I hope that the last post didn't drop off too much yesterday. I was absolutely exhausted, and I've been running over sentences in my head, wondering if they made sense or not. Anyway, here's the second part of the blog (and my day).
12-12:30
We eat lunch at the same house everyday. It is probably a 20-25 minute bike ride away from the house we are building, but we can usually cut it down to about 15, given the rabid hunger that sets in around 10:30.
The old woman that cooks for us is very sweet, and I think we call her Ba Bay, which translates to "Mother 7". We have still yet to meet mothers 1-6, but I'm sure they're delightful.
The food ranges from soup with potatoes and carrots to duck eggs (I've been passing on those) to beef with pineapples (a favorite of ours); however, it is the tea that we all bike so quickly for. It's not that it's particularly delicious, but given our dehydrated condition, it is Godly nectar. Mother 7's grandchildren are responsible for refilling our rapidly emptied cups, and they do a wonderful job with it - though the ice-bearing grandchild is a bit overzealous with his duty and will often place a large prism of ice on top of an already overflowing cup. It's a nice gesture, and we always thank him regardless.
12:30-2:00
Something that we do not do (though we should) in the United States is nap in the afternoons. Work hard in the morning, nap for just a bit, and then pick right back up and finish the day. I may start a campaign for the mid-afternoon nap once I'm back.
Anyway, this is my absolute favorite time of the day. We bike from Mother 7's house back to the main road where there is an open-air coffee shop that makes my heart and soul swell with happiness.
Basically, it is a glorified shed with plastic chairs and plastic tables (meant for children and their tea parties). But to describe it as just a shed with chairs and tables would be missing the point. It is a gathering place. People gather around long tables (plastic ones, set end to end) and drink heavenly coffees (1/2 coffee, 1/2 condensed milk...I keep trying to tell myself that that feeling creeping through my heart is love and not an artery being clogged*)
*A quick note to my mom: That last sentence is purely metaphorical, so no worries about things creeping in my heart. I'm fine, and I miss you :)
And when I say that people gather, it is remarkable the variety of people that come. Everyone from local party members to the local pop star diva (I wish I could explain...) gather here for coffee.
Truly, the place makes me want to open a restaurant that could draw the variety of people that this place does.
Unfortunately, our feelings of intense happiness and relaxation, prove incredibly hard to pull away from as 2 draws nearer and nearer. The cafe - as wonderful as it is - is a bit like the island of the lotus eaters in the Odyssey. It's damn near impossible to leave.
2:00-4:00
Susie, Hieu, and I teach English in the afternoons to a group (ranging from 8 students to 35) of elementary-aged students (ages 2-11). We've been teaching basic phrases, lots of colors, and playing lots of games as well. It's a lot of fun, though completely exhausting. Our classroom is a brick-floored, un-air conditioned sauna with two columns of about 6 long desks each.
The left side of the classroom is nearly all girls (all of whom are perfectly brilliant), while the right side is a mixture of indifferent boys, Danh the wonderboy, 2 year olds, and Dat.
Dat didn't come to class for the first week until about Thursday. Class was quiet and lessons orderly. Hands were raised. Questions were answered. Pictures were drawn. English was taught.
Then last Thursday afternoon, a 3 foot tall 5 to 7 year old with a white and blue baseball cap entered our class...
Most of our teaching consists of initially writing words and phrases up on the board and having the kids repeat what we say. It goes a little like this.
Tom: Ok, now can you say "I am fine, thank you"?
Class (with bristling enthusiasm): I am fine thank you!
Dat: BA!
Generally, one on one attention is the best for him, as he is incredibly well behaved in these settings.
Tom: Ok, let's say..."My"
Dat (with doe eyes and turtle lips): My
Tom: "name..."
Dat (Growing quieter, gentler, and cuter): Name
Tom (Becoming encouraged...showing encouragement with eyes and head slightly raised): "is..."
Dat (beginning to crack a smile, though still growing quieter): Is...
Tom (inwardly ecstatic): Dat
Dat (unsure of what's going on, yet encouraged by delighted look on teacher's face): Dat
Tom: Yes! Great! Wonderful job!
Tom begins to turn with smug confidence.
Dat (Kicking Tom's shin and screaming with renewed vitality): BA!
Regardless, we have a blast. Older boys, parents, and old dogs all will gather in the door from time to time. It's nice.
4:00-6:00
I race back to my bicycle to ride back to town. Now, the cows are out on the side of the road - their paddies, lining the roads. Dogs bring their erotic activities out in front of cars with horns blaring. And children - with seemingly inexhaustible enthusiasm - rush out to the road to scream, "Hallo!"
...to which we reply, "Hallo!"
The sky is open and the clouds are dramatic, reminding me of laughing crocodiles and baby elephants playing with beach balls. It's a nice Eden up there, and I slow down my pedaling to enjoy the scenery.
When I arrive back to the hotel, I am dripping with sweat (have been all day) and hop in the bathroom for a brain-freezingly and nipple-hardingly cold shower. I usually hate cold showers, but here...here, they are magic.
6:00-7:00
Dinner in the carport. Anything and everything is delicious at this point. Though, the meal becomes even more delightful when Samson offers me one of his frozen choco-pies (think smaller moon pies). Chocolate smears across my teeth, and I am in heaven.
7:00-9:00/1:00
The rest of the night depends on our exhaustion, though typically, it does include me imaginging the possibilities of life on a boat with a tiger (I'm reading Life of Pi, which is quite delightful), playing card games, drinking Vietnamese beer, laughing (a lot), debating every possible human rights/current issue of the day, swatting mosquitoes (is there an "e" in there?), and eventually passing out from thinking about how exhausting the next day will be.
