Ho Chi Minh City and relatives, motorbike ride, Damsen Park, ATM and the death of my watch
Seb is upstairs in the room getting a map and doing his business. Having lived on my own for years now; I’ve not got used to the idea that someone else just outside the toilet door can hear you do your business in the toilet, sound effects and all. It’s an issue I know I have to deal with and I think it’s going to be harder than handling crouch-down toilets. So, as to avoid playing havoc with your digestive system and making your fellow-traveller think you are one of those people who takes an hour to do your thing; Seb and I had our ‘toilet’ talk and decided that if I (my butt) needed privacy; then he will disappear out of the room and vice versa. Oh, family is different, with family you feel you want to share even when they prefer it if you didn’t. My brothers and sisters are right now nodding their heads in agreement.
Yesterday morning we were woken up at 7am by a phone call. The woman on the other end spoke rapid Vietnamese so Seb gave the phone to me. I tell her I don’t speak Vietnamese in my usual Vietnamese phrase; this time, I’ve learnt to say ‘I don’t know how to understand’ but I had a feeling this could be my 3rd sister-cousin so I asked her in Cantonese if she understood Cantonese. She is my cousin; and as my sister rightly said in her comment; we call her 3rd sister because she is the third born in her family. She shocks me by telling me she’s downstairs. My nephews (my cousin’s sons but we call nephews) had told me that they were going to bring my 3rd cousin at 10am. I guess communications were lacking here. Well, she doesn’t have a phone, landline or mobile so it’s not surprising. I tell her to give us 30 mins. We rush down and this woman and man sits in the reception area. I look outside thinking she’s outside. Then I look at this couple and ask. Bingo. The man is her husband. I later find out her daughter is at home. We talk as we have a bit of breakfast. Not long after my nephews come along with 2 young girls. One girl is 3rd neice, the nephews are 4th and 6th. The other girl is my niece’s friend. Later on, Seb asked me a very important question; how are they related to me. Good question. I had no idea. So I asked. My cousin’s mother is my father’s sister. All along I thought it was via my mother’s side. Everyone had ridden motorbikes here. 3rd cousin, though lives in Saigon, is from another area, about 20 mins ride away. We decide to rent a motorbike from the hotel; Seb was willing to drive with me at the back. The kids hadn’t eaten so Seb and I take them to this restaurant where staff were very friendly called Little Saigon nearby. The staff remembered us. Whilst we ate, it poured down outside. Rain in Vietnam is like a child who is having a tantrum; a quick heavy spurt to get fast attention but once it gets what it wants; the cry dies down just as suddenly. While we waited for 4th nephew to fix a flat tyre somewhere nearby, Seb ran off to buy us some ponchos for sudden childish outbursts of rain and face masks for the pollution. The pollution is very noticeable only when you get off the bike; you feel a bit dizzy and for the next 5 mins you feel like someone is banging your head with a wooden mallet – a blinding headache that disappears once you’re not in the road or by the roadside. Then Seb tried out the bike, disappearing round one block and coming out round another. Though 3rd cousin and husband told us we couldn’t drive with our UK or French drivers licences; we told them we were able to hire a motorbike from the hotel so it should be okay. My 3rd cousin, a little worried for this strange French guy, gave me instructions (to give to Seb) to go slowly and be careful. I have already witness the crazy driving here and it’s mostly the motorbikes that seem to have rules all to themselves. The rules are; don’t die and don’t kill or hurt anyone. That’s it. We ride for 30 minutes or so to Damsen Park. Seb said ‘lets try to stay alive’ while we followed the others and dodged the thousands of other motorbikes coming from all directions. It rained a couple of times and we had to stop, put on our ponchos and rode again. Then the mission was; try to stay alive, hurt no one; dodge cars, lorries, motorbikes, bikes and the other combination of assorted similars; and stay concentrated and not get confused by the various flowing mess of colourful ponchos road signs and Vietnamese words zooming pass fast.
