Goodbye Vietnam, Forever

As I sit in a coffee shop waiting for my flight out of here, I can’t help but feel relieved. Vietnam has been a trying month as the country is a two way street of tourism. It is hard to escape the tourist trails as people march north from Saigon or south from Ha Noi like ants. You hardly ever get what you paid for and most locals who work in tourism are rude and angry, ripping you off any chance they get and shouting at you if you change your mind and don’t buy their product. Some would quote you ridiculous prices (I mean really, you wouldn’t even pay that in Saudi Arabia) and refuse to bargain, the next stupid tourist will dish out the money. A friend and I were furiously kicked out of a store when we offered a cheaper, more reasonable price. Some are just plain mean and would rather not sell you something or take you where you need to go unless you pay twice as much the local fare. I’ve been yelled at by tour guides and people on the street who’ve bumped into me and have heard horror stories from other travelers who make my complaints seemed childish. On a nightly stroll in Pham Ngu Lao, where cheap accommodations beckon, I noticed a large number of Africans hanging around. I stop and asked two men what brought them to Saigon and got an ear full from one of them. He had never experienced such racism and discrimination, he fumed, and since landlords refused him housing, he had to rent rooms by the night, often time being kicked out without a moments notice. He had been robbed, scammed, mistreated at work, not allowed into restaurants, and stoned by small children who laughed and pointed. The other man was happier for he was seeing the country through the eyes of love with his Vietnamese girlfriend but nodded in agreement as his friend ranted. I have yet to experience racism here as most people find my dreadlocks curious and pick at my hair like monkeys looking for lice. But all in all, I must say, with the exception of the few very nice Vietnamese friends I’ve made, the people here are the unhappiest I’ve ever come across. And to find those few gems, I had to look in the rough, the most helpful being those who don’t speak English and don’t work in anything related to tourism or public transportation. So I don’t think I’ll be running back here anytime soon, unless I get amnesia. No wonder Vietnam has the lowest return rate of any country in Southeast Asia.

Minorities

I have spent the last few days in Sapa, located in North Vietnam and famed for its rice fields and indigenous diversity. There are approximately 24 different ethnic minorities in this area, each with its own language, culture and traditions. The Kinh and Hmong are the most ubiquitous while groups such as the La Chi and Bo Y are disappearing fast. As you walk through downtown Sapa, there are numerous women and children dressed in traditional garments practically begging you to buy their crafts. On a four hour trek to Lao Chai and Ta Van villages, Hmong women follow tourist to pose for pictures for a fee. Some even follow you and ask for money for providing some basic information or just plain gracing you with their company. Once in the villages, one hardly sees anyone farming and the new school buildings are practically empty. Children tugged at you asking for money and some are aggressive and look unhappy. Although inevitable, tourism has done more harm than good. It has commercialized culture and shifted the focus from healthy agricultural communities to the selling of a people. Many traditions are dying off and native clothes are worn only in town when in the presence of tourists. The children are not sent to school where they can find alternatives to tourism and learn to be doctors or teachers thus contributing greater value to society. Instead young Hmong girls can be hired as the play mates of western children, acting as a sort of doll or pet. The first English words they learn are “Buy from me” and “Money! Money!” Sure there is dignity in selling ones craft but there are too many of them selling the same thing. It is impossible to walk ten feet without having someone hound you to buy something, anything. The interaction between westerners and minorities is merely a transaction. There is no mutual respect for culture when one is viewed as something exotic while the other is just a dollar sign. It breaks my heart to see girls as young as five out in the streets late at night walking the streets, selling, or men on the corner drinking and gambling. They seem desperate and unsatisfied. They have modernized for they have learned that money is most important. Oh if only we could go back and remember that family, community, respect is what matters most. They had so much more to teach us than what we could ever teach them but no one seems to realize this as we charge full force towards self destruction. Tourism is the new face of colonization and we are losing our cultures and ourselves as we strive to “develop.”

