Hell's Potatoes In Full Flight

Today I decided to attempt taking a video of my ride to work. In this 19 seconds, I was following R who quite deliberately and non-chalantly (and accidentally) turns into oncoming traffic.

Currency Fluctuations

This is an old joke that I hadn't thought about for years. However, since being in Vietnam I think of the punchline often ... and mumble it to myself as I walk away from a taxi/restaurant/supermarket/banana vendor. 

I use it to compensate for many of my underperforming social assets.

A Chinese man walks into the currency exchange in New York with 1000 yuan and walks out with $72. 

The following week he walks in with 1000 yuan and is handed $66. 

So he asks the lady why he is getting less money this week than last week.

"It's currency fluctuations.", she says.

"Sorry? What was that?", he asks.

Realising that his English is rough around the edges, she repeats slowly and more loudly, "Fluc-tu-ations.". 

At this point the man becomes incensed and responds, "Then fuck you Americans too!".

Oh … What Will Become of Me? (Part 1)

It was a Thursday afternoon about 3 weeks ago. I remember it well.

 I received a call from the manager of my apartment building

“Hello? Mr Anthony?”

--“Yes.”

[Giggle] “It’s Anh.”

--“Sorry? Who is it?”

“It’s Anh.” [slightly nervous giggle]

[Anh is more common than Sharon so this doesn’t narrow it down.]

--“Anh?”,

 “Yes Anh from Lakeside Apartments.”

--“Hi Anh. What's up?”

“I’m just ringing to tell you that your [giggle] passport is washed.”

-- Washed?

“Yes [giggle] the cleaners found your passport in the washing machine.”

[These were uncomfortable empathy giggles:  this was not schadenfreude.]

-- “Oh no. How does it look? Is it ok?”

[Giggles] “No. Not OK. It is not good. Very bad. Sorry. We will leave it out for you.”

-- “Oh. Umm ... OK. Thanks.”

I remember that the default washing machine settings are a hot wash for 110 minutes. 

When I arrived home this is what I found.

The page on the left says "Do not stamp this page" in French. I wonder how clean it feels now. 

My work visa for Vietnam.

My departure card for Vietnam.

The following day I went to the Australian embassy with my still-slightly-wet passport in hand and sheepishly slipped it under the security glass with my Drivers' Licence and Medicare Card.

I needed an Emergency passport reissue to go on a work trip the coming Wednesday. They told me it could be reissued that day and recommended a place nearby I could get photos taken. 

Although this outlet was just around the corner, the humidity ensured I was sweating heavily on arrival (no little comments please). I was taken up two flights of stairs, seated next to a bride who was getting her make-up retouched, photographed, then shuffled to wait in another room full of people on computers. As it turned out, they seemed to be using Photoshop to retouch all mannner of customer memories: romantic couples, wedding photos, ugly children in yellow organza dresses. I even saw someone turning an ordinary Hanoi restaurant into al fresco dining over Niagara Falls.

Eventually my name was called out by a nearby the computer operators. I walked over to him and saw that my image was on the screen and he just wanted my nod before he pressed Print. In that moment, through a series of hand signals and gestures I never knew I had in me, I asked him to smooth out my skin, remove a blemish on my neck, suck in my cheeks and change the colour of my tie.

I walked back into the embassy, up to the passport counter and sucked in my face to match the new photo that I was now slipping under the security glass.  This was the new me. Not the pathetic potato me that shuffled in an hour ago with a laundered passport and an ugly pink tie. This was the Oprah Makeover me. 

Still me, of course ... Just a slightly better me.

At about 16:30 that day (Friday) I came in to pick up my Emergency Passport. When they handed it back to me they told me it was only valid for 7 months, that I need to apply for a Vietnam visa replacement in order to get out of the country, that the renewal would take 3-5 working days for the Vietnamese to process this (more due to next week's 2 public holidays), and that I need to get a full passport in the next month because most countries in Asia require at least 6 months validity on your passport to let you in. This full passport should be obtained when I get back home, at which point I would need to apply for another Vietnamese Visa to get me back in. If I want to get it done here I need my original birth certificate and blah blah blah.

