There Are No Secrets In Vietnam Part 127

Yesterday I received the following email from my landlord in Hanoi:

Dear Anthony,

I hear that you are going to work in Indonesia, so i wonder if you leave sooner that the schedule? Sorry for this question if it brothers you!

Best regards,

The Anh

Does this brother me? Of course it does.

Most leases in Vietnam are a minimum 12-month obligation. If it finally happens that I move to Indonesia, I will need to break this 12 month “schedule”.

This is why R's landlady thought she could keep his bond (and his sex toys) when he left.

However, before signing my lease I asked for a clause to be included – that I could only break it if I was transferred to another city. I planned my potential escape early. 'This would not be in my control', I pleaded calmly while adopting a pathetic and thin look on my face. '... but don't worry because it is very unlikely', I said truthfully.

It is painful enough for me to sit in limbo about this, much less drag others through each laborious step.

If it does happen, I will upset some people (especially my landlord).

If it doesn't happen, I don't have to upset anyone.

For this reason, I didn't want to tell the landlord anything until it was 100% confirmed. I didn’t want to worry him until I was sure and could clearly communicate an end date, my plans etc.

I couldn't work out how he could have known.

Then I remembered.

I told one person about this.

ONE!

PERSON!

I wanted to give Hao as much notice as possible to find another job.

Perhaps she spilled the beans when I informed her that she wasn't coming with?

Hao has obviously been using the garage for more than parking her bike. She must be stopping periodically for a little chat with the security guard. He would invariably chat with someone else, who would eventually tell ... my landlord.

As it turns out, the little birdy just sang-sand-sang her heart out.

Every time I leave the apartment I have to tell my security guard where I am going. I'm off to eat, to play, to shopping, to work ... doesn't matter; he gets an explanation each time. This is not for my personal safeguarding, this is just pure and simple Vietnamese nose.

I don't leave them with much to dob about me, except for the occasional late drunken return. Hao, on the other hand, has plenty of dirt to share with the team.

I imagine them laughing about crumbs found around the couch on a Monday morning, or booze bottles found in the bathroom. I see her reenacting my life for the security guard and his extended family ... exaggerated chewing and drinking gestures, followed by a demonstration of her belly and face getting fatter an fatter.

They are sitting there in stitches.

I see her rolling her eyes on leaving, regaling them on exit with a quick tale about shower fungus or toothpaste lids being left off or some other inflated crime. As she roars off on her bike, she leaves behind a trail of shocked faces; mouths agape and frying pan eyes.

That Moment (Шинель)

Arrived at Jakarta airport this evening.

I was 4 hours late due to a flight delay from Hanoi ... which then made me miss my connection in Singapore ... which then meant that I ... I ... you get the idea.

By the time I got to the front of the Customs queue I was quite tired; feeling a little Kafkaesque, even. I was also a distracted by am impossibly yellow shirt beside me and as I was recoiling from its glow I missed my cue to step forward.

The person ahead of me had already finished. When I turned around to the front, away from the yellow glare, I enacted that little startle that customers do when they suddenly remember where they are. I think it’s called “and then he came to”.

As I scuttled towards his desk the Customs Officer stared at me, gently unimpressed. He was about 25 years old and looked quite normal. He is midway through growing his beard, which in Indonesia can take anywhere from 6 months to 3 years.

As I handed over my passport and Arrival card he was looking around distractedly, like he was at a cocktail party looking for better people.

Or perhaps he, too, was avoiding the glare of the yellow shirt? Perhaps it was a random hunt for chicks? Either way for a few, long seconds he seemed unaware I was there.

Eventually he looked down at my passport and started flicking through the pages.

He located my entry visa and then came the photo-face-id check.

He looked up at my face, solemnly. I stared back, also solemnly but trying to appear kind. I always go for 'kind' in Customs.

He looked down at my passport again and then back up at me. This time he took a more detailed scan. As his eyes darted across my face I tried to hold my head still; to make it easier for him. I always go for 'easy' in Customs.

This identification process was taking much longer than usual and I was getting confused as to why. He looked down at my passport again -- this time for just a couple of seconds -- then quickly back up, like he was trying to catch me doing something wrong. I stayed still, staring directly at him with glum kindness. He stared back at me for a while. I stared. He stared.

Then it happened.

We both burst out laughing.

It was as if - in that moment - we had suddenly realised how ridiculous both our lives were. Or at the very least, how ridiculous this moment was.

We continued giggling, mildly to ourselves, until three stamps from him gave me my cue to leave.

