Bleak House (Part A)

Vietnamese legislation dictates that when traveling to the airport by taxi, at least 2 things need to go wrong. This was originally a Vietnamese Tourist Board initiative aimed at forcing people to stay a bit longer in the country, even though it made them swear to never return. It is so common now that we rarely even think about where it came from. It’s like “cheers”. Or butter.

Today's cab ride to Hanoi Airport was on par with the others. It started normally. I flagged him down, confirmed my destination, put my bag in the boot and climbed into the back seat.

The driver just sat there for a while, doing nothing. Then he picked up his two-way radio and talked to head office for a bit. I heard the word for "airport" and assumed he was receiving his instructions from Moneypenny. His prescribed list of blunders for my trip:

1. Start off on the wrong foot

He headed off in the opposite direction to the airport.

Lucky for me, the word "U-Turn" is international. I used it loudly to no avail. He nodded, pointed forward at the road and continued driving. I eventually opened my door to make him stop. He stopped and I forced him to do a 3-point turn, or should I say a 7 point turn, before we headed off in the right direction.

2. Sweat potato

For the first half of the journey he couldn’t get the air conditioner to work. I intervened. It was not my turn to be the guy in the queue with the wet patch, aka Nana’s accident.

3. Find a traffic jam

We took a few turns which I thought were a shortcut, only to realize that he was looking for a traffic jam. He found one

This one was caused by (yet another) fatal motorbike accident. It was appropriately accessorized with a circle of slack-jawed onlookers, a mangled bike and a dead body.

‘What a lovely parting image for the tourists’, I thought as we inched past.

4. Make the potato yell "Stop!” and “U-Turn!" again

We drove straight past the highway exit which was clearly marked 'Airport Departures'. I mean, "He" drove and I waited until it was too late to say anything.

5. Hey potato ... more walk less talk, OK?

When a Hanoi cab driver is ready to say goodbye, he's ready to say goodbye.

If you are not yet ready to say goodbye, he’s still ready to say goodbye.

Needless to say my driver attempted to dump me at the first available parking spot, as far away from the International check-in as possible. This is an old trick and I was ready for it. I pointed at my final destination with a firm "Di Thang!".

“Di Thang!" buys you about 10 metres at a time. But I persevered:

“Di Thang!" [pause] “Di Thang!" [pause] “Di Thang!" [pause] “Di Thang!"

I was like a new parent, desperately willing his baby to cross the room without taking a break. Or a yokel with a cattle prod in Texas. Or a new parent with a cattle prod in Wyoming.

6. The protracted farewell

I asked for a receipt. He pulled out a fresh book but seemed confused for a while about where to start. He then proceeded, slowly, completing each section (driver’s name, from, to etc). On the last line he wrote the "per km" rate instead of the total amount.

I asked him to please write the full amount in the total. He didn't cross it out. He didn't complain. He just nodded, tore up the receipt and slowly started again on a fresh canvas.

7. Peel the potato

He didn't give me my change. I had to ask for it but this time I don't think it was deliberate. Taxis rarely pull that stunt here and he was friendly. I just think the receipt writing was so overwhelming that it threw him off the rest of his game.

8. Free the spud

By the time I walked away from the cab I felt like Mario in Donkey Kong, climbing ladders and jumping over barrels to get through each stage.

Something Cute

The caretaker of my apartment block has two kids, aged about 4 and 6.

Sometimes when I arrive home they are hanging out the front with the security guard.

I greet them with a hearty "Chào cháu", which is how I was taught to say "Hello Kids".

They smile and shout back loudly "Chào Chú", which means "Hello Uncle" or more literally, the younger brother of your father.

As I walk up the stairs to my apartment I can hear them echo my greeting to each other and laughing, enjoying the novelty of my accent. It makes me smile.

iSnack 2.0

Every now and then something happens which is so impossibly stupid that I feel a bit giddy.

When I heard about the iSnack 2.0 I felt drunk and glee. Or drunken glee. I'm not sure what it was, but it was good.

