Eyes Wide Open

We've got a few days left until our much-anticipated return to America. Anticipate is a funny word, now that I think about it - what's the connotation? In this case, it fits perfectly because I've never felt so ambiguous about going home. I'm already thinking about where I'm gonna stay next year (District 1) and which countries I'm going to visit before and after Vietnam (Indonesia and the Philippines... maybe China for a little bit). It's hard thinking about traffic that doesn't mirror a whirlwind, or food that doesn't come in pre-sliced portions. Hmm... maybe I should get a massage. In a week, I won't be having those thoughts, and it's tough. But for the time being, while I've still got sand left in this hourglass, I'm gonna get down a few more thoughts, and you're gonna read 'em.

One of my favorite sights is that of parents playing with their kids. It's one of those rare phenomena you can't read about in a Polisci textbook or hear about on the news. It's a beautiful sight. A few weeks ago, I saw a father playing badminton with 2 of his kids around 3 PM on a workday. It warmed my heart and made me yearn for my forthcoming reunion with my dad. One of the many evocations I've experienced while being here. This morning, I saw a mom sitting on a bench at the park outside Diamond, playing with him and smiling as she said something deeply encouraging. What it was, who knows? But it made me remember all the times my mom took me into her grasp and said something deeply encouraging at just the right moment, knowing precisely how to improve her son's disposition. Beacons of light abound.

Thanh and I wondered over to District 7, an enclave within a city known for its ethereal beauty. An enclave of colonialist elegance, marked by modern speculative growth. Apartments abound as sprawl ensues, crawling into each parcel of land and reinforcing a consumer culture built by capitalization. This is where the masters of the universe live. It's literally a land unto itself, isolated from the hustle and bustle of Saigon and devoid of any remnants of its Communist past. It's Beverly Hills in Vietnam. I can't say it's disgusting because it isn't, and if I've learned one thing about businessmen, it's that they are making the lives of average Vietnamese better, so why resent them? Why resent them for living lives of luxury? They're comped by a government that values their presence, so why not take advantage of it?

I'm gonna miss learning outside the classroom. They say everything you learn in college is on the street, but it's only during this trip that I've felt that to be true. I go outside and use phrases I picked up that morning, negotiating with bartenders, hailing taxis, and ordering lunch. Granted, I'm nowhere near the level I'd like to be, but I'm moving in that direction. When I wrote my application essay to get into this program, I saw the word immersion and tried to use it as often as possible, figuring it's something I'd automatically like. After all, who wouldn't want to be immersed? But when I arrived in Vietnam and actually found myself "immersed", I started to wonder what I was doing at all. Immersion sounds a lot better when you're applying to a program, I said to myself. Because now I'm stuck in a place where people speak in monosyllabic nothingness about concepts I can't understand nor do I want to. But 2 months later, here I am, lamenting the fact that I won't be exposed to all this in a few days. It's hard to imagine learning Vietnamese in circumstances any different than these; I'm literally in the perfect environment. I love going outside and talking to strangers, and that's something I just can't do in America. I love when I say something to someone and they start laughing and repeat it to all their friends standing around, only to look back at me, repeat it, and say "Gioi qua!" I'll be back next year, and the year after, and as long as people continue to believe in what I'm doing as see me as being worthy of their sponsorship. I'll be here, and I'll be immersed.

Cardboard Erasers

This is one of the posts that shouldn't be written - it should be slept off into the infinite, what Plato called the Realm of Becoming, unknown to mere mortals, only enjoyed by spirits above. But something impels me to stand here, without sitting, at 2:27 AM, before a day of research and language study, and write these words to you. This morning, I bought breakfast from my everyday vendor. I was moving so fast, trying in mangled Vietnamese to understand why she didn't have eggs and tell her that it was alright - I still wanted cheese. Amid my furious vortex of thought and panic, I stopped without trying to, just stopped right there. I realized that I had slowed myself down. Maybe that's more of what I need, slowing myself down. Life comes at'cha fast, doesn't it? Moments like that move slowly.

And what's with the title? I don't know. I stood here for a little while trying to come up with something better, but I kept coming back to "Cardboard Erasers." Now that I stand with an aerial view of my keyboard, I see my hands pouncing on keys like airplans pursuing their targets. Repositioning as the mothership doles out orders, directing each on its way towards home.

Two Thoughts in the Dark

I've got another, longer blog entry in the works, but for the time being, I wanted to get a few thoughts down on paper. Before I do, however, allow me to share a funny anecdote from yesterday's fieldtrip to Saigon Square, HCM City's second largest collection of pseudo-authentic consumer goods. Backstory: once-a-week, we take a field trip to a restaurant or market to practice Vietnamese with the locals. This time, since I needed to buy a few DVDs anyway, my teacher agreed to take me to Saigon Square.

Setting: Burberry Shirt Stand #1,832.
Characters: Matt (Me), Saleswoman 1 (at said stand), and Saleswoman 2 (at an adjacent stand).
Time: Approx. 10:10 AM

Me: "Xin loi, chao em. Cai nay bao nhieu tien?"
Saleswoman 1: "Cai nay la 113,000."
Me: (Action: I tug on the shirt a little bit to test its quality - Dave taught me that one.)
Saleswoman 2: (To Saleswoman 1) "Anh lam gi?"
Me: (Action: I turn around and look right at her.)
Me: "Anh hieu."