Get That India Australia

As you'd expect, the recent attacks on Indian students in Australia have received a lot of attention here.

Tertiary education is a huge export market for Australia and if last night's conversation is any indication, it must be hurting.

Raj: "Hey so tell me Anthony ..."

-- "Yes Raj?"

Raj: "Tell me ... you know ... this stuff about Indian students in Australia ..."

-- "What do you mean, Raj?" [I do like using the name 'Raj'.]

Raj: "Just all these things we are hearing about the attacks on Indians ... I'm thinking of sending my daughter to Sydney to study ... is it safe for her to go to university there?"

-- "Probably not, Raj. Australians can be very racist ... Raj it's probably best that you don't take the chance. Spend your money somewhere friendlier, Raj."

Raj: "Really?"

-- "Really, Raj. Really."

Naughty, naughty me for breaking the rules. Firstly, I exceeded the Raj word count limit. Secondly, I didn't promote and defend Australia. You must never admit that anything is wrong in Australia. Even the indefensible must be denied.

Take the referendum for instance ... the Australian public voted to keep the Monarchy ... oh yes ... that old thing? ... oh no one voted for her ... umm yes it still passed ... yes we are democracy but ... never mind you wouldn't understand ... it's very complicated ... but no one in Australia agrees with it ... OK?

Raj's question forced me to dig deep to find my answer. I had to get past that patriotic bully who thrusts other, easier answers into my mouth while shoving my own opinions away from my tongue.

The land of milk and honey does not tolerate criticism and most of us give in to this bully. In these moments I pray to Germaine Greer. I ask her to save me from becoming Steve Irwin. To give me strength to fight Bully Cat. Even still, I answered Raj last night my cowardly eyes were darting around the room ensuring there were no Australians within earshot.

I do believe the things I said to Raj. At least I think I do.

I don't think Indians are in physical danger in Australia; at least no more than anyone else. And no more than I me, here, in India.

What I really meant is that they're not welcome ... that if I was Raj and had a 15 year old daughter ... knowing what I know about Australia ... I wouldn't want her to study there.

I wouldn't like to be a foreign student in Sydney. We treat them like second class citizens, all the while convincing ourselves that they brought it all on themselves. That it's all their fault.

But it's got nothing to do with fault.

Working with foreign students at uni is hard on us, but I believe it's even harder on them.

Let me use India as an example. People work in a manner that seems (to us) like complete chaos. It can be shocking. Everything is done at the last minute and it seems like a storm of unstructured confusion. Outsiders can take months (or never) to adjust. It all gets done in the end, though. Somehow. Amazingly.

Take an Indian out of that environment and put them into a group assignment at Sydney Uni. They would be bewildered about what was going on, similar to our own reactions on arriving to India. They are amazed at all that cautious, unnecessary planning and structure ... and must wonder why these Australians are so uptight? Why don't they just relax? It will get done. Why all those lists?

I would react like this if I had to work in Germany.

Indians would have no idea how to work like us, so would probably just withdraw. The potato students eagerly interpret this withdrawal as laziness; not confusion. I feel embarrassed at all the concessions my Indian colleagues make for me their country, compared with inflexible we are with them.

There are exceptions of course ... there are those foreign students who assimilate so carefully that they no longer seem foreign. We like those ones. We applaud their efforts as they pull a second ecstasy out of their bra, or talk about their vibrator.

But I'm talking about the other ones. The majority. The ones who remain different to us. The ones we don't like.

They are the ones we make generalisations about. We actively search for examples of their foibles and indiscretions. We tell everyone about how "impossible" they are -- and we're usually right at that particular moment. But we're still wrong. Because when push comes to shove, we're just allowing our inner kindergarten to rule us.

Living in Vietnam and working in this region, I am seen as a foreigner, or as different, or as a walking ATM. I live as a second class citizen and I don't like it. It is commonly assumed that my differences are wrong, and that therefore I am inferior or incompatible. Even my English teacher, a seasoned potato hangerouterer, will laugh or gasp at the most ordinary of comments. People rarely say or do anything obviously hostile, but you can always feel your status.

The shoe does not feel so good on the other foot.

Foreign students in Australia must also be able to sense this after a few months living there.

Once they return back home, it's a different story. When I hear that someone was educated in Australia I view them more favourably in a job interview. It is more likely that it will be easier to work with them. They are usually more focused and hard working, at least in the ways that I define. They are likely to take risks, more likely to plan better. I wonder why the behaviours that I now see, were not apparent with these same foreign students at uni ... and whether I played a role in that?

