The Long Hop
I have traveled far from home before. I have visited places where I did not speak the language or could not read the alphabet. I have never felt so different as I do in Vietnam.
I'm surprised and exhausted by the extent of my culture shock here. Everything feels different. Shops are mostly run in the front room of people's homes. Need a sandwich? Look no further than the grandmother with a cart of ingredients and toaster oven in her living room. Nevermind the toddler doing her morning exercises in front of the TV, who scurries up the steep ladder-staircase to their sleeping area. Have a question? Asking a shopkeeper who doesn't have the English or the particular desire to deal with you results in a resounding and unsatisfying "No." It's hard to go into every interaction not knowing what we're getting or how much it will cost. It's even harder to sit at the famously low, plastic chairs and tables without knocking your knees into the table several times per meal.
For the most part, Vietnamese people have been incredibly friendly. Children see us, point, smile and shout "Hello!" A motorbike driver, whose services we declined, pointed us back to the main road - unprompted - when we started down a dead-end path deep within his maze-like neighborhood. We were heartily welcomed at a pagoda during their preparations for a celebration. A older gentleman who spoke no English and exactly 1 word of French drew an explanation of the dates and times we should return and vigorously pantomimed the drumming and ceremonies that would take place. On the other hand, shopkeepers have also laughed in our faces when we try to pronounce something or ask for it by name. Oh well. What can you do but shrug and laugh with them?
"Oh yes! It's hilarious that I'm making an effort here. I'll be sure never to do that again."
Some of the differences are fascinating. The city is by far the noisiest I've ever been to. The buzzing of motobikes, honking of horns, and rooster's crowing is constant. Anything is a two-way street if the driver wants it to be. And the other drivers are ok with it, as long as he honks the whole way down the road. Crossing the street is a heart-stopping experience, always seemingly a deathwish. There hundreds of people who clean up public spaces (in lieu of trashcans), tend to vast gardens along the roads, and handle other menial tasks - sweeping the sidewalks, washing plates in the road.
There are even more who run tiny businesses in the street. With plastic tables are chairs, women offer cups of hot tea from large thermoses and all sorts of Vietnamese food. They set up shop in any available sidewalk space -- in front of homes, on sidewalk corners, and expand in front of any storefront along the street. Women carry heavy baskets full of beans, dried goods, and sometimes pastries from place to place. Shopkeepers leave their stalls unattended, visiting and sipping tea with competitors, eating at nearby food vendors, or disappearing entirely. Every so often we see people smoking tobacco out of what, frankly, I can only describe as a bamboo bong.
The culture shock isn't necessarily a bad thing.
If anything, it's part of the reason we chose to travel so far away, to a place we knew would be so different. I'm choosing to embrace it. The stares on the street catch me off guard, but in reality, I'm the one who came here to gawk, not the other way around -- and curly-haired blonde women aren't exactly par for the course around here.