Soppy post alert

Last weekend I went with Dung to Bac Giang province, about 120 km from Hanoi. Dung comes from this tiny village in Bac Giang called Xom Thuong, and I had to go and meet his family. He said if I went to Bac Giang with him, I would "understand everything". I still understand very little, but it was eye-opening nonetheless.



Bac Giang is in the mountains and is really beautiful - I love the Vietnamese countryside - but almost everyone that lives there is a farmer, and it's really poor. Like, a whole different kind of poor to anyone in England. The way of life is so different to anything I'm used to, and I don't think I ever could get used to it. Vietnam is a pretty weird place at the best of times, and this is magnified when the toilet is a hole with two bricks to stand on, and the cooker is an open fire. The Aga and my ensuite in Kirdford were very far away.



The visit was also made more difficult by the vast significance imbued by me meeting his family i.e. they all see me as his future wife. I had to be super-polite to everyone I met, but as soon as I feel shy my Vietnamese jams up and I can't think of anything to say, and I also feel like one big walking cutural faux pas, being horrifically rude and not knowing it. His family is huge, and they're all so so friendly, but a constant stream of new people to drink green tea with is quite exhausting.



It turned into a running joke between Dung and me, because it seemed like everyone we met around the village, Dung would say "That's my uncle". I swear he has around 30 uncles. Because Vietnamese has different words for "uncle" depending on whether it's your mum's younger brother or your dad's older brother or your mum's sister's husband or whatever, I don't think Dung had ever noticed how many uncles he had until he had to translate them all into the same word. At the end of the weekend, he said "It's ok, we can go home now, no more uncles."



This is when it starts sounding like the moral of a crap film, but even though (and possibly because) they're poor, the extended family is really awesome and close-knit. There was always people around, coming and going, and they're all so friendly and supportive of one another. It makes me feel a bit bad for fucking off to the other side of the world, because although I don't really know my extended family, my parents and brother are rad, and I should be closer to them. It's a privilege of wealth that we're able to ditch our family and go and do our own thing, but maybe it's good to stay close anyway.



On Saturday night, possibly in honour of having guests, they butchered a cat for dinner. When I asked Dung what his cousin was hacking apart (with a saw, on the ground outside the front door), the conversation proceeded as follows:



"Dung oi, what's that he's cutting up? Is that beef?"

"No, it's a tiger. Con ho, you know?"

"Khong phai. Even Vietnamese don't eat tigers. I don't believe you."

"Phai! They live in the mountains in Bac Giang. Delicious."

"It's not a tiger, Dung. What is it?"

"Ok, it's not a tiger...it's a cat. Con meo. A cat from the mountains."

"Khong phai! You don't eat cat, do you? Is that really a cat? It's not a cat. Is it a cat?"

"Really it's a cat! It's true."

"...No. It's not a cat. You wouldn't eat a cat...would you?"

"Cat is delicious."

"But there's no meat on a cat. Cats are thin. So not delicious. What is he cutting up?"

"Ok, it's not a cat...It's a man."

(I storm off to find someone who talks sense)



Anyway, turns out it was a cat. I felt bad continually turning down the meat they offered me, since it was probably a big deal to have that much meat on offer - yet another faux pas from the big rude whitey. So, after continual offers of the cat meat...I ate a piece. I got away with the smallest piece possible and swallowed it whole so I didn't have to taste it. Embryonic quails are one thing, but I'm so not comfortable eating cat. Cats-are-friends-not-food is one indoctrination I'm happy to keep.

Overall the trip to Bac Giang was fun, and I met some very good people, but I was thankful to come back to Hanoi on Sunday afternoon.

Caught singing for blood money? Don't be embarassed. Do what 50 Cent does: embrace it.

I'm evidently to lazy to write a blog post, so I'm posting an article by someone much funnier and better than me. Charlie Brooker is a genius.

