Videoke

The Videoke Station

Two weeks before I left for the Philippines, I was at Le Drugstore, a lesbian bar in Montreal. It was Karaoke Night, an otherwise quiet Tuesday. About 5 people in our  group, the slightly drunk blond host of the night turned to the Asian guy at our table (a Belgian, nonetheless) and said in French You guys, Asians, in your country karaoke is a front for prostitution! Seemingly unaffected by this ignorant comment, our friend ignored her and she continued to sing one of the songs she picked. Sadly, she will probably never be the diva she always wanted to be. However, in the foggy haze of this lesbian bar, everyone in different stages of drunkenness, she can feel like the stage is hers.

In only my first few days of life in the Philippines, I experienced the videoke. Videoke is the Filipino version of karaoke. Even before starting my job here, I was attending a birthday party where the family had rented a videoke terminal. In the middle of rice paddies, outside the tin-roofed concrete house stood the golden podium: a television screen affixed to a tall base on wheels complete with large red buttons and speakers from which our sung ballads will project against the neighbour’s tin-roofs and rice fields.

This is where I first sung Ironic, by Alanis. Little did I know that this was the easiest song anyone can sing, and would soon become my signature song. There has been many (and I mean about several times a week at the peak) times where I sing at videoke, and not one time goes by where I do not sing Ironic. I am told, others have begun to sing it while I am not in attendance. And I’m told it’s sung in my honour.

The previous intern and I are singing to The Sign

Now, karaoke is popular all over East and Southeast Asia, this is a fact. However something about it here makes it more common than anywhere else. In Vietnam, I may have sung karaoke about 5 or so times in the two years I was there. So far, in the two months I have been here I have sung karaoke upwards of 20 times. Most of the bars have a terminal. All you have to do is pay 5 pesos (about 10 cents Canadian) and tell the bar person what number song you would like and it’s done. The microphone will circulate from table to table as patrons sing their favourite love ballads. Even the toughest-looking guys will shoot down glasses of rum or gin while singing Hero by Mariah Carey.

Well, I surely can’t sing Hero (though that didn’t stop me from trying) but as time goes by I am searching for my new signature song. The song needs to be identifiable, easy to sing along to, and ready for its trendy re-emergence.  Some how none of the Ace of Base songs actually work (I’ve ruined Lucky Love and Don’t Turn Around). Celine Dion is way too difficult despite the fact in allows me to insert the fact that I once lived behind her (damn, I did it again). 

As the search continues, I will no doubt make a fool of myself singing way out of my range (my range is beyond what human ears can hear, by the way). Meanwhile, if that drunk rock-bottom diva at Le Drugstore was right, where do I pick up my cheque?

On Turning 25

I am writing this on a plane between Saigon and Hanoi. This weekend marked my 25th birthday. I am now a quarter of a century old. Despite the weeks leading up to my birthday being some of the busiest of my life, I've been able to think and realise a bit about what it means to be 25.

First off, it means birthdays are really not that important anymore. More exciting and more urgent things come first. Like your job. Hence having to work this weekend. I can no longer have my mom write me a sick note .

It also means I am an adult now. I can stop pretending to be mature, composed and proffesional in everyday situations, especially at work. I've realised the majority of other people are also pretending. Although other people around my age and older seem to know what they are doing, this is a lie. They are just as lost and confused as me. I bet even my dad doesn't know what he's doin sometimes. 

I have no more excuses for not doing things in my life. I can especially no longer say I'll save it for when I'm older. For instance, playing sports. I have never been into playing sports, and it is very unlikely I'll ever start. My parents must have put me in every kind of sport as a kid:  tennis, soccer, swimming, even figure skating. I need to except that I'll never be that into sports. Same thing for playing an instrument. I'll probably never play an instrument in my life.

People can no longer say I am too young to know what love is. I think by this time in my life I can say I have experienced what love is.... And what it isn't. I just am not sure If it's turned out to be as easy as I thought.

I am not going to grow out of anything anymore. Like my big italian nose. I don't think my face is suddenly going to grow proportionately to my nose between the age of 25 and 30. I also will always have that soft layer of flesh under my skin. Yes, the one that has elicited comments such as " you look so skinny but your skin is very fatty" ( got to love the honesty of the Vietnamese people). I need to accept that my looks are only going to go down from here.

