The most rewarding way to approach to
Eventually the road levels off to straightaways, at various times through tunnels of palm trees which designate the center of villages or along open paddy fields which stretch out for hundreds of meters in either direction. The outlying areas of
As savvy as I was to the filmmaking process and the vicious circle of influence that films seem to share with contemporary culture, I stil found myself easily subject to the awe associated with Vietnam's cinematic mythology. As we drove to
Riding into town from the airport, I find myself paying close attention to who and what I pass. For a second I sight a middle-aged woman sitting by the roadside near her stand of cigarettes, soda, and gum. The head on her palm relays the daily tedium. In another second, a poney-tailed little girl in flowered pajamas passes by, determinedly riding the pedals of her bicycle because the seat is too high. A shirtless teenage boy with grease all over his arms placidly sqauts on his haunches and smokes a cigarette while a half assembled Honda lays nearby in the dirt. As each of these locals unwittingly passes through my life for a brief second, I find myself creating the rest of their day in my head. Where they will go at dusk. What dinner will be like. The Vietnamese soap opera they will watch on t.v. before going to sleep. Each of these episodes develop in a matter of seconds before something else catches my attention during the ride into
Binh, my mini-hotel receptionist, thinks
After filling out my registration card and getting situated in my $10-a-night windowless room, I sit down in the front lobby and listen to the chatter of Binh and the other lounging employees. I'm not sure if I'm awaiting the inspiration of what to do next, or avoiding the perspiration of doing something in
" Do you travel around many states in your country?"
" Well, I've been up and down the east coast, and I've been to
She ponders this for a second before asking," Do you know shorsha?"
" Shorsha?" Shorsha ?
" Yes, shorsha," she says, not deterred by the confusion in my face. She elaborates, " Uh...with tobacco."
" Oh,
" Do you know a famous novel, uh ...Tobacco Road, by...Co..Comewell?" she asks.
" Tobacco Road. Yes, by Cromwell. Yes, I know of it."
" It's very famous", she points out.
" You've read it?"
" Yes."
Admittedly, this surprises me. " Do you read many Western authors here?"
" Uh, yes." She smiles." Many famous novels. I like, uh,..the winds? With the winds?"
My brow shows furrows of confusion.
" It was a famous movie,too, " she adds.
" Ahhh. An old film. About the Civil War in
" Yes. It won six oscars." she says proudly.
" The Blue and the Gray? Plantations?" We're getting closer.
" Yes,yes!" She is excited now." Cotton! North America fighting
" Yes, Gone With the Wind," I conclude. " It was made into a movie in 1939, but it is still very popular in
" It is my favorite novel." she says in a subdued, sentimental manner.
" Do you see many western movies here?" I ask, half-knowing the answer.
" Yes, on video. You know 'Ghost' ?"
" You mean about the married couple?"
" Yes, Demi
" Four times? I've only seen it maybe twice."
Never understimate the long powerful reach of
She thinks for a moment . " Have you seen 'Silence of the Sheep?'"
" 'Silence of the Sheep?' Oh, you mean 'Silence of the Lambs.'"
She laughs embarrasingly. " Yes, very frightening. It has Jodi Foster. I read in newspaper that she is very smart. Intelligent."
" Yes,well, she went to Yale. Very unusual for a
" 'Pretty Woman.'... 'Age of Innocence.'.."
I begin to wonder if big
" Yes, with Catherine Deneuve. She is very tall. When they made this film, the French came to
" Really? Is she tall?"
" Yes. One meter and seventy-two centimeters."
" What is she doing now? Has she been in other films?"
" No. She just graduated from University and is a chemical engineer."
At this point, when the tea is gone, the conversation dies down. I decide to wander out onto the streets of
There's another bullet on the grounds of the
It is this volatile history that is most evident when strolling through rear of the Imperial Enclosure. Some of the original architecture, such as the Ngo Mon Gate and the darkly ornate and impressive
Just after the war ended, I was a kid appropriating as my playgrounds the various construction sites of my ever-expanding neighborhood in the hills of
The last time I came across a bullet in the Imperial Enclosure, I thought it might make a unique souvenir so I stuck it in my pocket. Several days later however, I purposely discarded it. The more I had contemplated the history of my bullet, the heavier it felt in my pocket. It had probably started as a piece of sheet metal in Pittsburgh, found its way overseas into the pack of some soldier, and then lay dormant in the dirt for twenty-five years. My discovery momentarily attempted to resignify it as no more novel a symbol than driftwood sculpture from
So I don't keep the bullets anymore. Besides, I would have hard time thinking to what end it might serve.