Price Discrimination

Growing up in the Dominican Republic, I am familiar with the struggle to survive that many people face in developing countries. I was fortunate enough to immigrate with my family to the United States at the tender age of ten. The American dream however, was not all that is cracked up to be. I struggled to learn English amidst discrimination and ridicule. As I travel throughout Southeast Asia, I am forced to confront difficult questions. I am constantly discriminated against, not because I don’t speak English or the wrong color, but because I am a tourist and a person with money and power. At the market I am given inflated tourist prices and a different, more expensive menu when I eat in restaurants. I am made to pay more for the same services offered to Vietnamese and even public transport charges me twice as much for half a seat. It has been confusing and trying for me to go from a person who has been oppressed and therefore wholeheartedly believes in equality to someone of privilege. Why should I pay more for the same exact thing? Besides, the money is not going to the poorest in Vietnam, but to people who already have business and are therefore better of. I worked extremely hard to be able to afford this trip and it’s not my fault that Vietnam is a poor country. When did I suddenly become responsible for the U.S. devastation of Vietnamese society, culture and economy during the Vietnam War? I have my own gripes with the U.S. government to be held accountable for its actions. And unlike all those Vietnamese who respond “U.S. #1” when I tell them I’m American, because when I say Dominican Republic they give me a blank stare, the United States is not perfect but merely good at advertising. With it’s over a century old efficient marketing campaign, it has convinced others, especially those in developing nations, that money grows on trees and the streets are plated in gold. But the fact is, in the angry eyes of the Vietnamese who rip me off, I am a representative of the U.S. and I owe them. I am not a local, I do not speak Vietnamese and therefore I do not deserve the local price because I have not endured what they have. But how can I express to them, many with very limited English, that I too have had similar obstacles to my self determination and dignity? And although I’m relatively richer here, I know what it’s like to be poor. I’ve been poor and in the States, still am. So who’s responsible, accountable for both me and the Vietnamese getting less for our buck? How do we distribute resources and aid in an equitable manner so that the poorer aren’t getting poorer? The responsibility rests on the individual as well as at the state level and although I don’t like it, it’s a doggy eat doggy world and we are all just counting our dongs. I raise more questions than give answers because this is an issue that still muddles my mind and I want you to think, get confused and angry because this is the grueling process that sprouts answers and inspires change.

Thrustrobics

As a lone traveler, many will agree that nights are the most difficult part of backpacking. I personally detest eating dinner alone and worse yet, going home early with no one with whom to pillow talk. It is not hard to make friends with whom to hangout but once in while, I find myself wandering the streets, alone. In Southeast Asia, finding yourself alone after dinner is not as scary as it sounds. In large cities and small towns, there is plenty of green space for families to spend time outside after sunset. I find myself alone but amusingly entertained by all the activity going on in and around parks. There is a myriad of foods and shiny things to buy as well as plenty of night markets with anything from high heels to sea food to delightfully sweet sugar cane juice. Children are playing and laughing, men drinking and playing Chinese chess, elderly speed walking, couples doing the Cha-Cha and my personal favorite, thrustrobics. For those who don’t know, large numbers of people, mainly women, gather in park squares to loud techno pop and pelvic thrust like it’s the most satisfying sexual experience of their lives. In the center of the circle or in front of the crowd, usually a pretty good and very enthusiastic dancer instructs the crowd how to salsa, rumba, thrust or what have you. I sit and laugh as old, young, and hip loose men alike shake their butts in all directions, putting their hands on their hips, dipping and swirling, some on beat but most moving to their own tune. I enjoy watching the different expressions on their faces as some try vigorously to keep up with the music while others just own it, probably imaging themselves on a dance show or music video. After the song is over, there is a small pause for people to catch their breath, chat, and come back to reality. As new people join in, some leave, having given all they had to the audition of a life time, and some jog in place, ready to take on the next routine. I’ve yet to conquer my fear of public humiliation to join in the dancing and much rather watch the spectacle but I notice that there is a dance mania taking over Asia. It is common to see youth break dancing on the streets and playing the oh so ever popular video game where arrows instruct them how to move their feet. I’m happy to see people partaking in these nightly park activities. It not only fosters creativity and self-expression, but keeps them healthy and social. AMERICA, GET OUT AND DANCE!

GO BACK TO CAMBODIA!