If you're up, send some thoughts my way. I promise you, I'm probably sending them right back.
Sleep well. Will write pretty soon. Back in Saigon in about a week.
Can't wait to see y'all,
tom
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
To Those of You Who Can't Sleep at Night (Pt. 1)
Rarely do I ever wake up in the night. I'm the type of person that can sleep through most anything once I'm asleep.
It's a blessing and a curse, I suppose. Fortunately, I will never (or...have never) been roused from sleep by the air conditioner switching on. While unfortunately, I have been known to sleep through tornado sirens (they could be louder...) and the alarm in my house going off at night (it's terrifying that i can sleep through it).
Truly, the only things that can wake me in the night are a) shaving cream to the face b) my name, repeated, over and over with nudging c) cold feet d) unbrushed teeth.
D) has been a recent development...a good one, I suppose, but remarkable, all the same. I've been getting into the terrible habit of lying down in bed to read around 930 every night, and what usually starts as a harmless "nap" usually evolves into full-out sleep. Though surprsingly, every night (light or no light, noise or no noise, cold feet or warm feet) my body will tell me with a gentle internal nudge,
"You are disgusting."
This of course grabs my attention. My reason presses my conscience for answers,
"Why!?"
"Because you haven't brushed your teeth, you're still in your clothes, and it's 3:30 in the freaking morning. Gross," It growls with a disdainful harumph.
At this point, the verbal attack turns physical when my conscience begins to pry at my eyes, forcing them open to the darkness of my room - at 3:30 in the morning.
"Now get up and go brush your teeth."
I obey, change my clothes, and fall back asleep - setting my alarm for about 20 minutes later than I had originally intended to get up.
This blog is for those of you that get up at 3:30 in the morning. While you may feel alone and aggravated that you can't go to sleep, rest assured, it's 3:30 in the afternoon (if you're on central time) in Vietnam and I'm teaching (in the loose sense of the word) kids English.
My movements and actions in the Delta are almost robotic in their precision and consistency, so for those of you, who do happen to be up when you shouldn't be, you can think of me and exactly where I am. Just reverse, the am and pm, and you can imagine where I am...
This is how my day goes...
5:30-
My cell phone begins to blare...volume level 5 (of 7)...ring tone: bells. I bolt up from bed, struggling to untangle myself from my covers and dive towards the cell phone on my bedside table.
**I use the word "dive" rather than "reach over" because of my sleeping situation - the bed that I'm sharing with my roommate is slightly larger than a single bed. He's sick right now (lots of coughing and lots of spitting in the shower), so I have taken the precaution of inverting myself in bed (my feet at this head and my head at his feet). As a result, everything else in our room (from my perspective at least) is inverted as well, especially the bedside table, which, for me now, is a footside table. Thus, I "dive" to get my phone.
I hit snooze.
5:38-
Cell phone. Snooze.
5:45-
Cell phone. Snooze. Getting pissed now...
5:55-
Cell phone. Groans. Moral dilemma. Viciously critical conscience begins to set in. I wake up.
6:00-
I throw on some clothes to go down to breakfast. My eyes begin to adjust to the surroundings and the light. I recognize our hotel and begin to remember just how ridiculous it is.
We all think that our hotel is a porn studio. On the wall, just outside my door, there is a giant backlit picture that glows at night, depicting a man and woman (both shirtless) caught in a passionate embrace. They are kissing, and he is pulling her pants down.
Kiley, the first day we arrived, had found a used condom in her bed, while Rob discovered with mixed joy and horror that his sink was in the shape of a heart.
I pass by the statue of Venus on the wall. She is painted all white, except for her nipples...which are bright red.
6:05-6:30
The hotel's dining room is an open-air carport. Given the ghastly early time for our breakfast very little conversation happens and instead we focus on our breakfast which is either bread and eggs or noodle soup...green bananas and plain yogurt are also served.
*I try to eat things that will be as gentle on my stomach as possible, given the outrageously rural conditions of where we spend the majority of our day.
6:30-7:15
We bike every morning to the house we are building. This is one of my favorite times of the day. The ride begins with us passing through the market just down the street from our hotel. Everything is sold here from fruit smoothies to backpacks to women's underwear.
We come around a corner and down a long alleyway that takes us by five large red roosters that are kept under wire cages in the middle of the street. From there, we cross the first of two wooden bridges across the Mekong River. The bridge has enormous gaping holes in it, so the view of the river is a near panorama from left, under, and to the right. The bridge is also so rickety that nearly everytime that I get to the end of it, my kickstand has been rattled down to the "stand" position. I kick it back up and continue.
Another word about the river, it is beautiful. While the water is brown (and awfully dirty), the trees creep up just next to it as if to hear stories from the sailors who travel along it every day.
We continue biking, passing by children running out to the street, screaming, "Hallo!"
We respond, "Hallo!"
7:15-11:30
House building/chicken fighting.
The house we are building is in the middle of nowhere. We have to follow a concrete road (more like a sidewalk) through a green tunnel of palm and banana trees for about twenty minutes until we come to our the location of the house we are building.
The workers here hate the idea of foreign students (inexperienced ones, no less) building their house, so much of our work has been work that requires us bringing sand and rocks through the jungle. If we're not working, we spend the rest of our time kicking and shouting at the chickens (which are everywhere) that seem intent on terrorizing us. While we mostly yell and kick at the air, the workers and children take the much more aggressive and violent method of throwing rocks.
