TAGS: Index Living Mall, Expats
Mapping Cultural Constellations
November, 2012
Growing up, we didn’t have much to amuse us children. At night, probably to wear us out, my aunt would take my cousins and me on long walks where we pondered the constellations of heaven; where in our smallness, we hoped to identify another part of the galaxy. Intrinsic to my wanderlust is a curiosity based in being comfortable with not knowing my way. I was never good at finding anything beyond the Big Dipper and Orion. I looked to my cousin to locate the Seven Smiling Sisters, and would marvel when she found them. The geography of the sky is complicated, and I rely on others to help me navigate patterns I do not understand.
Viet Nam could be another galaxy, and there are so many elements generating cultural constellations that are difficult for me to see, both in the expat community and in the national culture. I need to trod when I won't be overwhelmed by too much fusion of nebulous cultural rules and the mass of people constantly on the move. At night, I escape the expat enclave to wander away from the sterility of the compound that clutters my head and, by the end of the day, begins to cleave me from my senses. My husband and I bid the guards good evening as we pass into the empty Thao Dien Road, the foreigner area, cut down a unlit road, to emerge into the Vietnamese neighborhoods, where the cast-down egg shells from one of the many food stalls crush beneath my sandals as suddenly as a passing nine year old girl rides her bicycle with her laughing, younger brother clutching her back. In the cool damp of evening, I've found the Viet Nam I’ve come to admire.
Yet in the morning, the dreamland of night dissipates, so I make my rounds early, and I stay in my neighborhood, where I won’t be hampered by dusty, cracked pavement or the nonchalance of the swirling cyclos that pull the day into fullness. I stay where the jasmine drifts and bougainvillea drapes from the terraces of quiet villas, and the shade of the Phuong (Delonix regia) and Bo bap (Pelamneus silenus) trees shelters my freckled shoulders from the sun, while the humidity coats the small of my back.
Viet Nam could be another galaxy, and there are so many elements generating cultural constellations that are difficult for me to see, both in the expat community and in the national culture. I need to trod when I won't be overwhelmed by too much fusion of nebulous cultural rules and the mass of people constantly on the move. At night, I escape the expat enclave to wander away from the sterility of the compound that clutters my head and, by the end of the day, begins to cleave me from my senses. My husband and I bid the guards good evening as we pass into the empty Thao Dien Road, the foreigner area, cut down a unlit road, to emerge into the Vietnamese neighborhoods, where the cast-down egg shells from one of the many food stalls crush beneath my sandals as suddenly as a passing nine year old girl rides her bicycle with her laughing, younger brother clutching her back. In the cool damp of evening, I've found the Viet Nam I’ve come to admire.
Yet in the morning, the dreamland of night dissipates, so I make my rounds early, and I stay in my neighborhood, where I won’t be hampered by dusty, cracked pavement or the nonchalance of the swirling cyclos that pull the day into fullness. I stay where the jasmine drifts and bougainvillea drapes from the terraces of quiet villas, and the shade of the Phuong (Delonix regia) and Bo bap (Pelamneus silenus) trees shelters my freckled shoulders from the sun, while the humidity coats the small of my back.
Every day, I walk when the street-sweepers idle their brooms in order to rest after having arrived at 5:30 am. They rake the leaves of the Long nao (Cinnamomum camphora) into dustpans until dusk. A mid-morning break is deserved. Sometimes they are in small groups; sometimes is it a single person hunched over a plastic teapot. The younger workers look out from their baseball caps or their non la and smile as I pass by.
Most expats that I meet on my walks seem either unfriendly, cross, or hung-over, which seems to be the progression of facial expressions, with a post-drunken stupor the superlative degree. I cannot understand why they are so aloof, and often I feel the distance in chance encounters widening each time our orbits cross. A paunchy couple, seemingly walking to lose weight, not for pleasure, regularly crosses paths with me. I haven't seen the wife's eyes yet, as she looks at the pavement, and her only short, graying hair greets me.
On Sunday, I saw them for the fourth or fifth time. Within a few feet, the husband made eye contact with a hangdog expression as if to apologize for his wife’s coldness. Perhaps we all are caught in personal reveries, I thought after I passed the downcast couple. Then my phone rang.