I love speaking Vietnamese. Every evening, I try to convince Evan, Florence, Tina, and Jen to do it, and more often than not, they're willing to indulge me. In an attempt to cultivate a "disheveled semi-intellectual" look, I've been growing my beard and wearing long-sleeve shirts and an off-balance hat. Sam asked why I hadn't shaved, to which I replied: "Vi Matt muon de xem ba muoi tuoi" (loosely: because I want to look like I'm 30).

Alright, so here are the observations, and yes, both came to me while I was riding around on the back of a xe om.

1. It's common practice in Vietnam to share wealth with one's family, a concept Westerners sometimes find uncomfortable. For instance, in a movie we watched called Daughter from Da Nang, an American woman reunites with her Vietnamese mother after 30 years of estrangement. Throughout the documentary, our hero conveys her disappointment: she expected to find a woman who was at once deeply apologetic and passionately loving. Instead, she met someone seeingly hoping to capitalize on her American daughter's perceived richness. This typifies the kind of cultural gap Americans share with Vietnamese. As I was thinking about it, I realized that if there were ever a cultural predisposition one could classify as being conducive to socialism, this is it. However, as a representative from 3M told me last week, financial disparity is becoming more and more acceptable. We're witnessing a clash between cultural norms and neoclassical economics. Which will prevail?
2. Although I understand why they feel the way they do, I wish corporate magnates could stifle their enthusiasm for authoritarianism. Some take it so far as to call it a blessing. Go talk to the woman outside Diamond whose hotplate gets lifted periodically by men in uniform and therefore has to spend another 30% of her income on a new one just to salvage the remaining 70. Go talk to the blogger who sits in his room worried that if he writes more, he'll never be able to come back and continue his research. Incentives.

Anyway, that's it for now. I think I'm gonna write some more Vietnamese, then play pool at Carmen with Thanh. I'm really feeling it these days - maybe it's the Aramith pro-speed tournament balls, or the Simonis 860 cloth. Who knows? I just feel like I'm thinking more clearly.

Mekong Musings

I decided to do something I should've done a long time ago: buy a notepad to catalogue my thoughts as they accrue, rather than trying to recall them when I finally have time to write a blog entry. We left for the Mekong Delta on Thursday, and suffice it to say I haven't had that good a time in quite a while. Most of that derived from my having a notepad to scribble in, occasionally producing blog-worthy material, but mostly stringing together words that sounded more complimentary than they actually were. So, rather than piecing a chronology, I've decided to go day-by-day and share a few entries from this already-notorious notepad. I also think it's worth mentioning that Thanh and I have watched Top Gun four times in the last six days. Okay fine, maybe not Thanh.

What you're about to read comes straight from the heart. I went out of my way not to correct myself while writing - just let it flow, whatever it may be. There were no corrections, no second thoughts. No caution for technical detail. No tomfoolery, no sarcasm. Genuine aspirations and emotions, catalogued through a series of words that sounded coherent when I wrote them. Enjoy.

Thursday, 4:00 PM: Hoa An Research Center

• "Navigating bureaucracy is a challenge. Funded entirely by local community - accounts for 20-30% of their income. Will benefit from tuition payments once the new university opens there."
  

Friday, 3:00 PM: En route to Vinh Long

• "Writing on the wooden edge of a ferry, wind blowing back against the brim, camera rattling on my lap. Boats drive by, headed for their destinations, out into the woods, as we drift calmly into the sun on a beautiful summer day. Watching white ridges peak and trough against a sea of shadows and murk. Absorbing strange colors as they come at me one by one. A boat with a red underlining; intricate architecture balancing against the lake, periodic glistening. Reflections of incongruity, randomness, glisten before me. Shallow depths form beneath our roaring ferry, moving closer and closer into the infinite lake. This is Mekong. Pushing out tracts of lake into itself, periodically checking my reflection in the camera. A man wades through searching for something I'm not sure. But I love the feeling of warm heat pressing against my body, challenged by oncoming gusts of winds then batting down once more. Leaves shaped like gloves catch shadows. No building matches another. It's like I'm in a blender, whipped up on a boat headed nowhere. Just into the horizon, into the infinite."
  

Saturday, 7:30 AM: Vinh Long ferry tour

• "Morning and tired but energized and excited. Gonna buy some pineapples, at this floating market of sorts. Cross-cutting currents brush against my scalp, pushing back two months' worth of hair and a shirt that hasn't been washed in days. My legs cringe as a pinch of nature infiltrates the surface - rhyming in my head about the XO Club and all things considered. Running on empty - loving every second. My wallet shivers on my beige pantlet, as my hat sits mischievously atop my left knees. Birches and rickeys corrode placid sea, periodically jutting into cavernous acreages, polluting an otherwise serene shoreline. Where are the birds? I now hear chirping and search endlessly for something more. Wave to the locals, let them know that we're here and we're happy. Cutting through the ocean like a knife, serrating brown, torpid water with the force of Apollo. Eating crickets. Lounging backwards. And then more colors! Glorious ones, as we drift melancholy past a house big enough for 2 but suitable for 4. Rippling burgeoning promulgation. Setting something against the wistful morose. Becoming part of the culture. Serenading each wave with rhyme catatonic."
  