After a short hiatus, I find myself back in Southeast Asia. One World brought me back to the east, this time to Cambodia, where I spent one week with the summer 2009 young leaders. After co-facilitating the leadership training, seeing some of the tourist sites, and partying with expats and break dancers in Phonm Penh, I decided to make my way to Ho Chi Minh, or Saigon as it’s commonly known. As we neared the Vietnamese border, the assistant bus driver (or the one in charge of the paper work as I would soon find out) started handing out immigration forms and asking for passport. After leafing through my passport several times, he demand to know where was my Vietnamese visa. As I shrugged my shoulders in response, his look grew worried and soon after he tried to kick me off the bus, perhaps concerned about harboring illegal immigrants. Well I stayed on, hoping I could bribe my way into Vietnam. The Cambodian border official refused to give me an exit stamp and after some pestering, allowed me to walk over to the Vietnamese side to state my case. Once in Vietnam, well almost, I spoke to more immigration officials with the help of a Canadian who spoke Vietnamese, about possibly allowing me to pay for my visa on the spot, hint hint. “No Cannot” was the popular response and I walked back to Cambodia in the midday sun, sweating bullets and quite angry with myself. Apparently and unlike most of Southeast Asia, you cannot get a visa on arrival in Vietnam. As I left Vietnam defeated, I was asked for my passport one last time. Rather than explain my embarrassing situation to someone who didn’t speak English, I handed it over and waited patiently for another rejection. Huffing and puffing, the official walked over to another official who after examining my passport, for the umpting time, yelled “NO VISA, GO BACK TO CAMBODIA!” Smiling I responded “I know, I know, I’m going.” As I neared the bus parking lot the smiled faded and my heart began to beat faster, where is the bus I wondered in heated panic. The Cambodian border official will know but as he reprimanded me “I told you go back but you not listen” tears began to weld in my eyes. Suddenly I recognized someone from the bus and ran to them only to have the assistant bus driver arrive in a motor bike with my backpack. Pfffffff, a sigh of relief. However, he had forgotten some stuff I left on my seat and back to the Vietnamese side I went, where the bus was now parked, for my remaining things. And after waiting hours for transport, I was finally squeezed into the back seat of a taxi to Phonm Penh. I told the driver to drop me off at the Vietnamese embassy and after minor paper work; I would be getting the precious visa the next day. The second attempt went much more smoothly but just as time consuming. After hours in line, I was unceremoniously in Vietnam. As I spent my first day in Ho Chi Minh marveling at the development and playing volley with Vietnamese youth at 23/9 park in the rain, I feel hopeful that Vietnam will be more welcoming than previously anticipated.

Leaving with a Bang

After a few relaxing days in south Goa, I returned to Mumbai to prepare for my departure. But on the fateful day of my flight back to the states, the unthinkable happened. Bombs aflared in Colaba, Mumbai´s tourist heart as terrorists stormed the five star Taj Mahal hotel and other frequented tourist sites. Fortunately I was staying with a friend north of the city at the University of Mumbai and no where near the scene of the crimes. Unlike the madness happening further south, the campus was deserted as classes where canceled, commuters too scared to travel. But panic still reigned in the Savitribhai Phule Ladies hostel as the residents watched the news unfold. It was hard to believe how much damage a handful of crazed fanatics could cause as bombs went off around Colaba and automatic weapons were discharged in Churchgate Station. Close to 200 people were killed during the three days of violence. Thankfully, unlike the September 11th 2001 attacks of which I was also a witness, the terrorists were not as efficient in their mission of destruction. But pain and suffereing they did cause and as the hours of terror dragged on, Mumbai watched with its heart in its mouth. I watched with disappointment, saddened by humanity´s potential for evil and our disposition towards hate. How much easier it is for us to cause harm to ourselves and others than commit an act of good. How acts of evil leave a longer lasting imprint, scarring mercilessly the face of our world. I still would like to think that there's a balance that leaves no bad deed unpunished. But as terrorism grows exponentially, we must think of new ways to combat hate and ignorance. To spread love and peace in places of war and hate.

Public Transportation

Although sometimes onerous, riding in trains is the most efficient and economical way of getting around expansive India. Despite the unpleasant memories on public transport, (ahamm, read previous entry) there are numerous fun filled adventures chasing and finally catching up to old double decker buses. These giant tin cans take on multiple direction traffic with authority, stopping for no one, not even passengers who have to hop on as the bus is moving. On these carnival rides one is thrown any which way the pothole filled roads decide to toss you (for best action ride atop). On train rides that may last for days, you also become involuntarily familiar with the oh so pungent Indian body odor which smells of cumin and sweat. If on the bottom bunk, you may find curious locals sitting on your sleeper upon waking. They sit excessively close and ask extremely personal questions. But if you have the nerve to answer and ask, you´ll receive honest and insightful information about Indian culture and customs. Why else travel if not to get intimate with the country and its people? And sometimes their belongings.

On one particular eventful train ride from Trivandrum to Gokarna, I accidently grabbed my neighbor´s shoe. Groggy and unable to wake up for the 4am stop, I snoozed the alarm. Dazed and confused I woke up as the train was slowing and panicked. I grabbed my belongings and fumbled in the dark for shoes, any shoe. I managed to jump off as the train was pulling away with a slightly tighter left sandal. Once at the darkened and deserted Canacona Station, I worried about getting to my desired beach destination. The one employee informed me that there would be no trains coming in any direction for quite some time and there seem to be no public transportation at that hour. After what seemed like an eternity a backpacker arrived in a rickshaw. I asked him about where we were and how to get to town. He enjoyed his stay in Palolem beach, Goa but apprehensive, I planned to sleep for a few hours and go back to Gokarna. Goan beaches are over packed with drugged up zombies, thought I. But as the sun rose and illuminated the white sand with palms as far as the eye could see, I felt destined to stay. I found a cheap room and spent a relaxing three days lying on the sand, eating fresh fish, doing yoga, getting massages and meeting interesting people. Now there´s a lesson in going with the flow.