Vietnamese 101

Here is how I passed my first Vietnamese Language test.

I needed a jacket. After ten days in Dalat, it was time to venture out of town. The highway leading North from Dalat crosses the Central Highlands along the wartime Ho Chi Min Trail. Lonely Planet proclaimed it "A wonderful motorcycling road". Even in the tropics, riding at an elevation of 1500 meters, I needed protection against the chilly air. Cho (market) Dalat was the obvious shopping destination.

As I started down the staired road leading to the market, a middle aged woman unfurled a huge bundle, and spread a colorful array of jackets on the steps right under my feet. In a melodic tone with the diction of an auctioneer, she started chanting 'milame, milame'... Right next to her, another woman spread her merchandise and started her own chant. A young man with a bigger bundle and louder voice positioned himself a bit lower on the stairs. More followed. Within seconds there was hardly room to walk through the piles of clothes of all types. All the vendors were chanting, bringing to life the market scene from Porgy and Bess. The first pile was mine. The vendor kept tumbling the pile, washing-machine style so that sequentially all items were exposed. In the jumble of jackets, I managed to find the one that was the right size, material, and color, and was also not too blemished. It was time to settle on the price.

Here I need to digress.
In Vietnam, every price is negotiated. Anywhere. Even in the street stall selling Pho Bo (Noodle soup with beef), where the price has been long established, the hardy Vietnamese will negotiate for a few more condiments in the bowl. A westerner in Vietnam is faced with an additional problem. The starting price for a foreigner is higher than for locals. My unscientific survey shows a 50% increase for an experienced foreigner, while a wide eyed tourist may be asked twice or three times the going rate. You can often feel the split second hesitation when they try to place you in the correct category. The occasional error is quickly fixed with a smile, with no one loosing face. The nice aspect of haggling in Vietnam is that the process is short. You are not subjected the middle-eastern laments of hardship and loss. You offer half the asking price, and after a couple of rounds, the Vietnamese vendor seems to loose interest, says "No" and turns away. At this point, you most likely hit the vendors price target for foreigners. Only if you walk away, and the vendor doesn't call after you "OK, OK", do you know enough for negotiating in the next stall. To me, each purchase is a psychological adventure, though frequently I tire of the process and let myself be overcharged a couple of dimes for a bottle of the local wine (Vang Dalat: $2.00).

Back to the jacket.
I came to the market armed with two negotiating tools: A target price, and patience. Now straddling the pile of jackets I tried the third tool, watching what the locals are paying, The transactions were few and too fast to observe. Where is the negotiation? That's when inspiration struck. What if the chant contains the price? I replayed the chant at slow speed. Could it be that Mi-lam-e, is actually muoi-nam (-eh) meaning fifteen? I handed the vendor fifteen thousand Dong and was acknowledged with a thank you smile. That's how I passed my first Vietnamese Language test, and became the proud owner of a ninety five cent jacket.

Ha Noi Traffic

But how do you cross the street?

On my first sight of the Ha Noi traffic, I recalled the hypnotizing display greeting visitors to the Monterrey Aquarium. A large school of sardines swims in unison in a continuous stream of silver. In Ha Noi, thousands of small motorbikes flow through the boulevard without any interruption or gaps. Spacing between bikes is so tight that some riders carry on a conversation while in motion. However, unlike the aquarium, this scene is not quiet. A prudent Vietnamese driver will produce a series of shrill honks aimed at any potential impediment. The combined sight and sound is mind numbing.

Traffic lights in Ha Noi are rare, so eventually you will face the need to cross the motorized river. Suddenly, the Sardines turn into Barracuda and you stand on the edge of the curb, frozen with fear. You watch the locals gracefully glide across. It's time to act.

Slow your breathing. Look for the slightest gap in traffic, and take the first step. Open your eyes. You are in the water, Barracuda swooshing within inches of your face, and you are still alive. On your second step, the motorbike that was going to run you over accelerates and swerves to the left. The next rider, slows a fraction, and swerves to the right. A protective bubble forms around you as you steadily move deeper. The bubble is also impervious to noise. Engine and horn sounds diminish, and disappear. You are in a meditative state. The traffic miraculously clears in front of you and resumes in your wake. That's how Moses must have felt.

Many Westerners never overcome their fear. They stand on the curb waiting for someone to go, and then join the journey on your lee side. The brave, with practice, improve their skills, but the act never becomes routine. Each time you climb unto the opposite curb, you feel that Adrenalin High.

So how do you cross a Ha Noi street? Very, very, slowly.

Rafting the Li

Yangshuo is the place to be amazed at beautiful limestone hills sprouting upward from flat green valleys. It is a view seen on many traditional Chinese paintings. Nowhere are these peaks more marvelous than along the Li River. Many visitors come to Yangshuo in large tour boats that navigate the Li. It's probably a pleasant voyage. However, I have become allergic to cruise boats and megaphones. Besides, it costs more than seventy bucks. I came by bus.

