Hello Uncle Foreigner

Last night our school hosted a Halloween party, and it’s actually the first party we’ve been to in a long time. And it was fun. We mingled and selfied with the guests, who were all mostly students at the local tourism college; and had pizza and beer and BBQ — pretty Halloween-y.

Lijiang is beautiful and all, but for all everyone talks about the fantastic weather … it has rained every single day that we’ve been here. Just the other day, even when it was sunny, it was also raining at the same time. And the rainy season is probably going to last for at least another month. And yet, it’s also the high season for tourism, because everyone’s out of school. The tour must go on, I guess.

Last month, we made our big move from Luzhou to Lijiang city, in Yunnan Province. Lijiang is about an hour’s flight southeast of Luzhou (if there were such a direct flight), up in the foothills of the Himalayan Mountains. And it’s gorgeous.

We’ve had a hectic time settling into our new home — imagine all of the logistics of a cross-country move, in a language you’re not that great at understanding. Oh, and you have to keep the local police looped in on your whereabouts. But we’re super-psyched to be here. We’ve got a back-log of stories in the queue that we’re excited to get to soon. In the meantime, enjoy this video of our arrival in Lijiang.

Graduation time is here, releasing a new crop of students out into the world, and freeing up their time for guitar lessons.

Zhang Yu Jie — formerly Mr. Super, an English name that he’s discarded — has been our friend for the past three years. Determined to improve his English, he would practice with us as much as he could, finding us between classes, walking with us wherever, getting in those precious few moments of face time during his busy school schedule.

On our part, we learned that he is a really sweet, hard-working young man. Raised on a farm by his grandparents with his twin sister Lily, he has big dreams. The video above takes from an interview we conducted last spring, and a group guitar lesson Peter gave last month with Lily and a few friends.

Just a ways down the road from our school, there’s a small mountain path that breaks off the main highway. After staring at it curiously from the bus window for years, one night we shared a taxi — in Luzhou, it’s not uncommon to hail an occupied cab if it’s going your way — with a couple who took us on a detour up that way. As we whizzed up the curvy mountain road, Peter and I both though to ourselves: we’ve got to come back. And bring a camera.

So one sunny Sunday afternoon, we did. The yellow rapeseed flowers that take over Luzhou’s countryside were in full bloom. We joined the ranks of the few walkers on the road; most of the traffic was motorbikes — there’s a big business in the neighborhood in ferrying people up and down from the highway bus station. There are two small villages along the road, 光明村 and 咀阳村. When we reached the uphill edge of 咀阳村, after about two hours of walking, we were ready to take a break. There was a group of ladies congregated on the benches outside of a small general store, and so we joined them for some Sunday afternoon kibitzing.

Guangzhou, in southeast China, was the last stop on our trip, between Vietnam and home. It’s the vibrant capital city of Guangdong (formerly romanized as Canton) Province, world famous for it’s cuisine. For us, this was an exciting chance to leave the somewhat terrible Baiyun International Airport — a place we’ve layed-over about half a dozen times in the past few years. Though, after 16 days on the road and a contracting mild colds, we were determined to take it easy.

Guangzhou was happy to cooperate. We landed a few days before Chinese New Year, and the city had that the-extended-family’s-home-and-a-lot-of-stuff-is-closed feeling that you find in America in the run up to Thanksgiving. A kind of relaxed frenzy; the streets were busy with happy relatives trying to find something to do. We took in the sights and snacked our way through the city center.

New Year’s Eve was a beautiful, clear night, and Guangzhou is far enough south that the weather was quite warm in February. Walking by the Pearl River, we fell in with a group of young Chinese travelers who invited us to dinner. Traditionally in China, Spring Festival is a time for family, but in recent years, more and more young people are using the time off to explore their country, and abroad.

Over BBQ, we shared our stories, making quick friends of strangers in the manner of the Canterbury Tales. We had all been brought together that day by Luo Ao from Xi’an, who had left his phone number at reception, looking for someone to have tea with. Our ringleader was a soft-spoken young man, pale with boyishly chubby cheeks. He told us that he was studying technology at university in Chengdu, but that his dream was to transfer to school in Leicester, England. It was a dream deferred, however, as he recently failed the IELTS. But he is determined to try again.

Sheng Gaole — “Call me Lawrence,” he said — from the eastern city of Hefei in Anhui province, had been the first to answer Luo Ao’s invitation. He was a tall and angular fellow whose whose calm demeanor belied a rebellious streak; traveling alone in Guangzhou against strict orders from his father, he was making plans to go and visit a friend in Ohio. His father was ready for Lawrence to settle down and get married, but Lawrence wasn’t having it. “You are so free,” he told us wistfully, as we shared our own stories.