Saturday, 9:00 AM: The Floating Market

• "He celebrated our departure with the kind of youthful exuberance you can't find anywhere else. Ten thousand jolts of energy passed through his body as we waved goodbye, thanks for the fruit. G-d's land. Dark, savvy, but bright, stemming infinite blue water elevated. The shoreline punctures a rapidly flowing stream of black puddles of ovals moving through like pods as I navigate through the factory - walking inconsistently on ground unpaved. They sift through morsels of gold, decorating their hands with granules precious, flying towards me with the wind."
  

Saturday, 12:00 PM: Lunch in Vinh Long

• "Breathened by a vengeful sun, raining down on its behooved, stirring towards perfection. Drip, drip, drip. Seconds move like fumbling stones drifting down a mountainside. Pineapple sugars permeate the deepest canals of my stomach, swimming through."
  

Sunday, 11:00 AM: Ben Tre Province

• "Man, I haven't been able to write all day. Liberation - glorious red flags shaded yellow as we rode through damper streets of black and white speckled marble flies amidst. Children following us as we paraded through their market, careful to stay far enough away to chide each other to say 'Hello!' before running away with an air of stigmatic precious. Baking in the hot sweltering sun, mind still racing to keep up with my feet. Wearing a woven blue shirt with a gator crawling across the top, stuck in a perpetual state of motionlessness. Reminiscing about the sweet cold of flan, surface penetrable by a wove of icy forks, nestled between mounds of ice, splintering against coffee-flavored sugardrums. Belying a sense of mystique while trepidating in my air of lush pilshire. Reflecting a staircase around round mollusks between."
  

Told you :)

Here I Am

A nicer morning hasn't come my way in a long time. Let's see, where to begin? Well, let's first acknowledge the obvious: I've been awake for 22 hours and 22 minutes. Right now, any bit of functionality left in my system owes to Sam and Lam. Let's also acknowledge something that isn't as obvious. I feel great. I love Viet Nam. I feel great about loving Viet Nam. Moreover, I love research. I've been up all night piecing together a 29-page outline; an ending, as it were, to a month's worth of work.

The last all-nighter I pulled, now that I think about it, was about a month before I left the US. Tucked away beneath stacks, towers of articles I coudln't even see over, adrenaline pumping through my already-sore veins, fingers punching keys like jabs thrown in combination, preparing for the haymaker. I wanted to finish that Tunisia report - and now, I want to finish Chile.

I left the guesthouse around 5:45 and walked around Duong Pham Ngoc Thach for a while before heading over to Diamond for a nice, long, warm shower. I could only conjure up enough words to catalogue my emotions, nothing more, but nothing less. Peering into a gray sky, I imagined a Saigon sky free of pollution, staring back at me through a lens of clarity, not confusion. My effusion cut short, I suddenly encountered a woman selling newspapers and, for the first time, bought a copy of the Viet Nam News (since she didn't have the Saigon Times). Skies still emanating gray, I walked carefully across the street, dodging a couple motorbikes, bemoaning the day when I wouldn't have to dodge motorbikes, and looking forward to buying bread from my favorite street vendor. Maybe it was one of those first customer promotions, but she only charged me 4k for banh mi instead of the market price of 6k. What a way to start the day, eh?

Took the elevator to the 13th floor where I got off to walk on to the fitness center. Grabbed a few towels, keys, etc. and hit the showers. But first, had to take in the view. Diamond provides a simply incomparable perspective on Saigon, one I haven't had the chance to experience at daybreak. The sun rising beyond a tired though burgeoning skyline, like a dragon waking at dawn. Construction sites strewn with latent equipment, waiting to build a city out of this golden haven. I imagined what it would look like. Rays of light caught every angle of the wrap-around glass window tracing the 13th story fitness center, beaming out, touching every crevice, every wonderful morsel of development. I loved it.

Took my shower, crossed the street, and saw my favorite xe om drinking coffee with a friend. He waved and I came over, anxious to enjoy ca phe sua da with a man who's been drinking it much longer than I. His cup was three-quarters full; black - real man. I don't think he took a sip while we were together. Mine was white and sweet, full of caffeine and sugar, two of the greatest ways to overcome an all-nighter. We chatted; I left. Here I am.

I Never Sleep... 'Cause Sleep Is the Cousin of Death

"Hand me a 9 and I'll defeat [Pinochet]."
-Me/NaS

"Alright, it's time. Time to buckle down, time to find whatever inspiration I have left after last night (story on the way) and channel it towards one thing and one thing only: defeating Augusto Pinochet. Your time, sir, is up; you've run into the Mattster... and it's going down. More specifically, you're going down. I will not sleep, I will not eat, I will not breathe until I've tracked down every hint of corruption within your regime. You, sir, haven't a chance. Rocky IV, anyone? 'No pain!' 'He's not a machine! He's a man!' 'I must break you.'"
-Me, psyching myself up

Remember: interesting blog post coming soon!

Cracking the Uncrackable

Wait, wait - you're reading this? Harry Potter came out 5 hours ago, and you have the nerve, the unadulterated moxy, to put it down and explore my hapless musings on a country I don't understand? You've chosen to read the unending babblings of a stranger in a strange land? Wow - thanks! If you're looking for something deeply moving and inspirational, please read my good friend Dave's latest post - I'll try to provide a lighthearted alternative (my mission in life, as it were).

