Thursday 16 October: Today is an O inspired day. We missed her yesterday evening when we got back from the Mekong Delta because we went straight to the swing class (at which we are only negligibly improved). As a journalist, O works very hard, but she does have the ability to be flexible about her hours so she takes us out to breakfast. Meals with O are always fascinating and the highlight of the day, not just for the food, which is exquisite whether cooked by O or eaten out on her recommendation, but for O herself. There are things we find out about Vietnamese culture only from O. We know that in Vietnam it is polite not to take the last piece of each dish, but to leave a tiny bit to show appreciation but not greed. That it is frowned upon to slurp your noodles. This last was revealed whilst I was attempting to eat some quite sticky noodles with chop sticks. I remained poised, pondering my next move. We are generally relatively adept at using chopsticks. But those particular noodles confounded me. There was a great deal of furtive slurping throughout the rest of breakfast. We learned from O that family is very important and the blood bond taken very seriously all through life. O's brother, 19 and at university, still comes to stay with her most weekends so she can feed him! We learned from O that school children start lessons at seven in the morning until eleven and then have a lot of homework and frequently extra classes. It's hard work.
But its not just what we learn through O that makes staying with her so wonderful. It's O herself. O is an independent, quirky and creative person. She considers things deeply, has her own opinions and an enormous amount of energy, and when we sit down to eat with O the conversation is so wide ranging and so inspiring that I find myself bubbling over with things I want to say, to agree with or to ask more about. In fact I get so enthusiastic that I know I talk too much and some form of gag would be useful in these situations. I mention this to M in passing. Tactfully, he says nothing.
After breakfast we go to the Woman's Museum which has an exhibition which O has been asked to review for her work. O tells us that it is Vietnamese Woman's Day on 20 October. The exhibition, of textiles made and worn by women from traditional minority cultures, is partly in honour of this.
We walk with O around the rest of the museum. The general theme is of the brave women who fought, protested or sacrificed themselves for their country or for freedom. In fact, though, it might be more accurate to say that the theme is of the brave Mother.
A painted depiction of enemy cruelty shows soldiers throwing a baby over their shoulder, it's screaming Mother straining against her captors to rescue it.
A statue, representing what O tells us is a key image, shows a woman holding a baby, another child at her skirts. She stares ahead proudly, a defensive hand on the child, the baby in the crook of her arm and at her back, a rifle.
A photograph covers one wall. It shows a mother embracing her son, returned unharmed from the war.
Another shows a woman in a crowd of protesters, calling through a megaphone to her son to persuade him to leave the puppet army he is fighting for, and to fight instead, for the Viet Cong.
In a large painting, a woman fights off the enemy while her baby feeds at her breast. In another sculpture, a woman cowers under the impending blows from an enemy soldier, her baby about to fall from her arms. The sculpture is entitled, 'The Unfinished Suck'.
War defies simplification though. In several translated letters of protests the American soldiers are characterised as 'children' and there is a lost generation of children born from their Mother's prostitution to American fathers. The babies are not wanted by either the Vietnamese people or the Americans. They are as impeded as those children born a little later, to parents affected by Agent Orange.
War keeps on killing long after it's over. Perhaps when we tot up the numbers of the dead, we should include the babies, soldiers, women and landscapes that will never be the same again.
When that evening, we are discussing with O the English maxim of eating everything on your plate, we suggest it comes from the days of strict rationing, it occurs to me that it's funny, no matter what culture you are talking about, somehow it always comes back to the last war.
Leaving O to get some peace and quiet and write up her review, we repair, on O's recommendation to a massage parlour. She has advised us to go for the full massage. It literally involves everything. We are massaged, manipulated, wrapped in cucumber soaked cloths, rubbed with hot stones, flexed, and clicked into place. Its amazing. And it costs a little under ten pounds. I have a slight sense of guilt. There have been days when we were bone weary. We walk everywhere and often cover large distances in the heat. I have felt as though every muscle ached, and even my brain cannot take any more. But today is not one of those days and I wonder, vaguely, if I should have this massage on a day when I need it more. All such thoughts float away once it begins though. And if it feels a little colonial, the skilled masseurs certainly get their own back. I open my eyes at one point and note that some of the other customers are lying flat in their stomach - and their masseuse is walking up and down their legs and back. Nervously, I sneak a peek at my masseuse. He is quite big for a Vietnamese man. M on the other hand, is being massaged by a tiny Vietnamese lady, who looks as though she weighs less than half of one of my limbs. This seems unfair.
In fact, when it happens I barely realise. I only know he's doing it because I can feel the shape of his foot on my spine. I am so relaxed afterwards that I float home for a quiet evening with O, and can't bring myself to put the dreaded deet back onto my newly softened and oiled skin. Take note. I am an idiot. Seasoned traveller my (very itchy) left foot.
However, before we leave the massage parlour, M's masseuse has a word of advice for us.
"You", she says pointing to M, "you eat many rice. Many, many rice. Too thin."
I note she does not say this to me. In fact I haven't been able to help but feel, surrounded by agile, neat Vietnamese bodies both in the massage parlour and on the street, rather like a pale slab of flabby, undercooked turkey. (This is not helped by a particular movement during the massage which seems to be specially designed to wobble the flab on your legs - probably created specifically for fat westerners.)
Of course no discourse with the theme of women is complete without some reference to body image. So here goes.
Vietnamese women are beautiful. They are neat and lean, golden skinned and smiley. Next to them I feel enormous and blotchy, overfed and inflexible. "The reason," said Mr Binh, back at the Cu Chi tunnels, "that westerners cannot squat like Vietnamese can, is that your asses are too big."
My ass, in Vietnam, feels gigantic. I am surprised I can fit it on a Vietnamese chair. Angst. I am a monster surrounded by angels.
And yet I have seen adverts all over Ho Chi Minh city with the universal symbol for weight loss, a tape measure around a perfectly toned female midriff. Really? Can this really be necessary? Tell me, please, it's just for the tourists. I haven't seen one Vietnamese woman who required help with weight loss.
Even more sadly though, I note the huge number of face and body products which claim to be 'whitening'. Vietnamese have beautiful golden hued skin. Yet it is hard for me to buy soap which isn't whitening. If I got any whiter I'd end up translucent.
When I look at western tourists, skin naturally pale, to me they look pasty and blotchy. I don't see a lot of good looking tourists. I see a lot of perfect Vietnamese. And the tourists, despite being apparently on holiday, tend to smile a lot less. (Hard to find the energy when your body is largely concentrating on sweating.)
Why is it that we are never happy with what we look like? Is it a 'grass is greener' problem, as some people suggest? Or is it a little nicer than that? Is it simply that we perceive beauty better in others - we have a unique perspective on what we are not, and we can better appreciate it? I prefer the latter.
Oh - and while I am doing a nicely stereotypical radio 4 woman's hour style post, I may as well mention fashion.
Generally, people here wear much the same as in the west in the summertime. But I have seen a lot of two piece top and trouser combinations, generally in bright patterns. I am not so keen. Better, are the more traditional trousers with a long top slit up the side. These are beautiful. Sadly I might look a bit ridiculous wearing one. In the countryside, these traditional garments are altered slightly so that the top is shorter, to better enable work in the fields. This I could get away with - and I really want one.
If I could get my fat westerners body into it, of course.
Angst.
P.S. I am deeply apologetic that nowhere in this post have I mentioned shoes or handbags. Call myself a woman? Pish.
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