Travel Stories- Almost a Vietnamese. Almost!

My work as a volunteer dentist in the Philippines required me to spend the better part of the day at the Vietnamese refugee camp. The Palawan First Asylum Camp was a docking station for Vietnamese refugees (boat people) who were trying to get out of their country in the aftermath of the US departure from South Vietnam. My lunches at the Vietnamese restaurant inside the camp were a new culinary adventure. The camp dished out authentic Vietnamese home food replete with their amazingly spicy sauces. Even my brave South Indian tongue turned red at their potency. One gets used to the food in a short time but the journey from the bowl to the mouth was an arduous one. The Vietnamese are a proud people, like most Orientals. They are also finicky about their table manners. Chopsticks are ‘de rigueur.’ In the early days, they often looked at me pathetically as I struggled with a fork to discipline the slippery noodles, which were distinctly different and certainly more difficult than the user- friendly Chinese variety. At least the one’s we ate in India. A significant conversation, a few days later with Van Phuc Trinh, my translator and chopstick coach, told me that I should learn how to use their tool if I must earn their respect. Trinh and I were dining at the canteen a couple of days after I started work. Trinh leaned forward to interrupt my futile attempts to trap the noodles, which seemed to have a mind of its own. I could not, for the life of me, believe that you could actually tame these slippery spools of wormy noodles with two sticks that were perfectly smooth.
“Doc, do you know that the Filipinos have no eating manners!?” She whispered
“No” said I, distracted and struggling with the two sticks whose tips would never come together. I had always sensed an undercurrent of silent hostility between the Vietnamese refugees and their hosts, the Filipinos.
“They do not know how to eat properly,” she announced with a trace of condescension.
I had this strange feeling that she was hinting at my ineptitude. Orientals have a way of being round about in their conversations.
“They cannot eat with a chop stick…” she hesitated realizing that I had stopped my fervent attempts and the noodles were smoothly unwinding back into the bowl. “ or even forks…” she trailed away, seeing the look of guilt and embarrassment on my face. She then leaned forward as if to reveal a terrible secret and said, “I have seen Filipinos eat with their fingers…!” She waited to see the horror on my face. She obviously did not know that Indians, particularly south Indians, not only used their fingers but their whole hand. Licking streaks of curry or curds from their wrists or even forearm was considered perfectly good manners in Tamilnadu, my home state. However, I decided to show significant alarm at her revelation. It was clear that her issue was with the Filipinos and she did not care about my chop stick expertise.
“Don’t tell me…..” said I, in mock revulsion.
She nodded sagely while I got back to my struggle with the chopsticks.
Over the next few days I learnt to pick up large chunks of food with my chopsticks. My eyes had grown chinkier. Hell! I almost became like them. Well almost….. My real test came a week later. Here goes!
The cook at the Vietnamese camp was a celebrity of sorts. He was an important cultural link to their homeland. So when he had a toothache it was a real emergency. He was allowed to jump the queue - to have his tooth extracted by me. No one complained. The next afternoon, the cook, now relieved of his pain decided to honour me by making a special appearance in the service area of the canteen. He came to my table, which I shared with my interpreter, Trinh and an American intern George Davendorf. In his hand was a plate of meat, which Trinh (who obviously knew that I was being honored) explained, was courtesy the cook. He put the plate of meat in front of me and bowed low saying “Doc”
“Thanks” said I and dexterously picked up a piece of meat with my chop sticks, whose use was becoming more familiar to me. While Trinh my interpreter joined me in eating the rather delicious meat preparation, George, my other table- mate politely declined. After having eaten a couple of pieces, I asked Trinh what the meat was.
“Doc” said she.
“What is the meat?” I asked again, thinking that she had not heard.
“Doc” came the reply.
Seeing my puzzlement the American intern George clarified for me. “Dog” he said. “ It’s a delicacy they reserve for important people,” he laughed.
The chopsticks slipped from my hand as my interpreter went on to explain how a wayward dog had found its way to my table and my stomach. With increasing revulsion, I listened as she explained how the dog had created a ruckus the previous night and the cook had it killed and served up for lunch. Last night’s nuisance became today’s gourmet lunch! Two birds in one shot if you like. The cook who understood no English stood by smiling proudly at his accomplishment. “It was kept a secret” she said sotto voce. The Filipinos like most people did not find the idea of killing dogs for dinner a friendly eating habit. More importantly there would have been a stampede amongst the Vietnamese, for dog meat was a delicacy in great demand at the camp. I tried to say something appropriate to everybody around. It came out sounding like a bark. I motioned to Trinh and asked her to share it with her people at the next table. I could never look a dog in the eye….. ever again.
George
April 1990