By coincidence, Kevin Lee and Quan Hui were originally from the same small city in inner Mongolia, though they had only just met tonight. Quan Hui, by far, was the quietest of the bunch. She said that she had studied English in university, but after a few years, it was starting to fade. She was happy just to soak up the conversation, I think. Kevin, on the other hand, was quite confident in his speaking ability. Another recent graduate, he works as an engineer at a firm in Shenzhen with many international connections. He may even get sent abroad, a possibility that really seemed to excite him.

The night was festive but not too wild. We toasted the holiday and each other, and ordered more and more food until everyone was very full. We talked about our jobs, our lives, and our dreams. “When do you stop getting the hong bao?” I asked, referring to the traditional red envelope full of cash given to children at this time of year. “When you get married,” said Quan Hui. “When you get a job,” said Lawrence.

When the meal was over, our four companions consulted over the check with our waitress. At the conclusion, they informed us that it was their treat, and that they got a bargain, too! It was a Happy New Year all around. They bundled us into a cab, and we were home in time for midnight. A group of travelers crowded the couch in our hostel lobby, watching the annual CCTV New Year spectacular. We, however, headed up to bed and listened for the illegal fireworks that never came; because Guangzhou is far enough east that rules are followed.

The Koho people are one of Vietnam’s 54 different ethnic minorities, and they mostly live in tribal villages in the highlands outside of Đà lạt. Many Koho fought alongside U.S. troops in the American War — as it’s locally known — and to this day the tribes have an uneasy relationship with the central government. We visited one such village one afternoon, with a guide/translator, but we were asked to refrain from taking photos — so, you’re just going to have to take my word for it. It was a fascinating trip.

Some older women let us visit with them in their one-room home. They had a pot hanging over a fire at one end, the kitchen, and small chickens wandered in and out through the gap between the walls and the ground. Until recently, they told us, ten people slept in this small space on mats rolled out over the packed earth floor. But the local government had just built them new and modern communal bedroom.

Upon our arrival, the woman were a little shy, as were we. Our guide did most of the talking. Explaining them to us and us to them. But over time they loosened up and became a loud and animated chorus to our guide’s questions. Other women from the village popped their heads in to see what the ruckus was about. “What happened in here?!?” one woman said, surprised to find a room full of “Americans” — all foreigners were American to them, our guide said. He told the women that some of us were French and German. “They all look the same to me,” one of the neighbor women replied.

We talked about life in the village. By Vietnamese standards, the Koho were quite poor and life was hard work. They live an agricultural economy, so fat and lean times come and go with the harvest. Our guide showed us some of the food that this family had on hand, including dried bush rat (which he only revealed to us after we had eaten some; first he told us it was ginger) and fermented rice gruel. There were a few fat pigs, however, wandering the village’s shared gardens.

Traditional marriages were still a big deal. In some cases, the women told us, “voodoo” (our guide’s word) was practiced to snare a mate, or smite a rival … but they may have been pulling our legs on this one. More believably, they said that the custom is for the bride’s family to pay the groom’s family a large dowry — heirloom jewelry or generations-old pottery. This particular family was too poor to afford a husband, so the daughter, now in her sixties, remained single.

Men were primarily responsible for the farming, and in this village, women’s work was handmade textiles. They gave us a short demonstration of cotton spinning and weaving. “If you go to the museum in the city, you’ll see these tools there,” our guide told us. It was pretty amazing. To do the weaving, the daughter sat on the floor and wrapped an elaborate loom around her body. She rocked back and forth to shift the threads, and passed the shuttle from hand to hand quite quickly. The resulting cloths were made into wedding costumes, though they had some “throwaway” pieces that weren’t up to snuff to the occasion for sale to outsiders.

These women were characters. Once they found their voices, they were raucous and loud, and wanted to explain everything to us. They were particularly piqued about the villagers across the river, who had stolen their land, they said. One rugged neighbor, with a pipe clenched in her teeth, told us about meeting a tiger in the nearby jungle last year. They won’t hurt with you if you don’t bother them, or run, she told us through the guide. When one of our number assured her that he had read that wild tigers were extinct in this part of the world, the women invited him to come with them and see for himself. I … would not mess with these ladies.

Things are changing in the village, however. The current generation of children go to school in the city, and they are learning Vietnamese. (The villagers speak a local dialect.) These Koho people face a challenging road, one familiar to many peoples throughout the world: Assimilation will surely mean a more comfortable life for the next generation, but how can they ensure that their communities culture and customs aren’t lost in the shuffle? This is a large part of their ongoing friction with the central government.