Alright, I've mastered the universe and I don't feel at all modest - why should I, when after days of pouring my heart and soul into Chile... I've finally rediscovered my stroke! Last night, continuing with our tradition of degeneracy, Thanh and I went to Carmen, Saigon's multi-story billiards palace, to shoot a couple racks of 9-ball. Carmen, like everything in Vietnam (and also like the girl with whom it shares a name), is awesome; a reasonable fee buys access to any of 50-or-so tables, including carom, three-cushion, and snooker (and of course tournament-sized pocket billiards), top-notch cues, AND... a friendly 20something to rack whichever game you'd like (9-ball, 8-ball, straight, crazy Vietnamese ones that don't have English names, etc.). This time, ours was especially friendly - a 22 year old named Cam Yen.

"So where's the lighthearted alternative? I've been reading for like 2 minutes and all you've told me is that you're a degenerate, which I already knew, that Carmen's awesome, which everyone knows, and that girls rack your balls, which I could've figured out myself!"
-You

Yes, yes - here it comes: Sometimes, I'm really on top of my game - my Vietnamese game, that is - but last night was not one of those times. For some reason, despite 4 hard weeks of training, the only phrase I felt confident fully articulating was "Gioi qua!" which means "Very good!" So, every time I pocketed a ball, I celebrated by proudly declaring, "Gioi qua!" (pronounced yo-eh-qua!). She held it in as long as she could, but by rack 8, Cam Yen couldn't stifle her laughter any longer. It came rushing out like a stream of soda from a pressurized can. Endless, endless laughter, resonating through the second story of Carmen, igniting a wave of laughter that somehow hit all the other female employees - who suddenly couldn't help but notice the silly White boy who was trying to speak Vietnamese. Then I started to think about what I was saying - "Very good!" after every shot. "Yeah," I thought. "If I heard someone yelling 'Very good!' over and over again, I'd probably laugh hysterically too. Did this realization stop me from doing it? Umm... NOPE! Fortunately, as the crowd of 2osomething Vietnamese women continued to mount, my game picked up to a point where I was running racks like Michael Johnson.

Man, that felt good. But seriously, and here's where those of you looking for a funny distraction can get off (and read something lighter - I recommend The Economist), it's terribly frustrating only being able to speak a tiny bit (mot chut) of Vietnamese. I'll elaborate later - Dave and I are gonna go enjoy some pho tai at Pho 24. Thanks for the read!

It's Been a While

Today, Ngoc reminded me that it's been a while since I wrote a decent-sized entry, dating back all the way to the days of LiveJournal. Truthfully, when I look back at some of the posts I put together while I was still using that site, it makes me wonder how I had so much time - and how I was able to make the most mundane subjects and experiences seem interesting. It's been a rough few days - turning down invites to "di choi" (go out and tear down Sai Gon) gets old really quickly, and let's be honest: writing about Chile when you're in Viet Nam ain't the fun-est of activities. Nevertheless, I have an obligation to Ben and to myself to finish this case study, and dog gone it, that's what I'm gonna do. Once I'm finished, I promise to not only put together the greatest entry of all time, but to post pictures in the accompanying margins. Pictures of me, because I know that's what you all want to see - no more Cadillacs, no more John Rockefellers... maybe a few more Rhiannas.

Quick anecdote before I go: this afternoon, Thanh sent me a text message inviting me to see "Die Hard 4.0", a film that was shot in America, with American English, with American actors, and about American politics - but I don't think it premiered in America. Either way, I sent him back a text saying that I couldn't because I had to keep working on my research. His response:

"come on, mr NERD. leave time for enjoy. It takes only 2hrs. By the way. it is 'nghien cuu', not 'dien cu' my friend."

At this point, it's worth explaining why that statement was so hilarious. Keep in mind that "research" is "nghien cuu" in Vietnamese - I mistakenly referred to it as "dien cu", which actually might have some sexual overtones. Anyway, I taught Thanh the word "nerd" about a week ago, and this is the first time that he's used it! I explained how it evolved many years ago, and has since morphed from an insult into a gentle chide - in other words, his usage was perfect!

So, with that in mind, I decided to take 2hrs off "nghien cuu" and watch Bruce Willis blow stuff up in the millionth installment of a series about blowing stuff up. We took Thanh's motorbike over to the cinema, dropped 2 dimes on parking, and hit up the concession stand. Since he insisted on buying our tickets, I felt compelled to reciprocate with a couple of snacks. Vietnamese films are unique from American ones in that they start on time - even a little early! We walked in around 12:25 for the 12:30 showing and found the pictures already moving! Remarkable! Anyway, an usher showed us to our seats, and we settled down for a couple hours of high-intensity, action-packed melodrama, starring Bruce Willis, the only man to have made such movies during every major era of American cinema. His were probably a lot better before they figured out how to add sound... or color... but I'm a huge fan of Planet Hollywood, so Bruce Willis is a-okay in the Matt Schwarz book. I was actually thinking about that during the movie - not my book; Planet Hollywood. Arnold, Sly, and Bruce - ten thousand doses of ephedra between them, but only about 50 I.Q. points. Speaking of Sly Stallone, who's seen Rocky V? For some reason, I can't stop thinking about it - "power of attorney! power of attorney!" Get Talia Shire's voice out of my head! Rhianna's bad enough - now I've gotta deal with Adrien?!

