Beer with Strangers

She waved me down with a small crab in her hand. I thought she was trying to sell me something so I smiled and waved know. She waved harder, insistent, this time she offered beer. I smiled and shook my head again. Finally she reached fort the watermelon sitting in over-sized pieces on a plate.

The watermelon I took, the sweetness bursting in my mouth.

The only photo I got (after I left)

She smiled and handed me the crab – the size of the palm of my hand, pink shell and white underbelly. I stared at it, unsure of what she expected me to do. She pantomimed cracking it in half. A little flustered, my phone in one hand and a small crab in the other, I looked around the table. There were six people assembled around the table with another two women sitting on separate seats but clearly a part of the group.

Everyone smiled as the crab woman gestured to her seat and then scooted over to make room for me.

I sat. my phone and backpack settled in my lap. And then I cracked the crab in two.

I looked for the meat, dug my fingers into crannies and pulled out bits of soft white flesh. She handed me a small bowl with a chili sauce and I dipped what meat I could find into the bowl.

Then came the beer.

Drunk people cannot be reasoned with, no matter the country- no matter their beverage of choice.

I watched her pour a beer from a bottle in to an ice-filled mug. She thrust it cheerfully in my hands and gestured for me to drink.

I demurred, as much as one can demure when I don’t speak Vietnamese and the group assembled doesn’t speak English.

Desperation to avoid drinking the beer encouraged me to use Google Translate- to no avail. Whatever I said was met with raucous laughter and inspired a side conversation in the group that I had now way to participate in.

so there was beer.

I drank a little and tried to put the mug down. She insisted I drink some more. I tried again. More drinking. The mug finally drained she smiled and gestured for another round...just for me.

The enthusiastic peer pressure reminded me of marula beer season in my village in South Africa. A small green fruit that ferments and notoriously gets elephants drunk, is also fermented on purpose in rural areas. The go-gos (grandmothers) would sit outside next to a frothy bucket of marula beer and insist I have some. “O nwa, Lerato, O nwa!”( Drink Lerato, Drink). Rather than face the wrath of a village go-go, I'd drink up and exaggerate how good it was.

Outside on the sidewalk next to the ocean in Vietnam, I reenacted my South Africa days.

As we continued to battle over the beer she began to hand me other things on the table. Squid (overcooked but still squid so I happily ate it). Everyone seemed surprised that I ate and presumably liked it. Next was a mystery...something pickled maybe. It tasted a little like cabbage but much thicker. Then more watermelon.

By now she was insistent that I have more beer and I was insistent that I not. The older woman sitting on my right, on a small stool next to me gestured for me to go. She pointed at the woman while she was supervising the beer and shook her head in the universal language of “my friend is drunk”, so I took her advice and departed.

War and All His Friends

Remnants of War Museum

I knew it would be too much but I went anyway. How dare I be an American in Vietnam and not acknowledge our acrimonious history?

Still. Stepping into the Remnants of War Museum felt foreboding.

The bottom floor, open-aired with only two full walls encompassing the place, is mostly news-clipping style photographs, the occasional poster. Australia’s presence in the war- the Australian people demanding they not be involved.

A soft opening. A whisper before shouting, before the throat stripped raw to silence.

On the upper floors the brutality of war is unleashed; never mind the perspective.

History is written by the winners...or, when there are no winners, by whoever tells the story. And this story is very much Vietnam’s. No matter, there is no gentle way to spin a story about a country divided and its allies/enemies, and the horror unleashed when soldiers are required to strip the humanity of the “enemy” in order to do their governments’ bidding.

I am the child of a Vietnam Veteran. In the shadow of the hell unleashed here, where I lay my head for the next few weeks, I weep for my father and the men and women like him. I weep for the men and women he and they fought against.

The pictures lay naked the truth American schools don’t tell. Not just the damage of the guns to flesh, or even the chemicals to a verdant landscape burned bare, but the legacy of those things. Pictures of children born decades later and still they suffer the calamities of their birthplace. The calamities America spearheaded.

Before and after agent Orange

The weapons of war litter the grounds of the museum. Tanks and planes and over-sized guns. I watched a young man pose for a picture next to a weapons larger than him- he mockingly put two fingers to his temple – the pantomime of a gun- and grinned as his friend captured the moment. I stared in horror. Someone operated that weapon. Someone died, a casualty of that weapon.

"Mother' a statue made of leftover mortar

A few decades behind us and somehow this weapons of destruction is seen only as a prop in an online profile.

As I ponder when humans will stop wreaking devastation wherever we go, I think of that young man. I think of our ability to be blind to the suffering of millions, the loss, the pain.

If we do not remember, if the bloody and mangled bodies immortalized in pictures do not prick our sense of empathy and dread, then I fear we are always headed for the next atrocity at our own hands. And it won’t matter which side tells the story, the death will be the same.

