Presidential pho

            Most of you who have visited Saigon must be familiar with the Reunification Palace. This iconic building is now a cheesy museum where white people go to because their hotels tell them to. Whenever I get a chance to catch a glimpse of this building, formerly called Independence Palace, flashes of a tank crashing through its gates rings throughout the very foundation of my heart. This iconic moment symbolized the end of the war as North Vietnamese troops demolished the fenced barricades. These images might bring a trail of tears beneath the older generation's eyes upon the thought of losing their country. I would tell them not to cry anymore and to enjoy and appreciate what they have now. Surely, the losers are winners simply by not living in Vietnam and having to endure the mutha'duckin' heat and traffic.  I felt like a winner eating this bowl of pho while sitting in the back of the President Palace. That's right, Vietnam's adaptability never ceases to amaze me. Coffee shops are everywhere as you know. Some people have a styrofoam box, some glasses, a bucket and some coffee and call their establishment an outdoor cafe. Well the back entrance of the palace wasn't being used, so somebody decided to make a cafe out of it and call it April 30th Cafe (3Thang4). Oh the irony. It's 2012, almost 37 years since The Fall of Saigon and here I am, back to where it all ended to eat pho. The pho wasn't too bad. It wasn't too bad at all. I still like Little Saigon's pho a lot more, but let's not get too political here. 

"Winning"

You can't have pho at a more historical place. 

Boba-less for 18 years.

        Meet Benai. She's an inspiring VK ESL teacher from Australia. She's never had boba until a few days ago. Yeah, I couldn't believe it either- an Asian who never tasted boba. Wow. Shocking.  Oh- she's got a blog too at http://www.benaipham.blog.com. If that wasn't cool enough she's only 18 years old and in Saigon. I feel old.

Death and life.

      The last time I was at a funeral I was decked out in a woman's coat jacket some six years back. Yesterday I found myself wearing an orange shirt with a black tie. That was Glendale then and this was Vinh Cu now, a world apart. I knew such a day would come if I spent time here long enough. My aunt's husband died last week and I went to the Bien Hoa countryside because I felt obligated to. I wasn't close with the departed nor had I a strong desire to attend during the work week. Under my mother's suggestion I took the 50 km trip one Thursday afternoon and found myself far from civilization, in more ways than one.
      Instead of the donning black, the Vietnamese either wear street clothes or thin white outfits and bandannas over their heads if they are related to the deceased. There's actually meaning behind what articles of white clothing a person wears. For example, brides are expected to wear the full shirt and pants while daughters can wear only pants. As I walked into the funeral possession, which took place at the family home, it resembled a wedding or dinner party. People were casually dressed, eating, and some were even drunk. The familiar sound of bad karaoke resonated from within the house as I made my way towards the flowers and glistening decor. The wooden coffin was draped with a shroud behind a makeshift alter with burning incense that clouded the air. Paying respects meant approaching the altar, bowing to Buddha first and then bowing and kowtowing to the coffin three times. The eldest son or chosen offspring would stand next to the coffin and mirror the kowtow in a sign of respect. These altar festivities don't just end when the coffin lays six feet under (or how ever deep they bury coffins here). More offerings and incense burning will follow for next few months every preset / scheduled few days.
By the way, it's relatively easy to find a funeral here in Vietnam, just follow the annoying music and look out for a black flag with a swastika on it.
     If ever in the course of living here when I've been weirded out and I usually am every day, this was it. The funeral traditions here are mind blogging to me. After visiting the hospital, doctors told my uncle to just go home and die. The Vietnamese prefer dying in their own homes. I think that's pretty scary. The body and the coffin are kept inside the home from anywhere between four days to a week. Friends, family, and neighbors all come by to eat and enjoy some kind Vietnamese hospitality. I said it before and I'll say it again, this funeral felt like a party. My biggest problem was that I forgot that I was at a funeral. I kept smiling and cracking jokes while oblivious to the random people dressed in white all around me. But hey, no one seemed to mind and no one was crying. One thing I realized was that the visitors didn't seem interested in consoling the family. I wasn't too sure on how to console these people either because translating my thoughts into Vietnamese might not transcend effectively. For example, my mother told me to say "chia buon" which directly translated means divide sadness. Now I know what that means in Vietnamese, but it's weird to say lets divide our sadness. Then again, isn't it just as weird as saying, "my sympathies" or "I'm sorry for your loss". How would I have translated that over to Vietnamese? "Xin loi vi  mac?" Hell- even sorry can't be translated over entirely to xin loi.
      Finally, my last gripe and perhaps it's because my aunt and cousins are rather rural but they got upset at me because I couldn't stay over night to attend the burial the next morning. I couldn't miss work and more importantly, I hate it when people nitpick at the smallest things. The honest truth is, I had enough compassion to endure the hot bus and no AC for eight hours. I don't mean to sound like a heartless person, but I attended and felt that I paid my respects in an outer way enough. No one should resent or hold me hostage. They kept saying how I was going to miss the best part. They kept insisting that I shouldn't go back and that I should just not show up for work tomorrow. I hate to say it, but I live for the living and not necessarily for the dead. Why should I pay respects to the dead when the living is more important? Why do people mourn and finally appreciate those they lost when they are actually gone? We should appreciate the living now. When they die, don't glamorize their life. And don't forget all their trials and tribulations. It seems to me like when people die everyone forgets the bad things about them and put that person on some high chair. I'm talking about famous celebrities and I'm talking about average-joes. In all honesty, I'm sad that my cousins lost their fathers, but they didn't seem too emotional. I couldn't see any major difference aside than their white garments. Hell- one of them even started to cock fight. Perhaps it's because my uncle wasn't a very hands on father. He just laid there all the time. But then again that could have been from the lung cancer.

