Happy Father's Day, Michael!



Bassett neurologist Michael Miller says Vietnam's pediatric hospitals
should focus less on technology, and more on old-fashioned physical exams.
 Here, Miller examines a boy during a week-long humanitarian mission in March 2011.

ON CALL FOR CARE IN VIETNAM
Back to basics for Bassett neurologist in Southeast Asia

--Trang Ho, special correspondent
Source: Columbia Magazine March 2011
and the Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons website.

Confused, in pain, and unable to walk, a 14-year-old girl rides piggyback on her much smaller mother, who is carrying her to see Dr. Michael Miller.

For them, it is a godsend that the clinical professor of neurology from Columbia University’s College of Physicians and Surgeons and the Bassett Healthcare Network happens to be volunteering at Nhi Dong Hospital 1 in Ho Chi Minh City this week through the Project Vietnam Foundation, a non-profit that provides pediatric care to the country’s underserved populations.

Bassett neurologist Michael Miller says Vietnam's pediatric hospitals should focus less on technology, and more on old-fashioned physical exams. Here, Miller examines a boy during a week-long humanitarian mission in March 2011.

Doctors at Vietnam’s 1,200-bed national pediatric facility couldn’t diagnose the girl’s problem, even after doing an MRI scan and observing her for 10 days. But experienced eyes and ears managed to discover what had eluded technology.

After spending a half an hour with the girl – more time than any other doctor at Nhi Dong could spare – Miller diagnoses her with Brown-Sequard Syndrome. Unfortunately, the rare form of paralysis, caused by an injury to the spinal cord, can’t be cured. But Miller recommends physical therapy that could dramatically improve her quality of life.

After doing rounds with Nhi Dong’s doctors and teaching them about neurological treatments in the U.S., Miller recommends that the hospital adopt simple procedures like Apgar scores, an easy way to assess newborn health, and head circumference measurements. Such tasks merely require time – not expensive technology – yet could dramatically improve quality of care.

“They think technology is going to be the answer to their problems when really, getting a full history and doing a thorough physical exam is the most important thing,” Miller says.

Aside from providing goodwill, Miller wanted a chance to see, first-hand, diseases eradicated long ago in the Western world, such as polio, tetanus and botulism. Things he has only seen in textbooks. “This is like practicing neurology in Paris in the 1840s or London in the 1890s or New York in the 1930s,” he says. “There’s much to learn.”

Even though he had to pay for his own airfare and lodging to volunteer in Vietnam, Miller is willing to do it again. He is surprised at how much fun he’s having, even though he can’t understand the language.

“I simply find the people joyful and charming,” he says. “They’ve been very open and kind.” For those interested in donating to the Project Vietnam Foundation, even money for little things, like hand sanitizer in all the hospital rooms to prevent the spread of disease, can reap big benefits.

“It’s amazing how far a little bit money can go here,” Miller says. “People are doing wonderful things with a pittance.”

Mike-diary: On the Markets

Dispatches from Indochine

I have just eaten a durian.

For the morally correct among you, those who view your stomach as your servant and not your master, this statement will be meaningless. But from the gastronomes who read this there may be frank envy. You see, the durian is perhaps the most storied of produce. Large, spikey, it is a Jupiter among the tree-fruits. And like Jupiter it is the subject of many tales, such as the Indonesian train car that had to be abandoned when a bag of durian was forgotten aboard overnight, or the Indian couple whose marriage bonds withstood poverty, sickness and just plain time, only to be severed by the wife's implacable appetite for this most pungent of fruits. For the myths about durian touch upon its two primary powers; its tender flesh, compared to creme brulee, and its powerful odor.

Let me state that both of these myths, as is the usual property of all myths, are hooey. First, the smell. Imagine a mango and an onion fell deeply in love and decided to grow old together. Now imagine this greengrocer's romance occurred in a paper bag on your kitchen counter in August. If you were to part the seams of said bag and breathe in the coying rot of the mango and the acidic tingle of the onion, you would not be far off from knowing the durian. One smells it on the streets here. It is usually cut up in slices because it is a big fruit and really, a whole one is more than can be mastered by anyone. And while the smell is unpleasant, it is not hold-your-nose-and-run bad.

As to the flavor, that too has had over-vigorous marketing. The mango is not as rotten, there is a pleasant vanilla quality, and the onion just glowers a bit in the background. Certainly not the thing I would throw my wife over for.

