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Catfish and Mandala: A Two-Wheeled Voyage Across the Landscape and Memory of Vietnam, by Andrew X. Pham. (Hardcover, 336 pages, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1999; Paperback, Picador, 2000; ISBN-10: 0312267177). Read a sample chapter. Listen to an audio interview with Andrew X. Pham from NPR's Morning Edition; NPR special correspondent Susan Stamberg talks with Andrew. Book Description From Amazon.com "Catfish and Mandala is the poignant, lyrical tale of an American odyssey--a solo bicycle voyage around the Pacific Rim to Vietnam--made by a young Vietnamese-American man in pursuit of both his adopted homeland and his forsaken fatherland. Intertwined with an often humorous travelogue spanning a year of discovery is a memoir of war, escape, and, ultimately, family secrets. Viewed through Viet-kieu (foreign Vietnamese) eyes and told in an accomplished voice, Catfish and Mandala uncovers a new Vietnam, its scarred landscape dotted with indefinable, tenacious people grappling with their unique brand of Third World capitalism. Their stories are at once ephemeral and lasting, their faces fleeting, intense, memorable. There is Pham's stepgrandfather Le, the fish-sauce baron of Phan Thiet, who claims his ancestors invented the condiment; his father, a POW of the Vietcong, who finally leads his family on a perilous boat journey to the land of their freedom; and his beloved sister, Chi, a post-operative transsexual who commits suicide. Pham deftly limns the lasting scars of the Vietnam War and the plight of a refugee family, to create a haunting portrait of America framed by the perspective of an outsider, a stranger straddling two continents. In Vietnam, he's taken for Japanese or Korean by his countrymen, except by his relatives, who doubt that as a Vietnamese he has the stamina to complete his journey ("Only Westerners can do it"). And in the United States, of course, he's considered anything except American. A vibrant, picaresque memoir written with narrative flair and a wonderful, eye-opening sense of adventure, Catfish and Mandala is an unforgettable search for cultural identity and a moving exploration of memory by a striking new voice in American letters." Editorial Reviews: From Publishers Weekly "In narrating his search for his roots, Vietnamese-American
and first-time author Pham alternates between two story lines. The
first, which begins in war-torn Vietnam, chronicles the author's hair-raising
escape to the U.S. as an adolescent in 1977 and his family's subsequent
and somewhat troubled life in California. The second recounts his
return to Vietnam almost two decades later as an Americanized but
culturally confused young man. Uncertain if his trip is a "pilgrimage
or a farce," Pham pedals his bike the length of his native country,
all the while confronting the guilt he feels as a successful Viet-kieu
(Vietnamese expatriate) and as a survivor of his older sister Chi,
whose isolation in America and eventual suicide he did little to prevent.
Flipping between the two story lines, Pham elucidates his main dilemma:
he's an outsider in both America and Vietnam. In the former for being
Vietnamese, and the latter for being Viet-kieu. Aside from a weakness
for hyphenated compounds like "people-thick" and "passion-rich,"
Pham's prose is fluid and fast, navigating deftly through time and
space. Wonderful passages describe the magical qualities of catfish
stew, the gruesome preparation of "gaping fish" (a fish
is seared briefly in oil with its head sticking out, but is supposedly
still alive when served), the furious flow of traffic in Ho Chi Minh
City and his exasperating confrontations with gangsters, drunken soldiers
and corrupt bureaucrats. In writing a sensitive, revealing book about
