how much. There's some chatter thrown around and a number comes back. 480,000 Dong (shut up, it's what they call their money, the jokes are infinite, don't you think I know?).
Fuck.
I still haven't gotten used to the astronomical inflation here, and am resigned to overpaying because I need this. But just for edification (and shame), I do the math. The helmet: $18.
Oh!
Thank you, God of Vietnamese kindness and vaudeville ukulele comedy! You are too kind to me.
Can you believe we haven't even gotten on the road yet? That's for Part 2 of Christmas Day in Vietnam, so sprawling is this story because this is, undoubtedly, the Best Day of My Life So Far.
Thursday, December 24, 2015
Merry Christmas from the Future
Being 12 hours ahead has been a peculiar experience. Not bad, just peculiar. One of the oddest things was realizing that today is Christmas Day (morning), even as I video chatted with my family for whom it is Christmas Eve(ning). So: Merry Christmas from the future, here in Ngã Ba Đọ, Đông Hải, Quỳnh Phụ , Thái Bình, Vietnam. I can tell you for a fact that Santa could and would fit All The Toys for Vietnamese kids onto one scooter. Believe.
So there we were, on a Sleeper Bus
Could I make it across the street? I was alone and had two motorbikes, four bags, two ukuleles, and two helmets. One of the motorbikes wouldn't start, we knew that. The other one was anybody's guess. Did I mention I was alone?
The Jeffries brothers planning and drinking facility, on Tuesday in Ha Long, before catching the "sleeping bus." Center right, is "Jeff" Jeffries, planning incredible feats of travel, while his brother gawks and goofs around, mostly blogging and drawing crowds for ukulele concerts.
One of our travel agent girls, who I loved for her Hello Kitty helmet (with pony tail hole) and smiley Viet eyes, which are everywhere, I'm happy to say. On the downside, anytime she escorted us places that one would think would be in her bailiwick -- bus station, repair shop, etc. -- we spent a great deal of the trip with her stopping to ask directions. Or calling "her brother" for directions. Who knows? Every day here is blissfully, hilariously full of "who knows?"
You have no idea the Purgatory that lies within.
"Sure! We can take your bikes! We'll put 'em... here, how about here? Yes, we'll just put them HERE!"
So, we didn't actually wait until the next gas station. "Now will be fine," is how it ended up.
The fact is, we were kinda-sorta broken down. Or really "kicked to the curb" is more accurate. Voluntarily.
Not really, but let's call it that for now. Chris had disappeared in a taxi to get gas -- because anyone who's ever seen any classic horror movie knows that the first thing to do in times of trouble is everybody split up.
"What kind of trouble?" is a question you're probably asking. And at this point, I'd have to confess that "trouble" is a strong word which in this case more accurately translates to "signing up for an 18 hour bus ride, and bailing after 45 minutes and being dropped off on the curb in an unknown locale." Great plan!
There's one thing for sure: it was superior to the plan we'd thus far hatched, to our stark surprise.
The facts were these: We'd been helped by the most we'll-meaning couple of women (sisters? never can tell) who operated a travel agency in Ha Long. They'd signed us up for the "luxury cruise" (simultaneously too luxurious and not luxurious enough for us, in retrospect. Next time: Pirate cruise) and had helped us now with our desire to make a giant geographic leap a few hundred miles south, so that we could ride our motorbikes in warmer climes AND be a somewhat more manageable distance from our destination of Saigon. (if you want to mince over the details, you will be welcomed into our daily miasma. Would you like a bowl of Pho with that?)
The answer: a Sleeper Bus, a common global phenomenon that Chris had experienced in Brazil. "Oooh, you've never experienced a sleeper bus! Oh, you're in for a treat," relished Chris. Some enticements followed: personal video screens, prone position, but the ability to sit upright, you know, these kinds of luxuries. PLUS they're going to put our motorbikes underneath in the cargo hold. Great plan! What could go wrong?
Next stop: the bus station! Orrrrrrr.... a provincial storefront, where several guys set about removing our rear view mirrors and emptying our gas tanks, siphoned by mouth, which I have done as a teenager (story for another time) and which is awful. On the up side? They've got a few liters of gas which they promptly pour into their own scooters. Well played, gents!
The whole fam-damily is here, as is often the case and I decide that it's time for -- wait for it -- ukulele concert #391. Because the Viets always lose their minds when I play ukulele. I like to play Elvis, Buddy, and ole Hank because I feel very comfortable singing to the point of parody in a cartoonish hillbilly voice. Also, Jingle Bells. Lots and lots of Jingle Bells. As usual, everybody acts like internationally famous. Cameras come out, relatives are called.
Then, in a blink, the adults are gesturing for us to get on the bikes (the just-drained-of-gas bikes, right?), get our bags, go-go-go. I'm thinking "Um, did we miss the bus?" After an impossible hustle, during which I'm terrified for a moment that I've lost Chris and our leader/gas-siphoner, 100 yards down the road, I'm waved into a paddock area that is the bus station. I guess.