However I am not accepting that it's downhill from here. Just because i havent done something ive wanted to do by now, doesnt mean i still cant try. Its just trying is a lot more difficult. 

I have been the happiest I have ever been lately. I am experiencing things about the world, and in turn about myself, that are invaluable. Life is becoming less about freedom and ignoring the consequences, but developping friendships that will outlast any particular stage in my life. It's become about learning how to live to make sure I am still happy when I'm 30, because my needs and values will have changed by then...

Let's just not talk about my 30s for another 5 years, ok?

Love Café

So what happens when you live in a society where opposite-sex intimacy is not acceptable in public? And what about if, in the same society, people live with their extended family?

You get Love Cafés!

Little cafés where you can sit in a booth that's hidden from view. Near work there was this cute love café down the hill from the main street. Little bamboo huts with bamboo blinds could be had with coffee or a smoothie. All of them come complete with a table and ONE long bench.

I tried once to get one. My Vietnamese teacher and I were trying to find a private place from the prying ears of Vietnamese youth (who had taken a liking to hearing me speak Vietnamese, going so far as sitting in the next table and silently observing me). The owner of the love café would have nothing of it, and refused to allow us in a booth. No same-sex couples (it's not like that... I pay him for lessons).

It doesn't matter because the Love Café has been destroyed by a storm. One day, while I was heading for a lesson, the main section where non-lovers would sit had complety collapsed. Nothing but a crushed straw roof.

Twitter Twit Twittering.... Tweet!

So I've finally given into Twitter. Now anyone can track me down by either checking out the Twitter Gadget on the right side of this blog, or following me on Twitter.com (please add me!).

Now I can let the world know when I am stuck in a squatter toilet with no toilet paper:

delucajon OMG, that Vietnamese sandwich I ate at lunch wanted to get out fast, squatter- and no tp hehe LMAO-literally. sent from mobile 22 minutes ago

In reality, it's because of my new job. As communications officer, I was given the responsibility of "figuring out" social media (probably because I am the youngest at work). How can I resist? I can spend hours reading about how Twitter and Facebook can help raise awareness. And my boss can't tell when I'm on the organisation's Facebook account or my own!

All this reading on social media convinced me my life would be much better if only I could summarise it in a 140 character message that's beamed across the internet.

So......   follow me!

Another Vietnamese Moment: Napping

I'm sitting at a restaurant with co-workers and representatives of the local government. After one woman, a manager in the the Vietnamese army, explains how romantic her husband was in asking her to marry him (these stories are much too common), I somehow mention how tired I am. I say this in Vietnamese, which of course elicits laughter from everyone at the table. It was Saturday, about 35 degrees in the Mekong Delta, and I woken up at 5am that morning.

After lunch and the many questions regarding the reasons I was not yet married, she invited all of us to her home.

I suppose she had seen that I was, in fact, quite tired because upon entering her house she pointed to a hammock set up in the middle of her kitchen. I had about an hour to kill before the next workshop and she insisted that I sleep there until then.

So there I was, rocking slightly back and forth in my dark pin-striped slacks and button-up shirt tucked in, curled up in the fetal position in a complete strangers kitchen in the Mekong Delta.

Her mother would come into the kitchen every now and then and tidy up or perform some other domestic chore. She was not paying much attention to the napping white boy.

Asian Realisation #1 - I am Handsome

Dislaimer: This is an old photo, and I am slightly more handsome than portrayed in this candid shot

It didn't take me too long in this country to realise that people find me handsome. The first day in the office sitting around a table full of Vietnamese women (95% of the staff were female) all blushing telling me they didn't realise I would be so handsome kind of tipped me off. Many times when I visit a store, storekeepers tell me how handsome I am or call me dep trai - handsome in Vietnamese. It makes me feel awkward and sometimes I pretend that I don't know what I am supposed to say.

Even more embarrassing is when these shop owners go and grab their daughters from upstairs in an attempt to kindle some sort of multi-cultural romance too strong to be stopped by the limits of language. The other night, in Can Tho, I stopped by a smoothie street stall to grab a custard apple and avocado smoothie (my favourite). A girl in her mid-twenties served me kind of giggling. She immediately called over her mother and they began chatting to each other and trying to decide on words to say to me. The girl told me I was some hand. And they were grilling me trying to find out if I was married.