"Hello?"
A Vietnamese man responded on the other end. I could hear traffic horns in the background, and street sounds punctuated his words.
"Hello? I don't speak Vietnamese. Do you speak English?"
Again he tried to convey his message in Vietnamese.
"Do you speak English?"
"...Index Living Mall..." is all I caught.
"Ah, yes. My chair?"
"...Index Living Mall..." he seemed to chuckle and then he hung up.
Believing my chair was soon to arrive at a sleeping house, I rounded the corner to see two boxes loaded on a motorcycle, clearly being delivered. I tried to read the emblem on the delivery man's shirt and stopped him. Remarkably, not understanding English, he turned around and began to follow me to my house after I showed him the address on my phone.
Standing in the middle of the road, a man stopped him to ask where he is going as we passed by the main guard gate.
"I was on my walk, and am having a chair delivered. We are going to my villa," I explained to him. I noticed he was dressed like a business man and he looked at me sidelong as he faced the delivery boxes loaded on the back of the scooter.
"Your house? You ordered a chair?"
"Yes. I was just going for my walk." The delivery man slowly began to pull ahead, and I began to follow him once again on foot.
After turning onto my street, the man who spoke English well, pulled beside me on his motorcycle.
"So you are going for a walk?"
"Yes, I walk around the neighborhood."
"I've seen they have equipment to exercise inside."
"Yes, but I like it outside."
"I've never seen that before," he commented. "They have treadmills in the sports center."
"Yes, but they have no breeze rustling off the river." I took a few more steps beneath the flowering Kieu hung (Calliandra haematocehala hassk). "Who are you?" I asked, grinning.
"I am a guard, but am not working right now." He watched the delivery man stop outside my black gate. "You ordered a chair?"
"Yes."
"But that one is going to Cherry 2."
"Really? But the delivery man just called me. I don't know what he said, but I thought that was my chair."
"Things aren't as simple as that."
"All right, let's ask him." We've arrived, and I peered into the box. I saw the same mesh fabric of the office chair I purchased the day before. "It looks just like the chair I ordered."
“This is a different chair. You see, it is going to Cherry 2,” he said, showing me the delivery receipt and pointing to the Vietnamese word for cherry.
“Ah, but they just called me.” I reached for my phone and pointed to the number in the call record. I handed him the phone, and he began a conversation. I smiled at the delivery guy who is listening to the conversation, and I could tell he understood perfectly well how I wrongly redirected him.
“I am sorry,” I looked at him as he turned his scooter around and returned a smile that was not reflected in his eyes.
“The delivery company that is bringing your chair was lost on the other side of the highway,” explained the off-duty guard as he hands me the phone. “You have a friend on Cherry and ordered the same chair?”
“No, I don’t know anyone on Cherry,” I laughed, realizing my humor could be misinterpreted in this situation. A smile doesn’t always signal the mirth I was feeling in the moment. A smile can signal a sense of shame or reproof. “So, you are a guard here?” I asked again.
“I worked here for thirteen years.”
“What is your name?”
“My Vietnamese name is Mr. Hao, but in English I am called Michael.”
“You know, Michael is an angel.” We were now face to face, and with his strong eye he looked me in the eye before glancing away. His right eye was half-closed and askew, which softened his gaze. “Do you know what an angel is?” I asked, unsure if he knew the word.
“Yes, yes,” he said, which could mean he heard the question but didn’t understand it.
“Michael is easy for me to remember,” I stated.
“What is your name?”
“My name is Sally.”
“Your English name is Sally, but what is your Vietnamese name?”
“What is the Vietnamese word for thief?” I tried to read his expression. He looked down. “You know robber? Thief?”
“The Vietnamese word is ke cuop. No, ke trom.”
“Well, it was very nice to meet you, Michael. You saved me from stealing someone else’s chair. Thank you,” I said as I laughed at myself.
He looked directly at me for a moment before saying, “I think your Vietnamese name is Hoa. Flower.” He then got on his motorbike and left. His visitation and instruction were over.
