Orienteering

02/29/12, 1:43 p.m. (UTC+7 hours, Vietnam time)

                Thoreau wrote in Walden, “Not till we are lost, in other words, not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize the infinite extent of our relations.” When looking at your life, if you don’t like what you see, spin around three times and look at it again between your knees. Something was stagnant about my time in Kennett Square—the fresh, country air was almost suffocating. The same menial tasks, the same lonely routine, the same waiting for Godot were all muddling my brain and nothing seemed to work right. I knew the precious sand of my gap year hourglass was slipping away and it was time do something important. While in South Africa, I may have been able to get rid of the ringworm, but I caught the international volunteerism bug pretty badly. So, to remedy my situation, I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately. Okay, not quite. I went to Saigon because I wished to give my time to disabled children and live in a completely different world than anything I had ever experienced. I went to go retrieve myself from the lost-and-found.

            A month or so after this decision, with getting a visa, typhoid vaccination, antimalarial prescription, travel preparations, and a few Vietnamese phrases out of the way, I boarded a plane destined for Chicago. Then Tokyo. Then Ho Chi Minh City, the post-Vietnam War name for Saigon. I arrived last night addled and stiff after 25 hours of flight time. When the automatic doors opened, Saigon exhaled her heavy, muggy, smoky breath on me and the voices of many people shouting to loved ones, business partners, and other airport pickups danced in my ears. Somehow I was able to find the unassuming Volunteers for Peace Vietnam (VPV) staff member with the tiny sign in the crowd, and we chatted for a few minutes as we waited for the other volunteer arrival to show up. A few minutes turned into more than an hour, and she was just about to give up and call the office when he finally came over to us. At this point I had been awake for over 30 hours and glad to be going towards the prospect of a bed.

            The taxi ride to Peace House #3 in the Phu Nhuan district seemed like a tour through a Hollywood set, it appeared so unreal. It took awhile for it to sink in that Cape Town was on a different continent, but the motorbikes, small sidewalks, distinct architecture, and neon signs in Vietnamese that lit the sultry night all mingled to create a very clear message that I wasn’t in Kansas, or Kennett Square, or even the western hemisphere anymore. Upon my arrival at the volunteer house, which doubles as the VPV office, I kicked off my shoes and a shy, Irish volunteer named Kevin showed me up a few narrow flights of stairs to my room. I picked at my luggage listlessly in the semblance of unpacking before climbing gratefully into bed. Well, onto bed because with the ubiquitous heat there are no covers on it, but rather a merciful fan I put at the foot.

            It’s a good thing it’s impossible for me ever to sleep in, because I was greeted this morning by jackhammers, a real-life crowing rooster, a Vietnamese message over a loudspeaker somewhere, and a train of other volunteers coming into my room to use the bathroom—the only one on the floor. The house emptied as everyone went off to work for the morning and I decided to figure out the shower. By shower, I mean a handheld shower head with cold water, a bucket, and a drain in the floor of the tiny bathroom. I added “bathing in Vietnam” to the list of benefits of short hair. I didn’t see anyone else for the rest of the morning, save for an awkward encounter with the cook, who didn’t speak any English, and I, who didn’t know where anything in the kitchen was. At lunch I met far more faces than names I could remember, but it was a happy gathering in the cramped common area of people from Australia, England, Ireland, Spain, and Japan as well as two other Americans and of course Vietnamese volunteers and staff. I was happily surprised at how much more diverse the volunteer base is here, both in terms of nationality and gender. Half or even more of the volunteers are men, which is a brownie point for males since the majority of the volunteering here is working with children, not building houses. It’s an amicable group and I’m excited to explore the city for the first time on a walk this afternoon with my Australian roommate, Michelle. She has been here for awhile already, so hopefully we won’t get lost. If we do, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Thoreau wouldn’t think so.