Lots to smell at the market

DSCF1944
Originally uploaded by hennokotze.

This is probably the stinkiest stall in the whole Ben Thanh Market - and it's not just the fish, there are other unrecognizable creepy crawly things. Thought I'd share that with you. If there was a digital scratch 'n sniff, this would be the one you'd email people you REALLY don't like.

Less than 50 days and a ride home

I can’t believe I’ve been in Vietnam so long. There are less than 50 days to go before I fly home for a well-deserved respite from the toils and troubles of Ho Chi Minh City. It’s not really all toil and really just troubles, but after 10 or 12 hours of giving class, most days engaging with children with unscrupulous manners, it feels like that sometimes. One of the coolest and also most stressful parts of each day is the trip to work.

It’s about 5-8 kilometers to District 3, where I work in the mornings from Tan Binh District , where we live, and each metre of the 15-20 minute journey is jelly-doughnut filled, action-packed amusement and gut-wrenching stress. But lets start from the beginning.

6:00 AM: Beep Beep Tra Tra Trraaa!!!, stupid cellphone alarm gets me every time; dreaming I’m somewhere cool and then getting warped into some weird scene that always has a garbage truck reversing towards me with this stupid alarm ring tone. Wash and groom; slick and spic as a tortoise with a mismatched tie and shell. Black shoes, black socks (the tie’s in the bag – don’t want it lagging behind in warp speed).

6:45: Push the bike out the green, iron front gate, “Xin Chao”: greet friendly neighbour lady in her beige one-tone pajama/all-day/leisure suit frying her Vietnamese vetkoeke outside our house - I haven't had the nerve to try one yet, just in case I have to spit it out and live with her death-ray glare every morning for the next year.

Vroom vroom, idle the Future in neutral (I’m proud of my motorbike – it’s a Japanese Future, unlike Christoff’s Chinese one, which is supposedly quite inferior - it's got something do do with the lack of reliability and gearshift issues). Up the alley, turn left and right, being careful to avoid the constant state of building and the subsequent debris strewn haphazardly in big mounds enticingly like BMX track ramps along the road. Gun it carefully past the old lady walking her mother (who must surely be a centenarian), holding her carefully by the elbow muttering under her breathe as the Future respectfully struts past. Turn into Cong Hoa Street and hit the vein like a mainline, sucked in through the neck, pumped through the asphyxiating exhaust fumes and maneuver out onto the opposite side right into Ut Tich Street, and count my blessings of avoiding getting mauled by the morning trucks insecting out of Saigon.

It’s a game of “open the gates” along Ut Tich, down to the canal, left and right swerving staccato obstacles like Paperboy (that old Nintendo video game) minus the newspapers. The traffic feels like a tongue twister - my bike the lubricant to keep the words flowing; red lorry, yellow lorry. Past VUS’ maroon tower (my evening school of choice and the previously-mentioned boisterous kids), down into the street solely for bikes running parallel with a festering, stinking canal – this is another game altogether. Three uniformed kids on the back behind their father on the way to work, a boyfriend dropping his side-saddled, mini-skirted girlfriend off at work and the cyclo drivers cycling along in the lazy lane: minor obstacles when you’re heading downhill, swamp air in your air, whistling Peebo Bryson’s Aladdin theme song A whole new world to yourself. Now I'm thinking; "why do old people take morning exercise?" They’re leaving for a better place soon anyways, "probably want to make sure they don’t cramp up in their box" – I dodge them anyway and smile the secret goodbye smile.

07:00: Varra boom boom, a few kilometers later I pull into Acet in Ngo Thoi Nghiem Street smooth as a local, alert and ready for the extra buzz of the strongest coffee east of Istanbul (which I know could never rival the original high - the freestylin', whirling ride there).

17:30: Hit the streets for the afternoon traffic rush back up to Tan Binh, which is worse than the ride down.

I’m strangely going to miss this for the month I’m back home.

Underdog status

Hmm, damn sports teams. I've always had a soft spot for the underdogs. When Bangladesh plays Australia in an one-day international, I always hope for an upset - and well, it happens sometimes as Bangladesh have proved. When the Bulls play the North-Free State mielieboere in their royal purple and yellow kits, my heart leaps when Yskas van Tonder or Dif du Plessis makes a break, on the off-chance that the "manne" from Hanover or Hobhouse, semi-professionals who do part-time work as reserviste, can pull one over the mighty Bulle.

