SILENT NIGHT I’m back from shopping, and now at my hotel, needing to meditate and re-center. An admission: I never during this entire journey knew what time it was, physically. As I crossed time zones, I’d adjust my watch (my Omega, which I wore the entire time, slicky boys be damned!) to present time, but whenever I tried to reconcile body time to real time my brain would begin to hurt. International Date Line. 15 hours? 17 hours? I dunno. Easy rules: Sleep when you’re tired, eat when you’re hungry, Tucker. (Old blues lyric, “I’ll eat when I’m hungry, drink when I’m dry, and if some woman don’t kill me, I’ll live til I die.”) Yeah, really. What time or even what day it was in Los Angeles became less and less important. And without a cell phone or access to the Internet, the unaccustomed quiet was an opportunity to reflect upon my purpose and experience of being here in Vietnam. I lay down and managed to sleep for a few hours. Upon arising, I thought about what would be appropriate (responsible choices, Tucker!) for Christmas Eve preceding my adventure to Tan Nhut on the morrow. My hotel offers a sumptuous buffet, with band and dancing for this evening. I actually take the elevator up to the seventh floor and peek in. It looks wonderful…and I know I will be ever so lonely, sitting there alone amongst the revelers. I decide to have dinner at the Czech micro-brewery touted in my guidebook. I love good beer and a schnitzel would be a boss treat. Downstairs in the lobby, the bell captain tries in vain to hail a cab. It’s Christmas Eve, it’s insanity out there in traffic. This is the night of nights for Saigon and the holidays. I‘ve been warned to be wary of renegade local transporters who will take me to dark places and steal my money – if I’m lucky! OK, I’m being dramatic but I’ve stashed my passport in the room safe. I’m only carrying about $50 in local currency. (But the thieves don’t know that, Tucker…) Suddenly the bell captain approaches, tells me cab chances right now are slim and none, and offers an alternative. Vo appears to be a rascal (reminds me of my Uncle Jack), and I think, “What the hell.” But then I discover that Vo operates a motorbike and I go, “Whoa, hey…I dunno. No, I don’t think so.” Both Vo and the bell captain make it clear that tonight I have no other options. And after a few moments of reflection, I decide to take a shot. It’s not desperation. I can eat here or walk to somewhere else. It’s an acknowledgement that my mission in coming here was about expanding my boundaries, and this is simply one more step along that path. I signal Vo we’ve got a deal, he knows the destination and I immediately enter into negotiations. “Bao nhieu?” (How much?) This is the fundamental question to be immediately posed for any transaction in-country. Vo says 20,000 dong one-way ($1.25) but is pushing the roundtrip special at 30,000. I say “Whoa Vo, I dunno how long I’ll be, could be an hour or even two.” “No problem,” says Vo. Interestingly (at least to me) I cede my concerns to the gods for their blessings, mount his motorbike and we proceed into traffic. OK, it’s now a brave new world! I’m on the back of a motorbike, in the heaviest traffic I’ve ever experienced – and I rode a motorcycle for eight years in New York City, OK? We merge, blend and I slowly allow myself to enjoy the experience, much I imagine like entering white water rapids. Vo is steady and assured as we negotiate the oncoming streams of vehicles. I’ve one hand on his left shoulder, one on the rear support and as we pause at a red light I light a Pall Mall, taking in the riders all around me, many tripping on my presence amongst them. I’m now thoroughly enjoying myself as we wend our way thru traffic to Gartenstadt, my Czech culinary destination. Within minutes, we have arrived and I ‘deplane’. I offer Vo his fare but he insists he will wait. I tell him, “Vo, I don’t know how long I will be, might be an hour, might be more.” “No problem,” says Vo. “You give me what you think is right.” OK, Vo…and I walk into the restaurant. It is packed, clearly a popular site. Looks like The Outback on a weekend date night. There are no tables available, so I’m seated at the end of the bar, next to a tv monitor featuring the Timberwolves-Spurs NBA game. Did I just see Spree? Nope, it’s Hudson His dreads fooled me. I order a dark draft beer and peruse the menu. I’d been looking forward to schnitzel or goulashe soup but no such luck. Xin Loi. There are no pictures but I quickly reject the squid balls and the stomach soup. Quan, my waitress returns and I settle on the “Bavaria grilled pork thigh”, which turns out to be an excuse for breading and deep-frying a rather large chunk of fat. Tasty breading, but what meat there is, is hard to find. Streak o’ lean? Not hardly. The beer is excellent, tho. And what is this accompanying side dish? Polenta? Cold grits? Neither actually. As food goes this is pretty disappointing, the only meal during my entire trip that failed to please. I reflect that Vo refused payment earlier, that seems pretty trusting. Guess I’ll ride back with him. Silent Night is playing in the background. I’m a little lonely but not terribly so. I’m remembering a trip with my father to Bethlehem on Christmas Eve, 1956. We were visiting the Holy Land. My father, a former Lutheran minister, was now an English professor teaching in Greece on a Fulbright. He explained to me the tradition of Islam, pilgrims making their way to Mecca, which he described as a Haj. It’s something the religious do at some point in their lives, to come to the place most sacred to their faith. He said that our visit to Bethlehem was our own Haj. And I began to consider that my journey back here might also be best described as a Haj. A very personal pilgrimage. Quan stops by and we chat. She notices I’ve managed to drop a wad of bills on the floor behind me, the bills so limp and insubstantial that their presence barely registers, physically. I stoop down to retrieve them, thanking her and admiring the integrity I found among the people there. While not a lot for me, those bills represented quite a bit more to the workers of that restaurant. There are pickpockets and scam artists aplenty, as in any bustling city but the general citizens are wonderfully decent and honorable. We speak of Hoa Binh (Peace). I’d named my champion Maine Coon cat Beau Hoa Binh (Lover of Peace). I share with her my picture of Dai and I, and answer her question about his existence. She asks if I feel lucky, because I still live and my friend does not? I resist the impulse to describe Survivor Guilt and answer, “Yes, I feel lucky” and offer payment for my meal. Quan returns with my change and a key ring with the restaurant logo on it, a very sweet Christmas gift and agrees to take a photo with me. I offer her a tip of several dollars, which she refuses. We wish each other Chuc ban may man (good luck) and I make my way back thru the crowd and outside. As I emerge, there is a shout from across the street. Vo has spotted me and briskly makes his way across to me. Taking my hand, as one does a small child, he escorts me back across thru traffic and we mount up. As we drive along, surrounded by throngs of mopeds, there is constant interaction between me and the riders and passengers. We smile, I wish them Merry Christmas, there are many toddlers with Santa hats. The street traffic is awesome, dense. I ask Vo where he was in 1969. He says he was an infant, an orphan. Born in early ’68, he says he came from the village of My Lai. He first said his mother died there then later amended it to include both parents. I expressed my regrets. It was a sobering moment. The next day I asked Van how likely his story was and we agreed it was very possible Vo was ‘preaching to the choir’, anticipating my sympathy for so tragic a life. He’s a rascal, I wouldn’t put it past him…but you never know. There were many orphans created that day, those that survived the insanity. We reached the Chancery and I dismounted, having decided to offer Vo 40,000 rather than the 30,000 I thought we’d agreed upon for the round trip. “No, no,” Vo insisted. “It would need to be 60,000!” I was somewhat taken aback. Hey, we’re just talking $4 total, ok? But it felt a bit of a hustle. And my intention to brighten someone’s day with a little generosity has once again fallen on deaf ears. Quan refuses a tip, Vo extorts one. Life is often a zero sum game. So it goes.
Posted on: Wed, 24 Dec 2014 17:43:31 +0000