Chicken Dance

Tried a new café near work today. As the weather gets hotter, I need a shorter walk and better air conditioning.

Using my best Vietnamese I ordered a large latte with low-fat milk and no sugar. A small cup of bitter, sugary black slurry arrived. 

Guess who walked in from the street and took a turn about the room?

    

In came Albert. None of the staff or customers even seemed to think there was anything odd about this. He was given free reign over the joint.

After a brief dance across a couple of tables, then along the top of the wall, he was gone.

I suspect that the next time I see young Albert, he will be flavouring a hearty bowl of Pho' Ga.

Selective Hearing Part I

For a few weeks I have been trying to recruit local analysts with good project experience and English language skills. We can't afford to keep flying in our project resources from abroad. We are using one of Vietnam's largest companies to help us and they mostly send us recent graduates. The average age in Vietnam is about 26 and this whole industry is new, so the talent pool is quite shallow.

I recently interviewed 2 people. People dress quite poorly for job interviews in Vietnam. Worse than they dress for work. It's odd. And Interviewee A was no exception.

Interviewee A was so wet behind the ears that I spotted something running down his neck. 

As we shook hands I noticed that A's pants had the distinctive sheen of ironed polyester. His short-sleeved shirt had large sweat stains in the armpits. His hair was 1950's (Pee Wee Herman, not Jimmy Dean) and his face was framed by long, wispy sideburns and a beard that had been refusing to grow for several years.  He looked like a 14-year-old who was held back in Year 8 because he'd been bullied. Not someone I need to stand in front of the client. Apart from that, he only understood about 25% of my questions. Apart from a couple of uni assignments he had no other relevant experience and was not strong enough to learn on the job.

Interviewee  B was much older. He looked at least 27 and had excellent English and good experience. What a relief. He had worked quite extensively abroad - Chad, Nigeria, Uzbekistan. My only concern was that he seemed to screw up his face when I asked questions he didn't understand (or see the relevance of). 

At the end of the interview I gave him some feedback: "You are obviously intelligent and experienced and have excellent English. However, sometimes when I have asked you a question you look bored, or look at me like I'm an idiot. If you do this with the client they will think you are arrogant. That is my only concern." He screwed up his face, then said "I'm trying to be honest with you in this interview because we will work together. I have another face for the client." Hired.

I informed the agency that we would take B, but not A. I arranged for B to start this morning. 

This morning I received a call from B at 9am. He was on time, but at the wrong location. He was at our client's head office. No one knew who he was or who I was or where he should go. 

I called him back and spoke to A, who answered his phone. I knew it was A because he couldn't understand me. He was also waiting there at the client office, with B, for me to arrive.

I asked them to please come to my office and called the agency immediately. The person I spoke to confirmed that, yes, both had been sent to start today. I told her we had only selected one. She said "Then just pick the one that you want and send the other one away". I told her we had already done this - that is what the interview process was for. I insisted that she call A and explain that there was a mistake. She said "Oh - so you are too nice. You want me to be the bad one!" I said yes, I did, so please call A and tell him they got it wrong. No need to be bad. 

The last thing I needed was a line up. It's not a brothel after all.

About 15 minutes later I got a call from reception to say that I had a visitor. I went to the reception desk to find both A and B sitting in the lobby waiting for me, eager to start their first day's work ...

Best Email Strapline Ever

Some people quote Einstein at the bottom of their emails. Some quote Deepak Chopra. Even Oprah gets the occasional guernsey.  This from Hong:

Kind regards,

Hong

The courtesy of a reply, even if negative, is always appreciated: thank you.

Email Response Message of the Day

This just in. 

"I'm afraid I wasn't able to deliver your message. This is a permanent error; I've given up.  Sorry it didn't work out."