A fine surprise was the pomello. This citrus looks for all the world like an orange who converted to the faith of the Old Order Amish. It is a Christmas tree green and one could be forgiven for not thinking it fully matriculated. But cut open the modest covering and you will see a vivid orange interior. I had the good fortune of having the hotel bartender press my bag of six pomello. It produced a precious small pitcher of the most beautiful-tasting juice. Similiar to grapefruit but less acidic, and with undertones unlike anything I've ever tasted. Why this delicious fellow is not widely available in the US is a mystery to me. Indian River Growers take note!

Longon fruit are a personal favorite. I've had them before and dearly love them. I would not consider too much of an affectation to travel to Indochine once a year just to have a plateful. They are like leche but easier to eat and more flavorful. They are known locally as "dragon's eyes" because of the black pit. You can walk into any tavern in Saigon and plop a kilogram of longon on the bar to share and be rewarded with an afternoon of stories, jests, and other entertainment.

I have had seedless mango for the first time. They are about the size of a goose's egg with thin skin and a very mangoey color. Perhaps it was the surroundings, perhaps it was the company, but I have never had a sweeter mango. There is a chitinous flat sheet instead of a pit and none of the typical hairy strands that make the mangos we usually get so toilsome. Because they bruise easily, I am sure they are poor travelers, and that is a loss to the wider world.

* * *
Photograph courtesy of sxc.hu Nico van Diem of Gories, the Netherlands.

Mike-diary: Cockfight at Yen Son

I must say that I do not perceive my husband as he was portrayed in the "plump and red" story earlier, nor as he paints himself here. His long blond hair may be gone, and he may be a little cuddly around the middle, but I say that he's cute. While he is off in Vietnam as a volunteer academic neurologist, he is, however, a wild man who has, indeed, hunted in the Yukon and the Crazy Mountains. He also has had a plethora of other hobbies--hand quilting and repairing key-wound antique toys and endlessly on.

Dispatches from IndoChine

The Viet Namese have a mythic past. A romantic liason between a goddess and a dragon produced these people of the eastern coastal plains. The goddess' legacy is seen in the fair face and form of the Vietnamese ladies. And the dragon's blood courses through the veins of the indominable men, each a warrior-king, who protect the motherland from the rapacious world.

With a degree of complexity that only an Asian would choose to place upon an idea, the element of the noi, the dragon is everywhere. The word means river, and this has some resonance, in that rivers, like dragons, are sinuous and powerful and give life to the people. The noi in Ha Noi refers to this. The name of the capital means "Land Between the Rivers." But the dragon sons of Vietnam were not satisfied with such a largely peaceful emblem of their dragon-ness, so they sought a more hot-blooded symbol of the dragon. And what better place to turn when one was looking for a surrogate dragon than to chickens. Well, roosters specifically, the ga noi. This proto-chicken is of ancient lineage and his bearing attests to his barnyard noblity. His fierce mien, his red, naked head, chest and legs and his proclivity to kill any rival caught glancing at his womenfolk all mark him as, if not sired by dragons, at least touched by the dragon spirit.

The ga noi was first mentioned 700 years ago. It seems that, once again, the Chinese were threatening the northern border of the Viet people. Through numbers and persistence, it appeared the Han might this time succeed in suppressing the Free and Patriotic People of the Dragon. And what of the Viet army; why were they faltering in their duty? Because of chicken fights. It seems that the Viet army, rather than engage the enemy with the ferocity demanded by the occasion, spent their days in camp drinking rice wine and watching chicken fights. Well, really, if you were given the choice between a head-throbbing drunk and some blood sport on one hand, and the risk of being impaled on a spear, which would you select? But the Viet general would not listen to such unpatriotic reasonableness and penned a strong letter to his men. He wisely exhorted them to adopt the philosophy of the ga noi, and encouraged his men to put on their fighting spurs and tread upon the hated Han. And history shows this call to emulate the mighty bantam had its good effect, much to the pain and embarrassment of the Chinese.

The ga noi is the product of a fierce hen; then the poults pass through a series of selection stages based on features such as the thigh-shank ratio, the pattern of scales, the diameter of the neck, etc. But perhaps the most discussed attribute of the ga noi is "the stare." If you do a Boolean search on the internet linking "ga noi" and "stare" you will find a lot of interesting pictures of chickens staring at cameras. For a moment, consider the long history of the depictive arts, from the Caves of Lascaux to my Kodak Easyshare. Then consider the span of communication technology, from the smoke signal to the advent of satellites and transoceanic cables. That this millennial progression of two great human endeavors might culminate in teenage boys taking pictures of yard fowl staring at a camera is the best evidence that I have ever encounter proving that God exists, and is at heart a very whimsical fellow. The stare is supposed to reflect the unrelenting desire of the bantam to spur his opponent to death. It is akin to the stare down at the beginning of a boxing match. But boxers can tell you why they stare--with chickens one is left with an uncomfortable degree of speculation. Perhaps they are just wondering if something might be edible.