I imagine Raj's daughter walking home from UTS ... to her student apartment on Elizabeth St ... at night time in winter ... possibly wearing a sari ... getting jeered at by some homeless people or drunk teenagers on Eddy St ... and I think to myself "Fuck it - that's not my definition of milk and honey".

I believe that an Indian girl would be treated better in San Diego or Boston than in Sydney. Sure, I'd pick Sydney over Kansas. But then Kansas still has the liberal use of 'nigger' or 'curry muncher' working against it. I make a mental note to remember to steer Raj away from Kansas when I see him tomorrow ... to explain that when I was talking about the USA I did not mean Kansas.

I was ashamed to admit all this to Raj, but would have felt worse about lying. He was asking about his daughter. This is not small talk to him. These are serious issues and decisions, and I had the responsibility to tell him the truth ... or at the very least, my honest opinion.

It's all so fucking complicated and silly.

The Wee Barons

I just checked my Qantas Frequent Flyer status and it has been renewed on Platinum for another year. I'm good until 28/02/2011.

Given that I did not spend one dollar on Qantas last year, the only explanation is the fact that I chose Baron as my title.

I know that Platinum status changes are reviewed manually each year. I've had the phone call saying I didn't quite requalify but asking about my future travel plans for the next year. I always tell them I just got a new job and will be travelling business class to London monthly.

I guess they would also be on the look-out for celebrities or relatives of Rupert Murdoch.

Or, as it turns out, Barons.

HHNY

Today is Bikram Samwat, which is Hindu New Year.

This means that by tomorrow I will have celebrated 4 New Years this year:

- Potato New Year ("ralph ralph fondle ralph")

- Chinese New Year ("Kung Hei Fat Choi")

- Vietnamese New Year ("Chuc Mung Nam Moi")

- Indian New Year ("Excuse me do you know where the training room is?")

It is obviously a holiday here because the traffic has eased. However, we are all still cramped into a little training room in the corner of the large floor. The only other people I can see on the floor are potatoes - other idiots with poor timing.

Bryan turned up late today - about 6 hours late to be precise. His new driver had taken him to the wrong venue. Poor Bryan.

This Window

This window. From my hotel room.

I suppose you could also say that about the wall.

This window looks out, misleadingly, onto a charming balcony. There are chairs and a small, clean table and a tiny ashtray. The noisy, forbidden fruits of the smoker.

The Shining Leela Palace

Could they have possibly put my room any further from the lift?

And even if they did ... why did they need to shove me there with it?

If you listen carefully, you can hear fatty puffing from the strain.

Me Car Es Su Car

I met Bryan this morning at our briefing session.

He lives in Philadelphia and flew into Bangalore yesterday.

Bryan is your stock standard training consultant. He was attired appropriately in a pale blue checked shirt with buttoned down collar, camel chinos with a brown belt and black shoes.

For the afternoon session we needed to go to our other offices across town, an hour's drive in Bangalore traffic. My presentation was from 2 to 4 so we left at 12.30, just in case.

I got a lift with Bryan. His travel agent was organised and had arranged a car and a driver for him. This is in stark contrast to my travel agent who relies on luck (and me) to get my dates right.

As we were circling the building in 34 degree heat, trying to work out where the pick-up place would be, I asked if he had called his driver in advance:

"No. He said he'd be here at 12.30. This morning I booked him for 8.30 and the hotel guy told me he arrived at 6.30."

-- "I hate that. I always feel so guilty too ... but then I remind myself that they are quite time rich and probably just having a nap."

"Yeah but the drive here was frightening! Talk about waking me up! All the horns and the swerving and stuff everywhere. It was quite a culture shock."

-- "Have you been to India before?"

"Umm. Nope. Never been to Asia. Only really been to London before."

-- "Well the driving can be a bit confronting so it's best not to look."

"Tell me about it. And the cows and everything ..."

I suggested he would get used to it and tried not to sound like the jaded traveller ... avoiding any beens and dones theres and thats.

Our American organization has an automated system which alerts you of potential dangers in certain "risky" destinations, and India is on this list. Bryan told me how after booking this trip, he had started getting automated travel warnings from some database, warning about every problem that was cropping up in India. We both agreed that this was silly; like sending New Yorkers a warning about a new serial killer in LA.

We couldn't find our car. Bryan eventually rang his driver, who said he was 10 minutes away. He arrived 40 minutes later after a few calls (consisting of "5 minutes", then "2 minutes", then "just here now").

We got into the car. About 5 minutes into the trip, as we were inching along in traffic, 2 men approached the car and started yelling at our driver, trying to open his door. Our driver tried to lock his door and wind up his window but it was too late. They were onto him.

