Corporeal Commotion

Vietnam versus the world

There are certain things about a culture foreign to one’s own that can be quite difficult to  adapt to. Certainly, one can try to understand and, over time, the initial perplexity or uneasiness will eventually abate leaving more a feeling of indifference than irritation. However, it also depends what the culprit of unease is. I find that over the past ten months my attitude has slowly metamorphosed into an increasingly inexpressive demeanor as I try to abide by the “losing face” rules. These rules are so adamantly adhered to by the grand majority of the population and it has turned out to be one of the biggest challenges for my naturally hot-blooded Mediterranean persona to not allow even the slightest negative emotion, from anger, to irritation or frustration escape my expressive features. I admit that certain overtly suicidal behavior during the busy rush-hour traffic can still sometimes induce a series of indecent Italian imprecations from my part, but as a rule of thumb I try to keep my cool and avoid any visible reaction to unacceptable behavior.

There remains however, something that I still can’t seem to avoid causing a reaction. It is difficult to categorize the cause of my unease, but I would generally call it “corporeal commotion”. Let me be more specific. Imagine going for your usual morning run, half-asleep but pleased to have, once again, proven your strength to defy the perennial battle of the extra hour under the warm sheets versus the abrupt awakening to a new day in the noisy and lively Hanoi park saturated with overwhelming beats of 1990s techno. The pleasure of physical activity usually quickly overcomes my drowsiness, and I go on my way. However, the feeling of bliss is quickly struck down as soon as, while approaching morning walkers, I hear that horrifying guttural sound, the corporeal commotion. The “grrchthcgrtchtthhhchchhhrrrrrrrr!” The violent preparation for what will soon result in a large, sticky mass of mucus splattered on the concrete. I have become an expert in avoiding such disgorging of bodily fluids as I can hear it coming before it’s too late. Despite this, I still cringe at the noise and cannot seem to hide the slight twitch of my lips that would, in other circumstances, alter into a grimace of disgust.  

One of the favorite stops for young married couple's photos

I guess one could say that such actions, although disconcerting, can be considered acceptable outdoors. But the other day I was put through a difficult test that I believe, looking back, I gracefully passed. I took part in a workshop for one of the projects I’m managing. There were two senior officials chairing the meeting, one to my right and the other directly across the way. From the beginning, I started to wonder why the official in front of me had been invited to such an event as he was obviously not too engaged or concerned about what was being said during the presentations. His phone was constantly ringing (the “silent” option in Vietnamese phones must have been abolished nationwide as it seems to be an unknown practice to mobile users) and, of course he would answer, whispering in the phone from his seated position whilst the presenter went on with the speech.

The worst occurred just after the tea break. Maybe the digestive machinery was finally initiated after the ingestion of meagerly presented fruits and pieces of industrial-looking cream cake. Mr. across-the-way began emanating some odd sounds. The first were simply explosive sneezes that could wake anybody up from a snooze. These were systematically followed by a chorus of guzzling sopranos of inhaled nostril mucus. At one point I almost wanted to make a scene and hand him a tissue, but I chose to ignore the orchestra Vietnamese-style. Unfortunately it wasn’t over. The first time I heard it, I was hoping I was simply imagining things, but my greatest fear was soon confirmed. What I was hearing were deep, almost baritone-like vibrations coming from the man’s darkest depths of the abdomen: he was burping. Not once. Not twice. Not thrice. At the fourth belch I almost sprung from my chair and applauded to the guy’s nerve and indiscreetness. But once again I managed to sit stoically, as if nothing had ever occurred. If it weren’t for my agitated glances, nobody would have even thought I heard anything.

Local motorbike parking

Unfortunately, such concertos are more the norm than an exception. And if you thought that the practice is reserved for the masculine gender, think again. It seems to have become an enjoyable practice for many women to demonstratively clear anything that might be blocking their respiratory tract with screeching sounds followed by splotches of colorful liquid on the ground. Merci Madame! Bonjour l’élégance!  

Maybe the only way to overcome my unease and disgust would be to jump into a passionate and devoted use of corporeal commotion? I might need to think this one over a little longer. In the meantime, I will stick to my now mastered grace and impassivity which I almost have down to a science.  

A glimpse into the colorful North

Mao our Hmong tour guide

I finally found an occasion to venture up to the Northern mountainous region of Vietnam. It's one of the areas I've most wanted to explore but somehow never managed to find the right time or occasion. The photos I had seen before embarking in the trip would certainly be enough to intrigue anybody: steep lush mountains with softly rounded tops, vertiginous rice terraces built at the highest altitudes and gentle streams of fresh water flowing down the valleys breathing life into other varieties of crops.

Given that two friends of mine came to Vietnam, it seemed like the perfect occasion to share new horizons. Six of us entered the night train departing from Hanoi to Lao Cai at 9:50 pm. Estimated time of travel: approximately 8 hours. We were all so excited about the obvious adventure ahead of us that we didn't seem to pay too much attention to the restricted size of the sleeping compartments and the less than desirable bedding.

The trip went well despite the obvious lack of sleep. It sometimes felt like we were traveling in a rudimentary human-sized jack-in-the-box, bouncing incessantly on an all too efficient hydraulics system topped off by abrupt breaking practices and pendulum movements that made me wonder if the old French colonial railways were finally succumbing to old age.