Despite the much debated value of the stare, there are several champion chickens who have lost one or both eyes in the ring and continue to go on to trample opponents. So the value of the stare is perhaps exaggerated.

I very much wanted to watch the chicken fights while in Hanoi. At this point let me confess that I am an unrepentant celebrant of the bloody past times. Hunting, coursing, cockfights, horse racing, bullfights: I find the pageantry, history, and plain thrills so great as to supersede any moral borborigmy that might arise from the more humane among us. I do draw the line at dog fighting, which is rather like wrapping pate in bacon, simply too rich an exercise not to expect to later regret.

I put out a call to practically every Vietnamese waitstaff, bellhop, cabbies (who in general are very poor in their English skills and not the least repentant), and desk staff. I even asked one of the physicians at the Tropical Diseases Hospital, who responded with a look that suggested I might as well have asked if his sister might be free for an hour or two later that evening. The responses were typical in their Vietnameseishness. An elide to other topics, or just misunderstanding. If I pressed the point, perhaps the more ill bred among them might admit that cockfighting did exist, but only among young men, or only during Tet, or only, if I would pardon the term, in the country.

So it was with some gladness that I meet Phoung, the 20ish year old girl who cleared dishes in the hotel breakfast room. She was fresh enough from the village not to know what should have been embarrassing, and she was so thrilled to misuse the English language with me. Yes, her brother was quite hot for the fighting chickens and yes, there were some fights in Hanoi, both professionals in arenas and talented amateurs at impromptu match-ups in the park. We quickly made a deal. I would take her out to eat if she would take me to the cockfights. The next night was chosen, I would meet her in the restaurant of the hotel at 7 p.m.

The next day I had a day trip to Ha Long bay and, suffice it to say that the Vietnamese buses do not have an orderly timetable. I arrive to meet Phoung at 9 p.m., red with rushing, embarrassment, and natural ruddy complexion. But Phoung was unperturbed. Her boss chided me for making her late, but young Phoung just seemed eager to express herself for the next few hours in almost magically unintelligible English.

We headed out. She led the way down alleys that seemed progressively darker and more dangerous. I was so elated! Image being a staid, fat, middle-aged American Sunday School teacher walking close at hand with a very pretty 20 year-old woman down madly twisting side streets in an exotic land on the way to a chicken fight. If a wizard promised to turn me into James Bond, I could not have been more thrilled.

We exited a foot path between two tenements and came upon an open square with what looked like a French colonial bus garage in the middle. Crowds of people milled around and I thought, "This must be the chicken fighting arena!" We elbowed our way through the crowds. I was clearly the only Caucasian for a pleasingly great distance. We came to the entrance. I looked inside but there were only stalls of day old fish and used trousers. We walked past the building and behind it there were a series of dining arrangements one might describe as one bump up from an hibachi on the sidewalk.

"I am now hungry" Phoung said, in her first interpretable phrase since we left the hotel. Through signs, charades, and attempts at human language she made it known that the dinner part of the deal came first.

"What should we have?" I asked.

She looked at me as if she suddenly doubted my intentions, then plucked and flapped her arms.

Good enough.

Cam Ga means chicken with rice and Cam Ga was soon on the plastic stool which served as our table. I thought I was quite facile with the old chopsticks, but Phoung offered a few master class pointers.

Then we started on the chicken. By "chicken," I mean the few titanium shreds that decorated the plate of chopped bones offered with a confidence I would have not exhibited if I put the plate in front of a raccoon. The phrase "ga choi" popped from Phoung's mouth between sucking marrow from the long bones. I gnawed on what would be considered breast meat and tried to understand her point. It wasn't until I followed the direction of her chop stick and looked at the painted bed sheet that formed the back wall of our restaurant that a whisper of understanding arose. There was depicted, with some degree of love and honest passion, an illustration of two game cocks, one cock-a-doodling in victory and the other x-eyed in defeat beneath the winner.

"I don't understand, are the fights behind that sheet?" I asked.

But while Phoung did not understand what I said, as happens often in Viet Nam, a voice with an Australian accent piped up behind me.

"The fights are in Yen Son, which is about 30 km from here".

I turned around to find a table of Vietnamese looking at me. Without a face to attach to the voice I turned back to Phoung, who was eating the shredded green onions that accompanied the chicken.

"They send the losers here to be cooked up."

I turned around quickly and realized one of the Vietnamese I had dismissed as an unlikely Australian was wearing a baseball cap that said "Melbourne".