Before we left, the mother of the house — 82 years young — sang for us. “It’s a sad song,” said our guide. But he didn’t need to translate. Her voice keened and her body trembled as she sang, and the emotion was powerful in that small room containing many cultures. We thanked them and said goodbye. But you have to stay, said one of the women, our husbands will never believe you were here!

Wherever you have a thriving tourist industry, usually at least one enterprising soul will come up with some sort of “not-for-tourists,” “real-deal” experience. Which still, of course, is patronized exclusively by tourists — but, you know, tourists who don’t want to be considered tourists. The cool ones. And sometimes, you just need a guide.

In Đà lạt, this venture is run by one Mr. Rot. And Rot is quite a character. Over the course of his “Secret Tour,” as it’s called, he filled us in on his life story: Born one of 12 children to a poor, village family, he was adopted by the family that owns the Pink House. They sent him to university, where he studied tourism. And now Rot gives tours to visiting foreigners, and does charity work and political activism for his birth village. And sings regularly at a night club in the city. He’s a charismatic showman, and somewhat of a trickster.

The tour is an all-day motorbike excursion out into the countryside. (With the option to ride along in a comfy Toyota Fortuner, which is what we did.) These days, Rot’s cousin handles the actual motorbike journey. Rot does not himself ride anymore, owing to a drunk driving accident a year ago. Among the many things he is, he isn’t a saint.

The tour encompassed a cricket farm, a silk worm farm, a coffee farm, and a curry farm. We stopped at the wet market in the small town of Nam Ban, where Rot goofed with the vendors and compared various vegetables to genitalia.

The Elephant Falls, outside of Nam Ban, was “the only place you’ll see other tourists on my trip,” promised Rot. But he insisted it was worth the stop. Both he and his cousin cautioned against buying anything at the falls’ souvenir shop; all trinkets were marked up to 3-5 times the nominal price.

There were tons of tourists there, all scrambling down the precarious rocky path to the bottom. But I thought the falls were quite beautiful. It was jungle-y and amazing. Peter and our fellow car passenger — an older European woman on a weeks-long ramble through Southeast Asia — were not quite as impressed. They’d seen better and more striking waterfalls elsewhere. We could all agree, however, that the phenomenon of young Asian women hiking these types of dangerous natural wonders in dresses and heels was pretty strange.

Lunch was at the countryside house of Rot’s sister. A Buddhist nun — Sister sister, if you will — she prepared us a simple vegetarian meal of tofu and choko over rice noodles with a soy chili sauce. We played drinking games with soda (though on past tours, I think this was done with actual alcohol). Rot and his cousin explained local customs. Crossing your fingers, a gesture of luck in North America, is a rude expression; the Vietnamese like big noses and big bellies. That kind of thing.

While at the house, we were lucky enough to meet some of Rot’s sister’s neighbors. A group of women in their 60s, 70s and 80s. Rot jokingly married them off to some of the guys in our group. He also got us all to say some inappropriate things in one another’s languages. Exasperated affection was pretty much the order of the day.

As we prepared for the return trip to the city, Rot nipped across the road for a quick volleyball game with some guys he knew. We were giving him a ride back in the Fortuner, so we waited while he finished up. To be honest, Peter and I were a little worried about sharing so much private time with such an energetic guy, but it turned out that Rot seemed as tired as we were, after a full day of being “on.” We rode back to the city in near silence, reflecting on the world we had just seen.

In contrast to Phạm Ngũ Lão, Đà Lạt’s backpacker scene was much more relaxed and integrated with the city around it. There was still a small neighborhood glutted with western bars, hostels, and restaurants — down Trương Công Định street, if you’re looking — but the gravity of the area was not so strong. We kind of spent our time in the city traversing between International World and Localville. We watched live one night — in a bar full of Russians — as CNN reacted to Jon Stewart’s departure from “The Daily Show.” But we also successfully stumbled through the all-Vietnamese menu at an up-and-coming BBQ joint.

Given Đà Lạt’s size — small — we did wander down Trương Công Định at some point just about every day. And our usual destination was The Hangout, a bar billed as the homebase of the local Easy Riders. In actuality, its clientele consists mostly of the enthusiastic, but inexpert young travelers who’d spent the day touring the countryside with the motorbike guides; their ripped up legs told the story of a lot of falling down. But it was a chill place for a beer or two. Decidedly less shady than the backpacker bars of HCMC.

Another regular stop, a few streets over, was the Liên Hoa Bakery. They offered a wide range of French-style pastries. Fruit tarts, fresh donuts, croissants, cookies, cakes … I had to limit myself to two per day. Mostly because I wanted to save some room for the bakery’s made-to-order bánh mì. Peter would go with paté and vegetables, while my favorite was the BBQ pork. They buttered their bread as well, which was a fantastic touch. Guys, I just love sandwiches.