After an hour of quietly walking around listening to the sound of weeds and broken architecture crunch under my feet, I decide to sit down next to the
Eventually my eye is distracted by another peculiar group of tourists who wander around the Palace with a dignified air. The two women and one infant in this group wear traditional garb of a montagnard or "mountain tribe". Their clothes are all black except for brightly colored red, yellow, and blue patterns which line the hems and belts. Their pants end at mid- calve and their headdresses are neatly folded around their heads before thrown back in a calculated manner that accentuates their wide tan faces with pharoah-like qualities of beauty and authority. They are incredibly striking outfits and I wish I had sketched them, but I was so engrossed in watching that I really forgot about drawing.
Lunchtime demanded that I wander along
The other intriguing aspect of this place is that the family of proprietors who run the place are all mute. The previous couple of times I've been in this place were with other American travelers. The middle-aged woman who always cooks on a grill by the open front would always gesture to a table for us to sit at and then enthusiastically hand us a framed page of a NY Times article from 1993. The page featured a large photo of a beautiful woman with a dynamite smile cooking from the same grill in the restaurant.
The older woman would then quickly pointing to the photo, caress her long hair several times, gesture to the clock and hold up several fingers, quietly indicating that the siren in the photo would be coming to work in a few hours, as if to entice the male patrons back for another meal. I would usually chuckle at the unique sales pitch but never returned to see this apparent spokesmodel for banh khoai.
Today I was not shown the framed photo because the subject in question personally sat me at a table and handed me a laminated menu with that dynamite smile. Yes, in person she was alluring in her beauty. If, as is said,
I glance at the menu only long enought to point to "banh khaoi." And a bottle of "
With the help of my pocket datebook, I indicate to her that I've been here before, twice. With raised eyebrows she gives me a look of surprise, and then points to her eye inquisitively, as to say " How come I didn't see you?" ( I guess she doesn't forget a face. A white one, anyway.) In reply I point to my eye and then to her' before throwing my palms up into the air, to say " How come I didn't see you ?" With a tilt of her head, she gives me a bashful smile and girlishly stretches her arms out on the table before me. As I feel her foot touch mine, it quickly becomes evident that flirting is her favored game.
When the banh khoai is ready, she prepares it in front of me by throwing some sprouts and starfruit slices in a small bowl of cabbage, adding a piece of the banh khoai, some peanut sauce, and then mixing it all up with chopsticks. I move to take the chopsticks, but she already holds up the first bite to my mouth. After feeding me she sits down and watches me eat. Silently, it is our respective body language that does the small talk in lieu of speech. In her quiet company every small smile, diverted glance, or nod of the head takes on stronger nuances than I am accompanied to. To communicate where I'm coming from, I pull out my sketchbook for her to see. It contains images and drawings from trips through Europe,
For the next hour, we conversed through a series of charades, written numbers, and little drawings. Communicating with her comes easy. She is used to getting her point across visually, and as an artist I have made a lifetime of reading visual languages. As the restaurant gets busier, she periodically leaps up to attend to the other tables, taking orders and being flirtatious, but returns to sit with me and continue our visual "chat". Born in 1965, she is the youngest of seven, most of whom are also mute, including her sister who cooks at the grill, and her brother who owns the place. Occasionally she flies to
Rubbing her ring finger, she asks if I am married. I rub my own ring finger and shake my head. To explain that I recently had an intense relationship end I caress imaginary long hair, grasp my heart, and then press my two index fingers together before slowly separating them. I press my fist to my chest again and twist it to show how in the end my heart was broken . Acknowledging my pain, she momentarily adopts a sad face. She mouths the word "Why?". When I display a look of dismay and write down my age and the age of my former girlfriend, who is almost four years younger, she seems to understand the inherent problems with timing. I turn the same probing questions back to her. She claims no current boyfriend but displays a gold bracelet on her wrist and conveys it is a from a relationship she had in 1991, with a young American on business in
Before I leave, she points to her watch, counts out several hours from now, makes an eating gesture and then looks at me with an anticipatory smile. She may be just securing more business for her place, but sucker that I am, I'm already on my way to being seduced by her looks and charm. It's becoming a welcome diversion from my trip so I agree to return.