The Edwina Monologues (Part 2)

The other day I was sitting near Edwina as she was holding court from her workstation. She was sitting on the side of her desk and 3 others were sitting beside her on chairs. Given her audience was Vietnamese, the lecture involved much finger pointing and a level of condescension not seen since Mother Theresa crossed over. Out of the blue Edwina lost her balance, became dislodged from the desk and tumbled into her audience.

Timmmmmmmmmbeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr.

At that moment I recalled Edwina’s comments about how the local people are all clueless, like puppies …

Got me thinking about her puppy comments.

‘Stupid clumsy giraffe’, I hope they thought to themselves. 

Who's Evolved?

H is a local guy on our project who has terrible dress sense, a mouth full of yellow teeth, appalling English and even worse breath. This often detracts from the fact that he is highly intelligent, capable and really good company (from a distance).

This is the same person who pretends that he can't understand my Vietnamese swearwords, in an attempt to rattle my confidence so that I don't use them. We get along very well.

We have another guy, R, who is working with us. He has excellent English, a good sense of humour and a fairly strong Portuguese accent. He also works with H and they don't always get along.

We were at lunch yesterday and I commented that I think H's English seems to be improving since we started this project ... albeit quite slowly. But there is definite improvement and it's not just in our ability to understand the accent.

R said [with strong Portuguese accent] "Oh yes - maybe. Probably his English has improved but even cunts are evolved."

The way he said it, I thought he had said "even cunts are evolved". Especially given that he and H don't always see eye to eye. I was shocked ... until then I thought we were having a pleasant conversation and then this, out of the blue, delivered with a smile. 

Me: "What? R what did you call H?"

R: "'Even cancer evolved'."

Me: "Oh. That's not what I heard I thought you were being mean to H."

R: "What did you hear?"

Me: "Something else. Never mind."

Warning Signs

A couple of weeks ago I bought a pirated Vietnamese phrasebook from a street vendor.

He had an interesting sales approach, too. Once he’d locked me in for the first sale, he started his cross-sell technique:

“How about Lonely Planet book? Lonely Planet Vietnam?”

-- “No I’m OK. Thanks. Just the phrase book.”

“Some other book? Cambodia? Lao?”

-- “No I have other travel books. Just this is OK. Thanks. No time to read so much”  [humble potato smile]

“How about cocaine? You want cocaine?”

-- “Oh. Umm. No thanks.”

“No? Sure?

-- “Sure.”

Heroin? You want heroin?”

-- “Oh. Umm. No thanks. Just the book thanks. I’m off to dinner now.”

“Sexy Lady? Massage?”

-- “Oh. Umm. No thanks.”

I paid my $4 and we bid each other farewell.

I really have to wonder what was happening in the Cross-sell Skills Workshop he attended. Surely postcards would have been a more practical step? 

This is my favourite page.

There's a Storm a Brewin'

This morning I made a last-minute decision to get a cab to work. Luckily. Because about 15 min ago we had some flash floods.

This is the view from the window at work just now.

Sloppy Spud: this potato has been in Vietnam for 2-3 months and has started to think they’re a local. The SS has a job, rents a motorbike and has started to think that he or she can read the clouds and smell impending storms. (If you look carefully, you can see their nostrils flare as look up into the sky when it is cloudy.) One day they ignore some obvious signs, including a faint spitting of rain, and get caught out badly in a downpour. The Sloppy Spud usually arrives at work with wet clothes and a frown.

Hell's Potatoes - Progress Update

I'm starting to get used to riding my motorbike.

My apartment building is roughly the size and configuration of a boutique hotel. Each of its 6 floors has a large, four-bedroom apartment ... and the occupants are mostly potato families with big budgets and fat stomachs.

My apartment is the exception. It is smaller, at basement level next to car parking. The occupant still has a fat stomach, mind.

There are two main entrances to the building: driveway to the basement parking area, or the lobby.