After an early arrival into Lai Cai station, we negotiated the price of the minibus for the six of us and proceeded up the steep curvy road for a 50 minute drive to the city of Sa Pa. The view that was unfolding before us was simply breathtaking. The silence that reigned in the minibus was undoubtedly partly due to the apparent lack of sleep of all its passengers, but I could also sense that everybody was trying to absorb the magnificent view as much as their sleepless eyes could handle. I started to imagine how the panorama must be like during the summer months at the height of the rice season, painting the soft curves of the mountains with bright shades of green only seen in Vietnam. Unfortunately, the harvesting season was long over and the once fertile fields were now only muddy leftovers of the chopped-off rice stems. But it didn't matter; we were all looking forward to exploring the area regardless of the season.

Hmong kids playing

After finding a quaint little hotel at the outskirts of town, we decided it was best to go for a trek that same day. We contacted a local tour guide that had been recommended to us and we agreed to meet an hour later at the bottom of the church steps hovering over the city's central plaza. It was the first time I saw so many of the well-known Vietnamese ethnic minorities all in one place. The variety of colors of their clothing and the spectacular hair attire gave life to the fairly grey surroundings of the Plaza.

Our tour guide found us first. She introduced herself as Mao from the Hmong ethnic minority. She had graceful facial traits and her entire constitution made her seem petite and frail under her traditional Hmong clothing. We would soon find out that her physical strength and agility would greatly surpass that of all of these giant-looking Western tourists.

Cat Cat Village

She took us through steep slippery clay hills and rice paddies. We walked past traditional wooden Hmong homes with children running around naked from the waist down and all sorts of farm animals making their way to the next best grazing area. Some of the paths were physically demanding causing a few of us to make their way down with their bottoms instead of their feet. It made me smile as I looked onto Mao. This little woman armed with miniature rubber boots and a North Face lookalike backpack in stark contrast to her colorful gown, bouncing like a cat from one spot to the next, unbothered by the slippery slopes and uneven stones. I wondered what she must think about these clumsy Westerners equipped with all the most expensive specialized gear but still unable to even cross a stream without asking for her to give them her miniature but sturdy helping hand.

What intrigued me the most about Mao is that she’s a 28 year-old mother of two children. She’s never been to school and she speaks perfect English, Vietnamese and Hmong. She can’t write but she is capable of making her way through any terrain with the elegance and agility of the most beautiful mountain cat. She plants rice, sweet potatoes and other crops while taking care of her children, weaving traditional clothes dyed with homemade indigo coloring and working as a tour guide. When I asked her if her husband helps her out, she turned around to me with genuine laugh, her nose slightly wrinkling as she smiled: “My husband? He decided to go back to school since they’ve opened one next to our home!” Her village still lacks electricity but she owns a motorbike and her children will have the advantage of learning to read and write when they reach school-age.



Beautiful young Hmong woman

Although the contact with the local minorities can be somewhat overwhelming, especially when you’re constantly haggled to purchase something, hearing their stories and the sacrifices they make to move ahead instantly put things back into perspective. Tourism is a major and increasingly important source of income and the locals have quickly learned that, by properly learning English, the financial advantages can be great. The amount of poverty is still apparent, but things seem to be changing at incredible speed. A new road is being built to connect the most remote villages and, in Mao’s opinion, it’s a great improvement because her people will have the opportunity to transport their goods quicker. Schools are popping up in every corner to provide the local children with more future opportunities and more and more people are radically changing their clothing habits. From our perspective, such mutations might be a source of nostalgia, a loss of the “authentic” and the “ethnic", but for them it means emancipation, progress and prosperity.

I’m sure that not long ago Mao wouldn’t have had the opportunity to mingle with foreigners. But now things are changing and the women are taking much of it into their own hands. When I asked Mao why she wasn’t wearing her tribe’s traditional hat, she looked at me straight in the eyes and solemnly said: “I left it at home. It’s too heavy for me so, if I have to walk all day, I leave it at home.”

Anything goes!

Despite the natural course of adaptation to a country, there are still many things that continue to surprise me.

Street Karaoke

This is one of Asia's favourite entertainment activities (I say "Asia's" because it seems to be a national sport in most of the countries I've visited so far). There are many levels of karaoke, from the little hole in the wall where they have an outdated television and lulling Vietnamese songs, to the classy and luxurious ones like the Jaguarudi next to my house exposing flashy and tacky LED lights scattered all over its 4-storey facade. The young and the wealthy go to this particular spot: young ladies in their vertiginously high heels and shockingly short mini skirts escorted by young men in fancy cars groomed to envy Diesel's latest photoshoot.

View of Lake Truc Bach

But there are some that have brought karaoke to a whole new level: street karaoke. The men (I have yet to see a woman doing this) work either alone on in pairs and are equipped with two to three speakers set on wheels. Tugging along their homemade device with one arm and armed with a microphone in the other, these young men wander around Hanoi's neighbourhoods "offering" sad Vietnamese love songs at an extremely high… volume. This could remain a simply comical occurrence did they not have the tendency to practice this activity at hours which should be devoid of any disturbing noise. Their favourite days to exercise their dissonant falsetto appear to be exactly synchronized with my desire to sleep-in on Saturday and Sunday mornings. In fact, now that the construction next door is seemingly approaching its final touches, I am still awoken at 7am weekends but this time by a wannabe virtuoso singer strolling the neighbourhood seeking fame.

Street anarchy

One might think that after living 8 months in this traffic stricken country, nothing would surprise me anymore. Unfortunately that's not the case. It's funny because to this day, my Vietnamese colleagues and counterparts frequently tell me how "courageous" I am to drive a motorbike.

