(Hanoi, Vietnam 14:22.6.4.2004)
I am lost and I've had it. I am playing Frogger, but on a vitally grave level. One false move means my leg gets run over. The streets of Hanoi are dangerously coursing with thousands of motorcycles -- all lawlessly careening into me and turning corners in strange acute angles I have never seen. How is this possible and what is that two year old child doing at the backseat of one, hanging onto his mother's ponytail?
Blame this description to my tendency for exaggeration because I haven't seen a single disaster yet. And I've discovered the secret to crossing is a casual but persistent display of inertia. Just keep moving forward and the motorcycles will respond. (Or just shadow the old woman who crosses as she balances loads of vegetables on a dowel spanning her back.)
Anyway, I'm lost, and I just give up. "Well, Jose, your hotel isn't just going to fly away. It WILL be there, and you'll find it eventually." While this sequence of logic is a little fuzzy (the pollution here may be culprit) it has so far served me well. So I decide to eat.
I find a harmless cafe on the corner of a street. Nobody's inside, but I'm starving. I make universal gestures indicating hunger (hand-to-agape mouth) and one woman points to another woman on the floor. Ahh, the food's being made on the ground, feet away from the gutter. OK, sure. She opens up the pot, revealing steamed buns. I've had these before. OK, sure and coffee too please. I start eating the bun. Ahh, and my coffee (with a chunk of ice in the middle) is brought to me by an older woman with bleeding gums. There is meat inside the bun and I won't allow myself to identify the animal source. Later, I make the unsettling realization that there are no stray dogs in the city. But when you're hungry, a delicious meal is a delicious meal.
Even after the meal, I am still lost and I notice the sun quickly setting. No problem. As soon as it is completely dark, I see that each street caters to specific needs. There is a tin street, where you can buy pots and pans. There is a toy street, and a red paper lantern street (the prettiest of them all, as you can imagine), and a school supplies street, and a door hinges street. Everybody is outside, squatting on tiny plastic stools cooking and chatting away. It's a beautifully vibrant and communal atmosphere.
So I'm hungry again, find another restaurant. This one has menus and I order a familiar shrimp sweet and sour dish and the local beer, called Tiger. The beer loosened me up a bit, enough to regain my bearings and reorient myself. My hotel, hadn't flown away -- I was right, see -- and it goes to show that sometimes all a person needs is a little alcohol.
Today I ordered a sour soup, which seemed OK, until I started stirring it and dozens and dozens and dozens of tiny fish eyeballs popped up to the surface.
I am lost and I've had it. I am playing Frogger, but on a vitally grave level. One false move means my leg gets run over. The streets of Hanoi are dangerously coursing with thousands of motorcycles -- all lawlessly careening into me and turning corners in strange acute angles I have never seen. How is this possible and what is that two year old child doing at the backseat of one, hanging onto his mother's ponytail?
Blame this description to my tendency for exaggeration because I haven't seen a single disaster yet. And I've discovered the secret to crossing is a casual but persistent display of inertia. Just keep moving forward and the motorcycles will respond. (Or just shadow the old woman who crosses as she balances loads of vegetables on a dowel spanning her back.)
Anyway, I'm lost, and I just give up. "Well, Jose, your hotel isn't just going to fly away. It WILL be there, and you'll find it eventually." While this sequence of logic is a little fuzzy (the pollution here may be culprit) it has so far served me well. So I decide to eat.
I find a harmless cafe on the corner of a street. Nobody's inside, but I'm starving. I make universal gestures indicating hunger (hand-to-agape mouth) and one woman points to another woman on the floor. Ahh, the food's being made on the ground, feet away from the gutter. OK, sure. She opens up the pot, revealing steamed buns. I've had these before. OK, sure and coffee too please. I start eating the bun. Ahh, and my coffee (with a chunk of ice in the middle) is brought to me by an older woman with bleeding gums. There is meat inside the bun and I won't allow myself to identify the animal source. Later, I make the unsettling realization that there are no stray dogs in the city. But when you're hungry, a delicious meal is a delicious meal.