It sucks however, when you make a habit out of supporting the underdogs as I have. Well, to be more honest and accurate, I never started supporting the teams because they were underdogs but because of the way they played their game and the passion of their supporters.

Western Province have never been true "underdogs" (except away at Loftus or at home in a semi-final against the Cheetahs) but the fans have never been a lot to bite their lip when things go awry - if Province aren't performing they'll let them know and the next game will be played to a half-empty stadium or less. Nevertheless, Province have always been a team that have tried their hardest to play attacking, running rugby, unlike certain other teams in blue who prefer stomping on their own players, and that alone is enough for me - effort to entertain. Besides this, I also live in the Western Province so I guess I couldn't change even if I wanted to.

Now Newcastle are a similar story. I've never lived on Tyneside and never even had a pint of Old Brown, but these guys have captured my heart from the moment they first started showing the Premiership on South African television. Form the heady, attacking football days under the management of Keegan, then Dalglish through the amorphic days of Gullit, the hope and glamour of Sir Bobby's reign, the abhorrent, better-to-be forgotten days of Souness, and the lacklustre period of soon-to-be-relieved-of-duty Roeder, it's been a rollercoaster ride through the whole spectrum of emotions for Newcastle fans - fans who, arguably are the most passionate football supporters in the world. It's tough supporting this team, with its lack of management clout and mercurial players (think Laurent Robert as a prime example).

Now McLaren. Ron Dennis' Formula 1 boys are similar to both Province and the Magpies in that they can be heart-wrenching to watch at the best of times and, just when I start to ponder my allegiance, along they come with moments of pure agression and racing brilliance from Kimi or Montoya and ponder no more. From Senna's days, they've been the team I've always admired in terms of not resting on their laurels and progressing the sport of F1 - always seeking new and exciting drivers and engineers who have similar aspirations. Things will be no different with the youngest double-world champion ever, Fernando Alonso, who clinched the title at Interlagos last night, joining the perennial underachievers next season. I've loved having Kimi at McLaren, but with him joining Massa at Ferrari next year and with Schumi retiring, I can't help but hope the Finn's bad luck and inconsistency in terms of reliability follow him to the Ferrari's paddock. Farewell Schumi, good luck Kimi and welcome Alonso - may the underdog status be enveloped and evaporated in the stinking vapour of your burning rubber and exhaust fumes.

Stompin' around

Hot diggidy dog
I'm a leaping frog

I'm a keen mean tiger on the back of a hog
Stompin' around

And I say, how rude is rude to you?

Fuzigish

So here's the evidence - decide for yourself what you will. Me? Well to me it pretty much looks like the ol' Captain Gary's giving Hougie a bit of a Southern Ska Stomper innie kortrib or shoulder, but hey, that's just me.

K on the up and up

Remember the Horsing Around post about how organised crime and drugs are hitting sport in SA and how Os du Randt may or may not be at the forefront of a Ketamine revolution in sports? Well it seems I may have inaccurately portrayed the fact that horse tranquilisers and amphetamines are probably of little use to athletes. Via Eyebeam Reblog, I read an article on how 18 chronically depressed patients were given Ketamine, and visibly cheered up within 2 hours.

Now see, I don't know if that was because they were imagining themselves in a hanamachi with three geishas in full attire tickling the small of their back (whilst still scuba-diving on their dodgy apartment floor), a few scantily-dressed Egyptian boys fanning them with palm fronds and feeding them globules of grapes, because Kate Moss was sitting cross-legged across their mid-riffs, lips slightly brushing their ears humming along to Pete Doherty's The Libertines, or whether - like other anti-depressants, it justs inhibits the uptake of serotonin.

Whatever the case - Ketamine makes you happy. So throw away the Prozac girls and boys and partake in the consumption of the only anti-depressant that, in only small doses, will have you holding long conversations with your refrigerator, skateboarding without a board and swinging from a toothpick. It's the breakfast of champion junkies, the special K, the Kesh, the Hoss hoss albatross - soon to be released at a pharmacy near you (make sure you're down with the lingo otherwise your prescription might not go through).