Forget about rules. Of course they have them, but they are never enforced. Even the policemen that stand on the side of the road (and that only seem to stop women) issue tickets to their victims for the most far-fetched violations. Thankfully they never stop foreigners since policemen's English skills are non-existent and therefore, to avoid losing face, they much rather prefer stopping people who understand the charges, or least act like they do, and pay the price (on the spot, of course).  

There is one rule that I have learned: the law of the biggest. It is extremely important to follow this rule unless you want to risk your life. Pedestrians are the lowest caste in this pyramidal scale, meaning that basically everything roaming the streets and sidewalks (even sidewalks are far from being a safe haven) can be a threat to one's safety. Second to last on the scale are bicycles followed by motorbikes. When it comes to cars, it is not only size that counts, but what type of car you own. A Mercedes is more dangerous than a Toyota and a Bentley more than a Range Rover. You therefore need to know your cars. Now, you might be wondering who the real cowboys are. Well, believe it or not: public buses! The most dangerously life-threatening vehicles let loose and impossible to tame are the red and yellow, toxically asphyxiating city buses. Just this morning I saw a young woman one-third of the way to crossing the street (and mind you, it was green for pedestrians) that suddenly a bus turned right and blasted his deafening honk warning her to get out of his way if she cared for her life. The poor woman, staggered, clumsily bounced back avoiding instant death by miracle.   

The city creeping into the countryside

Another very important rule is: look in all directions before acting, but once you've chosen to act, never hesitate. Ignore anything that might look like a red light, one-way street, sidewalk or a pedestrian. When you're out in the open, you're automatically at risk, no matter what. Forget any common sense or good-street-etiquette rules because you will not survive. First of all, you must always look in all directions when crossing the street or even going through a green light on a motorbike: you never know when a bus might speed through a street signal.  If you've decided to go ahead and defy oncoming traffic on a one-way street (which has seemingly becoming one of my newest nasty habits), just push-on as if you're an indestructible superhuman. Magically, the road ahead of you clears and you feel like Moses parting the waters of the Red Sea.

It will be difficult to go back to Europe and abide by traffic regulations. In the past 8 months I have proven my disregard for authority and rule of law by swiftly embracing anarchic behaviour as my only form of survival. The apogee was reached a couple of months ago when, coming from a friend's dinner party, I volunteered to take my partner and a friend back home. On a motorbike?! Yes, on a motorbike. Helmets off, hop on, here we go! We drew curious looks from all that came across our path: three large Westerners on one puny little motorbike.

But we rushed into the night, not a policeman in sight; hair free-flowing in the wind ready to take flight…

A test of humility

During National Holidays it is highly discouraged to engage in any form of travel within Vietnam for 80 million people all pack their bags and peregrinate around the country cramming all possible modes of transport like cans of sardines. Thus, we opted to leave Ho Chi Minh's stronghold and escape to its more modest neighbour: Lao People’s Democratic Republic (PDR).

Luang Prabang is a sleepy little town comfortably huddled at the foot of lush, tropical hills and enveloped by the Mekong and Nam Khan rivers. The city is best known for its high volume of beautifully decorated Buddhist Temples and their young monks wandering the French colonial streets in bright orange habits. The rhythm of life goes with the pace of the heat - everything moves in slow motion from the waitresses in the charming little cafés, to the schoolchildren exiting their classrooms. The thing that struck us the most was that none of the drivers, be it a taxi, a tuc-tuc or a motorbike, made use of their horns. Unlike Vietnam, where honking is a national sport practiced regularly and unemotionally in all custom-made sounds and volumes, Laotian streets are reigned by silence and a heightened sense of orderliness.

Little Hmong children in first village

Aside from enjoying the pace, the silence, the fresh air and the abundance of greenery all around town, we were all set on truly exploring the surrounding natural landscapes. Thus, after spending the first day kayaking down the Nam Khan River, splashing around the refreshing sequence of natural pools replenished by crisp sparkling waterfalls and riding imposing Asian elephants at the speed of the Laotian lifestyle we decided to continue the adventure hiring the same guide for a two-day trek in the jungle.

Departing at 9:00 in an old Hyundai van we were dropped-off on a little dirt road 1.5 hours from Luang Prabang. The air was hot and muggy, but thankfully not too sunny for our Western skin. After four hours of making our way through dirt trails over rivers and streams, through leech infested mud and beautiful rice paddy terraces, we reached the first minority village: a true introduction to utmost poverty. What lie before us were shabby little mud houses protected by dried palm leaf roofs. We proceeded to the central plaza equipped with a few wooden benches and a tree to give us shade. Kids slowly but shyly began to approach us with inquisitive looks. They were followed by some women, but mostly very young or very old ones. We were told that all the adult men and women were out in the fields, and that the kids were left with the elderly and some younger ladies responsible for the children during their parents' absence. The kids were poorly dressed, most of them minimally covered by ripped t-shirts with no undergarments or trousers to cover the lower portion of their fragile bodies. Little girls under ten years of age were carrying their younger brothers or sisters tightly wrapped on their backs. What struck me the most was their visible dirtiness, rotting teeth and a number of easily curable eye infections.

