Six months in Vietnam as of last Thursday. And What have I
done? Not very fluent in the language, and with apprehension for the future. It
is good that I maintain a foothold with a routine of scribing observations, eh?
First of all, I should give some recognition to the musical backdrop in the
Saint Honore bakery/café place near my home. I’ll get to that in a bit.
First for something more pressing. Have any of you hirsute, masculine
types ever examined your face during the day, only to discover that you neglected
to shave about half of it? It’s more of a drag when your peach fuzz grows at
about an inch per hour. That’s about 109 million cm per nanosecond in metric
terms. I can thank 6 months of the metric system for that last ounce of wisdom,
which a half beard by no means belies.
A region I’ve delved into, at least for the sake of
articulation is something I’m sure a lot of blind, disabled, and other minority
folks can relate to. We often use words like infantilization, patronization, or
condescension to describe a persistent condition. These hover around the mark,
although as words are wont, their package mightn’t make it completely.
I
suppose I have an internal dialogue, although often it uses voices other than
my own. Maybe it is the voice of a less dour and condescending BBC reporter, or
even the sound of a text-to-speech screen reader like JAWS. Maybe it is Stacy Keach,
describing paranormal matters through the refinement of a mustache and
reconstructed cleft palate. Anywho, when I hear my own voice down on Earth, too
often there is this aggravating diminutive quality to it. It is a cerebral state
more than anything. I become the pimple-faced teenager on the Simpson’s; the
cute puppy that talks; the adorable kid that does adult things sometimes – “here,
let me tie your shoe for you…”
One is not allowed the privilege of adulthood. I’ve never
quite felt accepted into that the club of full-time, adult human beings. Privileges,
encase you’ve heard otherwise, can be quite nice things indeed, often worthy of
rights. But there is this small hiccup of a demon that tells me through my own
voice, or that of others, that I, no matter what I do, will always be a child.
It is stultifying and embarrassing. I’ve long had this sense of reality. An
ironic thing is that many minority folk were never fully allowed into the fold
as children. Childhood is a hierarchical, pseudo-meritocracy also, and thus
thrives within a class of outsiders. Ostracization is one side of the coin, but
so is childhood poverty and incrimination. I never really fell into the latter
part. I was quite the good boy most of the time, as now, so the projection has
it. I might’ve been jealous of those who commanded fear through a rap sheet or
stories of classic woe. Even when you are not particularly short, your neck can
grow soar from looking up at people all the time. Maybe this is why I don’t
care for inspirational/motivational speakers much. I am tired of looking up and
not seeing the moon. Maybe I’m using the term adult to refer to that enviable
circumstance one finds oneself in, where you’re not constantly offered help or physically
manhandled during human interaction, or where you are allowed to participate in
common activities, like conversations, games, arts, exercise, etc. with no
strings attached – speaking of which, I’m going to tie your shoes.
Now, I shall describe in only the most
interesting detail, this place that I’ve sometimes gone lately to get some work
or relaxation done. You ever get the sense you don’t quite get the full story on
anything from people? I call it “don’t tell Trev syndrome’. You can get by with
snippets you can run with.
It’s a nice place – this place, although there’s often a guy
that is out in front waiting for me to take too much time in finding the door,
where upon he comes and grabs my wrist or arm like it’s a snake, and guides me
in. I’ve tried some Vietnamese with progressively higher volume to try to
extract myself beforehand. His response is invariably, “ok ok” with no change
in the snake grip.
There’s something for you youngons to learn from such
experiences. As I noted in a recent FB post, speaking for others in your shoes
is not easy, and regularly not advisable. I do have a sense of justice though,
and I will stick to it in spite of contradictions from others that share my
cramped blind shoes. Indeed, there are many blind people that express great
gratitude when someone comes and offers, not just assistance, but bodily manipulation
without asking. I’m almost invariably not one of these. In Vietnam, I’m much
more tolerant of this. I realize, as I’ve stated, that I may find myself in
danger and need, while simultaneously not having the linguistic capacity to
express or receive information on said danger/need. I’ve, somewhat reluctantly,
shown gratitude to those that have come to physically guide me across busy
streets. In fact, unlike in the U.S. or anywhere else I’ve been extensively, in
VN, I have frequently asked for help in crossing some of the more maniacal
streets. Here’s the deal though. I don’t think that my strategy here negates my
general critique of unwarranted assistance. The difficulty in understanding
where the line is drawn lies in the phenomenon of strangeness. It is hard for
the general public to deal with something that is strange. People also want to
be heroes. A need to shimmer and shine in our cast system of heroes is intertwined
with a dread of the unknown. It is the sense we cannot allow for these free-radical
beings, these folks plotting around with mobility devices – these blind people that
move circuitously towards a destination, trailing walls, feeling about for
things, rather than taking the strait, bold trajectories we all know and love. Surely
if they could speak in your language, they would cry out for help, and it might
as well be you, kid, they call upon. Here’s the deal, I say let them. Let them
feel around, let them thrash, flail, spin around, get lost even. They have
voices, and if they are deserving of adulthood, they can ask for help when they
are ready for it. In fact, they might be getting lost, because they are panicking,
sensing that someone is watching them, about to jump out and grab them, or at
least judge them on their lack of grace at any time. There’s a quite good
chance of it. Can adults be strange? I say if you don’t think so, that’s your
problem. Everybody’s got problems, and I’ll try to understand yours… now get
your hands out of the way – I’m going to tie your shoe – get!