Shorts

To keep with the literary theme - Turkish novelist Orhan Pamuk has won the 2006 Nobel Prize for Literature. This guy is like the Turkish equivalent of a Salmon Rushdie-cum -Zach de la Rocha figure, having been charged with insulting the Turkish government and what-not. He follows in the footsteps of a Mr JM Coetzee.

Also check out Robin Rhode's work - Eyebeam Reblog suggest you Google him and check out some of his work - some of it is pretty amazing.

The Loss of Inheritance

The Man Booker Prize winner was announced and I should have put some money on this - the 5/1 outsider Kiran Desai walked away with the coveted prize. Sure, many will argue that the judges decision, when it comes to book prizes, especially one offering such a prestigious and diverse selection, is, to say the least, quite subjective, but it still holds much sway in literary circles and it's a great way for a lazy person like me to set-up a quickfire Christmas list.

Although I haven't read Indian-born Desai's The Inheritance of Loss, the storyline and location seems to have some things in common with another Indian-born writer Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things - dealing with death, depression, and village life (with all it's nuances and intricacies) in rural India. I loved Roy's novel and the opening chapter still sticks out as the most vividly described scene I've read so far and it's no wonder she won the Booker prize in 1999. Desai also comments on globalisation whilst Roy is a strong social activist in India and commentator on the country's nuclear policies and the effect on rural villages which large scale hydroelectric power schemes have and will continue to have unless re-evaluated.

You can check out the short-list for the prize here. South African Nadime Gordimer's Get A Life was nominated for the long list but didn't make the short one.

The Mid-Autumn Festival

Although I took part in a Mid-Autumn Festival play more than a month ago, this weekend was the real celebration of what the Vietnamese call Tet Trung Thu. It’s one of a few lunar festivals in Asia, but not the biggest. The biggest lunar festival is the Tet Lunar Festival in January or February depending on the moon phases.

I headed down to District One on Friday night to see what Trung Thu was all about. Let me first quickly give you some background and legends regarding the festival. Some say, the Mid-Autumn Festival is when the eternal herd-boy in the sky and his beloved weaving-girl meet (throughout the year they are separated across the heavens by the Milky Way) and their joyous reunion causes their tears to fall from the sky in a light rain called ngau rain. Curiously, some Vietnamese I’ve spoken to say it rains every Trung Thu and Friday was no different.

Of course, the central feature of lunar festivals is always the moon. Many stories and legends surround Trung Thu, including the famous Vietnamese story of “Chu Cuoi and the Banyan Tree”. I’ve heard many versions of the tale being told, but this is the core of the story which essentially stays the same: Chu Cuoi came from a poor family and when he was a young man he went into the forest near his village. He found two tiger cubs playing and one of them had injured (or even killed) itself. The mother tiger took some leaves from a Banyan tree and rubbed them on the mortal wounds of the cub who miraculously healed. Cuoi recognised the healing powers of the tree and dug it up and transplanted it to his house. He later became a powerful healer using the Banyan tree as the base for his medicines. He also married a beautiful girl, Chi Hang, whose task it was to water the Banyan tree while Cuoi was away healing or collecting medicinal herbs. One day Cuoi returned home early and Chi Hang had forgotten to water the tree so she quickly watered the tree and in her haste she poured dirty water on the magical tree. The Banyan tree duly uprooted itself and flew off into the sky. Chu Cuoi, acting quickly, threw his axe at the tree and held on. The tree, with Coui holding on for dear life, flew all the way to the moon where they can still be seen to this day; Chu Coui sitting under the eves of the Banyan Tree.

Trung Thu is traditionally a childrens festival and Friday night thousands of children were milling around the food and lantern stalls, enjoying the bright colours and jovial atmosphere the festival created.