She ran inside her house and came out with a younger girl - the other girl's sister. She looked rather messy, as if she had been plucked from her bed. Her hair was tied up and she had pink pyjamas on. Her mother pushed her towards my direction and was telling me to talk to her. I just smiled and awkwardy stirred my drink.

Her mother then pointed to her daughter and leaned into me saying I love you me, and giggled. Her daughter just stood there unamused - this was obviously not the first time.

I wouldn't say that I am ugly - but I am definitely not worth the credit I am given here. I don't know what it is they see - the large nose, the big ears, maybe way my eyes widen out in the centre...

I am also popular with the men... I won't go into too much detail in this blog, but I have been in situations where straight men cannot stop mentioning how handsome I am (something that, now that I think of it, is somewhat of a fantasy for many gay men...). I must mention that it is much more acceptable her for both men and women to complement someone in this way.

But let's just say... I don't want to get used to this attention... or else I'm in for a depressing reality when I get back to Canada!

Eco-Crusaders, or I Watched Too Much Captain Planet as a Kid

I am on a boat in Nui Chua National Park. The blue-aqua waves are agressively smacking the boat back and forth. The boat is filled with environmentalists and those involved in the conservation of the reef that lies just beneath the boat.

A bright blue and red wooden boat is stationed around the side of a steep cliff, bobbing in the violent and thrashing water.

The passengers of my boat, all Vietnamese, start talking about the boat. I can only assume this from the very little Vietnamese i can understand. On the other boat, a diver pops his head out from the water and climbs onto his boat, and a young boy helps him in. The young boy starts yelling something to the people on our boat, and the park ranger on our boy has a heated exchange with him.

The driver of our boat takes a sharp turn and we quickly collide with the diving boat. The young kid scrambles to control the boat as the diver jumps back into the water to escape. My heart starts to race as we crash yet again into the diving boat. I turn to a colleague from the organisation with worry on my face

“What the hell is going on”, I ask.
She smiles nervously, “i’ll tell you later.”

The boat is rocking rather intensely and a girl from the biology institute leans over board and vomits in the white foamy sea.

With the dramatic cliffs as a backdrop, i think about how beatiful and amazing it is we are actively protecting this reef. It’s like James Bond for environmentalists i think to myself as we hit into the diving boat for the fourth or fifth time.

Down with these scoundrels, Save the Reef, I think to myself.

Finally it seems to me that the evil divers give up, realising that one more impact with our boat would make his wooden one crumble.

He throws over his loot: A glistening basket of what must be endangered shellfish,

We won! We showed these enviro-destroyers that the force is with us!

I turn to my colleague, eager to find out what is next

“What do we do with them now?” Wondering how we could keep them alive while holding them as evidence while we cuff the divers and bring them to the park authorities.

My colleague responds “What do you mean? We’ll cook them.”

Confusion washes over my face

She says calmly, “We just bought our dinner, what do you think we were doing?”

Welcome to Saigon

I've arrived safely in Saigon. I'd been back from Malaysia and Indonesia nearly two weeks, and I'm already on another 2 week trip. This time it's a business trip to Saigon (aka Ho Chi Minh City) and the Mekong Delta.

The organisation I started my new job with is organising an awareness campaign in the south, and they've sent me along to help coordinate it.

Saigon is a crazy busy city, not unlike Hanoi. Though there are similarities, there is definitely something different about this city. The traffic is slightly worse and it is much bigger than Hanoi, but there seems to be a lack of street life in comparison. I spent about 25 minutes walking around the centre trying to find a cafe where I could just sit and enjoy a ca phe sua da (iced coffee with milk). I settled for the lifeless Highlands chain where I spent a good 50 minutes chatting to Jeannette and using up all the credit I had just charged to my mobile.

In between meetings I have quite a bit of time to spend exploring the city. I was able to eat at two really good and cheap vegetarian restaurants. Even though the organisation gives me quite a sizable per diem while I'm here, I just can't bring myself to spending a lot. I did get the extra fancy coffee (and most expensive) at the Trung Nguyen cafe, but that still only set me back 45,000 dong (2.50 USD). Also I sent all my newly tailored clothes as well as some old ones to the hotel laundry service, even having them iron them. There's nothing like having crispy-dried clothes when you've been hanging your clothes up to dry for the last 5 months. Plus the shrinkage was definitely needed on some of my pants and shirts. Splurge as I try, I'm just not a natural big spender.

I'll try and post some more of my experience here in Vietnam's largest city, the old capital of South Vietnam.