Rock and Roll in Hoi An

“F-ck you, take it easy.”

We had only been at our guesthouse on the beach outside of Hoi An for an hour, but there we were, sitting at a beer bottle-littered lunch table with our host, Hoa, who was regaling us with stories from the years he fought in the war with the Marines and imploring us to “take it easy”. In the North of Vietnam, the US was the enemy, but here, in the South, it was different. Hoa had joined the Marines when he was not much older than a child and had grown up surrounded by war and soldiers, as evidenced by his deep love of four-lettered words.

“In the Marines, we were f-cking rock and roll,” explains Hoa, as he nods to me to refill his beer glass.

“People ask me: Hoa, what does it mean, Rock and Roll? I say, ‘Rock and Roll, it means f-cking take it easy.’ We didn’t give a shit- we just wanted to have a good time.  What does it mean, the Marines? It means rock and roll.”

I'll admit that before coming to Vietnam, I didn’t know anything about what the Vietnamese refer to as “the American War.” It was an important event in cultural history that defined my parents’ generation, but the only stuff I knew about it was what I had learned from watching Forrest Gump. Not Apocalypse Now, not Platoon. Forrest Gump. Now that’s rock and roll.

Sitting with Hoa, hearing him talk about his “brothers” from the Marines, some of which have come back to Vietnam to visit him, drove home not only how pervasive the war was in this country, but also how much has been forgiven. I asked Hoa the same question I had asked a moto driver that morning: Are you angry? Are the Vietnamese still angry at us?

And the answer was no. Maybe I would have received a different answer in the North, but here, the popular opinion seemed to be that what’s done is done. It’s the past. Let’s move on. Which, for someone who comes from a country where a good portion of the population still thinks that France “owes us for saving their asses in World War Two,” this willingness to forgive and forget is refreshing.

I’d be lying if I let you believe that our stay in Hoi An, which is on the coast in the center of Vietnam, was all cultural understanding and appreciation for history. It wasn’t. The vast majority of our time was spent on an endeavor that was decidedly less politically charged: Shopping.

You see, while Hoi An is a mandatory tourist stop for its lovely colonial architecture and charming old town, it is also renowned for its tailoring industry. There are literally thousands of tailors and dressmakers in the city, offering a relapsed anti-consumerist unlimited opportunities to have clothes custom made on the cheap.

I was a woman possessed. It had been such a long time- 10 months to be exact- that I hadn’t shopped or thought about shopping, that once I was confronted with this abundance of fabrics and patterns providing countless combinations to create exactly what I wanted, I just couldn’t get enough. I went from stopping my clothes addiction cold turkey to what was essentially a four-day shopping bender.

Vincent looking like a homeless guy in a stolen suit (and a technical t-shirt)

That look on my face? Thinkin' about ALL THE DRESSES!

We did do some other activities while in Hoi An: we rented motorbikes, took a cooking class, ate a bunch of street food, explored the winding little streets of the old town that were lined with colorful stucco houses, got our ears cleaned at a local barber shop (huh?). 

Attacking banh xeo- crispy filled pancakes wrapped with greens, chili and rice paper- at the market

Elodie and I found the perfect appetizer on the sidewalk

But all of these escapades were basically just time fillers between fittings at the tailor. I won’t go into the details of our purchases, but I’ll just say that when we left the shop for the last time with our new goodies, the tailor actually gave us each a free gift to thank us for our substantial business.

Beyond the frenzied consumerism, Hoi An was a wonderful place to end our time in Vietnam. Its colorful historic quarter was truly lovely, providing a tranquil, aesthetically pleasing place to wander around and get lost. 

The town has one of the best culinary scenes in a country known worldwide for its cuisine, so we indulged as much as we could (keeping in mind that we still had to fit into the clothes we were having made for us). We ate some incredible street and market food and learned to make some of those same dishes during a private evening cooking class we took at one of Hoi An’s restaurants.

The cooking class was excellent: we had a great time learning to make, and subsequently devour, several delicious regional dishes. Our teacher, a hilarious fast-talking Vietnamese lady, taught us the ins and outs of dishes like beef and papaya salad, shrimp spring rolls, and fish baked in banana leaf.  In addition to learning to make these dishes, we also learned that if something tastes good in Vietnam, you should say “yummy,” not “yumm,” as the latter apparently means that you are horny. I kept peering into the dish that our teacher was making and saying, “Yumm,” until the little woman finally turned to me and exclaimed, “Stop doing that- it’s makin’ me nervous!”