Vietnamese in 8 Easy Steps

As far as I can work out, the whole country is run on 7 words:

1. Saow;

2. Boim;

3. Ding;

4. Coum;

5. Meuo;

6. Owm; and

7. Baa.

When you ask someone for a word in Vietnamese they will select something from this list. They will also ensure you do not leave them until you have pronounced it correctly 3 times.

Later, when you go to use that word with someone else, this new person will stare at you blankly for 4 awkward attempts before admitting that they have no idea what you are saying.  After much effort on your part and no help on theirs, they will understand. They will then tell you that this word is never used normal conversation. It is too formal, or too informal, or only for an old man, or only used in the south, or a type of mango. They will then select another word (from the remaining 6) and not let you go until you can pronounce it correctly.

This process of elimination will follow you down a conga line of 5 well-meaning teachers until you have pronounced 7th and last remaining word correctly.

At the 8th person, you will be stared at blankly for a bit before being advised to use the original word. This (and only this) is the word you should use. It is easiest one for foreigners to remember, and everyone will understand what you mean.

Scabby Blue Propositions

Whenever eating out in Hanoi, it is almost guaranteed that someone will approach you brandishing a fistful of used, dirty, blue plastic sandals. They will hold them up to your face, point at your feet and ask you to consider something.

It even happens when you're wearing thongs or trainers, which rules out a shoe polish.

Whether you sit indoors or outdoors. Whether at a street stall or a fancy schmance restaurant. Whether you're upstairs or downstairs. Probably even while working a plough. Someone will inevitably approach you with a scabby blue sandal proposition. 

I don't really know what they're proposing, but I want in.

Jeffrey Dahmer Jacuzzi

We went to a restaurant last night on Truc Bach lake. The dining area was basically some mats laid out beside the footpath, across the road from the kitchen, with low Japanese style tables. There were a few rats scuttling in and out of the water and along the mats. I thought "let's go eat Italian" as I squatted down to take my place.

4 girls sat down and take our order. They were interrupted someone from a nearby table coming over to us with 2 shots of some clear liquid. We knocked these back with a hearty "Xin Chào Việt Nam" before resuming our order. 

Neither of us was particularly hungry. After much confusion and clarification, using a menu with no English and no prices, I thought we had each ordered a bowl of Pho Ga.

10 minutes later a waiter brought out gas cooker, then a massive pan of hot broth, then a huge bowl of leafy greens, then two packets of noodles, then a whole raw chicken (cut up).

We realised then that the enthusiastic girls who took our order were probably just there to upsell. Actually it was not really upsell. It was more a case of ignoring what we want and giving us what they have. Of course when too much food started turning up, they were nowhere to be seen.

Our waiter lit the cooker and opened the lid of the pot. She grabbed my chopsticks and started putting pieces of the chicken into the broth. First the head, then the feet, then some other ambiguous pieces until about half of the chicken was gone. Apart from what appeared to be an anus, the only other parts left on the plate were the wings, breast and legs: the Colonel Sanders bits that I'd normally want first.

When I asked for another set of chopsticks she pointed at the ones which she had abandoned in the raw chicken. When I played dumb and insisted on another pair, I think I saw a faint eye roll.

The chicken's head kept bobbing around the pot throughout the meal. It seemed to slowly lose its buoyancy at various times, only to turn up camoflaged under a leaf of spinach in the ladel. Tricky thing.

Although the chook head spent its last moments circumnavigating the pot as his memories slowly dislodged from his skull ... I feel it was a worthy end. So I gave him a name. Darren provided my best meal yet in Vietnam.

By the end of the meal we'd forgotten all about the feet. Until they both popped up, on queue, like an Esther Williams finale.

This is how it all ended. [Click to enlarge]

As she cleared the table our waiter noticed the vignette which had unfolded in the pot, and laughed.

Two-timin' Trang

Given Trang's sticky fingers and low motivation levels, I arranged a meeting with another language teacher last Wednesday night.

Her name is Hoa. She seemed nice on the phone. Good English skills and a healthy (if random) dose of giggles.