cultural identity, Pham also succeeds in creating an exciting adventure
story. (Oct.) Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc." From Library Journal "As a child, Pham fled Vietnam with his family and settled in California. Here he recounts his return--by bicycle, as he wheels up the West Coast, boards a plane, and finds himself at the airport in Saigon, cursing out the "nitwits in flip-flops" who wrecked his bike. Clearly, this is no sentimental journey; Pham's is a soul divided. He's a contentious guide, but the journey is heartrending and invaluable. (LJ 10/1/99) Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc." From Booklist Perhaps the most American writing theme is the road trip as search for identity. Pham has written a memoir (and, in the process, a travelogue) that will be widely appealing. His family immigrated to the U.S. after escaping from Vietnam, where his father had been held in a communist "re-education camp" after the war. Once in the U.S., his parents worked grueling hours to afford to educate their children. During those years Pham's sister ran away after being beaten by her father, and when she returned years later, she had become a transsexual. Eventually, she commited suicide, and her death was a dark, unspoken family secret. Pham, who had become an engineer, had an identity crisis and left his career to bicycle through the U.S., Mexico, Japan, and, eventually, Vietnam, to examine his roots. Seeing his native country through Americanized eyes, he finds it both attractive and repellent. Ultimately, he must reconcile to being an outsider in all cultures. - Eric Robbins From Kirkus Reviews "A brilliantly written memoir in which a young Vietnamese-American uses a bicycle journey in his homeland as a vehicle to tell his eventful life story. The veteran-penned ``going back'' book has become a subgenre of the American Vietnam War canon. So, too, has the multigenerational Vietnamese-refugee family saga. Now comes a stunning first: a family tale by a Vietnamese-American that centers on an eye-opening trip to his native land. Pham (born Pham Xuan An) fled Vietnam with his family in 1977 at age ten. Raised in California, he worked hard, went to UCLA, and landed a good engineering job. A few years ago, rebelling against family pressures to succeed and a patronizing, if not racist, work environment, Pham quit his job. Much to his parents' displeasure, he set off on bicycle excursions through Mexico, Japan, and, finally, Vietnam. ``I have to do something unethnic,'' he says. ``I have to go. Make my pilgrimage.'' In his first book, Pham details his solo cycling journeys, mixing in stories of his and his family's life before and after leaving Vietnam. The most riveting sections are Pham's exceptional evocations of his father's time in a postwar communist reeducation (read: concentration) camp and the family's near miraculous escape by sea from their homeland. The heart of the narrative is Pham's depiction of his five-month adventure in Vietnam, often not a pretty picture. Because of his unique status as a budget-minded Viet Kieu (overseas Vietnamese), he runs into significant harassment from the police and many unfriendly civilians. For every moment of self-discovery and enchantment there seem to be ten of disappointment and dispiritedness plus nearly constant physical pain from his journey and a bout of dysentery. But Pham perseveres. He returns to his home, America, with a smile on his face. An insightful, creatively written report on Vietnam today and on the fate of a Vietnamese family in America. -- Copyright ©1999, Kirkus Associates, LP." From Amazon.com Review A great memoirist can burnish even an ordinary childhood into something
bright--see, for instance, Annie Dillard's An American Childhood.
