Good Help Me

Hao is my cleaner.

I poached her from the Lakeside Apartments, my previous landlord.

Although “Poached” is probably the wrong word because eggs are supposed to be fresh when you poach them. And this egg had gone off long before I decided to cook with it.

So let’s start again.

I reheated Hao from the Lakeside Apartments. She had been fired a few weeks before I left. I knew this because she left me a lovely note (on company letterhead) informing me that she is not allowed to work here after Monday and do I know any foreigners who need a cleaner? Her style was not bitter. Just factual. Narrative.

I don’t know why she was fired. Maybe they found out she was accepting bribes. From me.

Although “bribing” is probably the wrong word when is is the result of extortion.

Nevertheless, it was more likely Hao's laziness what done her in. She didn’t have much to do in my apartment, but still forgot certain things, especially where the dishwasher was concerned (not on, on, not packed, not unpacked and the like). A couple of times she forgot to turn up.

Vietnam is a hard working country. So Vietnam Lazy is not really very lazy at all. If you compare it with Malaysia ("truly lazier”) ... it's like comparing valium with heroin.

But Hao does not live in M'lazier. Here in Hanoi she is considered a wee bit lazy. Sometimes I refer to her as "a no good lazy Hao" by mumbling under my breath like a coward.

When I left the apartment everyone knew. There are no secrets in Vietnam and news travels fast. Even as I returned back from dropping off my written notice to the landlord, a security guard walked up and handed me a torn, dirty piece of paper with “Rental Apartment Villa Foreigners Call Me.” and a phone number.

Even Hao, on forced sabbatical, got wind of my impending move within hours and offered herself to me via an sms. "Just like a Hao", I mumbled as I read it.

I'm a good catch and Hao knew it. I am not messy. Things are mostly put away. There are no kids. Rarely visitors. I eat out a lot. The dishwasher is packed. I travel frequently. I put my rubbish in the bin. When I vomit in the toilet I clean it thoroughly. I am a cleaner's damp cloth dream.

When I cut the deal with Hoa I offered her $80/month for cleaning, or $100 if she did other things like errands and shopping. She took the extra money but as it turned out, not the extra tasks.

Hao “technically” comes 3 times/week for 3 hours. She arrives to a tidy apartment and leaves to a tidy apartment and when I ask her to buy things for me she adds a little premium on top for her efforts.

Not all cleaners are so lucky. R's cleaner is a child labourer and paid $50/month. She comes thrice a week and works twice as hard as Hao. Sometimes she washes the pink shoelaces on his try-hard sneakers.

R’s cleaner is about 12 years old and has to contend with all manner of filth and misadventure … pizza boxes, caked on food, abandoned cereal bowls, whiskers in the basin, shirts and socks and undies strewn throughout the apartment from whence they were removed, skid marks (on undies and/or porcelain), abandoned consumables, rotting where they were partially consumed.

R can create a shanty town just by putting his laptop bag down next to the coffee table. It's quite incredible. (David Blaine incredible.)

I arrived home on Monday evening from Bangkok after about 10 days. This was a very, very cushy gig for Hoa.

On Monday morning I sent Hao an sms note advising that my return was imminent and to buy fruit and flowers that day.

Flowers are very cheap in Vietnam and I ask Hao to get them quite regularly. Her taste is baffling. Following several disastrous flower choices on Hao's part, she is now under strict instructions to stick to lilies.

There are no secrets in Vietnam so she had gotten wind that it was my birthday. This had come via the previous receptionist at Lakeside, Hang Nga. Hang Nga was sacked even before Hao. She was the original mastermind behind the extortion ring and the two had obviously kept in touch. She must have also kept a copy of my passport or something to have remembered the day. She's probably travelling under my name: yet another fancypants in my own image.

I received a gushing Happy Birthday sms from Hang Nga, followed by a gushing sms from Hao alongside a promise to fill the apartment with flowers and fruit.

I arrived home late that evening to find this.

There was a birthday card perched on top and a receipt (for the flower expenses).

My flower bill was higher than usual and the card was empty.