Damsen Park is an amusement park. We went on many rides; but according to 4th nephew, the scariest ride was a roller coaster tiny compared to what Seb and I have seen. Another memorable ride is similar to the playground ‘flying fox’ ride Veronica took me to try. This one was over a small lake. A strap was put around you – it was so loose, I didn’t feel it. Then they just push you off the ledge with only your hands keeping you from being hurled into the lake or getting strap-burned. I hung on for dear life. But half way my fingers gave up on me; they acted as though it was all over. I screamed, silently, ‘no, not yet, not yet!’. I imagined if I let go, I would not be lucky enough to fall into the lake and the worse would be I’d be soaking wet; I had to swim; and I was going to look a fool. That was okay. But I envisaged myself being cut in half with this harmless looking strap that was a string. I held on. But I was concentrating so much on holding on that when I got to the end and was suddenly faced with a big safety mat right in front of me, I didn’t react so my face went into the mat. The guy at the other end helped me out of the string and muttered some Vietnamese jibberish. I realised as I waited for the others – I was the first pushed – that you extend your legs out and kick the mat. When another girl did the same, I heard the laughter from where I stood. Man, I was lucky I didn’t hear the laughter or I would have happily thrown myself in the lake and not come up – so embarrasing.
Mum had asked me to take some money to give to my dad’s sister. I didn’t want to carry wads of cash so I had put it into my account and now I’m trying to extract it from that same bank. Using a card at an ATM should be simple I thought. It is but there’s a limit to how much you can take out; even with visa. Seb told me the virtues of Western Union. Too late now. 3rd cousin is coming over tomorrow morning at 7am to accompany us to the countryside to see my dad’s sister. We’ve left our passports here for 4 days to get a China visa. I need to figure out how to get the money out.
Last night I lost my watch. I was so devastated when I tried to find out the time this morning at 7am that I quickly strapped on my trainers and ran downstairs to the computer desks, in my pyjamas. People were eating breakfast; I didn’t care how I looked; I must have been a sight. No watch. No one had seen a watch. I wanted to share this tragedy with Seb at such a heavenly hour; my timing has always been crap; Seb later explains this to me but I kind of knew. I apologised and tried to explain. But he’s right; it was only a watch, a cheap watch at that. But I loved that watch. It was army green, chunky and most importantly, it had been my constant companion since the beginning of my travels in San Francisco and it’s love was unconditional compared to my other companion VISA and now it was gone. Seb joked that we’ll have a funeral for it after he had some sleep. We found a watch shop that first showed me this dainty looking thing, expensive and all things metal – I explained I wanted chunky so that if I smashed it against the wall or someone’s face, it would not break and I wanted velcrose as it’s less fiddly and the strap conveniently covers the metal bits (I’m allergic to all metals except pure gold and pure silver – my skin is the princess) and cheap (I don’t want to attract thieves and I wanted something I didn’t care about if I lost it – yeah well I forgot about the sentimental value). The guy in the shop tried to merge a big watch face with separate velcrose straps; but even after that, it just didn’t feel the same. It’s the meaning behind it not what it is that had value. Same with people and your interaction with them, it’s the meaning and not who they are, what they have or what they do; and when the potatoes have been exchanged one way or both ways and you go your separate ways; sometimes you hang on to the person with the illusion that it was the person that’s special; they are but only for that moment in time; the most important is the meaning that lasts a lifetime, the potatoe that they gave you. People then just remember the painful separation, the truthful hurtful words that have to be said and they forget the potatoe. Then they find that they’ll meet another special person for a moment in time who gives them the same potatoe they didn’t pick up the last time. And again hurt and pain and the potatoe is again dumped. Then you realise that this pattern of interaction keeps happening to you until you learn that it’s not the person that you’re suppose to hang on to but the potatoe they’ve taken time out of their lives to give to you.
Off to pack. Seb is waiting and since I take ages to pack; I don’t want him to wait up. Today was fun but will elaborate another time. I don’t think there will be internet access where we’re going; we’re going to stay for 2 nights and will be back here. So see you then.
***
To Amy: I got it finally, who’s who and related to whom.
***
|
Success is falling nine times and getting up ten. 
Tags: ATM, Ho Chi Minh City, Travel
monkamonkamoo
Leave a Reply