So what about a really good writer with access to a dramatic and little-documented
story? This is the case with Catfish and Mandala, Vietnamese American
Andrew X. Pham's captivating first book, which delves fearlessly into
questions of home, family, and identity. The son of Vietnamese parents
who suffered terribly during the Vietnam War and brought their family
to America when he was 10, Pham, on the cusp of his 30s, defied his
parents' conservative hopes for him and his engineering career by
becoming a poorly paid freelance writer. After the suicide of his
sister, he set off on an even riskier path to travel some of the world
on his bicycle. In the grueling, enlightening year that followed,
he pedaled through Mexico, the American West Coast, Japan, and finally
his far-off first land, Vietnam. Newspaper & Magazine Reviews: "Thoreau, Theroux, Kerouac, Steinbeck, Mark Twain and William Least Heat-Moon—the roster of those who have turned to their travels for inspiration includes some of America's most noted scribes. Now add Andrew X. Pham to the list . . . Catfish and Mandala records a remarkable odyssey across landscape and into memory."—The Seattle Times "An engaging and vigorously told story . . . a fresh and original look at how proud Vietnamese on the war's losing side reconciled having their identity abruptly hyphenated to Vietnamese-American."—Gavin Scott, Chicago Tribune "A modern Plutarch might pair Pham's story with that of Chris McCandless, the uncompromising young man whose spiritual quest led him to a forlorn death in Alaska. Pham, instead of seeking out remote places where he could explore fantasies of self-sufficiency, instictively understood that self-knowledge emerges from engagement with others. In his passionate telling, his travelogue acquires the universality of a bildungsroman."—The New Yorker "A trip so necessary and so noble makes others seem like mere jaunts or stunts."—The New York Times Book Review "Part memoir, part travelogue . . . Catfish and Mandala [is] a visceral, funny and tender look at modern-day Vietnam, interwoven with the saga of Pham's refugee family."—Annie Nakao, San Francisco Examiner "Far more than a travelogue . . . Catfish and Mandala is a seamlessly constructed work deftly combining literary techniques with careful, evenhanded reportage . . . A gifted writer . . . Pham opens readers to the full sadness of the human condition on both sides of the world, marveling at spiritual resilience amid irreconcilable facts."—Roland Kelts, The Philadelphia Inquirer "No small achievement . . . Scenes of [Pham's] wild road adventure [are] worthy of Jack Kerouac."—The San Francisco Chronicle "Stunning . . . A brilliantly written memoir in which a young Vietnamese-American uses a bicycle journey in his homeland as a vehicle to tell his eventful life story . . . Pham (born Pham Xuan An) fled Vietnam with his family in 1977 at age ten. Raised in California, he worked hard, went to UCLA, and landed a good engineering job. A few years ago, rebelling against family pressures to succeed and a patronizing, if not racist, work environment, Pham quit his job. Much to his parents' displeasure, he set off on bicycle excursions through Mexico, Japan, and, finally, Vietnam. 'I have to do something unethnic,' he says. 'I have to go. Make my pilgrimage.' In his first book, Pham details his solo cycling journeys, mixing in stories of his and his family's life before and after leaving Vietnam. The most riveting sections are Pham's exceptional evocations of his father's time in a postwar communist reeducation (read: concentration) camp and the family's near miraculous escape by sea from their homeland . . . An insightful, creatively written report on Vietnam today and on the fate of a Vietnamese family in America."—Kirkus Reviews "[Pham] fuels his memoir and travelogue, full of both comic and painful adventures, with a broad appreciation of the variety and vividness of creation. The people, the landscapes, the poverty and grime of Vietnam live for us through him, a man full of sadness and unrequited longing and love . . . a powerful memoir of grief and a doomed search for cultural identity."—Vince Passaro, Elle "In narrating his search for his roots, Vietnamese-American and first-time author Pham alternates between two story lines. The first, which begins in war-torn Vietnam, chronicles the author's hair-raising escape to the U.S. as an adolescent in 1977 and his family's subsequent and somewhat troubled life in California. The second recounts his return to Vietnam almost two decades later as an Americanized but culturally confused young man. Uncertain if his trip is a 'pilgrimage or a farce,' Pham pedals his bike the length of his native country, all the while confronting the guilt he feels as a successful Viet-kieu (Vietnamese expatriate) and as a survivor of his older sister Chi, whose isolation in America and eventual suicide he did little to prevent. Flipping between the two story lines, Pham elucidates his main dilemma: he's an outsider in both America and Vietnam—in the former for being Vietnamese, and the latter for being Viet-kieu . . . In writing a sensitive, revealing book about cultural identity, Pham also succeeds in creating an exciting adventure story."