But this was still sweet. Ugly but sweet. Kinda reminded me of Mother Teresa.

By Tuesday evening I couldn't stand looking at that fucking awful crepe frou-frou any more. So I decided to strip Mother Teresa back to basics. I figured I'd start slow. I averted my eyes as I removed her outer robes. Each layer was individually tied on so it took some time. As we got to the undergarments she was practically tossing them onto the ground herself. "Fucking slutty Albanians", I thought to myself.

When I got it all off it was still tightly held together with this padded spongey thing. I wanted the flowers to fill the vase, not huddling together like frightened models on an early morning photo shoot. So I freed them from the sponge. That's when I realised that the sponge was the water thing and the sticks underneath were not connected to the stalks on top. There were little test tube things filled with water, ensuring the flowers stayed nourished.

The minute the sponge came off, the whole fucking thing fell apart.

I went into shock. My heart started racing. Hao was coming tomorrow! What do I do? What would she think? what kind of horrible ungrateful potato would -- I couldn't even think about it! I tried to rearrange the flowers back in the vase as best I could. I was panicking.

I started rushing and scrambling. Back and forth. From the bin to the vase. Sometimes into the bathroom (disoriented in shock) and then back to the vase and the bin. I was the dog whose owner has pretended to throw the ball while secretly hiding it behind his back.

I ran back to the bin to survey the remains of Mother Teresa's robes but the slut must have been in such a hurry that she had torn them off. I finally just left the flowers in their best possible state and slept on it.

That night I had a nightmare about the vase, and Hao's disappointment at what she arrived back to. How to reconcile the excitement she felt at the special surprise, against her next arrival at the apartment.

The next morning I did my best to ressurect and only created more problem. As my departure time neared, there was more panic and dashing and darting. I was Lucy, trying to fix everything before Ricky arrived home and hearing the key in the door.

In the end I shoved the remaining flowers and leaves back into the vase and went to work.

I had to leave for work and had run out of options. Even after I had swept up most of the mess and detritus this is what was left behind.

This was my best effort. I kid you not.

I future I need to assess - up front - whether my mission is rescue or recovery. I chose unwisely, to my great shame.

What will Hao say? How will she react? How can I possibly explain this?

Lost and Found

This just in.

Subject: Lost Nokia Phone

Dear all,

Dieu Minh found a Nokia phone next to her last week, at Dinh Tuyet Hanh's workstation. She though it was Mai's and asked me to return to Quynh the next day as Mai was on leave but Quynh would see her on the weekend. However, I was on sick leave and only return to office yesterday. I did check with Quynh and she asked Mai but was not her.

Who has lost this phone, pls contact me to get it back.

Thanks & best regards,

Xuan

My theory? There was never a phone. Just a whole bunch of meaningless busy work, interspersed with illness.

Night Five in Bangkok

... and I ate at a restaurant called Cabbages and Condoms. The latter were served in lieu of After Dinner Mints.

An aspirational digestif to say the least.

Night Four in Bangkok

... proves that locals recommend the worst places to go.

When I said "how about we just go somewhere local" I didn't mean "let's go to cheap a Mexican themed restaurant where waitresses in cowboy hats greet you at the door".

I'm happy with Thai food. Honest.

Night Three in Bangkok ...

... and off I went to Thai Boxing.

Yes, Muay Thai. มวยไทย.

I went there with J. He had already bought a ticket and I caved in to peer pressure. A lack of social alternatives can do strange things to a person ... just ask William Golding.

I hate violent sports but given I went to the girly bars on Wednesday night I thought ... well ... "what the hey". May as well scratch my arse and spit into the sawdust with the rest of them.

The ticket said that it started at 18:30. Luckily the hotel told us not to go until about 20:30 when the adults get into it. Until then, I think it starts at kindergarten and works its way up.

Needless to say we arrived at 20:15 and they still looked pretty young. (Actually the whole country looks pretty young.)

"Shut up!"

"No YOU shut up!"

"No. YOU. YOU shut up!"

"Mum! Muuuuummmm! Somchai just kicked me!"