"They cook the losers here?"

The Melbourne guy answered "Yes, that is why they are so stringy and tough. They are tough birds. And why waste a good chicken?"

I thought the "good" part was open to debate, but acknowledged in my heart that poor people are usually efficient.

The Melbourne guy--let's just call him Melbourne--went on to explain that the ga choi, dead fighting chickens, were especially sought after and were thought to pass their attributes of ferocity to the diner. Having chewed on one I can attest this contained some element of truth. But there was no chicken fighting here. Miss Phoung had somehow amalgamated the idea of dinner in exchange for the cockfights to dining on a participant from the pit.

Phoung was finished and "tin tin," the check was called for. I was surprised to find this was an ungodly expensive meal by Vietnamese standards: about $20. Melbourne explained that one paid a premium for ingesting the essence of the fighting chicken. Phoung, in her most lucid language yet, remarked that we should get back; her boyfriend was coming by on his moto to pick her up at the hotel at 11. There was a little chicken left, and she asked if she could have it for him.

The brisk walk back went, well, briskly. And pretty silent. I dropped her off with her boyfriend in front of the hotel. He looked mighty unpleased to see me, and I thought I saw a little of the chicken staring at a camera in the youth. But he seemed fully placated by the remains of the ga choi, and even patted me on the shoulder and offered an "American good" before putting away, Phoung sitting sidesaddle on the back, texting. She looked up and waved and smiled just as the moto rounded the corner.

There is a place called The Kangaroo right next door to my hotel. The smell of a grilling hamburger wafted out the kitchen vents. I could not say I was filled with the essence of the ga choi. And I dearly hungered for a hamburger.

* * *

Photograph (picked because it is a dragon and yet a bit cockish) courtesy of sxc.hu and Nelson Syozi of São Paulo, Brazil.

Mike-diary: an Asian Christ

Here's a bit of Lenten musing on religion in Asia, Christianity in particular. Like any discussion of religion flung out into the world, it will probably find a welcome and scorn in equal measure. Feel free to comment, either way! And thanks to those who have written emails about Mike's journal jottings--pleased to have some notes from interested novelists and readers.

Dispatches from Indochine (3/6/11)

Christianity holds a funny place in Asia. We really thought it hadn't taken. Perhaps this was because Christian missionaries always seemed to do better in places with more primitive religious traditions. It seems to be easier to turn an animist into a Catholic than say, convert a Hindu, Muslim, or Buddhist. So while the effort was made, it seems to have been more of a pro forma operation. Translating some scripture, implanting some missionaries (poor, almost comic creatures in most modern westerners' eyes), building some small churches, in general "flying the flag" but not really opening fire with a cannonade of theological debate or forced conversions à la Cortez.

But after the colonial powers contracted, after Europe convulsed through two wars, after secularism became the fashion in places like Portugal and Scotland (once the hot, moist birth canal of missionaries), Christianity kept perking along in Asia. In some places, like Japan, it is mostly the educated, traveled upper class that embraces the Cross. In others places, such as China, it is the bon succor of the oppressed. In some places, like the Philippines, everybody is Christian. In Vietnam it is the faith of the middle class.

And they are not shy about their faith. In Saigon the most happening place on a Saturday night is not the night clubs like Apocalypse Now or Saigon, Saigon. It is the square outside the Cathedral Notre Dame. A rather large crowd gathers there at the heart of every weekend to pray the rosary for hours. Their Buddhist neighbors show up too, if only to watch or set up food stalls. And on Sunday morning the churches themselves are packed. The 9:30 a.m. service I attended held perhaps 1200 people, not counting those in the transepts or in the narthex. And new churches are being built all the time. The Church of St. Paulo and St. Pierre is just as large as Notre Dame and was only completed 6 years ago. And it was packed at noon. Packed.

So as Europe ages and secularizes, some westerners fret about the fate of Christianity. And I have no doubt that Europe will be Islamized. But since it will be a conquest of the already dying, I think that will be a hollow victory for the Muslims. Already, on any given Sunday, more Christians go to church in the country of China than in the continent of Europe. And the percentage of Christians is growing in every growing Asian state.

We owe this largely to the fervor of the Koreans. Much like the Irish of the Dark Ages, the Koreans have evangelized abroad during dark times, taken great risks and I would now credit them with a great harvest. They are still active and, along with Filipinos, are probably the most active force proselytizing among Muslims.

So if Christians lost, say, Sweden and gained China and India, who would not say it was a net gain? It only requires that we westerners understand that Christ is more than what we think he is. Perhaps we should be ready to accept him with an Asian face.

