The eternal tourist

It's the first time that I live in country where I’m visibly a foreigner, a stranger. It's an odd feeling living in a new home but feeling like an eternal tourist. This thought process is so automated that even I find myself scrutinizing "westerners", judging the confidence of their walk to decipher whether they're simply passing through or here to stay.

When I move to a new country, the first things I try to do are: read about the country's history, discover its cuisine and sign-up for language classes. The next step is to keep an open heart (something that can sometimes be extremely challenging) while attempting to look at every situation from a local's viewpoint. It's only by simultaneously experiencing the lifestyle, the language and the culture that one slowly begins to "immerse" oneself; perceptions morphing from strange to familiar. The timeframe of this process can vary depending on the individual, the country in question and the amount of effort invested. It's like any relationship: there will be a "honeymoon" phase where everything seems incredible and exotic followed by a "return to reality" where imperfections appear and visible signs of irritation can surface. This is probably the most delicate phase because, if the openness that was vowed to be practiced at all times is seriously overtaken by these feelings, the experience can quickly transform itself into an overall negative journey.

Who's the tourist?

I'm currently at the core of a "return to reality", but my return to reality is less about my present position in Hanoi than about the expatriate world in general. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines "expatriate" as: "to leave one's native country to live elsewhere; to renounce allegiance to one's native country" (intransitive verb) and "banish, exile" (transitive verb). When I think about these descriptions and what I've been observing, I wonder to what extent the action of expatriating one's self is truly related to one's native country: is not simply the act of exiling one's self from any country?

I always used to believe that I would be one of those people aimlessly hopping around the globe, but I'm beginning to see things differently. Wouldn't the constant moving around eventually come in conflict with my abovementioned priorities of "integration" into a new environment? How many times can an individual go through the process of full appreciation of a culture, a history and a language? After the n^th country there must be a saturation point where hands are raised in surrender and the expat expatriates him- or herself not only from his or her native country but also from his or her new country of residence.

There are clear advantages of being an expatriate that go beyond attractive salaries and other tangible benefits. There are intangible benefits that are only visible to those that experience this lifestyle. Expatriates are extremely open and easy to approach. Human relations become more intense and building strong friendships is easier than in one's native country. There's a hidden "freedom" in every expatriate's behaviour, as if being far from one's origins suppresses fears (perceived or real) of one's cultural norms. It's an interesting mechanism, and I can see how people are always thirsty for more. The downside of this is that the thirst soon grows exponentially, eventually taking a lifetime and leaving one's initial points of repair dishevelled, blocking any easy form of repatriation.

Expatriates lead an essentially secluded lifestyle, allowing for very little intermingling with local populations, remaining an eternal tourist in the country of residence and eventually a tourist in one's country of origin. So what are the benefits of being an eternal tourist? I believe I've finally put my soul at peace and decided that it's not a question I need answered. I'm satisfied with the idea of experiencing a string of "honeymoons", an advantage that comes with being a simple and not an eternal tourist.

Everything, but the frog!

On our lovely weekend trip to the sandy beaches in Southern Vietnam (Nha Trang) the girls and I decided to be adventurous and sign up for a cooking class. It was Saturday afternoon and given the weather’s caprices, we thought that an activity such as a class could entertain us in attendance of bluer skies. We paid a deposit and were told to show up at 9am the next morning.

Nha Trang's sandy beach

We awoke to a beautifully sunny day but headed to the class anyway. We calculated that after lunch we would certainly need a siesta, and what’s better than an after-lunch siesta on a beautiful sandy beach?

Our cooking teacher, Nam, introduced herself and announced the class schedule. We were all to hop into the bicycle taxis and go to the market to buy the necessary products for our meal. We would start with an entrée of fresh spring rolls followed by a main course of fish cooked in a clay pot (chicken or beef for those that didn’t like fish), wrapping it all up with a simply delicious fruit flambé (pineapple, banana or mango).

The ride to the market was pleasantly relaxing. I was trying to imagine the feel of Vietnam 15 years ago when the streets were strictly ruled by bicycles, no cars or motorbikes in sight. I was reminiscing of a Vietnam that I had never experienced, and probably never would, where the pace of living was in perfect harmony with the humid heat and where the only sounds in the streets were people chatting in the Bia Hoi (Vietnamese draft beer joints with local food) or kids playing on the roads. It was a soothing thought.

Homemade springrolls

At our arrival at the market, the first stop was the vegetable stand. Nam showed us how to best pick a carrot and how to bargain for a fair price. We then moved to the fish stand to purchase some mackerel. The selection was large and a number of fish were still alive, helplessly attempting to wiggle their way into buckets half their size. Next to them were large crabs clamping their claws, but each one was tied to in a separate string and piled upside down.