My front door opens straight onto the car park, which was a selling point for me because I thought that I would be able to:

a) come and go without using the lobby ... avoiding the need to make small talk with other potatoes. This has turned out to be true.

b) come and go without using the lobby .... avoiding scrutiny by the staff as I come and go. This has turned out to be false.

c) ride to my bike to my front door, like a tough bikie. This has turned out to be partially true.

There are 5 uniformed security guards at my building, on 24x7 rotation. There is at least 1 person present at all times, and often 2.

Given that Hanoi has no crime, this security is quite unnecessary. But I like it.

I always look around and wave to the security guard on arrival and on departure. These greetings form a basis for 5 identical relationships, each is based entirely on hearty hellos ("Xin Chau!") and heartfelt goodbyes ("Chau Anh!").

I believe taht they find me quite nice (for a potato) and tell myself that they like me. That they really, really like me.

My building is at number 56. Most of the time I find the guard hanging around the driveway, chatting with his mates from 54 and 58. Sometimes he is sitting behind the desk at the top of the entrance stairs. On occasion he is sitting on a stone fence across the road, smoking while staring at the lake and ignoring the building entirely. No crime, no risk.

On Saturday nights the guard will be crouched on the ground in a space between 56 and 58, toking on tobacco bongs with his security guard neighbours. I've been offered a couple of bongs as I ride past but have reluctantly declined ... I'm not sure whether it's my latent addiction to tobacco or the accumulated saliva on the pipe that scares me more.

There is always someone to supervise me when I arrive home and they will drop whatever they are doing - or not doing - to ensure my save arrival. I am not allowed park my bike without supervision.

As I turn into the driveway, the guard on duty immediately starts moving slowly towards me from his location ... much like the zombies in Thriller. If nearby, he will open the gate for me and stalk behind me as I slowly ride down the ramp and into the basement.

The next part is a little more complicated. The guard will telepathically direct me into my parking space from a distance of 5 metres. This is performed via a sequence of hand signals and head nods; occasionally a left shoulder gyration. He has is the leading role in the Sorcerer's Apprentice and I am his mop.

More often than not, I am then led (in darkness) to my front door. As I fumble to fit the key into the door, the guard (now less than a metre away) opens a cupboard beside me and a presses some switches. This illuminates the carpark, too little too late. As I remove the key from my front door, I nod my thanks to the guard as the entire carpark becomes incandescent behind me. The sudden brightness can be startling, like a surprise birthday party. I want to look around for balloons and people but catch myself.

Once, after emerging into my dark apartment I quickly closed the door and looked back through the peephole. The mop found out what his master did without him: he took two steps away from my door, then two steps back toward it, then switched the lights off and returned to his mates in darkness.

Founding Member

For the first week I was using the motorbike, the guards would laugh as I clumsily arrived and departed through the gates of the driveway.

They would occasionally tell me in Vietnamese what I was doing wrong. I didn't really understand except that it had something to do with using the brake when driving up the ramp and possibly something to do with my helmet strap. Tyres and headlights were also referenced.

In transit ("do you wanna be in my gang?)

During my second week of riding, the instructions became more tactile and intimate: they would help me remove the key so it didn't lock the wheel, switch the headlight on or off, rub my arm while explaining something confusing about how to stop skidding on the tiled floor, adjust my chin strap on the helmet, rehang my helmet on parking and so on. Usually they would use any spare hand to detain me via an elbow. As the weeks progressed and I learned my lessons, the feedback was reduced to a pat on the head (or the helmet) and a smile. No joke.

By now I've completely got the hang of my motorbike. Nowadays I jump on, chuck it into first and zoom up the ramp to the driveway. I greet the security guard ("Chau Anh") as I turn onto my busy, narrow road without looking. As I zoom off I think to myself "they must be so proud of me" and smile. I was thinking this last week as I merged into traffic and got sideswiped by a taxi.

At the client site, Hell's Potatoes working from some spare cubicles.

On Tuesday I sent my first text while riding and on Thursday I took my first photos. Progress indeed.

id → en

therein

This Little Piggy Went to Mexico

Many people here wear face masks when riding their motorbike or pushbike. In light of the pig flu risk I am going to get one too. I am going to draw a pig snout on mine. I will also accessorise the mask with good posture and a subdued look in my eyes. 