11:30-12
Bike to lunch. We don't speak. We are hungry and thirsty.
To be continued...
Just ran out of time (and inspiration)...more to come soon
Two and a half weeks til I'm home. Absolutely can't wait to see y'all.
It's a blessing and a curse, I suppose. Fortunately, I will never (or...have never) been roused from sleep by the air conditioner switching on. While unfortunately, I have been known to sleep through tornado sirens (they could be louder...) and the alarm in my house going off at night (it's terrifying that i can sleep through it).
Truly, the only things that can wake me in the night are a) shaving cream to the face b) my name, repeated, over and over with nudging c) cold feet d) unbrushed teeth.
D) has been a recent development...a good one, I suppose, but remarkable, all the same. I've been getting into the terrible habit of lying down in bed to read around 930 every night, and what usually starts as a harmless "nap" usually evolves into full-out sleep. Though surprsingly, every night (light or no light, noise or no noise, cold feet or warm feet) my body will tell me with a gentle internal nudge,
"You are disgusting."
This of course grabs my attention. My reason presses my conscience for answers,
"Why!?"
"Because you haven't brushed your teeth, you're still in your clothes, and it's 3:30 in the freaking morning. Gross," It growls with a disdainful harumph.
At this point, the verbal attack turns physical when my conscience begins to pry at my eyes, forcing them open to the darkness of my room - at 3:30 in the morning.
"Now get up and go brush your teeth."
I obey, change my clothes, and fall back asleep - setting my alarm for about 20 minutes later than I had originally intended to get up.
This blog is for those of you that get up at 3:30 in the morning. While you may feel alone and aggravated that you can't go to sleep, rest assured, it's 3:30 in the afternoon (if you're on central time) in Vietnam and I'm teaching (in the loose sense of the word) kids English.
My movements and actions in the Delta are almost robotic in their precision and consistency, so for those of you, who do happen to be up when you shouldn't be, you can think of me and exactly where I am. Just reverse, the am and pm, and you can imagine where I am...
This is how my day goes...
5:30-
My cell phone begins to blare...volume level 5 (of 7)...ring tone: bells. I bolt up from bed, struggling to untangle myself from my covers and dive towards the cell phone on my bedside table.
**I use the word "dive" rather than "reach over" because of my sleeping situation - the bed that I'm sharing with my roommate is slightly larger than a single bed. He's sick right now (lots of coughing and lots of spitting in the shower), so I have taken the precaution of inverting myself in bed (my feet at this head and my head at his feet). As a result, everything else in our room (from my perspective at least) is inverted as well, especially the bedside table, which, for me now, is a footside table. Thus, I "dive" to get my phone.
I hit snooze.
5:38-
Cell phone. Snooze.
5:45-
Cell phone. Snooze. Getting pissed now...
5:55-
Cell phone. Groans. Moral dilemma. Viciously critical conscience begins to set in. I wake up.
6:00-
I throw on some clothes to go down to breakfast. My eyes begin to adjust to the surroundings and the light. I recognize our hotel and begin to remember just how ridiculous it is.
We all think that our hotel is a porn studio. On the wall, just outside my door, there is a giant backlit picture that glows at night, depicting a man and woman (both shirtless) caught in a passionate embrace. They are kissing, and he is pulling her pants down.
Kiley, the first day we arrived, had found a used condom in her bed, while Rob discovered with mixed joy and horror that his sink was in the shape of a heart.
I pass by the statue of Venus on the wall. She is painted all white, except for her nipples...which are bright red.
6:05-6:30
The hotel's dining room is an open-air carport. Given the ghastly early time for our breakfast very little conversation happens and instead we focus on our breakfast which is either bread and eggs or noodle soup...green bananas and plain yogurt are also served.
*I try to eat things that will be as gentle on my stomach as possible, given the outrageously rural conditions of where we spend the majority of our day.
6:30-7:15
We bike every morning to the house we are building. This is one of my favorite times of the day. The ride begins with us passing through the market just down the street from our hotel. Everything is sold here from fruit smoothies to backpacks to women's underwear.
We come around a corner and down a long alleyway that takes us by five large red roosters that are kept under wire cages in the middle of the street. From there, we cross the first of two wooden bridges across the Mekong River. The bridge has enormous gaping holes in it, so the view of the river is a near panorama from left, under, and to the right. The bridge is also so rickety that nearly everytime that I get to the end of it, my kickstand has been rattled down to the "stand" position. I kick it back up and continue.
Another word about the river, it is beautiful. While the water is brown (and awfully dirty), the trees creep up just next to it as if to hear stories from the sailors who travel along it every day.
We continue biking, passing by children running out to the street, screaming, "Hallo!"
We respond, "Hallo!"
7:15-11:30
House building/chicken fighting.
The house we are building is in the middle of nowhere. We have to follow a concrete road (more like a sidewalk) through a green tunnel of palm and banana trees for about twenty minutes until we come to our the location of the house we are building.
The workers here hate the idea of foreign students (inexperienced ones, no less) building their house, so much of our work has been work that requires us bringing sand and rocks through the jungle. If we're not working, we spend the rest of our time kicking and shouting at the chickens (which are everywhere) that seem intent on terrorizing us. While we mostly yell and kick at the air, the workers and children take the much more aggressive and violent method of throwing rocks.
11:30-12
Bike to lunch. We don't speak. We are hungry and thirsty.
To be continued...