The course ended with a meal of the dishes we had learned to make, as well as others that were equally amazing. We left the class with full bellies and the recipes of the dishes we made so that we can recreate them when we get home. Wherever “home” is going to be…

Hoi An’s history-seeped architecture was stunning during the day, but it was at night that the old town really came alive. We were fortunate enough to be in the city during the annual moon festival- a celebration that I can’t even begin to explain simply because I never figured out what it was all about. Although the religious background of the fete is beyond me, I could easily appreciate the party aspect.

In the evenings during the festival, Hoi An’s streets were completely dark save for hundreds of colorful lanterns that hung from every doorway and balcony. Street lights were darkened, restaurants were lit by candle light, the narrow streets were closed off to traffic. But don’t think for a second that it was a peaceful scene: the streets were positively packed with people. The entire population seemed to be out enjoying the atmosphere. Along the river, bridges were lined with lanterns that reflected colorful light off the water, while children sold little paper boats with candles in them to float down the current. The scene was breath-taking, if slightly frenetic.

The lanterns weren’t the only indication of the celebration. Weaving through the crowded streets were gangs of young boys dressed in Chinese dragon costumes and beating drums. The dragons comprised of two guys: the head and front legs, and the backside, moving in synch to create a beast that jumped and danced to the beat of the percussion. It was very cool to see, so much so that we didn’t even mind when they came to ask us for money after their performance.

I’ve spent a good ten minutes trying to think of an appropriate segue to this next bit, but nothing I can think of can take me from lanterns and dragons to ear cleaning and Vincent’s beard. There really isn’t even that much to say about either, except that Vincent grew a pretty impressive beard over the span of two months and finally shaved it off, along with all of his hair, in Hoi An. The difference after he shaved was so shocking that when I first saw him I freaked out and wouldn’t touch him. Sounds harsh, but the dude went from Tom Hanks in Castaway to Tom Hanks in Philadelphia in one afternoon! As our cooking coach would say, he was “makin’ me nervous!”

I don’t have a good “after” picture of Vincent, but here’s one he took during his shave. 

That is one serious beard

The barber shop responsible for Vincent’s transformation also offered ear cleaning, which involved a (hopefully) trained professional who dug in our ears with various metal tools, poking and scraping out any offending wax. Think of a trip to the dentist, but for your ears. It was pretty uncomfortable and I felt a little jipped because there was hardly anything to pull out of my ears anyway. Vincent, on the other hand, was a veritable gold mine of ear gunk. The guy cleaning his ears would use long, pointed tweezers to pull out a hunk of something gross and would wave it around proudly to anyone willing to look. While seeing what lurks within my husband’s ears is quite possibly the last thing my marriage needs, I humored the man with appreciative “oohs” and “aahs” at every new discovery.

Pretty miserable during my ear cleaning

After Hoi An, it was time to say goodbye to Vietnam, and by extension, to Elodie. The three of us flew to Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon) where Elodie took a plane on to Singapore and V and I stayed a night before heading back to The Beach in Cambodia to work for a month. We only spent one night in Saigon and didn’t take any pictures, so I really don’t have a lot to say about the city. The main highlight was that we celebrated our 10 year anniversary (over one third of my life! AUGH!) at a wonderful French restaurant where the chef, who was appropriately from a small town near where V and I met in France, makes his own cheese and serves unabashed French specialties like scallops in lobster cream sauce and wild venison with home-grown vanilla. The food was punch-yourself-in-the-face good and the chef had an awesome mustache, so it was a pretty great night.

How this blog went from traveling in Vietnam to all things facial hair, I will never know...

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Bugs, Boxing and a Bikini Wax in Bangkok

Oh yeah, I’m going there.

While I am usually shameless when it comes to over-sharing, I do realize that coming back after a three week hiatus to tell you about a bikini wax is not the most subtle of moves. But trust me on this one, it's hilarious. And yes, I’m trying to convince myself of it every bit as much as I’m trying to convince you.

But before we get to the awkward TMI section of the blog, let’s first cover the more appetizing stuff, like how we ate bugs.

I could fill an entire post about all of the delicious things we ate while in Bangkok, but I pretty well beat that dead horse in my last post about Singapore and Malaysia. Yes, we ate well, but I’m sure you are far more interested about the one time we didn’t.