—Publishers Weekly "Perhaps the most American writing theme is the road trip as search for identity. Pham has written a memoir (and, in the process, a travelogue) that will be widely appealing. His family immigrated to the U.S. after escaping from Vietnam, where his father had been held in a communist 're-education camp' after the war. Once in the U.S., his parents worked grueling hours to afford to educate their children. During those years Pham's sister ran away after being beaten by her father, and when she returned years later, she had become a transsexual. Eventually, she commited suicide, and her death was a dark, unspoken family secret. Pham, who had become an engineer, had an identity crisis and left his career to bicycle through the U.S., Mexico, Japan, and, eventually, Vietnam, to examine his roots. Seeing his native country through Americanized eyes, he finds it both attractive and repellent. Ultimately, he must reconcile to being an outsider in all cultures."—Eric Robbins, Booklist. ============================================================================= Chapter One The first thing I notice about Tyle is that he can squat on his haunches Third World-style, indefinitely. He is a giant, an anachronistic Thor in rasta drag, barechested, barefoot, desert-baked golden. A month of wandering the Mexican wasteland has tumbled me into his lone camp warded by cacti. Rising from the makeshift pavilion staked against the camper top of his pickup, he moves to meet me with an idle power I envy. I see the wind has carved leathery lines into his legend-hewn face of fjords and right angles. In a dry, earthen voice, he asks me, "Looking for the hot spring?" I had been pedaling and pushing through the forlorn land, roaming the foreign coast on disused roads and dirt tracks. When I was hungry or thirsty, I stopped at ranches and farms and begged the owners for water from their wells and tried to buy tortillas, eggs, goat cheese, and fruit. Every place gave me nourishment; men and women plucked grapefruits and tangerines from their family gardens, bagged food from their pantries, and accepted not one peso in return. Why, I asked them. Señor, they explained in the patient tone reserved for those convalescing, you are riding a bicycle, so you are poor. You are in the desert going no where, so you are crazy. Taking money from a poor and crazy man brings bad luck. All the extras, they confided, were because I wasn't a gringo. A crew of Mexican ranchers said they liked me because I was a bueno hermano—good brother—a Vietnamito, and my little Vietnam had golpea big America back in '75. But I'm American, Vietnamese American, I shouted at them. They grinned—Sí, sí, Señor—and grilled me a slab of beef. Tyle says, "So, where are you from?" Something about him makes me dance around the truth. I chuckle, painfully
aware that "I'm an American" carries little weight with
him. It no doubt resonates truer in his voice. A flinch in the corner of his eye. He grunts, a sound deep from his diaphragm. Verdict passed. He turns his back to me and heaves into the cactus forest. I stand, a trespasser in his camp, hearing echoes—Chink, gook,
Jap, Charlie, GO HOME, SLANT-EYES!—words that, I believe, must
have razored my sister Chi down dark alleys, hounded her in the cold
after she had fled home, a sixteen-year-old runaway, an illegal alien
without her green card. What vicious clicking sounds did they make
in her Vietnamese ears, wholly new to English? And, within their boundaries,
which America did she find? Later in the night, from the thick of the brush, Tyle ghosts into
the orange light of my campfire. He nods at me and folds himself cross-legged
before the popping flames, uncorks a fresh tequila bottle, takes a
swig, and hands it to me. We sit on the ground far apart enough that
with outstretched arms we still have to lean to relay the bottle. When the bottle is half empty, Tyle begins to talk. At first, he talks about the soothing solitude of the Mexican desert. Life is simple here, food cheap, liquor plentiful. He earns most of his money from selling his handicrafts—bracelets, woven bands, beads, leather trinkets—to tourists. When times are tough, there are always a few Mexicans who will hire him for English lessons or translations. And the border isn't too far if he needs to work up a large chunk of cash. Between the mundane details, his real life comes out obliquely. Tyle has a wife and two boys. He has been away from them nine years. I am the first Vietnamese he has seen since he fled to Mexico seven years ago. When four fingers of tequila slosh at the bottom of the bottle, he