Where Tourists Congregate

Ho Chi Minh tumbles in every direction. Flying in low to land, the city looks like a jumble of legos in various states of constructions. Descending just shy of city level and an orderliness begins to unfold; the buildings, retail and homes are more easily defined. The cab shuttling me to my hotel inched its way between other four-wheeled vehicles and a swarm of two wheeled ones. The vehicles scoot and nudge in a civil if passive aggressive interaction that only intensifies the further from the airport we get.

The city’s architecture flaunts its fusion history and present. Hastily constructed cement buildings sharing foundation with advertisements for Hermes, French colonial structures refurbished as hotels.

Folks zooming on two wheels; look in the background

I am enamored if terrified as I watch women maintaining poise and posture as they side-saddle the back of motorcycles and small children are either perched precariously at the front of the seat of a scooter or wedged between people larger than the child.

a glimpse of Bui Vien

My hotel, a few measly miles from the airport, demands an almost 30 minute adventure through the streets of the city. I take it in, the sun still firmly in the sky. We passed what appears to be a lake that, if the lifesaver rings are any indication, is sometimes used for swimming. We passed an enormous banyan tree, its seemingly endless roots thickening the trunk, giving it the appearance of walking- bored somehow with its original position. Only tourists seemed to notice, stopping to take pictures while downtown Ho Chi Minh churned on in the foreground. Maybe everyone else has already taken in the grandeur and us tourists are simply late in our discovery. Or more likely, given that there are much larger ones strewn throughout Vietnam, maybe it is the equivalent of gawking at grass.

My hotel finally appeared, I almost missed it amidst the bustle of the city.

After an hour or so...hunger set in. Street food is delicious (and to my understanding, Vietnam’s street food is amazing) but I am in desperate desire of vegetables. I looked up a restaurant and walked out of the hotel only to discover I am in tourist central.

Bui Vien, feels like canal street in the heart of the French Quarter. So many people meander in the

street that only a near miss with a motorbike indicated the street is not a pedestrian walkway.

At each intersection I bide my time or follow locals to get across. Whatever rules I think I've established are run over the next time I attempt to cross the street – crosswalk or jaywalking- there is no discernible difference. I watched a little girl, no more than 7, manage the throng of motorized vehicles, pink lunchbox in hand, she didn’t look phased in the slightest. Meanwhile, I got cocky, thinking I'd finally mastered the madness before being grazed by an onslaught of bikes coming from what felt like every direction.

This place requires your wits about you.

I wandered for a while, people watching, food watching. My restaurant selection faded in my mind swallowed as it was by the onslaught of foreign palates. Although that isn’t accurate either. Bui Vien has was appears to be a bustling youth presence. Not just tourists, but local young folks clustered around certain restaurants (a note to myself for tomorrow when there isn’t an HOUR wait on the BBQ octopus that looks so tantalizing).

banh mi for abut $1

I settled on a banh mi. Ironically, the three-wheeled stall was across the street from my hotel. I knew the meat patties were fresh because I had watched him make them. He slathered on the heat, both sauce and fresh chilies, and while the sandwich was delicious, the heat barely registered a tingle on my bottom lip.

Still early, I walked the strip again. I watched a young boy spit flames from his mouth, spitting out the fuel and tamping is lips where hot ash clung.

My mind on a massage, I eyed the small storefronts along the street. Smiling and scantily clad women offered fliers for services. I can’t help but wonder if the massage is really what they are advertising. How practical is a tiny denim skirt for massaging or a blouse with a plunging neckline barely containing the breasts behind it?

I could be wrong. I hope I am. Of course women can revel in their bodies for no one’s pleasure save their own. Or they might simply be meant to grab attention- the Carl’s Junior approach to spa treatment ads. Still, their presence reminds me of the darker side of tourism. The power dynamics at play when tourists come from countries that don’t blink at at 25,000VND sandwich (barely one dollar- which I’m sure I’ll discover tomorrow when I wander out into the wider city, is deeply overpriced) or a 1,200,000 VN massage ($50).

This is only a glimpse...five blocks on a hungry stomach. Tomorrow I get to venture out and see/eat so much more than the tourist district.

Religious Intrusion

The outside wall of the temple (1) at Batu Caves

As moved as I was by the splendor of the King Hassan II mosque in Casablanca I didn’t feel strange visiting. It wasn’t a Friday so there weren’t and abundance of people praying. I had been given clear instructions abut my time there- where I could go and what I should be wearing. Even as I could see why people sought God there, it felt more like a museum visit- edifying without intrusion.

In Italy, encouraged by one of my besties, who despite being a devout Muslim has a real fascination and appreciation for churches, I walked into more churches than I can remember. I mused at the ornate architecture and the gilded Jesus in varying poses of turmoil. Even with people quietly praying in the pews, I did not feel invasive.

But twice I have visited temples in Malaysia and twice I have felt the sensation that I was intruding on the sacred.

No one said anything, or even looked in my direction. Still, I found myself unsure of where to be or even how to stay out of the way. Inside the Batu Caves just outside of Kuala Lumpur, tourists and devotees alike walk up the 272 stairs, avoid or confront monkeys depending on your disposition, and admire the grandeur of nature and the hope of faith mingling. There are spaces clearly marked specifically for those who have come to worship and the cave itself, though brimming with humanity, provides clear instruction for where I, a visitor, should be so as not to interfere with those there for spiritual reasons.

