My identity

     I am who I am, there’s never been any ambiguity about that, until now. When I was a kid in school I was Al or Alan. As I got older, I worked construction every summer and Christmas on Kwajalein in the late 70’s and early 80’s when I came home from college. The workforce was primarily from Hawaii, so I was haole boy. My boss, Chige Sakamoto seemed to revel in barking out, “Haole boy! Come!” I was the only haole around, everyone knew, it was just who I was. Haole boy.  When I lived on Kili Island in the Marshall Islands, I was ri belle to the kids, or to the youngest, simply belle (ri belle is Marshallese for white person or foreigner). The entire year I was there, every time kids who weren’t in school saw me, the would yell out, “Belle, belle, belle, belle, belle!” My retort was, “Majol, majol, majol, majol, majol!” (Marshallese, Marshallese, Marshallese, Marshallese, Marshallese!) But it was okay because that’s who I was/am. A ri belle. In Saipan? I was just another American. I remember sitting around with our Chamorro family one Friday evening and they were complaining about Americans on island and how they didn’t respect the local culture. I raised my eyebrows and looked around the group and someone suddenly said, “Oh, but not you guys. You’re okay.” Whew. That’s who I was/am. Another American. I’ve been in Vietnam for a few weeks and have been to some out of the way places where they’re not used to foreigners of any type showing up. The gasps are audible, people whisper and point and then shyly come up and either try to practice their English or ask for a photo with the foreign devil. I have no idea what they call me, but that’s what I am in Vietnam, just another foreign devil. A nice foreign devil, but still.
     But not here in Nha Trang. It’s a weird demographic. There are primarily local Vietnamese, Vietnamese tourists, Chinese and Russians. Russians. Lots and lots of Russians. From 1978 to 2002, Cam Ranh bay, a deep water port about 50 kilometers south of Nha Trang was leased to the USSR Navy. Russian military families migrated up to Nha Trang, which has a lovely, curving beach and started to create a Russian community there. There are now direct charter flights that disgorge even more Russians directly to Nha Trang.

Store for???

     Back to me. Al, Alan, Haole boy, ri belle, belle, just another American, Mr. Dragon (see last blog), foreign devil and now...I’m apparently Russian. I’m clearly not Vietnamese or Chinese. I stay in $25 - 30/night hotels, so I’m not taken for a ragged Western backpacker, clearly, I must be Russian.

Pretty sure they’re Russian

When I go into a store to buy something, they say, Spasibo (thank you). Da. Nyet. But this is what I say to let them know I’m not Russian: Я не голосовал за Трампа. Translation: I didn’t vote for Trump. Reclaiming my identity! Reclaiming my identity!

Mr. Dragon

     I was first exposed to dragon fruit in Phnom Penh, around 1998. I have a pretty good knowledge of tropical fruits, but dragon fruit was brand new to me. I was teaching 4th grade in Saipan way back then and a former teacher from Kwajalein, who was teaching at an international school in Cambodia got in contact with me through a mutual friend. He was interested in coming to Saipan and wanted to know if I’d answer a few questions about working and living on Saipan. We had an AMA (Ask Me Anything) session via e-mail and I gave him what I perceived to be the good, bad and ugly about living and teaching on Saipan. After a few more work/life discussions over e-mail, he told me he was taking his middle school class to Angkor Wat for a field trip and asked if I wanted to tag along.

1. I repeat. He was taking his class to Angkor Wat for a field trip. Wow.
2. I asked my wife for permission (really, I begged. Angkor Wat was on my bucket list) and she generously gave me a kitchen pass.

     Before my wife could change her mind, I quickly made reservations and within a few days I was on my way to Phnom Penh. The visa on entry process, including a payment of $20 in US cash, was interesting. Process is not exactly the right word. It resembled a rugby scrum, with everyone waving their $20 in a semi circle, trying to push their way forward to get the visa raj to take your money and stamp your passport. I eventually made my way to the front of the line, got my visa and floundered out into the hot, sticky air of Phnom Penh.  David’s wife Nam had kindly offered to pick me up at the airport.  I hopped on the back of Nam’s moto (the ubiquitous 110cc motorcycle in SE Asia), and silently thanked myself for being a light traveler - I had a small duffel bag, she put that between her legs and I held on for dear life as she beeped her horn and weaved in and out of the chaotic Cambodian traffic.  She took me to their apartment, where I met their daughter, Tu. David came in a bit later from school and Nam quickly prepared an unbelievable meal. The food was excellent, but every aspect of the multi course meal stood out because of her exquisite presentation. Things that seem special to me (cutting chile or green onion, putting it in ice water so it would curl like a flower, for example) were normal for her. Every plate had the exact amount of garnishing in the same place, and perhaps because I’m not a gourmand, it was quite impressive. At the end of the meal, she plopped down what looked to me like big chunks of Gouda cheese on a plate for dessert. Red skin on the outside, yellow on the inside. I experienced a moment of cognitive dissonance, after such an incredible meal, the dessert was these huge hunks of cheese? But no, that was my introduction to dragon fruit. The fruit itself didn’t overwhelm, it wasn’t an OMG moment like the first time I had mangosteen or rambutan, but it certainly piqued my interest. There were seeds in the yellow flesh and I asked about them, how the plant grew. Both Nam and Tu told me that dragon fruit did not grow from seeds, like a banana, you had to take the shoots and transplant them. When they said that, I started taking those tiny black seeds out and putting them on the side. Challenge accepted.
     The trip to Angkor Wat with those rascally middle schoolers is another story, but Angkor Wat did not disappoint.
     I’m in Vietnam right now and it seems like every fruit - mango, longan, lychee, rambutan, the queen of fruits, mangosteen and the king, durian - are all in season. There is also no shortage of dragon fruit. I took an 8 hour train trip from Ho Chi Minh City to Nha Trang a few days ago and saw where all of the dragon fruit in the world is grown. At least that’s what it looked like to me as hours and hours passed with nothing but dragon fruit plantations on either side of the train. Seeing all of the dragon fruit brought back fond memories of David, Nam and Tu and the humorous dragon fruit discussions we had. Nam and Tu were adamant that you couldn’t grow it from seed, I said I’m going to try; they had a good time teasing me saying that it wasn’t possible.

    More dragon fruit than you can shake a stick at. 

     I had no idea about how it was grown, didn’t even know what type of plant it was. But I’m a curious fellow (and a little stubborn as well) and gave it a shot. When I got back to Saipan, I was able to start and grow some dragon fruit plants. They even flowered, but they never fruited. When David, Nam and Tu finally came to Saipan, we had them over and I casually led Nam and Tu over to my dragon fruit plants and said, “Oh, what are these? Where could they have come from? Are these dragon fruit plants?” They were stunned. We had made an agreement in Phnom Penh. If I was able to grow dragon fruit from seed, then they would have to call me something other than Alan. And for the rest of the time they were on Saipan, Nam and Tu honored the deal and  called me by just one of the many names I go by..Mr. Dragon.