Don't Drink the Water

I was asked by Donson the other day if they have sports drinks here in Vietnam, like Gatorade, or Powerade.

'No, I don't think so. I haven't seen any', I said.

'I wonder if you can get them into it?' he asked me.

  

Here is a typically cryptic statement by Donson. About half the things he says, I like to think of it as a masterstroke of Dadaist ambiguity. Or as he would self-describe it, 'I'm just bad at explaining things.' With about 20 minutes of prodding, usually I get down to the bottom of it, and typical of a poet, his off-kilter statements always mean a whole lot under the surface, full of unconventional wisdom and genuine insight.

Our little conversation was through online chatting, and since we are twelve time zones away from each other and the time in which I can talk to everybody back home is through a very small window, I didn't exactly feel like questioning what he meant by it, so I just let it slip by and continued our timely conversation about the earthquake and Nostradamus and stuff. 

I kept thinking about that question, about Gatorade. About how Gatorade, or Powerade, could possibly fit into the picture with my time here in Sapa, a small town known for the congregation of many ethnic minorities like the Hmong and Red Dzao, who have been making their living as experts in rice farming for centuries. Their villages outside of Sapa, in which they still reside, aside from the occasional television or ubiquitous cellular phone, wouldn't look too different than it probably did a few centuries ago. My students still cook rice in a large cast iron pot and a wood fire at the school, their clothing is lavishly adorned with their own stitchwork, and long treks and descents down mountains are done in plastic jelly slippers that wouldn't pass quality control at Family Dollar.

Regardless, the jagged terrain of Northern Vietnam is their dancefloor, and the ease in which they traverse it is made all the more mesmerizing due to their nonchalance while doing so. Their walking and climbing prowess reminds me of Tom Hulce's portrayal of Mozart in Amadeus, a man so thoroughly talented at what he does that he is incapable of even comprehending his superiority. Instead, all he could do is let out little giggles of disbelief as he casually improvises an eternal masterpiece. My students' giggling comes in the form of watching my fellow teachers and me try to follow them down a mountain with their sweat-less ease. They're not boasting, they just don't understand how we could be so uncoordinated at walking on our own two legs. 

Okay, this isn't very informative but I tried to snap a video without
Mai's knowledge and clicked record too late.

So does the Gatorade question allude to the fact that I need to teach these kids some athleticism, to inform them on how to take care of their bodies through competitive sport? There is no other sport here but soccer, and there is nothing that I can teach them concerning that weird game where you pretend you have no arms. Soccer obsession is of course, like everywhere else, very real here: one of my students, since my first day, has insisted on going by the name Fabregas (he of Arsenal fame, for us Americans).

One day recently, my coworker Sharon brought up an interesting revelation immediately following class.

“Every time I go to the bathroom at the school, I never have to wait. Not once have I seen it occupied.”  Thinking a bit, I realize I’d never run into that problem either. We’ve got on average of about 25 kids in the class, one bathroom in use, and yet there’s never once been a conflict with me or the other teachers.

“I just don’t think they ever have to pee,” Sharon continued.

As a general rule, we all have lunch and dinner with the students, meals cooked by the students and served on a long table with the teachers interspersed amongst our pupils. I think it’s very old fashioned and a great idea, creating quicker bonds and is a way for the students to repay their teachers with their cooking. Plus the food is pretty good, too. We all get our bowl of rice in front of us, chopsticks, and generally some morning glory with garlic, tofu with crushed tomatoes, pumpkin stew, and chicken ‘bacon’. The rice is plentiful, and we often help ourselves to multiple bowls. The only thing we don’t have is water, or a glass to drink out of at the table. Not just water, but no tea or any other kind of beverage. This actually suits me fine, since I don’t drink much water while I eat, yet the girls are so accommodating with all of the teachers’ needs, I do find it surprising that none of it is even offered.

I do know there’s probably some pretty logical reasons why the Hmong, throughout their history, have not drunk much water, but I’m not just talking about at the dinner table. When I go on treks with my students, we’re not talking about an hour stroll on flat roads. The ascents are easily about 50+ degrees incline for long stretches of time, and we’ll go a total of about 6 hours in a day, so to not have a sip of water during the entire trek is remarkable. And it’s not because we don’t offer it to the students; of course we’re carrying those giant grain-silo sized bottles, and they’ve never once taken us up on our offer of water. On top of that, our students often even feel the need to carry one of our backpacks, where it can easily, from what I can estimate, weigh about a third of their body weight. Even then, not even a sip.