A scuffle broke out. There was a lot of yelling and shoving and he was eventually dragged out of the car before losing a tug-of-war for his keys.

Meanwhile, inside the car, I was sitting there a little bemused. "This is interesting Bryan", I said, "Wonder what's going on here." I wasn't trying to stay calm - I was calm. I could have been on a porch in Kansas, on my rocking chair smoking a pipe, as aliens turned up to ask directions.

I continued finishing my presentation, glancing up occasionally to see how the fight had progressed.

Eventually a new man got into the car, still yelling back at our driver, and started it up again.

I leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder as we took off:

"Are you taking us to the training facility now?" I asked. I was no longer at the porch, I was more like a curious infant, lost in the supermarket.

-- "No. No."

"Oh. OK. Do we get out now?"

-- "Yes. Out. Yes." and he pulled over abruptly.

"Bryan I think this is our cue to leave."

So evicted we were. Onto a noisy, busy, dusty road standing next to a few cows.

I called our coordinator to let her know that my session may start a little late ... that we'd been car jacked, and abandoned and were now seeking alternative transport.

She reminded me that they were working to a tight schedule and I apologised, promising to do my best. I imagined her sternly looking at her watch and thought it odd that this was the only time - ever - that I had ever been put under time pressure in India.

By the time I got off the phone our original driver had found us again and offered to help us find another car. "Just 10 minutes," he promised. ("Mate you're not exactly bouncing off a great track record," I thought to myself.)

I looked across to Bryan and suggested to try and hail a cab. He looked distracted, and I figured he must be mentally drafting up a new travel alert.

Our driver started apologetically explaining the scuffle and I felt so sorry for him ... it was something about "the financial".

I figured that we must have been involved in some type of vehicle repossession ... but then again our car jackers didn't look like police ... or bank clerks ... and badges were not flashed ... but then again why weren't the potatoes kidnapped for ransom?

I'm not sure we'll ever really know.

Bryan was looking a bit pale. He said "Umm ... do you think we should just maybe walk back to the office?"

I didn't want that. "No. That will take too long and it's really hot. Let's see what we can do here ... by the way Bryan don't you think it's lucky I got a lift with you? This would have probably freaked you out if you were by yourself!"

-- "I'm ... umm ... still plenty freaked out I think."

After about 5 minutes I managed to wave down a cab and we abandoned our driver and our cows. Our new driver perilously swerved and accelerated and beeped his way to the office, all the while looking disappointed at me when I couldn't answer his questions about cricket.

When we arrived at the office I pulled out my wallet with a "No no. Please. You got the last one Bryan. Let me."

Milestones

Cuntastic is now a follower of this blog.

And I stand behind every claim I've ever made about her.

Still Board

On Thursday afternoon I went for my pre-Chairman rehearsal, at the bank in Hanoi.

This was my feedback from the client, who is the Deputy Director Something Or Other. This means she's pretty high up:

• bring many people with you so that you look impressive. At least 5, to make a good impression of your company.
• make sure the men are wearing a suit jacket
• if you don't arrive - or do a bad job - I will probably lose my job so please do your best.
• don’t you go out drinking tonight, OK?

No comment on the subject of the presentation.

A Double Life And Strange Cases

I finished working late yesterday.

Happy hour goes for 3 hours on Friday. That's quite a bit of happy.

I learned via sms that Cuntastic's plans to avoid Friday Happy Hour and go swimming ("I'm lookin after health and liver now") had been rail-roaded. Rail-roaded by Happy Hour, no less.

I popped in at the end and it seemed like the happy had rubbed off quite well on the group.

Fast forward 2 hours and a few Long Island Iced Teas ... to find C and I on the stairwell at the restaurant, having already waved goodbye to the owner and now stealing bottles of wine from a wayward fridge. She is focused, aggressively passing me a cold bottle and barking instructions about how it should be stored under my left armpit.

We walk down the stairs and I wave a stiff, one-armed goodbye to the staff. I think to myself how much fun it is to run with the wrong crowd.

It's wrong to steal, of course, even from the rich potatoes who own this restaurant. I regret it now of course. But at the time it's fun and alcohol wipes away all manner of ethical considerations.

Fast forward 20 minutes and we're walking into someone else's living room armed with champagne flutes and cheery dispositions. It took a while for us to realise. A worn out our welcome while.

Fast forward - fast forward - fast forward.

I don't remember getting home the front door was locked.