In the evening I join two other independent male travelers, Hans from
" She seems to enjoy her job, eh?" remarks Hans, as she stands over his shoulder.
" Seems to be in her element. " , I say.
Reacting to the stupid smiles on our faces, she offers us each a comic look of suspicion.
" She must move a lot of beer." adds Sean leaning forward on his crossed arms and playing into her antics. "You're quite a flirt, aren't you?" he says to her with a big grin, not really sure if she understands, but not really caring. Ngoc swats his nose and goes off to fetch a few more bottles.
With an American in their midst, the others naturally turn the conversation towards the issue of the 2,000 MIA's and where I stand on it. Frankly, I tell them, I may be a little naive in my youth but when I look at the figures, I've got to roll my eyes at the arrogance of my country in insisting Vietnam is holding back MIA/POW information, while they have 300,000 of their own to mourn. Counting the fact that 8,000+ Americans are missing from the Korean conflict and 75,000+ are missing from World War II, I'm also not a little bewildered at how the postwar issues of
Sean asks me if I had heard about the American politician who apparently chained himself to the fence of a
When I mention how American movies and televison have somewhat tainted the way young Americans perceive
"I was told by a Vietnamese tour guide that up until 1994, most of the American visitors were returning veterans, " I said. " But I don't know what the actual figures are like now."
" Maybe you could find out from the Vietnam Tourism office," Sean suggests.
" Maybe they could tell you how many Americans are here."
There is a gap in the conversation while we think this over and digest our dinner.
" Well, at least 237 at last count, anyway!", bursts out Hans.
Just before I finish my last big bottle of
Later, as I lay in my bed waiting for sleep, I ask myself what I think I'm doing. I came here to land of a tragic and mournful history . Playing footsy with the local seems inappropriate behavior in this , "Hell, run with it.
The next morning when I awaken, another new friend is already waiting for me in the lobby. Tam is a local university student studying English and French who also works the summer as a local hotel receptionist. The other day I befriended him through the use of my old standby icebreaker, my sketckbook. After he looked through it we spoke at length, pursuing various topics of conversation such as Hollywood movies, my income in
I like Tam. Speaking with him I am immediately charmed by his sincere curiosity and affable manner. With his natural air of diplomacy he managed to break through that psychological distance I maintain towards strangers, acquired from living in
This morning Tam and the rest of
" Hello, Colin. Did you sleep well?"
" Yeah. It was alright, although I had a bit to drink last night. "
" Ohh." He smiles sympathetically, noting my puffy face. " Do you still want to go to the Art Institute?"
" Oh...yes." I answer unconvincingly as I squint out onto the street.
The glare from the street is pounding my eyes, and I can feel an intense temperature waiting beyond the hotel doors.
"Is it always this hot at this hour?"
In a few minutes we are pedalling down a worn
Riding under a canopy of trees lining the road adds much to the aesthetics, but does little to battle the humidity.
After cycling down a few side roads, Tam leads us through the gates of a fenced- in compound. Across a large unkempt courtyard with a circular drive stands a two story French colonial building of the familiar stucco- and- shutters variety. Behind this building sit several other smaller structures. Students sit passively here and there at the bases of several large trees. Tam and I leave our bicycles among the rows of motorscooters and bicycles lining one side of the compound and wander around aimlessly at first until we find an open door to a gallery filled with paintings. As my eyes float along the walls, I notice the paintings reflect certain trends I've seen from contemporary artists advertised in
" You are an artist from
I present my sketchbook to her to validate the statement. After glancing through it she tells me her name is Vinh, a former student, and presents a busines card printed in English. Printed at the top of the card is "University of Art- Hue City " Below this is printed "Nguyen Thi Quang Vinh, Painter. Professor at Hue's Fine-Art University. Department of Silk." Next to her title is a small graphic drawing of her profile. As I study her card, we are joined by an amusing young man with an infectious smile. He is introduced as Anh,Vinh's husband and a Professor of Sculpture at the University. He happily hands me his own card, printed similarily to Vinh's.