"I did NOT!"

As soon as the bell sounds, though, they are completely nice to each other. There was a ring of sincerity (and maturity) about the way they smiles and patted each other on the back at the end of each round.

Fagin: "You'd like to make pocket handkerchiefs as easily as the Artful Dodger, wouldn't you my dear? "

Oliver Twist: "Yes, if you teach me sir."

Fagin: "We will, my dear, we will."

At the beginning of each fight there is a dance. Apparently this is for the fighters to pay respect to their teachers. If I taught boxing and my pupils came out and did this, I would be mortified:

Ummm. Excuse me? Do you work here? Which stadium is playing the fight? Oh. Are you sure?

If these were my students they would be in so much trouble. Embarrassed, even. I would be like "No! No! That's not what we practised at all!".

Like the Sydney Olympics Opening Ceremony, when Cathy Freeman lit the flame and it stalled on its way up to the cauldron.

I went out to check what this guy in the box was doing. I think it was a crossword. At least he wasn't smoking.

The worst part though? I actually, really, sincerely, wholeheartedly ...

Enjoyed it.

"Well you can tell by the way I use my walk"

I even enjoyed it when the blood came pissing out of the last guy's cheek. Maybe because. Maybe especially because. I don't know. I just liked it. It was fascinating and interesting and suspenseful. And violent. And I was a bit pissed by then.

"Mummy are two those men fighting?"

"Yes dear. Yes. Fighting. Now grab your bag we have to go. Quick!"

"But can't we stay to the end of this fight? You promised!"

"No. Hurry up. We're going to miss our train."

"But we don't catch a train."

"Don't talk back to your mother!"

Until then, I had no idea that's why they called it the ring.

Sweating the Small Stuff

Today was all sweat sweat sweat cough cough cough sweat sweat cough sweat.

A mini bout of flu, with some fever, and coughing, doesn't mix with 35 degree humidity. Nor does a chambray coloured shirt. I looked like the potato who just landed yesterday and hadn't gotten used to the humidity. All I was missing was a hooker and a fake Rolex.

I've had a pretty bad cold for a few days and a bit of fever. You say man cold; I say dengue fever.

Today I had a lot of presentations with the client, meaning walking up the road to various meetings in full suit and tie, in 35 degree humidity.

This is never good on a slight fever. It is even worse when you have to do hours of standing in front of people, waffling on confidently about something you don't know.

It is a lot of pressure to be flown into a country and be trotted out as the world expert in a subject that you didn't even know existed 48 hours ago.

I coughed and sweated my way through 3 presentations today. Each one was about 2 hours duration and I was the main presenter (meaning that I strut up to the front after a 5 minute intro and stay there).

Today, because of the heat and the fever, I didn't have time to cool down from the walk. I had to keep my suit jacket on during the presentation to cover the unsightly large patches of sweat on my shirt. This only made me hotter. Temperature, of course.

Because the World Expert was quite new to this topic and probably had less experience (but far better PowerPoint) than many people in the audience. So he had to really concentrate. And I really concentrated.

Notwithstanding all this focus, I still couldn't stifle a second narrative inside my head.

Imagine if someone really wanted to become a translator but didn't have language skills. One day they find themselves lying their way into a job as a film subtitler for, say, something obscure like Bulgarian. "Sure, I can speak Bulgarian" they said in the interview, desperate for a break. For whatever reason, their references aren't checked and they get the job.

When they get their first Bulgarian film to subtitle, they have to create another story that matches the visual on the screen. My second narrative today felt like I was that Bulgarian actor, whose words were being butchered.

My spoken word:

"The industry expectation of change has more than doubled since 2004."

The subtitles:

"Is that a bead sweat on my forehead? I wonder if I could brush it off discretely? Oh fuck I don't think I can. Hang on. Just turn to look at the screen and go to point at something. Brush past it on your way through."

Spoken:

"We are starting to see more focus on revenue growth and business model innovation. This will likely continue until 2012."

Subtitles.

