What I was writing during my first KITTY (5-year-olds) class

I am standing here, writing in my notepad and stealing glances of the material on my desk, as I pretend to look like I'm busy doing something. I have one hour, thirty minutes (one hour, fifteen if you don't count the break) left trapped in a classroom of kindergartners. My communication skills with fledgling students of English is nonexistent, so I sent them to color in their books. Help me. Send help. The TA is sick and I don't know what to do. I'm an impostor! I catch a kid here and there, staring at me, bewildered. Don't worry, tyke. I'm just as confused as you are. Man, I'd love to color right now. Maybe we'd have one thing in common, one thing to talk about. What? You like butterflies? No shit, me too. Pass the pink crayon, will you?

Xe máy dầu

The motorbike is an integral part of Vietnamese transportation. I've deduced that motorbikes are essentially extensions of Vietnamese themselves. I've written before about the insane hive-mind that traffic creates, the near seamless stream of bikes, motorbikes, people and cars that wind through streets and circle massive roundabouts. Motorbikes can squeeze anywhere, go anywhere, ride down stairs and in the tiniest strips on a sidewalk, serve as a cargo vehicle to carry mattresses and huge potted plants; they are crucial to the daily life of a Vietnamese.

This first video is just a brief capture, while riding on my friend Sandy's motorbike. This was on New Year's Eve, where the streets got even more crowded and wild.


This is from the balcony of Sandy's house. This stream went on for at least an hour, maybe two. It was shortly after midnight, and people were going to their homes, but most were going to pagodas and temples.

Red-light massage

Never judge a book by its cover. However, you are fully encouraged to render judgment of a salon in Nha Trang.

Last night, I had a great massage. For the equivalent of $14.40, I was in a classy, sophisticated, brand-new salon that was head-to-toe bliss for an hour. Tuvan throat singing and Philip Glass-inspired tunes lazily played as quiet background music during the massage, which was followed by scented water and fresh watermelon at the end. The establishment was a mid-range spa, easily beating the over-extravagant spa down the road, and being pricier than the questionable place.

But, because I'm cheap, and a few dollars makes a difference on a tight budget, this morning I decided to patronize the questionable spa; a dark, narrow storefront sandwiched between a convenience store and an alleyway. $6 didn't sound bad for an hour-long foot massage, and since I sprained a tendon, that sounded great.

I knew I should have walked out the moment I catch a full glimpse of the spa. The tiny foyer was full of female employees, lounging in chairs and sprawled over sofas. All of them wore the uniform of tiny booty shorts and tank-tops that revealed a couple inches of skin and hip. They all wore metal bangles on their wrists, tinkling their siren song to potential clients whose intentions I'm sure are not all that honorable. I was quickly handed a menu and escorted to a seat, where I pointed out my choice - 1 hour foot massage, $6.

I had to pay upfront, which was odd. I would later realize that they probably had many a client who would try to balk out of payment. How strange, why on earth would that ever happen.. I locked up my bag in a locker, and was pointed to go up a stairway that ended in darkness. Uh. Okay.. I was led past a row of private cubicles that served as individual massage rooms and into a room that was, I guess, for foot massages. This is when I started to realize I may have walked into something a bit deceptive.

The roof was slanted, coming to a dangerous low point near the windows. Six loudly-colored vinyl recliners were lined up against the wall, and the cramped space also contained four massage tables like little sex-room soldiers. A big TV was on the wall, and I pretended to be very engrossed in the programming.

The man left me alone with a towel, and I sat there for a few moments wondering exactly what was going to happen. Finally, one of the booty-short-clad girls came in with a bucket. She grabbed a foot soaking machine from the corner. The water immediately turned a sick, muddy color when she put it in the soaker, which was aged and dirty and probably festering with a whole lot of.. well, I'm not sure I want to think about it.

For an awkward 10-15 minutes, I sat with my feet in this machine, the gross-colored water burping up, its little engine trying its damnedest to muster forth some sort of jacuzzi-like action. For awhile, I was left alone, watching the TV. As I surveyed the room, and imagined what sort of atrocities occur here on a nightly basis, an instrumental version of House of the Rising Sun began to play on the TV over a collage of images of pure, white virginal flowers and fields. I could barely contain my laughter over this irony. To top it off, when the girl returned, she turned off the main bank of lights and the room was cast in a sultry, red glow.

For brevity's sake (a talent of which I do not possess), I'll just say that the massage totally sucked, and I'm coated in a weird, greasy oil from the knees down. It didn't even end up being a full hour, and at the end, she handed me this notepad that was a feedback slip, and asked, "Tip? You tip me now?" I see she had already checked "Good" on the paper. Baffled, I said I had my money in my bag, and made a beeline for the locker. I thought I could escape, but she was already there, waiting, so I handed her a dollar and made way for freedom and fresh air.

Oh, and another bizarro thing. The whole time the TV was on, it was playing nice programs, like traveling in Venice and talking about the Carnival, and all of this nice stuff. Then, it showed some cool information about Akihabara in Tokyo, with lots of footage of technology and computer stores. As I was getting done, another segment with cats started. One boy was snuggling with a big fluffy grey-and-white cat. I thought how nice it was, then the next scene was a shaved, dead cat, hanging from its neck from the ceiling. A woman sliced the skin of its paw and put the limb to her mouth. The camera zoomed in on the skin as it ballooned up.