Young Hmong girl carrying her sister

After a final hike up a steep hill, we reached our "home" for the night. We were to stay in the biggest of the three minority villages which housed two ethnicities, the Khmu and the Hmong. The villagers were slightly better off than the first, made visible by a number of scattered tin roofs, two public showers (that had been built just three months before) and a sufficiently well equipped shop. The house we were to sleep in (a large room for the six of us with thin cotton mattresses neatly laid on the floor and protected by huge mosquito nets) was elevated on hardwood stilts to avoid unwanted creatures from entering it. We had to take turns to shower with the villagers fully dressed as the facility was devoid of any structure for privacy. At nightfall, the town was swallowed by a thick cover of darkness abruptly reminding us about the lack of electricity. Obscurity brought all sorts of unimaginable sounds: some familiar like chickens, pigs and frogs but others were to remain a mystery to our untrained ears.

In the depths of the night heavy rains prevailed over the swines' screeches and the mystifying chorus' lullabies, waking me multiple times not only for the force with which the weighty clouds expelled the raindrops, but also because of the irregular escape of a few of them ending their journey down my cheeks like teardrops.

Young Hmong girl carrying her brother

The sight of the village after such forceful rains infected our spirits with a deep feeling of sorrow. Everything was transformed into a large, mushy mud box oppressed by intimidating clouds. At this point it was useless trying to identify mud from feces as it all displayed the same brownish taint. Getting to the shower or to the bathroom was an incredible test of balance and grace as the sludgy mix was not only gluey but slippery. The situation didn't improve on our return route. The expectant skies didn't hesitate to discharge their heavy loads at the most crucial moments of our hike: slippery slopes galore! The challenge of a clean and proper descent was so great that we even made a generous bet for whom would make it to our destination free of mud stains on his/her behind. It goes without saying that we all miserably failed. Half of us ultimately opted for an entirely barefoot hike, as the weight of the mud under our soles added an additional stress to our untrained thighs and a feeling of instability in our already goofy movements.

As soon as we reached the foot of the hill, the sun vigorously pressed its way out from behind the vaporous barrier and cast its warm rays on our shoulders: the worst was over and only a last flat path awaited our sore selves. We made a quick stop in the last village for a quick snack. Sitting at a rudimentary table. The villagers stood and stared from a distance at this group of muddy, sweaty and barefoot tourists and a thought crossed my mind: "they certainly look and smell better than we do".

Healthy men or healthy sleep?

With ongoing construction next door and the often unbearable Hanoian heat, we are frequently motivated by the idea of leaving the city for the weekend. The issue is finding a place that can provide fresh air, that is not too crowded, not too distant and peaceful enough to catch up on some sleepless nights.

One of the many colourful butterflies

One night, over dinner and a nice cold bottle of Bia Hanoi, we agreed to explore Tam Dao National Park, perched up on a mountaintop North-West of Hanoi. We were totally set on making it an adventurous weekend and, to make the most of it, we came to the conclusion that riding our motorbikes would be the perfect option. Like anything in Vietnam, the actual distance is never really exact. For this particular trip, different sources said different things. All we knew was that it it's between 67 and 87 km from Hanoi, translating into approximately a 2-hour drive. One thing was certain: going by two-wheeler is better than by four-wheeler. One of my colleagues went as far as describing the one-lane mountainous road as “frightening” and “treacherous" winding its way up nestled paths built over vertiginous cliffs. The perfect equation for a mix of discovery and adrenaline!

The single meagre planning attempt was when I contacted the cheapest of the three hotels listed in the Lonely Planet. After asking in Vietnamese whether the receptionist spoke English and getting an unhesitant “No” for an answer, I carried on with my limited conversational skills to request two rooms for four people. As we were making progress in mutual understanding, I was shocked to hear the final price. I proceeded to bargain a little with the sole result of getting a loud laugh followed by him hanging up in my face. From that point on it was going to be a completely unplanned weekend. No maps, no hotel and no clear indication of the actual distance to our destination.

After getting off the main road, the trip became increasingly more pleasant. Oppressing smog-ridden clouds were scarcer, rays of sunlight appeared playfully rolling over the ready-to-harvest rice paddies and houses became fewer and far between. Stinky trucks with ancient exhaust pipes made way to fewer motorbikes and more bicycles. The final 20 km were indeed up a winding mountain road, but far from being anything like those in the Swiss Alps. As the motorbike started coughing and straining itself under the weight of two well-fed Westerners, the soothing mountain breeze slowly invaded our nostrils seeping deeply into the remotest alveoli. Both our bodies and minds finally found a place to rest.

Spider hiding behind his x-shaped web

The highlight of the weekend was Saturday night's meal. Tam Dao is mostly a weekend getaway for Vietnamese tourists. This means that dinner is served earlier than by European standards if you want to ensure that there is still something left to order. The local specialties were a novelty to us, including exotic ones like porcupines and larvae. We were a bit unsure about the selection, and ended up picking a place that offered a larger choice of foods, including more conventional ones.

Once our meal was served, the owner of the restaurant wobblingly approached our table with a wide smile impressed on his face, a huge bottle of Vietnamese vodka in his right hand and shot glasses in his left. His eyes were glittering from the liquor ingested prior to our arrival and his speech uneven. He started expressing how honoured he was to have foreign tourists in his restaurant and native town of Tam Dao. He made sure we were enjoying our meal and called for a toast. After a couple more speeches, he vacillated his way back to his table. At which point another man from another table made his way to ours, also tightly holding onto a bottle of vodka. This time the man assured it was good Russian vodka, heavily emphasising the word RUS-SI-AN.

While serving us another round, he inquired whether anybody at our table spoke the language of Pushkin. I confirmed that I did and he excitedly poured another round. When I asked whether he learned Russian while working in the Soviet Union, he quickly corrected me and said he studied "v Institute".  At which point, to our surprise, he started singing a song in a language that sounded like Russian but was far from being intelligible. And, of course the performance required yet another toast.