"Oh fuck it really was a full bead of sweat! This is not going well. What if I break out and it starts running down my neck? Don't think about it. You'll only get your heart rate up and it will happen. Just concentrate on breathing slowly and not moving around too much."

Spoken:

"The highest impact to capital expenditure will come from the creation of new assets to enable informed and collaborative customer insights."

Subtitles:

"Oh no. There goes the neck. There's going to be a ring of sweat on my collar soon. Who's controlling the airconditioning here? Is it working at all? Is that a ceiling vent over there? Maybe I should see if it's blowing out any cool air. How can I get myself under it? OK so let me do a little walk-and-talk. I'll find a reason to walk to that whiteboard and draw something and go via the vent. If it's blowing, I'll go back to that spot when I'm finished on the whiteboard. Just draw a triangle on the board - don't worry the rest will come to you one the triangle's been committed. OK so let's go now ..."

Spoken:

"This creates 3 competing priorities for your organisation. The key is understanding how to balance them."

[Selects a green marker, it doesn't work, replaces it and picks a red one, this works, draws a triangle.]

"Firstly, there's the overall customer experience ..."

Subtitles:

"I don't think I felt any air coming out of it. I think it was cooler back at the other spot. Should I try to get back there before ... wait a minute. I think I'm cooling down. Maybe that Panadol has kicked in. Oh no now I need to cough again. When was the last time I coughed? Should I wait a bit? OK just try speaking in a low, even tone for a while and it might go away."

Spoken:

"A new, converged, competitive media and communications landscape is evolving."

Subtitles:

"That didn't work. I think I'll try a little cough now to clear the throat. I hope it doesn't open the flood gates. Where's the glass of water? Oh fuck it's back over there. How can I get back over there again? I know ... just start pacing and looking across at everyone from left to rightflood. [Cough cough cough cough]. Oh fuck that didn't go well at ALL! At least someone else just coughed in the audience as well. I might be starting something."

Spoken:

"Organisational restructure provides many benefits. However, if it is not timed effectively the benefits will become eroded."

Subtitled:

"Fuck I feel hot again. Oh no. Now I'm sweating at the front ... I think it's visible through the shirt again. [cough cough] Why did you wear the blue shirt today when you knew you would be presenting to these people? You shouldn't even wear it when you're not sick. [cough cough] OK time to do up the button on the suit jacket before I look like a complete mess. [cough] So now all the heat is going to bottle up and rise out the top. I must look terrible. I wonder where we're going for lunch today. I think I'm feeling a bit faint. What that dizzy or did the lights flicker? Oh no. Who's that fucker with his hand up?"

Spoken:

"That's an excellent question. Firstly, I would ask whether you consider your strategy to be cost driven or value driven. I'll be talking about these alternatives soon in the presentation. ... This next slide covers component business modelling to drive process transformation in large entreprises. It should answer your question quite well."

Subtitled:

"I have no idea how to answer this. Just put him off for a few slides ... he won't have the guts to ask it again later. Fuck there is a typo on this slide as well. I hope we don't go anywhere for lunch where they ask for our jackets. Because this one isn't moving. This is going to take a lot of toilet paper to dry me off."

Spoken:

"That concludes my presentation. Does anyone have any questions? I'm happy to share my experiences and point of view."

Subtitled:

"Keep a straight face when you say 'share my experiences'. If only they knew the truth. Please just please no one ask anything. Oh no ... shit ... who's that nerdy engineer looking guy with his hand up. This is going to be tricky ... fuck!"

I think you get the drift. Is there anyone out there who would envy this job?

Night Two In Bangkok ...

... and my pants are split. Thankfully it was the leg at the seam. I'm referring to it as a wardrobe malfunction.

... and I got electrocuted with a massive jolt up the arm. I jumped back and made a very odd sound in my throat. I guess I'm supposed to be all Zen now. Like Randle McMurphy.

... and when you book a wake-up call at the Four Seasons they do it personally, with a knock on the door. When you open it they hand you coffee.

Night One In Bangkok ...