Far from Glendale. 

My father's sister and her son. You might remember him as the can collecting bride's groom. 

Going through the motions?

Yum, a dog's dinner- for humans!

Gizzards and hearts- the ultimate comfort food. 

When I was growing up my mother never let me wore any kind of fabric over my forehead. I just wanted to be like Ryu. 

Cock fight to mourn the dead? Why not?

A song for the dead? How about Stereo Hearts?

Do you guys know Stereo Hearts? How about Fireworks?

Yes, the rental shop's contact information next to the coffin. Only in Vietnam. 

My aunt looks 10 years older than my father when he's 10 years older than her. 

Lets eat. 

Mr. Deeds

In Vietnam if your bike breaks down you gotta push it. You can't call AAA and waiting things out simply isn't an option. The good thing is there's usually plenty of mechanics or gas stations around, except in Phu My Hung. On one casual afternoon out, John and I stumbled upon two girls pushing a bike and we decided that a good deed was essential today because we were and still are serious sinners. Both girls hopped on and John used his long albino leg to push their gas deprived Chinese bike. This was a tricky balancing act through traffic and towards ghetto District 7. This method of "help" can be seen daily through the streets of Vietnam. I see a lot of motorbikes pushing bicycles, but pushing two girls with me on the bike wasn't a simple task. Eventually we made it out of Phu My Hung because we didn't see a gas station and the girls wanted to actually pay for John's gas. Of course we declined because they were on a Chinese bike, but one of the girls whipped out a stack of 500,000 dong (Vietnam's largest note). Looks can be pretty deceiving. She was either actually secretly rich or that money was embezzled through some underground Chinese gambling ring... hence the Chinese bike. 

Candy store

My favorite street in Saigon. 

           I love fish. I grew up with fish. I've always kept fish and my first official job was at a fish store. I've never existed without fish in my life. Nguyen Thong St. in District 3 is one of my favorite places in the whole city. The Vietnamese keep fish so sporadically basic that it alarms me. Tanks never have sufficient filtration and weekly water changes seem to be nonexistent. Fish here don't seem to thrive because people don't understand the whole nitrogen cycle. Most of the supplies and equipment come from China, so quality isn't proprietary. I'd feel cheap if I was a serious hobbyist here. But it's no biggie- why would people want to spend money on expensive equipment when common fish are simply so cheap here? It's the same mentality back home of would you spend hundreds of dollars on taking a sick animal to the vet or would you just buy little Daisy another hamster? Here- there's never an ounce of question. The answer is pretty obvious... animal rights.. fish rights? haha yeah right. Women's rights first then fish rights later. 

         Let's take a look at Nguyen Thong St. in District 3. I spent two hours here during this visit just roaming around and day dreaming about how I can one day keep fish again the right way. Sure, there's lots of selection and the variety here is great. I saw many species that I didn't expect to see here, including gars, tropheus, rainbow fish, and crawfish. But the quality of cichlids and goldfish failed to impress me. Line breeding is rather important with these strains. Plenty of fish, but not that many beautiful ones. Trust me, I know how to tell a sexy fish from a cute fish.