View of tropical forest

We all started feeling warm and our faces were gently altering to different shades of pink. But we were naïve to think that it was over! Mr. Restaurant-Owner made sure to have his last word after Mr. Russian-Educated-Singer walked off. This time, however, he came over with a different bottle. It was a simple plastic bottle filled with liquid equalling the colour of our cheeks. He started illustrating the virtues of this secret drink, stressing the special health benefits it brought to males. "So why is it pink?" I asked, "Because it's made out of…" at which point he proceeded to mimic the movement of a snake with his left arm."Oh! Snake blood!" Well, not just any snake, but cobra's blood! Although I was a little put off by the idea of ingesting cobra blood, I was the first to volunteer for a shot. While my face seemed unable to rid itself of my initial disturbed grimace, I realized that the flavour wasn't as unpleasant as expected: it had a slight sweetness camouflaging the harshness of the cheap vodka.

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Restaurant-Owner staggered over to our table one last time, slurring his words into a "Goodnight and hope to see you again!" He hobbled down the steps, lit a cigarette and was gently taken under the arm by his wife in a failed attempt to lead him in a linear direction. At which point I began to wonder: were the extraordinary effects of cobra blood simply limited to guaranteeing a deeper and sounder sleep for men? 

Words worth a thousand pictures

Beautiful Hue beach

During a trip to South-Central Vietnam I was at last able to experience some of the differences I had so often heard about between northern and southern Vietnamese. I wanted to test the anecdote that I was once told describing the differences in character between the regions.

"A young man goes to the market to buy some fish sauce (staple Vietnamese ingredient), but after purchasing a few bottles, he clumsily sets his foot in a ditch and the bottles shatter to the ground. A woman from the North walks past and says: "How clumsy you are! Be careful next time!" Just behind her, a woman from the South walks by, stops and, looks at the boy while handing him some money saying: "Here you go young man, some change to buy some more sauce." Finally, a woman from the Center walks by and kneels to the ground desperately attempting to collect what little sauce can be recovered from the accident.

After spending a few days in Hoi An and Hue (both cities located in Central Vietnam), I realized that the last lady in the story is certainly a myth. I couldn’t help but be taken away by wide-smiled warmth and hospitality of the locals.

Rice fields in Hoi An countryside

What I quickly realized was that, in order to trigger a deeper and more permanent beam enlightening their faces a simple effort to speak Vietnamese was sufficient. Let's not get ahead of ourselves; I still express myself worse than a 2 year-old butchering any notion of pronunciation and tones. Nevertheless, when capable of getting over my initial hesitation, my struggles to say something even remotely comprehensible proved to be a highly effective and strong tool. When in Hanoi, my scattered and poorly pronounced vocabulary is cause of puzzled looks and usually impatiently annoyed grimaces. In Hue and Hoi An, on the other hand, even the most negligible effort would immediately trigger "Oohs!" and "Awwws!" In moments of extreme confidence, I would even try and develop slightly more complex sentences, inevitably resulting in the best possible customer service. Doors opened. Smiles widened. Eyes lit up and questions started pouring, "Why do you speak Vietnamese? Do you live here? Where? For how long?"

Hue beach boy

Our first night in Hue we had a very late dinner in a small restaurant a few streets down from our hotel. The restaurant was practically empty, but we liked the simple bamboo furniture and overall vibe. We were looking to taste some of Hue's famous banh dishes and, sure enough, found it there. The waiter was extremely hospitable and accommodating. We even had a little chat at the end of the meal and left feeling that Hue would be a nice closure to our week's holiday. Our last day, we decided to have lunch at that same restaurant, this time for some Pho Bo and Pho Ga. The same waiter was there, obviously excited to see us again, asking us all kinds of questions about our stay in his native city. He dug deeper to see what the plans for our last day were. Despite the oppressive heat, we were determined to go see some of the Nguyen dynasty's tombs, at which point our waiter suggested: "Why don't you just go to the beach? It's a perfect day for that and it's only 13km from the city-center!" We admitted to not having thought of that and were also unsure of how we could make our way out there, an uncertainty he quickly tried to clarify: "Oh! Don't worry about transportation; you can just take my motorcycle! I'm working all day anyway, until 10pm. You could just take the bike this afternoon, go for a swim, and return it this evening when the sun sets." My jaw dropped. Was this guy for real? I made him repeat his proposal just in case I missed something between slowly ingesting the steamy soup and desperately attempting to wipe transpiration droplets from my liquefying self. No. I had heard what I had heard. He wanted us to use his old Honda Wave and go to the beach.

The ride out there was an incredibly beautiful adventure. We got to explore Hue's countryside, feel the breeze through our hair and get a feel for the day-to-day living outside the tourism frenzy. The beach was beautiful: natural, with no signs of oppressive hotels or herds of pasty white potato people (literally the way foreigners are called in Vietnamese); just some locals playing around in the water or enjoying some seafood at an improvised eatery. What a beautiful way to conclude our vacation, to mentally prepare for the return to the Hanoian traffic-frenzy, pollution and chaos. All this thanks to broken sequences of basic vocabulary vaguely sounding like Vietnamese. Instead of the picture being worth a thousand words, the words were worth a beautiful picture.