... was spent at an Irish pub (delicious Thai food, if you can believe it). This was followed by a couple of beers at a girly bar in Nana Plaza. A networking dinner in Bangkok is never safe.

Two stages ran through the room with seating all around them. Each stage held about about 15 girls, standing crammed next to each other. They were wearing identical, skimpy white underwear. These were bad girls. Bad girls with lots of tattooes and a number visibly pinned to their bra straps.

They were all ... I think the word is ... dancing. The dominant dance style tended to be a slow, gormless, twisty sway. Out of time with the music. This must be their Macarena.

If I was on So You Think You Can Dance, this is the routine I'd like to pick out of the hat.

The girls were casually chatting to each other as they were swaying, somewhat oblivious to the leering men in the audience.

They could have been subway commuters.


They could have been socialites at a busy cocktail bar, drinking Cosmopolitans. Socialites in undies, holding poles in lieu of martini glasses.

In an attempt to avoid eye contact I scanned the room for signs of pubes (no result). In a second attempt to avoid eye contact I started checking out their Fuck Me boots. I noticed that they all had different coloured socks peeking out over the top of the boots. Glimpses of individuality: probably their only creative outlet. That and the hair. Most of the girls had died and styled their hair to the extreme. This hair was more than just teased. It was bullied. Combined with the babydoll make-up and the swaying, they looked like abandoned drunk gonks.

At the table next to us was a middle-aged Japanese man sitting with his son (early-20's). A young, skinny girl in white underwear was sitting/leaning on the son's lap. She was laughing hysterically and patting her hair at everything he said, all the while knocking back her drink and encouraging him to do the same. Lots of cheersing.

The son had his left arm around her waist. He had worked his hand up and through her armpit, so that he could fondle and squeeze her left tit without his father seeing. His hand was continually scanning the breast terrain, stopping occasionally for a break or a slow squeeze.

It looked like she was having a breast examination but he didn't look like a doctor.

I bade my colleagues farewell as they left to get a massage. 400 Baht. Special price. Just for you. Them. Not me.

'I'm so lucky to be here.'

I thought to myself as I climbed into a cab.

Who would have imagined I would have such glamour in my life?'

I thought to myself as the cab driver started handing me a couple of cards with pictures hookers on them while giving me a cheeky thumbs up.

Bleak House (Part B – Bleak)

Your first and last impressions of a country come from the airport.

Actually for some people it's the beach (refugee anyone?); a ship terminal (Julie McCoy anyone?); or a roadside checkpoint (dirty scumbag student backpacker anyone?). But this doesn't count though because these are not real people. Right?

Hanoi International Airport is bleak. It's fucking bleak.

And no matter how chirpy your Vietnam travel memories are, the experience of arriving and leaving via Hanoi Airport traps them between 2 very miserable bookends.

This morning I marched through the entrance to departures (keeping an eye out for barrels and ladders). I located the Singapore Airlines check-in and was herded onto the end of a very long queue, flanked by metal gates. I wondered whether this was how sheep felt when they are waiting to get drenched … and detected a slight acrid taste in my mouth.

There is more than one check-in queue. After half an hour of shuffling along this queue you are instucted to go stand in another queue, which is directly behind the check-in desk you have been told to use. The second check-in queue can be very long, or very short, but is always very unfair. It's tanty material.

At least the Evil Milkmaid is not the only person in Vietnam to treat me like livestock.

Fortune smiled on me today because the desk I was sent to was empty, even while others were 5 or 8 deep. Then I was sent along aa perplexing to-ing and fro-ing as one desk checked in my luggage while the other one produced my boarding pass. If they had been wearing leotards I would have sworn I had stumbled across an aerobics class.

I eventually stood in the middle of the two instructors and asked why 2 desks were being used for my check-in when it was so busy. And which one of them had my passport. They just smiled and ignored me. At least I knew one thing: my luggage would not be turning up.

Next step - Immigration. I completed in the Customs Declaration form, listing my occupation as "fancypants" and queued up for Immigration. After lots of page flicking and staring and stamping I was released.