Quoth the vegan

When I first got to Hanoi, drinking beer was a novelty. Six months later, and I'm going out after work for quail foetuses. Maybe if I stayed here another six months, I'd be gnawing on pig's bollocks as I watched TV. It's probably good I'm leaving.

trứng cút lộn: tasty

Frankly as feathery and veiny in the flesh as it looks in that picture, when Linh unexpectedly plopped one into my bowl of garlicky chilli sauce, my reaction was a predictable "NO. WAY." But then...well...she ate a couple, and I wanted to join in. They taste really nice, I swear they do. Like a meaty egg, and not crunchy or fluffy at all, although that depends on its age. I think technically it's a fertilised quail's egg with a nearly-developed embryo inside, that's then boiled. Does that make it sound more appetising? I ate five, each followed by a chaser of the garlicky chilli stuff. We also ate some snails and drank some corn juice (which was very yummy).

Linh says when she goes there, they can usually eat 20 quail eggs each, easily. She also said that it's the sort of place that young people like to go, especially girls, whose boyfriends go along to please the girlfriends. Which is not what you'd expect from a filthy back alley serving foetuses and snails. I learnt (from Linh's boyfriend Tuan, who showed up to please his girlfriend) how the way they're served has a scientific basis - snails and trứng cút lộn are served cold, and considered 'cold' sorts of foods, which is why they're served with lots of chilli, to balance the cold. In the South, they use Vietnamese coriander to make it more spicy. Like Yin and Yang. Trứng cút lộn are also full of protein and vitamins, and if you eat loads you'll get big and strong.

I now think that it's stupid to feel squeamish about stuff like that. Eating an egg with an embryo in it is not really any different to eating a normal egg (pretty much all the eggs in VN, and the ones from our chickens at home, are fertilised anyway), and it's also no different to eating the embryo a few months later when it's a fully-grown bird. They're just degrees on a scale, and it so happens that at two points on that scale we're accustomed to it and so think nothing of it, and the point in the middle is unusual in the West so we think it's gross. Having said that, I'm still not sure I'm ready for trứng vịt lộn, the ducky equivalent, and even more popular here than trứng cút lộn.

trứng vịt lộn: give it three months

I need to learn to wear underwear when I go on long runs

I had a beautiful run this evening around West Lake; today was warmer/wetter than it has been all winter, and felt a lot more tropical, but the breeze coming off the lake made it the perfect temperature for a sweaty run.

Along with listening to Dr Dre on my iPod and imagining that I was a G, I amused myself with all the quirky stuff I saw on my way round. The teenage boys with mohawks, doing wheelies at 60mph on any straight stretch of road, aren't big and they aren't clever, but they do look pretty cool. The rats under my feet are my rodenty friends; the bat that flew splat into my forehead scared me and was not a friend (I thought they were supposed to have a good sense of direction?). The old man on a bicycle who decided to to a U-turn on a busy stretch of road, without looking, pretty much got what was coming to him when a motorbike rammed into him and they both went flying down the road (I think they were both ok though). There was some event at the pagoda, and hence many gold sparkly things for sale, many big plastic money-pigs, and many people in my way who did not understand my need to pass. Today I did not see the pot-bellied pig who sits by the lake, but he is usually a highlight.

I made a new friend towards the end of the loop around the lake, when I was glad for an excuse to give up running. His name is Hop, and he is vice director of a wood panelling company - quite a catch. He didn't speak English, and he spoke Vietnamese very fast; I understood about 20% of our conversation, including the bits I said. We ate pho and then sat on a bench, where we talked some more using words I don't know. I think I've become quite accustomed to perpetual confusion, and so I enjoyed the meeting very much. On Saturday we're going to go for a walk! (At least, I think he said 'walk'...)


Actually, I am currently in a very difficult situation. The reason I left England was because I wanted to travel. Now I'm about to quit my job, I've got the funds and the lack of ties such that I can go anywhere I want...but I want to stay in Hanoi! I don't know what to do! I'm like Buridan's ass (donkey), who got stuck between two bales of hay because they were both the same distance away, and he couldn't make any rational decision to choose one over other. And that donkey starved to death. HE DIED. Now I'm in his situation. Life is so hard.

