Vietnamese Innov-ATM

This helpful warning. From an ATM in Hoa Binh.

I mean ... of course. As soon as the card started vibrating I would have known it was for my own good.

But it was nice to warn us. Just in case.

For the dummies.

Imagine the meeting they had when had to sign off the ATM design.

This from Dinh, representing Customer Care:

"It's always about the money with you lot, isn't it? What about the customer? Is anyone thinking about the customer here?

"What about the risks to the customer? Doesn't anybody CARE any more?

"I mean ... what's Vietnam coming to? What are we doing here people?

"We used to care about each other. We used to be a contender."

Hien (rolling his eyes):

"Alright Dinh. You've made your point. Vibrate it is."

Chomp Chomp Chomp

I originally stopped because I thought Nancy had pulled over for a snack.

It wasn't Nancy but it was still good to meet others who find Vietnam boring. Others like me.

I wonder if there is a bar we could all go to?

Preferably not in Vietnam.

I forgot to ask him what that barrel was doing around his neck. Perhaps he was waiting for it to snow? He was ready ... ready to rescue some wayward skiers ... alert.

Alert but clearly not alarmed.

Red Black Sheep

There's no Laurel without Hardy.

... this particular road trip ended in tears. By the time the day was over, the little lamb was singing "Ba Ba Red Sheep".

As for me ... well ... I couldn't find any sunscreen in any fucking store in Mai fucking Chau. So I pursued alternatives.

A Poet And A One-Man Band

Even after several hours on the bike, Nancy never lost her sense of ... exhilaration?

Nancy kinda reminds me of Michelle Pfeiffer in this photo. Two names not usually found in the same sentence ... unless they are separated with "has nothing at all in common with".

But see below.

Nancy's Passing

I did but see her passing by ...

... but she took her fucking time.

With all this traffic and the glacial speed at which she travelled, it was becoming harder and harder to find her.

We needed to think of something ...

Dogs ... dogs ...

The first thing that sprung to mind was a dog collar around her neck and a long leash. But. Alas. No. Besides being a little impractical, I wasn't sure whether the other riders would see me in a favourable light as I tugged her along impatiently.

I needed something that would reflect poorly on her, not me, which is the natural order of things.

What about cats?

Cats ... cats ... of course! Cats! How could we be so stupid?

The solution was so close it could have hit me in the face. Which it did.

Dog Gone

When I see chickens wandering around the yard of a Vietnamese house, scavenging for food, I never consider these to be pets. We all know their fate.

It dawned on me today that dogs are probably there for the same reason. You never see them being played with, walked or patted. Just wandering around scavenging for food. Sometimes even hanging out with the chooks.

Carb-free Competitions

Facebook is still officially banned in Vietnam, although all Vietnamese people have found a workaround. It's only the potatoes who are suffering.

Our National Marketing Manager has just launched a photo competition. I think the theme is communication and innovation. It's open to all employees, as well as their friends and family. All you need to do is post your photos via a Facebook group. Yes, you heard me correctly.

Within a fortnight over 700 people have joined up which can only mean one thing: cash prizes.

Gazillions of photos are being posted daily which can only mean one thing: a predominance of revolting family photos.

If only I could post a photo of myself trying to access Facebook. I strongly believe this competition was launched in a manner which ensures that a potato can't win.

Oops indeed.

No More Lonely Nights

I'm still in Jakarta this lonely Friday night and stressed about waking up in time for my 6am flight - which is the only route back to Hanoi.

Ordering 2 or 3 glasses of wine while sitting at a bar is normal. Dining alone in a restaurant and nodding at the suggestion of a second glass is just plain polite. But when it's room service it feels naughty. Lacking in willpower. Or friends. It makes me feel like wrapping the glasses in brown paper bags and heading to the lobby to beg.

Nevertheless, for the second night in a row I have asked room service to bring 2 glasses of red wine with my meal.

Last night was awkward. He wheeled in the trolley, flipped it up into a round table and started to set up 2 dinner places: one for each drinker. He promptly realised that there was only one alcoholic in residence this evening (sir) and discretely unset the second place before filling two adjacent glasses.

I have a different plan for tonight. When I hear the knock on the door I'm going to duck into the bathroom and turn the shower on. The room service waiter will think there someone is there (justifying the 2 glasses) and set up a second place for my imaginary dining companion. I'm also going to steal the extra fork, knife and napkin. Lying is a slippery slope.

Epilogue

The shower trick didn't work at all. He was the same waiter as last night ... so just laid out the one place. As I saw him out I yelled "food's here" through the bathroom door to my imaginary friend. He wasn't fooled. I'm sure I detected a smirk as he bon appetited me.

EpiEpilogue

I just looked in the mirror. To my horror, the moisturiser I applied a couple of hours ago has not soaked in. I must have greeted my waiter in a white, caking face bask. This - not my shower ruse - may explain his smirk.

Favourite Phrase Of The Day

“Anthony we don’t have corruption here in Indonesia any more ... we have 'donations'."

The Australian Open seems to be more exciting for some ...

This from the SMH today, reporting on events in the Australian Open.

In other offbeat news from the Open, the match between Belgian Christophe Rochus and American Donald Young was stopped for 40 minutes after a ball boy wet his pants on court 10.

"The ball kid peed on himself. It was unfortunate," Young said.

"It took a while to replace him. Then they had to put the sawdust down, or whatever you put down when somebody throws up.

