On field work abroad

I was mentally prepared for this to happen, but I was still disappointed when I received a call Monday morning saying that my refractionist would be unable to go south with me tomorrow (and the following day) to visit one of the schools for the blind – and would I like to examine nuns in HCMC for cataracts instead. I totally understand: she’s 7-and-a-half months pregnant and doesn’t want to make the 5-hour bus trip and overnight stay. But it still would’ve been nice to have more than 21-hours notice that she didn’t want to go. I was unable to find another refractionist to go with me. So now I’ve lost two days of work, missed the opportunity to see kids in a more remote location (with, potentially, a different set of eye diseases), and will likely have to drop 30-50 kids from the study.

I know that working in other countries puts me at the mercy of other people (and their last-minute schedules). So I’m grateful that when my collaborator told me “we’ll collect all the data we need in less than one week so you only have to come here for one week” I ignored his advice and planned to stay for 3 weeks.

With this sudden change in plans, I tried to make some last-minute arrangements. First, I thought that maybe I could go up north to observe the 3-day cataract camp that’s going on today, tomorrow, and the next day. So I hauled over to a travel agency to try to book a last-minute ticket to fly up north and then book a bus for the 4-hour trip to Ha Long Bay – but there are no airline tickets left until the afternoon of the last day of the cataract camp. So I moved onto Plan B: I called my refractionist and agreed to examine the nuns for cataracts. She agreed and we planned on meeting at 8:30am.

Then, I got a text message from her at 9:30 last night saying, “I was unable to reach the nuns so we’ll have to examine them another day.” Drat! Foiled again! (Seems apropos that the trait I’m working on this week is “flexible/easy-going.”)

The good news is that we still have 150 kids to examine at the biggest school in the country (Nguyen Dinh Chieu School for the Blind here in HCMC) so I’ll hopefully still have at least 150-175 kids in my arm of the study (depending on what percentage of the kids at Nguyen Dinh Chieu we’re able to examine).

Smoking indoors

This is one of our relatives at the Duxton last night. (Apparently, he’s a “famous” writer — so my mom says.) I thought the way he was smoking was just hilarious! No front teeth and only a few teeth on the bottom, but still holding onto every bit of tobacco possible.

Asparagus?

I was walking through the market and saw these funny little bunches for sale. I didn’t know what they were and thought they looked a little like asparagus… until they started wiggling! I guess they’re actually… Seasnails!

Blind girl jumping — with beer cans

I shot this picture because I thought it was so absurd that this little blind girl probably had no idea that the little noise-makers that were rustling every time she jumped were beer cans!

Crossing the street

I was crossing the street a couple of days ago and snapped this photo. I wanted to show the feeling that the traffic never stops. To cross the street, you just sort of frogger your way across. Also, I thought this was a particularly interesting shot because in the US, would you EVER see someone motor their kid across town on their lap? Or without a helmet? (And this was one of the tamer things I’ve seen.)

A night at the Duxton

One of our relatives (my grand aunt) is a writer and recently published a book of poetry. So the family decided to throw a big party at one of the hotels downtown. I had no idea what a “fancy” party in Saigon would be like so I complacently put on my little cotton print skirt and t-shirt (which _I_ thought was cute, thank you very much) and hopped in the taxi with my mom (in her little tailored ao dai). My mom says we’re going to the “Daxton,” whatever that is. Sounds sort of hick to me. (Truth be told, my mom did say it would be “fancy,” but my mom’s slightly bonkers so who knows whether or not to believe her.)

Before I know it, we’ve pulled up to the circle driveway of the Daxton Saigon and a man in an embarssingly-tightly-fit uniform with gold-buttoned cuffs and a cute little hat is opening the door for us. We walk up the circle stairs, around the fountain, and through the travertine-clad hotel foyer. When we reach the ballroom upstairs, I see these women in beautiful, tailored silk and velvet ao dais. I suddenly find myself feeling a little underdressed in my little cotton print skirt. A woman reaches over to shake hands hello, adjusting her Gucci purse, and I squeeze my make-up bag that I’ve doubled as a clutch — that I only happened to have brought along as a toiletry bag. Hm… I’m starting to feel like a dork.

