Some old news...
Quite a few weekends past, my friend Trang invited me to have a Sunday lunch at her house. We lazed around on her sleeping mat and enjoyed the sweet soup (che), fish, and rice that she had prepared earlier that morning. After much chatting and relaxation we made our way to the near-by flower market. The back alleys were filled with all sorts of colourful and fragrant flowers. Thousands of roses. Hoards of orchids. Trang introduced me to her favourite flower seller. Only minutes after I expressed interest in learning the art of creating an elaborate Vietnamese style bouquet, I had a Cambodian teacher at my side. I stripped the leaves and thorns from 100 long stem roses. A nearby seller thought this to be barbaric--myself doing the work. He offered, through an elaborate act of charades, that he would strip to thorns and leaves from the flowers not with a tool but with his bare hands. The ladies thought it tremendously humourous when I picked the choicest rose (riddled with many thorns) to offer up to him to show so that he might show his devotion. While he not-so-surreptitiously broke the thorns off with his fingers, he diverted my attention by making me promise him a kiss if he were to accomplish this magnificent feat. Luckily, the ladies spotted his secret dealings and insisted that if he wanted a kiss, he would have to come by it honestly. I was about to walk away from this "charmer" when he ran his hand along the rose, taking out leaves and thorns, and leaving only a trail of his own blood. Yikes. I offered him a light kiss on the hand for his blatant disregard of his body in the name of 'love.' The flower arranging took an inordinate amount of time, as I wound 100 roses--one at a time--into a spiral arrangement. By the end of the day, and eight-ish dollars later, I had a bouquet to be proud of. I offered it up to my neighbours, who have been very welcoming and friendly to us since our arrival in the building. Trang took me to get copious amounts of che for ridiculously cheap, and my day was, thus, completely satisfying.
The weekend following, I attended Mr. Trung's wedding, which contained a subdued version of the glitz I had come to expect of Vietnamese weddings. This one, unlike many others, had no disco ball or karaoke. How disappointing. Trang and her cousin came over for dinner afterward.
The weekend which followed confirmed my suspicions that most memorable teaching happens outside the classroom. Cheratien and I have started a Community Involvement Club at the school. Our kids spearheaded a fundraiser to support Kickstart (the program that Cheratien and I have been working with in the Mekong region). Watching their ideas percolate and their tremendous initiative made me stupidly proud. We then took a trip to Ben Tre, where our students lead a morning of games and learning activities for about 40 students there. The students also had the opportunity to visit the homes of some of our sponsor children. The students had fun conquering challenging coconut bridges and were amazing by the different lifestyle of the students. Kim Y is my sponsor child, and her home is about a 45 min. walk to her public school. Her home is without electricity, so she gets up early in the morning to do her studying. she has been top of her class for the last six years.
Many of the students who attended the trip were not Vietnamese nationals. We had to give a crash course on using a squat toilet. Judy came out of the washroom declaring that it was "a good toilet experience," but that next time she would prefer a "good toilet. Rina accidentally lit a napkin on fire with the hot pot flame.
The students were exhausted, but pleased. The following week, we had the students do a reflection and start development on the project they would like to undertake having seen the area. I nearly cried when Judy said that her favourite part of the trip was seeing "the, I don't know how to say it, twinkle twinkle of curiosity in the students eyes." My students have decided to use the funds they raised to help build some stable bridges in the region and sponsor a student.
The following weekend was a busy one, indeed. Many of you have seen the facebook photos documenting my trip to the Binh Minh Leprosy Clinc, about an hour and a half outside of Ho Chi Minh City. I went with a group of locals who run a program called "Lighten Up the Smiles." I will not write too much about that experience, for I am working on a more detailed account, which I will share at a later date. The experience was unforgettable and has surely given me inspiration for future endeavors.
On the way home from Binh Minh, we stopped so that the Buddhists in our midst could offer prayers at a monastery. It was absolutely tranquil, and everything one would imagine-- well tended gardens, fragrant flowers, young monks studying, older monks sharing work. I was fortunate enough to be in the company of my friend Hung, who
is a translator and so was unfortunate enough to translate all me questions to the monk about the iconography, the daily life there, how young monks are brought into the monastery, their garments, etc. According the the monk who generously answered many of my questions, young monks are simply children who visit the monastery and decide to stay because they feel moved by its peace. The monks' day is divided into three sections: mediation, education, and work. They are divided into work groups and have specific tasks assigned to them (temple care, kitchen duty, etc.) Women are also practice in a similar way, but on a separate compound. I also learned of the monks' hospitality, rather by accident. I was exploring the grounds, as I had been invited to do, when I heard "Where you from" echo from around the corner. I draw a little but nearer to see several monks, on kitchen duty, peaking around the kitchen wall. I answer the obvious spokesman in Vietnamese, and then ensued a rapid fire series of questions. I eventually ended up sitting at a table, surrounded by half a dozen monks, being offered all sorts of vegetarian, Vietnamese fare. The rest of the group eventually found me, and were invited to join as well. One of the monks studied at a partner monastery in Montreal, and so had many questions and points to converse with me about. Through broken English and broken Vietnamese, we attempted to communicate the heart of our beliefs to one another. Quite a wonderful and humbling experience.
Time seems to lump together.... sometime after this...
Jeremy and I join Thao and Ha for a motorbike trip to her mother's in the countryside. It was so lovely to see her family again. In Vietnamese culture, on the anniversary of a parent's death, the family throws a big party for all friends and relatives. Thao's uncle's and father's deaths coincided, so we joined a large family feast. We honed our Vietnamese, ate stupid amounts of food, swallowed down generously offered fatty pork, and drank to the deceased.
That evening, I returned to the city and joined Cheratien and Josh for a culinary experience--eating a cobra. First, the cobra is selected and weighed. The cobra is riled up to get its heart pumping. While the cobra displays its anger, small children are casually waved out of the way by the bludgeoner (sporting flip flops and a non-nonchalant attitude). He smacks the snake, creates two incisions, spills the venom and then drains the blood into a bowl, mixing it with rice wine. The still beating heart and gull bladder are extracted. Josh and Cheratien share the heart, and I shot down the gull bladder. We "enjoy" our bloody rice wine in quick shots, then proceed to eat the snake, prepared in all manners (guts with vegetables, grilled with chillies, the rib bones deep fried, the meet bakes, etc). An entertaining night, all in all. However, I have determined that eating a snake may be one of those "once in a lifetime is enough" sort of experiences.
Details of my Bali adventure... to come next week!
Monday, February 1, 2010
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Holiday Time: Part II
We roll into Sandakan and take an overpriced taxi ride (mind you, in Asia, overpriced is still quite reasonable) from the on-the-outskirts bus station to our hostel. Our hostel is run by a surly and efficient Mr. Lum, who informs us in short and informative sentences about the innumerable services available at the Mayfair (including an expansive movie collection, with films filed into categories such as "Schwarzenegger Movies"). The hotel is painted with an industrial blue that makes medical wards look cozy. EVERYTHING in the rooms are branded with the "Mayfair" label, so that if we were to steal the yellowing lamp shades, the local citizens would be sure to spot our crime. Signs with reminders to the patrons line the walls. Special mention goes to: "Children must not wet the bed. Thank you." The sign, of course, illustrates its command by depicting a babe with a wet pool round his bottom and a large "X" nearby and, alternatively, approving the dry, soundly sleeping babe. Other signs indicated "forbidden fruits" in the hotel, such as Durian of course (refer back to an earlier blog to understand the reason for such fruit legislation).
It is here at the Mayfair that I have a Christmas Skype with my family. Dave and Courtney are home from B.C. and from a visit with Courtney's family and friends. Dara and Choo Yeung are home from Toronto and Choo Yeung's family Christmas. All family members gather in the camera's line of vision, taking turns in the prominent seat. I watch them open their presents sent from Vietnam, and am able to explain their significance. Dave suggests that we take a family photo, so Choo Yeung sets up his camera on timer and they all gather around the screen. The final product has my head filling the entire oversized computer screen, making me appear quite like a bodiless bobble head in comparison to the normal proportions of my family.
It is after this conversation, that I realize that I miss home. Up until this point, I haven't had any significant pangs for Canada--perhaps the business of life in Saigon prevents having time for those feelings. Accompanying this sense of "missing" Canada is a "missing" of Saigon. Indeed, the city has become a home to me now.
While in Sandakan, we take local bus number 14 to the Sepilok Orangutan Rehabilitation Center. To quote from an entirely credible source, the center's visitor's pamphlet: the center aims to "return orphaned, injured, or displaced orangutans back to the wild." Orangutans have become endangered as their natural habitats have been replaced by Palm Oil plantations. Many plantation owners take Orangutans as pets, and so one of the primary sources of the centers in-take are these plantations. As a visitor we witness part of the process of rehabilitation by visiting the feeding platform, where the natural diet of the orangutan is supplemented with milk and fruit. Both human caregivers and the other orangutans help teach new arrivals how to nest and other survival skills they lack.
Watching the orangutans confirms their 96% genetic similarity to human beings. One large fellow stands upright on the platform doing some GQ poses for the audience. Another gets a little aggressive when it comes to others crowding his banana stash. One playfully aggravates his friends. I could have stayed watching this scene indefinitely, but the orangutans eventually exhaust their food supply and take off into the jungle. A walk about allows me to catch sight of a few tucked in the top of trees or swinging about.
Back in Sandakan we make a discovery of great importance: our favourite seaside restaurant sells blended banana, ice, and oreo shakes. This is, of course, a blessing for my mouth and a curse to my diet. I have a dream that night about fried squid and oreo shakes. It has become an obsession. It is also here in Sandakan that our love of roti grows into an obsession. With stops for the delicious Indian style flatbread and curry sauce becoming a staple of both our mornings and evenings.
From Sandakan we take a 5 hour bus down to Semporna, a small town on the lower east coast of Sabah. The bus ride is blissfully Cyclops-free. I passed much of my time watching a family of 8 sharing four seats. The kids patiently stood or squatted in the small space by the more grown ones feet. The baby was passed from sibling to sibling and back to mother. Later in the trip, I will make a harsh comparison between the patience of these children the manic-ness of the two American children on our 45 min. flight to Kota Kinabalu. The bus meanders along and makes stops at seemingly random spots in the jungle to crowd on more people. The bus is, however, fairly luxurious, with air-con and no pervasive bathroom smell. We wind through palm oil plantation ofter palm oil plantation, confirming what we had heard at Sepilok. Upon reaching Semporna we file of the bus, collect our bags and ask a young local how to get to our Scuba shop. The boy points us in a straight direction, so we begin our wander. Not 2 min. into our walk, the young man shows up and walks us the rest of the way--right to our hostel door. We check in and arrange our dives through Rob, a man in his early thirties perfectly fitting the Scuba the dive master profile, looking much like a tiered and possible hung over surfer. Shoulder length, tussled blond hair. No shoes. Topless. Surf shorts. We soon learn than this is a sort of uniform for the dive masters at Scuba Junkie. Tattoos also seemed common.
We take some time to explore Semporna. We wander into the market area, which is a community built on stilts over the water. The place is filthy, with sanitation comparable to Kibera. Two little boys kneel on the wooded walkway, shooting at rats with slingshots. Migrant peoples bob in their boats--families of five in just one small vessel. I consequently dive into interviews to the Scuba Junkie staff about the living conditions in Semporna and take on some internet research. According to my findings, there are no known NGOs servicing the community (besides with environmental initiatives). Often areas that have a flow of tourism (as Semporna does for its proximity to the famous Sipidan dive location) are idea for the development of development projects, because there is increased cash flow and outside awareness. I was struck by the absolute irony of the fact that thousands of divers file through Semporna en route to the pristine waters of Sipidan, but likely don't often see the local inlet of water, the banks of which are riddled with garbage and human waste.
The next day we catch an early boat to Sipuan Island where we will do our introductory dive "course." I use the word "course" lightly, because it was more of a whirlwind intro to the art of staying alive underwater. It is great, for Adam has us into the water and diving around the coral in just a few short minutes. The boys in the open water course are struggling, so we take their most advanced member to join our dives. Rory, our second dive master, nearly kills me as he picks our place of decent to be directly above a field of sea urchins (picture me slowly sinking to look down at looming black spikes only inches from my feet, only to add enough air back into my BCD with just enough time to save my life.. haha). On this dive, we see both stingrays and turtles, both of massive size. I am hit with the surrealism of breathing underwater as turtles swim inches from me.
The island is nicknamed "Sunburn Island," so as others turn to lobsters, I bathe in sunscreen.
The island is inhabited by Filipino people who were once "sea gypsies", who illegally squat on the land. The Malaysian government ignores their presence, but they are left entirely to fend for themselves in the often harsh climate and conditions of the island and sea. The politically incorrect term, "sea gypsies," is used quite liberally by the residents. Although the term may sound romantic in its ability to conjure up images of a nomadic people with the tropical ocean as their home, there is certainly very little romantic about the poverty-stricken state of these peoples. The children warmly greet us and bring us coconuts, while the men stare. The marine police, stationed on every island in an attempt to prevent the proliferation of sea piracy, ask to take their pictures with us.