She was 10 minutes early. I was 5 minutes late. It was supposed to be the other way around. She called me on arrival to say "Hi it's me Hoa where are you the guard won't let me in and I'm on the street are you still coming how far are you away thanks come soon thanks."

When I arrive she's sitting on the couch in the lobby area. She seems quite comfortable.

Me: "Sorry I'm late. Nice to meet you. How are you?"

Hoa: "I'm cold. Cold from waiting for you."

Me: "But it's not cold outside."

Hoa: "Yes but I've been riding my motorcycle. So I'm cold."

I unlock the door and we go inside. She walks in and says "You should not live alone here. Why do you live alone. That is not good." I tell her that's the way it is, to which she replies "That is not good."

She then explains that her rates are $10/hour and when I ask her why it is so expensive she tells me to go to her web site and it's all there. She then asks me if I've ever learnt Vietnamese before. I say no. She screws up her face. I say is there anything wrong. She laughs and says no, there's nothing wrong, but are you sure you've never learnt before? ... nothing ever? No, I say, I'm afraid not; nothing. 

"Oh ... no. Oh no."

-- "Oh no? Why oh no?"

"No. No Oh no. Just oh."

-- "No? Oh. Oh."

I miss Trang.

Do you have my Laundry Bag?

Last weekend my local laundry didn't return my drawstring laundry bag (linen) with my clothes. It's a really nice bag that I stole from the Shangri-La hotel in KL, so worth keeping.

This morning I went back to the laundry and asked her if she had it. She had no idea what I was talking about. So I performed a mime, using a bag (plastic) as a prop. Still nothing. Act 2 was based on the theme of "last week". Nowt.

This needs to be done in Vietnamese. So today I asked my colleague to write down a phrase to ask for it. I told her maybe it would be good practice. This is what she wrote:

Cho tôi hỏi chị có thấy cái túi giặt là của tôi để quên tuần trước không? Cái túi vải (không phải nhựa) và màu trắng.

This is fucking ridiculous. I do no know what one of these words means. Surely there is a shorter way to say "Where's my laundry bag?".

Nevertheless, I have printed it out and I am going back there tomorrow. I am going to take out that phrase and make her listen to me struggle through every syllable until she understands. I am not going to show her the paper. As I've always (always) said, if the laundry lady keeps your linen bag you must be sure to make her next counter experience as painful as possible in order for them to never do it again.

Clean Sweep

Part of my rent includes a cleaner three times/week.  In the lease I nominated Monday, Wednesday and Friday as my cleaning days.

This means that every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning I have a mad scramble to clean up before leaving for work: making the bed, putting rubbish in the bin, washing up etc.

During my apartment hunt I looked through many "occupied" apartments in Hanoi. This was often while they were being cleaned. I was amazed at how messy they were, with shit everywhere and caps off things and food out and clothes strewn everywhere. 

Around the same time, I read a blog about how lazy and lordy the foreigners become with the maid service. I'm not that type of foreigner. I'm the type of foreigner who doesn't know how to negotiate his lease. And now needs to manipulate the maids to fill the gaps.

So I'm now trying to manipulate my cleaners into doing more for me, via a carefully crafted exercise in reverse psychology. And it's working.

Compared to the Filthy Potato apartments I saw previously, I am a saint. I want there to be so little for them to do in the apartment, that they are compelled to do other things. On average, they would have 1-2 hours cleaning in the other apartments and in mine there would be 10 mins.

Last weekend I generated (and binned) a lot of rubbish and my bin was overflowing. 

On Monday I came home to find an extra bin in the kitchen. They also found some leftover baguette that was on a plate and delicately balanced it across two glasses. I don't know what it meant, but it was considered so I liked it.

I have been using a shelf in my wardrobe to keep dirty clothes. I don't know how to use the washing machine so the pile is growing.

On Wednesday a lovely green laundry clothes basket was left in the bathroom. No written warnings or letters for me to sign. Just new stuff provided by those with the real power in the building.