But we found a lot of good meals, all around town. On the suggestion of our hostel owners, we had lunch one afternoon at Vinh Loi, a folding table and plastic chairs kind of place that specializes in doing the basics well. Back on Trương Công Định, we had dinner at Góc Hà Thành, a restaurant that trumpeted its Lonely Planet endorsement on a large banner out front. Locals do not come here anymore, if they ever did. But the food was really good. Peter and I shared a dill lemon chicken dish and a tom yam shrimp soup — which is actually a Thai dish, but whatever. It was super sweet and delicious.

Our favorite meal — one so nice, we ate it twice — was at Chu Quán, the aforementioned BBQ establishment. The owner, we read, was going for a Korean-Vietnamese fusion, and I’ll tell you, it worked for us. The showstopper there was the Bò Sặc, a spicy beef dish cooked on a hot stone at the table. Each time a party ordered one, the whole room filled with choking, acrid smoke. (In a fun way!) That was a little too intense for us, though, so we went with a dish our waiter translated into English as “bird.” The table next to us had one, and it looked good.

“Bird” is probably squab, and it was served in a caramelized spice rub. We cut it up ourselves with large kitchen shears, which was a little discomfiting. The meat was tender for such a little guy, but that spice really packed a punch. The dish came with soy and chili dipping sauces, and side of mint and cucumber as a palate refresher. “Every bite has a strategy,” Peter said.

Rounding out the meal was a noodle and vegetable dish that was pretty good, but was definitely overshadowed by “bird,” and some just-perfect French fries, Vietnamese style, with an orange chili sauce and mayonnaise. I’d be remiss if I also didn’t mention our starter: a black sesame rice cake with green chili sauce. Maybe one of Peter’s favorite discoveries of the whole trip. (Can you guess what mine was? I’ll give you a hint: It starts with bánh and ends with mì.)

We were truly sad to leave Đà Lạt. It’s just a really friendly, charming place. On our last full day, another Easy Rider chatted us up. When we told him that we were leaving, he joked-not-joked that a motorbike ride back down to Saigon would be way more fun that flying. He was probably right, but “not with my back,” Peter said. The Easy Rider laughed, mounted his bike, and zoomed off down the road.

“The bar is open until 3 am. That’s all we need.”
— American tourist in Pham Ngu Lão

Phạm Ngũ Lão is Saigon’s backpacker area, and it’s pretty much as seedy as they come. It plays host to an extra-concentrated version of all the bad behaviors of comparatively wealthy, entitled first-worlders exploiting their status in a developing country. Like, I don’t want to buy drugs on my way to dinner, some stranger on the street. And, you’re not fooling anyone, Harold Ramis-looking dude at the Crazy Baby bar; those four young Vietnamese women aren’t your friends for free. Also, restaurants? Why so much crappy western food?

Some of this is on me: I should have done my research better. There are plenty of places to stay in Saigon that aren’t in the middle of a giant vice bubble for young and aging partiers. Were we to do it over again, we definitely would have stayed somewhere else. (Although our hostel was great. If any of this sounds appealing to you, New Saigon has comfortable rooms and a friendly, helpful staff.)

So, it was what it was. And as difficult a time as we had, there was at least one moment of every day that felt worth it. We were within walking distance of much nicer and more interesting neighborhoods, and within Phạm Ngũ Lão itself we learned to sit back with a coffee or beer and embrace the chaos. The second-floor balcony of this bar on Bùi Viện Street made a particularly nice perch. And for every vagabond Boris Johnson stumbling home at 9 am, we saw a Gentle Giant who was genuine friends with the waitstaff at his local. Especially in the mornings, we could watch families and workers getting ready for the day. Motorbikes with high chairs zipped babies to their baby appointments. Locals and tourists gathered together for coffee at legit establishments.

We also found better food. Down the side streets, there were the cơm tấm carts serving sweetly grilled meats over broken rice. Close to our hostel, there was Sozo the bakery that offers work to young Vietnamese people living with disabilities. And just down the way from Sozo, there was Baba’s Kitchen.

Our love of Indian food is well documented. And despite our mission to eat as many bánh mì as we could, we had dinner at Baba’s twice during our stay. We can’t say no to a curry. (Or an aloo chat. Or garlic nan. I just really love bread.) Thanks to a kitchen mixup, we even got a bonus fish masala curry on the house!

All that being said, we spent the last morning of our stay in Phạm Ngũ Lão watching “Finding Nemo” in our hostel. (New Saigon has international cable!) I hate to admit defeat, but it just wasn’t our scene.