Isolation

Arrivals and departures of new and old staff have blurred together. At this point it’s hard to remember who met whom and for how long each person was with us on the island. Most of those people I considered to be family in my first months on Cat Ba have moved onward. It can be so mentally exhausting to build meaningful relationships every time a new staff member or volunteer arrives. Deeper conversations come with varying levels of ease amongst those still here, and in terms of gossip and the way news gets around, this place is worse than a sorority.

This week, however, brought the most wonderful surprise: Luca and Ben, two volunteers from back in April, returned to the island. Luca’s here to do a mega-push as he finishes editing the region’s updated climbing guidebook. Ben’s here to “Help Luca,” meaning he’s having the time of his life climbing every day and counting bolts or measuring route length as needed. It feels like family has come home, and things are just so good.

More than people, though, I find myself missing a Jewish community. I’ve lived in isolated places before, but never have I been so isolated in regards to this specific aspect of my identity. Although I don’t hold literal belief in the scriptures, my identity, culture and morals are all heavily grounded in Judaism and comprise a large part of who I am.

Living abroad pushes me to practice more than I would by habit at home, needing to maintain a tangible connection to Judaism. In the past when I’ve lived abroad I’ve always had a common community around me. In the Galapagos Islands my dive instructor, Shye, provided me with a steady supply of Matzo through Passover. In Kenya, Nairobi’s Orthodox synagogue became my refuge during High Holidays as long-term expats and visiting Chabad took me under their wing. During Hanukkah that year, my family lit a menorah in the middle of the bush with our Maasai guides and hosts for the night.

I’ve always taken comfort in knowing I can walk into a synagogue anywhere in the world and find welcome as family. In the absence of any such community on Cat Ba, I realize how much I’ve taken refuge in the comfort of my heritage in the past. Holidays pass here without mention, jokes fall flat and references to Manischewitz meet blank faces.

I haven’t been near a synagogue since well before I left home. I miss being in a sanctuary in front of an ark and Torah. I miss the sound of a Shofar- a ram’s horn. I miss the sound of dozens of Shofars sounding together– there’s a reason they say that the Shofar’s blast announces the opening of the gates to Heaven. I miss smoked salmon, matzo ball soup and potato pancakes with applesauce. Somehow I even miss keeping Kosher- I still can’t bring myself to add bacon into a chicken burger.

It’s somewhat of an irony, as I sit writing this on Rosh Hashana, that when I’m home near family I take this part of myself for granted. Traditional foods show up at family events and subtle reminders surround me in the form of Shabbat candles stored in plain sight, Mezuzot on door frames and leftover matzo meal waiting in the pantry.

Over time my spirituality has become an odd mix of my Jewish upbringing and whatever it is I find when I leave the city. When I’m home in Oregon I tend to search for that sense of fulfillment by heading toward higher elevation. I’ve been known to skip services on our most important holidays to climb, choosing instead to lose myself in trust and fear and meditation on the wall. Nowhere but in the alpine, isolated, surrounded by nothing but rock and ice and trees, have I felt so small and insignificant and humbled by the world around me. There, survival even on simple days draws on my own accumulated skills and knowledge and experience, all built through past lessons and triumphs and failures. In that sense, the experience is keenly personal.

As much as I might seek such an isolation and sense of smallness compared to the world, living abroad has taught me more than anything that culture and community are equally important to me. In a lifestyle where I constantly aspire to move forward and push myself further, my roots and family provide comfort, belonging, stability and steadfast support. It’s taken moving away to realize just how much that presence and support contributes to my life at home.

For now, I’ll hang out with Ben and Luca for the short time they grace us with their presence. I’ll watch True Detective (Luca’s influence), climb scary things (Ben’s influence), jump off boats in the bay, watch thunderstorms and do everything I can to swerve my motorbike around goats scattered across the road on my way home from work.

And when the chance arises I’ll find a synagogue to step into, momentarily filling that void of family and familiarity amidst the constant shift and change living abroad brings on a daily basis.

Heat

The last week of August launches a heat wave unlike anything I've ever experienced. Temperatures rise to a steady 95° F, humidity hovering around 70%, thickening the air as it pushes perceived temperatures to 115° F. Power cuts occur without warning as air conditioning units and fans overload the grid. Generators' hums fill Cat Ba Town as work continues as normally as possible through obscene heat. Although the government usually times power cuts during daylight hours so that people can sleep at night, we do occasionally wake to rising temperatures as our air conditioning fails for several-hour stretches.

Unfortunately we're without a generator at our hotel in Ben Beo, where those of us lucky enough to be on days off (read: not guiding in the sun) sprawl across hammocks and attempt to cool off in the imaginary breeze.

In typical Vietnamese fashion, the internet cable running from Cat Ba to the mainland has also sustained damage and we're already in the midst of a multiday internet blackout.

Our sole respite comes in Deep Water Solo. Luckily we have almost daily deeping tides this time of year, so we take basket boats into the bay to climb from their prows onto overhung rock before dropping into the sea. While the bathwater-warm water provides a short-lived break from the heat, it also forces us to choose between staying home or risking infection of any broken skin-- unfortunately the bay's emerald water does carry a certain level of pollution.

We climb anyway. It's the only way to stay sane.

Eating has become physically impossible. Staying hydrated proves a task in itself, as liter after liter of water simply sweats itself out of my body. By the third day, my body rebels. Heat blisters blanket my hands and fingers. Tiny scratches become obscenely infected and an ear infection begins forming. The process of trying to maintain a base level of health consumes all of my body's energy, leaving me exhausted.

I throw my hands up and turn to the island's pharmacies (of which there are many). With my Vietnamese roommate Lizzie at my side I buy a full week of antibiotics for 28,000 VND... or $1.25. Hear that, USA? That's anywhere from 2 to 10 times less than I would pay at home and 26 times less than they quoted my very ginger-haired coworker when he showed up without a local to help negotiate price for him. As the amoxicillin begins working literally within hours, I revise my opinion of Vietnam to assert that health insurance and Obamacare have nothing on this country when it comes to getting hands on prescription drugs.
______

I'll leave you with a post I put up on that sanctified Book of Face recently, which I think pretty much sums up my current experience.

In the last week:
- I've been informed with authority that I should not eat mango or watermelon, or wash my hair, while I am sick.
- After double-checking that sausage served was not made from dog, clients have asked me (in genuine concern) if dogs no longer like me because I have eaten dog meat.
- My kayakers have broken into the Jurassic Park theme song at the top of their lungs.
- I capsized my first kayak, in front of fifteen customers, while I was bailing out said kayak for customers to get into.
- I've been served purple rice wine made from sea cucumbers and sea stars. And chunky orange rice wine with bees in it.
- I bought a full week's round of amoxicillin for $1.25.- Temperature and humidity combined to a perceived 115° temperature for multiple days, complete with internet and power blackouts.

Welcome to August in Viet Nam.