But first, let me be honest: the average Thai does not eat bugs. We didn’t see them on any restaurant menus and have witnessed the act of eating bugs far more in travel shows than we did on the streets of Bangkok. However, at one of the markets we visited, there was a lady who sold all sorts of deep-fried nasties from her cart on the side walk. Grasshoppers, cockroaches, crickets, grubs, tree frogs and whole baby birds. Now, I will eat a lot of things, but I will not eat a whole baby bird: eyes, bones, beak and all. Ew.

 

Instead, we opted for the grubs and the manageably-sized crickets (the grasshoppers had a lot of stringy leg that I wasn’t keen on having stuck in my teeth). First up, the grubs. Since Vincent’s gastronomic limits are essentially nonexistent- one time he made a stir-fry with fishing bait, realized his mistake and ate it anyway- he was the grub guinea pig.

“Hmm, they are actually really good! Try one, it tastes like shrimp.”

That, dear readers, was a lie. It most pointedly did not taste like shrimp. It tasted like bug, complete with gooey interior. I gagged and almost lost the contents of my stomach right there on the sidewalk. Meanwhile, Vincent was throwing back his bag of grubs like popcorn, oblivious to the crowd of people who had gathered to watch him in a sort of fascinated disgust. Some of the locals even took pictures of the big white guy happily eating a bag of grubs.

Next, the crickets. Despite his affinity for grubs, Vincent was a little more skeptical about the bigger bugs and was uncertain if he wanted to commit to a whole bag. As we contemplated what to do, a Thai lady bought a bag of crickets that the vendor sprayed with chili oil. Obviously sensing that we were staring at her, waiting for her to eat one of them, the woman offered to let us try some of her crickets to see if we liked them. And, surprisingly, we did!

Unlike the gooey grubs, the crickets were all grease and crunch and tasted more like pork cracklins than bugs. I was happy to have tried one but wasn’t about to make a meal out of it, but Vincent immediately bought a bag.

Of course he did.

Eating bugs wasn’t the only adventure we had in Bangkok, we also attended a Thai Boxing, or Muay Thai, match at a local arena. In Bangkok, there are several boxing arenas that gear more towards tourists, but the guy who ran our hostel (who happened to have a mystifying, yet hilariously over-the-top man crush on Vincent) told us to go to a local arena out of town, where entry was free and we’d likely be the only tourists there.

We arrived around an hour before the matches began to an already-full arena. I guess arena is a big word, this was more like an over-sized garage with an elevated ring in the middle and a few wooden risers lining the walls. Between those two structures, there was an area to sit on the concrete floor that was packed with Thais. We squeezed in, knee-to-knee with a mass of strangers who were just thrilled to count us among them. I’m not being sarcastic, they seriously were so excited. Three people even asked to take a picture with me. I guess a white girl at a Muay Thai match is somewhat of a commodity.

Now, I’m not at all one for violence: boxing, wrestling, even hockey games put me off. So before the match, I was a little concerned that I wouldn’t like the hyped-up machismo and testosterone-fueled frenzy that comes with a fighting match. But, as usual, my anxieties were for nothing.

I loved it.

The fight itself was only one part of the match. First, there was the ceremony before each fight where the boxers walked around the ring, praying to each corner post before doing this little dance in the middle. I can’t do it justice with words, so here’s a video. 

Then, during the fight itself, while the two opponents are pummeling each other with fists, elbows, knees and feet, a trio of musicians plays a rhythmic, hypnotic melody on their instruments, turning the match into a kind of highly physical ballroom dance. The fighters sway side to side with the music as they plan their attacks and the whole thing is actually very beautiful to watch. We did witness a KO, which terrified me because the victim didn’t move for a good twenty seconds and I was convinced I had just witnessed someone’s death, but other than that, there wasn’t too much excessive violence and only minimal amounts of blood.

Taking the match from sporting event to cultural spectacle was the crowd, who yelled and groaned and clapped and screamed throughout each fight. Even more interesting though was the betting. Everyone- man, woman, child- was betting with an intensity that rivaled that of the boxers in the ring. At first, we didn’t understand at all what they were doing: people yelling abstractly to the rest of the crowd, making rapid-fire hand gestures, talking into head pieces with their mouths covered by sheets of paper. Then we realized that each person was betting against other people in the crowd, not against a bookie. They would yell their bet while motioning with their hand the amount and then wait to make eye contact with someone who wanted to bet against them. It was complete chaos, with money being passed through the crowd after each match, but it was fascinating to watch. We were so enthralled with the antics of the gambling crowd that we almost forgot about the two guys in the ring beating the hell out of each other.