The army of change

When I first arrived in Vietnam and was searching for housing, one of the most recurrent pieces of advice was: “Just ensure you properly survey the building’s surroundings for any old houses that might succumb to the demolisher or for any empty lots waiting to be filled”. At the time it seemed like a silly piece of advice as, disembarking from Switzerland where authorities are eternally “improving the city for your improved living”, I thought I was properly vaccinated. I moved into my little studio apartment, pleased to find no empty lots and ancient homes in good shape. How naïve.

View from my window while writing

A week into my move, trucks rolled-in at impossible hours of the night unloading material in the opposite houses’ front yard. To this day, I can’t comprehend what they are attempting to achieve as the loading and unloading of stuff  has become a daily parade for the past 5 months. Despite this ongoing commotion, nothing has been altered in the house’s configuration. Alas, everything changed the day prior to my return from my holidays. I received a text message from my friend and neighbor stating the news: “Overnight, the house adjacent to ours was torn down. Welcome to hell.”

Indeed, the next day I could see with my own eyes: a large empty space next to my building. I wanted to understand. I spotted the lady that runs the scooter-wash shop in the long-gone building. She moved a few doors down and had changed her business. With her broken Russian, I was able to decipher that she was a simple tenant paying rent and that the owner had certainly foreseen some added profit in the demolition. She was told to leave and, the next day, the house was no more.

For a few days after this event, there was silence. Calm after the storm. No movement. No workers. No architects. Nada. I started to hope that the owner jumped ahead of himself, miscalculating his wealth and deciding to halt the new development project. Once again, I felt so naïve. Soon enough, new trucks joined the old ones at wee hours of the night, unloading, loading, whatever. Making noise. Motors always running as if the ignition were a foreign word in their vocabulary. When one of these ogres reverberates through our tiny street (which is only 5 meters wide), each time it feels like a miniature earthquake. For best results: lie in one place, horizontally. A bed is a good option.  

Construction site across the way

Because of the oppressive summer temperatures, construction work usually begins at 5:30-6:30am, with a break somewhere around dinner, resuming around 10:00pm until late into the night. Workers are often young and inexperienced peasants from distant provinces. They are frequently barefoot lacking any form of head protection (although today I spotted one wearing his motorcycle helmet!) and are confined to living on site until completion. Oh, and forget about comfy Sunday sleep-in sessions! No day is a bad day to work, including weekends.

When the lights are out, here they come, like an army of vampires. Instead of sucking blood, they live off of people’s sleepless nights. The implausible silence of nightly Hanoi streets is disrupted like clockwork by the legendary transporters. When standing on my balcony, enveloped by darkness and silence, I can hear them coming: roaring and rumbling indescribable sounds; echoing their way through the narrow alleys. They send shivers through ancient Hanoi homes’ foundations, fearing their time, too, has come to succumb to development, to the construction of taller, larger and more modern buildings. You can almost sense the sighs of relief of all pre-war houses when, all that’s left of the truck-battalion, is a thick layer of black smoke suspended into darkness. One more chance to enjoy the sunrise, and maybe the last?

Withering beauty

Beautiful karst rock

After hearing so many stories of Halong Bay’s hidden beauties and after watching the mesmerizing images from Régis Wargnier’s Indochine (1992), I finally had the occasion to visit this mythical place, now a UNESCO World Heritage Site. I was aching to discover what most tourists venturing to the tropical South-East Asian climates seek, the untouched lush natural landscapes that are becoming such a rarity across the globe. In addition, after almost five months of living in Vietnam’s hectic, noisy and densely-populated capital, awaken either by the screeching songs of propaganda radio or some endless construction project at wee hours of the night, I seriously deserved a real break for my mind, ears and soul.

The trip was nicely organized, including a pick-up service directly at my doorstep at 6:30am. The entire drive from Hanoi to Haiphong is a like a live exposition of Vietnam’s stages of irregular and mostly unplanned development: women in conical hats working their dazzlingly green rice paddies in the background of an infinite wall of houses (aluminum shacks next to five-story villas, wooden kiosks next to a huge hi-tech factories) stretching from the last Hanoian suburb all the way to the Gulf of Tonkin. Not one square meter of land along the road has been left to breathe in peace.

At the port in Haiphong, we were accompanied to the hydrofoil which would take us directly to the Island of Cat Ba, the Bay’s largest of some 1600 islands. After overcoming the large waves of the sea’s unsettled waters, we were projected into the first taste of the Bay’s splendors. Although the town of Cat Ba is following the rash architectural style used in most of the countries’ rapidly developing cities, the magnificent limestone hills hovering over it provide the first glimpse of the area’s beauty, and a complimentary breath of fresh air free of the city’s congested pollution.

As the boat that would become our home for 3 days and 2 nights slowly docked into the small port, I couldn’t help but ask myself in which state the Bay’s waters are. Not only are they tainted by a permanent shade of turbid green, something quite uncommon for tropical seas, but the water in the port is certainly not deprived of its own personal collection of floating plastic bottles, plastic bags and a slimy-like fluid with a not-so-pleasing odor.

Floating kiosk

This first flashes of horror and hesitation were quickly settled once the port of Cat Ba became nothing but a miniature dot on the horizon. The natural beauty that I was so anxiously seeking finally began to unfold before my eyes. The towering karst sculptures, the entrancing monotonous song of the cicadas and the sun’s reflections playing tag over the smooth and placid waters made me forget of the environmental impacts of rapid development, at least until I opened the book I was reading to a new chapter… See it before it’s gone…

Bill Hayton dedicated a chapter in his “Vietnam: Rising Dragon” on the rapid destruction of one of the world’s most beautiful and unique landscapes. Not only has the center of Vietnam’s coal industry been concentrated for decades in Cam Pha, an area just north of Ha Long City, but after being pinned a UNESCO World Heritage Site was the authorization given to build a large cement plant just next to Cam Pha’s coal mines. The water surrounding the coal mines is so saturated with coal dust, that it’s become profitable to dry it out and collect the dust for the creation of coal bricks for the countries’ stoves.