The following day we take a boat to Mabul, another island in the area. The dive company has a simple, but beautiful, lodge there in which we will spend the night. We pester Rory and Sero with questions about the ocean and various fish we discover while snorkeling. We lay in our hammocks and read. We swim in the blue water by the jetties. We wander the island, watching the local children fly their stunning handcrafted kites, made of salvaged metal and old plastic bags. On the other side of the island, I walk by a group of kids whose ancient radio plays some tunes. I do a little dance, and before I know it, I am circled by a hoard of children who are clapping, laughing, and cheering me on. Old woman gather on the periphery, watching from a distance with small smiles on their faces. Due to our initiation of the dance party, we get warm welcomes throughout the rest of the village. We meet a fun collection of people (a school teacher from Britain, a business man from Germany, and a ultra-sound tech from Canada) who we spend our evenings with.
We spend New Year's Eve waiting for our delayed flight out of Tawau back to Kota Kinabalu. I slump in a chair to sleep and make some failed attempts at calling home from an airport pay phone. I read my book out loud to Cheratien, while curious children eavesdrop. We arrive in Kota Kinabalu just in time to see some fireworks from out cab, check-in to our hostel, and fall asleep. Exhausted. Our final day partial day in Borneo we spend stalking up on particular drug store supplies (ex. tea tree oil, non-whitening lotion, and vitamins) that are hard to come by in HCMC. In partial jest and partial seriousness I purchase a crystal salt deodorant called "Smelly-no-more." I have been since using this magic little stick and loving it!
Our flight lands us in KL for an evening spent sleeping on airport benches, which are surprisingly suitable for a semi-successful night of slumber. I wake up at about three and snack on the roti I had stashed in my carry-on.
From KL, we arrive back into HCMC and take the now familiar ride back to District 7. The house is a disaster zone, and I spend the day doing laundry and cleaning up dust and gecko poo. A perfect end to an adventurous holiday.
*****
Since returning from holiday, I have successfully and without too much pain, integrated back into working life. My students were thrilled to be back at school (they ACTUALLY were). They constantly amaze me with their zest and creativity. We had a wonderful discussion the other day. One person every three days dies in Vietnam due to domestic violence. Three out of five women report abuse. The Vietnamese government, for the first time, has instituted laws that provide fines for domestic abuse. People are, however, worried that these laws will have little impact on the situation. My students discussed why this might be. They compared Korean culture to Vietnamese culture with respect to the treatment of women. They brainstormed ways that these laws could be more effective (coming up with such statements, as: "If our whole culture says that women are to obey men, women are not going to step forward and people are going to continue to ignore this violence. Women need to know that there is somewhere that they can go. Support for them from the people. Otherwise, she will just make the problem worse for herself and have no way to actually escape the violence." Sometimes these kids make me so proud.
Interesting bits and pieces:
I am on the new facilities committee, which means I am playing a role in choosing items for the new school and providing consultation for the owners. Our building will hopefully be completed by August. Hopefully.
I had a fairly reasonable conversation with my xe om driver entirely in Vietnamese this week. Very exciting.
I went swing dancing on Wednesday at this little French cafe downtown. They run free lessons from 8-9, and then run dancing well into the night.
I am leading a community involvement club at the school. The kids are going to be going to Ben Tre with us this coming weekend and working with the students there, visiting some of their homes and seeing their living conditions. The students are so excited and have already come up with an initiative for how they are going to raise money to assist the students there. They are in a flurry of activity: preparing, writing letters to parents, visiting classrooms, etc.
We went with the ladies to the Hard Rock Cafe last weekend. Playing there was the first an American rock band named "American Hitmen." Apparently they had to be approved by the Ministry of Culture, who sat cross-armed and straight faced while the band sang about having killed people and being willing to do it again. I think that the Vietnamese contingent didn't have a literal translation of the lyrics or they may not have approved the group. However, they loved them and gave them the go ahead (perhaps over-looking the fact that they are all also U.S. Marines).
Jennifer, our friend who works at the American Consulate, but plans on leaving the job at the end of the year to pursue some of her other interests, is trying to get experience with film and so brought along a hand cam. I surreptitiously arranged for her to rock some tambourine with the band, while I filmed. By the end of the evening we had about seven or eight random ladies from the crown joining us for dance parties on the stage. Strategically navigating around the band members as they played. Thankfully, we had befriended the security guard, so instead of blatantly kicking us off the stage, gave us weak and fearful smiles.
We also held a very candid interview with a Malaysian man at the restaurant, inquiring about the seemingly odd practices of some Asian women (skin whitening and nipple pinkening).
We hit up the Hard Rock again last night with all the ladies from C.I.S. I know. I know. Going to a cheesy themed restaurant two weeks in a row...not quite my style, but a whole lot of fun.
I was happy to sit at a table under an Allman Brothers' Band guitar!
Thanks to all who sent packages, cards, and letters my way. I definitely reverted back to "kid on Christmas morning" mentality upon their arrival.
To all friends and family. I love and miss you deeply. Thanks for taking interest in my going-ons!
Love,
K
It is here at the Mayfair that I have a Christmas Skype with my family. Dave and Courtney are home from B.C. and from a visit with Courtney's family and friends. Dara and Choo Yeung are home from Toronto and Choo Yeung's family Christmas. All family members gather in the camera's line of vision, taking turns in the prominent seat. I watch them open their presents sent from Vietnam, and am able to explain their significance. Dave suggests that we take a family photo, so Choo Yeung sets up his camera on timer and they all gather around the screen. The final product has my head filling the entire oversized computer screen, making me appear quite like a bodiless bobble head in comparison to the normal proportions of my family.
It is after this conversation, that I realize that I miss home. Up until this point, I haven't had any significant pangs for Canada--perhaps the business of life in Saigon prevents having time for those feelings. Accompanying this sense of "missing" Canada is a "missing" of Saigon. Indeed, the city has become a home to me now.
While in Sandakan, we take local bus number 14 to the Sepilok Orangutan Rehabilitation Center. To quote from an entirely credible source, the center's visitor's pamphlet: the center aims to "return orphaned, injured, or displaced orangutans back to the wild." Orangutans have become endangered as their natural habitats have been replaced by Palm Oil plantations. Many plantation owners take Orangutans as pets, and so one of the primary sources of the centers in-take are these plantations. As a visitor we witness part of the process of rehabilitation by visiting the feeding platform, where the natural diet of the orangutan is supplemented with milk and fruit. Both human caregivers and the other orangutans help teach new arrivals how to nest and other survival skills they lack.
Watching the orangutans confirms their 96% genetic similarity to human beings. One large fellow stands upright on the platform doing some GQ poses for the audience. Another gets a little aggressive when it comes to others crowding his banana stash. One playfully aggravates his friends. I could have stayed watching this scene indefinitely, but the orangutans eventually exhaust their food supply and take off into the jungle. A walk about allows me to catch sight of a few tucked in the top of trees or swinging about.
Back in Sandakan we make a discovery of great importance: our favourite seaside restaurant sells blended banana, ice, and oreo shakes. This is, of course, a blessing for my mouth and a curse to my diet. I have a dream that night about fried squid and oreo shakes. It has become an obsession. It is also here in Sandakan that our love of roti grows into an obsession. With stops for the delicious Indian style flatbread and curry sauce becoming a staple of both our mornings and evenings.
From Sandakan we take a 5 hour bus down to Semporna, a small town on the lower east coast of Sabah. The bus ride is blissfully Cyclops-free. I passed much of my time watching a family of 8 sharing four seats. The kids patiently stood or squatted in the small space by the more grown ones feet. The baby was passed from sibling to sibling and back to mother. Later in the trip, I will make a harsh comparison between the patience of these children the manic-ness of the two American children on our 45 min. flight to Kota Kinabalu. The bus meanders along and makes stops at seemingly random spots in the jungle to crowd on more people. The bus is, however, fairly luxurious, with air-con and no pervasive bathroom smell. We wind through palm oil plantation ofter palm oil plantation, confirming what we had heard at Sepilok. Upon reaching Semporna we file of the bus, collect our bags and ask a young local how to get to our Scuba shop. The boy points us in a straight direction, so we begin our wander. Not 2 min. into our walk, the young man shows up and walks us the rest of the way--right to our hostel door. We check in and arrange our dives through Rob, a man in his early thirties perfectly fitting the Scuba the dive master profile, looking much like a tiered and possible hung over surfer. Shoulder length, tussled blond hair. No shoes. Topless. Surf shorts. We soon learn than this is a sort of uniform for the dive masters at Scuba Junkie. Tattoos also seemed common.
We take some time to explore Semporna. We wander into the market area, which is a community built on stilts over the water. The place is filthy, with sanitation comparable to Kibera. Two little boys kneel on the wooded walkway, shooting at rats with slingshots. Migrant peoples bob in their boats--families of five in just one small vessel. I consequently dive into interviews to the Scuba Junkie staff about the living conditions in Semporna and take on some internet research. According to my findings, there are no known NGOs servicing the community (besides with environmental initiatives). Often areas that have a flow of tourism (as Semporna does for its proximity to the famous Sipidan dive location) are idea for the development of development projects, because there is increased cash flow and outside awareness. I was struck by the absolute irony of the fact that thousands of divers file through Semporna en route to the pristine waters of Sipidan, but likely don't often see the local inlet of water, the banks of which are riddled with garbage and human waste.
The next day we catch an early boat to Sipuan Island where we will do our introductory dive "course." I use the word "course" lightly, because it was more of a whirlwind intro to the art of staying alive underwater. It is great, for Adam has us into the water and diving around the coral in just a few short minutes. The boys in the open water course are struggling, so we take their most advanced member to join our dives. Rory, our second dive master, nearly kills me as he picks our place of decent to be directly above a field of sea urchins (picture me slowly sinking to look down at looming black spikes only inches from my feet, only to add enough air back into my BCD with just enough time to save my life.. haha). On this dive, we see both stingrays and turtles, both of massive size. I am hit with the surrealism of breathing underwater as turtles swim inches from me.
The island is nicknamed "Sunburn Island," so as others turn to lobsters, I bathe in sunscreen.
The island is inhabited by Filipino people who were once "sea gypsies", who illegally squat on the land. The Malaysian government ignores their presence, but they are left entirely to fend for themselves in the often harsh climate and conditions of the island and sea. The politically incorrect term, "sea gypsies," is used quite liberally by the residents. Although the term may sound romantic in its ability to conjure up images of a nomadic people with the tropical ocean as their home, there is certainly very little romantic about the poverty-stricken state of these peoples. The children warmly greet us and bring us coconuts, while the men stare. The marine police, stationed on every island in an attempt to prevent the proliferation of sea piracy, ask to take their pictures with us.
The following day we take a boat to Mabul, another island in the area. The dive company has a simple, but beautiful, lodge there in which we will spend the night. We pester Rory and Sero with questions about the ocean and various fish we discover while snorkeling. We lay in our hammocks and read. We swim in the blue water by the jetties. We wander the island, watching the local children fly their stunning handcrafted kites, made of salvaged metal and old plastic bags. On the other side of the island, I walk by a group of kids whose ancient radio plays some tunes. I do a little dance, and before I know it, I am circled by a hoard of children who are clapping, laughing, and cheering me on. Old woman gather on the periphery, watching from a distance with small smiles on their faces. Due to our initiation of the dance party, we get warm welcomes throughout the rest of the village. We meet a fun collection of people (a school teacher from Britain, a business man from Germany, and a ultra-sound tech from Canada) who we spend our evenings with.
We spend New Year's Eve waiting for our delayed flight out of Tawau back to Kota Kinabalu. I slump in a chair to sleep and make some failed attempts at calling home from an airport pay phone. I read my book out loud to Cheratien, while curious children eavesdrop. We arrive in Kota Kinabalu just in time to see some fireworks from out cab, check-in to our hostel, and fall asleep. Exhausted. Our final day partial day in Borneo we spend stalking up on particular drug store supplies (ex. tea tree oil, non-whitening lotion, and vitamins) that are hard to come by in HCMC. In partial jest and partial seriousness I purchase a crystal salt deodorant called "Smelly-no-more." I have been since using this magic little stick and loving it!
Our flight lands us in KL for an evening spent sleeping on airport benches, which are surprisingly suitable for a semi-successful night of slumber. I wake up at about three and snack on the roti I had stashed in my carry-on.
From KL, we arrive back into HCMC and take the now familiar ride back to District 7. The house is a disaster zone, and I spend the day doing laundry and cleaning up dust and gecko poo. A perfect end to an adventurous holiday.
*****
Since returning from holiday, I have successfully and without too much pain, integrated back into working life. My students were thrilled to be back at school (they ACTUALLY were). They constantly amaze me with their zest and creativity. We had a wonderful discussion the other day. One person every three days dies in Vietnam due to domestic violence. Three out of five women report abuse. The Vietnamese government, for the first time, has instituted laws that provide fines for domestic abuse. People are, however, worried that these laws will have little impact on the situation. My students discussed why this might be. They compared Korean culture to Vietnamese culture with respect to the treatment of women. They brainstormed ways that these laws could be more effective (coming up with such statements, as: "If our whole culture says that women are to obey men, women are not going to step forward and people are going to continue to ignore this violence. Women need to know that there is somewhere that they can go. Support for them from the people. Otherwise, she will just make the problem worse for herself and have no way to actually escape the violence." Sometimes these kids make me so proud.
Interesting bits and pieces:
I am on the new facilities committee, which means I am playing a role in choosing items for the new school and providing consultation for the owners. Our building will hopefully be completed by August. Hopefully.
I had a fairly reasonable conversation with my xe om driver entirely in Vietnamese this week. Very exciting.