If you haven't seen Die Hard 4.0, what are you doing reading this blog? Get out there and catch it while theatres are still dumb enough to carry it! Nah, nah - all kidding aside, Thanh and I enjoyed the hell out of that freakin' movie (as you can see, it has a way of raising one's testosterone levels - Thanh's pumping 300 lbs of iron as we speak. What up, Thanh?). Ironically enough, it dealt with an issue I discussed at length in my final paper for National Security Issues - network-centric warfare. Pretty scary stuff when you actually see it in action, but fun to contemplate nonetheless. Bruce Willis has a way of stimulating my intellectual side.

Now it's back to the trenches for another couple of hours of JSTOR, Muse, the World Bank, and pseudo-intellectual misery. If anyone has any idea why Pinochet did the things he did while he controlled Chile, please drop me a line. Otherwise, feel free to send an inspiring email telling me that what I'm doing is noble and worthwhile, and that I should resist the urge to stare at a month's worth of work, scream "F@#k you!" and di choi voi cac ban. Because right now, I'm starting to feel like that's my best bet. All commiserating aside, I appreciate my readers' loyalty and once again hereby swear to come up with an exciting entry next time.

Who's House...

I'll try to write about my trip to Ha Noi soon. Ben needs me to put together a case study on Chile by Sunday, so for the time being, although my heart, body, and soul remain in Saigon, the rest of me is in South America (including the part that writes blog entries, besides this one). Let of know he youre down.

Matt thich Ha Noi, nhung Matt thich hon Sai Gon. Matt vui song o Sai Gon, nhung neu Matt khong lam viec [report on Chile] thi Ben Smith khong cho Matt dong! Va Matt can dong lam! Troi oi!

Look forward to all this [and more!] in the next issue of Something Indescribable:
1. Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum.
2. Billiars with Thanh.
3. Land value in Ha Noi.
4a. Conversations with taxi drivers.
4b. The taxi driver who tried to charge me 60,000 VND for a ride that should've cost 12,000 VND.

Southern Comfort

This morning, as I was walking into Diamond Plaza to workout at the 13th story fitness center, I spotted a Korean businessman donning the finest of fine shirts exiting the rear passenger side of a Porsche Carrera. Leather portfolio and briefcase in hand, he moved with an air of confident urgency towards the elevators. He got off at the 7th floor: Korea National Oil, ConocoPhillips, and Cuu Long, the Standard Oils of Southeast Asia. "Damn", I said. "I just hung out with the Korean John Rockefeller. What a baller I am."

About half an hour later, I ran into my favorite Xe Om, who probably makes less than the guy who washes the clothes of the woman who opens the door for our hero's limo driver. He speaks a little English (and by "a little" I mean ten times as much as I speak Vietnamese), but the smile on his face says everything. It's always fun dreaming about becoming Vietnam's next Rockefeller, Carnegie, or Vanderbilt - and believe me, the opportunities are out there - but on the other hand, driving a motorbike around Saigon for 60-70k a day doesn't sound too bad, either.

Mmm... Neocolonialism

A few of us ventured over to Black Cat, the brainchild of a Jewish man from the lower East Side who arrived in Vietnam starving after 14 hours of inedible American Airlines gruel, wanted nothing more than a corned beef sandwich, a dill pickle, and a Dr. Brown's Black Cherry soda, couldn't find any of that, cried hysterically, cursed the day he ever let his wife convince him that "Vietnam would be just as much fun as Vegas", picked himself up, figured that he wasn't the only one craving a taste of Jewish Manhattan, and decided to open up Vietnam's best sandwich shop, serving everything from Smoked Turkey Clubs to Corned Beef Reubens. After meeting the owner, I'm 94% sure that's how it happened. Just to be certain, this place has nothing on LaSpadas, and it never will. But for a city where "chicken salad sandwich" usually means a couple of seared cutlets served over a bed of romaine lettuce and tomato slices, it's more than decent.

Thanh ordered a Reuben (which he loved) and I, a mile-high STACKED pastrami sandwich. Best of all, it was Men's Night, so those of us with penises were treated to 2-for-1 cocktails (show within a show, folks). On the way over there, I took some awesome pictures - once I figure out how to post them on Facebook, I'll spread the love. For the time being, enjoy the ones attached to this article. Hey, kinda looks like the Bellagio, eh? On a completely unrelated note, I've got a high stakes Chinese Poker game waiting for me at table 3, so peace up, A-Town down.

You won't hear me complain about neocolonialism for a while.

Sidenote: I was there the next night. I'm considering going back tonight. Oh snap, it's raining - do they deliver? Yes! Wooooooooooohoo!

Mad Props

As per my parents' advice, I will publish this post at a later date. For the time being, please enjoy my favorite nationalist billboards.

Under my Um-ber-ella... ella... ella... ella... ella... ella... ella... [head explodes]...

I decided to change my template because the last one had too much going on, and I didn't like knowing that a leaflet of incadescent olives might be overshadowing my writing.

This one feels more mature.