II
Now for that place I told you I’d give a fleeting glance at.
Saint Honore has other locations, and I don’t know if what I hear here is
representative. There’s a mix of Chicago blues, including Muddy Waters, John
Lee Hooker, Howlin Wolf, and cuts from the 1994 Jimmy Rogers’s ‘Blues Blues
Blues’ all-star session album, featuring Mic Jagger, Eric Clapton, Taj Mahal
and others. The latter is a quite nice album, though the nominal album Artist,
Mr. J. Rogers, on shared voice and guitar, is a wee overshadowed by the rockers
and younger bluesman in his midst. We get some more old-timy stuff, like Robert
Johnson and Bessy Smith as well. There’s also ‘Poor Man’s Moody Blues’ from
Barclay James Harvest, a symphonic pop rock tune from 1977, in which the band
(BJH) poke fun at their critical comparisons to the Moody Blues. The song stylistically
alludes to the Moody’s hit ‘Nights in White Satin’ of ten years prior. Neither
the BJH tune, nor the Moody Blues’ one bare much trace of blues. One might
suspect the juxtaposition with genuine blues numbers to be a result of goofs in
a streaming service; but then we get genuine classical symphony music from the
Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra (thanks to my iPhone for telling me that, I knew
it wasn’t a BJH Mellotron.), plus New Agy stuff like Enya’s Oronoco Flow and
Karl Jenkins’s ‘Adiemus’ (Jenkins used to play oboe and keys for Soft Machine).
Michael Jackson’s Earth Song appears to slide into the latter genre. This makes
for an uncanny patchwork, but it is a generally pleasant, sophisticated fare.
Most inexplicable are the few blatant Christmas tunes I heard today, including
Perry Como’s ‘There’s No Place Like Home for the Holidays’. Perhaps this is
with reference to the recent school cancelations prompted by the Corona Virus?
The Urban Gentry jazz bar was also spotted playing Christmas music in recent
days.
Unlike cases of Christmas music, last I’ve checked, there
have been no new cases of the virus in the past week, and only some 16 total in
the country -- no deaths. The flu and other diseases are likely having a more
deleterious impact as we speak, although native folks are quite cautious.
Expats are out and about more than ever it seems, like me, out of work until
schools start back up.
Back to
the Saint Honor music scene, the volume is kept at an unobtrusive level, and is
generally nice. The cozy, familiar, and peaceful atmosphere have enticed me to
walk a little further and pay just a bit more money in order to frequent the
place over the past week. Contrast this with the also chain Highlands Coffee,
with its 10 or 15 V-Pop and American top 40 numbers on constant repeat, little
changed in the past 6 months. My brain swings from acceptance to disgust when I
pay Highland’s a visit. There’s something that reeks of a bland dog eat dog commercialism
in the saccharin Highlands music, as well as in the smokey, loud hustle and bustle
I pass through on the street to get there.
Sometimes I get trapped, if you
will, in hints of the familiar: familiar music, people speaking English, fellow
expats, familiar coffee shops and bars. One is wont to this in my condition I reckon,
although attachment to the familiar can stifle adaptation to the unfamiliar, as
might the lack of natural light in my studio apartment. What’s more, I suspect
I’ll feel less infantile once I can actually learn to talk in the ears of natives.
Bonus observation – South Africans
also regularly end sentences with ‘eh’ – a habit usually credited in the U.S.,
with shock and respect, just to Canadians.
Lots of frog sounds coming from
behind the buildings, and to a limited extent, the edge of Ho Tay/West Lake. I
believe they are brown tree frogs (Polypedates megacephalus). The common
English name refers to other species, and there are other terms used, including
Spot-legged Tree Frog and Hong Kong Whipping Frog. Their sound is a cross
between a bark and a quack, a bit like the wood frog of the Eastern U.S.
Got a visa renewal for another 6,
which, as I hear tell, may not be so easy to do come July – South Africans are
to be thanked, eh?
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