Just ran out of time (and inspiration)...more to come soon
Two and a half weeks til I'm home. Absolutely can't wait to see y'all.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Milli Vanilli in Ho Chi Minh City
I'm sure that it's happened to you all at some point or another in your lives. You leave a message on an answering machine - most likely the one at your house - with the expectation of another family member listening to and then promptly deleting the message. It sounds simple enough, but of course, every so often the moon shifts in its orbit and its gravitational pull becomes so strong that it prevents all of your family members from returning home before you, thus making the collision of speaker and recorded voice almost inevitable.
My voice doesn't bother me when I'm speaking. I think the acoustics of my head are such that my words seem to ring with a light, sweet tinkle. I suppose that I always assumed that my voice sounded exactly the same when it leaves my mouth as it did when it was in my mouth. At least, I assumed that until I happened to come home on one of those odd lunar days when I had the great misfortune of hearing my recorded voice - all stilted and bumbling - on our answering machine.
It's humbling to hear one's own voice, and oftentimes it sets off days of silence springing from intense self-consciousness, but at least you can make answering machines stop.
A few posts back, I wrote about having to sing "Seasons of Love" in front of an auditorium full of the Ho Chi Minh City Youth Union. Since then, Susie and I have been asked (or, more precisely, instructed) to sing another song in front of a stadium full of 25,000 Vietnamese students as well as anyone else who might like to watch us on Vietnamese National Television.
I haven't written anything about this, partially because I think I've been in a state of partial catatonic shock - refusing to allow the reality of our fate sink into my consciousness. There are a few things wrong with this whole thing.
First, the largest group of people I've ever sung to was a theatre of - at the very most - 500 people. Ok, so 25,000 divided by 500 is about 50, so 50 times the size of the largest crowd that I've ever performed in front of. Did I mention I get butterflies whenever I have to introduce myself in small groups of new people?
Second, although our performance of "Seasons of Love" was compelling and fun, the Youth Union has asked that we sing something a bit more formal and popular. This is OK until they informed us that "formal" and "popular" to them is something by Britney Spears or the Backstreet Boys.
* Given certain - ehem - restrictions, we chose Backstreet Boys.
Third, we are singing "I Want it that Way" - the hit single from the Boys' chart-topping album "Millennium". On the surface, given our restrictions, this doesn't seem like a problem worth giving a whole number to; however, the song and I have a history. The last time I lip-synced to this song, it was at a middle school church beach retreat. I stripped down to my boxers only to realize after the song that - despite their excellent reputation off keeping guys "inside" - Brooks Brothers boxers had a tendency to, how shall we say, help you "open up" to a crowd.
My stripping had not been a premeditated thing. I had just realized that simply lip-syncing to the Backstreet Boys was about as exciting as spending an afternoon peeling carrots.
So with one week's notice, Susie and I began to put off practicing as much as possible. After all, we didn't know what the band that the Youth Council would be providing for us would be like. So until our practice with the band, Susie and I set out to listen to the song on Susie's iPod as much as possible - taking special note of the "ooo's" and little falsetto "yeah's".
This past Tuesday, Susie and I got into a cab to go practice with the band. We pulled up at a little clothing shop and were invited by a greased-haired, bespectacled man to come into the back of the shop where were brought into a tiny recording studio with a tiny girl very aggressively singing/screaming an Avril Lavigne song in the little booth.
"So where's the band?" We asked, looking for any sign of space for a band.
Naturally, it didn't take long for the reality to set in that the band was the actual song from the album without any vocal tracks.
"So...we're recording, then? But why?"
Evidently, we had not been compelling enough in our previous performance to deserve the complete trust of National Television. As I began to sweat and look panicked around the room, the truth was delivered in a few strained words of broken English.
"You're lip-syncing."
I'll stop here to say that I have no problem with lip-syncing. I almost think it's kind of fun. Truly, there are few expectations for a lip-syncer other than that he or she know the words and be fun. What I do not think is fun is lip-syncing to myself and trying to pass it off as being live. The situation was getting worse: lip sync to a personal (and very bad) imitation of the Backstreet Boys for a lot of people - and make it look like you're doing it live.
Images of Milli Vanillia and Ashlee Simpson flash in my head. After their own fiascos with botched lip-syncing, both had basically disappeared off the face of the Earth, their careers ruined, images destroyed.
I move into the recording booth - a small wooden box with egg carton matress lining its entire surface. It is about 6 feet tall and I am 6'3. I crook my neck awkwardly and begin to sweat as the climate of the box is suffocating.
You are my fi-ur / My one dee-si-ur...
They stop the recording and play it back in the headphones for me to hear. I don't remember ever singing into an answering machine, but this makes that seem desirable. I continue singing,
Tell me why-ee
My voice cracks. The recording stops. The technicians laugh, putting my cracking voice on a looping loud speaker.
Why-ee! Why-ee! Why-ee!
They laugh more, as I glare from within the Sahara-like box - its window beginning to fog.
I continue to record - realizing that my voice is beginning to fade even further. My high notes begin to fade, and the recording stops again. They speak with a very shy, meek boy for a moment, and he comes into the recording booth - steam pouring out of the doors - to tell me, "Sing Better."
I feel my inner diva beginning to raise its head, hissing. I'm growing frustrated, wanting to demand a break, needing water, a limo ride for sushi, a cool towel. I begin to sympathize with why artists always get a bad rap for being impatient and tempestuous.
At last, the session ends and they tell us they will have the recording ready for our Friday the 13th performance (damnit!).