I've had the song "Umbrella" stuck in my head for the last 4 days. Well, that's not true - it's been in my head for about 2 weeks; I've been on a mission to remove it for 4 days. On Thursday, Suzy, one of my favorite Robertson Scholars and (coincidentally) my neighbor, was walking into her room when she saw me walking into mine. Our conversation:

Suzy: "Hey Matt!"
Me: "Hey Suzy! What's up?"
Suzy: "Ahh, not a whole lot, just heading in for [can't remember, probably to teach others how to be awesome.]"
Me: "Very nice!"
Suzy: "Yeah! Well see you later! [looks away] under my uuuum-ber-ell-a, ella, ella, eh, eh, eh..."
Me: "GAH!!!"

It's everywhere! Rhianna, where you at? You're in my head, that's where! And I can't get you or your freaking song out of it. Emancipate me with your dashing good looks! I'm writing from the top story of my favorite high-rise coffeeshop, Hideaway Lake. We'll see where this goes.

Meh, it didn't go much of anywhere. I don't meant to whine, but allow me a few lines:

grujgekibhgki35hutik35uhtigubh4ilu5gbw35ktvb3ju5tvb3jyuhgtb
tugqh24i9t875yhiktgbuki5bqglh35uitbh1o8943ujt3oiugheg
i3u4htiq3uthkignkeqjgq3lgtojp;3qo5itkp5yko;kjgml5kngq53kl;njg

Vietnamese. Translation: "My, how horrible it is trying to work in places that lack central air conditioning! The weather outside is comparable to that which you'd find in a rainforest! Ho, ho, ho!"

Alright, with that out of my system, it's time to write a bit more about authoritarianism in Chile. Dr. Smith gave me co-authorship of his next paper, and this case study is one of four that we're using. It's shaping up to be a fascinating article, and I'm thrilled to have my name on it. I'm not getting too excited yet because apparently, you're always an underdog to get one of these things picked up by a major scholarly publication. Yeah, but according to Florence, I was an underdog to make it past week 1 of this trip, so booyah! Did I just say "booyah?" Oy, I need central air conditioning.

Value(s)

At one point Scotty Nguyen popped out of his seat and said, “They get paid $5 million a year to hit a little white ball, and they can’t do it!” He was referring, of course, to the baseball game on the television across the room. He and Franklin were betting on the games, and Scotty’s team was losing. Someone asked Franklin how much he had riding on the game. “20,000,” he responded. Every time the Tigers got an out in the ninth inning Franklin gave a little cheer. As soon as the game ended Franklin hit Scotty up for his winnings. Scotty pulled out a thick bundle of hundreds, peeled off two, and handed them to Franklin. “I thought the bet was for 20,000?” someone said. “Yeah,” said Scotty, “20,000 Vietnamese.”

I couldn’t resist. Today, we had an interesting discussion about intellectuals and the media. I argued that, on balance, the commercialization of Vietnamese media would improve social welfare. Rylan, our RA and instructor, disagreed, stating that news sources should instead be funded entirely by public money. I countered by saying that having the government fund a newspaper is just as bad as having a corporation fund it because each scenario essentially produces the same undesirable outcome: biased reporting. He responded that several foundations donate to newspapers without trying to influence their substantive agenda. I replied that those foundations would immediately pull their funding if said newspaper were to actively criticize said foundations – he agreed. Finally, I extended my argument to say that governments act in a similar way, and that a publicly funded newspaper would feel existentially committed to preserving its beneficiary’s reputation, thereby diluting the quality of news in the same ways discussed before.

Ultimately, I think we agreed that the only way to become informed is to corroborate information with alternative sources. He still felt that the commercialization of media damaged society, and I still felt the opposite (I also used Imus as an example of commercialization producing socially beneficial outcomes), but the quality of our in-class debate was on-par if not better than any I’ve had at UF.

Speaking of quality… man, propaganda… too damn convincing. We went to the “War Museum” about a week ago and at the time, I felt like ripping up my passport. Walking from one exhibit to the next, one can’t help but feel terrible for what happened 30 years ago, and knowing that it was my government committing these atrocities… absolutely sickening. But once we were far enough away from the “museum” to question ourselves, I realized two things: first of all, I had just experienced an hour’s worth of hardcore propaganda, and second… it worked! If I understood half of what I read on the posters lining the streets of HCM City, I’m sure I’d trade in my flatscreen for a sickle and hammer and find a rice field to till. Ignorance is bliss.

Three Dimensions

It was only a matter of time before Thanh and I discovered that we’re both degenerate card addicts. A couple weeks ago, we sat down and taught each other a few of our favorites only to realize that one of his was essentially a more complicated and analytical version of one of mine. If No Limit Hold’em is chess, Chinese Poker is chessboxin’ (for my gangster audience) or three-dimensional chess (for everyone else). When I was in Vegas last November, I saw Minh Ly (coincidentally Vietnamese) and Eli Elezra playing this crazy game with “a billion” cards in the high limit section of the Bellagio poker room. At the time, I figured the game involved more betting and higher stakes than any of poker’s more conventional forms. But then I reasoned that my analysis was based on cultural biases about Vietnamese and decided that Chinese Poker was probably nothing more than a fancy term used by upper-echelon poker pros to differentiate themselves from average idiots like Adam Kol, Mike Horn and me.

