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Published: November 16th 2008
“I’m a bee that’s buzzing loudly.
Come on now, everybody,
put your hand on your throat,
feel that vibrating ‘z’ sound.
BuZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
ZZZZZZ. Louder my class of
ZZZZZealous students,
Do it like a craZZZZy Western teacher
who likes ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZylophones.
I’m buZZZZZZing.
You’re buZZZZZZing.
We’re all BuZZZZZing.”
Now that I’ve been writing here to my faithful readers for some time, (my parents, it seems, are my most avid fans), it seems appropriate to quote my own poetry at a time like this, especially when the above words so accurately reflect my present state. I’ve just returned from a cup of coffee. Wait. That doesn’t explain anything. I’ve just been a victim of Vietnamese coffee. There, that’s much better. You would think there would be nothing simpler, right? WRONG! My new home, an apartment housed in a large monstrosity of a skyscraper, also contains a coffee shop called Trung Nguyen. Having been a little ‘under the weather’ lately, (not the dreaded, drum - playing hang-over fairies this time but the more sinister, ‘lets see your intestines’ food-poisoning kind) I decided I’d break the monotony of being a certified couch potato and venture to find our post-box in the basement
(it’s still lurking somewhere) and have a coffee on the way back. Easy peasy.
Took the elevator 20 floors down. Elevators are a strange experience here. They are crammed, possess a T.V. advertising shopping plazas and toilet roll. Staring and Silence appear the mechanisms by which the elevator moves. The general rule is to always push your way out as if you’ve spent three weeks living in the Cu Chi tunnels. It seems to be the Viet way; politeness in the form of, say, an orderly queue are concepts unheard of. My eyes, full of western indignant fury, are as incomprehensible and unheard of as customer service, refunds and pedestrian crossings.
Anyway back to my cup of coffee. Twist the handle. Bright light hits my bleary eyes. The interior designers should speak to my mother. This is Western, French maybe, crème walls and upholstery, deep sophisticated ebony wood. They have menus here; unlike Gloria Jeans and O’Briens (I’d murder a turkey sandwich, stuffing and cheese) they see coffee as a luxury, not a drug that gets one through the morning. You order, you sit, you await. Four waiters leap from the ground behind the counter to trip over
one another to serve rich western lady, the only customer they may have had in a month. They’re not on commission; they are simply bored. I opt for the comforting milkyness of a latte. Lots of sugar, just like home. No such luck, the Western coffees are ‘broken’ today. I berate myself ‘Shame shame live the Viet game Kate!’ So I order the strangest sounding Vietnamese coffee I can find - ‘Weasel and almond flavour’. My stomach growls as I remember what a weasel was in my childhood storybooks. I’ve ordered a mistake but it’s too late, it’s arrived.
They’ve put the coffee filterer on top of a giant mug. I reassure myself that the mug doesn’t look like it can actually fit a weasel so I tentatively peek under the coffee maker into the mug. The liquid inside is darker than the wood of my mahogany chair. It’s an alien syrup disastrous for my feeble, weakened internal organs. I add some water. The glue increases. I ask for milk. I get a blank hollow stare. I ask some other hovering waiter for milk; I get hot water. The syrup now looks like black adhesive that could weld metal.
Yummy. The waiter’s have become curious - they have come out from behind the counter where they were all squatting on their haunches (this is truly an Asian/Viet ability - I’ve tried squatting and I last for 2 minutes max. They can last a whole day squatting). They think this is some elegant coffee ritual of the white world and will inform their superiors. My antics may become a trend they can sell to white tourists. I drink half the sticky weasel substance (I don’t taste almonds) and hightail it out of there. I almost forgot to pay because they have by this stage gone back to squatting once they realised I was just a silly latte girl. I surprised them by paying at the till - they seemed upset I saw them actually being Vietnamese and having their communal meal of fish hidden by a counter. After this, it was back to my couch to shake off the beans for 2 hours. I think it’s wearing off now so I can tell you more serious news.
