there are no words

there are no words

the rest of this website is equally disturbing, for different reasons.

as far as outfits go this sure beats a trishrag ... cheesel should try knitting one of these on the train to central ...

http://awkwardfamilyphotos.com/

Once Bitten

I was asked to a meeting in KL on Monday so have had to travel today (Sunday) to make it. 

There is only one direct flight from Hanoi to Kuala Lumpur and it's daily at 2pm. This means I need to leave home by about midday, the flight departs at 14, I land at 18, get though imigration and baggage by 18:20, board the express train by about 18:30, get off it by 19:00, get another cab to the hotel by about 19:30, I'm checked-in and unpacked by 20:00 and my day is gone. It's pointless trying to find something interesting and open by this time on a Sunday.

This evening I wound up sitting in the lobby bar of the Shangri-La hotel having steak with Béarnaise sauce, I received an email to say our meeting was moved to Tuesdsay. 

I should have known ... the originally meeting was called by C, of New Year fame! 

DooouuuuubbbbbbbbblllllllleeeeeAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The good thing about the lobby is that there is a very professional, polished 3-piece cover band. Like most Filipino bands that I've seen, they are fantastic singers and have a huge range. For some reason Malaysia celebrates Mother's Day on the same day as Australia so there are a few families here tonight.

Then something really awkward happened with the band. The guy started singing a Tony Mutton song with a chorus that started with the man singing "I Wanna Make Love Right Now" and the backup going "Na Na Na" trailing off in the background. Out of nowhere, 3 little girls of about 4 years old and dressed in very frothy bowy dresses (2 pink, 1 lemon) got up from their table and started dancing right in front of the band with their hands linked. The guy became very uncomfortable with his love-making lines that he started mumbling and trying not to use the actual lyrics. By the end it sounded like "I Wanna Mer Gerrr Ra Na" with the women singing "na na na na".

Naughty Naughty Little Scallywags ...

I spotted this today at Hanoi airport.

I started thinking about these children and immediately reached for my wallet. 

Not to give money, but to check it hadn't been pickpocketed.

Hell's Potatoes In Full Flight (Part 4)

Turning left onto the street where I work.

Please note that this accomplished potato is riding with one hand while he films.

Hell's Potatoes in Full Flight (Part 3)

It's a few minutes later and Hell's Potatoes are picking more gaps and going for them.

I think this looks more precarious than it feels at the time.

Hell's Potatoes In Full Flight (Part 2)

This was taken just after R had taken the wrong (left) lane and the road divided into a dual carriageway. Rather than turn around, he decides to speed up and get it over and done with.

Where's Wally?

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.)