"I think I'll move to Saigon," Dave said, "because the people in Hanoi are so unfriendly."

Two minutes later, the three Vietnamese sitting opposite fill us up glasses of gin from their bottle of Bombay Sapphire, and continue to give us refills, shisha and chips for the next two hours. Then they left before we could return the favour. I think they were just being friendly.

I love Hanoi.

Bac Ha, Chichester, Laos, Glastonbury...

Evidently I'm so keen on Hanoi that I couldn't drag myself away from my motorbike long enough to write a blog post. But now it's Friday night, I've got a mug of cider, no friends, and nothing better to do, so I will write.

I met an interesting man the other day. A friend of a friend of mine is blind, and although that is probably really shit in lots of ways, he has developed an awesome talent. He has the most spot-on British pronunciation of any Vietnamese person I've met. Living in Bac Ha, a small town a fair way outside of Hanoi, I'm pretty sure he doesn't hang out with loads of Westeners. He claims to listen to the BBC World Service and try to copy how they talk, but he doesn't even speak BBC pronunciation, he sounds EXACTLY like he comes from Chichester. I did a double take when I met him - a Vietnamese man gets off a motorbike, and says "Alright, how's it going?" sounding just like he could live down the road from me in England. His actual vocabulary/grammar was about as good as my other friends who speak really good English - about 80% there - but the pronunciation was mentally good.

My friend explained that because this guy Dat can't see how the words are written, he doesn't get distracted by trying to pronounce them as though they are Vietnamese words. He just hears sounds, and mimics them. I definitely do this when I'm learning Vietnamese - it's like I'm wired to produce a certain sound when I see the letter 'd' or 'u', which causes problems when I read a name like 'Duy'. If I'd only heard the pronunciation like 'Zwee', I wouldn't start trying to call my student 'Doy', and no one would laugh at me. Combining sight and sound can make things more difficult when they don't correlate like we expect them to.

I also think Dat (pronounced 'Dat') has an unfair advantage when it comes to pronunciation - pretty sure I've read that if you lose one sense, your other ones become stronger to compensate. So perhaps he can hear pronunciation more accurately than we can. Maybe he has really good tastebuds too.

Actually Dat turned out to not be a very nice man; he got drunk and started making lewd comments about me and my friend Tien. But he doesn't have to be a nice man to be a fascinating scientific experiment.

Chichester: Dat is not from here

Because thus far this feels insufficient to make up for such neglectful and erratic posting, I will update anyone who cares on my life plans. I'm going to quit my job in May, or sooner if I can bear to drag myself away from my fat paycheck. Children are very nice but too noisy, and actually some of them aren't very nice at all. Then I will travel from Hanoi to Bangkok overland, via Laos. I plan to do this trip slowly, because whenever I travel I'm rushing and missing stuff. Then I will go on aeroplane for a long time, and end up in London. Then I will go somewhere else. Then I will go to Glastonbury, and dance like a mentalist to all the music they've never heard of in Hanoi. Then I will go to Brighton or London and work in a summer school. Then I will go to Sonisphere with my brother. Hopefully there will be more festivals and more pub gardens in the interim. Now we are at the beginning of August, what will I do then, I don't know. In fact none of this is confirmed yet, but it'd be pretty sweet if it happened, and I love that I'm in a position right now where these things are options. The only obstacle is my boyfriend, his attractiveness, awesomeness and lure to make me stay in Hanoi longer than I would otherwise. Always better off single.

here is a photo of me finishing a 10k last weekend: chosen because it is the only photo I've ever seen of me running in which I look like I'm actually moving

Why it's good to be home (Hanoi vs. Bangkok)

I've never before felt so good about coming home from holiday. The last time I had to leave Thailand, I would rather have stuck toothpicks in my eyes than go back to a degree I hated (at the time). But now I live in a city I love, I even found myself looking forward to coming back, just a little bit.