What's not to love about the name iSnack 2.0?

Nothing.

There is nothing not to love about the name iSnack 2.0.

Firstly, it reeks of desperation. A desperate attempt by Marketing Professionals: take a couple of buzzwords, scrape the sparkle off of them and rub it into their new product.

An ironic attempt to be fresh, and contemporary. Ends up sounding awkward, and dated.

Kraft didn't realise that it was the Apple products themselves that made the "i" cool, not the other way around.

Poor little iSnack 2.0.

So unfair to take this Nutella-looking savoury spread and compare it with the industrial design and sex appeal of an iPhone.

You've gotta feel sorry for Kraft's Australasian Strategic Marketing department.

Imagine the brand building workshops they must have gone through. 4 weeks of intense, facilitated workshops to pick the winning name. Ensure the final choice was aligned to the brand architecture, the brand essence. The brand personality. The brand chemistry.

All this for a savoury spread that looks like the contents of a nappy.

These workshops would have started early. The office junior would have come in early to set up the room. Mini muffins and pots of coffee provided for breakfast. Her hair would still be wet because she didn't leave enough time before he train left.

The workshops would have required a working lunch. Because hey - we've got such a tight schedule and we have a lot to get through, guys. Sushi were brought in. Groovy sushi, with ponzu instead of wasabi, made by thatreallygreatplaceuptheroad.

The the ritual evening ordering of Pizza. "It's going to be yet a long night again guys", which would cause a ripple of smug chuckles around the boardroom table. This pizza came from thatotherreallygreatplaceuptheroad. Ithas cherry tomatoes and fresh basil leaves; Parma ham and black olives with the pits still in them.

The facilitator is standing in front of the whiteboard, obscuring a blue and red mindmap still there from yesterday afternoon. She goes to write something on the flipchart with the green marker, only to find that it's dry. She places it back in the tray rather than the bin ... just like the last person before her.

One of the older guys in the room said he only vaguely recognised the term "2.0" but didn't know what it meant. He was senior enough to be brave enough to admit that he didn't understand something.

The young guy in the fauxhawk rolled his eyes as he explained to everyone in the room what 2.0 means: this surefire marketing buzzword that couldn't fail. He explained it in such detail that people were left wondering whether he knew what he was talking about. No one dared ask questions for fear he would keep going.

There were some in the room who said to themselves "I initially thought this sounded dumb but it must be me who's dumb because everyone else here fucking loves it."

Others in the room must have been thinking "this sounds really stupid but I'm too junior to say anything. I hope I've got a new job before it comes out.".

The overpaid marketing consultant who advised that Kraft must not to run consumer focus groups in case of a leak. We know how to ensure we are aligned to what our consumers want, she told them.

Kraft's senior marketing executive who - 2 months earlier - sat in this same boardroom thinking to himself "iSnack 2.0? I don't get it. Everyone else seems to get it. What's wrong with me? Is that why they picked on me at school? OK you'd better say something soon so people remember you're in charge." He's the one who is now announced yesterday that:

"The winning entry was chosen for its personal call to action and clear identification of a new and different Vegemite".

I was talking to J today about what must be now happening at Kraft's offices.

Multiple conference calls with Global Marketing: loud American accents screaming down the phone. Muffled stammers and awkward silences coming back from Melbourne.

Global immediately despatch the big guns. The American Marketing Executive arrives in a Purple power suit. It looks like Armani but is really a copy she had made in Thailand during a recent business trip. You can tell by the distinctive sheen of the fabric she selected from the bolt ("Silky"). She has never worn it in New York but thinks Australians won't be able to tell the difference. She has a long blonde bob, pulled back by an age-inappropriate Alice band. Her flight arrives at 6.20am, on time (it wouldn't dare not), and she heads straight to the office for a series of emergency meetings. The first person she sees when she arrives is a girl with wet hair.