Virgins

Stores get so busy that people opt to catch their own fish

Discus are highly expensive and sensitive fish. These were about 12 dollars, back home they would be about 30 or 40.

Balloon mollies are line bred to look pregnant. These fish wouldn't survive the wild. 

Silver arowanas and a flowerhorn in the back, both are purchased by people who are superstitious. 

Someone's living room.

Fish are kept in horrid overstocked conditions with barely any filtration

  

Koi are influential Feng-shui fish that are supposed to bring good luck. I wouldn't keep koi in glass tanks though. They are best observed from above in ponds.

These large fancy goldfish would fetch 20 dollars or more back home. In Vietnam, they only cost about 2 dollars and 50 cents.

Smorgasbord of candy... unhealthy candy.

Tropheus were some of my favorite fish to keep. These fish come from Lake Tanganyika in Africa. 

Angelfish are amazingly inexpensive here. These were 50 cents a piece and would run 5 dollars easily back home.

Asian arowanas, a real baller fish. 

I don't know many people who own these in America due to the fact that they are actually illegal to own

I only like girls who like fish. 

Oh snaps... 

Mosquito larvae memories from my mother

     People often wonder why I like Vietnam when so many other people my age either resent it because they have to endure a month long summer in tight quarters cramped up with their parents and supposed relatives. Other young people I know are indifferent to this place as a whole because their lives are so preoccupied otherwise with the MTV and the NBA. Many friends (cough cough DungeonBrownies) can't find seem to find a positive about this place at all to warrant allocating precious space on the brain or time on the clock to even care. On the opposite end of the spectrum you have some really old people who love going to Vietnam once a year because their lives abroad are boring and their lack of cultural assimilation have created a discontent with their host country. In other words they get through the year with the thought of returning to that paradise of a place where relatives and friends look up to their new found Wrangler jeans and real Pantene Pro-V- you know the kind that actually suds up. Contrasting these day dreamers we have the crowd that does not want to return to Vietnam at all. This group can be further broken down to the highly assimilated bunch who are indifferent or not curious enough (though these are rare because most people in their late 20s or 30s who were born in the states have been back to Vietnam at least once).
      Where do I fall? I'm not quite sure. Am I really all that adventurous? Not as much as the next hardy European who will live out of his backpack for months trekking across Southeast Asia. Am I looking for my ancestral roots? We'll I've been here three times prior to this epic sojourn and I feel like reconnecting with some old relatives might be a complete waste of time because we have nothing in common nor are they as a whole completely inviting towards my American ideology. Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy time spent with my relatives, but I don't have any relatives in Saigon. I don't believe I'm a part of the "can't find any work bottom class" foreigners who come here to teach English. I haven't even applied for any jobs after university. I'm here because I wanted to do something different and I feel a bond to the land of my forefathers, not necessarily to its people. But I went to an aquarium shop the other day and saw a bag of mosquito larvae for sale and it brought back a lot of tales of Vietnam that sparked my imagination long before I ever stepped foot off the plane and on the hot hot tarmac.

I instantly thought of my mother when I saw this bag for sale.

     Never in my life as a child growing up did we not have a fish tank at home. My earliest childhood memories included visiting a fish store with my father (the same one where I later worked). My mother used to tell me stories about how much more expensive rearing fish was in America compared to her youth in Vietnam. Fish naturally existed in streams nearby streams and mosquito larvae was sold by the spoonful to feed them. Mr. Sao who sold pet fish sold mosquito larvae scooped like thick pudding from a container for mere pennies. The bag above costs 2,000 dong now and purchased mostly to feed bettas (fighting fish). Visions of such a spectacle fueled my imagination. Reading Pearl Buck's The Good Earth at a young age helped develop Vietnam's landscape in my mind- as closely somehow related to China. Though, in reality, I never cared about Vietnam until I was in the 9th grade and my parents announced I would visit for the first time. I lacked strong fundamentals for this place and only grew to love it for a cultural and paradoxical standpoint after my third and solo trip. The way my mother painted this place made it seem as if this was such a rural and impoverished area. My mother told me that when her mother went to sell che using a shoulder basket to raise five kids she sat at home and cried until her older brother bought candied goose berries on a stick to treat her. Whenever I ate candied gooseberries I would think about my mother. I haven't seen any candied gooseberries for sale here. Maybe that's a good thing because I don't have to miss my mother that often. But seeing mosquito larvae in a bag has finally made me realized that time has progressed and never a day goes by that I don't remember that I'm in Vietnam. The same exact place that my mother embedded into the grains of my imagination using a way only she could. It's been over forty years since Mr. Sao yet Vietnam is still feeding fish mosquito larvae, but I guess that's what they eat right? I fed my bettas pellets back home. I'm pretty far away from home though.