That's not to say I didn't desperately want to stay in Pai, the little hippy town in the mountains north of Chiang Mai where we spent most of our time, driving to waterfalls on motorbikes and falling asleep next to campfires. But it's impossible to stay in Pai, because like going down the rabbithole, Pai isn't real. In the real world, no one actually believes that futurology and crystals actually work, there are never so many beautiful semi-naked men with dreadlocks, there are music genres other than reggae and psytrance, and if you continuously drank so much Thai whisky your liver would implode. Pai is just a dream - not sustainable.

Pai at sunrise; beautiful man with dreadlocks on the left

But in terms of where you can actually have a real life and a real job, there's nowhere I'd rather be than Hanoi. These are some thoughts I had today, whilst cruising around on the back of my friend's motorbike, as he told me how I should leave my boyfriend and marry him instead. These thoughts are inevitably subjective, with Hanoi being Home and Bangkok being Holiday Destination, and my opinions would be very different if Bangkok was Home. But usually being Holiday Destination works in favour of a place.

some bored whores

There are the obvious things about Hanoi - it's cheaper, the coffee's better, and the glittering tower-blocks are replaced with small crumbling facades, painted yellow. I also like how in Hanoi, I don't have to worry about complicated and descriptive menus that make me choose between 10 types of coconut and tofu curry, or whether I'm going to have an soy chai latte, or a pot of jiagolon tea, or a kiwi and dragonfruit energy shake with spirulina, or all three. Hanoi is so much more straightforward - a big sign outside the shop proclaiming "BUN CHA" (or whatever) tells you what you're going to have to eat, and if you don't like it you can piss off to the shop marked "PHO", because this shop only does bun cha, and they do it really well. You may drink green tea, beer, or vodka; or go thirsty. The signs are even all in the same font. I cope much better with limited options.

indonesian raw vegetable salad with tempeh and humous, and a mug of warm soya milk, on Khao San Road; admittedly phenomenal

vat of chicken feet

cart o' bugs...see, way too much choice for my brain

I really missed the tiny amount of communicative ability I have here, with people like my taxi driver, the tofu lady at the market, or the non-English-speaking friend-of-a-friend. I'm hardly up to the standard of eloquent philosophical discourse yet, but it's so good to be able to talk to people, and not feel like an outsider.

I guess this one is related to the one above, but it's also because there are less tourists here than in Bangkok. Even though I look freaky, I feel like less of an outsider here, less of a target for scams and pickpocketing. In a city with so many drunken, hapless backpackers, there are people whose entire living comes from fucking up these people's holidays, as we found out the hard way (FYI Mummy and Daddy: first night, Goob, club, rohypnol in drink, passport and money stolen but everything else fine, only messed up one day, rest of the holiday was wicked). I felt the atmosphere on Khao San Road vibrant and entertaining but threatening, with so many people and so many ways to cheat them. Even the minor things, like selling you tat you don't need or tours you don't understand, are present but less obvious in Hanoi, a city that more recently cottoned onto the notion of how much money there is to be made out of us.

hallooo, you buy my theeengs?

I really like the lakes in Hanoi, and being able to run again. I like seeing my boyfriend again, unlike the bizarre temporary relationships formed on holiday. I like my roof garden. I like my landlord welcoming me home, wearing only skimpy gold pajamas and flip flops. I like pho, bun cha, my xao rau, xoi, chao, com... I like drinking mid-afternoon vodka in someone's house with my friends, and knowing for definite that it's not got any fucking roofies in it. I like driving my motorbike on the wrong side of the road.

As you can tell, I'm feeling a bit enamoured with Hanoi today, my first day back. I even felt full of love for the pho lady with the consistently appalling service opposite my house ("Look how she ignores my order in favour of all these Vietnamese people just arriving! Such flagrant disregard for my continued custom as a hungry girl living opposite her stall! So quintessentially Vietnamese of her! I didn't even order this meal!").

See how my tune changes once I have to go back to work on Tuesday.

calligraphy in Chinatown, Bangkok