" Department of Silk?" I say, referring to Vinh's card." Is that as in textile design?"
" No. We paint on silk. " She gestures to one of the paintings. " This one is my own paintings."
As I stare at her silk painting I can feel Vinh's eyes fixed on my face, anticipating my first reaction. The dominant imagery before me is of a feminine figure bent over in a rice paddy with an infant strapped to her back. Several water bison horns on poles surround the figure. It is a very darkly executed painting, both beautiful and somber. The semi-abstract execution and stark pallette leave an otherwordly impression , as if glimpsing into someone else's dream. I ask Vinh for her intended interpretation.
Vinh points to the bison horns and explains they serve as allusions to the inherent strength within the Vietnamese woman. The rice paddy and infant convey dual tasks expected of all women. It is such traditional burdens that have been quietly endurred by Vietnamese women for ages. The working mother is an ancient and unquestioned role in Vietnam. In this man's society, the internal strength of Vietnamese women is a given yet rarely acknowledged attribute.
" Do you think my painting is poor?" Vinh asks suddenly.
" Poor ?" I reply, surprised. My silence has been misinterpreted as apathy.
" No....NO.", I stress, " It's beautiful. Especially if it comes from your heart. It is not poor."
I gesture to my heart. " Dep Lam. Very beautiful."
Anh stands next to her and smiles widely.
" In Vietnam the materials of life are poor," he says," but the art is rich.
My own art school years at Rhode Island School of Design have proven to be a valuable influence on my life's paths, so I've felt somewhat curious about the role such a school plays here, within a transitional Vietnam. The country's recent reforms of hardline government as part of its recent "open-door" policy include lighter censorship policies, allowing a virtual awakening for Vietnam's artists. As my new friends begin to show me around the school's grounds, Anh offers personal proof. He shows me several of his own sculptures installed in the courtyard of the school.
" Before 1986, we must sculpt like Russians. " He gestures to examples of his old work, a couple of classical Vietnamese nudes and one aging worker's propaganda piece.
"Constructivist.", he laughs, noting the drastic gap in style of the latter sculpture, " For government."
It was such propaganda art that artists were formerly forced to create if they expected to make a living. To produce anything else publicly was to risk being condemned by the government. Consequently, personal explorations in art were not encouraged. The "doi-moi" reforms started in 1989 began to finally change this attitude greatly. Judging by the private galleries popping up in cities all over Vietnam, the creatives in this country seem relieved to be able to breath again.
" Now we paint and sculpt for our own possessions." Although he has none of his recent work on view at the school, Anh says he now takes his inspiration from the traditional myths and indigenous sculpture of the montagnards in Vietnam's Central Highlands. As he explains this to me, Anh smiles broadly and laughs like someone who has won the lottery. I'm quickly learning that smiling and laughing are a dominant trait of Anh's personality . Vinh seems to be the more tortured soul of the two artists.
Anh finds a personal irony at the term used for Vietnam's reforms. With this "open-door" policy encouraging him to create as much of whatever he wants, he now finds it necessary to close the door on the excess of artwork.
" At my house I sculpt, and then I put it in closet and 'close- door'. Do not look at again. " Anh lets out another heart laugh at this
I tell him I understand. I have my own stash of unwanted artwork, condemned for eternity to a storage chest in my room.
As we stand in the courtyard an elderly man in a necktie approaches. Vinh introduces him to me as one of her former instructors. He does not speak much English, but seems amused to meet me. Since we lack a common oral language, I again pull out the sketchbook of my travels to speak visually to him. He takes great interest in all the sketches, particularily of Paris since he had apparently studied there as a young artist. Every other page he pauses at a drawing and points at it, mumbling tones of recognition in Vietnamese.
" Very good, " he says after closing the book.
" Do you want to look at a class?" asks Anh.
" Oh, yes. Very much."
So we say goodbye to the old teacher and set off looking for a class in session. As we stroll through the grounds exchanging information about the curriculums of our respective art school educations, pleasant music lingers in the air. Sneaking a glance through a classroom door, I see a small girl of about ten in a white-frilled dress and patten-leather shoes rehearsing a classical piece on the piano.