The Sydney branch of the international PR agency; appointed from New York to mop up this mess. They are at Purple's first meeting. Their team of senior sycophants suck up to her, nodding while she instructs them on obvious first steps that they have already completed. They are all "great" and "excellent feedback" and "he he ... you've obviously done this before" while secretly thinking she is an idiot. In the taxi back to their office, they make jokes about her Alice band.

The CEO of Kraft Australia who signed-off on the winning name. He is not turning up to these conference calls with Global. This helps him distance himself from the problem. Teflon. He is currently deciding which of his employees will be the Spokesperson, forced into being humiliated in front of TV cameras. He is deciding which executive will be forced into breaking the news to Spokesperson. High grade Teflon.

Poor little iSnack 2.0.

I love everything about this name. So much so that it has inspired me to start another blog in its honour.

I can't keep up with this blog so what do I do? Launch a spin off, of course. My own Knots Landing.

Finally, Proof That God Exists

There is a Susan Boyle drag act in West Hollywood.

She even goes a bit crazy in the middle.

That's three yesses from me. Through to the next round.

Our Days And Our Nights

"Woody Allen Signs Petition to Free Roman Polanski"

Oh, Woody; I really don't think you're helping.

You married your daughter.

Then again, I doubt that David Lynch fares any better. Wikipedia describes his style thus:

"Beaten or abused women are also a common subject, as are intimations or explicit mention of incest and sexual abuse (most of his films)."

Who next? Charles Manson?

Oops. I just realised what I said. Where's my manners? That may have been in bad taste. Sorry Shazza.

I meant to say Charles In Charge. Go and get Charles in Charge to sign your fucking petition, Roman. I'm not promising that he would be any less scary than your other mates. But I do miss his theme song. It still pops into my head from time to time.

Jogjakarta

Knowing how close the Jakarta bombings were to my heart (and my hotel), I've been keeping myself up to date with the investigations.

Nevertheless, I found this latest article completely shocking. I couldn't believe it.

It details how highly organised and structured these bombings were "... funding, recruitment, spiritual guidance, welfare officers for jihadi families, and others who were assigned such tasks as securing explosives, looking after transport, making videos and acting as couriers and messengers."

That part was fine. Stock standard even.

The other part was not. The part where the suicide bombers were going jogging during their final days.

Jogging?

Whatever for?

The benefits from jogging are not immediately felt. It can take weeks (or even months) to feel the positive results from jogging. It can even weaken you in the short term with sore muscles. Or a bleeding toe.

When, exactly, were they expecting to reap the benefits from this exercise regime?

Imagine if a giant asteroid was going to hit earth in 5 days and we were all going to be killed. We've all imagined what we would do in our final days. Panic, sure. Alcohol, definitely. Debauchery, probably.

But jogging?

A lot more people have put a lot more thought into this than me. There are countless films about Armageddon events. There are traffic jams. Blackouts. Kids with dirt on their cheeks clutching stuffed toys. Black Presidents. White looters. A mandatory wealthy old retired couple serenely drinking tea on the porch of their beach house.

But never, never, someone putting on a tracksuit and going for a run.

Why would a suicide bomber - someone with a clear deadline - decide that the final days leading up to his fireworks display was the time to get fit?

What sort of a sick bastard could do something like this:

"Oh my God! We're going to die! Only 1 day left! Tomorrow! What will we do??"

-- "How's about a 5k run?"

"Sure. I've been feeling like bit of a fatty lately."

I don't think I like terrorists any more. They scare me.

The Milkmaid's Tale (Part Evil)

I've been meaning to write about the Evil Milkmaid for some time. As each day brings more to tell and the task feels insurmountable. So much split milk under the bridge. So much to tell. Where to start? Where to end? The longer I leave it the more daunting it gets.

I am like an 8 year old wandering aimlessly around a messy bedroom.

Today I was thinking about the film Memento, where the main character develops anterograde amnesia and needs to rely on present events to reconstruct his past.

So that is how I'm going to explain the Evil Milkmaid. Provide just enough information about the present day events for you to slowly (and painfully) reconstruct this painful past.