Although I arrived as the celebrations were finishing, there were still some kids soaking up the excitement and stuffing their little faces with Banh Trung Thu; (mooncakes) pastry filled with sugary everythings, from Chinese sausages and eggs, to durian fruit and strawberries. They also loved the Banh which is like a snackwich-shaped waffle on a stick. Nearly every child had a traditional long den - a type of paper lantern with a candle inside. The lanterns often turn from the heat of the candle and cut-out paper figures inside throw moving shadows on the lanterns walls, giving the effect from the outside of a shadow-horse galloping, or some animal or person moving, inside the lantern etc.

This is also a lucrative time of year for the big bakery syndicates in Vietnam who mass-produce mooncakes and sell them, in pairs of four, by the millions. Thousands of tons of mooncakes are sold in the month preceding the Mid-Autumn Festival and many more during it. Kinh Do and Ha Noi bakeries are two of the largest producers and set up shop on every major street in HCM City. Their mooncakes range from cheap to the more exclusive - such as imported mooncakes from China and South Korea (a batch of four could set you back about (VND 500 000 or $32).

Although Trung Thu is all about the kids having fun with a lot of myth and history supporting the tenets of the festival, it seems as though consumerism and commercialism is also taking its toll just like it does with Christmas in South Africa and other westernised countries. I bet Pick ‘n Pay and Spar have already put up their Christmas decorations, painted fake snow on the windows and put Boney M’s A Christmas Collection on repeat?

Parky pleasures

I live just around the corner from Hoang Van Thu park. On a weekday morning or in the late afternoon it's like any other popular park in the world; packed with joggers, children and general stragglers out for a walk. Yet, when it rains or in the midday sun (especially on weekends), the park turns into one of those creepy, empty Stephen King-type scenes, complete with deserted amusement park rides and ethereal statues. The only life is the wind whistling in your ears and sodden walkways that crunch underfoot.

The place reminds me of this cultural village we visited in Soweto last year - the name eludes me - that was set-up by a Zulu "professor/soothsayer" who predicted a number of events in South Africa's future (eerily, two of which was that Africa would have a female president that year (think Sirleaf) and South Africa would have a female president by 2010) . It had the same strange, peeling and cracked effigies of animals and gods as Hoang Van Thu Park. The wierdest was the warning upon entry that anybody who disrespected, vandalised or stole from the village would be struck with such a disproportionate number of afflictions it seemed unfairly cruel (the last of which was that your corspe would lie out in the desert, fed upon by hungy vultures, and your sould would never know the comfort of heaven or even relief of hell). No wonder the people of Soweto forced the soothsayer to flee back to Kawazulu-Natal. Mob law rules.

It's not unusual to encounter some brave souls in HVT Park on these barren days though

Or otherwise justifiably sad-looking ones

Even the usually happy hippo seemed a bit peeved

Godzilla in Paris? Probably the sequel

Raai wie's 21?

Raai wie's 21?

(Disclaimer: Nie rêrig Alet nie)

Ek hoop dit was 'n kickass dag Delanie!

Silhouette

Hey Emmie - I saw you guys still need a few entries for the silhouette competition so here's my two cents worth, even though it's more a reflection than a silhouette...

The Vietnamese Coffee Ritual

I've been teaching my academic English classes in the higher levels how to write and talk about a process - it's one of the skills they need to score high on the IELTS exam entry for Australia. One of the topics is: Talk about how to prepare a cup of coffee - now that sounds easier than it actually is in Vietnam as making a Ca Phe Da (iced black coffee - the caffeine currency of choice in VN) truly is a process worthy of mentioning.

Traditionally the Vietnamese coffee ritual is a six step procedure.

Step One: Choose your blend. Just like in most Western countries, choosing your blend truly is a class battle. Bourgeois coffee shops usually opt for the more expensive "Trung Nguyen" brand of coffee with its superior aroma and smoother taste, whilst prols and street vendors usually go for any wholesale (think Macro-sized bags) brand which is not as refined in flavour and usually much stronger.

Step Two: Boil the water. Whilst this step is reaching a climax, it is customary to offer the client a glass of Tra Da (Iced tea).

Step Three: Mount the coffee filter with the correctly measured amount of ground coffee on a tumbler, pour the boiled water over the coffee, put the lid on, serve it to the customer together with a pot of sugar, a tall glass of ice and a long spoon.

