Jenny Does Vietnam. PG - 11
March 26, 2006
Vietnam.
I’m staring out the balcony of my hotel room and very much aware that this is the first time I’m breathing foreign air. It is quite nice that I don’t have to spend a dime to stand exactly where I am right now – 17th Floor, overlooking some river (the name of which I can’t be bothered to lookup right now) that borders the city of Ho Chi Minh. And irony of all ironies, right smack within my view is Citibank Tower, sort of a reminder as to who exactly sent me here.
So here I am. Smoking. I get to socialize with other delegates from all over Asia. The only thing I’ve learned so far is that us Filipinos are the only smokers amongst the group. And we are too loud.
Inhale again. Suck in that Vietnamese air. It kind of smells like home. Apparently smog is as smog gets in any country. But then again there is that hint of something ginger-y or eucalyptus in the air. Which is good. My usually clogged nose is unusually dry. Vietnam smells like my Tai-ma, that very comforting smell of oriental ointment.
There’s a lovely play of lights down below. The city is swarming with motorbikes and scooters. Owning a car is laughable in this country, you’ll never get to where you want to go, not without parting the sea of scooters miraculously. I bet when I go back home and people ask me what it was like, I’ll just say, “Lots of scooters!”
My hotel room is close to bliss. I wish they’d just let me stay here for the rest of the trip. I don’t feel like doing the whole tourist bit.
I’m relieved that I can escape what has turned out to be a torturous life even for just four days. I want to quit my job, that’s one. Number two, I’m starting to feel like an orphan back home. Lastly, I want to know why he is treating me like a pariah. I want to end it. I’ve given him too many chances to hurt me. I’m such a trooper that I take each blow as they come. It shouldn’t be this way. If I didn’t think I was in love with him, I’d probably have killed him already.
March 27, 2006
The Air, Land, Water Extravaganza.
Fuck it. If it takes 4 hours to get to the beach in which you stay not even half the day, forget it. If it’s blistering hot in Manila, then kick it up another notch here. I never did like going to the beach in the summer. I prefer it when it’s windy with a hint of rain. I was looking forward to the whole island getaway thing because they told me I can go parasailing. Curse the day that I ticked the option for fishing as an alternative activity because that is what I ended up doing. The last thing I was expecting to do in Vietnam, in the island of Vin Pearl, was to be stuck in a boat for 3 goddamn hours under the scalding heat, frying my buttocks on the oven that was the boat, and fishing with a string and a 10x size of a spool, the island too far to be seen, the waves bobbing the small boat up and down, left and right.
The never ending pool was fantastic though. I vowed to keep my newly bloody red-dyed hair dry but I couldn’t help it. I was feeling the sun boring holes and perforating my epidermis. I had to seek sanctuary in the crystal blue water and just dove right in to drown the memory of that horrid fishing business. Of course it was comical to see me religiously glancing at the water around me and making sure that my hair is not “leaking” lest I be accused of smearing blood and menstruating all over Vietnam’s largest pool.
March 28, 2006
The Iron Grip of the Local Vendor.
The irony of this whole trip is that I feel harassed the whole time what with all the organizers buzzing left and right to hurry you this way and that way when the entire package suggests utter relaxation of the mind and the senses. The four hour trip yesterday (8 hours back and forth via plane, speedboat, and bus) had me crying uncle so I decided to skip the tour and get me some Vietnam style body massage. Relaxing, yes it was. There were tears. Yes. Tears. My sun-burned back was scrubbed mercilessly by my masseuse with a bristly towel. A dry rough towel to be exact. I was whimpering like a baby.
My pocket money was very minimal since I’m not that much of a shopper. I also made it a point to not spend any of my extra dollars. I had shopped for several people because I thought it proper to bring something back. We were scooted towards the public market which is not unlike our own Divisoria. My poor sunburned arms were put to the test when stall owners left and right started grabbing me…and never let go…pushing and pulling me in between them. It’s like as if a 0.5 second eye contact translates to your being interested in purchasing. I think I snarled and hissed at one of the vendors at some point, but they hissed back, and all I remembered was some idiot telling me that in a foreign place you must always be polite because god knows what can happen to foreign pricks. Polite I was. “Let go of me. You’re hurting my arm. No, I don’t want a traditional nightie. I never said that. Did not. Did not! DID NOT! Let go of me. Please? Thank you. Have a nice day.” This is the exact moment when I felt not only like a foreigner (as I have never been one before), but a helpless lone foreigner (I lost track of my shopping buddies) : the second I walked away, I heard them talking in their foreign tongue and I swear to god it sounded as if they were calling me names. All I can do is just walk on and forget about apparels and skip onto the dry goods section.