Not far from the fish stand was a lady crouched on the floor, with a plateau packed with large green frogs. Each frog had a little string tied around its waist which was, in turn, tied to the rest of the group. Nam asked who would like to have a frog for lunch. We all stood there, immobile and hesitating. We were afraid to answer as it was unclear what would happen should we respond affirmatively. Nam took the initiative and ordered one frog. (What comes next is not for those with a sensitive stomach…)

Frog being weighed

The lady gleefully picked a frog from the bunch and cut the string. She pulled out a knife and sliced the frog’s belly. She then proceeded to rip the skin off in one swift movement, and dropped it in a bucket. The frog was frenetically jerking its legs, hoping to escape with the little of him he had left. But the lady quickly pulled out a large pair of scissors and chopped its head off in one loud “chiack!”. A girl in the group screeched and hid behind the group. The lady dropped the frog’s carcass (which was still twitching) into the scale, weighed it, charged Nam and neatly packed it into a small plastic bag. When handing the merchandise over to Nam, you could still see the bag moving.

By 2 o’clock we were all replete and looking forward to our lazy afternoon under the sun. We were now proud cooks planning our next homemade meal... excluding the frog.

Flip Side of the Coin

Worship altar, Cham tower, Nha Trang

Sometimes I wonder if things really get to us just because we believe they're truly absurd or because we perceive them to be. In my previous post I spoke about the irrationality of a parcel pick-up. I can still remember how annoyed and irritated I was throughout the entire process and now, looking back, I'm trying to understand what really triggered such a strong reaction on my part.

We have the authority… to smile

Yesterday I returned to the Post Office, this time to pick up a parcel sent by my father. The drive went smoothly with less traffic (or was I imagining it?) and when we arrived to our destination, I handed my passport with an attitude of: "I already know the procedure, so let's get it over with". For some reason the Post Office ladies were smiley and the mafioso-like official was nowhere in sight. At the moment of payment of the customs fees (once again for a total of $1), the lady requesting the money started chatting with me saying how beautiful and young I was and asking me what brought me to Vietnam. The process was smooth and uneventful, and in no time we were out in the car again, package in hand and a smile of satisfaction.

Anything can be done, and quickly

I had a couple of letters and a parcel I've been wanting to post for ages, but because of my fear (imaginary or not) of the Post Office, I'd been putting it off. On our way back to work from the parcel pick-up, the driver kindly volunteered to accompany me to the Central Post Office to show me the procedure. There were about 6 ladies behind the counter, all shyly welcoming me. They inspected the things I wanted to send and asked me to fill out some forms for customs. I explained that I didn't have a box, so one of the younger ones took my stuff and walked off into a corner. She carefully wrapped my merchandise in bubble wrap, then pulled out a large piece of old cardboard, flipped it to the clean side and began cutting. Her movements were swift and determined and after a few cuts and folds, she had skilfully made a beautiful box ready for delivery! She wrapped it in paper and asked me to write the address. I was impressed and speechless: the speed at which everything was done greatly exceeded my expectations. Fifteen minutes later we were back in the car, singing old 80s tunes on the way to work.

Who doesn’t have a brain has good people

You should never be in a hurry to receive a package from abroad as it can take anywhere from 1 to 2 months, so you can imagine what was going through my head when I realized, on the plane ride back to Hanoi, that I had forgotten my coat at the Hotel in Nha Trang: adios coat! I thought. I still gave it a shot and called the Hotel as soon we landed. The young man at the reception found it hanging neatly in the closet and requested that I call the next morning to discuss mailing details.

The next day, Monday morning, I gave them my address and they instructed me to deposit 64,000 Vietnamese Dong (about $3,2) in their account for postage. I prayed it wouldn't get lost in outer space but, to my surprise, Wednesday morning I spotted something bulging out of my office mailbox. I pulled it out and simply couldn’t believe it: it was my coat! In less then 2 days I had received the package!

Flip the coin

 

Street vendors, Nha Trang

After these few incidents I began to reshape my opinion about the system. My vision cleared from all the prejudice and the administrative procedures became superfluous. I came to the realization that maybe it wasn't them but me that had the lousy attitude. The process is certainly inefficient involving too much paperwork, too many signatures and too many people, but it's the way things are done and there is nothing we can do about it. But behind all that heavy bureaucracy there are curious, smiley and kind people. The humane side of the procedures finally emerged and the time has come to look at the flip side of the coin.