asks me, "Have you been back to Vietnam?" Many Vietnamese Americans "have been back." For some of us, by returning as tourists we prove to ourselves that we are no longer Vietnamese but Vietnamese Americans. We return, with our hearts in our throats, to taunt the Communist regime, to show through our material success that we, the once pitiful exiles, are now the victors. No longer the poverty-stricken refugees clinging to fishing boats, spilling out of cargo planes onto American soil, a mess of open-mouthed terror, wide-eyed awe, hungry and howling for salvation. Time has veiled the days when America fished us out of the ocean like drowning cockroaches and fed us and clothed us—we, the onus of their tragedy. We return and, in our personal silence, we gloat at our conquerors, who now seem like obnoxious monkeys cheating over baubles, our baggage, which mean little to us. Mostly, we return because we are lost. Tyle says, "I was in Nam." I have guessed as much. Not knowing what to say, I nod. Vets—acquaintances and strangers—have said variations of this to me since I was a kid and didn't know what or where Nam was. The contraction was lost on a boy struggling to learn English. But the note, the way these men said it, told me it was important, someplace I ought to know. With the years, this statement took on new meanings, each flavored by the tone of the speaker. There was bitterness, and there was bewilderment. There was loss and rage and every shade of emotion in between. I heard declarations, accusations, boasts, demands, obligations, challenges, and curses in the four words: I was in Nam. No matter how they said it, an ache welled up in me until an urge to make some sort of reparation slicked my palms with sweat. Some gesture of conciliation. Remorse. A word of apology. He must have seen me wince for he says it again, more gently. At that, I do something I've never done before. I bow to him like
a respected colleague. It is a bow of acknowledgment, a bow of humility,
the only way I can tell him I know of his loss, his sufferings. "I'm sorry, man. I'm really sorry," he whispers. The blond giant begins to cry, a tired, sobless weeping, tears falling away untouched. My mouth forms the words, but I cannot utter them. No. No, Tyle. How can I forgive you? What have you done to my people? But who are my people? I don't know them. Are you my people? How can you be my people? All my life, I've looked at you sideways, wondering if you were wondering if my brothers had killed your brothers in the war that made no sense except for the one act of sowing me here—my gain—in your bed, this strange rich-poor, generous-cruel land. I move through your world, a careful visitor, respectful and mindful, hoping for but not believing in the day when I become native. I am the rootless one, yet still the beneficiary of all of your and all of their sufferings. Then why, of us two, am I the savior, and you the sinner? "Please forgive me." I deny him with my silence. His Viking face mashes up, twisting like a child's just before the first bawl. It doesn't come. Instead words cascade out, disjointed sentences, sputtering incoherence that at the initial rush sound like a drunk's ravings. Nameless faces. Places. Killings. He bleeds it out, airs it into the flames, pours it on me. And all I can do is gasp Oh, God at him over and over, knowing I will carry his secrets all my days. He asks my pardon yet again, his open hand outstretched to me. This time the quiet turns and I give him the absolution that is not mine to give. And, in my fraudulence, I know I have embarked on something greater than myself. "When you go to Vietnam," he says, stating it as a fact, "tell them about me. Tell them about my life, the way I'm living. Tell them about the family I've lost. Tell them I'm sorry." I give Tyle the most honored gift, the singular gift we Vietnamese give best, the gift into which one can cast all one's sorrow like trash into an abyss, only sometimes the abyss lies inside the giver. I give him silence. Excerpted from Catfish and Mandala: A Two-Wheeled Voyage Across the Landscape and Memory of Vietnam by Andrew X. Pham. Copyright © 1999 by Andrew X. Pham. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. ============================================================================= July 24, 2001 NPR's Morning Edition special correspondent Susan Stamberg talks with Andrew "Pham is a journalist, Vietnam native and U.S. citizen who lived through Saigon's fall, escaped Vietnam with his family in a boat, and spent his teenage years assimilating into American culture in Northern California. His recently published book, Catfish and Mandala: A Two-Wheeled Voyage Through the Landscape and Memory of Vietnam is Pham's tale of revisiting his homeland. Pham talks with Stamberg about the summer of his trip." ~ NPR
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