I should have taken the hints where 1) the windows of the business were tinted, 2) their operating hours are until midnight, 3) a harem of women waited in the foyer by the open door, 4) oh yeah, the place is so totally, obviously, undeniably a brothel, I can't believe I allowed myself to go in there. So excuse me now, I think I have a bottle of industrial-strength cleaner that I'm going to soak my extremities in.

The positive aspect of this? At least I still have all of my organs intact.

Observations

Just some things to note.

* Riding home on the bus one afternoon, I was people-watching through the window. Along my main road where I live, there's a stretch of four or five street barbers who set up shop right on the sidewalk. Mirrors are strung up and tied from branches and fenceposts, with chairs plunked down in front of them.

A fat man, with an indiscernible neck and chin that melted over the top of the cinched cutting cape, was smiling widely and laughing. I saw his squishy face in the reflection, and the porno magazine in his hands. The pages were spread with a cacophony of pneumatic women, all Caucasian, with disproportionately-sized breasts and airbrushed, tanned bodies. He pointed to one, showing the man cutting his hair, who seemed rather nonplussed by the whole situation. Pornography is illegal here, so I wondered how he obtained such a trashy rag.

* Going to my favorite vegetable vendor in an alleyway, I passed by a tiny, crying boy in his school uniform and little backpack. He was bawling, and an angry grandmother was yelling at him. He stood there, unmoving and wailing at the top of his lungs. She screamed something at him, and gave him a hearty whack with the massive, rolled-up bamboo mat she had on her hand, as if she were a batter. This prompted the kid to cry even more, but he didn't move. On my way back, the same kid was in the alleyway, though a little closer to the street, alone and sniffling. I stole a glance inside the house, and I swear I saw another kid lying on a bed with his arms and feet behind him. Maybe he was sleeping. Maybe he was tied up for being disobedient. All I know is that these kids didn't really want to go to school.

* Discovering a Loving Hut near my work was an absolute joy, and after trying to relay my order and enjoying my pho soup, a student of mine and his family came in. I met them, said hello, and after my meal, my student had paid for it. I was really awed and appreciative of his gesture of kindness. I'm still getting used to being this teacher figure.

* People are really receptive and excitable when you try to speak their language. I spent a good 20 minutes at the end of one of my classes learning Vietnamese numbers, various names, and how to say "I love pho!" I was applauded for my attempts, and laughed at for my garbled pronunciation.

Old man

He stood, a wizened, age-old defiance in the face of the elements that threatened to tear him down. A short, fragile body, he was hardly much more than a skeleton stitched together with strips of lean, sinewy muscles under a weather-tanned, leathery skin. He held himself up with a tall branch, steadying himself in the undulating sand. The water swelled and crashed around him, trying to swallow him whole. But he stared steely ahead, only his cottony tuft of a white beard fluttering in the ocean breeze. He was naked, except for a bloated, stained, old cloth wrapping that diapered around his waist. Sometimes, he struggled, bracing himself with both hands on the wood, and catching his step before he could fall into the water and be swept away. For who, or what, he was provoking with the tenacious proof that this old man could still stand, I don't know. But I think he was winning.

Reflections

The heat is on. The sun is bearing down with such tenacity, I've resorted to using the air conditioner a lot more than I would like. The air is thick, sending my body in weeping sweats no matter what time of day. More and more people are clogging the roads in anticipation of the Tet (New Year) holiday. Sweet and savory scents fill the air as the cooking frenzy begins.

I went running last night on the beach, hoping that the nighttime would bring some relief to the heat. I ran until the lightposts on the walkways ended, and further pursued the darkness. The moonlight made the water semi-translucent, sending waves of greens and blues to the sand. I looked up at the sky, and had to stop.

It was black; perfectly, perfectly black, and studded with a handful of white sparkles strewn across its canvas. I was struck frozen in my tracks, in awe at the perfect dichotomy. Never was the sky so void and endless, and the stars so sharp and pure. Venus hung amidst it all, an unblinking speck of orange, and I saw Orion's magnificence in such crystal clarity. He looked different from this side of the world, but I could see his belt, his arms, his poise. Even the city's lights didn't bleed into the sky, and I don't know how long I stood with my gaze fixed on the heavens.

Walking home from school tonight, I soaked in the city and avoided listening to music on the thirty minute journey. I allowed myself to become more aware of my surroundings, and not just to avoid getting mowed down by a motorbike.

There were the young men on the corner, shrouded in a cloud of smoke from the skewered meat they grilled. The teenager who skidded his bike to a stop next to a girl in a slinky, teal green shirt who was waiting alongside the street. I could hear the smile in his voice as he laid his hand gently on her arm. There was the tiny, Catholic service sandwiched in a room between a pharmacy and an alleyway entrance, twenty or thirty voices singing hymns in harmony. The thumping music blaring from speakers outside two trendy cell phone stores, packed with helmet-clad customers with their bikes lined on the sidewalk outside. "Hey, hello!" a xe om driver called at me, with a grin. The old woman walking with bundles of empty plastic bottles slung to her body. The raucous, explosive laughter of students at night school, and the shrieks of little kids who ran across the roads.