I went swing dancing on Wednesday at this little French cafe downtown. They run free lessons from 8-9, and then run dancing well into the night.
I am leading a community involvement club at the school. The kids are going to be going to Ben Tre with us this coming weekend and working with the students there, visiting some of their homes and seeing their living conditions. The students are so excited and have already come up with an initiative for how they are going to raise money to assist the students there. They are in a flurry of activity: preparing, writing letters to parents, visiting classrooms, etc.
We went with the ladies to the Hard Rock Cafe last weekend. Playing there was the first an American rock band named "American Hitmen." Apparently they had to be approved by the Ministry of Culture, who sat cross-armed and straight faced while the band sang about having killed people and being willing to do it again. I think that the Vietnamese contingent didn't have a literal translation of the lyrics or they may not have approved the group. However, they loved them and gave them the go ahead (perhaps over-looking the fact that they are all also U.S. Marines).
Jennifer, our friend who works at the American Consulate, but plans on leaving the job at the end of the year to pursue some of her other interests, is trying to get experience with film and so brought along a hand cam. I surreptitiously arranged for her to rock some tambourine with the band, while I filmed. By the end of the evening we had about seven or eight random ladies from the crown joining us for dance parties on the stage. Strategically navigating around the band members as they played. Thankfully, we had befriended the security guard, so instead of blatantly kicking us off the stage, gave us weak and fearful smiles.
We also held a very candid interview with a Malaysian man at the restaurant, inquiring about the seemingly odd practices of some Asian women (skin whitening and nipple pinkening).
We hit up the Hard Rock again last night with all the ladies from C.I.S. I know. I know. Going to a cheesy themed restaurant two weeks in a row...not quite my style, but a whole lot of fun.
I was happy to sit at a table under an Allman Brothers' Band guitar!
Thanks to all who sent packages, cards, and letters my way. I definitely reverted back to "kid on Christmas morning" mentality upon their arrival.
To all friends and family. I love and miss you deeply. Thanks for taking interest in my going-ons!
Love,
K
Sunday, January 3, 2010
PART 1: HOLIDAY TIME
This blog may be weighty, like a good meal of zesty carbohydrates that is delicious at first, but gut rotting and excess by its mid-way point. Feel free to drop out at any point along the way. I have decided to format this entry in a "live time" narrative approach, just for something new.
Dec. 12
Cheratien and I are up early to catch the bus which will take us to Trinh's parents home. Today, we will be a part of a Vietnamese wedding. With ao dai's in tow, we make a 6 hour journey into the countryside. With only pork fat sandwiches as sustenance (generously provided by the groom's parents) we arrive a bit peckish. We change into our ao dai's on the bus and hightail it in front of the other relatives, so that we can be the first to arrive. It is our responsibility as "bridesmaids" to receive the gifts which the groom's family will bring for the bridges family. After wandering down a small path in the forest for about 20 min, led by Trinh's small cousin on his oversized bicycle, we arrive and line the sides of the drive to the house. The groom's family arrives and hands us over large trays filled with fruits and other offerings. I received the heaviest, but was able to retain a graceful gait for its delivery to the family alter. From there, are job was done and we were able to simply watch the ceremony. Tea. Prayers. The lighting of the candles (couples hope that the flames of both are of equal strength, as that will symbolize at equity in the power dynamics of the relationship). The groom's parents giving the bride jewellery. And so on. Humourously, many of those who came the great distance for the wedding, sit back in the tent drinking beer and eating peanuts. We have a delicious meal, at which numerous family members take turns scooping choice meats into our bowls... a sign of friendship and respect.
One of Trinh's small cousins takes a liking to me, and more particularly to my casualness with my camera. He becomes my resident photographer, documenting the day and forcing together odd partnerships for photo opportunities. He speaks to be quickly and often in Vietnamese, in spite of his knowledge that my Vietnamese is limited. Once again, my belief that children are some of the most innocently generous hosts is reaffirmed. We babble at each other in our respective languages and communicate quite well. Upon seeing us to the bus, he gets a light-bulb flash of inspiration and hopes on his over-sized bike once more, to race back home. He returns sweating, a few moments later, with a gift for me. One of the wedding balloons... a dilapidated pink heart. Thankfully, Cheratien has a Canadian pin on hand, and so leans out of the bus window to pin it on his lapel. He beams. Another great moment of the day was being offered a husband by a Vietnamese woman who decided I should be her daughter in law. She literally went and collected her son and brought his forward. An awkward few moments of stilted conversation ensued, before she let him recoil in embarrassment.
Dec. 13
We are to meet Trinh and Trang at the "Beauty Saloon"... yes, two "Os:...at 11 to get our hair and make-up done for the reception, which would take place at noon at a restaurant in town. We arrive and are promptly seated and attacked by brushes, hair-spray, and sponges. My eyes are closed in preservation, but I can feel my eyebrows growing. I open my eyes to note that large caterpillars have taken residence on my brows. It takes a bit to convince my make-up artist that they should be tamed down--that they are big enough as it is. Because of my persistence in this matter, I let it slide when she brought out the purple, sparkly eye shadow. As mom always says, choose your battles. I, however, felt quite fortunate when I swivelled my chair to check out Cheratien's make-up and coif. Mouse and a curling iron had transformed her hair into a pageant-participant's style. Her eyelids were vibrantly adorned with blue, glitter, and her lips a bright coral pink. Beauuuuutiful. Her boyfriend would later compare her visage to that of the Joker. Trinh rolled in at quarter to twelve. With only fifteen official minutes to get her ready, she had a team of about eight working on her at all times. With no question as to her desire, one woman pinned her hair into two side buns and spray painted them a fuchsia pink. In went some orchids and baby's breath, seemingly materialized out of thin air. Another woman lathered whitening lotion on to Trinh's arms. Another went to town on her face. We rushed to the back room, and there stands a suitcase. When opened up, we see that it contains Trinh's three wedding dresses. She chooses one, yanks it out of the suitcase and puts it on, while another helper runs next door to try to find a crinoline. In a few second we are being ushered out the door and into a taxi on our way to the restaurant. We arrive to see our images broadcast onto television screens scattered throughout the restaurant. We take the elevator up to the main room, where our little photographer eagerly awaits our arrival. The bride enters moments later with the groom and the parents, with the back-track of what can only be described as eerily similar to "The Final Countdown" (think Job's theme song in Arrested Development). The strobe light is pumping. The smoke is flowing. All important parties say a speech, and the couple cuts the cake. They also pour pink campaign over a pyramid of campaign glasses, cleverly stocked with dry ice to produce billowing smoke. The singing begins and a middle aged Vietnamese woman gets up to crock Jingle Bells out. The music is so loud that no conversation can take place. Following the litany of legitimate performers comes karaoke time, which was mostly monopolized by staff of the Canadian International School. Although I was not foolish enough to sing, Trinh dragged me on stage a few times to dance. Overall, this two-day wedding affair was a blast to be a part of. Culturally, highly informative.
Dec. 15
As I stand in the Activity Room, a small carpeted area which houses nearly 55 pre-pubescent and pubescent youngsters practicing for "The BEST Christmas Concert Ever" in the stanky heat of the Ho Chi Minh City afternoon, my principal, Bonnie, sticks her head in a calls me yonder to the door. Typically a sign that something of secret confidence needs to be shared. I keep a half-watchful eye on the tiered students dragging through the last refrains of "IT'S HOLIDAY TIME!" Ji Hun is pretending to me a Christmas ninja and punctuating the rhythm of the song with karate chops to the air. Man sleeps with his head doing the infamous drop and pop manoeuvre; as he falls into sleep he lets his head drop down, only to snap it back up in recovery.
Sung Woo is using his music sheets as a make-shift torture device. Appreciating my students’ fatigue, I turn to Bonnie to be informed that because of an important soccer game that will take place on Thursday (the scheduled date of our performance), the owners have decided to reschedule the concert to tomorrow night. Still without a stage and tent, a dress rehearsal, several major props and costumes, and so on, this seemed like an impossible and ill conceived proposition. The students, upon hearing the news, go into hysterics for several key players would be able to attend the rescheduled date. With all these confirmations of the horrific nature of this plan, we swing into action to convince the owners that we should proceed with the concert as planned, and ask parents to attend in spite of the "Big Game." We reached a compromise. The concert will go ahead on Thursday, but the game will be played on big screens before the show begins, and an update of the score provided mid-way through. Reasonable. In the end, the students think that the teachers have pulled a massive practical joke on them to spook them into taking practice more seriously. We did not correct their misinterpretation.
Dec. 18
After two months of shenanigans, it is performance day. During the day, students run gleefully about the halls in their costumes. Alice asks me if she can wear her elf costume all day. By noon, the kids have shed their costumes in favour of regulating their body temperatures. One kindergartener is caught, during dress rehearsal, pulling off his cotton tail, eating bits of it, and sticking the rest into his nose and ears.
Perhaps all the headaches paid off when I get to see 190 of our students dressed in a variety of costumes (from dogs and ducks to elves and ghosts) singing their hearts out on stage. The parents were worse than paparazzi, ploughing through real and invisible boundaries in order to capture their kid-letts in action. In the end, Cheratien, Kay, and I receive big bouquets of flowers for our work and kid speeches from several students. One student states with confidence that we were "the absolute BEST music and drama teachers in the school." Sure, the only, but also the best. I was very proud of my students and their grand accomplishment to sing and act from memory, in their second or third language. You can see facebook for some blurry and inattentively taken photographs of the event.
The staff gathers afterwards to have some drinks. We toast to this odd accomplishment and to optimism and co-operation in the new year.
Dec. 19
Riding the let-down from the concert, the Intermediate teachers hold a pancake breakfast and movie time for the students. We made pancakes served up with genuine Canadian maple syrup and watched Elf.
By 4:30 Cheratien and I are on a flight to KL, Malaysia. On this flight I solidify something I have abashedly had fleeting recognition of previously, I like airplane food. Yeppers. It's true. Our flight to Kota Kinabalu is delayed several hours, so we spend much of the time chatting with Mohammad over cups of white coffee. He manages this store and passes his days meeting interesting travellers.
December 20th and BEYOND
Upon arriving in KK, we learn that 126 bags had been left in KL because the plane was too heavy to fly. Our bags were among these. We arrived at our hostel at 2:30 a.m., slept, and then waited for our promised luggage to arrive. We explored the city, marvelling at the vast varieties offered in the drug stores. Zai, the hostel attendant, meets up with us to go about town. In the evening, her husband picks us up and we all go to a local beach outside of town. We eat steamed peanuts and corn on the cob, and drink young coconuts. We see some local musicians and dancers performers as we sit on the beach chatting. Zai and her husband are eager to continue the night, so we go to a local street cafe/bar in the centre of town. They are having a street party in opposition to the development of coal plants proliferating in Sabah. We eagerly join in with the crowd, starting a dance party to the tunes of the live music.
It was here that we met Chantal, a fellow Canadian, who insisted that she was drawn to us because we spoke her dancing language. She accompanies us as we explore the Sunday market which bustled just outside the front door of our hostel. We head from there to catch a boat to the islands of Abdul Rahmin National Park--a collection no islands just off the coast of KK known for their snorkelling and trekking. We rent a tent and head to Mamutik first. After trekking around the island, a local diver, Billy, takes us under his wing and shows us the best snorkelling spots. It was beautiful and vibrant. Although the group of rag-tag divers tried to convince us to stay, we head to Sapi for our night adventure. We arrive just as the island is shutting down for the day-4 p.m. I am able to convince the owner of the small food stall to cook us a small meal, even though they are officially closed. He, like the park ranger, takes moment to warn us about the wild boars, which WILL attack our tent should we leave food inside. After receiving this warning three times, we decide to tie our goods into a tree. We set up our tent right on the beach, after much carefully deliberation and head out to trek around the island for sunset. The trails entirely to ourselves, we wander through the jungle terrain and find an ideal spot to watch the sun drop. On our way back to camp, we realized our situations had the makings of a great horror movie plot. Three girls. alone on an island. The night is getting dark. They are lost in the jungle wilderness. Warnings of wild boards. There may be some money in this. We made it back to camp after some wanderings and went for a night swim. The island, stars, and water to ourselves. After our swim was sat on the jetty and watched fish and sea creature for nearly an hour. I read the girls some pages from my book, Catfish and Mandala. Early to bed with little else to do.
This was not the best sleep of my life, although I don't mind waking up to an immediate view of stars, mountains, sand, and water. I wake in the middle of the night fairly certain that I see a wild boar cross in front of the tent, but in the morning, upon track analysis, we determine that it was likely just a cat. What a letdown. I want a wild boar story. At least some chewed shorts, tracks, or a slight glimpse.
We spend the morning snorkelling, despite the prickling sensation all through my body. It was jelly-fish season--as the signs warned us.
People began arriving around 11:30, impeding on our tropical paradise. Snorkelling in PFD dominated the area, standing--irresponsibly--on the coral when they got weary (Coral dies when it is touched!). We busted out of there before our sweet memories of the place were corrupted. We spent the next days with horrifically sunburnt bums, for although we wore sunscreen our exposed rear-ends, so white from constant coverage, took a hit.
After returning to town, we eat a delicious dinner of nasi goreng (fried rice) at the evening market.