A kind of Groundhog Day. That is, if Groundhog Day had an unhappy beginning and an unhappy ending. And no nauseating Whatsherface in it.

Back to the Evil Milkmaid.

Senior executives of large companies in Vietnam nearly always come from rich, connected families. This is true socialism - where poor business acumen, work ethic or experience are no barrier to promotion.

You start with an arranged marriage. Combine it with a big house. Stir in some high-ranking government connections. Add a dash of overseas education. Bake slowly for 12 years in an air-conditioned office and ... Ding! You're at the top!

Ergo the Evil Milkmaid is very senior in my company.

This means that she needs to sign-off or approve things. Lots of things. Including lots of things I need to do.

I have been forced to work with her in a number of areas. I'm her only potato underling and she hated me from the get go. She has consistently obstructed or objected my attempts at working with local clients. I didn't recognise this as racism at first but it didn't take long. (She's an Evil Milkmaid, remember, not a Subtle Milkmaid.)

She has a huge amount of confidence and power, neither of which is supported by ability or aptitude. In a professional sense, the Evil Milkmaid has little idea about what I do. She has no absolutely no experience or knowledge in my area of expertise. Neither do I ... but that's hardly the point. I'm not the one stopping me.

When I go to her she often. Just. Stops. Me. Deadinmytracks. She won't approve it. When I ask why, she usually says I don't understand the Vietnamese people or Vietnamese business culture. When I ask for more information or help on this front, she will typically tell me to go away - that she's too busy to answer my questions.

I am not talking about the impression she leaves me with. I'm talking about the actual words she uses, eg:

"Go away please Anthony - I'm too busy to talk to you."

Seriously.

That's why she's evil.

A couple of weeks ago the Evil Milkmaid went on leave. Now I know what it feels like to be the prison Bitch whose Daddy had been granted an early parole.

I was able to set my own direction on dealing with clients and made some good decisions.

Last week I had a series of meetings with a new client which went swimmingly. On the Friday I did a large presentation to the CEO which was very well received.

When the Evil Milkmaid heard about this she was pleased. She smiled as she repeated the positive feedback that she had heard from my colleague and the client.

Because let's get this straight. The Evil Milkmaid is not. And nor will she ever be. Warming to me.

She needed me now. She realised that I could help meet her sales targets for the year.

The next couple of times I talked to her about this client she was quite friendly, albeit through a strained smile. As we talked about "next steps" or "sales strategy" she would occasionally brush me on the arm. Vietnamese people can be a bit touchy when they like you, even at work, but this did not feel genuine or warm. This felt more like a paedophile testing his boundaries.

Moving right along though.

The Evil Milkmaid has an accomplice. In my head I call him Gay Gordon. He is neither Gay, nor Gordon. In fact he is a devout Muslim with an English accent who also seems to hate white people. The Evil Milkmaid loves him. (Or should I say, needs him.)

My disobedient mind gave him this nickname quite early on in our relationship. I don't know why, but probably because both of these words would repulse him: Gordon is so whitebread. Gay is so ... umm ... gay.

So I call him Gay Gordon under my breath and smile. Sometimes when he's talking, I imagine him awkwardly dancing at a céilidh. And smile.

This week I've been sitting close to the Evil Milkmaid's desk. Yesterday afternoon I overheard a phone conversation between her and Gay Gordon that went like this:

"Yes Anthony did his presentation to them last Friday."

[Pause]

"Oh no. No. They were actually very impressed with it."

[Pause]

"Yes Gordon. Yes I am sure."

[Pause]

"No. Very happy with Anthony. No Gordon I am sure. Because checked with them ..."

[Pause]

"Me too. I am surprised, too. I think maybe he is learning. Learning finally."

Well ain't she just the best Evil Milkmaid a cow could ever hope for?

Mooooooo!!!!!!