Well, turns out I was right the first time; Chinese Poker, unlike the Chinese country, is the greatest game ever created. Thanh and I usually play right before bed (it’s unethical to take sentences out of context and put them on Facebook and/or AIM), and lately, I’ve been on a hot streak. I figure it’s only a matter of time before he breaks one of my arms while I’m sleeping. Until then, however, I prefer to put myself in harm’s way elsewhere, mostly notably on the backs of this city’s million-or-so motorbike drivers (Xe Om in Vietnamese). It’s on these brief adventures that I conjure up all the nonsense you see every time you log onto my blog – and here’s the latest:

I didn’t lead off with an anecdote about Chinese Poker just because I’m a degenerate – well, maybe I am… and maybe I did, but there’s a point: the only thing comparable to the flow of traffic in Saigon is three-dimensional chess; it sounds and looks really cool, nobody understands what’s going on (not even the players), and one wrong move might end you (sotto voce). But in the end, everything works out (and even looks brilliant). Some of the phrases I’ve come up with while riding around: “an orchestra of cacophonous horns”, “a strange traffic equilibrium”, “incentives and instincts”.

As I was walking out of the Vietnamese Language School, just before catching a ride home with my favorite Xe Om, I turned on my iPod and looked for a song that matched both my mood and the mid-day atmosphere. “Award Tour” by A Tribe Called Quest; worth a try, right? I rode home in complete and total ecstasy. It made me realize how much I love the different phases of my day in Vietnam: shadowy mornings with coffee from my beloved Lam and Sam, afternoons in coffee shops listening to businessmen moving billions of dollars; evenings with friends at fancy, underpriced restaurants; nights at bars throwing back beers I wouldn’t be able to drink in the states. I also started to think about something a Japanese businessman told me a few days ago. He was complaining that Vietnamese workers refuse to think for themselves; “they’ll do everything I say… but nothing more!” It’s funny how a trait that was once bred, lauded, and replicated is now generating complaints from the people responsible for driving Vietnamese growth (foreign investors). More on that later. For now, time to play tennis with Thanh and down some Pho Tai (Pho with beef brisket). Thanks for the read!

Something Indescribable

I buy my breakfast from a woman just outside the compound for 3,000 VND (approximately $0.20). At night, I usually purchase a plate of coconut-and-milk-covered rice from a cheerful old lady across the street for 5,000 VND ($.30). All day, I meet people who make about $2 a day (usually less). Yet, being here has made me realize that the line between inescapable poverty and nascent prosperity is razor-thin; the side on which I place most people depends more on me than them. When I look into the eyes of someone selling bread for 3,000 VND or coffee for 7,000 VND, I can’t tell if they’ll be doing this forever or if it’s just the foundation of something much better. Although millions and millions do, nobody here looks like they think they’re living in poverty; it’s enviable.

Vietnam’s per capita GDP hovers around $650 and Saigon provides countless glimpses into the millions who make far less. At the Nike Factory, Ms. Nguyen, my liaison, and I spoke mostly about the reasons behind Vietnam’s attraction of foreign capital. What she said was echoed the next day by an American diplomat, and the next in The Saigon Times.

Something indescribable.

I’m going to spend the next few weeks (actually months if you count UF) figuring out what that “something indescribable” is. Ms. Nguyen put it best when she said, "Each worker realizes that his success depends on the success of the person sitting next to him." She also commented on Vietnam’s competitiveness as a market for Third World labor:

“If Vietnam slows down, another country will pull ahead. We have to be aggressive.”

Vietnamese know that there’s cheap labor everywhere and that they’re in no better position than any other developing country. It’s that “something indescribable” that keeps FDI at record heights – and here’s the most fascinating component: in my opinion, Vietnam’s competitiveness as a premier destination for FDI derives from its socialist legacy. Images of Ho Chi Minh line the streets, not just in Saigon, but everywhere. He’s symbolic of Vietnam’s unshakable will to win, and it’s the people’s adoration of "Ba Ho" that impels them to work harder and put their collective fate first. Its history of anti-capitalism has made Vietnam the capitalist Dragon it is today. When you’re working for something greater than yourself, something you’ve believed in your whole life, you work harder; you work better.

Window-shopping

Before coming to Saigon, one of Florence’s non-Evan cousins told me that I’d be living near the Diamond Plaza, an upscale department store with a gym, movie theater, and pool hall. It’s a fun place to walk around, but with most items selling for 150% of their American value, I’m mostly confined to window-shopping, although I have bought a box of custard-filled Little Debbie cakes.

As I was trying to piece together the artistry that is Vietnamese during my two-hour one-on-one language lesson this morning, I saw my teacher staring into the cascading skyline of Ho Chi Minh City. Nearly every day brings its share of lousy weather, and today brought more than most – overcast, damp, and altogether dreary. It still wasn’t enough, however, to stop my favorite motorbike driver from smiling and waving as I left the compound.

Anyway, while I was struggling to construct the most basic sentences in the Vietnamese language, I spotted Co Tra gazing into what looked like a typical Saigon afternoon; I started to think there was more to it than that. As she surveyed the bustling city before us, I wondered if she was window-shopping for something beyond her reach. Her face betrayed a strange confluence of fascination and despair; it’s an image I won’t soon forget.