So what is all this about having 8-12 glasses a day. I’ve heard it’s essential, and I’ve also read it’s hogwash. I think I’m going to have to lean towards hogwash now. Personally, I’m still going to do my part in fulfilling that water quota that’s been pounded into head, but human physiology can’t be all that different from people to people. Maybe we’re being had by some Coke and Pepsi instigated bottled water fallacy. But my students, who are physically small in stature but tough as titanium nails in just about every facet of their life, are doing it with what literally might be zero drinking water. Maybe they don’t like water. Maybe they need Gatorade. Maybe I’m wasting my time with English; I cannot think of a better way to wave my American flag than to fight for the Western-physician recommended nutritional plan of double digit glasses of water a day. I honestly wish I was cool enough to nix water for life.

Is that what you meant, Donson? How did you know about this fascinating little tidbit about my students? Yes! I do want to get them into Gatorade. I want to continue my imperialistic American duty by indoctrinating my students with the importance of having a Sigg and to get them hooked on Voss water.

In the realm of sports, I’ve competed against the girls in only one: foosball. They’re good enough at that to where I have about an 0-25 record against them. 

Whoa whoa yeah yeah-hee

If anybody is familiar with Tommy Lee, drummer of Motley Crue and
Chairman of the Rotary Club Santa Monica Chapter, you might know that he once awed the heavy metal world by doing a series of drum solos upside-down at the Crue's live shows (yes, I can call them the Crue because I actually know a couple of their albums [thanks, Kimling]).

Here is Lee, in the process of being turned upside down.

I don't know the relationship between playing an instrument upside down and looking cool, but if Ozzy Osbourne set the world on fire by eating a live bat at one of his shows, I guess Lee figured looking like a bat at his would do the job. Of course, people went batshit all over it, resulting in the charmed life, undying love of the adoring masses, and the unanimous respect and admiration from Nobel laureates that we all associate with Tommy Lee. 

There is a twelve hour differential in Vietnam from Central Standard Time USA, so I'm exactly half a world away from Texas. No matter what all these foreigners I've met in the last month, from all over the world, tell me, USA really is the center of the world. That's why we're in the center of all the world maps (the ones printed in the U.S, at least), duh. Since the USA really is #1 ("USA Number one!", right Peter?), we are always upright, and everyone else is either about to tip over, or hanging completely upside-down.  I'm dangling for my life here in Southeast Asia. To top it off, I'm living in the shadows of the highest point in Vietnam, ever so closer to falling off into space.

I've been upside-down from my loved ones for about a month now, and what do I get? Where's my luxury bus with a built-in Atari and top of the line high-bias cassette deck by Emerson? Where's my lucrative clothing endorsements from Gloria Vanderbilt and Etonic? Where are my groupies in jeans with pink tassles and flammable hair? I'm looking around. Nowhere to be found.

Vietnam is where I'm at and happy to be. That said, I miss everyone back at home enough to disguise it with writing multiple paragraphs about a hair metal has-been, so let's go the soft-rock route; to everybody close enough to read this stuff, Leo Sayer said it best: I love you more than I can say.

Sapa

Were I in a 70's prog-rock band, I'd have played all of my shows in Sapa for the free fog machine.

If I started my own winter wear label to be sold at JC Penny

and Montgomery Ward, I'd call it Sapa Fog.

If I opened up a pho restaurant here, I'd call it

Phog

I’ve seen a jovial, skillful hackey-sack game become unplayable with the ball in mid-air due to the onset of aggressive, impromptu fog here in Sapa. The street vendors and market stalls are at the mercy of the weather’s unpredictability, where the temperature can drop 15 degrees in seconds and make the streets so completely blurry that one cannot see 10 feet in front of them, bringing business activity down to its knees. 

It's sad, frankly, that my introduction to Sapa involves the mundane reality of its fog. It's not really that big of a deal. It's cold for Vietnam, but not really all that cold, as it's still winter. Yes, the fog is somewhat unique, but it becomes a nuisance very quickly and unremarkable equally fast. I speak of the fog for the same reason other people speak about the weather when talking to strangers: you don't know what else to talk about. You might really want to say something much more personal, but you stick to the weather, as it's safe and easy. Why can't you get personal? Because you might not do justice to sincerity. Stick to the surface. Show a bunch of mediocre photos and keep it simple.