Stick That In Your Pyramid

Yesterday morning I went to my usual street stall for my usual breakfast: a warm, hearty, freshly-cooked bowl of phở bò. All you have to do is sit down for a few minutes and your meal arrives. They only cook one thing and they cook it well. Henry Ford would have approved.

I arrived late morning and it was not busy. The staff were having an early lunch in advance of the next rush.

There were very few customers at this time so most of the condiments at my table were flyblown, even the bowl of lime segments and fresh chilli. However, New Me is a pragmatist who knows that Pho is cooked at high temperatures. New Me has never been sick from eating anywhere in Vietnam. New Me waved the flies away as he sat down and waited for the Pho to arrive.

The owner was sitting on a stool, eating pieces of fruit which had been cut up and piled next to the chopped raw meat (the bò). As each customer arrived she would get up to prepare their meal by using her hands to measure and toss the right amount of meat, noodles and vegetables into the boiling stock. These hands also regularly carried food to the tables, cleared the tables, took money, gave out change and grabbed another piece of fruit on their way back to the stool.

I finished eating and went over to pay my slightly turgid bill. This was accompanied by an established ritual where I smilingly exclaim my approval "rất ngon" ("very delicious") in Vietnamese and she repeats it back twice, noddingly as she hands me my change.

Today she also picked up a piece of fruit and offered it to me with an emphatic straight arm. This piece had clearly been marinating in a shallow pool of raw meat juice at 35 humid degrees for some time.

What does one do in this situation?

Does one pretend to be very full and gently decline?

I'll tell you what one does.

One accepts it.

Immediately, gracefully and gratefully.

I smiled, thanked her again, accepted the bleeding toxic fruit and took a demonstrable bite out of it. I chewed enthusiastically. It tasted bland, like raw potato with hints of blood. I pronounced that this, too, was rất ngon and she agreed again.

I asked what it was called in Vietnamese. She told me. I repeated the word back. She corrected me firmly. By now 4 people (2 staff, 2 customers) had stopped what they were doing in order to watch.

I tried again to pronounce it. 5 people laughed. I assumed that I'd once again used the wrong tone or vowel and said "cunt". It's always cunt. All 5 people corrected me this time, in an awkward unison that sounded like an echo in a tunnel.

My next attempt was more successful and I was permitted to leave. I promptly took another public bite of my toxoid, forgot my new word and walked to my bike.

This got me thinking about Abraham Maslow. Maslow dictated that people will prioritise their needs and choices based on a particular hierarchy. In order to aim for higher needs, you first need to satisfy the lower levels.

Given a choice between the two, people will satisfy their lower-level need first. It makes perfect sense. For example if you were starving to death you would look for food first and pontificate on whether contemporary American literature is painting an accurate picture of working class homosexuals second. (Poppy Z Brite is not huge in Darfur.) Oh, and if you were busting to go to the toilet you wouldn't care whether or not your President was black.

But if this particular experience taught me anything, it is that Maslow had never been to Vietnam.

As this proprietor handed me her toxic piece of fruit she was also handing me a choice between Safety (of health) and Esteem (respect by others). I chose the latter in a heartbeat.

The little piggy that cried "Wee! Wee! Wee!" all the way home

My September 11 disaster was not an isolated incident this month. I also managed to lose my running shoes at sometime during the past month. Somehow. Somewhere.

It probably happened the last time I went to the gym. That was the visit which started with a run on the treadmill and ended with 2 bottles of red wine and a couple of packets of sour worms. It is an accomplishment to arrive at a gym sober and leave drunk. An unworthy accomplishment.

I have been evicted from so many shoe stores in Hanoi that I didn't bother trying. The eviction usually goes like this: walk in the store, greet the shopkeeper, try to read their giggling smile, ask them if they have anything in your size, hear a gentle "no" as they show you the door. I waited until I was in Kuala Lumpur to buy some new running shoes. I figured that Kuala Lumpur has enough potatoes and tall Malays for me to find good footwear in my size and it did.

Last Monday my new running shoes and I eloped to the gym. My shiny new bride, wrapped in white tissue paper.