***
The next few days passed with me giving very little thought to our Friday performance. Knowing that I don't have to save my voice takes a bit of the pressure off. Although the news that we will be following Lam Chu -a Vietnamese pop star (who, incidentally, took a huge popularity hit recently when he was found to be lip-syncing at one of his live shows) makes up for the pressure that had been removed.
Finally (or, more appropriately put, dreadfully), the day of our performance comes. Despite the fact that for the past week it has rained almost constantly - making any outdoor activity impossible (our concert was set to be outdoors) - from our chairs at the stadium, we behold a rainbow beginning to peek through the clouds nearly an hour before the show is set to start.
Profanties begin to stream through my head - erasing any remnants of the words to the song.
***
I can feel myself rambling and the show leading up to our performance does not deserve a lot of detail - I don't think I could write much about it primarily because I think I blacked out until we went on stage.
Nevertheless, as we began to walk out on stage, mouthing along to our recorded "yeah-uh's" and "Why-ee's" (they edited out the cracks, thank God), people began to clap and, as the crowds tend to do here, people began to congregate in front of the stage, clapping and waving their hands over their heads. And somehow, after exactly 3 minutes and 33 seconds, we finished - unscathed with our reputations maintained (for now at least...) - and moved back to our seats, feeling much better than we had all week, and knowing that I would never want to sing a song "that way" again.
My voice doesn't bother me when I'm speaking. I think the acoustics of my head are such that my words seem to ring with a light, sweet tinkle. I suppose that I always assumed that my voice sounded exactly the same when it leaves my mouth as it did when it was in my mouth. At least, I assumed that until I happened to come home on one of those odd lunar days when I had the great misfortune of hearing my recorded voice - all stilted and bumbling - on our answering machine.
It's humbling to hear one's own voice, and oftentimes it sets off days of silence springing from intense self-consciousness, but at least you can make answering machines stop.
A few posts back, I wrote about having to sing "Seasons of Love" in front of an auditorium full of the Ho Chi Minh City Youth Union. Since then, Susie and I have been asked (or, more precisely, instructed) to sing another song in front of a stadium full of 25,000 Vietnamese students as well as anyone else who might like to watch us on Vietnamese National Television.
I haven't written anything about this, partially because I think I've been in a state of partial catatonic shock - refusing to allow the reality of our fate sink into my consciousness. There are a few things wrong with this whole thing.
First, the largest group of people I've ever sung to was a theatre of - at the very most - 500 people. Ok, so 25,000 divided by 500 is about 50, so 50 times the size of the largest crowd that I've ever performed in front of. Did I mention I get butterflies whenever I have to introduce myself in small groups of new people?
Second, although our performance of "Seasons of Love" was compelling and fun, the Youth Union has asked that we sing something a bit more formal and popular. This is OK until they informed us that "formal" and "popular" to them is something by Britney Spears or the Backstreet Boys.
* Given certain - ehem - restrictions, we chose Backstreet Boys.
Third, we are singing "I Want it that Way" - the hit single from the Boys' chart-topping album "Millennium". On the surface, given our restrictions, this doesn't seem like a problem worth giving a whole number to; however, the song and I have a history. The last time I lip-synced to this song, it was at a middle school church beach retreat. I stripped down to my boxers only to realize after the song that - despite their excellent reputation off keeping guys "inside" - Brooks Brothers boxers had a tendency to, how shall we say, help you "open up" to a crowd.
My stripping had not been a premeditated thing. I had just realized that simply lip-syncing to the Backstreet Boys was about as exciting as spending an afternoon peeling carrots.
So with one week's notice, Susie and I began to put off practicing as much as possible. After all, we didn't know what the band that the Youth Council would be providing for us would be like. So until our practice with the band, Susie and I set out to listen to the song on Susie's iPod as much as possible - taking special note of the "ooo's" and little falsetto "yeah's".
This past Tuesday, Susie and I got into a cab to go practice with the band. We pulled up at a little clothing shop and were invited by a greased-haired, bespectacled man to come into the back of the shop where were brought into a tiny recording studio with a tiny girl very aggressively singing/screaming an Avril Lavigne song in the little booth.
"So where's the band?" We asked, looking for any sign of space for a band.
Naturally, it didn't take long for the reality to set in that the band was the actual song from the album without any vocal tracks.
"So...we're recording, then? But why?"
Evidently, we had not been compelling enough in our previous performance to deserve the complete trust of National Television. As I began to sweat and look panicked around the room, the truth was delivered in a few strained words of broken English.
"You're lip-syncing."
I'll stop here to say that I have no problem with lip-syncing. I almost think it's kind of fun. Truly, there are few expectations for a lip-syncer other than that he or she know the words and be fun. What I do not think is fun is lip-syncing to myself and trying to pass it off as being live. The situation was getting worse: lip sync to a personal (and very bad) imitation of the Backstreet Boys for a lot of people - and make it look like you're doing it live.
Images of Milli Vanillia and Ashlee Simpson flash in my head. After their own fiascos with botched lip-syncing, both had basically disappeared off the face of the Earth, their careers ruined, images destroyed.
I move into the recording booth - a small wooden box with egg carton matress lining its entire surface. It is about 6 feet tall and I am 6'3. I crook my neck awkwardly and begin to sweat as the climate of the box is suffocating.
You are my fi-ur / My one dee-si-ur...
They stop the recording and play it back in the headphones for me to hear. I don't remember ever singing into an answering machine, but this makes that seem desirable. I continue singing,
Tell me why-ee
My voice cracks. The recording stops. The technicians laugh, putting my cracking voice on a looping loud speaker.
