Tuesday, August 1: A week in the life, Take two!

Hey all--we're back in Saigon now, finally beginning to wrap-up an amazing summer. I'm working to get the blog all caught up very soon. In the meantime, here is a long and rather jumbled series of reflections from week two in the Mekong Delta.
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Week one in the Mekong Delta countryside felt like at least a month. Week two finished before I knew it! I guess we found and proceeded over the “hump” I described after week one, because suddenly the days have melted together, teaching has changed 180 degrees, and I don’t even wince in pain any time I stand up now. Life isn’t exactly a breeze yet, but the country rhythms are gradually becoming infused in our own lives.

On Monday I was jotting a few notes on my computer, and I wrote: “I had fun teaching today. I really did—I had a chance to work with everyone one-on-one and after our culture show over the weekend, the ice finally seemed to be really broken.” For starters, we split the class. Our Sunday night meeting was an almost comical brainstorming session of the best way to do this, examining rotations of students and teachers so we could have the best interactions, but in the end we went with simplicity and did a random division. Que and I would teach English to one group and “other skills” to the second group and Chris and Phuong would do the opposite.

The split made a huge difference; with twenty-eight students in a room, it was suddenly very manageable and easy to keep order. Furthermore, our biggest troublemakers effectively removed themselves from the camp. About six students showed up fifteen minutes late absolutely plastered. Hilary was standing at the school entrance and they began swearing at her and heaping verbal abuse until she kicked them out and threatened to call the police if they returned. Fine by us! The first thing we did in our small group was establish ground rules for the next two weeks. In retrospect it was a huge error that we had not done this at the beginning of camp, but you learn from mistakes, and now I know!

The first three days of the week we used our second hour of the class for some low-key activities. We did English activities, sang songs, and played some outdoor games that allowed everyone to have fun. They were working hard and learning lots in English and seemed to be having a blast in the second half. However, that’s not to say things were perfect or easy. Class was fun, but all of us felt that we could be doing more. There’s nothing wrong with having fun with our students, but as we had said, we had hoped to teach so many other units. For Thursday, we wanted to try something new with a conflict resolution class. All four of us initially were happy about the idea. In fact, it was at Phuong’s urging that we resurrected the lesson plan. However, when we tried to actually plan the lesson, we ended up in the most monumental debate of the trip. The essential question was whether or not the students were capable of learning new material and how we should teach them. Que was adamant that “these students will not understand.” “Why?” we quarried. After all, he had been a rural student, and he said the ideas weren’t too complex, so if he could do it, why couldn’t our students. He insisted that terms were too hard, students would not learn, and if they did, he would need to explain everything and reasons behind it—students would not be able to synthesize at all by themselves.

It’s difficult to cohesively express these debates in writing. I talked about a lot of the issues last time. I think, though, that it was a credit to our group that we did not accept the easy way of just doing games and English, and we struggled to finally come up with lesson plans that everyone was happy with. And to Que’s credit, even when he didn’t like a lesson idea, he tried his best when we were in the classroom. Usually, to everyone’s surprise, the activities worked really well. Even when something didn’t go as well as planned, I think the students gained exposure to the ideas, and at least offered some food for thought.

It was an immense relief that teaching could once again be fun. I began to look forward to the classroom instead of dread it. I knew many of our students’ names now, could joke with them, picked up on some strengths and weaknesses, and could push them each to learn just a bit more. I really admired the way so many of them worked and practiced their English. Clearly, despite the debates, they were really talented students.

With teaching being easier, I also had a bit more time to enjoy other activities. I picked a new road to run on Monday and Tuesday, winding along one of the Mekong’s main channels and then winding past the region’s one hospital, past a few factories, across several bridges and through two more quaint villages with children playing soccer, families farming their fields (this road has the only rice and crop fields I’ve seen in the area), and groups of men and women gathered for an afternoon meal. Solo running seems to be the best time for revelations, and I had two while jogging along the river road.