On arrival I realised that I had left my socks at home and would have to go without. Just one time without protection won't hurt, I told myself. Don't even think about using this as an excuse to go home, I told my fat self.

After a few minutes on the treadmill my right little toe was hurting from the friction of running. So I stopped, tied my shoes more tightly and continued. After 10 minutes it started hurting again but I ignored it. After another 10 minutes it became much worse so I stopped.

I looked down to see that the right side of my new white shoe had turned a dull pinky red colour. Blood had seeped through the shoe from my bleeding toe. You can use this as an excuse to go home, I told my fat self.

When I got home I was tempted to hang it from the balcony and proudly yell "virginem eam tenemus!". I thought better of this and rinsed it in the kitchen sink. With cold water.

Things That End With "itney"

Last weekend I watched the Oprah-Whitney interview.

Whitney: overdressed, overstyled, raspy. Measuring out her life story in even doses.

Oprah: fine, fat, fantastic. I prefer my Oprah with a bit of plump. She's more humble; less smug. More empathy. Less sympathy.

My favourite thing about Oprah, though, is how she can bring herself to the brink of emotional breakdown on cue. Her ability to well up is not just remarkable ... it's Meryl Streep remarkable.

Oprah knows when she should get that point, how to get there, how long to stay there, and how to bring herself back. And no matter how close she goes to the line, she never crosses it. Michael Hutchence should be so lucky.

Alternatively, it's possible that she just brings along a knife and a bag of onions: chopping vigorously off camera in key moments. Either way, she knows what she's doing. You'll never find Our Oprah swinging limply from a coat hook.

Back to the interview. Most of it was pretty boring. It was the usual schtick ... divorce fame highs lows career success control pressure motherhood blah blah blah.

It became more interesting when we got to Whitney's very candid and revealing drug stories. She has obviously done a great job of fucking up her voice -- and much her life -- through years of abuse.

This goes to show that you should never name a child anything which ends in "itney". That includes Shitney. Also Clitney.

Whitney recounted her years of freebasing and speedballing and blowing and snorting and snowballing and sprinkling and I was impressed by her accomplished use of drug street slang. But as the interview wore on, I became more and more unsettled by the interview. As I listened to her drug experiences I could feel the dull ache of my own. My drug past is nowhere near as extensive and destructive as Whitney's, but there were some similarities that I could relate to.

I'm not sure where this ache came from, but the more she talked the worse it got. I couldn't work it out. Guilt? It wasn't guilt. That wasn't it. Regret? No. It wasn't even remorse.

Then I realised. This was not an ache. This was a longing. This was envy.

By the time the interview was over I was so jealous of Whitney that I was squinting.

A bit gassy this morning.

Delivering gas. The hard way.

Grass Ski Vietnam (Part 1)

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

The decided it would be Saturday - from 8am to 5pm. 


I spent Friday trying to wriggle out of it with a story about needing to work this weekend. To give the story some grunt, I roped in R. Besides, he didn't want to go either so was a willing (if cowardly) ally.

R (like me) is inherently evil but his conscience (unlike mine) is wobbly. He started to convince himself:

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

Me: “No. We’re lying here. Plain and simple. Don’t try to paint it as anything else. That would be dishonest."

R is not on his way to the Oscards any time soon but he's all I got. I am MacGyver and he is my blade of grass and a stick.

Our hostess pulled out every Skype trick in the book. 

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

Yes she is really called babybee. Yes she often calls me Daddy. There are very disturbing reasons for this; for another time when I'm ready. Gotta hand it to her, though: "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. A Skype emoticon is pending.

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 usually willing to leave early.

H was about 90 minutes late, which was a very thoughtful gesture.

I added to this theme by suggesting places to stop along the way: firstly for breakfast, then later for a double entendre.

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

During the trip I thanked H profusely for giving us a lift and for taking the blame when we are 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. We lapped up this praise, like kittens, and blamed H for being late.