Actually, deep down I think that I'm barracking for the pig flu. Lately, when I hear some country has introduced some measure to contain the spread, I’m secretly gunning for the underpig. (Hide in the moisturiser! Get out of the ears!)  I have a very naughty Id.

Given that the flu is already at level 5, and there’s only one more stop to the penthouse suite, I’d be sad to see the little guy fall at the last hurdle.

Chinny chin chin up, little piggy … I’m on your side!

The Edwina Monologues (Part 1)

I haven't had much to do with Edwina recently, but have just started sitting close enough to make a few observations. Today's topic is racism.

Edwina equates poor English with being stupid. Last Wednesday she went out of her way to intercept R as he was leaving the office. It was quite abrupt, in the manner of “have you booked the training room for tomorrow?”. If only. Edwina  wanted to share a few insights on the local culture:

“They’re really quite clueless, aren’t they?”

-- “Who are?”

“The local Vietnamese. They have no idea. They really have no idea.”

-- “No. What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

“I have to tell them everything. They need my help with everything.”

-- “Huh? I don’t understand.”

“They just don’t get it. They’re really cute though. They’re just like little puppies.”

-- “Sorry. Can’t talk. Must run. Busy busy.”

Another tip with Edwina: never have a conversation with her while standing up. Because this gives her the space to act out some anecdote, usually involving a local person. As she comes to the point where she says “so then X came up to me to ask …” she will start running on the spot with eyes wide, mouth open in a dumb smile and hands at shoulder length waving. It’s like a toddler pretending to be a bunny pretending to be your devoted friend. It's patronising and inaccurate.

Publicity

It was a few years ago. The time was 9.30 in the morning. All the tragics were out in full force on the dancefloor, looking skanky. M decides to grab his camera. He'd been filming a documentary earlier and he thought it would be fun.

A couple of weeks later, M mentioned that I was now in a small clip in his documentary: a montage to represent "all the fun we had when we were young and stupid". I said that no, I didn't want proof that I am young or stupid. He told me that he already had my permission; that at the time he said "I'll use all this in the film" and I apparently nodded. So I gently withdrew my offer.

But guess what? I still made the cut. I was annoyed and M promised it was just a student film that no one would see. .

Next thing you know, M's won an Independent Filmmaker award for it.

Next thing you know, M's entered it in the St Kilda Film Festival.

Next thing you know, my 2 seconds winds up in the festival advert. It comes in at about the 30 second mark. 

I wonder if this is how Britney feels getting out of a cab. Not happy.

Double-Entendre

Edwina: "My taxi had a minor accident yesterday."

Me: "Oh. That's terrible."

(Meanwhile my disobedient mind is saying: "Yes - but I didn't clarify which part I thought was terrible. And it's not 'taxi' or 'yesterday'.".)

Stil smiling

Two fantastic things happened when I got home this evening.

Firstly, I checked my Stilnox box to see how much I had left from the prescription. Trays just kept tumbling out ... it was like a Tardis for drug addicts. I still have 28 left from the original 20! Of course I recognise how tragic this excitment is, but there you are. 

You gotta love those French doctors:  they totally respect the need to tranquilise, pacify, stupefy, mollify and otherwise medicate their population on request. I think France used to have the highest per capita rate of prescriptions in the world and I think my new doctor would have done her bit I'm not sure if it's still on the podium but I do like my new doctor. I felt so Hollywood as I pulled out tray after tray of pills. It was like a Heath Ledger before shot.

Secondly, my cleaners still love me, even after yesterday morning (in a  mot pas) I greeted the shy 22yo cleaner with a hearty "Good Morning Grandpa".

I found this hand-written note was on my coffee table when I got home.

On first reading I thought it was cute. However, I am now starting to fear that they are having creepy daydreams about me writhing around on a non-stick bath mat. And I don't know why.

Who the Heller You Callin' Chickeny?

Today I went to a local street vendor and ordered Chicken and Rice. It was my third choice, due to the rule in Vietnam that potatoes are not allowed to be given their first choice.