It feels like I'm living a double life and this - the Mr Hyde side - which counters my daily Jekylls.

I wonder what the bank Chairman - who I met with this morning - would think if he saw this hurried, furtive scene on the stairwell? He wouldn't - couldn't - believe it was the same person. Not simply because we all look the same. My colleagues don't behave like this when they go home or go out. Ok maybe "La Reina" but not the real ones. Is that possibly part of the appeal?

Normal people go home. They go out. They visit friends. They smile and laugh and they leave at 11.30. They don't go nuts, stealing stuff and unaffectedly trespassing.

When is Spring Break going to end? ... or at least ... when is this spring in my brain going to run out of ... umm ... spring? If this type of palaver continues while I grow greyer and older, will I be doing it in pyjamas? And will people give me money to leave their lounge room? I hope so.

The Chopping Board

Yesterday I gave a very short presentation to the Board of Directors of a potential client - one of Asia’s largest companies.

It has taken me 2 weeks to prepare for last Tuesday 11:30am: when my efforts were to be poured into 20 minutes of tense hope.

A lot is was is was is on the line … especially for me personally. Our CEO even came with me for the occasion, mostly to show support but also to see how I – waiting for a new contract – would perform. 

The sword was dangling above me. It wasn’t hanging by a horse hair, but I could still see it.

This has been a long journey.

My first trip to Jakarta was on 17 July 2009. Google has kindly memorized it for me on this blog (I type BOMBING JAKARTA into the search box).

In the past 8 months I have made 9 trips to Jakarta to work with this client. The client’s problems were unclear so it took 5 months to work out what we should propose: something to guide them out of the stone age. By the 5 month mark we had defined a good solution and broken it into a small start.

"Don't talk about long term strategy with the client", they said, "because it sounds expensive and scares people". So we focused on fixing the immediate problems.

In Indonesia, if things are left unattended they will grind to a halt. In Jakarta I try to generate as much activity and focus as possible ... twirl the spinning top forcefully, hoping it can keep moving until my next visit.

For the following 3 months we experienced jam karet, or “rubber time”. Time is very flexible here and some delays are just … are.

During this time the Board welcomed appointed Directors who were now scrutinising everything, including our work.

2 weeks ago no one was worried about the delays. I asked in December why sign-off was taking so long and they just assumed it was due to Jesus' birth or death (they were unsure which one was for Xmas). "Or jam karet", they told me with a smile.

Then it all came to a head. The new Director (potato) refused to sign off on our project as his pen  hovered over the purchase orderHe wanted more detail, like how this project fitted into a longer-term strategy.

If we pass, we could get about $15m worth of work. If we fail, nothing. We were granted 20 minutes to persuade him.

There are many problems with this request, but the biggest problem was me. Put simply, I'm not an expert in the areas he wanted to talk about but I was all they could think to offer in the moment.

One the stakes were high, the language used in our office started to change. Pronouns shrank themselves from plural to singular. Articles turned into pronouns. “We” became “you”. “The” became “Anthony’s”.

"Our project" became "your project". 

"The project” was now “Anthony’s project”.

“What should we do?” became “What are you planning to do, Anthony?”.

In short, this white boy was the new black.

I consoled myself that this is one of the reasons I'm employed. I earn more than the locals and must accept that I need to do more, or harder, stuff.

It goes without saying that this presentation has been on my mind.

Two weeks ago the expectation started as a dull ache in my stomach and grew outwards and upwards. After a week it was taking up more space. So many questions and doubts ... How should it be structured? What they might ask? What will they like? What will they hate? What can I find out about their backgrounds? Are there any clues in the Annual Report? How can we be bold and confident, without appearing smug and arrogant (a fine line)? And of course the selfish one – Where is all this going to leave me?

I found the Annual Report and saw photos of the new potatoes. The one with the wavering pen looked deliberately stern, as if he expected me to be looking him up.

I imagined the board members sitting around in a circle, like a counselling session in an asylum. I was sharing my thoughts, turning slowly like on a microwave dish. They were sporting cowboy hats and pistols, taking shots at my feet as I danced my silver tongued little heart out. Mrs Worthington is standing behind them, hissing at me to keep smiling.

I dreamt about the presentation. Last Thursday I was delivering it in my pyjamas … in a jungle clearing in Africa. I was facing the huge boardroom table, in front of a large screen which was hanging from vines. Directors were screaming at me and the angrier ones were transmogrifying into orangutans for a few seconds of loud hissing, before turning back. Mrs Worthington wasn’t there but I spotted Kerry (my 2nd grade teacher) in one of the trees.