Outside my balcony, I see many rooftops and rocket hotels. Even through closed doors, I can hear the horns honking, the people yelling, the screams and laughter. Motorbikes revving and screaming down the street puncture the lapses of quietness. I've learned to sleep through it, the only thing that wakes me up now are the bugles and music from the military base.

Still, it's unfamiliar. It's all strange. Even though I don't get lost walking home anymore, I feel very alone, very much residing on the outside, like an unseen satellite orbiting the great unknown. I'm learning things, here and there, and try to practice the few words of Vietnamese I've picked up. I don't feel properly ingratiated, but who would when they're living in a foreign country and can't even speak the language?

I guess that's what I admire about my students. People who study for hours a day, go to classes many times a week, all to learn a language that rolls off my tongue with such ease. Sure, I've studied languages myself, but never have I seen such dedication. It's admirable, and something I wish American students would strive for and be exposed to. I feel I miss out on so much, because such language-learning opportunities were never made available when I was a kid. I look at the ten-year-olds that create sentences with ease, and only see such great futures ahead of them.

I'm jealous of their fortunate exposure, but happy I can be a part of the process. Perhaps that's why I feel more at ease at the schools, because it's something that's familiar, something I actually know. Even the skies are different here, and so much is different. I hope I find my place. I hope I accomplish something. I hope I make a difference, and learn a lot more about another world, because what would be the point if I don't?

Five..

Five people who pee in the streets. I don't know exactly why I'm so fascinated with it.

This teacher thing is getting weird. I'm getting more questions about who I am, what I'm doing. People usually introduce themselves with a simple inquiry: "Hello, may I ask you some question?" I'll never say "no," and then they rattle off asking who I am, where I'm from, what am I doing here in Nha Trang, how do I like it, how long have I been here, how long I will stay.

"Teacher, teacher!" I'm now learning to respond to that. Booksellers, young folk who have photocopied books strapped to the back of their bikes, have for the most part stopped trying to sell me stuff, but one young boy screamed, "TEACHER! TEACHER! You need books! You buy books, yeah??" And politely, I declined. But a teacher needs books, you see. Even at the restaurant where I ate dinner, the same boy grinned at me and said, "I'll find you later! Promise??"

The instant I'm in a new group of students, I'm immediately called "teacher." "Teacher, will you explain this? Teacher, will you tell me how to pronounce this?" A younger boy gave me his seat on the bus.

I also get curious looks as I wear my ao dai. The semi-formal wear that I see handfuls of Vietnamese women wearing has become a topic for the girls I encounter. The women who work at the hotel I live at oohed and ahhed when I came downstairs. "Beautiful! You look so beautiful!" they cried. My face must have been as red as the crimson doormat, as I blurted out nervous thanks.

I get to the language school, and walk into the teacher's lounge. One of the men stopped, looked me up and down and exclaimed, "You look beautiful! So beautiful!" I'm escorted to a class by a Californian, Mr. Tim, and once I enter, one of the 12-year-old boys yells out, "YOU'RE PRETTY!" After, Sandy, a new friend picks me up from the school to go out for coffee, and throughout the night, she can't stop complimenting me on the dress and how I look.

This is surreal! I know they are being polite, and I don't really believe I look nearly a quarter as nice as everyone is fluffing it up to be, but I think they are pleased I am doing my best to look professional and part of Vietnamese society. Through my attempts to appease them, and to fit in, they are not shy about expressing their approval.

Aside from the insane reception I've gotten from being a professionally-dressed teacher, I think I'm getting more at ease with the students. Yesterday, I did about two hours on my own with the reading class. I went over homework, explained vocabulary, did a slideshow about advertisements and so forth. I even got a few laughs from them, and some horrified cries and giggles when I told them the story about the fat American woman who was grafted to her couch (it was relevant, I swear).

Today, the speaking class wasn't even half-full, as many of the students left for Tet (New Year). We talked about transportation, and Ms. Ha and I showed a slideshow about different vehicles and accidents. Everyone giggled when the photo I got of a moose accident in Alaska came up. Talking about winter bicycling, the Iditarod, and other Alaskan things was nice, but it made me feel awfully homesick..

I'm trying to get a job at a language school, thus the reason for being at one earlier. The class of about 12 young students was full of contagious energy. They all pick English nicknames that they go by, and in the midst of Todd and Lily and Kitty, one entrepreneurial boy named himself "Obama." The kids also picked team names for an adjective game, and aptly called themselves "Team Super Dogs" and "Team: NEVER DIE."

Tomorrow, I'm going to observe a class of eight-year-olds, which I'm a little nervous about, but if they're at all like TEAM NEVER DIE kids, I think it should be pretty entertaining.

Oh, and on the topic of nicknames, apparently I'm now "White Mouse" - Mouse, because being born in the Lunar Year of the Rat, and White because, well.. that's pretty obvious.