***
Photograph of a doorway from the "old town of Hoi An, Vietnam" is courtesy of sxc.hu and Dutch photographer Timo Balk of Melbourne, Australia.

Mike-diary: Cold Beer with The General

I just read Nhân Dân newspaper and Vietnamnet, and Hanoi seems to be fine--I was a bit concerned on waking to the fearsome earthquake and tsunami in Japan. The world is stirring again, and nature is not our friend, alas, but a force that destroys and breaks the heart.

Here's another peek at Mike's adventures in Viet Nam. I am wishing that I had kept on an online travelogue when we were in Cambodia and Thailand. I don't even know where my journal is...

* * *

Dispatches from IndoChine
Cold Beer with The General

Last night I ate at the Café de Paris for the second time. Since the P-- V--folks seem a little scattered I have been on my own several nights. The Hotel keeps one's passport, and the police check a couple times a week to keep track of foreigners, but I am otherwise unwatched except for the Spotkovs, P-- V-- volunteers who have been here 6-7 times. Without a Vietnamese speaking person to come along, I am less eager to eat Vietnamese food, and I was glad to have a chance to eat French food. It was grilled homemade sausages, perfectly spiced and served with a mustard sauce. The texture of the sausages was unusual and I asked what the casing was filled with. Tripe! Very tasty.

Also, the hospital (St. Paul's) was undergoing a surprise accreditation inspection and did not need me, so instead I went to The Tropical Diseases Hospital and Ban Kea My hospital. Both very modern and up to date.

Today I was free and walked around the old quarter. The streets are very confusing and often change name right in the middle. If you stop to look at a map you are immediately overrun by touts of all kinds, so to study a map requires going into a café, having a beer and proceeding along, which can leave one very tipsy after a few course corrections.

I was sitting in the Café So 5 in Hang Vai. It was a seedy, very cheap place with just two tables and a dozen chairs spread on the sidewalk. A Toyota Land Cruiser pulls up to the curb. There is a uniformed driver and body guard in the front and a Generalish looking guy and a girl, maybe 12, in the back. The driver and guard get out and clear some motos to make room to park, and the General (for want of a correct term) and the girl get out and sit at the other table. The girl immediately notices me and says "Hello" in almost accentless English. Another car pulls up and 4 other officers get out and sit with the general and his daughter and start drinking iced coffee and smoking cigarettes. The girl has something that looks like a NY egg cream.

The men are apparently not interesting to her, so the girl turns around and starts talking with me. She speaks good enough English, maybe a little weak in vocabulary. She asks if I would like to see the music list on her Ipod. My daughter will be glad to know there are Arcade Fire fans in Hanoi. She tells me she is taking English in school, from which her father picks her up everyday, but likes to practice.

At this point her father asks her some questions. I am in a sports coat and tie, so I am clearly not a backpacker. With the daughter as interpreter he asks me where I am from and what I am doing in Hanoi. I tell him what I do and who I have met. Apparently he knows, or has heard of, the head of the peds hospital who I met yesterday and he nods his head in recognition. He asks my opinion about the quality of care and I answer, quite honestly, that I thought it was good.

I ask about him, and the daughter translates his rank as "a little General." I notice he has 4 stars on his epaulets, and I notice the name on his ID is Ngyeng, which is more common than Smith in the US. After they finish their ice coffee, I propose to buy a round of beer, which for the 8 men would run about $4. They look surprised and readily accept. Beer bottles here are big, 450 ml, so we each have a tall pint, and the men all ask me questions about the US, what it is like there. They have a good idea from television but seem to want to know if it is an accurate depiction. The General seems especially proud of his SUV and I tell him anyone in the US would like a Land Cruiser too. He seems pleased with this.

When the beer is done they feel a need to offer me something, but I need to get back to the hotel. As a face saving compromise I take a couple of cigarettes. We part on good terms. I give the cigarettes to some moto drivers at the next corner.

***
Photograph courtesy of sxc.hu and Hoang Anh Vu of Caen, Normandie, France.

Mike-diary: The Ho Hoam Kiem turtle

Dispatches from IndoChine (March 6)

The Ho Hoan Kiem turtle is dying.

This event is national news here. The VN Yahoo homepage has photos of a rather tread-worn terrapin gracing its lead story. There is gossip on the street. He has died. Or, no, the People's herpetologists have devised a plan to save him. He has not been seen today, or he has been seen 3 times today, which is inauspicious. Or he has been seen 8 times, which is a very lucky number indeed. But as a whole, the people of Vietnam, and especially the people of Hanoi, linger over and adore the rumor swirl surrounding this most august of turtles.