You Can't Name a Vietnamese Kid "Charlie"

"The fundamental principle of Vietnamese military science is: 'In war, you must win.'"
-General Vo Nguyen Giap

I've been writing this entry for the last four days, so if it's a little disjointed, just wait 'til next time. Things began splendidly when the person sitting next to me on my 14-hour flight to Tokyo turned out to be invisible. Even though it's impolite to impose on somebody else's space, their visibility notwithstanding, I couldn't help but enjoy two seats' worth of space. American Airlines (oh how I miss Scattergories) got me across the Pacific just fine. The flight from Tokyo to HCM City allowed me my first encounter with a Vietnamese person (since saying goodbye to Florence the day before). He reminded me a lot of this guy I ran into at Le Casino de Montreal about a year-and-a-half ago... the one who kept yelling "high-low!" at the craps table (that missed 95% of my audience, but those who understand are hopefully laughing). Somehow, everything I said to him was hilarious. If I hadn't been so jetlagged, I probably would've tried to have some fun with our communicative impasse, but instead, I watched the careers of John Travolta, Martin Lawrence, Tim Allen, William H. Macy, and Ray Liotta simultaneously collapse in "Wild Hogs".

As we touched down in HCM City, a wonderful song came over the loud speaker. I couldn't identify it if I tried, but the uplifting tone was matched by the looks I found as I panned the cabin. A mix of visitors, natives, relatives, and tourists were united under a common anthem of socialist glory - well, kinda. The flight came to a solid halt, I wished my newfound friend farewell, and meandered through HCM City airport until I found a taxi.

Just to keep everyone on the same page, the program I'm traveling with is called CET Vietnam Immersion. CET is an independent study-abroad organization centered in Washington, DC with affiliates at most major universities (including, of course, the World-Famous University of Florida). Accompanying me are six of the most diverse (geographically and intellectually... ethnically... eh, not so much) and awesome people I've ever met - 5 Vietnamese-Americans and 1 other pure-bred Caucasian (a true Southerner named Philip Anderson).

Living alongside us are 11 Robertson Scholars from Duke and UNC. I just spent some time chatting with one of 'em - very friendly and bright kids. Their questions during our briefings (we've gone to a Nike Factory and the American Consulate together thus far) are outstanding. Singaporean Beer: $1.50. Having high-quality people to enjoy the nonexistent drinking age with: priceless.

Just because I know you're all thinking, "Whoa! He got to visit the Nike Factory! Man, how do I become Matt Schwarz?" I'll give you some details. They've got tons of employees working in an extremely organized set of plants, producing everything you can imagine - Planet Nike, so to speak. I met a woman named Hao Nguyen (no relation to Scotty... or Jen... maybe Vo Nguyen Giap?) who's a Public Relations manager and astonishingly versed in foreign business. We spoke for about 30 minutes about FDI and specifically how Vietnam has adapted to the arrival of so much foreign capital.

Alright, back to basics: every morning, we spend 3 hours learning Vietnamese. Because I'm the equivalent of a mute Vietnamese toddler, I receive one-on-one instruction, which is amazing on two levels. First, my teacher (Co Tra) moves at my pace, and second, I don't feel stupid asking boatloads of questions. She's probably just being nice, but Co Tra always insists that I'm doing well... awww, Matt's learning Vietnamese. Yesterday, we agreed to go sake bombing if when I learn all my numbers. Mot tram... mot nghan...

I'm trying to find a balance between language study, research, class (along with Vietnamese, we have a course on modern Vietnamese society a couple times a week), and non-class "enrichment activities". My favorite part of the program is my Vietnamese roommate, Thanh. Thanh's 21, he's got a girlfriend named Vy, and he's lived in Saigon his whole life. I'm amazed at the quality of his English - much better than some of the professors and TAs I've had at UF. I've told him about all my beloved Vietnamese friends - Evan, Florence, Scotty Nguyen, and Chau Giang. Tonight, we're gonna play pool and maybe enjoy a few Heinekens... interestingly, Heinekens cost 30,000 VND (about $1.80) while Budweiser costs about 90,000 VND. I didn't believe all the shit about Vietnam being backwards until I saw that.

Academically, this program couldn't be better-tailored to my research needs. I'm actually scaling back the amount of Vietnamese I'm taking to make more room for writing and interviews. Almost every morning, Rylan, the CET Resident Advisor, gives me another business contact - along with Nike, we've met with a pair of diplomats from the American Consulate. Early next week, I'm interviewing a Scandinavian bussinessman who's been doing business here for 10 years.

The food here is world-class and dirt-cheap. I haven't indulged in the handmade delights of the million-or-so "grassroots capitalists" adorning the streets of Saigon with sandwich carts and makeshift pho (beef and noodle soup) stations, but there's still been plenty of local cuisine to keep this adventurer satisfied.

Even when they don't speak a lick of English, the people here are overwhelmingly friendly and helpful. I get my coffee every morning from two sisters named Sam and Lam. They're really good-humored and always willing to listen to my mangled-Vietnamese. It's kind of awkward when I'm in a rush because they always expect me to sit down in their shop and chat for a few minutes.

Wow, time flies when you're recalling Third World memories. I'd better get on to some studying... maybe catch a massage and/or trip to the gym. I know I've left a ton of details out this time around, but I wanted to make sure everyone had a foundation before I moved on to bigger and better things. Now that you're all up to speed, I can provide detailed glimpses of life around Saigon. Until then, I'd like to leave you with some more Vietnamese words of wisdom:

"You can't name a Vietnamese kid 'Charlie!'"
-Dave Tran