First, I had been wondering how much more I would learn being here for weeks two and three; after one intense week and a homestay in the village, I thought that we had asked as many questions, heard as many stories, and met enough people that there couldn’t be much in they tiny town we did not know about. Looking back, this idea seems silly, and I think I learned an important lesson. It’s not necessarily the concrete lessons to learn that count—it’s more the intangible feel of a place that doesn’t reveal itself until you’ve been their long enough to know a routine. That’s the very beginning of understanding the local way of life, which is a far cry from knowing the local way of life. Further, only then can you appreciate the little things that aren’t routine. The live music at a coffee shop or the assembly at the war cemetery along the highway—so many things are not remarkable at first site but have their own stories. As I ran by some of these stories—volleyball games, a new road being paved, new blooming flower pots—I felt like I could begin to hear the local rhythm.

The second “revelation” was an idea that the incoming freshman Robertson mentioned to me in Hanoi. He pointed out that when you’re moving along the streets here, it always feels like you are going really far. In reality, its not that you are moving so much—it’s that there is so much to see while you are moving that it feels like you are traversing countless kilometers. Unfortunately, such a feeling doesn’t help when you are trying to distance train, but it’s really true. There is so much to see everywhere! Like the local rhythm, even out here in the country, every inch of land seems to be used for some purpose. Vietnam has one of the world’s highest population densities. While the statistics are absolutely abhorrent in the cities (in Hanoi’s old quarter, each person has just over a square meter of space on average), even in Vietnam’s long thin countryside, people, animals, and plants spread to fill all available area.

An interesting night entertainment for my roommate has been people watching. It seems that as the only real hotel in town, our lodging serves as the local brothel. There are quite a few heavily made-up women that are escorted in by men that don’t seem particularly attached for a one-night stay. The fact that our room was equipped with condoms would add credence to this theory. I haven’t seen them, but apparently there have even been a few Americans taking part. Hilary heard that a couple were in town to get married, with wives ordered through mail or Internet—a practice that is still disturbingly common.

It’s hard to have the sort of casual interactions with the locals that I would really enjoy to learn more about general lifestyles and habits because of the language barrier, but luckily my roommate has had some extensive conversations and he can report back.
One of the issues he mentioned was the mail-order brides. Que said that in his hometown, the local police force is one of the country’s best, and they try very hard to prevent the practice, especially stopping Korean and Japanese brokers from coming in, as many of the women who are taken report back later of abuse and mistreatment. Here, though, he said the local police force was known for being highly inefficient, mostly because so many just accept bribes. When your police force is corrupt, it’s hard to know who can be responsible for stopping corruption!

That being said, the general infrastructure here is really good—Que said far better than in his province. The organization is clear and strong, with the local government well planned and structured. There was, though, a growing wealth gap between the rich and the poor. Many of the richest people we have met or heard about grow rich because of outside remittances. Families with Viet Kieu (oversees Vietnamese relatives) seem to be by far the wealthiest. For example, our hotel was financed by an American relative of the family. There is no way that anyone but a very few could afford to build such a facility without outside assistance and personal loans from banks are still very rare. The remittances perpetuate the stereotype that all Westerners are really rich—an annoying label to be forced to bear, though certainly true in comparison.

For overseas Vietnamese, though, it creates a real pressure to succeed. When returning, their new wealth has to be displayed. Stories abound of returning Vietnamese going through elaborate routines to deceive their families and friends of their wealth and prominence in foreign lands, when the reality is that usually they are struggling mightily. From rented jewelry to doctored pictures with American politicians, I have read about a whole spectrum of ruses used. Remittances do make a huge difference, though, and it will be interesting to see what the response is to the wealth disparities. In an area where in the past the poverty and lack of resources was relatively uniform, I wonder if there will be a growth in social hierarchies or more differentiated lifestyles. Just as it would be interesting to see what infrastructural development happens in a decade, it would be really fascinating to look at the accompanying social stratification effects and their larger impact in community organization, corruption, and government structure.

To continue in my rambling and disorganized week’s reflections on a completely unrelated note, the food is beginning to get a bit tiresome. I could do without seeing another bowl of white rice for some time, but somehow I don’t think that’ll be the case. We’ve eaten more in the market stalls. Gia or Hilary will order for our group in advance, and regardless of their regular menu, the places will go buy the ingredients and cook what we desire. Still, though, some non-Vietnamese food would be lovely. To get over a bit of midweek doldrums, Wednesday night featured a delicious pseudo-Western dinner. Hilary taught our guesthouse owner how to make macaroni and cheese, and even if it wasn’t real cheese (the substitute is a French processed blend called “Laughing Cow”), it was wonderful. The whole meal didn’t have a single grain of rice and there was even a coffee sorbet desert.