The following day, we are picked up by Romeo and Canon, our white-water rafting guides. We collect several people about the town and head for out 3 hours drive to the Padas River. The drive is beautiful, winding through the mountains. We stop at a roadside dinner which clings to the side of a hill, overlooking valleys and mountains. We enjoy tea tariks in the cooler climate. We take trolleys to the starting point.... small flat wood rectangles (with enough room for three) which careened along the rail-lines, propelled and controlled by men with long sticks. Pushing us forward with the stick to the ground, breaking by placing the stick in front of the wheel. The 45 min ride takes us beside the river, through the Borneo jungle. Stunning. The river contains level three and four rapids, which our guides take us through in a myriad of dangerous fashions. "Flying Without Wings" has to be one of my favourite of the guides attempts to capsize us. Canon loads us all into the back compartment and heads us straight into the rapids, so that the front of our boat juts 45 degrees into the air, while the back weighs heavily in the water. We bounce around uncontrollably, but fail to capsize. They ensure that this occurs, though. We are tossed from the boat. I am momentarily trapped underneath the boat, free myself, and consequently body surf through boisterous rapids. The videographer, who shared out boat, drifts gracefully in front of me, filming me flounder and flop so ungracefully. On the more peaceful sections of river, Canon asks us to sing to him. We rock out to some Christmas tunes and Bon Jovi.
That evening Canon and Spider (another guide... neither of whom go by their given names, clearly) take us to Karaoke. We butcher "All that she wants is another baby" and a variety of other cliche sing-a-longs, but nail "Santa Clause is Coming to Town."
The next day, we are in a mini-bus winding through the mountains toward Mt. Kinabalu National Park. Tomorrow, we are climbing the mountain, which is a two day venture. The driver lets us out at the park entrance in the afternoon drizzle. We check-in to our hostel, which is luxurious by our hostel standards and find our way to the main building, which contains a small restaurant and sitting room with a roaring fire. Two girls are sitting next to us. My suspicion that they are Canadian is confirmed by their Mountain Equipment Co-op backpacks and Lulu Lemon pants. I yell "CANADA" at them as they are leaving, and they join us for tea and conversation. They are backpacking SEA, and will be trekking the mountain on the same day as us (we are four of 75).
That evening as Cheratien and I are in our hostel room, the girls enter and we realize we are sharing our four person room. We grab books, head to the fire, and enjoy this "Christmas" time facsimile. A group of Malaysian men and women (staff workers at the park) come out decked in Santa hats and sing Christmas carols in four part harmony. Their traditional attire and heavy accents make it an endearing, but slightly humourous scene.
We begin our trek at about 8:30 and reach the rest point before noon. Although our guide, when present with us, chides us that we are going to slow, confirms that we did the first day's accent fairly quickly. We, and our new Singaporean friends, are the first to arrive at Laban Rata. We enjoy some tea and the awesome view off the side of the deck. We chat about our respective countries, meet other interesting folks as they arrive, and enjoy a well deserved meal. The first days climb is a strait accent, plagued with tremendous flights of rustically constructed stairs worked into the mountain side. Porters, getting paid 8 RM (3 dollars) per kilo, carry all sorts of goods up-- propane tanks, towels, water bottles, food, etc. One older woman was carrying nearly 30 kilos on a trip she makes almost daily. Unbelievable.
We go to bed just after sunset, and are ready to start trekking again by 2:45 a.m. Nicholas (our guide, who we lovingly termed St. Nic) suggests that, because we are fast, we don't need to start climbing until 3:30. We ignore his advice, and start on our way. This part of the climb is indescribable, but I will attempt to do the impossible. The steps give way to rocky embankments, and it isn't long before we are climbing into the dark sky. I have only once in my life seen starts like I see now. I was in Kenya, sleeping on a night bus, with my head pushed against the window. The bus hit a pot hold and I was shaken away to see a night sky unlike I had ever seen before. It was as if the sun had exploded into tiny pieces and splattered itself over the resulting darkness. As if there were more stars than dark sky. This morning is quite similar. The only difference is that we are continually moving towards them. The temperature was consistently dropping, and I somewhat desired to be able to climb into one of those burning balls of gas to warm up. I was thankful for Kim's warnings and the bundle of warm clothes, mitts, hat, and scarf that I had lugged along.
We are the first to reach the summit, along with Bianca. Bianca had been trekking Tibet previous to coming here, but is a circus trainer by trade when she is back in Australia. Unique character to share the mountain with. Due to our quick ascent, we revel in our arrival and then hunker down in the freezing cold to wait another two hours until the sunrise. Ha. We share a kit kat and tell stories.
The sun rises and sheds astounding light onto the layer of clouds below us. In various directions, between patches of clouds, I can see Sabah spread out below. They say that on a clear day you can see the Philippines. Photos, nor my words, can describe the scene. The descent from the summit provides lots of breathtaking moments, as the sights we had missed in the darkness of our rise, are now clear.
After our trek, we reunited with our fireplace and begin reading once more. Merry Christmas.
The following day, we wait by the gates, in the rain, for a bus to take us to Sandakan. The bus arrives, with the only seats left by the lavatories. We enjoy a 5.5 hour bus ride in the company of the intrusive smell of urine. To further the experience, the in house movie is titled "Cyclops" and revolved around a Cyclops that had invaded Rome. Some stellar lines from the film include: "We shall not kill the beast. We shall take him back to Rome so that all will know that I, Marcus Aurelius have defeated the Cyclops."
With that I shall leave you... I am off to make dinner. Another day, I will continue on with tales from the holidays.
Much love to all,
K
Dec. 12
Cheratien and I are up early to catch the bus which will take us to Trinh's parents home. Today, we will be a part of a Vietnamese wedding. With ao dai's in tow, we make a 6 hour journey into the countryside. With only pork fat sandwiches as sustenance (generously provided by the groom's parents) we arrive a bit peckish. We change into our ao dai's on the bus and hightail it in front of the other relatives, so that we can be the first to arrive. It is our responsibility as "bridesmaids" to receive the gifts which the groom's family will bring for the bridges family. After wandering down a small path in the forest for about 20 min, led by Trinh's small cousin on his oversized bicycle, we arrive and line the sides of the drive to the house. The groom's family arrives and hands us over large trays filled with fruits and other offerings. I received the heaviest, but was able to retain a graceful gait for its delivery to the family alter. From there, are job was done and we were able to simply watch the ceremony. Tea. Prayers. The lighting of the candles (couples hope that the flames of both are of equal strength, as that will symbolize at equity in the power dynamics of the relationship). The groom's parents giving the bride jewellery. And so on. Humourously, many of those who came the great distance for the wedding, sit back in the tent drinking beer and eating peanuts. We have a delicious meal, at which numerous family members take turns scooping choice meats into our bowls... a sign of friendship and respect.
One of Trinh's small cousins takes a liking to me, and more particularly to my casualness with my camera. He becomes my resident photographer, documenting the day and forcing together odd partnerships for photo opportunities. He speaks to be quickly and often in Vietnamese, in spite of his knowledge that my Vietnamese is limited. Once again, my belief that children are some of the most innocently generous hosts is reaffirmed. We babble at each other in our respective languages and communicate quite well. Upon seeing us to the bus, he gets a light-bulb flash of inspiration and hopes on his over-sized bike once more, to race back home. He returns sweating, a few moments later, with a gift for me. One of the wedding balloons... a dilapidated pink heart. Thankfully, Cheratien has a Canadian pin on hand, and so leans out of the bus window to pin it on his lapel. He beams. Another great moment of the day was being offered a husband by a Vietnamese woman who decided I should be her daughter in law. She literally went and collected her son and brought his forward. An awkward few moments of stilted conversation ensued, before she let him recoil in embarrassment.
Dec. 13
We are to meet Trinh and Trang at the "Beauty Saloon"... yes, two "Os:...at 11 to get our hair and make-up done for the reception, which would take place at noon at a restaurant in town. We arrive and are promptly seated and attacked by brushes, hair-spray, and sponges. My eyes are closed in preservation, but I can feel my eyebrows growing. I open my eyes to note that large caterpillars have taken residence on my brows. It takes a bit to convince my make-up artist that they should be tamed down--that they are big enough as it is. Because of my persistence in this matter, I let it slide when she brought out the purple, sparkly eye shadow. As mom always says, choose your battles. I, however, felt quite fortunate when I swivelled my chair to check out Cheratien's make-up and coif. Mouse and a curling iron had transformed her hair into a pageant-participant's style. Her eyelids were vibrantly adorned with blue, glitter, and her lips a bright coral pink. Beauuuuutiful. Her boyfriend would later compare her visage to that of the Joker. Trinh rolled in at quarter to twelve. With only fifteen official minutes to get her ready, she had a team of about eight working on her at all times. With no question as to her desire, one woman pinned her hair into two side buns and spray painted them a fuchsia pink. In went some orchids and baby's breath, seemingly materialized out of thin air. Another woman lathered whitening lotion on to Trinh's arms. Another went to town on her face. We rushed to the back room, and there stands a suitcase. When opened up, we see that it contains Trinh's three wedding dresses. She chooses one, yanks it out of the suitcase and puts it on, while another helper runs next door to try to find a crinoline. In a few second we are being ushered out the door and into a taxi on our way to the restaurant. We arrive to see our images broadcast onto television screens scattered throughout the restaurant. We take the elevator up to the main room, where our little photographer eagerly awaits our arrival. The bride enters moments later with the groom and the parents, with the back-track of what can only be described as eerily similar to "The Final Countdown" (think Job's theme song in Arrested Development). The strobe light is pumping. The smoke is flowing. All important parties say a speech, and the couple cuts the cake. They also pour pink campaign over a pyramid of campaign glasses, cleverly stocked with dry ice to produce billowing smoke. The singing begins and a middle aged Vietnamese woman gets up to crock Jingle Bells out. The music is so loud that no conversation can take place. Following the litany of legitimate performers comes karaoke time, which was mostly monopolized by staff of the Canadian International School. Although I was not foolish enough to sing, Trinh dragged me on stage a few times to dance. Overall, this two-day wedding affair was a blast to be a part of. Culturally, highly informative.
Dec. 15
As I stand in the Activity Room, a small carpeted area which houses nearly 55 pre-pubescent and pubescent youngsters practicing for "The BEST Christmas Concert Ever" in the stanky heat of the Ho Chi Minh City afternoon, my principal, Bonnie, sticks her head in a calls me yonder to the door. Typically a sign that something of secret confidence needs to be shared. I keep a half-watchful eye on the tiered students dragging through the last refrains of "IT'S HOLIDAY TIME!" Ji Hun is pretending to me a Christmas ninja and punctuating the rhythm of the song with karate chops to the air. Man sleeps with his head doing the infamous drop and pop manoeuvre; as he falls into sleep he lets his head drop down, only to snap it back up in recovery.
Sung Woo is using his music sheets as a make-shift torture device. Appreciating my students’ fatigue, I turn to Bonnie to be informed that because of an important soccer game that will take place on Thursday (the scheduled date of our performance), the owners have decided to reschedule the concert to tomorrow night. Still without a stage and tent, a dress rehearsal, several major props and costumes, and so on, this seemed like an impossible and ill conceived proposition. The students, upon hearing the news, go into hysterics for several key players would be able to attend the rescheduled date. With all these confirmations of the horrific nature of this plan, we swing into action to convince the owners that we should proceed with the concert as planned, and ask parents to attend in spite of the "Big Game." We reached a compromise. The concert will go ahead on Thursday, but the game will be played on big screens before the show begins, and an update of the score provided mid-way through. Reasonable. In the end, the students think that the teachers have pulled a massive practical joke on them to spook them into taking practice more seriously. We did not correct their misinterpretation.
Dec. 18
After two months of shenanigans, it is performance day. During the day, students run gleefully about the halls in their costumes. Alice asks me if she can wear her elf costume all day. By noon, the kids have shed their costumes in favour of regulating their body temperatures. One kindergartener is caught, during dress rehearsal, pulling off his cotton tail, eating bits of it, and sticking the rest into his nose and ears.
Perhaps all the headaches paid off when I get to see 190 of our students dressed in a variety of costumes (from dogs and ducks to elves and ghosts) singing their hearts out on stage. The parents were worse than paparazzi, ploughing through real and invisible boundaries in order to capture their kid-letts in action. In the end, Cheratien, Kay, and I receive big bouquets of flowers for our work and kid speeches from several students. One student states with confidence that we were "the absolute BEST music and drama teachers in the school." Sure, the only, but also the best. I was very proud of my students and their grand accomplishment to sing and act from memory, in their second or third language. You can see facebook for some blurry and inattentively taken photographs of the event.
The staff gathers afterwards to have some drinks. We toast to this odd accomplishment and to optimism and co-operation in the new year.
Dec. 19
Riding the let-down from the concert, the Intermediate teachers hold a pancake breakfast and movie time for the students. We made pancakes served up with genuine Canadian maple syrup and watched Elf.
By 4:30 Cheratien and I are on a flight to KL, Malaysia. On this flight I solidify something I have abashedly had fleeting recognition of previously, I like airplane food. Yeppers. It's true. Our flight to Kota Kinabalu is delayed several hours, so we spend much of the time chatting with Mohammad over cups of white coffee. He manages this store and passes his days meeting interesting travellers.