I then joined another queue for the Customs checkpoint. This is a new queue. I hadn’t seen it before. There is always someone at the desk but they usually ignore you as you pass by waving your form.

For some reason, today she was doing her job. “Someone must be on Performance Management”, I thought to myself,before quickly reminding myself which country I was in.

In all my arrivals to and departures from I have never had this form collected or even reviewed. I have never met anyone who has. God knows I've asked. It's quite an ice-breaker actually ("Hey, I was just wondering ...").

I have tried to have my form processed. One time I even approached the desk with a "here you go", just to see what would happen. She just looked up, glanced at me, looked back down and returned to her game of Sudoku while casually saying "OK. I've seen enough". I laughed loudly and so did she.

I have named the desk Checkpoint Gladys and always say "Thanks Gladys" to the Sudoku player (male or female) as they ignore me walking past.

This time was different. I saw that she was checking boarding passes and passports. No one was handing over a Customs Declaration form. No one in the queue even had one ready.

When I got to the front I asked her whether I needed this form.

"No need" she told me. I asked why and she just repeated "No need".

A helpful man waiting behind me kindly explained that I didn’t need the form; that there was no need. I outwardly thanked him while inwardly wondering whether he really thought he was helping, or just wanted to practice his her his English.

I asked her why they still provided these detailed forms. Why had the Immigration official stamped mine? Gladys looked up, shrugged and said "No form now. Next time maybe new form." before waving me through. I walked through, a seasoned traveller, now more confused than a beginner.

Onto the bag X-ray. I emptied my pockets into the tray and walked through the door frame. It went off. I automatically turned around, walked out, then went back through while doing a self pat-down.

It went off again so I headed over to the guy behind the wooden podium with my arms automatically raising, ready for my crucifixion. He just shook his head and waved me away to get my bags. I guess he couldn't be bothered thwarting terrorists today. Maybe he had a date tonight.

I eventually got through the gates and headed to the Sky Cafe to do some work. I asked for a seat next to a power outlet. They were all taken. I asked if the wifi was working because last time it was flake.
We do not have wireless here, she told me. I have used it many times before, I said.

She responded with a blank look before repeating "No wireless".

"But ... you had wireless before, right?" I asked her ... then ... "When I was here before in May and June and July and August you had wireless?".

She smiled again and said "No wireless".

I headed out to waste some time, elsewhere, anywhere, knowing full well that shopping is limited in this terminal. There are many stores here but little variety. 3 souvenir stores sell exactly the same set of products and 50%-70% of your purchases will be confiscated at Singapore Airport on arrival. There are 4 cosmetic stores which sell exactly the same limited set of products.

It feels like that Simpsons episode where Bart goes to Springfield Mall to get his ear pierced and every store is a Starbucks except for the ear piercing place, which warns him he'd better be quick because they were about to reopen as a Starbucks. He struts out with a pierced ear, sipping a coffee.

There are 4 abandoned outlets which look like they used to sell either souvenirs or cosmetics.

No. This one has not been abandoned.

There are 2 fashion outlets which sell odd things, like $4000 handbags and $600 Bally shoes. I have never, ever seen a customer in any of the fashion stores.

So I walk upstairs to a second restaurant. This one seems to be abandoned, save for 2 potatoes and a Vietnamese family. That makes 6 waiters and 6 customers, counting me.

The only products I see on display here are an upright freezer full of New Zealand Ice Cream tubs and a row of giant Chinese rice wine bottles.

I sit at a table next to a power point and order a soda water off the menu.

There is no soda water. No, I would not like a tonic instead. I try to trick her by ordering something with soda water in it, but she's onto me.

As I wait for my lemon juice to arrive I look around again, bored and ajar. The word "bleak" comes to mind and I start writing this entry.

I finish my drink and head downstairs to the gate. The escalator is broken and I descend gingerly, expecting it to jolt into action at any time.

Me. Waiting at the gate. Yes it's really me. Hi.

Tick Tock

This doesn't sound good.

Lucky for me, this blog has never had a bad word to say about anyone.

I think I'm safe.

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!!!!!!