After dinner, Que, Phuong and I biked back to the village for a local music performance. Ma Chin’s hamlet was sharing a traditional music exchange with the neighboring hamlet and we were invited. We met the other Green Summer groups working in the hamlet and sat together in the hamlet’s small meeting hall. It was a quaint little performance hall—really just a long table with a keyboard and a far-too-large sound system with a far-too-sophisticated microphone system at the end. The hamlet meeting halls are the social and political heart of each hamlet, with a diagram on the walls of how the political structure works in the hamlet and information about the commune. The People’s Committee local dignitaries were present, and villagers from the elderly to tiny children were present, spilling from the hall, milling at tables outside to chat, or sitting across the way in a coffee shop where they could hear the entertainment with the benefit of a little distance from the frightful amplifier.

There were little cookies and tea and baked watermelon seeds that looked just like the way we prepare sunflower seeds but were far less tasty. Everything in the country that remotely resembles a public gathering for some reason has to be excessively formal. I mentioned this with the opening ceremonies two weeks ago, and I’m no closer to understanding the reason, but there were a spate of speeches welcoming everyone and acknowledging each participant. As the lone American student, I received a special acknowledgement!

The elders seemed excited to hear from the college students, so the Green Summer performers all had a chance to strut their stuff. Then, however, it was time for the traditional music. We left shortly after the old people pulled out the traditional instruments and began some kind of yodeling. It’s the traditional music of Southern Vietnam; the country is currently trying to get it added to the UNESCO protected heritage list with the Highlands gong music. Que and Phuong were proud of the traditional music but said that it was “kind of boring.” It was really interesting, but not exactly melodic; more like chants with some twangy string instruments. The ancient woman with a lazy eye who stood in front of us belting away was so passionate and loved it so much that it was quite fun to watch, but it seemed like a dying art. The boys assured me, though, that there were still young apprentices being trained.

When we left to leave, there was yet again a stir about a foreigner, me, traveling after dark. Ma Chin was very worried about my safety and she asked a man from the People’s Committee to follow us home. As we walked back to our bikes, she kept uttering cautions for me and other villagers would add their assent. I wanted to shout that “Damn it, I’ll be just fine!” I know everyone is just concerned and doing everything they can, but the overbearing nature is incredibly frustrating to be treated so delicately and have everyone question your capability to do something, whether it’s biking after dark or digging mud. I keep thinking about the violent crime in US cities and the far more imminent danger I have experienced than Vietnamese my youth my age living in these villages. But, tourists would only get hurt here if they got in an accident, so that is saying something for the stability the citizens and government have put into place.

Ironically, though we left the music exchange early, there was no desire to end music performance for the evening. The karaoke rooms at the hotel were empty and many of the roommates had already begun to perform, so I joined in to here them perform Vietnamese and American pop (in widely varying quality). I remembered the karaoke machine in the small minority village we stayed in the Central Highlands and its sharp juxtaposition to the gong show. Maybe apprentices are being trained somewhere to keep the traditional music alive, but the scene in the karaoke room is far more representative of Vietnamese music today.

July 27 is the Vietnamese equivalent of Memorial Day. Though its not a government holiday, it is a very important day of celebration and ritual. Ben Tre Province has a strong revolutionary tradition, so the ceremonies are particularly important here. The province is known as “The Province of Heroes,” and widely celebrated as the home of the Dong Khui movement. The movement was the precursor to the Viet Cong—fighters interested in the liberation of Vietnam from French rule. The group was fiercely nationalistic and is extremely proud of the fact that there movement was strongly existing prior to any capacity in Hanoi to issue such directives. Because there were so many revolutionaries here, it became a prime target for bombings, especially by the Americans. This is the special day for veterans and widows.

Earlier in the week to celebrate, Jim won the coin toss in our group to be our representative to visit a Hero Mother. The Hero Mothers are a group of women who lost multiple family members in the revolutionary struggle and who were fairly recently awarded recognition and are now commemorated and compensated slightly by the government. The woman told the story of her husband and oldest son being killed within just days of each other—she didn’t remember if it was the war with the French or American. Maybe she didn’t remember to be polite, but it really is possible for all the years of bloody conflict to run together, and the fact that someone could forget is a key indicator of just how many years the Vietnamese have been at war for independence, fighting the French, Americans, Chinese, and Cambodians. Her house had been bombed many times; this province was heavily attacked by air and land for years to root out the loyal revolutionaries. Hiding in homemade bomb shelters became routine; rebuilding houses was a regular occurrence.