December 20th and BEYOND
Upon arriving in KK, we learn that 126 bags had been left in KL because the plane was too heavy to fly. Our bags were among these. We arrived at our hostel at 2:30 a.m., slept, and then waited for our promised luggage to arrive. We explored the city, marvelling at the vast varieties offered in the drug stores. Zai, the hostel attendant, meets up with us to go about town. In the evening, her husband picks us up and we all go to a local beach outside of town. We eat steamed peanuts and corn on the cob, and drink young coconuts. We see some local musicians and dancers performers as we sit on the beach chatting. Zai and her husband are eager to continue the night, so we go to a local street cafe/bar in the centre of town. They are having a street party in opposition to the development of coal plants proliferating in Sabah. We eagerly join in with the crowd, starting a dance party to the tunes of the live music.
It was here that we met Chantal, a fellow Canadian, who insisted that she was drawn to us because we spoke her dancing language. She accompanies us as we explore the Sunday market which bustled just outside the front door of our hostel. We head from there to catch a boat to the islands of Abdul Rahmin National Park--a collection no islands just off the coast of KK known for their snorkelling and trekking. We rent a tent and head to Mamutik first. After trekking around the island, a local diver, Billy, takes us under his wing and shows us the best snorkelling spots. It was beautiful and vibrant. Although the group of rag-tag divers tried to convince us to stay, we head to Sapi for our night adventure. We arrive just as the island is shutting down for the day-4 p.m. I am able to convince the owner of the small food stall to cook us a small meal, even though they are officially closed. He, like the park ranger, takes moment to warn us about the wild boars, which WILL attack our tent should we leave food inside. After receiving this warning three times, we decide to tie our goods into a tree. We set up our tent right on the beach, after much carefully deliberation and head out to trek around the island for sunset. The trails entirely to ourselves, we wander through the jungle terrain and find an ideal spot to watch the sun drop. On our way back to camp, we realized our situations had the makings of a great horror movie plot. Three girls. alone on an island. The night is getting dark. They are lost in the jungle wilderness. Warnings of wild boards. There may be some money in this. We made it back to camp after some wanderings and went for a night swim. The island, stars, and water to ourselves. After our swim was sat on the jetty and watched fish and sea creature for nearly an hour. I read the girls some pages from my book, Catfish and Mandala. Early to bed with little else to do.
This was not the best sleep of my life, although I don't mind waking up to an immediate view of stars, mountains, sand, and water. I wake in the middle of the night fairly certain that I see a wild boar cross in front of the tent, but in the morning, upon track analysis, we determine that it was likely just a cat. What a letdown. I want a wild boar story. At least some chewed shorts, tracks, or a slight glimpse.
We spend the morning snorkelling, despite the prickling sensation all through my body. It was jelly-fish season--as the signs warned us.
People began arriving around 11:30, impeding on our tropical paradise. Snorkelling in PFD dominated the area, standing--irresponsibly--on the coral when they got weary (Coral dies when it is touched!). We busted out of there before our sweet memories of the place were corrupted. We spent the next days with horrifically sunburnt bums, for although we wore sunscreen our exposed rear-ends, so white from constant coverage, took a hit.
After returning to town, we eat a delicious dinner of nasi goreng (fried rice) at the evening market.
The following day, we are picked up by Romeo and Canon, our white-water rafting guides. We collect several people about the town and head for out 3 hours drive to the Padas River. The drive is beautiful, winding through the mountains. We stop at a roadside dinner which clings to the side of a hill, overlooking valleys and mountains. We enjoy tea tariks in the cooler climate. We take trolleys to the starting point.... small flat wood rectangles (with enough room for three) which careened along the rail-lines, propelled and controlled by men with long sticks. Pushing us forward with the stick to the ground, breaking by placing the stick in front of the wheel. The 45 min ride takes us beside the river, through the Borneo jungle. Stunning. The river contains level three and four rapids, which our guides take us through in a myriad of dangerous fashions. "Flying Without Wings" has to be one of my favourite of the guides attempts to capsize us. Canon loads us all into the back compartment and heads us straight into the rapids, so that the front of our boat juts 45 degrees into the air, while the back weighs heavily in the water. We bounce around uncontrollably, but fail to capsize. They ensure that this occurs, though. We are tossed from the boat. I am momentarily trapped underneath the boat, free myself, and consequently body surf through boisterous rapids. The videographer, who shared out boat, drifts gracefully in front of me, filming me flounder and flop so ungracefully. On the more peaceful sections of river, Canon asks us to sing to him. We rock out to some Christmas tunes and Bon Jovi.
That evening Canon and Spider (another guide... neither of whom go by their given names, clearly) take us to Karaoke. We butcher "All that she wants is another baby" and a variety of other cliche sing-a-longs, but nail "Santa Clause is Coming to Town."
The next day, we are in a mini-bus winding through the mountains toward Mt. Kinabalu National Park. Tomorrow, we are climbing the mountain, which is a two day venture. The driver lets us out at the park entrance in the afternoon drizzle. We check-in to our hostel, which is luxurious by our hostel standards and find our way to the main building, which contains a small restaurant and sitting room with a roaring fire. Two girls are sitting next to us. My suspicion that they are Canadian is confirmed by their Mountain Equipment Co-op backpacks and Lulu Lemon pants. I yell "CANADA" at them as they are leaving, and they join us for tea and conversation. They are backpacking SEA, and will be trekking the mountain on the same day as us (we are four of 75).
That evening as Cheratien and I are in our hostel room, the girls enter and we realize we are sharing our four person room. We grab books, head to the fire, and enjoy this "Christmas" time facsimile. A group of Malaysian men and women (staff workers at the park) come out decked in Santa hats and sing Christmas carols in four part harmony. Their traditional attire and heavy accents make it an endearing, but slightly humourous scene.
We begin our trek at about 8:30 and reach the rest point before noon. Although our guide, when present with us, chides us that we are going to slow, confirms that we did the first day's accent fairly quickly. We, and our new Singaporean friends, are the first to arrive at Laban Rata. We enjoy some tea and the awesome view off the side of the deck. We chat about our respective countries, meet other interesting folks as they arrive, and enjoy a well deserved meal. The first days climb is a strait accent, plagued with tremendous flights of rustically constructed stairs worked into the mountain side. Porters, getting paid 8 RM (3 dollars) per kilo, carry all sorts of goods up-- propane tanks, towels, water bottles, food, etc. One older woman was carrying nearly 30 kilos on a trip she makes almost daily. Unbelievable.
We go to bed just after sunset, and are ready to start trekking again by 2:45 a.m. Nicholas (our guide, who we lovingly termed St. Nic) suggests that, because we are fast, we don't need to start climbing until 3:30. We ignore his advice, and start on our way. This part of the climb is indescribable, but I will attempt to do the impossible. The steps give way to rocky embankments, and it isn't long before we are climbing into the dark sky. I have only once in my life seen starts like I see now. I was in Kenya, sleeping on a night bus, with my head pushed against the window. The bus hit a pot hold and I was shaken away to see a night sky unlike I had ever seen before. It was as if the sun had exploded into tiny pieces and splattered itself over the resulting darkness. As if there were more stars than dark sky. This morning is quite similar. The only difference is that we are continually moving towards them. The temperature was consistently dropping, and I somewhat desired to be able to climb into one of those burning balls of gas to warm up. I was thankful for Kim's warnings and the bundle of warm clothes, mitts, hat, and scarf that I had lugged along.
We are the first to reach the summit, along with Bianca. Bianca had been trekking Tibet previous to coming here, but is a circus trainer by trade when she is back in Australia. Unique character to share the mountain with. Due to our quick ascent, we revel in our arrival and then hunker down in the freezing cold to wait another two hours until the sunrise. Ha. We share a kit kat and tell stories.
The sun rises and sheds astounding light onto the layer of clouds below us. In various directions, between patches of clouds, I can see Sabah spread out below. They say that on a clear day you can see the Philippines. Photos, nor my words, can describe the scene. The descent from the summit provides lots of breathtaking moments, as the sights we had missed in the darkness of our rise, are now clear.
After our trek, we reunited with our fireplace and begin reading once more. Merry Christmas.
The following day, we wait by the gates, in the rain, for a bus to take us to Sandakan. The bus arrives, with the only seats left by the lavatories. We enjoy a 5.5 hour bus ride in the company of the intrusive smell of urine. To further the experience, the in house movie is titled "Cyclops" and revolved around a Cyclops that had invaded Rome. Some stellar lines from the film include: "We shall not kill the beast. We shall take him back to Rome so that all will know that I, Marcus Aurelius have defeated the Cyclops."
With that I shall leave you... I am off to make dinner. Another day, I will continue on with tales from the holidays.
Much love to all,
K
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Dearest Kin,
It is hard to believe that there are less than two weeks of school remaining until Christmas holidays. This is both a glorious and a terrifying count-down, as we still have to pull off the best Christmas Concert EVER. Joining Cheratien in leading the Christmas concert has been a stressful, deflating, hilarious, and amusing adventure. Despite limited facilities and time, we had been charged with the task of creating a show of wonder. We have had to constantly remind ourselves, that in spite of the external expectations, we must remember that--ultimately--parents want to see their precious ones up on stage in cute costumes, even if they aren't actually singing the correct words to Jingle Bell Rock. Although many of the seeming essentials have yet to materialize, we have been ensured by the owners that giant inflatable snowmen HAVE been ordered. Phew! I was worried.
Christmas decorating in HCMC can be described as follows: a hungry holiday monster ate all North American Christmas decorations and then came to HCMC and vomitted it's feast all over the place. Think whole store fronts tin foiled and laced with fake snow. Twinkly lights. Windos filled with bulbs. Dancing Santas. Facades of buildings laced in snow scenes. Reindeer on street corners, etc. Photos to follow at a later date.
In addition to the Christmas chaos, last week was report card time and parent-teacher interviews. The sweet mother of one my hyper-active Korean students brought me a bin of kimbap--maybe as penance or thanks, I am not sure.
This past weekend was likely the highlight of my time here, thus far. On Friday night we took an excruciatingly long cab ride to the airport, making it there just in time for us to run to our departure gate and catch our flight to Siem Reap, Cambodia. On Saturday, we explored Angkor temples--breath taking religious architecture from the 9th to 13th centuries. I cannot begin to describe it, and my picture will surely not do it justice. Sunday was the true highlight, as we woke up bright and early to run the 14th Angkor Wat International Half Marathon. People form all over the world come to Angkor Wat to run this marathon, so we were able to meet some very interesting people. The run course is spectacular, taking its runners through ancient gates, past magnificent and awe inspiring temples, and through Angkor countryside. The residents of the villages came out to line the streets and cheer us on. The children shouted out broken English phrases of encouragement: "You do it!" ..."Run, Run. Get there!"...etc. Some of the children slipped braclets on my arms as I ran past and high fived their outstretched hands. After two hours and twelve minutes of non-stop running, I completed my first half-marathon in a sprinting blaze of glory. Although we were weary, we spent the afternoon exploring Seam Reap (also enjoying a fish foot massage--fish nibble the dead skin off your feet-- and a massage my blind masseurs). We arrived back in HCMC by 9:30, and got up bright and early to teach the next morning. I am weary, but, surprisingly, not in pain.
The weekend before, I went with a bunch of French and Vietnamese folks to complete a mountain race, just 150 km from HCMC. The mountain is about 1000 meters high, with a steep incline. One competator completed the entire race in the time it took us just to summit. Some Vietnamese people trekked about in flip flops or bare feet with pounds and pounds of bannanas on their backs--making us look foolish and sluggish. The climb was challenging, but rewarding. The mountain was actually used as an American communication base during the war, so evidence of that is still present on the summit. On the way down, we shared this mountain jungle with hundreds of butterflies. We are looking at joining the same group for a jungle mini-triathalon in February.
This week we said goodbye to a good friend, Kim. Kim is American-Vietnamese, and has lived in Vietnam for four years. She has been so wonderful about introducing us to the city and getting us involved in a myriad of interesting things. She is leaving her job as General Manager at a team-building/school trip company and moving to Bali. Living the life.
Oh my.. so much more to tell, but I am getting weary and still have a mountain of marking to tackle.
A big thanks to all those who have sent me mail, e-mails, messages, songs, and so on--makes me feel connected to you all, even though I am so far away. Facebook has been blocked in Vietnam, so my access to it is sometimes dodgy. Accept my apologies if you have not received messages from me in the last few weeks.
Alright. Much love to you all!
Love,
K
It is hard to believe that there are less than two weeks of school remaining until Christmas holidays. This is both a glorious and a terrifying count-down, as we still have to pull off the best Christmas Concert EVER. Joining Cheratien in leading the Christmas concert has been a stressful, deflating, hilarious, and amusing adventure. Despite limited facilities and time, we had been charged with the task of creating a show of wonder. We have had to constantly remind ourselves, that in spite of the external expectations, we must remember that--ultimately--parents want to see their precious ones up on stage in cute costumes, even if they aren't actually singing the correct words to Jingle Bell Rock. Although many of the seeming essentials have yet to materialize, we have been ensured by the owners that giant inflatable snowmen HAVE been ordered. Phew! I was worried.
Christmas decorating in HCMC can be described as follows: a hungry holiday monster ate all North American Christmas decorations and then came to HCMC and vomitted it's feast all over the place. Think whole store fronts tin foiled and laced with fake snow. Twinkly lights. Windos filled with bulbs. Dancing Santas. Facades of buildings laced in snow scenes. Reindeer on street corners, etc. Photos to follow at a later date.
In addition to the Christmas chaos, last week was report card time and parent-teacher interviews. The sweet mother of one my hyper-active Korean students brought me a bin of kimbap--maybe as penance or thanks, I am not sure.