The idyllic and secluded beaches that one can find when venturing through the imposing limestones are covered in residues of dead corals. At a first glance one could think that the little fragments are just funny-shaped rocks, but at a closer look it is immediately evident that they are chunks of dead coral, coral that has slowly been dying since the extraction and destruction of mangrove forests which used to protect these and other fragile organisms.

Beautiful view from a cave

Another thing I started to worry about were the living standards of the floating fishing villages. From a distance they might look charming and authentic with their colorful boats and little wooden houses (miraculously held afloat by large Styrofoam boxes covered in plastic), but unfortunately they mostly survive off of intensive oyster, crab or fish farming which requires the use of polluting feeds. The houses lack appropriate facilities for basic needs, and little soft Styrofoam balls can be spotted in any possible corner of the Halong’s vastness. To top it off, most of the boats tugging herds of tourists through these natural beauties lack appropriate septic tanks to dispose of their passengers’ waste, which is then released directly into the bay. There were 1,5 million tourists visiting the Bay when Rising Dragon was published in 2010.

Unless action is taken soon, it seems that the fragile yet astoundingly breathtaking landscape of Halong Bay will soon be remembered only through some fading postcards stacked in travelers’ storage rooms or a child’s bedtime story.

Growth = Happiness?

On 15 May, Spaniards were called to invade the streets by the group Democratia Real Ya (A True Democracy, Now) showing Spain's growing dissatisfaction with the current political and financial system and by demonstrating their level of "fed-upness" with persisting high levels of unemployment (21,1% total, 44,6% for those under 25 years of age). This is a major theme of discussion all over Europe and in other parts of the developed world, but it's also an issue of great importance to the majority of young, talented and extremely qualified expatriate professionals that I speak to here in Hanoi.

If we take the example of Spain, nearly 45% of the under 25 years of age are still searching for employment despite a large majority of them holding a Masters degree, some professional experience and a couple of languages under their belt. When they do find a job, oftentimes their salaries are so low that they’re frequently forced to live with their parents. Although Spain’s unemployment rates are shockingly high, most other European nations aren’t much better off. European economies have been stagnating for some time while the United States seem to follow suite; but what about Asia?

Asia is not only very young, but most countries in the region are experiencing high GDP growth rates, have almost half their populations under 30 years of age and are all in the pursuit of growth and wealth. A big factor for stability in these countries is the relative freedom for entrepreneurship. In the case of Vietnam, every family seems to run an informal business that usually occurs at their doorstep: food stalls, CD and clothing shops, kiosks, liquor stores, handicraft boutiques and many others are an integrative part of almost every Vietnamese’s household. Not all are successful, but a few do breakthrough allowing them to expand and sometimes even begin a chain. It's the renaissance of the “American dream” Asian-style.

However, growth is not eternal and hardly sustainable in the long term, particularly for those countries that have already experienced a major boom. The Chinese government for example, is well aware of the risks of a future dip in growth and has decided to start launching a tactic to move the population’s priorities slowly away from wealth and consumerism to happiness. During this year’s plenary meeting for the development of the 12^th five-year plan, Chinese legislative and political bodies focused more on “happiness” versus “GDP growth”.

Vietnam will certainly face a similar dilemma down the road. Currently, one million new jobs are needed a year to maintain stable employment rates. For the time being, the government is managing this fairly well given Vietnam's comparative advantage over its neighbours with a generally qualified but cheap workforce. Nevertheless, the standard of living is growing and Vietnam has been achieving incredible results in poverty reduction; so good that it not only might achieve all the United Nations' Millennium Development Goals by 2015 but it has already silently exited the low-income country category joining the more prestigious Club of the "middle-incomes". But not everything is as rosy as statistics like to believe. The gap between the have and have not's is growing at a vertiginous speed, particularly visible through the bold and brassy cat walks of Bentleys, Porsches, Rolls Royces, Aston Martins and Ferraris.

China is increasingly aware that happiness is not directly related to the accumulation of wealth and its subsequent consumerist frenzy. Conversely, Spain is aware that without enough growth, happiness is automatically eclipsed by the lack of employment. The balance between the pursuit of happiness and the provision of a sufficient amount of jobs to occupy the population is not only extremely complex but also fragile. European governments are struggling to find a solution as the tensions continue to grow, but it will be interesting to see how China proceeds to influence and teach its population to be happy even without the latest electronic gadget, Louis Vuitton handbag or Lamborghini.

Maybe the Ying and the Yang will finally reconcile after years of separation, re-establishing their long lost equilibrium. Depending on the "happiness" campaign's results, Vietnam might want to consider adopting some similar measures soon and Europe might (for once) need to take notes.  

Seeds of Change

 

Every April 22^nd the world celebrates Earth Day. Launched by the Gaylord Nelson in 1970, former US Senator of Wisconsin, the first such event took place that same year. Inspired by the momentum gained by the anti Vietnam War protests, he partnered with the Republican Congressman Pete McCloskey and recruited Denis Haynes to organize a new kind of social movement: one concerned about the environment and its fast degradation. The world's first ever Earth Day mobilized 20 million Americans and marked the beginning of the modern environmental movement.