Speaking of beating the hell out of someone, I got a Thai massage. And not a “massage,” I got an actual, traditional Thai massage. And it hurt.

You see, unlike most Western massages that are meant to relax you, the Thai massage is intensely physical. You lay down in your silk pajamas expecting to be gently kneaded into a drooling, blissed out stupor only to be pummeled ruthlessly for nearly an hour. It’s a lot like Muay Thai, actually, where your assailant can use her fists, elbows, knees and feet, but instead of having your ass kicked by a fit, hard-faced boxer, you are pleading for mercy from an unassuming little old lady who only a few minutes ago was washing your feet and offering you tea. It is intense. After my massage, it was all I could do to stagger back to our hostel and collapse face-down on the bed, completely exhausted by someone else’s physical effort.

The next day I was a human again and was able to see a few of the many tourist sites that Bangkok has to offer. The city gets a bad rap, not undeservedly, for the whole sex tourism thing, but it also has a surprising amount of attractions of a less hedonistic nature. It really is a lovely city, with long boats floating down picturesque canals and numerous temples, palaces and pagodas.

Come on, one picture of street food...

I can’t think of an appropriate segue from Buddhist temples to a bikini wax, so I’m just going to jump into it. If this is way too much information for your delicate sensibilities (and really, who could blame you?), stop reading now. You have been warned (but don't worry, there are no pictures.)

For my appointment at a tiny local beauty salon, I was led to the back of the actual salon, up a dark, creaky wooden staircase, through someone’s kitchen and into what looked like a bedroom without any furniture except a bare mattress on the wooden floor. At the foot of the mattress, also on the floor, was a thin blanket: my waxing table. The idea was to lay on the blanket leaning against the mattress in my underwear in a position that can only be described as “the Frog,” while a tiny Thai woman sat cross-legged on the floor between my legs and ripped out any unwanted hair.

And I was paying for this.

In the beautician’s defense, she at least talked to me during this torture, trying to take my mind off the fact that this was probably the most uncomfortable- physically and emotionally- I had ever been. During the course of our conversation, I absentmindedly asked her if Western women were hairier than Thai women. To answer my question, she told me that when she first started working, she only waxed local women, but then when she moved to this salon, she started working on Westerners as well. One of her first Western bikini wax clients was a tourist who apparently had been traveling for a while and had neglected that particular grooming habit.

At this point in the story, the little Thai lady between my knees stopped what she was doing and looked up at me, her eyes wide with awe-struck earnestness. 

Then she whispered, “I had never seen so much hair in my life.”

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Asia 101

We’re back at it.

After the first world comfort of Australia and New Zealand (and Chile and Argentina, for that matter) and the privacy and freedom of camping, we are back to backpacking in the developing world, with all of the craziness that goes with it.

And, even better, we’re in Asia.

I’ve been ridiculously excited about going to Asia since we started planning this trip. It was the last continent that I’d never been to (except Antarctica, but I’ll get there one of these days) and the culture is of course unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t wait to experience the people, the colors, the religions, all of it.

But there was one reason above all others that made the continent particularly enticing; a reason that can be summed up in two words:

Street Food.

Now, if you’ve been reading this blog for a while (and if so, thank you!), you know just how much I adore street food. I love that food is the only focus, unimpaired by the rest of the stuff that usually comes with a dining experience. At a food stall on the sidewalk, there are no decorations, no mood music, no friendly wait staff to distract you. There is nothing for the food to hide behind, which is why street food is often the best food. I would even go as far as to say that often the best dishes you can find while travelling will be eaten either standing up or sitting on a plastic stool on a sidewalk. When you see someone, usually an older someone, making their living serving only one dish that they have probably been serving for years, you know it’s not going to suck.

Illustrating just how deeply I adhere to this belief, you should know that we were in Singapore and Malaysia for six days and did not step foot in a restaurant even once.

We started our Asian adventure in Singapore, which, I think I can now safely say, is one of the best places to eat in the world. Singapore’s vast mix of cultures- Chinese, Malaysian, Indian, Thai, Vietnamese, Korean and so on- make it the perfect introduction to Asia, and, of course, Asian cuisine.