This past weekend was likely the highlight of my time here, thus far. On Friday night we took an excruciatingly long cab ride to the airport, making it there just in time for us to run to our departure gate and catch our flight to Siem Reap, Cambodia. On Saturday, we explored Angkor temples--breath taking religious architecture from the 9th to 13th centuries. I cannot begin to describe it, and my picture will surely not do it justice. Sunday was the true highlight, as we woke up bright and early to run the 14th Angkor Wat International Half Marathon. People form all over the world come to Angkor Wat to run this marathon, so we were able to meet some very interesting people. The run course is spectacular, taking its runners through ancient gates, past magnificent and awe inspiring temples, and through Angkor countryside. The residents of the villages came out to line the streets and cheer us on. The children shouted out broken English phrases of encouragement: "You do it!" ..."Run, Run. Get there!"...etc. Some of the children slipped braclets on my arms as I ran past and high fived their outstretched hands. After two hours and twelve minutes of non-stop running, I completed my first half-marathon in a sprinting blaze of glory. Although we were weary, we spent the afternoon exploring Seam Reap (also enjoying a fish foot massage--fish nibble the dead skin off your feet-- and a massage my blind masseurs). We arrived back in HCMC by 9:30, and got up bright and early to teach the next morning. I am weary, but, surprisingly, not in pain.
The weekend before, I went with a bunch of French and Vietnamese folks to complete a mountain race, just 150 km from HCMC. The mountain is about 1000 meters high, with a steep incline. One competator completed the entire race in the time it took us just to summit. Some Vietnamese people trekked about in flip flops or bare feet with pounds and pounds of bannanas on their backs--making us look foolish and sluggish. The climb was challenging, but rewarding. The mountain was actually used as an American communication base during the war, so evidence of that is still present on the summit. On the way down, we shared this mountain jungle with hundreds of butterflies. We are looking at joining the same group for a jungle mini-triathalon in February.
This week we said goodbye to a good friend, Kim. Kim is American-Vietnamese, and has lived in Vietnam for four years. She has been so wonderful about introducing us to the city and getting us involved in a myriad of interesting things. She is leaving her job as General Manager at a team-building/school trip company and moving to Bali. Living the life.
Oh my.. so much more to tell, but I am getting weary and still have a mountain of marking to tackle.
A big thanks to all those who have sent me mail, e-mails, messages, songs, and so on--makes me feel connected to you all, even though I am so far away. Facebook has been blocked in Vietnam, so my access to it is sometimes dodgy. Accept my apologies if you have not received messages from me in the last few weeks.
Alright. Much love to you all!
Love,
K
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Dearest Friends,
This week past was eventful. I was warned that the days and week after returning from holidays are painful, and the week, in some ways lived up to the ominous caution. We had an inspector from the DSBN come to interview us and observe our classrooms in order to give recommendations for how we can develop the school further. Although it wasn't an absurdly onerous process, it was somewhat stressful for the staff. My classes that were observed by the inspector, however, went well and the students were at the top of their game. An interesting, student initiated conversation about how pizza is a symbol of the loss of Vietnamese culture to Western norms arose--that seemed to impress.
Monday was a sad day for the C.I.S. staff, as one of our most valuable employees left under unpleasant circumstance. Thao is a deligent, self-motivated, trustworthy, and bright woman. Jeremy and I organized a small going away dinner for her, so that the staff might express our appreciation for all she has done and how deeply we will miss her. We are certainly staying in touch and spending many weekends in her company!
This past weekend was busy. I spent Sunday with the children of Ben Tre. We brought 55 of the children from the countryside to HCMC for the day. The children had never been to the city, and were awed by the experience. We started our at the zoo, which was an experience unto itself. I nearly cried at every stop-- elephants chains in one location, "petting zoo" goats running around in a concrete wasteland, 10 crocodiles piled into a small kiddie-sized pool, etc. Nonetheless, the kids were able to learn about the animals and benefit from the insights of a tour guide. Of course, the tour was in Vietnamese, so I gleened very little. We did some games and activities with the children, had a picnic lunch, and then headed to the waterpark. En route, I sat beside beautiful Hong, how WOWed at nearly everything we passed (tall buildings, lamp shops, gardens). She shared her candy with me and giggled when I tried to speak Vietnamese. The waterpark was a terrifying location. We had 55 kids, and about 6 adults equipped to swim. The waterpark was swarming with people, and the organizers had little per-planning about how we would supervise the children. Cheratien and I swooped in with our teacher instincts and paranoia and orchestrated a supervision regime. I, thus, had six Vietnamese youngsters in my care. My strategy, seeing as I don't speak a whole lot of Vietnamese, was to make my presence as exciting as possible, so that they wouldn't stray too far. Indeed, the plan was a success, but I consequently threw a lot of children about and gave a significant amount of motorboat and piggy-back rides.
Other sketchy/hilarious elements of the waterpark include: a boy band performing on a stage a top a waterfall; fiberglass tunnels (with limb like outcrops that can only be described as penninsulas of death) set in a kiddie pool; lifegaurds spider climbing up the sides of massive water slides; children in full dress in the water (sweaters, pants, hats, etc); and lastly, the greyish colour of the water. In spite of all these dubious qualities, the waterpark turned out to be a magnificent experience for the children. None of the died. None of them were injured. None of them got lost. All of them LOVED their time there.
We met with Co Tuyet today for Vietnamese lessons, and she told us that the children called on the village pastor's cell phone to say a big thanks-- they passed the phone from child to child, until all 55 had a chance to express their excitement.
Vietnamese classes are coming along. I certianly sound like a fool as I sit at the coffee shop and make vowel and consonant sounds, and practice unfamilar intonations. The language is simple in many ways (for example, there is not past or present tense, only time markers such as "yesterday"), and difficult in some ways (6 different intonations and a myriad of accents).
I have really been appreciating my students. They are SPECTACULAR! Some humourous points...
I often ask the students to elaborate their answers by questioning, "How so?" Alice has, in turn, started chiming to her classmates, "how so?," when she feels that their points are insufficiently explained. On her drama quiz she wrote the following post script: "I am somewhat afraid of your 'how so?'"
My grade eights have found the ways that they can divert me from the topic at hand. Just yesterday, we were studying how to make effective transitions in paragraphs. One sample paragraph that I provided was on the topic of 'why a woman would make a good president.' Felix then inquired, "Ms. Krista, why are women discriminated against." I inquired, "Do you mean discriminated against in Vietnam?" He replied, "No, in history." The class then delved into a 30 min. discussion on the matter. Truth be told, I would far rathar have my students discuss such a matter than talk about transitions! A productive tangent, I feel.
This week, preparations for the Christmas concert are being stepped up. Tomorrow, Cheratien and I audition the intermediate actors, while we have already selected the primary actors.
Report cards, parent-teacher interviews, parent workshops and a wealth of other teaching pleasures will soon be upon us! However, our trip to Cambodia and eventual Christmas break will be sweet reward for our labours.
Alright... off to run and then to bed.
So much love to you all.
K
This week past was eventful. I was warned that the days and week after returning from holidays are painful, and the week, in some ways lived up to the ominous caution. We had an inspector from the DSBN come to interview us and observe our classrooms in order to give recommendations for how we can develop the school further. Although it wasn't an absurdly onerous process, it was somewhat stressful for the staff. My classes that were observed by the inspector, however, went well and the students were at the top of their game. An interesting, student initiated conversation about how pizza is a symbol of the loss of Vietnamese culture to Western norms arose--that seemed to impress.
Monday was a sad day for the C.I.S. staff, as one of our most valuable employees left under unpleasant circumstance. Thao is a deligent, self-motivated, trustworthy, and bright woman. Jeremy and I organized a small going away dinner for her, so that the staff might express our appreciation for all she has done and how deeply we will miss her. We are certainly staying in touch and spending many weekends in her company!
This past weekend was busy. I spent Sunday with the children of Ben Tre. We brought 55 of the children from the countryside to HCMC for the day. The children had never been to the city, and were awed by the experience. We started our at the zoo, which was an experience unto itself. I nearly cried at every stop-- elephants chains in one location, "petting zoo" goats running around in a concrete wasteland, 10 crocodiles piled into a small kiddie-sized pool, etc. Nonetheless, the kids were able to learn about the animals and benefit from the insights of a tour guide. Of course, the tour was in Vietnamese, so I gleened very little. We did some games and activities with the children, had a picnic lunch, and then headed to the waterpark. En route, I sat beside beautiful Hong, how WOWed at nearly everything we passed (tall buildings, lamp shops, gardens). She shared her candy with me and giggled when I tried to speak Vietnamese. The waterpark was a terrifying location. We had 55 kids, and about 6 adults equipped to swim. The waterpark was swarming with people, and the organizers had little per-planning about how we would supervise the children. Cheratien and I swooped in with our teacher instincts and paranoia and orchestrated a supervision regime. I, thus, had six Vietnamese youngsters in my care. My strategy, seeing as I don't speak a whole lot of Vietnamese, was to make my presence as exciting as possible, so that they wouldn't stray too far. Indeed, the plan was a success, but I consequently threw a lot of children about and gave a significant amount of motorboat and piggy-back rides.
Other sketchy/hilarious elements of the waterpark include: a boy band performing on a stage a top a waterfall; fiberglass tunnels (with limb like outcrops that can only be described as penninsulas of death) set in a kiddie pool; lifegaurds spider climbing up the sides of massive water slides; children in full dress in the water (sweaters, pants, hats, etc); and lastly, the greyish colour of the water. In spite of all these dubious qualities, the waterpark turned out to be a magnificent experience for the children. None of the died. None of them were injured. None of them got lost. All of them LOVED their time there.
We met with Co Tuyet today for Vietnamese lessons, and she told us that the children called on the village pastor's cell phone to say a big thanks-- they passed the phone from child to child, until all 55 had a chance to express their excitement.
Vietnamese classes are coming along. I certianly sound like a fool as I sit at the coffee shop and make vowel and consonant sounds, and practice unfamilar intonations. The language is simple in many ways (for example, there is not past or present tense, only time markers such as "yesterday"), and difficult in some ways (6 different intonations and a myriad of accents).
I have really been appreciating my students. They are SPECTACULAR! Some humourous points...
I often ask the students to elaborate their answers by questioning, "How so?" Alice has, in turn, started chiming to her classmates, "how so?," when she feels that their points are insufficiently explained. On her drama quiz she wrote the following post script: "I am somewhat afraid of your 'how so?'"
My grade eights have found the ways that they can divert me from the topic at hand. Just yesterday, we were studying how to make effective transitions in paragraphs. One sample paragraph that I provided was on the topic of 'why a woman would make a good president.' Felix then inquired, "Ms. Krista, why are women discriminated against." I inquired, "Do you mean discriminated against in Vietnam?" He replied, "No, in history." The class then delved into a 30 min. discussion on the matter. Truth be told, I would far rathar have my students discuss such a matter than talk about transitions! A productive tangent, I feel.
This week, preparations for the Christmas concert are being stepped up. Tomorrow, Cheratien and I audition the intermediate actors, while we have already selected the primary actors.
Report cards, parent-teacher interviews, parent workshops and a wealth of other teaching pleasures will soon be upon us! However, our trip to Cambodia and eventual Christmas break will be sweet reward for our labours.
Alright... off to run and then to bed.
So much love to you all.
K
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Hoi An Holiday
Hello Kin,
I have just returned from a wonderful week of vacation in Hoi An, which is a town on the central coast of Vietnam. Many of you may have heard of the typhoons that hit Vietnam earlier this month. Hoi An was one of the towns greatly affected. However, typhoons are somewhat of a common element of life there, and so the shop owners make quick work of the clean-up. There were only a few signs of the storm's impact--above head height water marks and some wreckage along the shore. Another storm is about to hit tonight or tomorrow, so it appears we picked the perfect time to visit.
The Old Town of Hoi An is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. With hundreds of old homes, pagodas, and temples, the city is rich in history and heritage. The town used to be a major trading center, and so has a cultural that blends Chinese, Japanese, and Vietnamese styles. The town is also famous for its myriad of tailors-- over 300 tailor shops. One can have clothing, shoes, and bags made to order in a day and for fairly reasonable prices.
The trip was both exciting and relaxing. Our hotel was a small villa, with great views and friendly staff. Dume, the front desk attendant, became a dear friend of ours, and will be coming to visit us in Saigon in the coming month. We spend some lovely days with her on the beach and visiting a local orphanage.
No matter where I have traveled, I have been hard-pressed to find a beach that beats my local Pinery beach. However, Hoi An's beaches provide a strong rival. The sandy beaches were relatively unpopulated, and afforded amazing views of the distant, mountainous islands. Right off of the less populated of the two close-by beaches (An Bang), Jeremy and I found this little beach side hut restaurant called La Plage. It is run by an American woman and her French husband, who are involved in several entrepreneurial social justice ventures in the area. She was such an interesting woman to speak with. We sank into a soft bench, enjoyed the breeze, the waves, and a cup of tea. Perfect. On our venture to the other beach (Cua Dai), we enjoyed fresh seafood beach side.
One day, Cheratien and I rented a motorbike and took a winding trip through the countryside to My Son. My Son is also a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Here is a little bit of info about it, straight from the UNESCO website:
"Between the 4th and 13th centuries a unique culture which owed its spiritual origins to Indian Hinduism developed on the coast of contemporary Viet Nam. This is graphically illustrated by the remains of a series of impressive tower-temples located in a dramatic site that was the religious and political capital of the Champa Kingdom for most of its existence."