On Sunday, I saw them for the fourth or fifth time. Within a few feet, the husband made eye contact with a hangdog expression as if to apologize for his wife’s coldness. Perhaps we all are caught in personal reveries, I thought after I passed the downcast couple. Then my phone rang.
"Hello?"
A Vietnamese man responded on the other end. I could hear traffic horns in the background, and street sounds punctuated his words.
"Hello? I don't speak Vietnamese. Do you speak English?"
Again he tried to convey his message in Vietnamese.
"Do you speak English?"
"...Index Living Mall..." is all I caught.
"Ah, yes. My chair?"
"...Index Living Mall..." he seemed to chuckle and then he hung up.
Believing my chair was soon to arrive at a sleeping house, I rounded the corner to see two boxes loaded on a motorcycle, clearly being delivered. I tried to read the emblem on the delivery man's shirt and stopped him. Remarkably, not understanding English, he turned around and began to follow me to my house after I showed him the address on my phone.
Standing in the middle of the road, a man stopped him to ask where he is going as we passed by the main guard gate.
"I was on my walk, and am having a chair delivered. We are going to my villa," I explained to him. I noticed he was dressed like a business man and he looked at me sidelong as he faced the delivery boxes loaded on the back of the scooter.
"Your house? You ordered a chair?"
"Yes. I was just going for my walk." The delivery man slowly began to pull ahead, and I began to follow him once again on foot.
After turning onto my street, the man who spoke English well, pulled beside me on his motorcycle.
"So you are going for a walk?"
"Yes, I walk around the neighborhood."
"I've seen they have equipment to exercise inside."
"Yes, but I like it outside."
"I've never seen that before," he commented. "They have treadmills in the sports center."
"Yes, but they have no breeze rustling off the river." I took a few more steps beneath the flowering Kieu hung (Calliandra haematocehala hassk). "Who are you?" I asked, grinning.
"I am a guard, but am not working right now." He watched the delivery man stop outside my black gate. "You ordered a chair?"
"Yes."
"But that one is going to Cherry 2."
"Really? But the delivery man just called me. I don't know what he said, but I thought that was my chair."
"Things aren't as simple as that."
"All right, let's ask him." We've arrived, and I peered into the box. I saw the same mesh fabric of the office chair I purchased the day before. "It looks just like the chair I ordered."
“This is a different chair. You see, it is going to Cherry 2,” he said, showing me the delivery receipt and pointing to the Vietnamese word for cherry.
“Ah, but they just called me.” I reached for my phone and pointed to the number in the call record. I handed him the phone, and he began a conversation. I smiled at the delivery guy who is listening to the conversation, and I could tell he understood perfectly well how I wrongly redirected him.
“I am sorry,” I looked at him as he turned his scooter around and returned a smile that was not reflected in his eyes.
“The delivery company that is bringing your chair was lost on the other side of the highway,” explained the off-duty guard as he hands me the phone. “You have a friend on Cherry and ordered the same chair?”
“No, I don’t know anyone on Cherry,” I laughed, realizing my humor could be misinterpreted in this situation. A smile doesn’t always signal the mirth I was feeling in the moment. A smile can signal a sense of shame or reproof. “So, you are a guard here?” I asked again.
“I worked here for thirteen years.”
“What is your name?”
“My Vietnamese name is Mr. Hao, but in English I am called Michael.”
“You know, Michael is an angel.” We were now face to face, and with his strong eye he looked me in the eye before glancing away. His right eye was half-closed and askew, which softened his gaze. “Do you know what an angel is?” I asked, unsure if he knew the word.
“Yes, yes,” he said, which could mean he heard the question but didn’t understand it.
“Michael is easy for me to remember,” I stated.
“What is your name?”
“My name is Sally.”
“Your English name is Sally, but what is your Vietnamese name?”
“What is the Vietnamese word for thief?” I tried to read his expression. He looked down. “You know robber? Thief?”
“The Vietnamese word is ke cuop. No, ke trom.”
“Well, it was very nice to meet you, Michael. You saved me from stealing someone else’s chair. Thank you,” I said as I laughed at myself.
He looked directly at me for a moment before saying, “I think your Vietnamese name is Hoa. Flower.” He then got on his motorbike and left. His visitation and instruction were over.