The other side of the river

If you added a pinch of other Asian cultures outside of Vietnam, a heaping spoonful of caucasian, and if you squint your eyes to a mere sliver, Danang could easily pass for a miniature version of Vancouver, BC. 

There are 5 bridges (Thuan Phouc (an immense concrete work in progress leading to the lush forests and mountains I long to climb of the Son Tra Peninsula) Song Han, Nguyen Van Troi, Cau Tran Thi Ly, and Tuyen Son) ushering commuters to the east side of the Han river, the lesser populated side of Danang City, which is sporadically trickled in an odd juxtaposition of shanties, mansions and halfway constructed sky rise “massage hotels”. The width of this slim piece of hopeful real estate is cut short by the now tumultuous (It’s typhoon season) East Sea and it’s famous China Beach. 

Like Coney Island, China Beach has had its ups and downs. During the Vietnam/American war, China Beach was a haven for warfare tuckered American soldiers, and before the war it was simply an unscathed white sand beach spanning for miles. 

Right now it is experiencing an obvious down. The shock of typhoons have ripped into the beach, demolishing buildings, trees, and all elements of the beach that make it beachy. A solid green metal fence runs along the entire beach with advertisements for future mega-resorts glued to its every inch.  

Recently I was offered a class at the Lai Lin school on the east side of the Han River. From my house, by bicycle, the trek across the Nguyen Van Troi Bridge along Ngu Hanh Son Street to the school courtyard takes about 15 minutes. My class begins at 7:30pm, so all pedaling occurs in dark smog brightened by motorbike headlights. 

Usually the ride is accompanied by a slew of hellos from strange men. Though I normally would return these hellos with my own, the east side of the river smells faintly menacing, so I avoid replying at all. 

Side Note: Each time I need to thwart unwanted attention from men, I simply point to the sky and scream “rooh jo dil” (a phrase that means absolutely nothing at all but seems to fend off predators).  

The Lai Lin school is a yellowish structure painted by streaks of black and green mold. Inside the courtyard there is an outdoor fitness area where martial arts classes take place. I park my bicycle next to students belting “hoi hah” while jutting air with fists and for a second want to partake. Instead, while walking up the stairs I let out a secret “hai yah” while kicking the moonlight. I stop only when a janitor (who has an uncanny likeness to Uncle Ho) sneaks out of one of the classes and sees me. 

Once I have assured myself and students that there are no rats in the classroom, I begin to teach. This is my second time teaching this group of students and they still have several questions for me:

“How old are you?” 

“I’m 31. I was born in 1977, a day before the death of Elvis Presley.”

“Do you get a stomachache eating Vietnamese food?”

“Not at all. I get a stomachache when I eat American food.”

“Do you have any children?”

“No. Kids are too expensive.”

“What is your address?”

“I live on furniture street above a mattress store.”

“Do you like Vietnam?”

“Yes, I do. Vietnam is a splendid country. Do you know what “splendid” means?”

“Where do you do your shopping?”

“I try to buy groceries from small businesses, I sometimes go to the big c, but I don’t like the big c because it is a giant corporation which makes small businesses poor. Do you understand?”

“Are there really unicorns?”

“Yes, there are.”

After class I bike home, this time taking an even more dilapidated route along a bumpy road edged in barrel fires, shacks and toothless men. I pedal faster, the waistband of my skirt absorbs my sweat. Western night lights blink before me. I am nearly there. Motorbikes wiz by. 

A voice behind me calls my name. 

“Felicity!”

It’s Lisa (Her true name is something else entirely. This is her English name) one of my Vietnamese colleagues at the school. She talks to me in minced words and smiles but I have difficulty hearing her over motorbike buzz. She drives slowly, next to me, talking the whole time. I assume any second, she will wave goodbye and speed up, but she remains next to me for the remainder of our trip across the bridge assuring my arrival to west Danang is a safe one. 

Comments

[tom fenton]

hello.....hello,

I likey your new school and your command of the ruse. It must be so interesting to talk with people and have them accept you as human.

Keep up the great journalism and "rooh jo dil".

Love you and miss you!!