This is easily explained. I love my new pyjamas and I am travelling to Africa in September. The word "orangutan" is Indonesian for “jungle man”. Just add a laptop, a projector, a large desk and 15 executives and there you go. 

I kept thinking back to last year, 8 months ago when I was briefed by the team about how the client loved us, only to turn upto a frosty reception.

On that occasion, I found myself standing on a raised platform and performing to a large group of people. They seemed to have no interest in anything I had to say. Their bosses had probably sent them in their lieu. Lips were pursed and arms were crossed. People fiddled with blackberries or whispered to one another. Others just stared me vacantly, planning dinner or reminiscing about porn. This must be what it’s like to deliver the acceptance speech after winning an Oscar for Sound Editing.

Regardless of what my colleagues had told me, Like many clients this one was initially suspicious of us. We are the big, arrogant, expensive multinational potatoes coming to tell them that they’re useless. In these situations aim to achieve 2 things from the earlier meetings: get them to relax their lips and unfold their arms. I also try to get them talking - a hidden agenda is much easier to manage than open criticism.

The different work cultures in this region make the situation more difficult, interesting, confusing or ridiculous.

In Vietnam you begin your relationship by being punished. There is a grimness to the initial meeting. Nothing is said during the presentation and the room pays grim attention. Towards the end, there will be eye-rolling and snapping retorts from the boss. There is testosterone in the air and chest beating  and I feel like I should wearing a rubber jumpsuit with a ball in my mouth, licking someone’s boots. "All this talking makes no sense to us” is not an uncommon opening question. 

I've learned that you just need to worm your way through it, gently. The hostility is not real fades, usually over a lunch-time booze. You will be sitting across from the angry boss and suddenly it's all cheers and beers.

In Thailand it’s hard to work out who the boss is but you need to find out. It can be a woman, too, which is unexpected in these parts. You must frequently glance and nod at everyone, especially in key moments. You will be served tea with a side of smiles but this means nothing. At the end of the presentation, when you ask if there are any questions, expect a long and awkward silence until the boss (and only the boss) says something. Never disagree with whatever is asked. Oh – and never allow the meeting to run past midday. Lunch is taken very seriously.

In Malaysia they will expect you to read their minds. They will test you with trick questions, then openly criticize you when you get it wrong. It’s OK to disagree, but only on those points they want you to.

In Indonesia they expect good ideas and interesting references. They are typically smart and well educated, so keep feeding them and tailoring your experience to their own business. They also expect the occasional self deprecating joke, but not too many. Given that my surname means fuckwit in local slang, that last part is easy. Eventually, they will tell you they need this project completed within 3 months and must get started now on validating requirements. Requirements validation will typically take 18 monts.

But one thing is common to all countries: do the wrong thing or upset the wrong person and you will be shut out for years.

Vietnam is a little unique, though. My colleagues do not warn me in advance about protocol … or even tell me afterwards what went wrong. Attempts at preparation are answered with “Don't worry - it's all fine”, accompanied by a wave of the hand and no eye contact. Vietnam is going to take a long time to tackle their xenophobia, which is an understandable byproduct of war that now holds back their progress. Unfortunately, the people I work will not be the ones to solve it.

In short, in Asia you build a business relationship very slowly. Expertise is not as important as patience and manners. Like any long courtship, you never know how it will end up: sometimes you get dumped, sometimes you form a lasting relationship and sometimes you just end up fucking each other.

Personally speaking, the pressure and uncertainty of the presentation had been mounting. It’s hard to work on something for many months, with sacrificed weekends and late nights, only to be asked to explain it why you're doing it. Moreover, the request to explain our long-term strategy was troublesome because we didn’t have one.

“You can come up with something can’t you Anthony?”I was the solution offered by my colleagues.

Last Sunday I flew to Jakarta. This allowed time to finalise our presentation and rehearse on Monday.

On Monday morning we were informed that the presentation date would be pushed back another week and that we will have 20 minutes this time may be extended and if so, it means things are either going very badly or very well.

We were also told that the other person I had lined up speak (our only true expert in this area) did not fit the profile.

“You can do all the presenting can’t you Anthony?” was the solution offered by my colleagues and this did not feel like flattery – more like burnt hands from a hot potato.

So on Monday night I popped over to Bangkok to deliver some bad news to a client because our Thai project team is too scared to tell them. Cunt for hire.

So yesterday morning we arrived early – me and my CEO – and were kept waiting for an hour outside the boardroom. He spent this time telling me how important this client is to our future business in Indonesia, and how disappointing it is to be in this position. I nodded glumly, like a schoolboy trying to hide chewing gum in his left cheek.

