Grass Ski Vietnam (Part 1)

It's now about 48 hours since I went to Grass Ski Vietnam.

They had planned the day - Saturday - to go from 8am to 5pm. I spent Friday on the wriggle: I had to work on a proposal over the weekend. To give it some credibility I roped in R to help me. He didn't want to go either so was a willing (if less brave) party to my ruse. At one point during the planning he started morally waivering. This is common for R, who (like me) is inherently evil but whose conscience (unlike mine) is always trawling for a technicality:

R: "Well actually we do have a lot of work to do this weekend anyway don't we? Actually?"

Me: “Oh. Come on R. We’re lying here, plain and simple. Don’t try to paint it as anything else. That would be dishonest."

Let's get this clear: R is not about to be nominated for Best Actor in a Supporting Anything. But he's all I got. I am MacGyver and he is my blade of grass and a stick.

Regardless of this pleading, our hostess pulled out every Skype trick in the book. For example:

babybee: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. If u can't go, u will be pecuniary. DADDYYY. U must goooo!!!!!

Yes she is really called babybee. And yes she called me Daddy. This is a very disturbing story, for another time when I'm ready. Gotta hand it to her: "pecuniary" is strong out of the blocks.

babybee: the restaurant already buy the food to make the party, including u dd

dd stands for Daddy. I can't wait until the emoticon is released.

Then this:

babybee: if u're so busy, u can bring ur laptop

babybee: i think there's internet

[Of course she had no way of knowing this.]

Then came the winning blow:

babybee: you need fresh air and activities for old potato like you.

babybee: i think activities will be in the morning. you are old daddy. you need fresh air and after lunch, we will play card or karaoke ...

No wonder these people haven't lost a war.

A compromise was reached and in the end we wangled a ride with H, who is notoriously late and was also willing to leave early.

H was about 90 minutes late, which was very thoughtful of him.

But not late enough. So I kept suggesting places to stop and he kept agreeing. Firstly for breakfast. Then at a double entendre.

Au Phuc! We're running late! And it's all your phault!

During the trip I thanked H profusely for taking us in his car. I also told him that when we arrived, R and I would blame him for being 2 hours late. He smiled and laughed but I don't think he understood.

We finally arrived. We were heroes, actually. People thanked us for making such an effort to come when we were obviously so busy with work. I blamed H for being late as we lapped up this praise, like kittens.

As for the grass skiing ... I took one look at the place and chucked a sore knee.

I may not have been wearing a canary yellow ski suit, but they still believed my lie.

Minor illness or injury - real or imagined - is highly respected in Vietnam. I learnt that day that a sore knee is up there with primary school teachers.

Minor injury will beckon people from all corners of the room to bring you sandwiches, dried beef snacks and beer.

Major injury or death, on the other hand, garners significantly less attention. Get knocked off your bike onto a highway and commuters will honk impatiently as a new desire line weaves its way around your rotting corpse. No sandwiches for you.

This is a city which hides its road rage very well.

About 4 weeks ago I saw my first dead body. I was riding along Yên Phụ (aka "Slow") street on my way to the gym. I got to about here and all of a sudden the traffic started banking up. It left us (me and my informal motorbike gang) wriggling and edging forward to see if we could get through.

We were bunching ourselves closer together, of course, as the road was blocked. But it still felt like progress, like a queue at a concert before the gates have opened.

For the next 20 minutes I edged further along the road (it's amazing how far you can travel by sardining). I could see that there was a large circle of people, about 5 deep, staring into an empty space of about 3 metres diameter.

The crowd was gormlessly staring into the middle of this space. Toddlers and teenagers were on tippy toes and old people were leaning out of windows. They were completely motionless, like they were attempting a giant Sudoku.

The dam walls burst and we started moving again. As I inched past I looked over some shoulders (the advantages of potato height) and saw a man lying there on his back. He was next to his motorbike, inert. His eyes were closed and there were some baskets nearby - the type of basket normally used for carrying fruit on the back of a motorbike.

No one was attending to him yet no one seemed alarmed. They just stood there staring, motionless, as if a mass hypnotist had dropped dead midway through his act, before saying the magic word.

I found this all quite disturbing at the time. I couldn't understand this scene at all and didn't get involved ... two reactions which are quite foreign to me. It felt a little numb and sad at the time, and again now when I remember it.

Back to GSVN (Grass Ski Vietnam). The minute we arrived I realised that this was no run-of-the-mill Funpark. This was the type of Funpark that only Socialism could create. Or an underfunded horror flick.

The grass ski field itself was more a long, gentle incline than a slope. Only gentle on the way down, mind, because the trip up is brutal. There is no ski lift but the process was clear:

1. You walk down the bottom to collect your boots and skis.

2. Strap on the boots. If you are a potato they will be a couple of sizes too small. Or so I was told.

3. Walk slowly up with your skis in 42 degree heat. It takes about 15 minutes to get to the top because the skis are not at all equipped for walking and an alternative (eg carry them up) is neither suggested by the staff nor evident in your fellow skiers.

The Fun. The Park. The Funpark. I wasn't exaggerating.

4. Turn around and spend 60 risk free seconds gliding back down to the bottom. Maybe 45.

5. Take off the boots and return them.

The owners of this park already know that there is no danger. Or fun. Or danger of fun. It's evident from the moment you select your boots.

And so the poor dog had none.

Before lunch we were treated to a series of games involving balloons and running about the room. The level seemed to be pitched at disoriented toddlers and I kept my eye out for a parcel. Their boss was sitting on a chair, seeming enjoying the games. I asked what was going on. He shrugged his shoulders and said he didn't know. I offered him a beer and he pointed at his throat. Sore throat. Respect.

So I decided that there must at least be a game of musical chairs coming soon and found one to sit in ... careful to adopt an obvious lists as I eased myself into it. Sore knee.

Afterwards we were served a delicious meal in the restaurant.

Chicken head aficionados were not left disappointed.

During the meal we indulged in loud and vigorous (bordering on violent) beer cheersing. This was mostly initiated at mostly 5-minute intervals by a ruddy ringleader.

I'm not sure what Part 2 will contain but am sure more will come back to me in due course. Or a flotation tank.