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

They believed my lie. Illness or injury is highly respected in Vietnam, even if minor or imaginary. A sore knee is right up there on the social hierarchy with primary school teachers.

Minor injury draws people from across the room with sandwiches, dried beef snacks and beer.

Major injury, on the other hand, attracts much less attention. Same with death. 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. Not a sandwich in sight.

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.

The road was blocked but we squashed forward. But it still felt like progress, like a queue at a concert before the gates have opened.

For the next 20 minutes I inched slowly forward (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. No one seemed alarmed. They just stood there staring, motionless, as if a mass hypnotist had died 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 ... it felt numb and sad - at the time and again now when I recall 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. The type of funpark you see in a budget horror flick.

The grass ski field itself was more of a long, gentle incline than a slope. Gentle only on the way down, because ski lift:

1. You arrive and walk up the hill before realising you need to go back down 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 based on running about the room waving balloons. We looked like disoriented toddlers and I kept my eye out for a parcel. 


The boss was sitting on a chair, enjoying the games like a thin Nero. I asked him 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.

I started to think there would be game of musical chairs coming up so found one to sit in. I slowly 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 5-minute intervals by a ruddy ringleader.


Stay tuned for Part 2.

New week's resolutions

1. For the past month I've been telling myself that R's bike has more storage than mine. That if I had a bike like his, I could keep my training gear in it and go to the gym every day. That I would go on my way back from work. So I borrowed his bike last week as a pilot. On the weekend I had to admit that the pilot had been pulled before it was ever aired. (I gave him a look which was somewhere between shame and sheepish but deep down I really didn't care ... I just wanted the bike for another week.)

So this week I need to do run the pilot. Again. By having more junk in the trunk, I will wind up with less junk in the trunk. The irony.

2. Book my Bangkok Botox Bisit. The internet has already guaranteed me total facial paralysis for under $150. I see no reason for the internet to lie so I will do as it says.

If all turns out well, I will continue making regular "little trips to Bangkok for work". I will even tell people in the office that "I'm going to Bangkok for work" with a po po poker face. If all doesn't turn out well this time, I will tell them I have Bell's Palsy.

3. Become more annoying at work. I'm going to start by using this.

4. Stop taking Valium to sleep. There is no reason I should be taking Valium every night. There's plenty of Xanax in the fridge.

I should be cycling more often (a different type of cycling than Resolution 1).

5. Drink white wine on my balcony at sunset, mainly because this is what it looked like yesterday. (This Resolution is only allowed on the same day that Resolution 1 has been successfully followed.)

Yesterday

6. Arrange Vietnamese lessons again. Hoa has been dumped recently due to my travel, then due to my potato visitors. Then due to more travel. This week I'm bringing her back.

This week when she laughs at me for making a mistake, I will laugh with her. If that doesn't work, I will naively mispronounce my new vocabulary words so that they sound like other, offensive Vietnamese words I already know.

7. Start the new diet which I invented last Friday while on my way to work in a cab (refer above to Resolution 1 to explain why I was in a cab).

I'm only going to eat things that I don't like, eg order things on the menu which contain seafood or mushrooms. I know that this diet cannot fail, so expect that it will.

8. In Vietnamese the word for cat is mèo and it is pronounced the same as we say "meow". (Cute, eh?)

The word for meat is Thit and it's pronounced "tit".

There is a restaurant near my house which advertises "Thit mèo" out the front. This means what you think it means. So if Resolution 7 fails, I will go and order a meal from said restaurant. This is a personal threat to myself which should keep me on track with 7.

9. Babysit my potato colleague's cats when she goes away for a few days. This is completely unrelated to Resolution 8.

10. Be proactively friendly towards The Evil Milkmaid. This Resolution will be the hardest of all. I haven't told you about The Evil Milkmaid yet because I've been saving it up. I'll tell you this much though: she's evil. And another thing: she's a Milkmaid. I think we understand each other right?