For several days in Yangshuo I hiked, I biked, and saw many beautiful peaks, but the Li river views kept calling me. One segment of the river was supposedly the best. It has interesting peaks and one of its views is even immortalized on the back of the 20 Yuan note. A bus could take me to Yangdi, the beginning of that section, I could then float down river, and take a bus back from Xingping. There was one hitch. No one in Yangshuo knew if this trip can be done. The twenty-passenger "Farmer boats" which ply the river between villages, were deemed by the authorities to be too dangerous , and are barred from carrying passengers. Maybe, if it's early in the morning, before the police arrive on the river... Early the next morning I boarded the bus.

The bus terminal in the sleepy village of Yangdi is right on the river front. There were few tourists and only one "Farmer boat". It was there to take hikers to the other side of the river where they begin the five hour hike to Xingping (I am not stupid. That was plan B). My dilemma didn't last long. Anywhere in China, it takes less than 5 seconds for a stationary tourist to be approached by a woman selling some tourist attraction. In this case a bamboo raft. These rafts are composed of about 10 bamboo stalks hitched together, a small engine mounted at one end, and a couple of easy chairs nailed to the center. They are used by locals for fishing, transportation, and taking tourists on short rides. The woman was not surprised at my request. Brief negotiation reduced the (low) price, and a lengthy mobile phone conversation eventually produced her husband on a raft. I figured that if we get arrested by the police boat which I saw just minutes ago, it's his problem.

We pushed off and entered the current. Within minutes, a similar raft, floating ahead, must have made some error. It overturned and dumped it's occupants, a family of three, and a big camera bag, into the river. Now I noticed that there are no life jackets on board. I have overturned more than one canoe in my time, so I watched carefully as the "Captain" maneuvered the raft. Just than, the motor died. The captain was frantically pulling the start cord. I grabbed the one oar and tried to align the raft. Thankfully, the tension did not last long. We made it. The overturned passengers also climbed ashore wet but safe. Soon, the motor started, only to stop again on several occasions later. Otherwise, the trip continued calmly. Cruise boats passed by. I could hear the megaphones blaring while their wake washed over my Teva sandals. Suddenly I heard the Captain shouting over the din of the motor. I turned. He emphatically insisted that I take his cigarette pack. OK? After some further gesturing I understood. The view ahead was the same as the one on the cigarette label. Later came the 20 Yuan view, and Xingping.

By the way, did I mention that the river was, at most, a hundred meters wide, the tallest white water was about 10 centimeters, and the overturned passengers made it back by wading in water up to their waist? Why ruin a good story?

For more Yangshuo pictures go to

http://picasaweb.google.com/isaac.ohel/AdriftInAsia/photo#5118522271372681298

Expectations

Expectations

I came to China expecting to experience its changing culture, absorb its natural beauty, and marvel at the grand historical monuments. I now know that in a first visit, fulfilling all these expectations will be difficult. China has put language, noise, and crowds as the main obstacles between me and my expectations. Accepting these obstacles as part of China, allowed me to enjoy my visit here.

Frustrations

The morning after my arrival, I stepped out of the hotel into a world totally devoid of English. It felt like a sudden transition from light to darkness. I don't recall having this feeling in my previous travels, and I certainly did not expect this in the capital of a world super power. As you move farther from Beijing, the center of the Chinese universe, the situation gets worse. People assume you speak Mandarin. There is one exception to the lack of English. All vendors, touts, and guides, know at least one word in English, which they use loudly anytime a foreigner is within visual range "Hello!". Soon this sound starts to annoy, and the hope of a discussion of the Cultural Revolution starts to fade. I had to adjust. Hand signals and the Chinese phrase pages which I tore out of the Lonely Planet guidebook allow me to handle travel practicalities. I learned to appreciate small pleasures. The vendor that can count in English and say "Bye", the university student that haltingly but happily translates the menu, and mostly the middle school girls that giggle and practice their homework: "Welcome to China. Where are you from?". The culture is changing, but If I am to capture it, I will have to master the language or slow down and find a local friend.

Now, in the safety of my room overlooking the Tuo River, I can recall scenes in Chinese movies of fearless leaders wielding megaphones. These grainy black and white images of an officer rallying troops to battle, a party official promoting the Great Leap Forward, or a young student inciting his fellow students to riot, are alive in the form of the Tour Guide. A Chinese tour guide comes equipped with a microphone that seems to be surgically attached to her mouth, and a loudspeaker that is either hand carried or hangs from her belt. In either case, it is permanently set at "Stun". While cruising down the Yangtze river, the thirty-something Chinese couple sharing the cabin did not object to turning the overhead speaker off. The continuous public announcements came in clearly from the rest of the speakers on the ship. Passing through each of the three gorges, when all passengers gathered on deck, it was harder to avoid the noise. The tour guides joined us to provide a running narration. Escape was possible by moving to the other side of the ship. It was not until the side trip to the "Little Three Gorges" that the full impact of the weapon hit me. Corralled on a small boat, there was no escape. A tour guides set herself at the back of the boat, and for four hours, as we floated on clean blue water between sheer walls rising high above, the megaphone blared without pause. (What can be said at such length?). The river was quiet, the scenery beautiful, but the high volume in that close proximity turned the experience into a splitting headache. On the next side excursion, while attending a folk performance I finally got it. I rolled two wads of toilet paper into my ears and enjoyed the beautiful costumes while avoiding the worst of the sound system. On land, the incredibly shrill car horns add to the discomfort. The Chinese seem to relish the noise. Maybe generations of exposure resulted in survival of the deafest. For all others, add ear plugs to your packing list.