If I didn’t know what the occasion was, I would have thought it was a wedding (and that the bride and groom just hadn’t yet made their appearance) rather than a book release. As we enter the ballroom, photographers steal a few snapshots of us, a videographer’s film continues to roll, and we’re greeted by a live band playing traditional Vietnamese music. The ballroom is filled with white seat covers and matching white tablecloths, bejeweled by fine china and accents of glittering silver and crystal. The MC starts acknowledging people in the crowd, asking them to rise when called. One by one, people take to the podium to recount stories; one even breaks into tears. As the night wears on, the people at the podium grow steadily more tipsy, the stories grow weary, the prime rib grows cold, and I find my mind wandering… ooh, I can’t wait until they cut the cake!

In my dorkiness, I brilliantly decide that maybe I should take some pictures. So I take the cover off my SLR and shoot away. I shoot the pearls that match the shimmering silk on one woman’s ao dai. I shoot the sticky rice ensconced in banana leaves. I shoot the tempting tidbits on the dessert buffet. A crowd gathers on the podium and I stand to fit everyone in my viewfinder. “This is a pretty difficult shot, huh” one of the photographers says to me. And I realize I have reached ultimate dorkdom – I’ve been befriended by the geeks.

I hear a familiar voice above the hubbub. “Isabella, you’ve got to try these mushrooms,” my cousin says. She showed up late, wearing jeans and a cute black knit top. I feel a surge of relief and realize that I’m much more of a jeans-and-t-shirt than a silk-and-pearls kind of gal. Okay, okay, I deserve it: call me a hick! =)

On mail-order brides

Today is Sunday and I guess people here sleep in on Sundays. So rather than getting woken up at 5am by the sounds of people rustling about and the city slowly awakening, I got to sleep in until a luxurious 8am! But rather than being awakened by the usual clamor of women selling breakfast, I was awakened by the sound of two loud Frenchmen debating outside my door.

Deciding that I had been sufficiently indulgent in allowing myself to sleep in until 8, I got up out of bed, got ready for the day, and left to go scrounge up some breakfast (from one of the hawker stalls — yum, they’re the best!). As I walked out the door, I saw a row of 7 red trays that I recognized from engagement ceremonies. And of course the French dude was there at the head of the table. Maybe I’m being unfairly presumptuous or judgmental or whatever, but I think it’s fairly safe to say that he came here to pick up his bride.

Maybe she was ordered on the internet. Just $29.99 plus shipping and handling. Buy now, supplies limited! No refunds, no exchanges.

What’s up with that?

It makes me cringe to think that, by the luck of the draw, some people are given socioeconomic advantages that allow them to treat another human being as chattle. So the dude happens to be French (or from some French-speaking place) so he comparatively has a lot of money. And the woman’s parents might have died when she was a child, or maybe she was from a poor family and had to work growing up and wasn’t able to go to school, or maybe she’s hopeful of what life in another country will be like, but isn’t thinking about the linguistic disparities, the racial discrimination, and the social or emotional isolation she might feel upon moving.

Yes, I understand that there are potential benefits to both parties to being in a relationship with such a great power differential (the man gets a wife who wants to cook and clean and do all the “good wife” sorts of things and the woman gets a house with AC, hot water, and a man who can buy her some of the material goods she has wanted). Both parties consent to the arrangement and both believe they’re getting a good deal.

Sounds great.

Sign me up.

I guess I just don’t think life should be about the material things. What’s the point in having AC and hot water and all the material goods your little heart could want if you don’t have your friends and a great emotional and intellectual connection with your spouse?

Sunday afternoon in HCMC

Hey guys, I’m new to this blogging business, but thought I’d give it a try. Send me an e-mail to keep me updated about how things are at home!