Tell Me What You See

July 27, 2009

Often, I have to fight the urge to give them everything that I have on my person because I feel guilty for having so much while they have close to none. But as I walk on, amidst fields so impossibly green that everything else is dimmed in my eyes, I realize how close that borders to condescension. Because they're happy. Some may say that that's because they don't know what lies beyond and maybe to a certain extent, that's true. But it doesn't change the fact that barefoot in the mud, with nothing but a wide emerald expanse before them, they're happy, even if just for a while even if it's in a way that we can't quite comprehend.

And maybe that's more than some of us can ever hope to have.

[Edit 17/02/10: I think "even if just for a while" is the wrong phrase to use. Misleading.]

Of Coffee And Wars

July 18, 2009

Today, we discovered the pitfalls of being too bright-eyed in a foreign land: missing money. But we are determined not to let it affect our day.

___

As I write on the mangled mess of paper which used to be our temporary guidebook (now defiled with streaky ink, crinkled corners and suspicious looking specks), Ellen is sipping her 10,000 VND coffee which she declares to be 'very good' while she contemplates the guidebook.

The streets are considerably less crowded than they were this morning, a welcome relief for road-crossing novices like us. Well, me, really, who jumps every time a horn sounds too loudly. The heat is simply sweltering, so much so that I can see heat waves rising from the ground. I half expect the ground to sizzle and smoke if I pour water on it but of course, that would be a terrible waste of good resources (even I am slightly awestruck at the amount of time we spend hunting for the cheapest water but well, we are proponents of Good Budgeting).

So while the heat has driven everyone else into hiding, we are in a small cafe disrupting the afternoon tea of a family which, strangely enough, consists of beer, rambutans and a lot of back-smacking among the younger, more boisterous lot who seems to be the only ones who remain undefeated by the incessant rays. The rest of us, well, we've turned into snivelling, whimpering pansies.

It is rather amusing though, how they siesta in a town that isn't Spanish while playing American pop hits from the 1999-ish era, of which the Backstreet Boys seem to be a particular cult favourite.

Off to visit the Hanoi Hilton now.

PS: Our conclusion is that Hanoi is not dirty. Singapore is just far too clean but I'm not really complaining.

Dusty Conclusions At Dusk

July 17, 2009

As we entered the Vietnamese street kitchen (authentic, no less), everyone stared at us most curiously. Fortunately, we were largely forgotten after a while and after saying an extra fervent grace, were left alone to navigate our way through the jungle of herbs compulsory in Vietnamese cuisine. The food was excellent, but really, I shouldn’t even be surprised. So far so good, no throwing up.

Later on,we realized that the staring was somehow inevitable. But then again, I suppose we were a curious sight, foreign Asians, female. A strange man tried to take a picture of us at one of the random temples that we ventured into and when he realized that he had been discovered, he grinned sheepishly and herded his friends away. We were rather amused, to say the least. Partly because we looked a sight (defeated by the humidity of Vietnamese air, sweating profusely; I think ‘mangy’ would be an appropriate descriptor) but mostly because the only reason why we discovered his secret attempt is because we spent most of our day secretly taking photos of old men. Old men sitting, old men smoking, old men fishing, old men in pajamas.

Because I am falling asleep, the following thoughts have to be captured in a most haphazard manner:

• Ellen thinks that we look lesbian since she is in a baggy polo and jeans (instructions from her mother to deter potential rapists: “No tight shirts!”) and I clutch her whenever we have to cross roads. And at this juncture, I will have to admit that whatever I may say, my heart rate rises dramatically whenever we cross the road.
• The Vietnamese people are very polite. Although travel websites always have people complaining about touts, the easiest way to get by is to shake your head and smile, and wait for them to smile back
• Vietnamese people dress rather well, although the curious fashion here is long-sleeved shirts and pants, with these universal slippers
• Overall, a fairly safe country
• Still debating whether to go to Ha Long Bay and Sa Pa. The prices are exhorbitant and this is one area where Ellen’s famous charm is not functioning very well
• Vietnamese men are all fairly good looking. Like Ellen said, the ugliest people we saw today were the Singaporeans. Maybe Ellen will find a hot Vietnamese boy to cook pho bo for her everyday afterall
• The giant tortoise is not real. Disappointed.

Strange Encounters (Coffee-Fuelled)

July 17, 2009

After flapping in the wind and rain for a bit, we discovered a decrepit little shop selling an assortment of coffee beans. It even housed the Weasel variety, where the bean is passed out through the said animal’s intestinal tract which is supposed to mellow the flavour. There, was an American man in his sixties, his wife and baby, and two skinny cyclo drivers, who were all (except the baby) sipping cups of freshly brewed coffee. Naturally, Ellen could not resist so we gingerly plopped ourselves on a chair only to have the perplexed shopkeeper tell us that that was in fact the table, while motioning us to a stool so tiny it could only be accurately described as ‘kindergarten furniture’.