I have no ability to haggle, you give me the price and I’ll be too lazy and bashful to argue. Either I buy it or I just walk out. What I found funny in this experience was that I don’t need to haggle because they haggled for me. I’m opening my mouth to say something (most of the time it was a “sure, that sounds reasonable, I’ll have one please.”) and whoala, instant dramatic decrease in the selling price. I show a hint of a frown, all of a sudden it’s 50% off!
But man their currency made me go nuts. I dunno but I think the smallest currency I could get my hands on in Vietnam was 1000 dong. I go bollocks when I have to pay Php 60+ for my beer here in Manila, imagine how indignant I was when I had to pay 400000+ dong for my mango juice. Mathematically, when you convert it the price is just the same, but the excessive zeros were just too much for me. It was kind of fun though to purchase shirts and stuff and hearing myself say “So it’s just 4 million for all three shirts right? That’s okay. You know what, throw in another three shirts.”
***
I just reread my whole entry from Vietnam thus far, and I sound as if I'm on a vacation from hell. Don’t get me wrong, I’m having so much fun. The bubble baths have left me fingers delectably wrinkly. I love it. The evening dinners are superb. The gala night turned out to be okay. I wore a dress. And yes, I sat properly mother. I was given an award. It’s the last night I’m sleeping in my gargantuan bed, and watch Conan O’Brien on a plasma flat screen TV. Frankly, the best thing about this trip is my hotel room. And my favorite thing during the past 3 days is coming home at night to sleep. Whoever said I was boring is way off his knockers.
Ricci, one of my officemates who’s also on the trip , called me just a few seconds ago asking if I wanted to join the group to go out drinking and clubbing since it is our last night. I’m there in the bathroom, snug in my ultra thick bath robe, looking longingly at the tub and all the bubbles. I fake a yawn and say, “I’m beat. You guys go ahead.” Hey, it’s my last night. I’m sorry but I’m not parting with the only thing I’ve grown attached to in Vietnam. Principles, Precious, principles. I think I've contributed enough to their polluted air with all my smoking and whatnot, I'll do the people of Vietnam a favor and not subject them to the embarassment brought upon by the fact that I'm a total lightweight when it comes to drinking. I will not waste their precious beer. Oh well, I just didn't feel like it. Am not what you would call chummy with the colleagues I was with. I don't have the energy to pretend as if I'm having a good time when I know I'd rather watch TV.
In a situation wherein you have a diverse group of people coming from different countries, I find it absolutely hilarious as to how this group of Filipinos managed to isolate and alienate themselves by doing 3 simple things:
1. Smoking excessively in every opportunity (that would mean bus stops, before and after lunch, before swimming, after swimming, etc etc, in any open air space or the establishments that would allow us to do so inside. Fortunately for us, Vietnam, as one of the tour guides proudly exclaimed, is one big smoking area. And yes, that means inside the hotel and even the airport.)
2. Making fun of people from other countries.
3. Blatantly talking about the other folks in their presence under the comfort of our mother tongue.
By the end of these last three days, we are probably the most obnoxious and snobbish group among the lot. We see the other countries table hopping exchanging numbers and the likes, but no one goes to our table. No one wants their picture taken with us. That can’t be good. Maybe because they all can hear the “Tignan mo yung Koreano o, nag peace sign na naman.” or “ Bambi alert, bambi alert. Tangna, ang baho.”
So there I was being amused by their quips when I suddenly blurted out “Does this mean we’re racist?!?!” which they took for a joke, but I was serious. Or maybe the others were also secretly doing it. Who knows? The Chinese could have been muttering “Here come those fucking smoke belchers.”