Why-ee! Why-ee! Why-ee!
They laugh more, as I glare from within the Sahara-like box - its window beginning to fog.
I continue to record - realizing that my voice is beginning to fade even further. My high notes begin to fade, and the recording stops again. They speak with a very shy, meek boy for a moment, and he comes into the recording booth - steam pouring out of the doors - to tell me, "Sing Better."
I feel my inner diva beginning to raise its head, hissing. I'm growing frustrated, wanting to demand a break, needing water, a limo ride for sushi, a cool towel. I begin to sympathize with why artists always get a bad rap for being impatient and tempestuous.
At last, the session ends and they tell us they will have the recording ready for our Friday the 13th performance (damnit!).
***
The next few days passed with me giving very little thought to our Friday performance. Knowing that I don't have to save my voice takes a bit of the pressure off. Although the news that we will be following Lam Chu -a Vietnamese pop star (who, incidentally, took a huge popularity hit recently when he was found to be lip-syncing at one of his live shows) makes up for the pressure that had been removed.
Finally (or, more appropriately put, dreadfully), the day of our performance comes. Despite the fact that for the past week it has rained almost constantly - making any outdoor activity impossible (our concert was set to be outdoors) - from our chairs at the stadium, we behold a rainbow beginning to peek through the clouds nearly an hour before the show is set to start.
Profanties begin to stream through my head - erasing any remnants of the words to the song.
***
I can feel myself rambling and the show leading up to our performance does not deserve a lot of detail - I don't think I could write much about it primarily because I think I blacked out until we went on stage.
Nevertheless, as we began to walk out on stage, mouthing along to our recorded "yeah-uh's" and "Why-ee's" (they edited out the cracks, thank God), people began to clap and, as the crowds tend to do here, people began to congregate in front of the stage, clapping and waving their hands over their heads. And somehow, after exactly 3 minutes and 33 seconds, we finished - unscathed with our reputations maintained (for now at least...) - and moved back to our seats, feeling much better than we had all week, and knowing that I would never want to sing a song "that way" again.
Monday, July 2, 2007
Upside Down at the Top of the World and Romancing the Vietnamese Jumping Leech
In my old age, I have started - at least on the shorter flights - to be semi-narcoleptic whenever I sit down in an airplane. It has not always been so. In my younger years, I was wide-eyed with wonder at the novelty of air travel, excited at the possibility of seeing new lands outside my window seat, and shockingly overcome with the anticipation of wondering what delicious snack the flight attendant would place onto my tray table.
Now, it's not surprising to find me sleeping before the plane lifts off - not to be roused until the earth-shattering rumble of landing. And as the attendants often pass over any premature sleepers, I hardly know what they serve for mid-flight snacks anymore!
To spread the blame a bit, I will say that my recent history of flying has been rather horrific, so perhaps this automatic sleeping mechanism that engages whenever I set foot on any sort of domestic flight is just a matter of self defense.
Whatever the case may be, this past week we took an airplane from Saigon to Hue for a 5-day whirlwind (and thoroughly exhausting) tour of the Central Highlands of Vietnam. We had arrived at the airport around 3:30, and every spare second that we were not moving or checking in, I would scurry off to a quiet corner, enthralled by the fifth Harry Potter (which I just finished for the first time).
I read in line at our check-in. I read going up the tiny escalator to the main terminal. I read against a post on the floor of the terminal. I read in a house. I read with a mouse, and really just about any other rhyming thing that Dr. Seuss could have conjured up, including the ENTIRE flight.
Perhaps it's just Vietnam Airlines, but I found myself thoroughly enjoying the flight (minus the snacks, which since I have been sleeping for the past five years, have started to include little mixed nut goodies again...which is never good for me). My eyes grew wide again as I watched these thousand story clouds lurking around our plane and then as we began descending into Hue, I just about passed out with awe as I stuck my head into the little window to behold the sun setting over a shimmering, rippled ocean, being watched over by a range of misty mountains just inland from the beach.
Being in a bit of a magical mindset (thanks to Mr. Potter and friends), I couldn't help but think that this place was a bit mystical - a Shangri-La almost. And while I was completely dumbstruck with the entire landscape forming outside of my window, it was the mountains that drew me the most.
So it would come as no surprise, days later, when I found myself on a dinghy, vinyl-sided house boat contraption, cruising down the Perfume River towards the beach, that I would twist myself on my plastic chair - perched so daintily on the rickety wooden boards that exposed the brown (and un-perfumed) water - to look back to the mountains.
"I just want to climb up into them sometimes," I heard myself say.
And that's exactly what we did the next day, as we boarded a bus at 6:30 (with much groaning) in the morning, on our way to Bach Ma National Park - where we would be hinking to Bach Ma Summit as well as to a waterfall in the middle of the park (and the mountains).
***
In the Bach Ma mountains, the higher you go the more your surroundings begin to resemble the bottom of the sea.
The rain was a pleasant drizzle at the bottom of the mountains, but as our van began to wind its ways up into the hills, the rain began to pick up, such that by the time we got out of the van at the mouth to the trail of the summit, we found ourselves in a cold, torrential rain. While the breaks in the trees on the road up the mountain had initially been frames to breathtaking countryside, any openings in trees where we got out of our van yielded only a white wall of cloud.
Nevertheless, to avoid making our 6:30 wake-up call completely fruitless, we pushed on and started the hike to the summit, where we arrived 30 minutes later.