He recounted a story about his longest ever boardroom wait – from 11am to 5:30pm – for a steel company who had called him back urgently to explain some problems. I hoped our antechamber would be little more efficient. The atmosphere was becoming funereal and I thought about that bit in Portrait of a Lady, by TS Eliot, where the young man stands waiting to face the inevitable:

Inside my brain a dull tom-tom beginsAbsurdly hammering a prelude of its own,

I had some butterflies in my stomach but was mostly calm. Probably due to a lack of sleep. We were eventually called into the room with a brusque “Hi. Quick! OK. You only have 15 minutes now!” by a woman in a paisley hijab.

We were shooed to the front of a large room, where many grim faces were sitting around in a U-shaped. It looked just like the jungle from my dreams and I looked down quickly to check for pyjamas.

I cranked up my computer and started the little show. Everyone was staring but no one was smiling. I knew the ones to look out for. “Relax your lips,” I implored them, “please just relax your lips” as I concentrated on relaxing mine. I thought again about that poem:

And I must borrow every changing shape
To find expression ... dance, dance
Like a dancing bear,
Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape.

At the end of my 15 minutes – which I stretched to 18 (fuck ‘em), I asked for questions and in they flooded. Some were hostile, as expected. Some were a little mocking. Some were sticky. But there were no surprises and when I heard English accents coming out of the taut lips of the potatoes I felt a little relieved. I felt like I was more on my own turf; that finally I had more chance than my colleagues of understanding what was going on.

Question Time lasted for 30 minutes and we left the room, unsure about whether it had gone well or badly.

Now it’s a waiting game and we still don’t know the outcome.

On Tuesday afternoon I returned to the office and starting spinning the top again; tried to create actions and plans for my colleagues. It was a frenzy of cat herding to merely get people in the same room at the same time.

It is Wednesday and I am hurrying back to Hanoi for boardroom presentation at one of Vietnam’s largest banks. I have been allocated 30 minutes with the Chairman and CEO, although this time I know a little bit more about the topic so just need to brush up on banks.

Today as I departed Jakarta it felt like I had left my baby on the stairs of the church. Swaddled and basketed and hoping the nuns find him before the cats do; hoping the local team will take care of him but secretly knowing I will come back to a starving foetus and start it all again.

Diet Epiphany

I've just decided to commit to a new diet. A diet of my own making.

I'm going to eat less. And exercise more. And reduce alcohol intake.

And I'm not allowed to eat any white food.

Cabbage soup can go and get fucked.

Like all diets, it starts tomorrow.

Wax On, Wax Off

I walked past a local beauty salon in Jakarta and stopped to read the sign.

I'm not sure who did the translation, but I suspect she had blonde hair with black roots. Here are some of her other highlights (boom-tish).

Fanny? Fur muffs? It's quite a charming opening sentence isn't it?

Next up, a little about the process:

Acrobatics??? Luckily a simple explanation is at hand:

Then a little something about the training:

I'm not sure of the difference between a Stripette and a Striperella, but it seems quite complicated to become one. I would not be surprised if they get about on rollerskates, with those ruffled miniskirts that ice dancers use.

Sophie's [Packin'] Choice [Drugs]

This sign is an accomplishment. It conveys the welcoming exuberance of a Host! ... while also highlighting an important local law ... while also outlining the penalty imposed if you break said law ... while also demonstrating how the penalty will be executed, so to speak.

I walked past this sign today and recalled that I was packing 2 trays of illegal valium and 7 Xanax tablets in my bag. I hesitated for a second, before being engulfed by a wave of determination and courage. And insomnia.

Suddenly I understood how Sophie must have felt. I was not going to let anyone take my babies away from me without a fight! I am their mother goddammit!

So I put my life on the line and smuggled my children across the border and through to a better life. Without so much as a nun or a guitar.

Unfortunately some of the kids have since perished ... but theirs was a tranquil passing.

Claude Rains Day

I’ve been away for 8 days ... 4 to go before I head home.

It's strange to call Hanoi ‘home’. It is familiar, but not familial. I don’t know where my 'home' is any more—which sounds worse than it feels—so I use Hanoi as a geographical marker.

Today was dominated by getting from A to B (actually B to J). Although my flight was only 3 hours I started packing at 10:30 and finished unpacking at 19:15. International flights require early arrivals and long taxi trips so even a short hop takes a big chunk of time.

