Some people's children

Sometimes you see something and you wonder who raised that person. When you have this though there is an expression we use in English: "Some people's children."

Well I've never been one for sentimentality, but yes I have. So here I sit in front of my open window, rain misting me from the monsoon which comes as it pleases, as it pleases now. The ceiling fan whips lethargically around as breezes that can't decide where they want to go try to pull maps and silk wall hangings off the plaster that lines the walls of the flat. The stalwart Ho Chi Minh clings steadfastly to his post with no sign of relent, as always. It's dark and the occasional rumble gently rattles the shutters, and I'm thinking about the chapter of Viet Nam and how it's coming to a close, though I've only read about a hundred pages of the book, and the book is like about 6 bibles, 2 Qu'rans and a Torah long. Every day I realise how much more there is to learn about this place. Talk about keeping you on your toes. Yesterday I saw something which had very little to do with Viet Nam, and a lot to do with the west, and it bothered me. I guess that statement is false, it has a lot to do with Viet Nam now that it happened. There is a guy who is my neighbour. Not in the sense that we know each other, but when I stand on my balcony and he stands on his, we're at roughly the same altitude, though our buildings aren't joined. I don't really talk to other foreigners here unless unless they address me, so I don't know his deal, but I have a lot of ideas. Here it's common to see men that look about 80-90. They have no shirts on and you can see every rib, even in the middle of their chest, and the skin hangs from their limbs, once tightly stretched over the muscles of their youth. Tatoos of serial numbers or AK-47's are not uncommon on the leathery skin of these hardened souls that have seen more wars in one lifetime than 3 generations of North Americans. One evening as I sat out eating my dinner, I saw my neighbour's figure in the dusk as he sauntered out to his balcony, and I thought he was one such man. Days later I saw him come out again in the daylight and I saw his face, and it was the face of a blue-eyed westerner. This build on a westerner is not something you see around here or anywhere outside a hospital really. His face said that his body was 80 but his mind was probably in it's 30's. I could only think he must be dying. The conclusion might sound strange, but Viet Nam is not expensive to live in, and if he was starving he certainly wouldn't be paying 300 a month for rent. Then I thought he must be sick, but then why is he not in the hospital, why is he walking around? That rules out acute illness. You lose that much weight quickly and you're already dead. That leaves chronic illness, and I can't think of anything reversible that does that to you, so my conclusion was dying. His eyes have the shiny look of someone who is old beyond his years. Some mornings in traffic I see him crossing the street as I tear past on the way to school. He moves with surprising spryness, I can't figure him out. You just can't look like that and be healthy. Yesterday I sat at a joint that serves one of my favourite dishes, and the squat stool I was on had me right out on the sidewalk, and through the forest of legs I saw him coming my way. I was wearing sunglasses so I studied him discreetly, wondering and wondering. As a woman on a motorbike (in a sea of motorbikes) approached and passed him, he, without changing pace or expression, swung his closed fist behind him in a backhand and struck her right in the back. She was too busy steadying the bike from the blow to turn her head, but after she did that she looked behind her, clearly hurt and puzzled, trying to figure out who did that and why. He was walking right toward me and I timidly looked down into my bowl like I hadn't seen anything, because his jaw was set in such angry determination that I thought for sure if I stared him down the next one was coming my way, and thoughts of the cops not giving a shit who started it after I damaged his frail bones were racing through my head. I didn't want to get suckerpunched. The woman picked up a young girl, turned her bike around and rode back toward me, but the man had ducked into the alley behind me where we both live. I know not everything in life makes sense, or has a moral or reason, but I find it comforting to allocate these things, however imaginary, to most things that happen around me, but this. . . what was I supposed to do? I wanted to tell the woman I know where he lives, but she was gone in the endless stream by the time I'd decided that might be a good idea. Embarassed and the only witness to this, I finished my meal, paid, and walked home confused and feeling like a sheep. Some things are just sad. Some things are based on such a lack of understanding and empathy that they are too far gone to address. A moment like that changes two people forever. As the person that hit a stranger for no apparent reason, you become the kind of person that does that. As the person that gets hit you cannot help but equate his race with that kind of behaviour. That is an awful thing, because I don't look the same to that woman as I would have five minutes before, but when I see her I see the warm welcome that every Viet I've ever met has given me. How awful that is.

I'm going to try to see Viet Nam a little more before I leave. I am free of english classes next week. But not free of these little whippersnappers, who I teach on weekends. They're really rowdy until you give them something on paper to do, and then they turn into these guys. So, in a different light, these too are some people's children.

Today I got a good lesson on how hard westerners really get ripped around here. For most things I know the going rate and can usually get a good price, but for things you never see anyone else buy, like laptops or guitars, look out. I won't bore you with the details but I got a huge run around today trying to sell both of those items, and then ended with the best price being less than half of what I paid for the laptop a month ago and about a third the price of the guitar. Still worth it but OUCH! The Viets are so quick to tell you how much you overpaid by and how little they would have sold that item to you for if ONLY you'd come to see them, but when they're the ones selling, holy crap. Made me think of a counter scam for if I ever live in a city like this again: Grab a friend's item, say you want a guitar, borrow a friend's, go into a store and pretend you want to sell it, and when they say "Oh no no, too expensive, I sell same same guita fo only two hunned thousan." Then you say really? And offer to buy it, then you have that store on lockdown, cause once you break that barrier they never rip you off again. In a matter of weeks/days you could have a cheap source for batteries, computers, DVDs, musical shit, T shirts, you name it. If anyone ever needs this advice I hope you can use it. So this week I'm going to try to hit the north of Viet Nam, but that will be pretty tight since it's an overnight train ride away considering things need to work like clockwork when I'm actually in Ha Noi to make sure I get off smooth with not too much funny money in my pocket, but enough money. The bank, the pawn shop (read money exchange), the used laptop shop, my work, etc. Yikes, the tension is building. Then on Sunday, it's operation Red Hero. That's what Ulaanbaatar means, and that is the capital of Mongolia. It will be sad to take all the things off these walls and pack my bags again, but that is life on the road, and this is the home strech isn't it. . .

So this might be the last Viet Nam entry. Thanks Viet Nam, it's been real.

cảm ơn, và tạm biệt. . .