Entrance to my hotel. The lady sweeping: expert sweeper, bad 

at hospitality.

Maybe this is common in other countries, but do hotels usually close?

"We close at 11," the owners of the hotel tell me. 

"What if I stay out until past 11?" I ask very reasonably.

"We close at 11," I'm retold in exactly the same manner.

I'm not talking about the hotel staff closing the front desk, or to the restaurant, or to the other amenities usually available at hotels. I'm talking about a guest being shut out of their rooms if they get back too late, locked out at the front door of the hotel. It's a bit of a shock, as it's a relatively decent hotel. If this is normal, then just call me unworldly.

View from my balcony

Balcony view panned to the right from 

previous photo. Hoang Lien Mountain Range is in the distance.

View from above.

Honestly, one of my favorite things about being in Vietnam is randomly hearing a lone man, woman, or child shriek at the top of their lungs, when the streets are completely silent "Im di! (Shut your mouth!)", "Toi biet! (I know!)",  "Sua! (Milk! or Fix!, I'm not entirely sure which they meant at the moment)" or something to that extent. I often hear group shouting or laughter in Vietnamese, usually from some bar, of course, but when I hear that lone blast of scattershot Vietnamese from my balcony, it's very amusing, and always a happy reminder of where I'm at.  

I came into this post with the idea that I'd make it photo-centric because I've neglected to post anything in the past couple of weeks, and since Sapa is a very scenic town, it would only make sense to at least give a basic rundown of what I've been seeing for the past fortnight. I don't like many of the photos (my camera is far too limited lens-wise), though, but I've basically been at a loss for words, so I found myself not wanting to post any photos nor write anything that wouldn't do right by Sapa. There's plenty to write about. I reckon there cannot be too many places like this in the world. 

It has only recently dawned on me that the largest reason for my befuddlement is that I’ve never spent significant time in a small town. One could travel from one end of Sapa to the other in about 5 minutes on a motorbike, and I’m thinking I wouldn’t even make it out to the old Phar-Mor by Almeda from Mom and Dad’s place in 15. It's obviously not that big of a town, and the grand total of tourists from abroad wouldn't figure so high either, however, the ratio of tourists to locals is likely pretty high, as evidenced by the clientele at the coffee house I'm writing this in: I'm surrounded by French, German, Vietnamese, British, and Norwegians or Swedes (one is sporting a Mayhem t-shirt, so I figure a Scandinavian). Yet it's a small town. A small Vietnamese mountain town. I don't know if I knew there were mountains in Vietnam a couple of years ago. A town where my supervisor at work gave me the telltale "You do one thing in Sapa, and the next day, everyone knows about it," advice when I first arrived in town. Surely a part of why I'm hesitant to write much, or anything at all, is that I feel I might be violating some type of small town code by doing so. 

Furthermore, you see, I have been teaching while I've been here. I've been teaching some very special students who come from very special circumstances, are currently living very demanding and unique lives, and are likely to have very singular and bright futures ahead of them if they play their cards right. I want to respect the boundaries of the classroom and not make mention of them outside of it, but as a whole bunch of my time has been spent working with them since I've been in Sapa, that leaves me not much to write about without feeling a bit uneasy. I even debated putting up the previous photos of two of my students, though I feel it's a bit more okay as it was a weekend trek they took me and my fellow teachers on, on a Sunday and outside of the classroom. 

What to write about when I feel I cannot write about it, and what to snap photos of with a camera I have no confidence in? I think I can only write about Sapa once I leave.

Fansipan in the distance.

Mt. Fansipan is the highest point in Vietnam at 3,143 meters. It looms over Sapa like an ever watchful mother. This is not just some fancy metaphor. All I could see  when I first laid my eyes upon it is my mother's very iconic signature (at least to the members of my family). This photo doesn't quite capture its similarities to Mom's signature, as the jagged peaks in person are just as dramatic as Mom's spastic-heart monitor autograph. I think of you, Mom, every time I see it, and I was looking at it when I spoke to you on the phone during your birthday. I love you, Mom. Happy Ash Wednesday.

Students, Sugarcane, and I

Even more treacherous than it looks. They don't listen to their teachers on a Sunday, though.

Writing more very soon. Love, David.