Step Four: Wait for the coffee to drip (it takes about five to ten minutes), savour the unique coffee shop atmosphere and watch the interaction of other customers, listen to the inevitable drumming of rain on the sink roofs or just inhale the aroma of well-brewed coffee.

Step Four

Step Five: When your coffee has finished dripping, remove the filter, stir in the preferred amount of sugar and pour into the tall, ice-filled glass and rigorously mix the liquid refreshment.

Step Six: Enjoy.

Now if you described the process like that you would score a nine or ten out of ten in my class depending on the correct use of body language and hand gestures :)

My neighbourhood

I took a walk around my neighbourhood the other day. Don't know why I didn't think about it before, but it was probably because it pretty much rains every single day here - dampens the spirits a bit sometimes.

Emmie - hier's my weergawe van 'n profile - my vriend Nguyen Chi Powder

This is my version of a creepy paparazzi weirdo who hides in the bushes taking pictures of former professional sports stars who've let their mid-riff go a bit...this is down at my local neighbourhood sports club which is actually just two tennis courts and a swimming pool

Finger lickin' good - it doesn't come much fresher than this - plugged, plucked and prepared on the spot.

Hitchin' a ride to school

Le Quy Don

I've been writing a story about Le Quy Don Street here in Ho Chi Minh City and taking some photies too.

A funeral procession (I think the deceased was an university professor) as there were many students and mourners: White symbolises death and tears in Vietnam

The staircase inside a Korean Restaurant

Outside a Vietnamese restuarant Bun Viet

Also outside Bun Viet

Polly wanna a crack pipe

Survivor: Ceres

Okay, now this is a funny disaster story by our good friend at the Cape Times Karen Breytenbach about two fishermen who got caught in a flood and rainstorm and were stuck in the Ceres Mountans for a few days, but, and this is a big BUT: What makes it REALLY funny (and in a sense pretty scary) is that one of them here fishermen be Alan's (aka Mullet) brother, ay!

God Bless Phil the Fisherman: I think he should hook up with my good Vietnamese friend Nguyen Van Troi "The Fisher King" (see previous post: Dis mooi né?). They could swop fishing stories over a bottle of Old Brown Sherry and a visbraai on the beach. Kingsley Holgate ain't got nothing on this duo.

Horsing around

I just read this article on News24 – yes, the site has not been banned (yet) in Soviet Nam – on how 'Organised crime targets sport'.

Pharmaceutical companies are scoring big time cashing in on parents who approach sports scientists and nutritionists and what-not to supply their soon-to-be-superstars kids with these illegal, performance-enhancing drugs.

Since it’s become public, they’ve found it harder to supply these drugs and some are now turning to untested veterinarian products instead. Now that’s not as weird as it sounds, as I know people - I won’t mention names – who have tried the occasional horse tranquiliser (Ketamine aka Special K) and are none the worse for it. How it can enhance performance, however, I don’t know though, as these people end up thinking they’re melting scuba-divers, trying to swim away on the dirty carpet of their dodgy flat for a few hours or overindulge, lose control of their muscles, disappear down a "K-Hole", hallucinate and lose the ability to comprehend language all the while squibbering around like fish-out-of-water till the effects wear off.

I’m sure there must be some kind of animal drugs which can help sports people, like an endorphin supplement used in bear-baiting (boxing, wrestling) or an amphetamine for greyhounds (athletics) or something, but I’d like to see an established professional sportsman try them. For example, let Os du Randt try one of these “uppers” and record the before and after effects. Before: Os du Randt. After: Bul du Randt. Should be a laugh.

I hope the South African Police Service crack down on these illegal horse-traders instead of spending their time on trivial matters like solving murders, rapes and hijackings.

Smash my head with a baseball bat - Mr Anarchy, Streetfighter, Black Cat

Tanka tanka tanka tank tank, tinky tink tink, tinky tink tink. Ho Ho ho, what a sporting weekend. Sometimes, I don't mind starting the week on the back of such a wholeheartedly sporty couple of days. The weekend was like a jelly-filled doughnut - except this time it was filled with the adrenalin-pumped blood and passion of the Ryder Cup and the frenetic pace of the English Premier League. Okay, admittedly, it wasn't a SuperSaturday as they oh-so originally dub the big weekends on Supersport, but it was good enough for me. A few passion-filled encounters is better than a whole line-up of weak, heartless ties - just like a good, creamy doughnut is better than three shrivelly, old dry ones.