The chicken leg was covered in so much orange sauce and I didn't realise for some time that chicken leg I'd been gnawing on was almost completely raw. I think my diet is about to get a kickstart. 

On the subject of chicken ... when you want to call someone stupid in Vietnamese you say they they are Gà lắm, which translates to "chickeny".  So if you think it means they are as dumb as a chicken, but "chickeny" is so much better. Such a great word I can't imagine being insulted by it.

Stay tuned for an update on my salmonella, which is being slowly digested. (I think I just felt it kick.)

Potatoes Rise in the Heat

Yesterday R and I were in a software demo with two locals  (H and B). We have been working closely with them and they are quite comfortable using the word potato. 

We notice some errors in the demo, so H started writing an email asking someone to fix it.

Me: "Hey H - what are you writing there in Vietnamese?"

B: "He's writing 'Help me! I'm surrounded by two potatoes!'."

Like a Duck to Potatoes

People who are as childish as me are constantly trying to learn swear words in other languages. It's what we do.

However, according to Vietnamese people there is no bad word for "foreigner". And trust me ... I have asked many, many people. 

Every time I ask someone - after much prodding and nodding - I am given a new expression. It usually takes ages to learn, during which time I have sent away for the results and had them returned "benign". It goes something like this:

"What's a really bad word for a foreigner? Not a nice word. Just a slang word. One that people use against foreigners. A really bad word?"

-- "We don't have any words like that."

"Oh. Come on. I won't be offended. You must have something. Please tell me."

-- "Oh ... I don't know - maybe we say Blah-di-blah-di-blah."

"Is that the worst?"

-- "Yes that is the worst."

"How do you say it?"

-- "Aâêsewm qdêồôneyemôyer"

[... time passes as I practise the pronunciation ...]

"What does Aâêsewm mean?"

-- "It means foreigner."

"What does qdêồôneyemôyer mean?"

-- "It means bad."

"Bad Foreigner?"

-- "Yes."

"You've just taught me to say 'Bad Foreigner'". 

-- "Yes."

Is that the worst word you could think of?"

-- "We don't hate foreigners. We don't have bad words like that."

The person above who taught me how to say Bad Foreigner also told me earlier that the Chinese are poisoning the Vietnamese food. We were mid meal and he came out with:

"You know the Chinese are poisoning the North Vietnamese?"

-- "I don't believe that."

"It's true. Especially here in the North. It's very well known. It is in the food. They are trying to poison the Vietnamese through the food."

-- "Oh well ... [raising the chopsticks to my mouth] . I'm not Vietnamese so I'm don't have to worry."

I find it a little hard to believe that in a country that suffered 6 wars spanning 43 years, 3 major subsequent guerrilla wars, 21 years of division based on western interference ... and over 5 million fatalities from genocide and suicide and homicide and pesticide ... that they haven't come up with one bad word for a foreigner? Bullshit they haven't.

We have many terrible racist words for Vietnamese people, and Asians in general, and I probably wouldn't admit to them either.

Nevertheless, I think Vietnam needs its own nigger. And I'm the potato for the job. I'm taking the word "potato" to the masses.  It's khoai tây and I don't know how to say it but it doesn't matter. Firstly, they love it. It requires no explanation or pronunciation corrections. Secondly, they remember it almost immediately and embrace the nuance of the meaning. Thirdly, it goes well with pejoratives. Beautiful potato doesn't sound right. Nor does thin potato. But fat potato is perfect. As is ugly potato, or old potato, or stupid potato. 

Indeed, we learnt a new word last Friday when it was paired with potato. I used the dropped the word khoai tây into normal speech. My colleague corrected me:

"Khoai tây thối."

--"Khoai tây ... what?"

"Thối.""

-- "Thối? What does thối mean?"

"Something that smells ... stinky. Stinky Potato. You are a Stinky Potato"

-- "Oh. Umm. Thanks"

Burnt Sim

I don't agree with the author. I think everyone should try this at home.

