Don’t Eat the “Ox Muscle”

            My first week here has absolutely flown by, and I am happy to report that on the whole things have been going extremely well, though there was a bit of a hiccup when my reservation for a bed on the overnight train from Hanoi to Da Nang fell through. As a result I wound up in a crowded “soft-seat” compartment for the 15 hr, overnight journey. Fortunately, however, with the amply reclining seats, I still managed to sleep through the vast majority of the trip, but still awoke in time to see the impressive surf along the shoreline from the night’s storm as we pulled into Da Nang.

            On arrival at the hospital, I was quite impressed by the guestroom they are renting me for a very affordable $5 per night. It’s well furnished, has high ceilings, a refrigerator, AC, cable TV (which is universally free in Vietnam, and a good bit of which is in English), and even an extra bed, which is currently occupied by my guitar, but which could easily accommodate any of you who are interested in visiting between now and February. An ether net cable and a washing machine are just down the hall, and I even have my own small balcony. My only real complaints are a slightly leaking roof (likely from the typhoon that hit a couple months ago), and a slightly temperamental toilet, which has been easy enough to fix however.

            My gustatory adventures started my very first night here, and before I go into the story, now would be a good time for me to suggest saving this tale for a time when you can afford to lose your appetite. That said, there is a makeshift cafeteria for the staff below me in this building, and as I was digging into my dinner of pho bo, I was invited to join a group of guys sitting nearby by one of the orthopedic technicians who spoke English. The technician, Nguyen (“Wyn”), explained to me that the man in the wheelchair to my right, Binh, who looked rather like a Vietnamese Steve Buschemi, was getting braces for his legs the next day so he could finally walk again, and was treating everyone to drinks and hors d'oeuvres to celebrate. We started with a round of Tiger beer, the local cheap brew of choice, followed by some rice wine served out of old soda bottles. The cloudy liquid could no doubt be used to sterilize the hospital’s surgical equipment in a pinch, and in accordance with the old adage, my chest has become notably hairier since. I offered to buy a round for everyone, but Nguyen told me that Binh insisted that this was his treat, and that “as I long as I kept drinking, he could keep pouring.”
            It was about this time when they brought out the first appetizers, and Nguyen asked me if I had ever tried “ox muscle”. I had not, and so Nguyen picked up one of the fleshy coils on the platter and dipped it into a mild looking sauce before setting it on my plate. Not wanting to appear rude, closed-minded or weak-stomached, I popped the morsel into my mouth despite its unappealing appearance, and immediately regretted the decision. Before I could even appreciate the texture of the “muscle” which fell somewhere between stale calamari and cartilage, my nostrils and taste buds were assailed by the devastatingly pungent sauce, which in retrospect was probably equal parts salt, concentrated fish extract and ammonium carbonate (the active ingredient in smelling salts used to revive the unconscious). Through sheer force of will, I smiled/grimaced to indicate how much I was enjoying it, as I did my best to not audibly gag. The real kicker though was about a minute into chewing it when I noticed that the other pieces still had bits of black stubble sticking out of them where they hadn’t been totally shaved. Remember kids, it’s ok to say “no”, even if everyone else is doing it—which is exactly what I did the following night when I was offered the chance to try a partially developed, hardboiled duck egg. This delicacy is what you get when you give a fertilized egg a few weeks head start on becoming a duckling before cracking it open. It’s pretty grim—I’ll just leave it at that.

            Most of the food, however, has been more than palatable, and you can eat for about a dollar a meal if you want to. There are lots of great restaurants around here with very nice chicken, noodle and rice dishes. Vietnamese seafood is also supposed to be fantastic, but I’m still trying to get a handle on what is safe before I eat too much of it. Banh Mi, a customizable sandwich on a small baguette, is a popular meal here that is quickly becoming a staple of mine. And if I get desperate, there are even a few ex-pat friendly eateries that serve pizza, burgers and the like. One of which called Bread of Life is particularly cool because it is staffed exclusively by deaf Vietnamese citizens to help them find employment. There is also a shopping center here, called Big C, that has just about everything you could ever need—think Safeway meets Target—which has been really convenient for getting snacks and little things for my room like bath mats and power strips. It’s also nice because they have fixed prices, and so far it seems like I get charged about twice as much as the locals for most things that don’t have a price tag. They are incredibly uptight about their security though. Any backpacks or bags you bring into the store are literally put into heat sealed plastic bags so you can’t hide anything in them, and even the employees are frisked by security when they leave the main store area to go to the bathroom.