Having finished his coffee, the American paid (for Ellen’s coffee too; USD 5, was it that good, Ellie?) but as he and his entourage stood up to leave, the rain started to patter with such great intensity that all thoughts of departure were abandoned. All of a sudden, the queer assortment of humans perched on miniature furniture found themselves in the most awkward moment where silence seemed impolite and chatter, desperate and inadequate. Amidst the furtive eye-darting and toe-shuffling, what should fall through a hole in the ceiling but a brassier. Only the American man was amused (highly, I might add) and the rest of us looked nervously around for somewhere more innocuous to rest our gaze. But there it was, with a loud American guffaw, the magic had been cast and the awkward veil lifted. We then proceeded to discuss a strange variety of things, including the strange fact that many Vietnamese men in America run an offer manicure and pedicure services. The Vietnamese shopkeeper was horrified. “Unbelievable,” he said. His spanky English was due to his work at the embassy in Malaysia. Coffee beans are only the family business.

You And I, We Travel At The Speed Of Light

July 17, 2009

Watching Ellen’s face while she discovered that the toilet in our USD15/night hotel room did not have a separate showering area was something right out of a comedic entity and when we found a better hotel for only slightly more expensive (it was actually quite a bit more, but the man was Waggling his eyebrows at her while she bargained), we lunged at the opportunity to jump ship. Although we felt a bit guilty, the thought of the flimsy plastic door which looked as though even I could dispose of it quite easily, coupled with the lack of a proper lock, soon remedied that.

So far, my theory about Ellen and Southeast Asian men in general has yet again been prove true. when we broke the news of our intentions to the hotel staff, one was rather dismal to hear of our premature departure and after a woeful farewell, heaved a sigh and flopped rather pathetically. Of course, he could just have been woeful at the thought of the disappearance of his cash cows but I choose to believe a more comedic truth.

Since discretion was key, we lugged our bags into the street, quite prepared to walk to the other hotel. However, the rain soon began falling with quickening intensity and although we had been warned of rigged meters and unscrupulous taxi drivers, we thought that flagging down the first taxi we came across would be of little consequence, since the other hotel was in fact on the next street. However, after the taxi driver had established our Singaporean-tourist status, we had, according to the meter, travelled the amazing distance of 20.7km in a span of 5 minutes and were charged a grand total of 80,000 VND – I suspect the correct fare would have been something like 12,000 VND (10,000 VND = S$0.80). Still, not much harm done for a well-timed lesson, I say.

We Pound The Pavement With Our Eyes

July 17, 2009

Confusing as they are, the curious thing about the streets in Hanoi is that if one walks around long enough, all the streets lead to the same place. This is the phenomenon that Ellen and I have discovered after tromping around in the temperamental rain, our raincoats blowing in the wind and our feet soaking in the soul of the Old Quarter.

We have discovered this delightful ice-cream parlour, Fanny, as as I write, Ellen is devouring her second scoop of nougat flavoured ice-cream, and reading Cecelia Ahern. The funny thing is, I bet she wouldn’t be caught dead with that book back home, despite her protestations that The New York Times called it “intelligent chick-lit”. But then, this is the wonderful luxury of anonymity that being in a foreign country provides. Something that home, with all its trappings of preconceived notions, can ill afford. We are who we are, more than we care to admit.

We spy a group of Singaporeans in the far corner, easily identifiable by their dressing. A check of the Inventory quickly yields one gray army shirt and one junior college orientation shirt. My eyes struggle to process this strange, familiar unfamiliarity, oddly displaced, and I wonder with a mild mortification if we look as queer to the Vietnamese as they look to us.

Otherwise, we are very much alone. We have been conferred the gift of invisibility in this pulsating bustling place where while crossing the road is in itself as skill, crossing it while looking unperturbed is an art, one that we have clearly not mastered, as evinced by our terrified faces every time we are faced with that unsavoury prospect. Nonethless, I suspect we provide hearty entertainment for the Vietnamese.

Sunburnt in Shanghai

24th June 2009; 11:24pm

The grand total of stray animals that we saw today is 2 (cats). I was bitten by mosquitoes again, which Ellen thinks is weird since she says there aren't any mosquitoes here. I am convinced that she lies. Either that, or she doesn't smell clean (refer to previous post on the preferences of Shanghainese mosquitoes).
Shanghai is, at least for now, the Land of Construction. Cement, cement. While we were in People's Park today (which is a garden), the wind blew and I thought I saw a shower of mist. Until Ellen informed me that it was in fact, dust.

We decided to walk to the Old Town. On the way, we saw strange and beautiful buildings. Neoclassical and Gothic. Pathetically enough, we were too tired to walk around the Old Town after actually reaching so we went to sit at a Japanese resaurant above the pond in a garden (Shanghai has many) run by Real Japanese Men with Long Hair. I had a sparkling grapefruit drink and only after a slight headache and many giggles over nothing at all, realized that it contained 3.5% alcohol. I doubt my alcohol tolerance is that pathetic so I am just going to avert any potential mockery by maintaining that I drank on an empty stomach very quickly.