Vietnam.
I’m staring out the balcony of my hotel room and very much aware that this is the first time I’m breathing foreign air. It is quite nice that I don’t have to spend a dime to stand exactly where I am right now – 17th Floor, overlooking some river (the name of which I can’t be bothered to lookup right now) that borders the city of Ho Chi Minh. And irony of all ironies, right smack within my view is Citibank Tower, sort of a reminder as to who exactly sent me here.
So here I am. Smoking. I get to socialize with other delegates from all over Asia. The only thing I’ve learned so far is that us Filipinos are the only smokers amongst the group. And we are too loud.
Inhale again. Suck in that Vietnamese air. It kind of smells like home. Apparently smog is as smog gets in any country. But then again there is that hint of something ginger-y or eucalyptus in the air. Which is good. My usually clogged nose is unusually dry. Vietnam smells like my Tai-ma, that very comforting smell of oriental ointment.
There’s a lovely play of lights down below. The city is swarming with motorbikes and scooters. Owning a car is laughable in this country, you’ll never get to where you want to go, not without parting the sea of scooters miraculously. I bet when I go back home and people ask me what it was like, I’ll just say, “Lots of scooters!”
My hotel room is close to bliss. I wish they’d just let me stay here for the rest of the trip. I don’t feel like doing the whole tourist bit.
I’m relieved that I can escape what has turned out to be a torturous life even for just four days. I want to quit my job, that’s one. Number two, I’m starting to feel like an orphan back home. Lastly, I want to know why he is treating me like a pariah. I want to end it. I’ve given him too many chances to hurt me. I’m such a trooper that I take each blow as they come. It shouldn’t be this way. If I didn’t think I was in love with him, I’d probably have killed him already.
March 27, 2006
The Air, Land, Water Extravaganza.
Fuck it. If it takes 4 hours to get to the beach in which you stay not even half the day, forget it. If it’s blistering hot in Manila, then kick it up another notch here. I never did like going to the beach in the summer. I prefer it when it’s windy with a hint of rain. I was looking forward to the whole island getaway thing because they told me I can go parasailing. Curse the day that I ticked the option for fishing as an alternative activity because that is what I ended up doing. The last thing I was expecting to do in Vietnam, in the island of Vin Pearl, was to be stuck in a boat for 3 goddamn hours under the scalding heat, frying my buttocks on the oven that was the boat, and fishing with a string and a 10x size of a spool, the island too far to be seen, the waves bobbing the small boat up and down, left and right.
The never ending pool was fantastic though. I vowed to keep my newly bloody red-dyed hair dry but I couldn’t help it. I was feeling the sun boring holes and perforating my epidermis. I had to seek sanctuary in the crystal blue water and just dove right in to drown the memory of that horrid fishing business. Of course it was comical to see me religiously glancing at the water around me and making sure that my hair is not “leaking” lest I be accused of smearing blood and menstruating all over Vietnam’s largest pool.
March 28, 2006
The Iron Grip of the Local Vendor.
The irony of this whole trip is that I feel harassed the whole time what with all the organizers buzzing left and right to hurry you this way and that way when the entire package suggests utter relaxation of the mind and the senses. The four hour trip yesterday (8 hours back and forth via plane, speedboat, and bus) had me crying uncle so I decided to skip the tour and get me some Vietnam style body massage. Relaxing, yes it was. There were tears. Yes. Tears. My sun-burned back was scrubbed mercilessly by my masseuse with a bristly towel. A dry rough towel to be exact. I was whimpering like a baby.
My pocket money was very minimal since I’m not that much of a shopper. I also made it a point to not spend any of my extra dollars. I had shopped for several people because I thought it proper to bring something back. We were scooted towards the public market which is not unlike our own Divisoria. My poor sunburned arms were put to the test when stall owners left and right started grabbing me…and never let go…pushing and pulling me in between them. It’s like as if a 0.5 second eye contact translates to your being interested in purchasing. I think I snarled and hissed at one of the vendors at some point, but they hissed back, and all I remembered was some idiot telling me that in a foreign place you must always be polite because god knows what can happen to foreign pricks. Polite I was. “Let go of me. You’re hurting my arm. No, I don’t want a traditional nightie. I never said that. Did not. Did not! DID NOT! Let go of me. Please? Thank you. Have a nice day.” This is the exact moment when I felt not only like a foreigner (as I have never been one before), but a helpless lone foreigner (I lost track of my shopping buddies) : the second I walked away, I heard them talking in their foreign tongue and I swear to god it sounded as if they were calling me names. All I can do is just walk on and forget about apparels and skip onto the dry goods section.
