Turn Right at the Goddess
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re on our way from Ho Chi Minh City to Bangkok; we should land not long after you receive this. I wrote the following a few months ago.
Turn Right at the Goddess
Tours of the ancient ruins outside of Oaxaca seem to mostly include visits to artisan workshops, so I’ve decided to just take a taxi.
I have zero problem with watching artisans work. As a matter of fact, sometimes it’s fascinating, and when I’m in the mood, I really enjoy some good glass-blowing or basket-weaving.
If I can see into a bakery, I’m all over it, nose against the window, watching, or even better, inside, peering into the ovens and chatting with the bakers. They’re always proud of their work, and happy to explain what they’re doing, if we have language in common (or even if we don’t). Any free samples are just an unexpected bonus, I swear.
But I vastly prefer stumbling across these little treasures on my own.
I think I was scarred by a workshop experience in Vietnam, early in our travels (a thing I realized recently: the first year of this gig was totally formative, and I might be better off now if I could figure out how to change some of the knee-jerk patterns of thought I learned in those days).
We landed in Danang, a large-ish city about midway up the coast (if you’ve seen Good Morning, Vietnam, you may remember Robin Williams riffing on the name). We were looking forward to visiting Hoi An, which is less than an hour’s drive south. Hoi An is considered one of the jewels of Vietnam—mostly untouched by the war, it’s an ancient, beautifully preserved little city, with an easily walkable old town, a river, and a feeling (unique in Vietnam, as far as I can tell) that you’ve stepped into the pages of a fairy-tale. We had planned to stay for a week, but couldn’t bring ourselves to leave for a solid month.
But I digress—first we had to get there. We had pre-booked a car service for the transit (like I said, this was early days, and we were much more inclined to pay attention to those details back then). We were met by a gentleman holding a sign with our name, and we followed him to a large van, which we had to ourselves. He spoke zero English, but got behind the wheel and we headed south, out of the city.
Maybe twenty or so minutes down the road, he turned off the road and pulled the van into a sort of carport, attached to a huge building. He said something to us in Vietnamese, and got out, leaving us alone in the van.
Words ensued between us. Many words, mostly whispered, with great urgency and increasing befuddlement.
We’re supposed to get out.
Maybe he’s just gone to the bathroom. We should stay here.
No, I’m pretty certain we’re changing cars. We’re supposed to get out.
That’s ridiculous. Why would be changing cars? Just sit tight.
I’m telling you, we’re supposed to get out.
Why the !@#$ would we get out? It’s a forty-five minute drive. We’re almost there—what in the world is going on? Just stay in your seat.
No, I’m getting out. This is ridiculous.
(Okay, that’s a vague memory of our exchange. What I remember most vividly is a rising sense of confusion and embarrassment and total frustration—I just wanted to get to Hoi An. At that stage of our first Vietnam sojourn, every single inter-city transfer had been challenged me, one way or another, eg: the loudest train ride ever, the bus ride when I had diarrhea.)
It turned out we were at a huge marble workshop. We were meant to go inside and buy a 30,000 pound statue, which I suppose they would ship to our (non-existent) home. Lee says that in retrospect, it was all very straight-forward—the workshop gave the driver a fee for bringing us, in hopes that we’d buy something. At the time, it was confounding and slightly alarming.
[Sometimes—mainly at marble workshops and carpet stores—not having a home is very handy: “Sorry, no, can’t buy. I have nowhere to put it.” Most sales pitches come to a screeching halt when I say all my possessions are in my suitcase. Although one persistent carpet seller in Turkey did try to convince me it would be a perfect dowry for my daughter … I just laughed and kept walking. Not so much, buddy.]
It all worked out, of course—and no, there’s no giant marble goddess waiting for us in the US. We’ve learned to say no. In Tunisia, just this past spring, we hired a guide to take us to the ruins of an ancient Roman city. He threw in a stop at a coliseum for free, which was both amazing and devoid of other tourists, then insisted we visit the carpet shop across the way. We shrugged, and told him there was zero chance we’d buy a rug. Then we told the shop owner the same thing. We all shrugged, he went through his spiel, we oohed and ahhed over the rugs, then thanked him and ate some cookies and that was that.
I don’t like to mislead, or waste someone’s time or get their hopes up, but I figure if I’m totally transparent up front, I can relax and enjoy the experience without feeling bad.
In general, though, I prefer just to skip the workshops. Unless they’re going to give me bread, hot out of the oven, of course.
Take care,
Lisa
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