The Old Town is brash and colourful. So colourful and vibrant, that the place looks unreal. Instead, it resembles a movie set, a make believe town. Like a distant relic of some heritage, once forgotten, now dragged out from its hiding place and hurriedly constructed together. I won't deny my disappointment.

On a slightly more cheerful note, did you know that the Shanghainese can sleep anywhere? And that they have this amazing habit of sitting down and doing absolutely nothing at all. I have also now learnt that to cross the roads here, one needs to walk briskly but slowly. All I have to do now is remember that the traffic comes at you in two directions. Oh well, practice makes perfect, especially when the alternative is not quite so instataneous death.

The Lover's Tears

23rd June 2009, 6.31pm

After having been in Shanghai for a grand total of 3 hours, I have learnt that:

• The air smells oddly like decaying cement
• It is possible to break into cold sweat while crossing the road (Ref: when the taxi nearly runs a person over and before the person has fully recovered from the trauma, a loud honking monster of a bus comes along, with apparently no regard whatsoever for pedestrians and traffic regulations)
• Mosquitoes attack clean-smelling people
• The Shanghainese people tend to sound angry when they talk, even when they’re actually not (E.g. the security guard who was trying to tell me that I had to pull the door instead of pushing it; the evident lack of communication saw me pushing the door very fervently indeed)
• The city is a curious mix of old and new; She is like a child tottering in her European mother’s heels, unsteady in her gait, but nonetheless choosing to barrel forward furiously with a petulant determination. A facade I’m not sure anyone is taken in by, save the occasional brash tourist who is only too happy to partake in a such a happy revolution and to be awestruck at the wonders of Progress

431kmh/h at 14:21

23rd June 2009, 3.13pm

I have arrived, and dustily so. Have successfully navigated my way around a foreign country and its transport system which, in my opinion, might as well be monolingual.

Did you know that the gantry gates to the MRT in Shanghai look exactly like the ones in Singapore? Right down to the colour of the arrows on the sidebars. Only they haven't learnt the automated gates technique.

I have become extremely excited about being in new, unexplored land and kept smiling to myself in the MRT (Two Chinese boys thought I was a very queer personage).

On a sidenote, Shanghai's mulptiple unpaved roads and trolley bags do not make a good match. I keep clanking around.

Ethereal Places

23rd June 2009; 7.14am
So this is what the waking earth looks like.

(Although at this point of time, booking an 8.05am flight is an act that can only be termed as overly enthusiastic/optimistic)

I am sleepy but at the same time, so thrilled and exhilarated. It makes a strange combination because while part of me wants to run around the the travellators at the airport, another part wants to curl up on them and fall asleep to the hum of its strange lullaby, amidst unsuspecting travellers.

I can't remember the last time I walked so slowly.

And when it was 11 minutes to Gate A21 (nowadays they tell you how many more minutes it is to your gate which is crazy since people only care when they are late and when they are late, they will be late regardless of whether they know the time or not), I got scared. Of being alone; of getting lost.

Did you know that the colour of morning is a greyish green, with threads of gold?

In Between Here And Now

23rd June 2009; 4.40am

When you finally admit to yourself that you’re not sure of who you really are, the world becomes infinite. There’s nothing left to keep you in, but there’s also nothing left to keep you from falling off the edge of the earth. This uncertainty is terribly frightening, but it’s also oddly liberating: when nothing’s for sure, how many mistakes can you possibly make?

This, I guess, is my really strange way of explaining why I bought a plane ticket for one to Shanghai.

It's not true.
Only an afterthought, the pause after the full stop.
Have always been.

Lessons From History

Who would have thought that the ghost of Edna and her ATQs would still linger, among the residual remains of my Contract essay, no less. Although I really should be ashamed of myself, since ATQing should come naturally to any self-respecting Edna humanities student, it was one of those Sudden Grin moments that made everything seem less bleak.

But still, to ignore lesson from history would be undue folly. So now we know that the moment you get your exam paper, one should scrawl a large ATQ with vehement exclamation marks in some hideous colour, think of Crocs, and write as though your very life depended on it. Which was often true, in Edna's class.

Bless her and her ATQs, wherever she is.

In A Manner Of Speaking

A quiet Sunday afternoon, and I re-discover Jason Mraz's music. He reminds me that there is still beauty in the world, value in dreams and that not all pursuits are mindless.

I think I now understand Kaye's mania with him.

You've got the best of both worlds
You're the kind of girl who can take down a man,
And lift him back up again
You are strong but you're needy,
Humble but you're greedy
And based on your body language,
And shoddy cursive I've been reading
Your style is quite selective,
Though your mind is rather reckless
Well I guess it just suggests
That this is just what happiness is

-- Jason Mraz; A Beautiful Mess