I have no ability to haggle, you give me the price and I’ll be too lazy and bashful to argue. Either I buy it or I just walk out. What I found funny in this experience was that I don’t need to haggle because they haggled for me. I’m opening my mouth to say something (most of the time it was a “sure, that sounds reasonable, I’ll have one please.”) and whoala, instant dramatic decrease in the selling price. I show a hint of a frown, all of a sudden it’s 50% off!
But man their currency made me go nuts. I dunno but I think the smallest currency I could get my hands on in Vietnam was 1000 dong. I go bollocks when I have to pay Php 60+ for my beer here in Manila, imagine how indignant I was when I had to pay 400000+ dong for my mango juice. Mathematically, when you convert it the price is just the same, but the excessive zeros were just too much for me. It was kind of fun though to purchase shirts and stuff and hearing myself say “So it’s just 4 million for all three shirts right? That’s okay. You know what, throw in another three shirts.”
***
I just reread my whole entry from Vietnam thus far, and I sound as if I'm on a vacation from hell. Don’t get me wrong, I’m having so much fun. The bubble baths have left me fingers delectably wrinkly. I love it. The evening dinners are superb. The gala night turned out to be okay. I wore a dress. And yes, I sat properly mother. I was given an award. It’s the last night I’m sleeping in my gargantuan bed, and watch Conan O’Brien on a plasma flat screen TV. Frankly, the best thing about this trip is my hotel room. And my favorite thing during the past 3 days is coming home at night to sleep. Whoever said I was boring is way off his knockers.
Ricci, one of my officemates who’s also on the trip , called me just a few seconds ago asking if I wanted to join the group to go out drinking and clubbing since it is our last night. I’m there in the bathroom, snug in my ultra thick bath robe, looking longingly at the tub and all the bubbles. I fake a yawn and say, “I’m beat. You guys go ahead.” Hey, it’s my last night. I’m sorry but I’m not parting with the only thing I’ve grown attached to in Vietnam. Principles, Precious, principles. I think I've contributed enough to their polluted air with all my smoking and whatnot, I'll do the people of Vietnam a favor and not subject them to the embarassment brought upon by the fact that I'm a total lightweight when it comes to drinking. I will not waste their precious beer. Oh well, I just didn't feel like it. Am not what you would call chummy with the colleagues I was with. I don't have the energy to pretend as if I'm having a good time when I know I'd rather watch TV.
In a situation wherein you have a diverse group of people coming from different countries, I find it absolutely hilarious as to how this group of Filipinos managed to isolate and alienate themselves by doing 3 simple things:
1. Smoking excessively in every opportunity (that would mean bus stops, before and after lunch, before swimming, after swimming, etc etc, in any open air space or the establishments that would allow us to do so inside. Fortunately for us, Vietnam, as one of the tour guides proudly exclaimed, is one big smoking area. And yes, that means inside the hotel and even the airport.)
2. Making fun of people from other countries.
3. Blatantly talking about the other folks in their presence under the comfort of our mother tongue.
By the end of these last three days, we are probably the most obnoxious and snobbish group among the lot. We see the other countries table hopping exchanging numbers and the likes, but no one goes to our table. No one wants their picture taken with us. That can’t be good. Maybe because they all can hear the “Tignan mo yung Koreano o, nag peace sign na naman.” or “ Bambi alert, bambi alert. Tangna, ang baho.”
So there I was being amused by their quips when I suddenly blurted out “Does this mean we’re racist?!?!” which they took for a joke, but I was serious. Or maybe the others were also secretly doing it. Who knows? The Chinese could have been muttering “Here come those fucking smoke belchers.”
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