I eventually found the user manuals, in German only, and attempted to do a load of towels. I couldn't work it out so left the towels in the washing machine and the powder next to the machine.

On Friday morning during my clean up, I raised the stakes. I took out clean dishes and cutlery and piled them up on the sink as if I'd washed them myself. I am doing my bit.

I arrived home to find towels washed, dried and folded. There were also flowers in the vase. And there was an apple resting on the manuals for the washing machine, keeping them open at the right page.  I don't know what it means, but I am beginning to like these fairies.

My next step is to keep the apartment SUPER clean over the weekend. But I won't do my washing. I will leave the lovely green basket sitting neatly beside to the washing machine full of clothes.

If this works, the iron and the ironing board out are coming out by Friday at the latest.

When I get them into the full swing of executing a total care and maintenance framework--and only then--I will start to crank up the mess.

Dirty Stupid Fat Potato

When I was travelling in Vietnam last year with Scott*, we made up a nickname for all westerners: they are potatoes. While the original usage of potato in slang was quite specific**, we rebadged it to refer to all foreign whiteys.

Here's why. Compared with the locals, we are bigger and fatter and whiter and often a bit of a sweaty mess. Combining these attributes with poor language skills and a low tolerance for heat, we must look like potatoes. Common variants are "fat potato", "stupid potato", "dirty potato" and so on. 

Once you understand this, you must realise that most daily events are designed to reinforce your current potato status. Likewise, I now use this term to explain all situations where I don't get my own way, am not understood, or am generally potatoesque. I know my place.

For example, yesterday I went to buy a bottle of water and I tried to say "How much?" in Vietnamese. She didn't understand. So I said it again. She still didn't understand. So I said it again. She shook her head. So then I tried English. No result. So then I pointed to the water and pointed to my money and said "Dong". She held up 6 fingers and I paid.

As I paid, I mumbled audibly to myself: "Fuck off and stop wasting my time you Dirty Stupid Fat Potato".

_________________________

* Not his real name. His real name is Ben.

** Etymology note. Westerners who primariliy chase Asian men are called "Rice Queens". Asian men who primarily chase westerners are called "Potato Queens".

Callback's a Bitch

I called Huyen, the Manager at Amici's, to ask about my shirt and tie.

It took a while to explain what I wanted (for the first few minutes she thought I was placing an order). But when we got to the topic she realised who I was.

Huyen's feeling is that if this had happened at the store, no problem. However, it happened 2 minutes after I left the store. There is justnoway she can prove whether, within said 2 minutes, I had tampered with the lid or not. ("I was not there. You were away. How can I know what happened?")

I explained to her that I drink coffee every day. And my ability to drink coffee is quite advanced. And this has never happened before. And this is not my fault.

She had a giggle and said "I don't know what the problem is. I don't understand."

Me: "Please, Huyen--"

H: "It's Huyeern"

Me: "OK. Please Huyerrn--"

H: [Giggles]"No it's Hiuarrn"

Me: "OK Please Hiuarrn"--

H:  "No no it's--"

Me: "Can we get back to the coffee please? Please ... [pause, decide to merge her name into the next word]... Hiuarrnderstand please that this is not my fault. Your product was not made correctly."

H: "You tell me this. But I don't know. They don't tell me this. You tell me this only."

Me: "Huh? Hiurnyway ... Can you give me the phone number of the owner?"

H: "No. He is not here."

Me: "Can I speak to him?"

H: "No. I can pass him a message."

Me: "Here is the message. Tell him that I live at number 56 on your street. And your coffee is good but it is expensive. And you have many foreigners in your cafe. If he does not do the right thing I will tell many, many people not to come back to your cafe ever again. So give him my number please. Ask him to call me. " [Of course, little beknownst to Hrrryeeennn, I know no one here.]

H: "Ok. I will tell him."

I don't think she gave a shit though. Time will tell.