            I definitely stick out stick out on the street being blond and about 8 inches taller than most people. As a result I get a lot of curious looks from the locals, and I can’t find shoes less than three sizes too small. A lot of the plastic patio furniture used by local restaurants is also what we would consider kids’ size in the US, and so I always wind up laughing at myself when I awkwardly sit down to eat. Most people can’t speak English, but they are still usually very friendly and helpful. Kids, adolescents, and sometimes even adults will say “hello” to me on the street, and they usually get quite a kick out of it when I say hello back. One girl at Big C was even bold enough to shout “I love you!” up the escalator to me triggering a chorus of giggling from her friends.

            I also have my own motorcycle for getting around town—ok fine, it’s more of a motor scooter that probably tops out at about 40 mph (the speedometer is broken)—but it’s still a lot of fun to get around on. In Vietnam it seems like these are how virtually everyone gets around, and when you combine that with the fact that only about every fifth intersection has a stop light you can get quite a rush just cruising around town. I’ve also been very lucky to have been put in touch with Uyen, the local guide who rented me my motorbike. He is a very likeable and honest father of four, who has already been extremely helpful in familiarizing me with the city and helping me get essential supplies for my stay here. If any of you consider coming to Da Nang, I would wholeheartedly recommend getting in touch with him.

            So far I’m still getting to know the ins and outs of the hospital, and meeting new doctors and physical therapists (PTs). Up to this point I’ve spent the most time with Dr. Huan, a short, upbeat anesthesiologist, and Dr. Vu, a more relaxed orthopedic surgeon who shares my appreciation for a certain videogame I used to play a lot in high school. Many of the staff speak English well enough to have a conversation with, and most of them are very glad to have a chance to learn from a native speaker so we set up a daily English class that anyone in the hospital can attend. So far there are about eight people attending regularly, and it will likely grow as the word gets out. It’s been really interesting speaking so much with people who only know the basics of the language. It makes you realize how much you can simplify your speech and still convey the same essential meaning, but also how much we take the subtleties of English for granted, things like the differences between “family” versus “relatives”, “to like to fish” versus “to like going fishing”, and “to be no longer working” versus “being retired”. Despite the virtually identical technical meanings, each of these words and phrases still conjures a rather different idea in your mind, and it has been interesting to see both how that subtlety gets lost and trying to teach it in our class. The other day I was trying to explain all the ways you can use “cute” for instance, which made me realize just how much we take the versatility of the word for granted. Another time I was trying to teach the meaning of “literal”, but I think I only had limited success. 

            There is another volunteer staying here as well named Durga. She is a PT taking a couple weeks away from her family in Atlanta to work in the hospital’s rehabilitation clinic and to teach the latest physical therapy techniques. This weekend the two of us took a short ride down the coast to see Marble Mountain, a grouping of giant marble monoliths overlooking the coastline. The natural beauty of the mountains is something to behold on its own, but what is really spectacular about the place are the ornate pagodas and ancient statues hidden throughout the caves, which have eroded into the marble over time. The incense burned throughout the caves catches the light that beams through the natural openings in ceilings, and combined with the droplets of water dripping throughout the caves, it creates an ambiance that is just spectacular. At the base of the mountain are dozens of stone carving workshops that create some truly impressive sculptures and jewelry out of the local marble. Unfortunately, the views from the mountaintop reveal the hardships of the local communities. Despite the beautiful ocean vistas, the surrounding developing areas create a juxtaposition of great cultural wealth and economic poverty that seems regrettably common in the area.