I have neglected to share much information in the way of Vietnamese cuisine in general so I’ll try to dispel some of
the fears many of you have; that I’m eating dog innards and the fried intestines of snakes, bats and jungle animals. All of these foods are available yet in HCMC there is a strong French influence so you can get many types of cuisine. There are many backpackers with large appetites here which means there are streets with Japanese, Italian, Korean, Spanish and Brasilian restaurants. Many of you at my former place of employment, La Gaelacia, on the Boulevard de Carrigaline, attempted to terrify me with stories of endless rice and fish. Yes, rice is a national staple here, much like potatoes at home, but the Viet food is, by and large, healthy and tasty. It refrains from sauces and opts for more spices. Our landlord, Mr Loc, told us we had a cooker and oven. It turned out the oven is the hob - Vietnamese people don’t roast things, they boil, steam or fry them. So no roast turkey perhaps, but still I’m not sick of rice yet (it’s nicer than at home) and I’ve only had fish twice!!I do try to have at least one Vietnamese meal a day but sometimes you don’t want to think about what
you are eating and Italian here is good. Ordering French food tonight, so you see, the choice is endless. If you want to get adventurous, you just befriend a student who invites you to a remote part of the countryside and you can drink snake blood and try the delicacy of dogmeat. It’s not on most menus though so sorry to disappoint all you sadistic fear-mongers…
And now for something completely different: Have been taking Vietnamese lessons every week so I’ll do my best to give you all taste. Unfortunately this blog can’t show the accents that go over different letters. These tones (six in total) have a drastic influence over the sound of the word and, most importantly, it’s meaning. Although very difficult to master, it is fun to try, especially with xeom riders; they are simultaneously shocked and bemused when white western lady barters in badly pronounced tieng Viet.
Speaking of the xeoms, I’m now fondly (bitterly?) called ‘moui lam’ (15) by the xeoms outside my apartment building because I always haggle them down to 15000 dong (nearly $1) for a ride to school. I had two ‘full’ conversations with my last few xeoms, telling them
my name, my profession, what age I was and how much my rent is. Although most of the conversations end with me saying ‘No, I don’t want to get married yet, nor do I wish to meet their single cousin with good English and a well-paid job,’ it is rewarding when they shake your hand at the end of the trip because you tried and made them laugh.
This reminds me: I meant to tell you I got married. Yes, a lovely Vietnamese banker named Quy. (His real name is much more unpronounceable but I have many years to practise…) Many weeks ago I was having dinner at a place called Le Pub and soon -to-be mystery husband # 1 asked if he could join me. Like any other expat here, I sincerely wish to have Viet friends - it’d be nice to leave the country knowing at least one beyond my xeom taxi drivers. Anyway it turns out that there is a very conservative ethos around dating here. If you have dinner with a man you are married. If you go for coffee, you are dating and if you head to the park for a chat on his
motorbike you are offering…well…don’t make me spell it out now… you are basically offering everything really. (I swear I only went for dinner, mum and dad). So imagine if you went for coffee at lunch time, strolled in the park in the evening purely to work up an appetite for dinner?! This leads to many stories of confusion between Westerners and Vietnamese, as you can imagine. In my case, I was hounded for a few days via text message by my new hubbie who claimed to have found the perfect park in which we could walk and presumably get to know each other better (he is my life partner after all…)
I debated changing my phone number but the texts have ceased and I’m sure there is another young Western lady having an innocent coffee as we speak. Anyway, I’ve taken up a Vietnamese martial art in district 4, so by the end of it I should look like an ex-foreign legion soldier/close protection bodyguard. These are just some of my ‘Vovinam’ instructor’s career titles. I’ve only had one lesson but I’m addicted. It’s basically a sport where you learn to throw yourself at the ground for an hour
in a sequence of cartwheels and rolls. There is a lot of running and jumping too. But the promise of a deadly blue kimono suit makes my feeling ridiculous worth it all. It’s the props that make it cool.
This blog entry is getting lengthy and I’m concerned some of you are losing the will to live. If you have read all this in one sitting I want your job, you lazy camel jockey. I’ll stick some photos up of the zoo I went to last Tuesday (sort of depressing because the animals can’t really move around - again, bit like the Gaelic) and the Halloween activities (the longest Halloween in my lifetime but entertaining as I got to scare little children into wetting themselves) at my school. I’ll leave you interpret them anyway you like!
Tam biet for now
Kate
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Hugh
non-member comment
Hi Kate
The joys of college life. I can read your long blogs all at once. C told ya you'd get married. Hope he has plenty money!!! Look forward to hearing you speak fluent Vietnamese when you get back. LOL. Take care