Thursday, November 19, 2009

Vietnam: Hookers and Motobikes

Vietnam by day is crazier than Vietnam by night. In preport, they warned us over and over about the dangerous traffic. We even saw multiple demonstrations on how to cross a street. We were instructed to take a deep breath and go, at a steady pace, never stopping, from one side to another. If we stopped, went back, sped up, or ran death was probable. My eyes were wide as I witnessed the truth of the traffic. There were no rules. There weren’t many cars but there were several types of two-wheeled vehicles. We grabbed locals to act as our personal Moses parting the sea of danger.
I used the motobikes to go around the city. I had the same driver all day, Baak. He promised he wouldn’t let me get hurt. He always fastened my helmet for me. I was trying to go to a tailor to get a few suits made. I told my driver he had passed it and without hesitation he turned and made his way against traffic. Incredibly frightening. On our way to the market we ran a few red lights and I dug my nails into the seat as if it would somehow produce an airbag.
We went to the War Museum, formerly known as the Museum of American Atrocities. The name hindered tourists from visiting. But there was still proof that the victors write history when I gaped at mortifying pictures and read slanderous memento descriptions.
        We passed a park that functioned as a public gym. Locals stretched and worked out on jungle-gym like equipment that decorated the park along with shrubbery.
        I got my nails done. I think they were done by a prostitute. Baak took me somewhere where the ladies all wore skirts that didn’t cover their entire behind. Their only role was ‘massaging.’ There were men doing the haircuts. She brought out a box full of old nail polish. She kept calling me beautiful and comparing our skin. I watched men get escorted to an elevator then be joined by at least two more girls before the doors closed. There were beautiful girls in platform heels who had the job of stroking the men’s arm and talking to them while they were getting their haircut. It wasn’t long before they headed to the elevator never to be seen again with only half a hair-cut. I realized I was the only woman-customer there. I tried to make conversation. Telling her what I did the night before. She said, ‘ya ya! You me. Dance later. At the club. What time?’ I think I unknowingly ordered myself a prostitute; I stayed in that night just to play it safe.

      

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