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Words I can’t comprehend Spoken by men yielding tools I don’t know how to use Building things I can only fathom Imagined by others Soon to be touchable, visible, functional One thing I do understand Is the soundtrack of Da Nang Of my neighborhood Is comprised of the mating calls of commerce In competition as in concert Hopes of power financed by whom? Fear Striving Drawn to status’ light Huddling around Closing in Backs to the rest of the world, shadows lying over What exists And has been But can be no more 2. Who’s looking to whom? How would we live without examples of those who had gone before? Other generations Neighbors Nations Is there a need for that building? Or has the need been contrived—or is it yet to be? No lack of hotels, resorts Most windows remain dark most nights Nobody there to witness the progress of another Being built in the neighboring lot
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I feel a strong need to swim in the ocean frequently.
As a Michigander used to snow on the ground for around 5 months of the year, it is ingrained in me to take advantage of nice weather, particularly when it's coupled with such proximity to a body of water. I don't do it daily, but I've begun to develop something of a habit of throwing on my suit and walking to the water for a quick dip in the ocean. I only go in up to my chest or so, because I'm not the strongest swimmer, I don't know these waters well, and I wear contacts that seem to lose their clingy quality quite easily when I get water in my eyes. The water isn't deep here, and there are big enough waves close to shore that I'm not just standing in the water...I'm doing a combination of standing and jumping into waves that makes me look like a child. Some days I live vicariously through the dark heads of the swimmers that I can see from my bedroom window, between buildings, going for their pre-sunset swims. The Vietnamese avoid the sun at all costs and prefer to swim at sunrise and sunset. A few weeks back, I joined in the pre-sunset swim festivities further north along the beach, near resorts that attract Vietnamese tourists. The beach was full, with lots of families, and upbeat, unintelligible music played over the loud speakers. I headed for the edge of the buoyed swimming area--I was already something of a spectacle as one of the few white people on the beach and didn't care to draw more attention to myself. But I couldn't help it. I found myself smiling with my arms widespread while I hopped waves. Feeling eyes on me and realizing how foolish I must look, I peeked over my shoulder sheepishly. A pre-teen Asian girl was swimming by herself, as well, wearing goggles and giggling with joy. She smiled and waved at me as if to say, "I see you're enjoying this, too--isn't it the best?" Her kindred spirit helped free my inhibitions. I hopped a few more waves, then walked back to the beach, to my coverup, across the street and back into the city, proud of my diligence. What an agreeable duty it is, to live three blocks from the ocean. I left too late for my morning run again. The 7am hour on the beach boardwalk in Da Nang feels like noon in July back home. In Michigan, I often convince myself to tack on another half mile or more during the course of my run.
My powers of persuasion and self-trickery are no match for this new type of heat. However, by the time I hit the pavement today, the beach had mostly cleared of the swarms of early morning exercisers—groups of older men playing hacky sack; crowds of women carrying out choreographed dances to thumping bass music; individuals doing self-guided tai chi facing the water, feet planted in the sand or on the grass beneath palm trees; elderly couples playing badminton silently, either replacing their verbal banter with a physical version, or merely passing the time—that I encounter when I run during the much more pleasant 6am hour. I practically had the place to myself. Well, with the exception of the 8 sets of model brides and grooms and their accompanying photographers each doing separate photo shoots. But they were out of my way. And there were a couple other foolish white women runners like me. While many of the Vietnamese who were still present watched me from the shade with rightful confusion (surely thinking something like “it’s too hot to run—why didn’t she wake up earlier?”), a few cheered me on. I’m always tempted to cheer on runners that I pass while driving in Michigan but don’t for fear they would think I was making fun of them. So I appreciated the dramatic applause and approving smiles and may have even picked up my pace. Slightly. The Da Nang morning running experience is further dramatized by publicly broadcast music. There are somewhat evenly spaced speakers that play the same broadcast for just about the full length of the main drag. Today, I had the pleasure of running to what seemed to be a live piano concert. So I played “name that tune”—which, after all, is far more fun than “count your steps”, what I often end up doing if I don’t keep my mind occupied while running. This morning’s playlist ranged from The Beatles’ “Yesterday” to “We Three Kings” to “Colors of the Wind” from the Pocahontas movie. There may have been part of a Beethoven sonata in the mix, but who am I kidding, I can’t correctly identify sonatas. It’s far from the Songza mixes I ran to on the treadmill at my gym back home, full of Beyonce and Bruno Mars and pop-artists-I-don’t-know. Or the near silence of running on side streets in Grand Rapids. It’s so different from anything I’ve experienced. But it’s becoming part of my routine. I don’t jump anymore—or at least not as much—when a truck honks loudly on the beach road next to the boardwalk. I don’t plan to wear headphones, to block out this experience so that I can run to more exercise-appropriate beats. Because I want to keep taking it all in. I know each day, every experience here in Vietnam might not always be so full of the unexpected—I may come to expect certain things, or even to expect the unexpected—but I want to relish it while it’s fresh. To continue to feel alive in a way that often exhausts me, it’s so intense. These experiences can’t be bottled. At least not yet. Observation: The Vietnamese know how to do nothing.
This is not equivalent with laziness. In fact, it's honest and unassuming. Vietnamese people can sit by themselves or in groups, on benches or in a squatting position, and not look at their phones. They might talk, or simply be silent. Most of the security guards that line the beach in Da Nang are paid to do this during the days, when the beaches are near empty. That and wear uniforms. This is not true for all people, of course. Vietnamese teenagers love to sit on their phones at the cafes in the city center. But really, there's something incredibly egotistical and self-important in always talking about how busy one is--a behavior that's prevalent in America. Busyness, like idleness, is almost always a choice. I often used to talk about how busy I was at work. And I was. I was doing the job of two or more people during most of my tenure at Founders. This was a choice, too. I could've let things drop, or rushed through them. I could have refused to take on new projects or additional responsibilities. I could have asked for help. Hell, I could have quit (sooner than I did). But other people were talking about being busy--sometimes rightfully so, sometimes not so much. I felt I needed to be busier to prove my self worth, and to talk about it, too. Now I see that this is a pointless vicious cycle. In some parts of the world, if you complain of being busy, the reaction is more along the lines of "Oh, that's too bad..." and "When will you be able to get through this busy time?" In other words, pity. People in Vietnam work hard, with long hours or tough physical labor, but they seem to just do it. Because it's what you do. I'm trying to get better at just being. To be OK with not being busy, or having any right whatsoever to claim busyness seeing as I'm currently unemployed. I want to hold onto this OK-ness, this lack of self-importance. It's different. It's refreshing. |
AboutI quit a job I enjoyed at Founders Brewing Co. in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and left my family, friends, and beloved dog to join my boyfriend in moving across the world, in search of adventure and new experiences. I arrived in August 2015. Archives
August 2016
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