Coffee sequel

Went back last night to claim my shirt and tie. No one had a clue what I was talking about.

Not a good sign for me.

The manager? She will be in at 10am tomorrow. Her name is Huyen and they gave me her mobile.

Not a good sign for them.

It's much easier to get a shirt washed than change your mobile number.

Je te plumerai la tête

This was carefully selected from last weekend's lunch menu. It was listed as "Roast Pigeon", so I assumed would be like in Egypt, where they stuff it with rice and it looks like a kind of roulade.

Presentation is everything with this dish.

I think it's a lovely touch to deep fry the pigeon's head and perch it atop its dismembered carcass.

Having now been through this ordeal, I can tell you it's a lot more difficult to remove the head from the neck. I have a new-found respect for Al-Quaeda.

Of course, by the end of the meal, the plate tells a different story:

There is something quite disconcerting about the pigeon's head lying there, at the top of the plate, contemplating its own remains ...

[Cough cough] "This isn't a kitchen"

In the absence of having a toaster, I attempted to use my oven on the weekend to make toast.

I learned that it gives you an electric shock as you open the door. It was so unexpected that I thought it was a muscle tick. So I pulled out one of the  trays and got another shock. Using toddler logic, I tried yet another tray and experienced the same result.

So I put the bread back in the freezer and reached for a bottle of wine.

I emailed the landlord immediately to inform her. After no response, I phoned her. This resulted in a protracted explanation, with some onomatopoeia on my part ("bzzzz" "arghh!" "kerspat!" . Finally she giggled a bit, said that she understood me now, and asked whether anything else in the apartment was also electrocuting me. I said I would prefer not to do a whole lot more testing. She giggled again as she said "We can't get anyone today. Someone tomorrow. Just don't touch anything. OK?". 

[Click]

Umm, OK.

2 days later she sent me an email to say it was all fixed and a letter would be arriving for me to sign. All these written warnings are giving me the willies.

Loose Lids Sink Shirts

There is a Starbucks-style cafe about 20 metres from my apartment.

I went there this morning to get a coffee on my way to work. This required 10 minutes and 6 staff:

- A takes the order and tells B and C about it

- A stares at me while B makes the coffee

- C prints the bill and hands it to D. C starts staring at me

- B finishes making the coffee, puts it on the counter and starts starting at me

- D carries the bill from the till to me. D stares at my wallet while I fumble for change.

- E has spent the whole time staring at me, occasionally leaning on A.

The funny thing is that by now, I hardly notice all this.

I grabbed my coffee, smiled as a F opened the door for me and jumped into a cab.

A few sips in, and half way to work, I realised that the lid had not been properly secured and the coffee had spillled all the way down my shirt and tie. So I asked the driver to turn around so I could go home and change. 

I got home, the driver waited while I changed, then I took my caffeinated shirt and tie back in, as well as the coffee whose lid I had re-loosened for effect. 

They say one should never get angry in Vietnam. So I did not get angry. I was pointed. Surely one can be pointed in Vietnam?

On entering the cafe, I realise that the last 10 minutes has resulted in a complete reshuffle of roles and B is now on the till. I put my shirt and tie on the counter. B couldn't be less interested. I ask them to launder my shirt and tie. B's interest finds a new low. 

I stop F from making me a new coffee as B reaches into the till and hands me a refund. As I take my money and quickly turn for the door (opened now by C), I ignore B's attempts to hand me my shirt and tie back.

As the cab pulls away I remember buying the shirt for $250 and the tie for $200. What was I thinking? 

I'm not looking forward to the retrieval attempt tonight.

Trip to Work

Sorry about the fingers.

Food marketing

I love the honesty in the third listing of this menu.

When I grow up, I will be able to order such things.

Metaphor Schmetaphor

I had an email argument with someone in Israel yesterday.

Me: "It is not fair for you to hold our timeline hostage because of a few outstanding issues ..."