Darren Clarke - whatta man he is. He epitomises the new-money lack of style and class of the working man-cum-rich cliché, but without the arrogance and drivelling self-pitying contradiction these Gatsby's of the 21st Century so often drag behind them like a dead horse.

Standing at the 18th of The K Club, waiting for his mate Colin Mongomerie to finish on Saturday afternoon, cigar in mouth and extra one in hand (whether it was for him or for Monty is not known), Clarke looked like a man in the final stage of bereavement - acceptance - after his wife passed away only six weeks ago after a long-suffering battle with breast cancer.

On the final day, he swatted off American Ryder Cup rookie Zack Johnson and stood back to watch Henrik Stenson finish the formalities as Europe made America kiss their Blarney Stone by a record-equalling 18½ to 9½ set two years ago at Oakland Hills. It was great to watch, as American Captain Tom Lehman, ever the bigger man, stood back and applauded their effort.

Oh and Paul Casey's hole-in-one on the Saturday to win another point for Europe was just another of the numerous highlights this year's Ryder Cup produced. I'm not even American or European and the competition kept me captivated - I can just imagine what it must have felt like for the fans of the nationalities represented...

And if that wasn't enough, the Premier League tie between Chelsea and Fulham was just as hard-fought - with Chelsea finally coming out trumps 2-0 courtesy of Frank Lampard's two-goal resurgence. There's nothing like a local derby - and they don't come more local than that one, with Stamford Bridge about 2 kilometers up the road from Fulham's Craven Cottage - it's a suprise the Blues even took the bus.

Make no mistake, although Chelsea had more talent in their reserve side than Fulham's first team - they didn't dominate the Cottagers - as the form book grew wings and flew out the window. Bones crunched, heads clashed, crowds jeered and chanted, booed and jeered, Michael Brown dived into Petr Cech's head with his boot, players limped or crawled off only to jump right into battle again - it was a massacre - and that, my friends, THAT, is what football is all about. It was fantastic to watch: no-holds-barred pride and pure passion.

Zartz - I can't wait for next weekend.

Updated Fantasy League

Eye on the weekend

It’s been a tough kickoff to the new football season for teams like Newcastle and Liverpool, not just for the footballers and coaches but for the dedicated fantasy league players as well.

More experienced teams such as The Magpies and Mullets FC have been outplayed (or fantasized?) by upstarts like the Wretched Wilburys, the ilk of which can be considered to have had a lucky break with big risks paying off early.

Although overshadowed, the likes of Henno and Alan are soon to take command of the ever-competitive Hoskop League, especially with things heating up after a bottle of Scotch single-malt whisky as been added to the equation.

With Everton traveling to Newcastle and Tottenham playing away at Anfield, the “real” Premier League will probably take a close second to what’s happening in the fantasy league this weekend.

Here’s what things look like after Gameweek 6:

The Master of his Universe

Okay, as most of you who know me know, I'm probably one of the biggest JRR Tolkien fans in the world - I've had posters, paintings and drawings of Middle-Earth all over my room at home, in my flat, and if I could have afforded to bring them with - then they would have been in Vietnam as well. I've read the holy book of fantasy - The Lord of the Rings - about 5 or 6 times and The Silmarillion three times. It's engraved on the inside of my skin. I've even tried to learn Quenya when I was younger, but it was pretty much on par with my learning of Vietnamese - gutwrenchingly bad. I dreamt of the Valar, ents and Melkor. Sometimes I still do, which is just weird.

So, to my utter and most pleasant suprise, I saw that Christopher Tolkien, the genius' son, had edited a new Tolkien novel, to be published early next year. Talk about a bonus! It going to be based loosely on the "The Wanderings of Hurin" - which just happens to be my favourite tale of doomed love and despair in the whole world (matched only in doomed love and despair by the "Tale of Turin Turambar"; Hurin's son - and is to be called Children of Hurin. This better be good, but I'm sure it will because Christopher has spent the last 30 years editing the damn thing.