By the time we had reached the top of the mountain, we had passed so far as to rise above many of the view-obstructing clouds. Now they lay in little sandy puddles in the palms of the mountains. From time to time, a particularly strong gust of wind would pick up and suddenly the clouds would look like the sand on the ocean floor disturbed by stomping child's foot. The trees' foliage swayed and waved like coral and other ocean-bottom dwelling plants, and the wind would get so strong at points that the rain not only swept sideways across the hills, but upwards.
*Thinking it would be fun, Pablo, David, and I moved to the edge to test how far our spit might fly if we spat into the vicious current. While David and mine both darted away into Cambodia, Pablo's formed itself into a perfect sphere and floated slowly just past David and my horrified faces.
After a quick lunch, we started our second hike deeper into the mountains to find the waterfall.
This was a much more jungle-like hike as the sun became obscured by the thick bamboo and trees that surrounded us - giving the sense of walking through a tunnel. We walked, trying to take in the beauty of this seemingly untouched (not counting the cleared path...and signs... with directional arrows) place that we were treading across. We walked - heads up - taking in our surroudings, when suddenly a shrill scream leapt out from the back of our pack.
"GET IT OFF!! GET IT OFF!!"
We had met the Vietnamese Jumping Leech.
*In fairness, I'm not sure that they're actually called "jumping" (or Vietnamese) but judging by the places these creatures began to appear, we could only assume that they were jumping to get there.
A quick note on leeches. I'm sure many of you have seen inchworms before. They are cuddly, innocent little worms that crawl by shifting their bodies between a straight line and a shape resembling a horse shoe. They are harmless and were created for the sole purpose of humans spend afternoons pointing at them and remarking how cute they are. Now imagine their evil cousin, and you will have the Vietnamese Jumping Leech. Although both are the same size, there are two primary differences between the two creatures. First, the inchworm is green, while the leech is black. Second (and most importantly), while the inchworm showers you with love and goodness, leeches suck your blood.
Needless to say, the remainder of our journey to the waterfall was spent skipping over murky puddles with our eyes glued to the jungle floor rather than our magical (and probably equally hazardous) surroudings.
By the time we reached the top of the waterfall, our shoes had filled with water, our clothes were soaked with rain, and our legs were aching with exhaustion. Yet despite our exhaustion, we had promised ourselves at the beginning of the hike to take the 700 steps down to the bottom of the waterfall.
The pain set in almost immediately. I watched my shoes foam with water every step I took down the steps. David began singing "Waterfalls" by TLC. Rob and Kelsey took turns counting each of the 700 steps (Rob would exclaim "SEGA!" as he jumped down onto the 600th step. Our exhaustion and enthusiam began to peter away into something more along the lines of drunken hysteria, until finally to our relief (or disappointment...I'm still not sure which) we came to the end on step 675 (liars!).
Without the luxury of a picture (which could never capture the true beauty of this hidden valley we found ourself in), it is almost impossible to explain how beautiful the valley was. I think every last drop of blood had rushed to my legs rather than my brain, making thoughtful observations non-existent. Again, it was mystical.
We struggled back up the 670 stairs and collapsed at the top of the waterfall with our thighs howling in pain. After another leech check, we went back through our previous, leech-filled path to a final opening and the end of our hike.
More leech checks and screaming followed as we boarded the van back to our hotel. When we arrived we stripped down to underwear, shaking with terror at the leeches on our legs and feet (Rob and I managed to have none, while Annalee seemed to have the most...including one she would discover after having napped) and began to smash the blood-filled creatures all over the patio of our hotel. Finishing the battle, we passed out for a while, waking up just in time for dinner and the most complete, perfect rainbow we've ever seen.
We watched as it grew more vibrant and clear - it's end seeming to fall right into the trees on the side of our valley. We watched - exhausted and yet fulfilled - and I could only think that the leprachaun (or whatever was waiting at the end of the rainbow) would have to wait until next time, because it seemed like hardly any pot of gold would ever be enough to sway us away from the prospect of dinner. And, anyway, there were leeches out there.
Now, it's not surprising to find me sleeping before the plane lifts off - not to be roused until the earth-shattering rumble of landing. And as the attendants often pass over any premature sleepers, I hardly know what they serve for mid-flight snacks anymore!
To spread the blame a bit, I will say that my recent history of flying has been rather horrific, so perhaps this automatic sleeping mechanism that engages whenever I set foot on any sort of domestic flight is just a matter of self defense.
Whatever the case may be, this past week we took an airplane from Saigon to Hue for a 5-day whirlwind (and thoroughly exhausting) tour of the Central Highlands of Vietnam. We had arrived at the airport around 3:30, and every spare second that we were not moving or checking in, I would scurry off to a quiet corner, enthralled by the fifth Harry Potter (which I just finished for the first time).
I read in line at our check-in. I read going up the tiny escalator to the main terminal. I read against a post on the floor of the terminal. I read in a house. I read with a mouse, and really just about any other rhyming thing that Dr. Seuss could have conjured up, including the ENTIRE flight.
Perhaps it's just Vietnam Airlines, but I found myself thoroughly enjoying the flight (minus the snacks, which since I have been sleeping for the past five years, have started to include little mixed nut goodies again...which is never good for me). My eyes grew wide again as I watched these thousand story clouds lurking around our plane and then as we began descending into Hue, I just about passed out with awe as I stuck my head into the little window to behold the sun setting over a shimmering, rippled ocean, being watched over by a range of misty mountains just inland from the beach.