Young student collecting trash

Proof that this movement is blind to national borders is the significant mobilization that occurred here in Hanoi on Saturday 23 April. Following an entire week dedicated to environmental issues by means of a series of films and documentaries at a local movie theater, the Hanoi Environmental Group (http://hegroup.posterous.com/) was able to mobilize a large and diverse group of volunteers to take part in an Earth Day clean-up around Hanoi's West Lake.  

As Project Officer for Environmental Health at the World Health Organization, I thought I should "walk the talk" and volunteer my Saturday morning to offer a helping hand in the clean-up. I was assigned a team leader role and was responsible for a group of approximately 30 individuals, mostly Vietnamese University Students with only a few expats. At a first glance, one doesn’t immediately see the rubbish but given a closer look, the amount of trash integrated into the landscape is revolting. It was immediately obvious that a simple morning clean-up of our assigned area was not going to result in a radical improvement of the lakes' shore or surrounding promenade. Nevertheless, the young Vietnamese students were extremely motivated to collect as much rubbish as our bags could handle, a task requiring sometimes an almost superhuman effort of digging out decade-old plastic bags, linoleum and shoes to list a few of the most common items.

It was a pleasure to see the younger Vietnamese generation making use of their free time for such an important activity. But it wasn't the actual trash collecting activity that impressed me as much as the positive "second-hand" result of it: awareness raising. Vietnam, like the majority of developing countries, is not especially concerned or aware of the dire environmental consequences of mis- or un-managed waste. It is common practice to dispose of any unwanted rubbish directly onto the pavement, in the park, in the river… So many times have I seen young school children finish a soda and chuck the empty container on the ground.

The sad part is when you visit Vietnam's countryside. In the midst of green and pristine fields you can almost always find lonely piles of trash, mostly consisting of plastic bags that are so freely provided during any purchase.

Group photo: Proud of our work!

One weekend afternoon I ventured out to the Red River on my motorbike just to get a feel of the city's suburbs and to explore the surroundings. I ended up on a little narrow road along the river's shore. As I tried to imagine how exotically romantic the scenery must have been only 20 years ago, my imagination was constantly disrupted by what was before my eyes. All I could see was anarchic and sporadic development along the riverbank surrounded by piles of rubbish so saturated that gravity was dragging into the riverbed.

It's unfortunate that development always seems to come with a cost to the environment, especially for such things that require little or no financial investment, just awareness and appreciation for one's natural surroundings. But when I see youth engaged in activities to improve their own city’s health, I can only hope that little seeds of change are slowly starting to blossom.

Animal Farm

Singer of the Portuguese minority in Melaka

It’s easy to forget how advantaged we are to come from the Western hemisphere. This privilege becomes increasingly evident when traveling around the globe. I was to take part in an international workshop on climate change adaptation and risk reduction in Melaka, Malaysia last week. Prior to my departure I was advised to check whether I needed an entrance visa. For Swiss citizens, and most other Western nations, there is a no-visa policy for tourism up to 3 months. I was relieved: one less thing to worry about prior to a trip.

My flight from Hanoi to Kuala Lumpur went well: on time with no surprises. After exiting the aircraft, I followed the flow of passengers through the terminal corridors, leading to the immigration hall. The queue choices were slim amounting to a “Malaysian citizens” section and “Other nationalities”. The entire process seemed very well organized with orderly lines and a significant amount of immigration officers on duty. However, for the first time in my life I was faced with an particularly long line mostly populated by poor labor immigrants visibly coming to Malaysia in search for a livelihood.

Ninety-nine percent of them were men dressed in old and scruffy clothes, some carrying nothing but a simple backpack or plastic bags stuffed with a few personal belongings. Only two of them had their wives with them, the kids visibly undernourished and a sick infant crying and coughing. By their facial features and way of dress, I assumed they were from Afghanistan or Pakistan. My observations were correct: they were all vigilantly holding their Pakistani passports, careful not to misplace them. Their passport is their ticket into a new country, to new hope and to a new beginning.

Melaka Chinese night market delights

My heart winced. It was the first time I was faced with such a situation. I felt uneasy and embarrassed at myself as my first reaction when I saw this group of migrant workers was: “goodness, this is going to take a while!”. When I looked around me, there was another Western couple, probably from Australia, with equally alarmed looks on their faces, transpiring unease and a hint of repulsion. I began to look around and wonder why this was such a normal reaction of the “privileged”. What happened to me and to others like me to condition us to look at poor bearded Muslims from a position of superiority while doing nothing to hide the surfacing grimace marking our faces? A sense of guilt and disgust overcame my feelings. I couldn’t understand how I had become so conditioned to have such an automated reaction to these poor migrant workers, obviously struggling to make a living to feed their families.

Getting through immigration took each Pakistani over 8 minutes on average as they were clearly being thoroughly questioned and carefully scrutinized by the immigration officials. Over an hour later it was finally my turn. The officer keeping order made me step ahead of the Pakistani family and led me to the next available counter. The immigration officer gave only a slight glance at me and my Swiss passport, wrote something down and stamped my immigration card and passport. In less than a minute I was officially in Malaysia.

I walked confidently towards the airport’s exit with only one thing floating through my head, George Orwell’s “Animal Farm”. We are not all equal and should be reminded of our privilege to have been born on the right side of the globe. I made a note to myself to work on my reactions and not to allow underlying prejudices and stereotypes to take the best of me.