Even after the meal, I am still lost and I notice the sun quickly setting. No problem. As soon as it is completely dark, I see that each street caters to specific needs. There is a tin street, where you can buy pots and pans. There is a toy street, and a red paper lantern street (the prettiest of them all, as you can imagine), and a school supplies street, and a door hinges street. Everybody is outside, squatting on tiny plastic stools cooking and chatting away. It's a beautifully vibrant and communal atmosphere.
So I'm hungry again, find another restaurant. This one has menus and I order a familiar shrimp sweet and sour dish and the local beer, called Tiger. The beer loosened me up a bit, enough to regain my bearings and reorient myself. My hotel, hadn't flown away -- I was right, see -- and it goes to show that sometimes all a person needs is a little alcohol.
Today I ordered a sour soup, which seemed OK, until I started stirring it and dozens and dozens and dozens of tiny fish eyeballs popped up to the surface.
OVERABUNDANCE OF FILIPINO WOMEN IN HONG KONG EXPLAINED
(a post script on Hong Kong)
My investigative journalism skills came in handy as my curiosity finally got the best of me. I crossed the bay onto Hong Kong island and once again was overwhelmed by the number of Filipino women, sitting on the ground, playing cards, laughing, giving each other pedicures. Now, I thought I knew how to spend the day relaxing...
So I finally asked one woman what they were doing there. She said, "Waiting for our day off." I'm not really sure what that meant, so I kept walking.
"How come there are no Filipino men here?"
"This is where the women hang out."
OK.
"But what are they doing here?" And this woman just stared at me.
"Do you all live in Hong Kong?" She stared again and I just walked away. I crossed the street onto a central plaza adjacent to city hall. There were thousands of them now.
A few main thoroughfares in the central financial district were blocked off. There was something going on. I made my way to the center of everything and finally saw what was going on.
A potato sack relay race! Yay!
After a couple falls -- to the cheers of opposing teams -- and the declaration of a winning group, a man came on and began speaking.
There are 86,000 migrant Filipino workers in Hong Kong and the current Filipino administration has neglected these workers'health care rights. They have insurance while they are working abroad -- Hong Kong laws ensure that -- but when their contract ends, they are cut off. Certain global labor unions with chapters in Hong Kong are mobilizing the substantial migrant-worker vote to unseat current Filipino president Gloria Macapagal Arroyo in the upcoming election.
Having potato sack races, skits and awful dance performances is the best way to bring this issue to light. Only Filipinos.
(a post script on Hong Kong)
My investigative journalism skills came in handy as my curiosity finally got the best of me. I crossed the bay onto Hong Kong island and once again was overwhelmed by the number of Filipino women, sitting on the ground, playing cards, laughing, giving each other pedicures. Now, I thought I knew how to spend the day relaxing...
So I finally asked one woman what they were doing there. She said, "Waiting for our day off." I'm not really sure what that meant, so I kept walking.
"How come there are no Filipino men here?"
"This is where the women hang out."
OK.
"But what are they doing here?" And this woman just stared at me.
"Do you all live in Hong Kong?" She stared again and I just walked away. I crossed the street onto a central plaza adjacent to city hall. There were thousands of them now.
A few main thoroughfares in the central financial district were blocked off. There was something going on. I made my way to the center of everything and finally saw what was going on.
A potato sack relay race! Yay!
After a couple falls -- to the cheers of opposing teams -- and the declaration of a winning group, a man came on and began speaking.
There are 86,000 migrant Filipino workers in Hong Kong and the current Filipino administration has neglected these workers'health care rights. They have insurance while they are working abroad -- Hong Kong laws ensure that -- but when their contract ends, they are cut off. Certain global labor unions with chapters in Hong Kong are mobilizing the substantial migrant-worker vote to unseat current Filipino president Gloria Macapagal Arroyo in the upcoming election.
Having potato sack races, skits and awful dance performances is the best way to bring this issue to light. Only Filipinos.