The Ho Hoan Kiem turtle is the, as of yet, living, breathing, embodiment of the Vietnamese's resistance to Chinese rule. Apparently. I say apparently because I have queried many Hanoi residents who speak good English and none of them actually know the legend. Rather it took an Australian with a guide book to fill me in on the importance of this reptile. Dateline-1000 years ago. The Vietnamese are, as usual, on the suffering end of some outsider's aggression. This time it is the Han Chinese.

And it seems that things are going so bad that the Vietnamese general takes time for a deep think on a small island in the middle of Ho Hoan Kiem lake. And while contemplating impending defeat he meets a large soft shelled turtle. Things must be dire because he turns to this turtle for military advice. And the turtle turns out to be a veritable Napoleon of the reptilian world. No one I could speak with knew what the turtle actually said. My guess would be, since it was a turtle, to hole up and wait for the geopolitical weather to change. But whatever words of scaly wisdom were bestowed, the Viet general later went on to metaphorically kick the groins of the hated Han. And that is why people love this turtle.

For you see, they pretend that this is the SAME turtle. Thinking folks would know that no turtle, soft shelled especially, would survive in a 40-acre sewage ditch for 1000 years. But with a credulity that would make a middle-aged American Tooth Fairy believer seem like a rank cynic, the average Hanoi resident, from lad in short pants to veteran of the Ho Chi Minh Trail, will tell you the turtle is the same as that who held a strategic tête-à-tête with the Viet general, who was not similarly blessed with a soggy but eternal life. So reports of this turtle's illness have rocked the capital.

I was sitting in the Legend's bar, overlooking the Lo Thai To traffic circle. There is a good view of Ho Hoan Kiem lake. A reasonable translation of Ho Hoan Kiem might be "pea soup sprinkled with oil slicks and poop." It would be a reasonable translation, if not linguistically accurate. One can smell the lake from 100 yards away.

Suddenly, there is some excitement on the banks. People point, cell cameras come out. This has the effect of tossing $100 bills around in Time Square. With a rapidity that is more than exponential, Hanoians come running. In less than 5 minutes the (in theory) 4-lane round-about becomes a scooter parking lot. A huge crowd gathers on the bank, so large it backs into traffic. Buses (I'm not kidding) full of turtle gazers pull up and spill their contents like split bags of rice. The crowd at first vibrates, and then begins to sway as it pushes back and forth against itself. Up in that refuge of sanity, The Legend's Bar, the staff rush to the railing of the balcony and begin to snap pictures of the lake with their camera phones. I can't see anything. Admittedly, I am unschooled in turtle spotting, but working on the premise that a snout is a snout, my long distance inspection of the lake is fruitless.

A totalitarian state abhors spontenaity, and this turtle flash mob is about the dictionary definition of that very thing. So it isn't long before a deuce and a half truck with POLICE written on the side in perfectly sturdy English and a loud speaker that would do a Good Humor van proud pulled up. The gendarmes' first approach was an amplified maternal exhortation to disperse. But the 1000 year-old draw of the Turtle of Ho Hoan Kiem was too strong to be severed by worried harangues. So some green uniformed police with their potent-looking truncheons popped out of the back of the truck. Their clubs are long, thick, and white with a red spiral stripe covering the distance from handle to the business end. The police formed up, looking for all the world like nomadic barbers, and began to walk through the crowd waving their batons in sweeping, ankle-high arcs.

Perhaps the ancient wisdom of the turtle still prevails in Hanoi because the crowd quickly found other callings and 90% dispersed. The remainder soon followed. It seems the turtle had submerged and the mob's whole raison d'être bubbled down into the murk with it.

I had watched the whole thing from across the way and 3 stories up. And while writing now, it is easy to dismiss the crowds as silly people aggregating for a silly reason. But I must admit, when the crowd was first balling up, I wanted to rush down and join them. If not for the fact that the waitresses had abandoned their sacred duty to the bar patrons so they could scan the lake from the balcony rail, I would have paid my bill and left beer unfinished to join that crowd. When I couldn't go, I felt like a kid whose friends all got to go to the fair while he had piano lessons.

I am going looking for the snout of wisdom tomorrow.

Photograph courtesy of sxc.hu and David Boylan of Brisbane, Australia.

Mike-diary: Birds of Hanoi

Last night our youngest wore his jammies and his bathrobe inside out in hopes of a snow day, and he got one with a vengeance. Several fluffy feet of flakes were piled high before the snowfall stopped. As we are now missing the absent Mike/Dad, who is plenty warm while volunteering in Vietnam, I'll post a little from his musings. He has moved on from Saigon to Hanoi.