As for the crowds, I cannot claim to be surprised. Almost all location descriptions in Lonely Planet have some disclaimer in the form of "…despite the swarms of Chinese tourists…". It makes sense that with increasing wealth and the freedom to travel, one billion people can easily saturate the relatively few spots on the tourism map. (Do the math, it's fun). Still, on the first few times the view is intimidating. Dozens and dozens of groups, each obediently following a flag carrying tour guide (with a megaphone of course) cover the grounds of any site worth visiting. I, for whom traveling includes the feeling (usually imaginary) of discovery, and a search for (relative) solitude, needed an attitude adjustment to be able to share the space with so many. Fortunately, it was an easy adjustment. Chinese tourists, are not Israelis. While not exactly quiet, they are not intrusive, they are always in a good mood, and seem to appreciate their surroundings. So once I learned to wait my turn and slow my pace, even my mild annoyance faded.

Rewards

Language, noise, and crowds, are obstacles but not barriers.

Culture can be observed even without a common language. The people are friendly. A smile is always returned, and an attempt at speaking Chinese is warmly welcomed. Foreigners are still a rarity to some Chinese. Tourists approach and ask to have a joint photo with me (See example above). If a Chinese can speak a few words in English, they will try to communicate, and if they don't, they do their best to be helpful in Chinese. The wide gaps in the society are visually evident too. The fashionably dressed city tourists, point their fancy cameras at a barefoot farmer wearing the traditional straw hat who is using a hoe to turn the earth in his small rice field.

The natural beauty of China can hold it's own against the megaphones. The cliffs in the narrow Yangtze river gorges tower 1000 meters over the water. The knowledge that the dam has reduced that height by 100 meters does not reduce to feeling of awe. Another superlative can be encountered in Wulingyuan Park. Karst columns over 300 meters high are closely placed in any direction you turn. Their irregular shapes and groupings prompted names such as the obvious "Mother and Son", and the not so obvious "The four beauties waiting for the Generalissimo". It did not take long for me to start attaching my own names and stories to some towers. The following day the clear sky turned to rain, the peaks drifted in and out of the clouds and mist swirled around the columns. The same towers now turned into supernatural, mysterious creatures.

Appreciating China's history was easy. The forbidden city is so splendid and huge that the thousands of tourist strolling the golden halls and decorated courtyards do not detract from it's splendour. On the contrary, they help your imagination appreciate the grandeur, and recall the scenes from the "Last Emperor". The amount of engineering and labor that went into building the Great Wall boggles the mind. It is built on the crest of the steepest mountains, and it is tiring to reach it, even without any stones on your back. Is the Great Wall long? It is one of the few places in China where I did not feel the crowds. It's easy to avoid the most touristy access point. In Pingyao imperial China is well preserved and somewhat reconstructed. "Raise the Red Lantern" was filmed in a residence near Pingyao. Visiting the old residences I could taste the privileged life of the nobility.

China is an amazing country, and traveling here is rewarding, if you accept it's limitations.

Waltzing in Beijing

Beijing is a city of Magnificent temples and palaces, underwhelming architecture and congested traffic. The fashionable young people tempt the feeling that you are in a cosmopolitan city. However, the comfortable feeling evaporates every time you try to talk to someone. A level of basic English, easily found in most world cities is almost absent here. So even though while admiring the sights, I could read the English plaques, I could not avoid the feeling of isolation. Isolation broken by the Waltz.


We started early, heading for the Temple of Heaven trying to avoid the heat and the tour groups. We were a bit surprised to be in line for tickets with throngs of elderly locals. Unknowingly, we were in the North (and wrong) gate to the Temple. Through the gate, instead of a golden temple, we encountered a peaceful park of shade trees, lawns and relaxation. People alone or in groups claim some corner of the grounds to enjoy their favorite activity. We strolled past the elderly woman practicing Tai Chi. We were drawn to the gentleman playing a flute, and from there to a small ensemble of two-stringed violins. They played the traditional music, then a woman joined to provide the lyrics in Chinese Opera style. As we moved from group to group we were encouraged by unspoken friendliness. No words were exchanged, a nod and a smile were enough to convey the message: We are having a good time, and you are welcome too. A bit further a small speaker was playing Chinese music for several couples practicing their ballroom dancing skills. Some couples were really good, and we showed our appreciation by the international "Thumbs-up" sign. Soon we were invited to join. No one stared, no one laughed (I guess we were not the worst dancers there.) Chinese music or not, we were caught up by the mood and the rhythm. One dance followed another, and when we mastered the waltz, we felt part of this smiling group. We said good bye, as we left for the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvest, but from that point on, we were no longer tourists. We were Beijingers.