It’s heating up in these parts, especially the parts tucked alongside other parts; the inner knees, elbows, armpits, cleavage, neck and hind ear area. Danang is a sweaty place. Warmth can be a distracting thing; all I want to do is lie a few dangerous feet away from the dusty blades of a fan, frolic on the beach, and sip fresh squeezed orange juice. Unfortunately, my guilty disposition will never allow me to succumb to such lavish fantasies, so onward I continue, glistening in sweat, writing and making, moving these bones, and trotting along the Vietnamese roadway.
My Vietnamese is slowly improving. I now have more confidence when perusing markets, buying grilled corn from one of the red toothed ladies on the street, and translating words like succulent, barn, and robust to my students (with the help of a trusty pocket Viet/English dictionary).
I can now say things like, no thank you, I would not like a pound of squid, shoe shinings, or a lottery ticket.
I can now carry on a four-point-six minute conversation (these exchanges are generally made up of two convoluted sentences; good day. I am fine and you? Good night. See you later today.) with my amiable neighbor who cackles as I pedal away. My ears now perk up when my younger students argue over a plastic kicking toy (the Vietnamese version of the hacky sack); I can pick out the sounds/words they are saying and know how they look in the written form.
The language is becoming attainable, but it’s a blurry attainment. Similar to the eye’s strain when shifting from light to dark, I crawl towards the language, it’s muffled light beckons me, and I hope one day it will come into sharp focus.
I’ve read about people who live in countries other than their own, who suddenly begin to dream in a new language. In their dreams, they speak fluently, as though they’d been speaking it their whole lives. I’m eager for this to happen to me.
Yesterday, to practice my survival Vietnamese and procure foodstuff, I braved the Market.
Up until yesterday, because I lack skill in the art of haggling (and speaking Vietnamese), I had refrained from going to the market to do my grocery shopping. Nothing has a set price and you are expected to fight passionately for every carrot, shallot, bean, tofu patty, avocado, and noodle. The first few times I went to the market I found it to be an intimidating place festering with rats and frail, desperate women yelling at me to buy something from them.
The market is made up of sections; vegetables, meat, dry goods, fresh noodles, clothing, fabric, jewelry, and housewares. All kiosks are lumped together and contain virtually the “same same” stuff. The only way to differentiate one kiosk from another is to take notice of its proprietor, smile real big, and wait for them to fold you into their bosom.
After parking my bicycle next to a line of motorbikes, I ducked into the jewelry section, took a right into housewares, a left at dry goods, crossed into the meat section (the smell of animal cadavers can be retch inducing) and finally found the vegetables under a moldy makeshift roof where rats - that could easily be mistaken for cats - scurried under tables into cavernous holes.
From a few haggard, grinning ladies who praised their goods, I bought Thai basil, shallots, mint, cilantro, bok choy, and some fruits and vegetables I have not cooked nor eaten before. Vietnam is the place for culinary experimentation.
I asked one woman where to buy coffee, she grabbed me by the hand and escorted me to a filthy little makeshift table/cafe, where I sat for fifteen minutes sipping on sweet iced coffee and chatting with a fun group of ladies and their children.
Even as the rats bolted from one side of the market to the other, and as the smell of raw meat festered in my nostrils, I was made comfortable by the pleasant toughness of the market ladies.
On the opposite side of the street, just a few blocks away from my skinny house, is a mega-corporate store, akin to Wal-mart, called the Big C. The Big-C is perhaps one of the newest architectural feats in Danang and everyone uses it at a reference point when giving directions.
“You know Big C?”
It is also a place where Danangers go for entertainment, almost as if it were a smaller version of Disneyland without the rides or humans dressed as animated characters.
Trips to the Big C are one of the most insufferable experiences I have ever endured. Here’s why:
First - You must walk through an entire mall to get to an escalator that transports you to the second floor where the Big C kingdom awaits you in all its neon glory. There are no short cuts, therefore you are impelled to peer into the contents of each store. Whether or not you like it, you are forced to consume, or at least think about it.
Second - A hideous, unavoidably catchy Big C theme song is pumped incessantly into conditioned air. It’s synthesized tune sounds a bit like the demo from my 1989 Casio keyboard. If there was a method of torture involving a song, this would be the song to use.
Third - Once you are on the escalator, rather than politely standing to one side so that other people can walk up, customers take up every square inch of the escalator, making it impossible to pass. And, in addition to being trapped amongst a crowd of motionless Big C shoppers, I am usually the only westerner on the escalator, which gives them an opportunity to stare shamelessly at my white ass.
Forth - Customers are not trusted at Big C and must check their bags with disgruntled bag checkers. There is no practice of waiting your turn in Danang, and I am often pushed to the side by a throng of teenage girls.
Fifth - Attempting to direct and control a Big C grocery cart is like maneuvering a stubborn cow. The “wheels” are basically ice skates and were designed to glide across the polished floors. The carts have a mind of their own, and usually thrust me into a pile of rice sacks.
Sixth - Certain customers like to watch me shop, follow me around the store with friends and family, make remarks, and sometimes even pluck food from my basket to examine it more closely. I realize this is just curiosity, but it’s ridiculously audacious.
Seventh - After finding all desired food components for snacks and meals, all customers have to ascend yet another escalator to the third floor. Along with the clothing, electronics, toiletries, housewares, books, shoes and toy departments, the registers are on the third floor. Again, you have no choice but to walk through each department to pay for your goods.
Eighth - The concept of bringing your own recycled bag to the Big C is unheard of. If you want to bring a bag, the security person seals a plastic bag it over your recycled bag (to keep you from stealing shit), which defeats the purpose entirely. To avoid earthly massacre, I try to consolidate all my veggies into one bag, but am quickly reprimanded by the check out ladies who shake their heads.
Ninth - Even though I always pay for my groceries at the check out stand closest to the exit where the security guard watches me just two feet away, he scrutinizes my receipt and the contents of my plastic bags as though I might have swallowed a blender from the showroom.
Tenth - The Big C searches its employees when they leave work; rather despicable behavior for any employer.
It’s obvious, the cons far outweigh the pros when it comes to shopping at the Big C. I think I’ll stick to the little guys.
What a trip. Big C & rats. I hope Vietnamese dreaming comes soon.
We had curry last night. Would have loved some thai basil.
My tummy is turning thinking of the smells.
Posted by: Connie Fenton | 03/19/2009 at 06:56 PM