Lord Murugan statue and the 272 stairs to Batu Cave

But below the cave, beside the 140-foot statue of Lord Murugan, there is what I assumed was a temple. Even now I can’t find the name of this presumed temple or who it might be dedicated to.

Colorfully painted with squat curvaceous columns instead of walls and open doors. The only sign posted requested the removal of shoes before entering. I followed the instructions, eager to be obedient in this space that was not meant for my consumption but generously offered me an opportunity to witness just the same.

As I enter I am struck by how little I know about the appropriate way to be in this space. I know my shoes should be off and my legs should be covered but…what else? How do I blend? How do I not distract people there for reasons other than curiosity.

I watch as people bend down and touch the wood at the base of the entrance and then touch their lips or chest. Should I do that?

Shoes outside the Kek Lok Si Temple

Inside, I am stuck by how voyeuristic this all is. I watch a blond couple take a picture, the woman posed with clasped hands at her chest that felt mocking in this context (probably in any context) and I followed my instincts to leave.

You’d think I'd learn.

In Penang, shortly after the Lunar New Year, I was urged by Malaysians to visit the Kek Lok Si Temple. Along with the pagoda and the Guan Yin Goddess of Mercy statue, there is a Buddhist temple. The temple, is actually the easiest structure to enter.

Listed as one of the major tourist sites in Penang I added my shoes to the crowded entrance. “I’m allowed to be here,” I thought as I stepped over the threshold. Further in, aiming my camera at one of the three golden statues inside, my feelings changed. People were praying, the scent of incense thick in the air.

Open to the public or not, it felt invasive, prying eyes on a moment meant only for a deity.

Making my way to the pagoda I was met by multiple spaces meant for the devoted. Some waiting for followers, others with people clustered around the various statues. I was unsure where to look. Prayer is an intimacy.

These spaces have open doors. I did not bulldoze my way with a sense of entitlement...and yet...I still feel my implied entitlement.

Distant view of the temple, statue, and pagoda in Penang

I do not know what I will do in the future. Entering into religious spaces without an explicit invitation may be something I remove from my travel itinerary. Not because I don’t want to know and learn, but because my knowing and learning isn’t the purpose of these places. Or maybe my responsibility is to find the middle ground to see without gawking, learn with interfering.

Wasted Time

“Crap, I wasted the entire day,” I thought to myself as I wandered down the strip in front of Pantai Cenang beach. I’d anticipated getting to Lankgawi around 5pm but I didn't reach my hotel until almost 7. I watched the sun settle into the horizon from the back seat of my Grab.

Langkawi bakso

Still, it wasn’t a wasted day. I have to retrain my brain and stop thinking about my time transactionally.

Back in my working life the transactional approach made sense. Most of my days were spent doing wanted to do. It was a zero sum game...two hours of this meant I didn’t have two hours for that. Talking to a stranger meant less time to talk to friends.

things I was required to do; so the bit of free time I had I was intent on doing the things I

That isn’t my life at the moment. My life at the moment isn’t compressed into the hours between 5pm and 8am. My time is just...mine.

So the “wasted” day my brain initially registered was actually a day that introduced me to Sonia- a woman who a few years ago sold her house, quit her job, and traveled for two years. We talked about politics, shared travel suggestions, and commented on our observations from our time in Malaysia. We even shared a Grab.

I hardly call that a waste of time.

“I wasted the day,” was a fleeting thought. I excised it almost immediately after it slipped into my brain. And just like that I felt lighter. Instead of lamenting the time “lost” I reflected on the experience gained. I smiled as I walked down the busy street, the odor of durian drowning out the scent of coals burning the fat of satay filled my nostrils as I searched out dinner.

An order of bakso (a soup I know from Indonesia) allowed me to have a conversation with a family from Shanghai (they always eat the papaya in Malaysia because it is sweeter than the ones in China), they encouraged me to visit the Bund in Shanghai when I visit.

a plain rotiboy

A leisurely walk in the other direction led me into a Rotiboy- something I’d never heard of. A fancier shop than the usual hawker centers I frequent. I was met with a smile and an urging to try a rotiboy and for 75 cents, why not? It is a sweet bread, about the size of my hand, with a thin cavern of melted butter inside. It was at once new and familiar.

More interesting than the food was the man who offered me a seat at his table- not unusual but quite unnecessary as the shop was nearly empty. Still I sat down and we began to chat. DiDi was most delightful company. He asked me about America and my travels, he told me about his work and favorite foods. Inspired by my curiosity, he insisted he buy me a teh tarik (a sweet tea concoction made frothier by pouring it at a distance from one container into another).

DiDi at Rotiboy in Langkawi

We exchanged Instagram information before he had to leave.

DiDi was not a waste of time either.

I am retraining myself to be leisurely.

I want to bask in the reality that I have no particular place to be and no particular time to be there. This allows met the greatest of appointments, the ones I don’t have yet.