When we find a drawing class, my friends wait outside but encourage me to walk among the students within the studio. The twenty or so students have arranged their easels in a broken ring around the subject matter, a plaster bust of Ho Chi Minh. As I tread lightly through room, the only sounds are lead pencils brushing against paper and whispered words in Vietnamese from the instructor to her students. Natural light from the windows softens Ho Chi Minh's cheeks before settling on a far wall which displays a mosaic of charcoal studies of hands, feet, and a few self-portraits. The students acknowledge my presence only with fleeting glances, remaining withdrawn into their work . Most of the Ho Chi Minh portraits are plentiful in detail, but lack boldness and variation in line quality. The shy attitude of the drawings reflect an insecurity typical of young artists, hesitant to fully commit lead to the paper. But I keep my criticisms to myself, not comfortable to challenge the protocol beyond quietly crashing a drawing session. Realizing I'm a distraction if anything, I quietly thank the instructor and slip out .
Before Anh and Vinh attempt to find another class for me to look in on, possibly a sculpture class, we are apprehended by a stern headmaster who engages in a short conference with his two professors. Apparently word has reached him that a foreigner is walking the grounds without going first through the proper channels to receive permission. I am to leave at once, it appears. Undaunted, Anh and Vinh immediately invite me over to their house for tea in a couple of days. Tam agrees to accompany me there based on directions Anh draws in my sketchbook. Anh need not be insistive at his invitation, but he before we part he cheerfully adds, " You must come by , so then we will draw each other's portraits."
" Okay, it's a deal," I reply.
Twenty minutes later, after bicycling back from the Citadel to the other side of the Perfume River, Tam recommends we stop for some shade and a drink . He leads us off of Le Loi Boulevard. the riverside causeway and into a tree-covered courtyard. From a vendor in a wooden shack Tam orders a Pepsi and an orange soda, and we take a seat on little plastic stools next to a small wooden table. After a few minutes, the vendor comes out with the two open bottles of soda and two glasses filled with big chunks of freshly chopped ice. I've been warned not to take ice in Vietnam due to the potential repercussions of local water on my Western stomach. Tam movesd to fill my glass
" Uh, Tam..."
But with my glass already filled and the ice dissolving, I decided to keep my mouth shut and risk stomach problems rather than seem ungrateful for Tam's hospitality. Tam picked up his orange soda and we clinked glasses. I gulped my soda fast in a race against melting ice.
" May I ask you a question about America, Colin?"
" Sure, go ahead."
" I am making a thesis, a study for my school about what it means to keep tradition, and I wonder if you could tell me about the, uh, traditional culture of America."
" Uh, cultural...traditional culture?" I repeat, unprepared for this question.
" Uh, yeeeaaah. For example, in Vietnam it is tradition for girls in university and some women to wear the ao dai dresses."
" Oh, yes. I know about the ao dai."
" Yeeeahh. Well, uh, I was wondering about the cultural traditions of America. Could you tell me about these?"
" Cultural traditions, hmmm. Let me think about this."
It was an important question. And I didn't want to misrepresent my country, especially in a place like Vietnam. There was already enough misunderstandings between the two countries. I thought to give a simple answer at first, but then I became fearful of trivializing a diverse country like America with a bunch of cliches. The first thought that jumped into my head was "Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, and Chevrolet.", but I decided not to extend Madison Avenue's obvious influence beyond our shores just yet. So I searched for another aspect of traditional culture.
" Okay...well, uh...."
So then for some reason I began to think about weddings and white bridal dresses and bachelor parties and drunken toasts, but I decided they aren't distinctively American. Even those occur in Vietnam due to the small but influential Catholic population here.
" All right, uh, we celebrate a holiday called Thanksgiving once a year, where families get together for big meals and give thanks for, uh...."
As Tam sat there with undivided attention, I began to feel I was giving too much of an Anglo/Puritanical outlook of what traditional American culture is. I thought of describing Kwanzaa or Puerto Rican Pride Day.
" Well, Tam, the truth is that even though much of our tradition is derived from Europe, our country is influenced by cultures and people who come from all over the world to settle in America..."
As I said this, I began to feel I was actually giving an inaccurate view of the realities of our old Melting Pot. Many of these immigrant cultures essentially come to America and adapt to an Anglo cultural predominance, their own traditions and history becoming watered down in the process. Of course, maybe it was premature to be describing this selective cross-culturalism to a guy who lives in a relatively homogenous country. I tried another approach.