Her response: "I totally agree with your stand on the matter ..."

It's all about choosing the right metaphor for your audience, right?

Or maybe this little Hostage is probably about to be upgraded to Casualty Class?

I consider that any outcome which doesn't involve me kneeling down in front of my captors reading a statement to be a win.

Over Tones

Well after a few days off I've started noticing some negative feedback in the blog comments. About time. So answer my critics I must.

Go Ricky

Yes I, too, prefer young Ricky's blog (one to the right of mine). She leads such a happy, fun-filled childhood with sweetness and light and happy friends that leave her messages after school and help with her homework. I never have never imagined a life like that when I was 15. Thank fuck.

I kinda wish Ricky had a chat section so Anonymous Josh and I could go in and make her friends cry.

Go Edwina

Yes I did phase out Edwina. Last week. I just couldn't take it anymore. After a couple of weeks of her, I couldn't see a funny side to this train wreck.

I did it gently (I am sure she felt no pain). No showdowns. No animosity. I'm the first one to give direct feedback, but no it it won't be understood. If someone really isn't going to take any value from it at all, then save your breath. I think that's why I'm really fussy in restaurants at home when they know, and I know they know, and they know I know they know. Contrast that with my passive, smiling obsequious little nodding routine last night when I dropped a chopstick on the floor and the waitress grabbed it and stabbed it straight back into my noodles. "Cảm ơn" I said in my best Vietnamese accent, as I hunted for a third chopstick and tried to mentally isolate the contaminated noodle area.

So back to Edwina. The phasing out went something like this:

Firstly I eased her out of my communications loop.  Email history will show that she started moving, slowly right, along the To:  section of my emails. She then gently dropped down into the Cc: section. Then she found herself  gradually travelling east along the cc: section as well. Until she fell off the end. I didn't hear a thing and I'm sure she felt no pain.

Just like Zorro, she cut a Z (albeit a slow Z) and then she was gone.

Secondly I replaced her role.  I found a private contractor I'd worked with before and lobbied locked in a much lower rate and a smaller expenses policy. 

Thirdly I ensured she was not in any critical roles and that all documentation was handed over to other people.  

At this stage I think the client was getting sick of her condescending speech and body language so they didn't want to deal with her anyway. This is an real-life example of some small talk:

"Did [surprised face]

You [points finger at them, squints]

See [points finger at right eyes and then from there points back at them]

Me [points back at her neck]

At Shop [a very odd mime, as if she's paying for stuff at the checkout with several credit cards]

This [points at knee]

Morning [both palms out and held up, for some reason, while her head is tilted to the side and she smiles.]. 

This is usually followed by an explanation of what was bought. Often a bottle of water or some chewing gum.

Finally, I ensured her current contract was not renewed.

This sounds so much meaner than it was. It's actually just normal succession planning. When there's dead wood, someone has to reach for the matches. It's nothing personal. Of course, if it was personal I probably would have done the same thing. But it wasn't. I think. No. It wasn't. I work in technology - being a social misfit is the norm.

Anyway, the girl had to go.

Or so I thought.

Turns out Edwina found something to do with all that time I freed up for her, didn't she? She wrote a proposal to the Senior Partner, didn't she? And what did it say? Oh ... you know ... what her future role should be on the project ... how much value she would add ... all the good work she would be doing help us "drive it home" (her words) ... and so on. As I read it, I started to feel convinced; even touched by her dedication. Even a little ashamed of myself. At one point, in the section where she talked about applying architecturally sound principles in end-to-end requirements mapping, I almost wept. 

Almost. 

Of course I pulled myself together with an "I'll be fucked if she's coming back under my budget." and the old staple, "No amount of fucking requirements mapping can give someone attention to detail." But for a brief moment I was touched.

I realise that by now there's nothing I can do. She's slipped under the radar. Edwina is coming back. The juggernaut has slipped its moorings. And Edwina will be back for a long time. And nothing will ever be the same again.