On the way there, we took some back roads, which caused me to have to stop about 7 or 8 times and ask for directions. However, our detours afforded us great views and a chance to practice speaking Vietnamese. The trip took about 1.5 hours on the way there, and about half an hour shy of that on the way home. On our way to My Son, we had a friendly motorbiker ride tandem with us, gesturing to scenery we should take note of, and clearly guiding us in the correct direction. Highlights of the trip include: accidentally joining in a Vietnamese funeral procession and having flowers bestowed upon us for our participation and dodging a heard of cows that were leisurely strolling about the roadway. I am getting quite dexterous on the bike--agile, as to avoid death by cow. The ruins were spectacular, and tucked in the mountainous jungle. It was slightly rainy this day, so very few others were there (making the day very serene). Another day of equal splendidness was our motorbike trip to the nearby "Marble Mountains." I will have Wikipedia do some explaining:
Another day, Hung took us mountain biking through the countryside. Again.. dodging cows and other animals. We saw so much, and I will allow my pictures to tell the stories for me. One dubious moment that I did not catch on film was when a drunk man grabbed the photo-taking Cheratien and had to be pulled off by his family members and friends.
The food in Hoi An was wonderful. Specialties include the "white rose" (which is basically a dumpling comprised of two small 2-inch diameter rounds of rice paper with a dime-sized lump of meat filling right in the center) and cau lau (textured wheat noodles mixed with veggies, bits of toasted rice paper, slices of pork and a wonderful light sauce). Supposedly cau lau cannot be made outside of Hoi An as the water for the dish must come from the Ba Le well, an ancient water hole. All this wonderful food for ridiculously cheap prices.
We spent an early morning wandering the market--lively, vibrant, and visceral. Cheratien and I took a cooking class and learned how to make some Vietnamese dishes-- a day that will benefit many of you upon my return. I will be eager to share my new found skills with you all.
We patroned some really interesting shops and restaurants. Because Hoi An brings two worlds together--that of wealthy travelers and struggling Vietnamese locals--there seems to be an interesting milieu for small socially responsible businesses. One restaurant we attended takes on street children, provides them with an education and helps them to gain marketable hospitality skills. The kids make the food and run the restaurant. Another lovely business, was called REACHING OUT. Artisans with different abilities make and sell handicrafts, which are sold at fair prices. You can meet the artisans and visit the workshop.
We spent our last day in Hoi An visiting an orphanage with Dume. We took some supplies and food. I spent the majority of the afternoon in the room with children with disabilities. About 20 children with a wide spectrum of physical and mental special needs were attended to by one woman. At least three children shared a bed. I fell in love with Hong, a small boy who likely had spina bifida and hydrocephalus. I found the little guy sharing a bed with three others, tied to the bed frame so that he would not creep out and injure himself. He wasn't wearing a diaper and was soaked in his own urine. I changed his clothes and put a diaper on him, and didn't let go of him for the remainder of the visit. He was all smiles and cuddles. One boy with down syndrome gently stroked him, and asked to hold him. The children were so bright and thoughtful... all making sure that the milk and treats were distributed fairly. One little boy who was mute pulled Cheratien over to see his sleeping friend, and made sure Cheratien left some food at her bed side. It was a joyful and devastating time. We know that our time spent there did not produce any sustainable enterprises, but we were happy to spend some time holding and loving these children. We plan to return later in the year and supply Dume with some funds over the year to take some much needed supplies there on a regular basis.
Pre-vacation was what we have endearingly termed "HELL WEEK." Report cards were due, we had to prepare packages for an inspector from Canada who will be observing the school for the next two weeks, I facilitated a parent workshop on Wednesday, and then we celebrated Halloween on Friday (I was Cleopatra). The kids were wired! The drama club put on a Halloween skit, which was received well by the owners and the parents. An up: Jeremy and I discovered that a brochure we had edited had been published with some creative suggestions we had put in for jest. The principal failed to remove the promise that our new theatre will have "Surround sound and 3D capabilities."
We had a consultant from the York school board visiting last week as well. The owners, Bonnie, and he were touring the classrooms. They interrupted my student presentations, which were part of the grade eights' culminating task for their global citizenship unit. As part of the task, they had to find and analyze a media text related to their selected issue. Lovely Eve had chosen Women's Rights, and shared with the class a song titled "Woman in Chains" (a classic rock tune featuring men singing about woe begotten women). The contingent of visitors made it just in time to see the one section of the music video that featured scantily clad women dancing on a stage (presumably for money). Although it was an awkwardly humourous and hastily managed moment, it provided a good chance to talk to the kids about "objectification"--a discussion they were engaged in and participated in readily.
One of my grade nine students, last week, found me in tears when I read an e-mail from a good friend telling me that an old friend from camp was in a fatal car crash. The following Monday, my students presented me with a stuffed animal as a "consolation for my loss." It is a husky dog, because they thought it would remind me of home. What sweet teens they are!
One of my closest Vietnamese friends on staff will be leaving the school soon, in search of employment elsewhere. We are all upset by the loss of such an efficient, caring, and trustworthy staff member.
Cheratien and I are now in full scale training mode for our upcoming half marathon. We run on December the 6th in Angkor Wat, Cambodia. We are flying there for the weekend to see this impressive place and to give the marathon a go. My goal--to complete the thing in 2.5 hours. Not lofty, but lofty enough for moi.
Tonight, we met with the other volunteers and organizers for the HCMC trip for the countryside kids. It was excellent to meet with some individuals who are very involved in social justice within the city-- lots of promise for interesting relationships and further opportunities for involvement. The kids come on Sunday! I am excited to see them again and facilitate their city experience.
I am not sure what I updated you on in the last blog.... so this might be review.
The trip to the remote village got postponed because the flooding wiped out a bridge en route. We will take the clothing and supplies in December, when the bridge is fixed. Instead, we did some teaching at Ben Tre again. We took a big gunny sack of brand new clothes and school supplies to share with the kids. They were excited. We took some other teachers along to help us out-- 50 children are too many for just Cheratien and I alone. The ladies of the facilities, who always make us lunch and one of whom features prominently in my facebook profile picture, have made us promise to have them as house guests if they come to HCMC. I hope that they will.
The last few weeks have provided me with so many opportunities to grow my understand Vietnamese culture. I only hope that this will continue to grow as I improve my language skills--lessons are underway.
Alright. I must head off to continue on with my marking!
Please write me e-mails or letters with your happenings.
My e-mail address is:
krista.lambie @gmail.com
My address is:
2E6-10 Sky Garden
Phu My Hung
Quan 1, HCMC
Vietnam
Much love and happiness!
I have just returned from a wonderful week of vacation in Hoi An, which is a town on the central coast of Vietnam. Many of you may have heard of the typhoons that hit Vietnam earlier this month. Hoi An was one of the towns greatly affected. However, typhoons are somewhat of a common element of life there, and so the shop owners make quick work of the clean-up. There were only a few signs of the storm's impact--above head height water marks and some wreckage along the shore. Another storm is about to hit tonight or tomorrow, so it appears we picked the perfect time to visit.
The Old Town of Hoi An is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. With hundreds of old homes, pagodas, and temples, the city is rich in history and heritage. The town used to be a major trading center, and so has a cultural that blends Chinese, Japanese, and Vietnamese styles. The town is also famous for its myriad of tailors-- over 300 tailor shops. One can have clothing, shoes, and bags made to order in a day and for fairly reasonable prices.
The trip was both exciting and relaxing. Our hotel was a small villa, with great views and friendly staff. Dume, the front desk attendant, became a dear friend of ours, and will be coming to visit us in Saigon in the coming month. We spend some lovely days with her on the beach and visiting a local orphanage.
No matter where I have traveled, I have been hard-pressed to find a beach that beats my local Pinery beach. However, Hoi An's beaches provide a strong rival. The sandy beaches were relatively unpopulated, and afforded amazing views of the distant, mountainous islands. Right off of the less populated of the two close-by beaches (An Bang), Jeremy and I found this little beach side hut restaurant called La Plage. It is run by an American woman and her French husband, who are involved in several entrepreneurial social justice ventures in the area. She was such an interesting woman to speak with. We sank into a soft bench, enjoyed the breeze, the waves, and a cup of tea. Perfect. On our venture to the other beach (Cua Dai), we enjoyed fresh seafood beach side.
One day, Cheratien and I rented a motorbike and took a winding trip through the countryside to My Son. My Son is also a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Here is a little bit of info about it, straight from the UNESCO website:
"Between the 4th and 13th centuries a unique culture which owed its spiritual origins to Indian Hinduism developed on the coast of contemporary Viet Nam. This is graphically illustrated by the remains of a series of impressive tower-temples located in a dramatic site that was the religious and political capital of the Champa Kingdom for most of its existence."
On the way there, we took some back roads, which caused me to have to stop about 7 or 8 times and ask for directions. However, our detours afforded us great views and a chance to practice speaking Vietnamese. The trip took about 1.5 hours on the way there, and about half an hour shy of that on the way home. On our way to My Son, we had a friendly motorbiker ride tandem with us, gesturing to scenery we should take note of, and clearly guiding us in the correct direction. Highlights of the trip include: accidentally joining in a Vietnamese funeral procession and having flowers bestowed upon us for our participation and dodging a heard of cows that were leisurely strolling about the roadway. I am getting quite dexterous on the bike--agile, as to avoid death by cow. The ruins were spectacular, and tucked in the mountainous jungle. It was slightly rainy this day, so very few others were there (making the day very serene). Another day of equal splendidness was our motorbike trip to the nearby "Marble Mountains." I will have Wikipedia do some explaining:
Marble Mountain is a cluster of five marble and limestone hills. The five 'mountains' are named after the five elements; Kim (metal), Thuy (water), Moc (wood), Hoa (fire) and Tho (earth). All of the mountains have cave entrances and numerous tunnels, and it is possible to climb to the summit of one of the peaks. Several Buddhist sanctuaries can also be found within the mountains. The area is famous for stone sculpture making and stone-cutting crafts. Direct rock extraction from the mountains was banned recently. Materials are now being transported from quarries in other provinces.
Another day, Hung took us mountain biking through the countryside. Again.. dodging cows and other animals. We saw so much, and I will allow my pictures to tell the stories for me. One dubious moment that I did not catch on film was when a drunk man grabbed the photo-taking Cheratien and had to be pulled off by his family members and friends.
The food in Hoi An was wonderful. Specialties include the "white rose" (which is basically a dumpling comprised of two small 2-inch diameter rounds of rice paper with a dime-sized lump of meat filling right in the center) and cau lau (textured wheat noodles mixed with veggies, bits of toasted rice paper, slices of pork and a wonderful light sauce). Supposedly cau lau cannot be made outside of Hoi An as the water for the dish must come from the Ba Le well, an ancient water hole. All this wonderful food for ridiculously cheap prices.
We spent an early morning wandering the market--lively, vibrant, and visceral. Cheratien and I took a cooking class and learned how to make some Vietnamese dishes-- a day that will benefit many of you upon my return. I will be eager to share my new found skills with you all.
We patroned some really interesting shops and restaurants. Because Hoi An brings two worlds together--that of wealthy travelers and struggling Vietnamese locals--there seems to be an interesting milieu for small socially responsible businesses. One restaurant we attended takes on street children, provides them with an education and helps them to gain marketable hospitality skills. The kids make the food and run the restaurant. Another lovely business, was called REACHING OUT. Artisans with different abilities make and sell handicrafts, which are sold at fair prices. You can meet the artisans and visit the workshop.
We spent our last day in Hoi An visiting an orphanage with Dume. We took some supplies and food. I spent the majority of the afternoon in the room with children with disabilities. About 20 children with a wide spectrum of physical and mental special needs were attended to by one woman. At least three children shared a bed. I fell in love with Hong, a small boy who likely had spina bifida and hydrocephalus. I found the little guy sharing a bed with three others, tied to the bed frame so that he would not creep out and injure himself. He wasn't wearing a diaper and was soaked in his own urine. I changed his clothes and put a diaper on him, and didn't let go of him for the remainder of the visit. He was all smiles and cuddles. One boy with down syndrome gently stroked him, and asked to hold him. The children were so bright and thoughtful... all making sure that the milk and treats were distributed fairly. One little boy who was mute pulled Cheratien over to see his sleeping friend, and made sure Cheratien left some food at her bed side. It was a joyful and devastating time. We know that our time spent there did not produce any sustainable enterprises, but we were happy to spend some time holding and loving these children. We plan to return later in the year and supply Dume with some funds over the year to take some much needed supplies there on a regular basis.
Pre-vacation was what we have endearingly termed "HELL WEEK." Report cards were due, we had to prepare packages for an inspector from Canada who will be observing the school for the next two weeks, I facilitated a parent workshop on Wednesday, and then we celebrated Halloween on Friday (I was Cleopatra). The kids were wired! The drama club put on a Halloween skit, which was received well by the owners and the parents. An up: Jeremy and I discovered that a brochure we had edited had been published with some creative suggestions we had put in for jest. The principal failed to remove the promise that our new theatre will have "Surround sound and 3D capabilities."