Warning Signs

This is the first page of the menu from one of Hanoi's best restaurants. Bobby Chin is supposed to be Vietnam's Jamie Oliver. The food is fantastic but many other things in the restaurant are out of whack for a fine dining experience. For example, we sat next to a large military-style painting which showed someone in the middle of snapping the neck of a blindfolded soldier. I think Bobby is paying too many people to laugh at his jokes: his menu wording is just plain silly.

Next up, this sign sits beside the cash register at my local supermarket. If you want to pay by credit card, you need to play a little bit of Vietnamese Deal or No Deal.

This from the third floor of a bar on Truc Bach lake. I think it's pretty clear what they expect to happen in the toilet.

This Week's Lessons

A few things I learnt this week:

1. If you don’t pronounce the word “beef” correctly you will accidentally say “mistress”. For the past 7 weeks I have been ordering Mistress Noodle Soup for breakfast. 
   
   
2. If you don’t say “I would like to go ...” correctly you will be saying “I can go fuck myself”. For the past 5 weeks I have been getting into cabs after work and saying “I would like to go fuck myself at 56 Xuan Dieu St”.
   
   
3. If you ask your colleague to teach you swear words he will teach you words which have no meaning. This is his way of ensuring you don't swear. When you eventually point this out to him ("Hey you told me I could say 'Meh Met' but that doesn't mean anything") he will smile and nod and say "This word has no meaning in Vietnamese". He will then teach you a replacement word which, after another week, you discover also has no meaning in Vietnamese.
   
   
4. As a rule, Vietnamese people are not able to understand your attempts to speak their language. There is one exception. If you refer to yourself a fat potato you will always be understood. They will also find it funny and true. This reaction will occur within any context and no matter how bad your accent. The most common reaction will be for the recipient to point at your stomach while nodding and laughing while repeating "yes, fat potato" a few times.
   
   
5. If you learn to ask for "no sugar" when ordering coffee, this translates to “please don’t add sugar but go ahead and add an inch of condensed milk ... please ensure it lurks there silently at the bottom of the cup until one of my final gulps releases it in a manner that makes me panic, gag and nearly fall off my plastic chair”.
   
   
6. If you try to say “I am fat” while ordering no sugar and no condensed milk they will agree, point, laugh and nod while secretly adding both to your coffee.
   
   
7. If you don’t say “pig” correctly you will accidentally say “cunt”. For the past 4 days I have been learning how to say “I have the cunt flu”.
   
   
8. Never ask anyone how to say anything in Vietnamese. You will be taught stuff which is completely useless, has only ever been used in that person’s immediate family and cannot be understood by anyone else. "Yes I understand but we don't say it. Don't say it."
   
   
9. When you get into a cab you only have 20 seconds to say what you need. After that, you cease to exist. Potatoes who attempt to speak to the driver mid trip do not exist. Potatoes who are traveling with their Vietnamese colleagues will find that while the colleague is allowed to speak to the driver to clarify directions and addresses ... if the potato attempts to get involved in any way he will be completely ignored. These rules are strictly applied, even if said potato is the only one who knows the right address and has it written down.

I Saw Goody Pig Flu Dancing with the Devil

The Swine Flu should be here in about 3 hours. It is probably standing at the luggage carousel right now and the Vietnamese government will take 6 months to admit that it has arrived. By that time we will all have it.

This afternoon I went shopping for piggy food to eat during the flu: mostly comfort food and a few veggies that respond well to deep frying. Can't wait. 

I just read this tragedy from Australia:

"A total of 35 Victorians have now been tested for influenza."

Firstly, the real tragedy is that it should be "has been tested", not "have been tested". Secondly ... I mean ... it's Victoria ... so I couldn't care less. 

Since the WHO increased the severity level today, CNN has also been going nuts. Anyone with a sore throat and a Mexican accent is getting a go on the tellie ... I just saw a clip with this woman talking about when she was sick last year:

"... and now I am thinking it was probably Swine Flu because I could feel it up here in my chest ... and I was wheezing and had a fever ..."

LAST YEAR!

Oh, and I am not going to call this the Swine Flu. It's the Pig Flu. Pig.