"Then they had to use the blower (to dry the court) but the blower had no gas in it, so that took even more time."

It's schadenfreude, sure. But this is good schadenfreude, right?

Ball boys for these events are nearly always aspiring tennis champions. They are recruited from tennis camps or expensive coaches and are typically stalked at all times by at least one parent. Go to any high level junior tennis match and you can spot the stalkers - they sitting in the stands close to the net, squinting and whispering to themselves.

Actually I feel a bit bad for the boy; but worse for the parents. I imagine them briefing him before the match: "Now make sure you drink lots of water before going out there. It's very hot and you will need to keep up your fluids in case the match goes for a long time and you get thirsty."

Perhaps a rival ball boy even slipped him a Diet Coke - a beverage which is often found lurking in the background of such accidents. Not mentioning any names. (Cheesel.)

Either way, the parents would have been sitting there in the stands enjoying the match but keeping a proud eye on their boy. Look how he runs. Look how he fetches. Look how he obeys commands. Look how he marks his territory.

Still, it takes a lot of piss to make a puddle. I can only imagine how long the parents had to sit there, mouths agape as the endured their boy slowly but surely "give it up to God".

I hope this kid becomes a highly successful tennis player, if for the wrong reasons. Imagine seeing this grainy footage replayed alongside a Wimbledon victory speech.

Happy New Chipmunk

It's been a long time between drinks on the blog.

Or put another way, a long time drinking between blogs.

You say potato. I say potahto.

This potahto has certainly been fattening himself up with booze and burgers during the festive season. My how he's grown.

The New Year has also heralded many changes for me at work. We are working toward our inflated 2010 targets. Our company has been restructured worldwide. My job title disappeared in the new structure. No one has told me my job doesn't exist. I'm still getting paid (I think). There are a lot more flowers and police in the street. There is a link between the flowers and the police; strange as that sounds.

Besides this puzzle of paid unemployment (which I am in no hurry to solve), the main change in my work life is that Q, my colleague in the next cubicle, has a new ring. I'm not talking about marriage. Or a fisting accident. Or a work. I'm talking about Nokia.

Mobile phones are like Tiffany. Most people choose their ring very carefully. For some, it is an attempt to add another dimension to their external personality. For others, it speaks to the unchartered corners of their Id.

In an IT company such as mine, a person's ring tone selection can be quite disarming. There are 2 things that an IT nerd never quite manages to fit properly: his clothes and his ring tone. Nerds select the oddest songs. See a thin, pale, greasy-haired graduate and don't be surprised if you suddenly hear the shreak of "mutha fucka mutha fucka" emanating from his iPhone before he picks it up, swipes it sidesways and gingerly guides it to his ear before whisperng "hello?".

I'm not sure if Q realises her phone is mobile, because while she is rarely at her desk and the phone never leaves with her. It keeps her desk company. But Q is either very popular or in a lot of debt because she gets a lot of calls. This means that I get to hear her new ring, frequently, throughout the day, and nearly always to the end.

You see, Q has selected a cover version of "Skip to my Lou" for her phone. This version seems to be sung by a former member of Chipmunk Punk. It's cheery, while at the same time freakishly eerie ... the telltale signs of a seasoned chipmunk.

Most people would be driven crazy by this. Especially someone like me, who is not blessed with the gift of tolerance. Here's my dirty little secret though. The more I hear a ring tone, the more I like it. I don't know why. It must be some modern day Stockholm Syndrome. Like most people, I will immediately hate it. Then after a time I start to get desensitised. Hear it enough and I enjoying it. Before long I am humming it without prompts. I have considered calling this my Hear Ring Disorder but people would think I invented the illness to go with the pun.

Q's ring tone kicks in half way through the song. Wikipedia defines it thus:

Cows in the cornfield, What'll I do?

Cows in the cornfield, What'll I do?

Cows in the cornfield, What'll I do?

Skip to my Lou, my darlin'.

Skip, skip, skip to my Lou,

Skip, skip, skip to my Lou,

Skip, skip, skip to my Lou,

Skip to my Lou, my darlin'.

Oh no - her phone has just gone off again while writing this! Let me listen and get back to you.

Q was away from her desk of course so I got to hear the lyrics and took notes. It seems that these are no ordinary chipmunks. These chipmunks are fucking with my head because their lyrics are as follows

Coo dinna con fen, What are I do?

Coo dinna con fen, What are I do?

Coo dinna con fen, What are I do?

Skip tin a loo my darling.

This is poor piracy indeed. I would return a dvd if it was subtitled like that. It's like they put it through the dictionary to get the Chinese lyrics, then back again to English. Possibly they just ran the original songthrough a voice recognition programme to extract the lyrics, before briefing the chipmunks.

Oddly enough, "my darling" is pronounced perfectly. Just what are these chipmunks up to? I've even tried reading this backwards. And nothing.

The most interesting thing about all this is the origin of the song itself. I can imagine the chipmunks sitting and watching it from the rafters, biding their time. Fuck knows what they would do with Rock-a-bye Baby ... as if the baby hasn't been through enough.

As per usual, though, Q's ring has found its way into my Id and into my life. During the past week I have been enjoying this chirpy cheesey Chinese Chipmunk cover version of a classic. My involuntary toe tapping has already moved up to include some head bobbing. Come evening, I expect to be humming it in the cab on the way home.

I've even considered skipping to the toilet. At least a subtle hop.