Being nice to the Evil Milkmaid will slowly kill me from the inside. If morality had lungs, this would be equivalent of smoking cigarettes.

11. Ask the old potato that I work with more questions about when he was here 35 years ago, serving as a soldier in the US Army.

His perspective is very interesting ... he says that Vietnam changed his life in terms of returning home bruised and focused to "make something" of his life.

He is doing a lot of volunteer and fundraising work whilst here ("I want to give back as much as possible to this country"). People in our office are still mean to him though, which is nice because it's not just me.

12. Be nice to the lovely staff at the Highlands Cafe on Ly Thuong Kiet when they fuck up my order. Because they will fuck up my order. Even though I give the same feedback every morning.

If you mispronounce "thanks ladies" it comes out as "thanks dickheads". I've done it before and they have giggled at my innocent gaffe.

This week I will not be giving any further criticism. I will simply call them dickheads as I depart and we will all giggle - each thinking the other is a fool. My victimless crime.

Such a Lonely Word

There is a certain brand of honesty in Vietnam that I am becoming addicted to. It hurts, but it hurts good.

Last week I managed to be out of the country long enough to get my hair cut. I came out of it reasonably unscathed. My expectations were met even if my hopes were not.

R's journey is different.

R's favourite (ie only) hairdresser did such a great job on his first attempt that my earlier opinion of Hanoi hairdressers was called into question. Not for long though. All subsequent attempts could only be described as vandalism.

Last weekend R also went for a hair cut. He was about 80% of the way through when he realised it wasn't going well. It was too late to do anything. He was at the Stockholm Syndrome stage of a bad hair cut ... where you have to abandon all hope and start psyching yourself into a new head.

At this point the owner casually walked past him and stopped and smiled and said - and I quote:- "When you walked in today you looked handsome but now you look ugly." Yes! He actually used the word ugly! And yes! The owner! R stayed glued to his chair, a pillar of salt, while the owner moved on to another happy customer.

Ah ... socialism ... just imagine if this guy owned a dress shop which catered to plus-sized women?

Later that evening, R went to his local bar. Tung (he of the "Hitler" fame) walked up to R and said: "Before you had longer hair and you looked very handsome. Now your haircut makes you look stupid." Medusa sat there stunned for a moment while Tung moved on to another happy customer. Luckily it was Vietnamese belly dancing night so the feeling passed when the music cranked up.

Later that evening Tung told R that he was his best friend. Go figure.

Comment dit-on en français "ditch"?

What is it with people these days? You kill a couple of hundred of them on a plane and all of a sudden they can't handle a harmless aeronautical prank.

This story gave me a little bit of "been there done that".

Déjà vu, if you will.

Cinderella

I arrived in KL with only one shoe. The other one must be still in Jakarta.

This is not just any shoe. It comes from my favourite pair. Puma, by Jil Sander. I bought them in New York about 4 years ago for $295, at a store called Jonathan (I think), on W 14th St (I think). They have never aged or dated.

I told B about this on the phone and his first reaction was "What did you take and where did you go?".

I told M about this at work and his first reaction was "Ah ... yes ... my Grandfather used to regularly return home from the Serviceman's club wearing only one shoe".

How can I describe how it feels to have all this respect? 'Blessed' comes to mind.

I checked my bag 3 times to be sure.

Oh I know. I'm sorry. This is really boring. But I'm just so disappointed. I need to let it out. Bottling this up inside, burying it deep, covering it in a layer of beer ... it's too dangerous. Who knows when or how it will come out? I can imagine myself 65, one day suddenly putting on bright red pumps and heading off for the train and never realising why. Never even realising how the pumps got into my cupboard in the first place. This is known in consulting as a 'suboptimal outcome'.

This was not misadventure by valium. Or drinking. This was poor packing.

I packed this bag on the evening of 9/11, which would be the morning in NY time. This date is now responsible for two significant New York related tragedies in eight years.

Drag Me Away (Please)

I've just heard SuBo's new single and I like it. I really like it.

I'm so ashamed of myself.