Singapore is a country, a city and an island all in one, and its cultural diversity is evidenced everywhere you look. While it remains very Asian, its official language is English (a throw-back to the old days of the British Empire) and it’s an international economic powerhouse. The country is very clean and famously rigid with its rules: drug smuggling carries a mandatory death penalty and chewing gum is outlawed. There are bustling cultural enclaves- Chinatown, Little India, Arab Street and the like- but its cosmopolitan culture extends beyond the East. American and European chain stores crowd out local shops in the giant air-conditioned shopping malls that seem to be on every corner and skyscrapers tower over the city in every direction.

Just a few of Singapore's many rules on its Metro. No stinky durians is my personal fave.

Really? The root of ALL evils???

Yet despite its obvious globalization and modernity, Singapore was a delight to visit.

And by visit, I mean eat in.

Years ago, as in the rest of Asia, Singapore’s food vendors operated out of carts on the streets. Then, in a stroke of visionary genius, the city officials moved all of the vendors, or hawkers, into indoor food courts called hawker centers. With this one controversial move, the city managed to clean up the congested streets, raise the level of food hygiene among the hawker stalls and create temples of eating where you can find any food your heart desires. From experience, I can say that the result is glorious.

Imagine walking into a food court with immeasurable eating options, only instead of McDonalds, Taco Bell and Sparro’s, you have stall after stall of specialty dishes from the best cooks in the area. Everything is fresh and flavorful and made by someone who has been perfecting those dishes for decades. And since it is all in the same place, you can mix and match as you please to create a diverse, delicious multi-course meal without ever leaving the food court. And lest you be thinking that the hawker centers are just sterilized, colorless bastardizations of real eating communities, please see below.

Hawker center in Little India with people lining up 10-deep for delicious Mutton Biryani

No chance of getting our own table in the busy centers, so we needed to share

Can you spot the white guy who is super excited about his chicken rice?

My wonton noodle stand

I was a hawker center convert. That is, until we went to Malaysia.

While one can find a food court here and there, Malaysia’s food vendors are still in the streets with their carts, and, as we found out, are still making awesome food. I could go on and on describing all of the incredible things we have been eating in the past six days, but this is a travel blog, not a food blog, so I’ll restrain myself. If you do like to dabble in food porn every once in a while, visit our Eating page to get your fix.

I may have spared you the food play by play, but I won’t stop myself from indulging in pictures of the places we have been eating and the people who have been feeding us in Singapore and the Malaysian cities of Kuala Lumpur and Georgetown in Penang.

Waiting patiently for my coconut curry grilled corn

Durians, the famously stinky SE Asian fruit. They are so smelly that they are banned from confined public spaces!

The adorable little lady who made our rojak, a salad of fried tofu, cucumbers and pineapple tossed in a sweet soy and shrimp sauce and topped with crushed peanuts, lime juice and scallions.

The chef of an amazing fish dish we had with spicy black bean, chili, garlic and ginger sauce.

328 Katong Laksa, home of the best laksa in Singapore (and that's our rojak lady behind the stall to the left!)

Loving his hawker stall mutton biryani.

Malaysia, like Singapore, is extremely ethnically diverse: only about 55% of the population is Malay, while the rest is Chinese, Indian and others. The result is a crazy cohabitation of religion, culture and cuisine.

In both Singapore and Malaysia, Buddhist and Hindu temples sit side by side on the same street, as if competing for the architectural awe of passersby. An adhan, or Islamic call to prayer, rings out from the loud speaker of a minaret, while across the street, I kid you not, a Thai streetwalker shimmies to the melodic chanting. 

Apart from the occasional blaspheming hooker, all of these cultures coexist in a fascinating, colorful, mashed-up harmony. It's incredible.

We awkwardly stumbled into a Buddhist ceremony at a temple in Singapore

A wall of the Buddhist temple lined with hundreds of Buddha statues, all of them unique.

The temple's exterior

Dried sea creatures at the Chinatown market in Singapore

A dance group at a Malay heritage celebration in Singapore

A Hindu temple in Singapore

The heavily-adorned roof of a Hindu temple

 

 

 

 

More Hindu deities

A mosque in Singapore

Despite the undeniable Asian-ness of both countries, Singapore and Malaysia remain very modern, developed and Westernized. There are 7/11’s on the corners and KFC’s in the shopping malls. This is still Asia 101.

Next up, Intermediate Asia.

From Penang, we took an overnight train to Bangkok, which, as long as you stay well away from the tourist ghetto, is much more of a culture shock than any of the Asian cities we've been to so far. After Bangkok, we hope to head to Advanced Asia: Myanmar (formerly Burma), Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam, pending visas and monsoons.

Now if you would excuse me, there’s some street food outside with my name on it.

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