So, Vietnam has certainly earned the right to celebrate its Memorial Day. The first thing we noticed was that the morning speaker announcements did not stop. They continued unabated through the morning, offering Communist songs, memorials, and future goals. Histories were recounted and names of those killed were read. The big event was a special lunch held at the People’s Committee, and we were invited as guests. We shared the community lunch, and while we ate the older community members began to pass the rice wine.

Rice wine is a ubiquitous part of community functions. It’s potent and always consumed straight. It’s easy enough to chug, but very hard to sip and taste. Here, you were supposed to sip and taste. I, however, did not realize this initially, and I was the first person at the table who received the shot glass. I slammed it down, smiled, and handed it back, only to realize all the Vietnamese were laughing at me. Oops! However, being a good drinker makes you more of a man here, so at least it wasn’t an offensive faux pa, and now I know good form for every possible community function.

By the time we had arrived at the lunch, most of the older men were already quite plastered. They took great interest in grabbing us, touching us all over, and bringing their heads to our hands or faces. These men were easily of fighting age from the war; perhaps they fought against the Americans and were participating in their own personal drunken reconciliation. (To this comment, Rachael rolled her eyes and said it sounded like the bad title of a blog entry. To humor her, I didn’t give it title honors!) The old men were painfully drunk, though, and I’m sure whatever war memories they had were painful. As lunch concluded and we hung out in a local coffee shop waiting for class time, we noticed the younger men—especially the political leaders—were also plastered. The holiday ended up turning into a legitimate excuse to get trashed in the middle of the work day, but considering the men always seem to be lounging in a coffee shop somewhere, I’m not sure that it was particularly detrimental to their work schedule.

In the vein of varied lesson plans, on Friday it was time for “experimental learning.” We took our class to the coffee shop across the street from school, where Que and I played waiters to our crowd of youngsters. A free drink is pretty good motivation to encourage English speaking outside the classroom, and after order-taking, we had an open question-answer session. When the kids finished asking me when I was going to get married, if I had a girlfriend, and other highly pertinent questions for 8th and 9th grade students, I began to ask them about their future hopes. I was amazed that almost all of my students intended to stay in Dinh Thuy. When I asked who had been to Saigon, at least half of the students raised their hands, so I knew they had some exposure to the “outside world.” A few expressed weak inclinations of attending university at some point, but no one seemed to have any burning ambitions or radical lifestyle changes intended. Life in Dinh Thuy is peaceful and pleasant, but I was surprised that the younger generation showed so little inclination of urban pull. In fact, talking to our roommates, only a couple didn’t want to return to their hometowns. My roommate was one of those, though he hoped to move to a bigger city that was closer to home than Saigon. I guess I sort of assumed that all of our roommates studying international business and imports and exports would want to live in the big city, but that wasn’t really the case. This was yet again an example of super strong family ties.

When we visited the Central Highlands I started to question what development really meant for people living in rural areas. I’ve started reading a book called Reasons for Success: Learning From Instructive Experiences in Rural Development. It talks about how for so long development authorities worked under the assumption that the key to development was improving urban areas, using a trickle-down theory to explain how rural citizens would be helped. The trickle-down concept seemed to boil down to eventually people would move to cities as technology improved and created more jobs, assuming that most people wouldn’t want to stay in rural underdeveloped countryside. I think it’s true that people don’t want to live in areas lacking basic infrastructure, but it certainly is not true that people don’t want to live in rural areas. Just as people choose to live in remote, rural areas of the US, most Vietnamese want to stay close to their roots, traditional family lifestyle, and long cultural traditions. The implication seems to be that development efforts need to shift focus or at least add a focus to include the countryside. A reliable power grid, running water, sewage management—all these things would make a huge health, safety, and comfort difference in rural areas and would benefit the most people in a country where 80% of the population is rural. As the book I’m reading says, the key is empowering the locals to succeed in the development work themselves. For my students who are so talented, the best use of their knowledge might not be a university education in Saigon in international trade—what would really make a difference is learning how to apply development principles in their own home towns to make the changes they want to see. How to enable that, though, will have to be the subject of future reflections.