There it is: The Sleeping Bus. The cargo bays are opened and our motorbikes are picked up and heave-ho'd into the bay.. on their sides? yes, on their sides. The bags of the riders are tossed in on top of our bikes. Hoo-Kay, no need for alarm, haha...
Now: its' time to get on the Bus.. at the threshold: several "employees" sitting around. Oops! Shoes come off? OF course they do. Put them in this plastic bag? OK. Climb over you into the ... aisle? But the aisle ... it's padding, crazy narrow and flanged on both sides and down the middle with double decker um, let's call them chaise longues. And they're all full that I can see. Headed back, back... having trouble squeezing in between... Viet employee guy kind of pushing me just a tad... aggressive nudging, we could call it, and split the difference. Back, back, still no empty "seats" ... back, back ... to ... the very back of the bus. The guy somehow gets from behind me to in front of me, and heaves my bag, my ukulele, my other bag up into a 4-across hidey-hole that is 5/8ths occupied by 2 large boxes and a Brit backpacker couple, reclined (because there's no other option) with heads at the very very back and feet facing forward. Next: the clear and unmistakable gesture from the attendant, with whom I share no language: "You go. Up there."
OK, haha, but I'm.... uh ... right now? Me? Up there? Yes, of course. I clamber up the 3 rungs (to say "steps" would be far too generous) and pile in, next to the Brits, who seem calm. Impossibly calm. Me, I'm breathing at a slightly elevated rate, looking for my brother who's behind me, and being ushered into the down-low hidey-hole, completely out of my line of sight, next to a couple of travelers, if I remember correctly, from, oh 35 seconds ago. I see him disappear below me.
Up top: I lie back and soaking in the weirdness, the uncertainty. I think shock is setting in, actually. I do some calculations: maybe people will get off soon," which doesn't really calculate, I'm quite aware, but I need something. The bus starts rolling -- rollicking, careening, honking, braking, jostling, honking and honking and honking. Is this real?
The Brit guy -- pony tail, scraggly backpacker beard -- says with inconceivable calm (resignation?) that they're on for 16 hours and that probably, the staff will load more people on, because the aisles are padded and thus people could lie there. My cognitive processes are shutting down at this point. I can't do math anymore, either out of overload or terror. All I know is, we got on at 4pm and are due to arrive at noon the next day. I'm beginning to privately wonder how I'm going to survive the next 15 minutes.
So I start thinking about drugs.
I planned for this! Hooray! I haven't come to the other side of the world without at least the ability to sedate myself if necessary!
And this is looking more and more necessary.
First I conjecture and take inventory: Valium. Vicodin. That's it for the "V's," let's move on to X as in Xanax. I also have Hydroxyzine, which in addition to being an anti-nausea medicine which I terribly afraid I may very soon need, claims to be an anxiety medicine and also has "xyz" in it's name. From the back of this bus ON my back, I'm starting to feel pretty near the end of MY alphabet so it feels fitting, from a poetry standpoint. Then I remember my phone. TEXTING.
And here's how two brothers got out of a freaky situation: Texting each other from a distance of about 5 feet apart, but without any visual contact:
And that's how two brothers wound up on the curb in Uông Bí. Kinda freaked out. Making a plan to split up. Like in a horror movie. But ours turned out fine, I'm happy to say. Once Chris head out in a taxi for gas replenishments, I realized that across a busy street was the My Way Coffee Shop, which has many attractions but #1 was wi-fi -- because it's always about the wi-fi. With some elbow grease, I could get all of our bags and bikes .... over there. I just wasn't sure what to take first. Finally, I got up my gumption and strapped ALL of mine and Chris's bags to myself and to my scooter and shambled across an intersection to the promised land: My Way Coffee -- just in time for the owner of the shop to notice this kind of frazzled looking American pushing, hauling, dragging towards his joint. Smiles. Wi-fi. Charades. Google Translate. Bam, everything is officially fine. Soon, we've got a hotel down the street and some time to fall back and regroup with some local TV. Let me tell you that the English-language edition of Korea's version of Entertainment Tonight is inexplicably mesmerizing.
In retrospect, getting off the Sleeping Bus was 100% the right move. Doing so slowed our Southbound roll by a couple of days, it's true. But as Chris said: "No question this is an experience, but one that I could be quite happy not to have."
Could we have done it? Yes. Maybe. Fuck, I don't know. I might have lost my marbles a few hours in, or: if having chosen to be rendered unconscious by meds, only to later wake up some handful of hours later still on that bus -- that's when the serious marble-losing might have happened.
So this was an experience that cost us each $50. A story came out of it, for sure. And I think $50 is a pretty fair price.
And that's why this is still the Best Day of My Life So Far.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