* * *

The Birds of Hanoi

Compared to their hardhearted, business-driven brethren in the south, the shop owners of Hanoi seem almost feeble in their commercial drive. In truth, the shops in the north are much more interesting, with lots of local mountain tribe crafts, elegant silks, jade carvings and a surprisingly thriving contemporary art scene. Unlike the south, there is not clutching of sleeves and tugging at belt loops to entice the westerner with a stray dollar or two into a place of business. And I think no aspect of the Hanoi shop better symbolizes this difference in values than the birds of Hanoi.

You see, most shops have a bird cage in them. Even street mechanics, soaking transmission gears in oil in their make-a-due garages on street corners about the city, would not think of starting their day's venture without hanging a bamboo cage or three of vireos on a local lamp post. These dear little birds, the color of unripe tangerines with just a blush of future sweetness showing, leap and chirp frantically in a panic within their bamboo worlds. But they are thought to bring luck, and do bring a natural charm, so their discomforts are accepted as a requirement of feng shui, or luck, or just good taste. So the sorrow of the birds is felt to be a price worth paying.

I happened upon the bird selling street. Shops tend to aggregate in streets by theme here, so there is a plumbing street and a wood carving street and a funeral street, which happens to make up the far half of the bird selling street. And what a lot of birds there are! Some are weedy sparrows who are bought for the sole purpose of being released as an offering for propitiation for sins. These, much like in the Bible, are two a penny, or rather $5000 dong a matched set. They fly away with an excited confusion, dazzled by their captivity and unexpected release. The sparrow cages are the most modest. They are simple rectangles of bamboo slats. I am sure they are crowded and unpleasant. But buyers are plentiful and there seems to be a lot of sparrow-sized sins that need a Buddhist-style accounting.

More impressing cages are reserved for more impressive captives. The vireos I have mentioned. After sparrows, they are held in the greatest number and as a chorus produce a mighty chirping. Rose-quartz-colored canaries are also well represented, and, while less numerous than the vireos, they seem to take to heart the challenge offered by the other inferior but more numerous singers. Were that all jealousies and conflicts so beautifully contested! The quick cheerful chirps of the vireos strive forth against the melodious lines of the canaries, each note as a foot soldier. To stand exactly between the walls of the vireos and canaries is to place yourself at a collision of beauty.

The largest birds are some mynah birds. They are valued for their mimicry and intelligence and this value is reflected in the elaborate cages reserved for this avian royalty. Lacquered, carved, inlaid, no craftsmanship is too extravagant for a bird that can imitate the human voice or a can opener with equal alacrity. The sellers dote on these fellows, coddling them against drafts, sun, or poking fingers. These birds command the highest return and are beloved by the merchants for this. These birds smell strongly like pigeons.

These little wicker spheres of birdy joy are spread through out the city. It is hard to imagine Americans, or Saigonese for that matter, wasting effort on birds. The mess and trouble would seem too much. But here the warbling is thought to be of great value. Perhaps they believe the singing, better than tugging or wheedling, will bring the willing customer within.

Picture: The bird cage is from tootoo.com, and is made by the Vietnamese company, Chanh Khang.

Poetry month shenanigans and more

APRIL IS POETRY MONTH (THANK YOU, ELIOT)

Dave Bonta will be doing a month of poetry reading--a book each day--for April, "poetry month." It's a good time to send him a book if you are a writer, and if you are a reader, he invites you to join in. Dave is one of the people I asked to participate in my upcoming series of posts on writing and publishing. (I have comments from four of the six writers I asked for comments, and am only waiting on the last two to begin.) He and Beth Adams are the founders of qarrtsiluni, that fascinating poetry 'zine, and Dave has moved from project to project, widening his presence on the internet. He'll talk about his kingdom on the internet here in the coming days.

MORE NEWS ABOUT MIKE IN VIETNAM

For the many who have paused to read my post from a few days ago about Mike's hilarious and sad adventure in Vietnam, the update is that he is thrilled with the volunteer work he is doing. It is exciting; every day he sees cases that are dramatic and that simply don't appear in the states. Every day he has chances to help and to change lives. The sweetest thing about all this is that the Vietnamese doctors and patients are grateful that he and his cohorts have come, and that in turn he is grateful to them for the experience and all that he is learning and seeing--it feels like the very reason a blue collar boy worked so very hard to pass through college, grad school, medical school, and a neuromuscular fellowship. Evidently it is neurology heaven for a doctor from a rural academic hospital!

MORE POETRY MONTH

Read an April book for April poetry month?