" Well, honestly, these days one tradition everybody seems to share is watching Seinfeld on Thursday nights. Media. Media is an important binding American tradition."
A minor paranoia kicks in again as I think of Rupert Murdoch's Star Tv satellite televison, and "MacGyver" reruns in Burma, and Mtv in India, and Schwarzeneggar flicks in the Philippines, and the term " cultural imperialism". Tam began to look a little confused at my incoherence. I tried a return to basics.
" It's also an American cultural tradition to, uh, set off fireworks on July 4th"
" Ahh, Yeeaaah," Tam responded," Fireworks."
I feel as though I've been put on the spot. Perhaps it would have been easier answering Tam's question had I not known it was for school.
"Tam, can I get back to you later on this question? I need to think about it some more."
Lunchtime found me sitting down for some more bahn khoai at my favorite restaurant, although it was really the attractive woman who gave me so much attention that kept me returning. When I strolled up to the restaurant, Ngoc's older sister ,who cooked at the front, recognized me and handed me a menu. Her hand reached up and fondled imaginary wavy hair near her neck, symbolizing Ngoc, and then pointed to her watch with panicked and confused gestures to convey that her younger sister was supposed to be there now, but hadn't shown yet. She held up five, ten, fifteen fingers. The urgency of her message made me wonder if I was any different from any other single male who became a repeat customer after flirting with Ngoc. My typical male ego wanted to believe I was different, but it struggled with my sense of logic.
Ngoc soon rolled up on a motorbike and flashed a sumptuous smile in my direction, before running upstairs. After an apparent change of shoes, she came back down and sat down across from me. After some flirrtacious small talk and a few goofy stares, she signaled for me to retrieve my guide book. With a handlebar-reving gesture, she reopened her inquiry about a possible daytrip with her. Excitement grew within me. I came all the way to Vietnam, and this beautiful woman wanted to personally show me around. What more could a single guy ask for? But when she wrote down "$8" and " $12" , the costs for either a motorbike or mini-van tour, my heart sank. True to form, I had let my emotions carry me away, and once again I had become a sucker. With my mouth twisted to one side, I looked to Ngoc and pointed to my head. I would have to consider the prices and get back to her. When I finished my lunch , she held up six, seven fingers and mimed eating with an expectant face. Yes, I'd be back for dinner.
As it happened, I began to look forward to Hue's evenings. When the streets became easier to cross, and the flourescent lights kicked in, it was difficult for an independent traveler not to be drawn to the restaurants described as "popular" in guide book entries. At such places you were guaranteed to find a drinking partner or partners for the evening. Common languages were negotiable. At Ngoc's place, I sat with Harry and Ed, two young English men who were travelling throughout Asia for a few months before continuing their studies. Earlier in the day I had shared a long boatride with them down the Perfume River, hence acquiring extremely pink skin. Harry's bright pink skin clashed with his brilliant blond tennis-ball hair cut, adding to the humorous aura that surrounded his outgoing personality. The understated Ed was just plain pink and quiet. Their bonding agent was the requisite streak of cynicism common to us kids. Neither of them were thrilled with returning to the United Kingdom since they hadn't decided just what it was they were supposed to do with their lives.
" That's great, " proclaimed Harry after flipping through my sketchbook. " I myself don't claim to have any evident talent. It's a problem. Actually, that's not true. I do a great imitation of Lenin. "
Harry jumped up and froze in the standard Lenin stance. Immortalized by statues in communist countries everywhere, his chin jutted out in profile, one hand grabbed an imaginary lapel on his chest, and the other arm extended out into the air, out across the Motherland.
" He always seems to be hailing a taxi," remarked Harry , still in his Lenin stance.
" Must have been a busy man, " deadpanned Ed.
" That's not bad," I said. " Maybe you should take that on the road."
" Actually I have considered being a comic, or a copy writer. Except I don't really know how one goes about it, " Harry said.
" How old are you?" I asked.
" Nineteen."
" Don't worry. You'll figure it out. I thought I knew what to do at nineteen. Fortunately, I decided I was wrong."
" I'm still trying to figure out what scam I'm going to pull to make my millions," decided Harry, " I need a scam so that I can swindle a lot of people out of their hard-earned money."
" Well, for your sake, I fully hope to be ripped off by you someday. "
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