Being in a bit of a magical mindset (thanks to Mr. Potter and friends), I couldn't help but think that this place was a bit mystical - a Shangri-La almost. And while I was completely dumbstruck with the entire landscape forming outside of my window, it was the mountains that drew me the most.
So it would come as no surprise, days later, when I found myself on a dinghy, vinyl-sided house boat contraption, cruising down the Perfume River towards the beach, that I would twist myself on my plastic chair - perched so daintily on the rickety wooden boards that exposed the brown (and un-perfumed) water - to look back to the mountains.
"I just want to climb up into them sometimes," I heard myself say.
And that's exactly what we did the next day, as we boarded a bus at 6:30 (with much groaning) in the morning, on our way to Bach Ma National Park - where we would be hinking to Bach Ma Summit as well as to a waterfall in the middle of the park (and the mountains).
***
In the Bach Ma mountains, the higher you go the more your surroundings begin to resemble the bottom of the sea.
The rain was a pleasant drizzle at the bottom of the mountains, but as our van began to wind its ways up into the hills, the rain began to pick up, such that by the time we got out of the van at the mouth to the trail of the summit, we found ourselves in a cold, torrential rain. While the breaks in the trees on the road up the mountain had initially been frames to breathtaking countryside, any openings in trees where we got out of our van yielded only a white wall of cloud.
Nevertheless, to avoid making our 6:30 wake-up call completely fruitless, we pushed on and started the hike to the summit, where we arrived 30 minutes later.
By the time we had reached the top of the mountain, we had passed so far as to rise above many of the view-obstructing clouds. Now they lay in little sandy puddles in the palms of the mountains. From time to time, a particularly strong gust of wind would pick up and suddenly the clouds would look like the sand on the ocean floor disturbed by stomping child's foot. The trees' foliage swayed and waved like coral and other ocean-bottom dwelling plants, and the wind would get so strong at points that the rain not only swept sideways across the hills, but upwards.
*Thinking it would be fun, Pablo, David, and I moved to the edge to test how far our spit might fly if we spat into the vicious current. While David and mine both darted away into Cambodia, Pablo's formed itself into a perfect sphere and floated slowly just past David and my horrified faces.
After a quick lunch, we started our second hike deeper into the mountains to find the waterfall.
This was a much more jungle-like hike as the sun became obscured by the thick bamboo and trees that surrounded us - giving the sense of walking through a tunnel. We walked, trying to take in the beauty of this seemingly untouched (not counting the cleared path...and signs... with directional arrows) place that we were treading across. We walked - heads up - taking in our surroudings, when suddenly a shrill scream leapt out from the back of our pack.
"GET IT OFF!! GET IT OFF!!"
We had met the Vietnamese Jumping Leech.
*In fairness, I'm not sure that they're actually called "jumping" (or Vietnamese) but judging by the places these creatures began to appear, we could only assume that they were jumping to get there.
A quick note on leeches. I'm sure many of you have seen inchworms before. They are cuddly, innocent little worms that crawl by shifting their bodies between a straight line and a shape resembling a horse shoe. They are harmless and were created for the sole purpose of humans spend afternoons pointing at them and remarking how cute they are. Now imagine their evil cousin, and you will have the Vietnamese Jumping Leech. Although both are the same size, there are two primary differences between the two creatures. First, the inchworm is green, while the leech is black. Second (and most importantly), while the inchworm showers you with love and goodness, leeches suck your blood.
Needless to say, the remainder of our journey to the waterfall was spent skipping over murky puddles with our eyes glued to the jungle floor rather than our magical (and probably equally hazardous) surroudings.
By the time we reached the top of the waterfall, our shoes had filled with water, our clothes were soaked with rain, and our legs were aching with exhaustion. Yet despite our exhaustion, we had promised ourselves at the beginning of the hike to take the 700 steps down to the bottom of the waterfall.
The pain set in almost immediately. I watched my shoes foam with water every step I took down the steps. David began singing "Waterfalls" by TLC. Rob and Kelsey took turns counting each of the 700 steps (Rob would exclaim "SEGA!" as he jumped down onto the 600th step. Our exhaustion and enthusiam began to peter away into something more along the lines of drunken hysteria, until finally to our relief (or disappointment...I'm still not sure which) we came to the end on step 675 (liars!).
Without the luxury of a picture (which could never capture the true beauty of this hidden valley we found ourself in), it is almost impossible to explain how beautiful the valley was. I think every last drop of blood had rushed to my legs rather than my brain, making thoughtful observations non-existent. Again, it was mystical.
We struggled back up the 670 stairs and collapsed at the top of the waterfall with our thighs howling in pain. After another leech check, we went back through our previous, leech-filled path to a final opening and the end of our hike.
More leech checks and screaming followed as we boarded the van back to our hotel. When we arrived we stripped down to underwear, shaking with terror at the leeches on our legs and feet (Rob and I managed to have none, while Annalee seemed to have the most...including one she would discover after having napped) and began to smash the blood-filled creatures all over the patio of our hotel. Finishing the battle, we passed out for a while, waking up just in time for dinner and the most complete, perfect rainbow we've ever seen.
We watched as it grew more vibrant and clear - it's end seeming to fall right into the trees on the side of our valley. We watched - exhausted and yet fulfilled - and I could only think that the leprachaun (or whatever was waiting at the end of the rainbow) would have to wait until next time, because it seemed like hardly any pot of gold would ever be enough to sway us away from the prospect of dinner. And, anyway, there were leeches out there.
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