In a few short days we will spread typhoid fever galore. 

And a special thanks to Chris for his donation. I truly appreciate it and it will help feed me for two days.

Something I couldn't do.

         I can't do lots of things. Math for one. I can't shit out a turtle. Nor can I apply those sticky protective films for electronic LCD screens. No I can not. Luckily, here in Vietnam, trivial and overlooked things in the west have been developed into full fledged businesses here. All you need is a bunch of films, some people willing to work for pennies, some random sidewalk next to a busy street and waaallaaa... a decal business is born. My friend was in need of replacing the old film on her phone's screen and my phone surely needed a replacement. I had tried my hand at reapplying the one that fell off but all I was was trap in more dust and pubic hair. 10 minutes and One dollar and fifty cents later my phone looked brand spankin' new. I was so impressed. The skills involved here require precise hand control with good eye coordination. I'm so impressed. Just another perk of living here. Man- things like this are often taken granted here because labor is so cheap, but I really appreciate such conveniences. 

No shoes in the house

"Grandma, I have a full bladder and need to urgently release my urine before I have an accident all over my embarrassing matching printed outfit."

"Okay, drop your pants down." "Excellent, you're not wearing any underpants, good boy."

"Okay, where shall I let this golden stream flow?"

"Just right here."

"You mean in the middle of this busy alleyway street where motorbikes, bicycles, and people are continuously treading right now?"

"Yeah, let it rip."

"Wait a minute." "What about other people who might get splashed by my bodily waste product or worse what if I actually soak their feet?

"Nike: Just do it."

"You mean disregard everyone around me and pee freely?"

"Hurry the fuck up."

"Why can't I just pee up against a wall like a normal public urinater?"

"I'm going to strip you naked and tie you to an ant hill if you don't go right now."

"Alright, you're older than me by many decades so you must be really rational because in our society

elders are always right."

*After the boy concluded his deed, they both left the puddle for others to obliviously step on.

Hey hey hey yo yo yo Lang Son.

Loom over gloom.

         You can't come to this city and not notice this tower.  This is perhaps the most iconic skyscraper in Saigon right now as it is the tallest and most similar to a penis. At 860 feet tall with 68 above ground floors  , only the 72 Building in Hanoi surpasses it as being Vietnam's tallest. It's got some pretty quick elevators- all 16 of them- that can take you anywhere in 45 seconds. I haven't gone in yet- the last time I attempted to go in I was denied access. Perhaps it was because I resembled a beggar or maybe they weren't operational yet. Either way I can't wait to see the view of the city from its peak. Rumor has it a ticket will cost 10 dollars. That's pretty bullshit. It took 220 million USD to complete after about three years of construction.                
        So what's the point? I'm not here to talk about high rises, even though I'm a huge fan of skylines and modern architecture. I stumbled upon this little rustic market in the heart of District 1 off of expensive Le Loi Street and it made me wonder how life behind the store fronts continues to exists in such gloomy traditions of sitting next to one's produces every single day seven days a way. Produces that ranges from shampoos to meats to alcoholic beverages to cigarettes. How is it that the world's 124th tallest building is situated right in the middle of such a classic backdrop? How does Vietnam balance the modernity with the poverty? Hell- 030 Nightclub was a few steps away from this market. The Bitexco Finacial Tower looms over District 1's impoverished gloom. Don't think that just rich people live in District 1. There are plenty of  poor people everywhere. Here in Saigon, they somehow seem to intermix right in the heart of all the "western" happenings. It's amazing. Saigon's rapid modernization certainly will leave many people behind. Many people have already been left behind. I'm talking about the people who sell lottery tickets. I'm talking about the handicapped begging for their next meal. And I'm talking about the poor souls with uncertain futures while residing on their asses for a customer to come so they can sell some measly vegetable for next to nothing while rearing their children through college. Don't grow too fast Saigon. Don't leave us behind in the thick of night.