Pre-order discounts are still on for one of the loveliest books in the universe (hardcover and paperback), and that includes all distant galaxies. Design house Burt & Burt's use of a painting from Clive Hicks-Jenkins is wondrous, from the jacket to the leaves that sift through the pages of the book, linking prefatory pages to division pages. The contents are said to be pretty good as well!

Available by pre-order at your local independent bookshop and elsewhere in the brick-and-mortal world and online. To find ISBN numbers and such, check the Amazon page here. To see a big, beautiful version of the jacket, click on the image above.

Michael's Adventure in Vietnam

In the fall of 2009 my husband and I went to Thailand and Cambodia for a conference (his) and travel. Currently he is back in that part of the world--in Vietnam as a volunteer, doing lectures and helping with neurology patients, etc. I could not resist this anecdote from a letter written today. It is a pleasing mixture of the sad, the surprising, and the downright hilarious. I especially laughed at the red part (you'll see.) And I am glad he signed off as "Your loving husband!" (Names changed to protect the semi-innocent.)

Later thoughts: I am finding the long firecracker string of facebook comments amusing as well--particularly the ones about "red" and the bittersweet comedy-of-errors remarks. I should have titled the piece "Innocent Abroad." Twain could have done a lot with Mike and this little incident. Somehow Thailand and Cambodia didn't prepare him for the surprise of this moment! Also, I realize, reading through those comments, that it's not wholly clear that "Phuong" is a doctor, based in the U. S. Clearly Mike had just seen her for the first time, though, and I suppose she could have been something else entirely, passing herself off as a doctor--she is creative, after all--luckily she was not something else entirely!
I had a funny thing happen today. I was supposed to meet with Dr. Mai at noon and was sitting in the lobby waiting for her [but she did not show up.] A Vietnamese /American lady who was about 30-35 years old came up to me and in pretty good but accented English asked me if I was with [the medical volunteer program.] I said yes, and she introduced herself as Phuong. She was odd, pleasant, not pretty. Almost immediately she asked me if I was doing anything and if I had eaten. The answer was no to both. Then she asked if I would like to go and have lunch at her in-laws' house. I thought this was a little strange since we had only known each other about 5 minutes, but I thought the idea of going to a regular Viet house was interesting. So we got a cab and took it to a very warreny part of town. When we got out, her in-law (I'm still not sure what his exact relation was, perhaps her brother's wife's father?) came down a narrow alley on a scooter.

It seems the house is still pretty far away, but the alleys are too close for a cab to negotiate. So I get on the scooter, and he takes me down these seemingly endless alleys that are about the width of the space between ours and the M--'s garages. He finally drops me off at the house, which is a small but tidy thing, maybe two rooms down and two rooms up. It is decorated with the most extravagant Catholic imagery, statues, posters, a bust of Pope Benedict and a glass church with a neon "Ave Maria," neon halos, and a little flashing light show around the Infant of Prague. The mother-in-law and a pleasant toothless crone were there to greet me. I started to take pictures of the Catholica. [Marly: What a dratted tourist!]

Soon Phuong arrives. A table is brought out, and beer poured over ice. We have a nice if somewhat over fishy lunch. I eat mostly rice and a little dried pork and sauteed green beans. We stay about 90 minutes. I am surprised how much they make of me. Some other relatives arrive. He and his wife (who was VERY stylish) had just been to a wedding. He is a thoracic surgeon. I had hoped to ask him what his practice is like but it turns out he is too drunk from the wedding and has fallen asleep in the kitchen. Not too drunk to drive a moto in suicide traffic, but too drunk to stay awake. After a while we leave and walk back to the main road because the father-in-law got too drunk over lunch and he is taking a nap. The mother-in-law and sister-in-law are walking back with us and quite fawning over us both. We get back to the road amid extravagant hugs and get a taxi. On the way back Phuong is very quiet, but about halfway back to the hotel we have the following conversation:

Phuong: "I have a confession to make."

My husband, Michael: "Um, what?"

Phuong: "I told them you were my fiancé."

Michael: "You are spoofing me."

Phuong: "No. You see, in Vietnam a girl my age should be married. My mother is ashamed that I'm not. I couldn't stand to embarrass her in front of her relatives so when I saw you, I just thought about having you come and see them so they would think I wasn't always going to be single."

Michael: "That is really not a good enough reason. Besides, I'm like 20 years older than you."

Phuong: "That is alright. Since you are so plump and red they think you are really rich, which is more important."

Michael: "What happens when we don't get married?"

Phuong: "I hadn't thought that far ahead."

***
Photograph: The photo of "The Temple of Literature" courtesy of sxc.hu and Eva Schuster of Germany.