We had a consultant from the York school board visiting last week as well. The owners, Bonnie, and he were touring the classrooms. They interrupted my student presentations, which were part of the grade eights' culminating task for their global citizenship unit. As part of the task, they had to find and analyze a media text related to their selected issue. Lovely Eve had chosen Women's Rights, and shared with the class a song titled "Woman in Chains" (a classic rock tune featuring men singing about woe begotten women). The contingent of visitors made it just in time to see the one section of the music video that featured scantily clad women dancing on a stage (presumably for money). Although it was an awkwardly humourous and hastily managed moment, it provided a good chance to talk to the kids about "objectification"--a discussion they were engaged in and participated in readily.
One of my grade nine students, last week, found me in tears when I read an e-mail from a good friend telling me that an old friend from camp was in a fatal car crash. The following Monday, my students presented me with a stuffed animal as a "consolation for my loss." It is a husky dog, because they thought it would remind me of home. What sweet teens they are!
One of my closest Vietnamese friends on staff will be leaving the school soon, in search of employment elsewhere. We are all upset by the loss of such an efficient, caring, and trustworthy staff member.
Cheratien and I are now in full scale training mode for our upcoming half marathon. We run on December the 6th in Angkor Wat, Cambodia. We are flying there for the weekend to see this impressive place and to give the marathon a go. My goal--to complete the thing in 2.5 hours. Not lofty, but lofty enough for moi.
Tonight, we met with the other volunteers and organizers for the HCMC trip for the countryside kids. It was excellent to meet with some individuals who are very involved in social justice within the city-- lots of promise for interesting relationships and further opportunities for involvement. The kids come on Sunday! I am excited to see them again and facilitate their city experience.
I am not sure what I updated you on in the last blog.... so this might be review.
The trip to the remote village got postponed because the flooding wiped out a bridge en route. We will take the clothing and supplies in December, when the bridge is fixed. Instead, we did some teaching at Ben Tre again. We took a big gunny sack of brand new clothes and school supplies to share with the kids. They were excited. We took some other teachers along to help us out-- 50 children are too many for just Cheratien and I alone. The ladies of the facilities, who always make us lunch and one of whom features prominently in my facebook profile picture, have made us promise to have them as house guests if they come to HCMC. I hope that they will.
The last few weeks have provided me with so many opportunities to grow my understand Vietnamese culture. I only hope that this will continue to grow as I improve my language skills--lessons are underway.
Alright. I must head off to continue on with my marking!
Please write me e-mails or letters with your happenings.
My e-mail address is:
krista.lambie @gmail.com
My address is:
2E6-10 Sky Garden
Phu My Hung
Quan 1, HCMC
Vietnam
Much love and happiness!
Monday, October 5, 2009
Dear Friends,
Once more, much time has lapsed since my last report. Let me work backward this time.
Yesterday, was a humourous day at school. Our Korean students learn French, while all others learn Vietnamese. My grade nines have taken to calling each other by animal names; a practice birthed by the fact that one of my students looks like a bunny. In drama class, after the former student returned from French class (during which she learned the word for a male chicken), she declared to Nguyen, "You are a coq." I casually and almost without thinking told her that one should not really say this in English, because the aforementioned word is slang for penis. My more English savvy, yet still conservatively Vietnamese student, hid their faces in their hands, while my lower level EFL students looked at me with bewilderment. My most proficient English speakers then attempted to explain in the most circuitous ways, that certainly avoided any proper or improper names of sex organs, what exactly the faux pas was. Upon actually realizing her slip of tongue, Alice let out a chorus of "I didn't mean, I didn't mean, I didn't mean." To alleviate her embarrassment, I gladly shared a censored version of my near slip up with the dignitary's name at the Grand Opening Ceremonies (see an early entry in which I regale you all with the tale of how I nearly called the most important man in Vietnamese education Mr. Boob Pussy by means of incorrect pronunciation). She seems somewhat relieved.
Thankfully, due to these circumstance, we had already established and clarified the term "private parts," so that today's conversation was slightly less awkward. My students are currently making a movie poster about a short story centering on Scrabble. For this assignment, one of my students had googled images related to the game, and had discovered a treasure chest of Scrabble related comics. One comic featured the tag line, "This always happens to me at family game night" and displays a teenager with the letters posed and staged to spell "clitoris." My student was ready to paste this puppy to her poster, so I had to provide a small sex ed. vocabulary lesson, once more.
In addition to taking on a new career as a sex education teacher, I am pursuing lots of new and interesting things.
Last weekend, I went with Kay and Cheratien to the Gallery of Fine Arts. The place is a rustic, peacefull, relatively unpatroned, and compelling colonial relic--yellow chipped paint, blue glazed cement pillars, broken yet beautiful stained glass. Just enough decay to make it magnificient
For dinner, Thao Pham took us to the northern outskirts to a restaurant in the midst of a park.
We paid an entrance fee to eat a gluttonous amount of happiness-inducing Vietnamese
food. A cool evening and a walk through the park.
I met with an interesting group of individuals last Wednesday for a "life coach" session. Interesting. I gleened some excellent insights and met some interesting people.
Friday was Mid-Autumn Festival here in Vietnam. The kiddies made and decorated dragons, then we paraded through the streets. A dragon dance troup and drum team came to the school and performed in the street as our children watched from the sidelines. I was almost crying with glee while watching the young children's faces and hearing their screams of joy when the dancers passed them by. We had mooncakes and hot tea, then my grade nines played hide and seek in our anything but ample sized room. A good friday all in all.
This past Sunday, Jeremy and I attended church at Notre Dame Cathedral. Jeremy picked me up on his bike, and I enjoyed the breeze against my bare legs. We arrived just in time to hear the choir's opening song, which was quite nice (I haven't heard an overwhelming amount of good Vietnamese singers). The sermon was a frightening conglomerate of all expected cliche conservatisms of the Catholic church: a talk on the sanctity of marriage, which openly condemned divorce in "any circumstance" and pointedly stated that marriage or sexual relations between "men and men" or "women and women" sends the actors to hell. I found myself with similar considerations as when I attended church in Kenya-- often "imported" religion is played out as a stock character sketch, consciously activating all the most obvious controversies. I was more intrigued than upset. More contemplative than indignant. We then had lunch at one of my favourite restaurants in the city, which has just relocated. The new location is less raw, which I think is a shame, but it was nice nonetheless. We sat in the park and listened to a troupe of young males picking away at their acoustic guitars. I navigated the street, realizing that I am more familiar with the city than I had thought. Headed to the bookstore, then to meet our friend Thao. We went to our friend Hand's house, who just moved. We had a celebratory lunch. She had cooked us an amazing spread, and we all enjoyed cool tea and food for some hours. We discussed all matters of life--domestic abuse, homosexuality, sexuality, slang phrases, and the list goes on. We laughed a lot, as well. Riding back to Thao's house, I sat with ease on the back of her bike, and thinking about how comfortable and zestful life is here. Jeremy took Cheratien back home, and I took a sai om ride. My driver speedily navigated traffic, landing me home in record time. He was thrilled when I gave him an extra 75 cents above our negotiated price.
Things on the go:
The school clothing drive is coming to a close. I have convinced about 4 other teachers to join me on the trek to the remote village this coming weekend to do some teaching and deliver the clothes. Right after school, we will take a van and drive for about 6 hours. We will stay at a small home, then take another two hours to reach Don Duong Village. We will spend some time teaching and getting to know the Khoi children, distributing clothes, and providing them with lunch. Not a bad way to pass a Canadian Thanksgiving. Still, I will miss apple picking and eating copious amounts of food at Aunt Marie's: a Thanksgiving classic.
We are planning a halloween "Trick-or-Treat" for the scholarship program.
Planning a day for the Ben Tre children to come to HCMC--things are shaping up, with many sponsors and great activities.
I have been volunteered by my principal to be on an executive committee to spearhead projects to increase parent-teacher communication---a difficult task in a school where the majority of parents do not speak English.
Cheratien and I will be responsible for the Christmas concert, which we have been told must be spectacular. Ekkkkk. We are going to cultivate our stars in our after-school drama club: a club which is shaping up to be a significant amount of hilarious!
Anyway, I am going to do some pre-bedtime reading and head to bed.
Much love always!
K
Once more, much time has lapsed since my last report. Let me work backward this time.
Yesterday, was a humourous day at school. Our Korean students learn French, while all others learn Vietnamese. My grade nines have taken to calling each other by animal names; a practice birthed by the fact that one of my students looks like a bunny. In drama class, after the former student returned from French class (during which she learned the word for a male chicken), she declared to Nguyen, "You are a coq." I casually and almost without thinking told her that one should not really say this in English, because the aforementioned word is slang for penis. My more English savvy, yet still conservatively Vietnamese student, hid their faces in their hands, while my lower level EFL students looked at me with bewilderment. My most proficient English speakers then attempted to explain in the most circuitous ways, that certainly avoided any proper or improper names of sex organs, what exactly the faux pas was. Upon actually realizing her slip of tongue, Alice let out a chorus of "I didn't mean, I didn't mean, I didn't mean." To alleviate her embarrassment, I gladly shared a censored version of my near slip up with the dignitary's name at the Grand Opening Ceremonies (see an early entry in which I regale you all with the tale of how I nearly called the most important man in Vietnamese education Mr. Boob Pussy by means of incorrect pronunciation). She seems somewhat relieved.
Thankfully, due to these circumstance, we had already established and clarified the term "private parts," so that today's conversation was slightly less awkward. My students are currently making a movie poster about a short story centering on Scrabble. For this assignment, one of my students had googled images related to the game, and had discovered a treasure chest of Scrabble related comics. One comic featured the tag line, "This always happens to me at family game night" and displays a teenager with the letters posed and staged to spell "clitoris." My student was ready to paste this puppy to her poster, so I had to provide a small sex ed. vocabulary lesson, once more.
In addition to taking on a new career as a sex education teacher, I am pursuing lots of new and interesting things.
Last weekend, I went with Kay and Cheratien to the Gallery of Fine Arts. The place is a rustic, peacefull, relatively unpatroned, and compelling colonial relic--yellow chipped paint, blue glazed cement pillars, broken yet beautiful stained glass. Just enough decay to make it magnificient
For dinner, Thao Pham took us to the northern outskirts to a restaurant in the midst of a park.
We paid an entrance fee to eat a gluttonous amount of happiness-inducing Vietnamese
food. A cool evening and a walk through the park.
I met with an interesting group of individuals last Wednesday for a "life coach" session. Interesting. I gleened some excellent insights and met some interesting people.
Friday was Mid-Autumn Festival here in Vietnam. The kiddies made and decorated dragons, then we paraded through the streets. A dragon dance troup and drum team came to the school and performed in the street as our children watched from the sidelines. I was almost crying with glee while watching the young children's faces and hearing their screams of joy when the dancers passed them by. We had mooncakes and hot tea, then my grade nines played hide and seek in our anything but ample sized room. A good friday all in all.
This past Sunday, Jeremy and I attended church at Notre Dame Cathedral. Jeremy picked me up on his bike, and I enjoyed the breeze against my bare legs. We arrived just in time to hear the choir's opening song, which was quite nice (I haven't heard an overwhelming amount of good Vietnamese singers). The sermon was a frightening conglomerate of all expected cliche conservatisms of the Catholic church: a talk on the sanctity of marriage, which openly condemned divorce in "any circumstance" and pointedly stated that marriage or sexual relations between "men and men" or "women and women" sends the actors to hell. I found myself with similar considerations as when I attended church in Kenya-- often "imported" religion is played out as a stock character sketch, consciously activating all the most obvious controversies. I was more intrigued than upset. More contemplative than indignant. We then had lunch at one of my favourite restaurants in the city, which has just relocated. The new location is less raw, which I think is a shame, but it was nice nonetheless. We sat in the park and listened to a troupe of young males picking away at their acoustic guitars. I navigated the street, realizing that I am more familiar with the city than I had thought. Headed to the bookstore, then to meet our friend Thao. We went to our friend Hand's house, who just moved. We had a celebratory lunch. She had cooked us an amazing spread, and we all enjoyed cool tea and food for some hours. We discussed all matters of life--domestic abuse, homosexuality, sexuality, slang phrases, and the list goes on. We laughed a lot, as well. Riding back to Thao's house, I sat with ease on the back of her bike, and thinking about how comfortable and zestful life is here. Jeremy took Cheratien back home, and I took a sai om ride. My driver speedily navigated traffic, landing me home in record time. He was thrilled when I gave him an extra 75 cents above our negotiated price.
Things on the go:
The school clothing drive is coming to a close. I have convinced about 4 other teachers to join me on the trek to the remote village this coming weekend to do some teaching and deliver the clothes. Right after school, we will take a van and drive for about 6 hours. We will stay at a small home, then take another two hours to reach Don Duong Village. We will spend some time teaching and getting to know the Khoi children, distributing clothes, and providing them with lunch. Not a bad way to pass a Canadian Thanksgiving. Still, I will miss apple picking and eating copious amounts of food at Aunt Marie's: a Thanksgiving classic.
We are planning a halloween "Trick-or-Treat" for the scholarship program.
Planning a day for the Ben Tre children to come to HCMC--things are shaping up, with many sponsors and great activities.
I have been volunteered by my principal to be on an executive committee to spearhead projects to increase parent-teacher communication---a difficult task in a school where the majority of parents do not speak English.
Cheratien and I will be responsible for the Christmas concert, which we have been told must be spectacular. Ekkkkk. We are going to cultivate our stars in our after-school drama club: a club which is shaping up to be a significant amount of hilarious!
Anyway, I am going to do some pre-bedtime reading and head to bed.
Much love always!
K
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