This day has been filled with things: little things that take longer than they should. I am travelling alone and so accustomed to the drill that I operate in a disconnected, mechanistic way:

Wake up, check email, down to breakfast, avoid pastries, PowerPoint, pack bags, check out, cab to the airport, queue, check in, queue, customs, queue, departure x-ray, visit duty free, wander down the wrong escalator, browse through duty free, complain about the Diesel cologne tester being faulty, get wifi access, fail at getting wifi to work, complain about wifi, queue, board, read the newspaper, eat half the meal, turbulence, fill in Arrivals card, lend my pen to neighbour, sneak look at his date of birth, bumpy landing, queue, disembark, queue, customs, wait at luggage carousel, bags arrive, queue, arrivals x-ray, queue, taxi, hotel x-ray, check in, unpack, eat complimentary granny smith apple, go to fancy steak restaurant.

Today I was invisible.

No one will remember me and I will remember no one. Even the duty free salesperson who was wearing a Lancôme shirt (and insistently pointed to the logo above her left breast as I complained about the empty Diesel bottle) will soon forget me.

I experienced no connections with people. No moments of truth. I saw no friends or colleagues. I shared nothing and nothing was shared with me.

This wasn't sad or lonely. It didn't feel bad. In fact I didn't even notice it until I sat down just now to reflect. I actually felt nothing at all as I shuffled through my tasks until they were completed. My methodicals.

Today I was that tree which, as it fell over in the forest, was seen or heard by no one. Even I wouldn't remember the sound I made.

Invisible is such an accurate word. I am Griffin.

Maybe life needed a day off and chose this one? If every day was like this it would be soul destroying . It's OK every once in a while though.

I did listen to a lot of podcasts. I guess some of the things they taught me will remain in my head: the Danish egg caravan, brain plasticity, the social importance of swearing, Philip Johnson's glass house, the philosophy of "Good Intentions" and this Chinese guy who learnt English by wandering around campus shouting it at himself. In turn, I may recall the occasional fact and suddenly recall which queue I was in when I first learnt it. Stephen Pinker and Thailand Customs, forever linked.

My day is ending now with me sitting at this beautiful hotel bar. I order a Vodka Martini with a twist. This drink, like me, is invisible so it makes sense.

I sip my drink and feel like J Alfred Prufrock:

"For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;"

I wasn't using coffee spoons today. In fact it was steak. Half an hour ago I sent back a steak which was ordered medium and arrived rare.

My life is marked out by a string of customer service grumbles, in the same way as Prufrock marks his with coffee. "I have measured out my life with steak complaints" doesn't quite have the same ring to it so I'll stick with the spoons.

For I am sitting at the window seat at a swanky drinking hole and the view is fantastic.

There is a fountain in the middle of a large pond, which in turn is encapsulated by a busy roundabout. I squint at the roundabout and it looks like giant kitchen sink being drained, with the cars sucked into the middle like floaties from dinner.

There are lots of tall buildings surrounding the roundabout. A statue is being harrassed by candle-wielding protestors. There are lots of people, cars, movement and neon. However, I can’t concentrate on this because he is too busy eavesdropping on the conversation behind him.

The women in this particular bar are not talking of Michelangelo. They look like hookers. One of them has just walked up and introduced herself to the lonely American businessman sitting behind me. She has sat down across from him and is now warming him up with chit chat.

As I listen to her enthusiastic small talk, I imagine that I can see her words. They are weaving out through her smiling mouth in a string which transforms itself into a long worm. Another sentence turns itself into a hook. The worm wraps itself around a hook and starts wriggling seductively.

The American has just landed. He has been here in Jakarta for 2 hours ("OMFG really? just 2 hours? Wow!"). It's his first visit and yes it's for business. I hear him start talking about tyre manufacturing and imagine her makeup cracking as she widens her eyes further to feign interest.

He doesn’t seem interested in her at all, but I imagine that he’ll still wind up buying her drinks and fucking her.

Or does she fuck him? Fuck is a verb whose subject and object seem to be determined by whoever wields the sword. In this case I can't be sure, but I am certain they will both be fucked in the end.

"And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,"

And time to think how much I love TS Eliot. I stop listening to the small talk and look up The Love Song Of J Alfred Prufrock on the internet. I read it carefully and promise myself that I will spend more time studying his poems. I know I won’t keep this promise but it feels good to make one.

I start reading another poem, Portait of a Lady, which begins with a quote from Marlowe:

"Thou hast committed—
Fornication: but that was in another country,"

It reminds me of my neighbours and I tune back in. The hooker has just asked Tyreman if he is on Facebook. He answered her with:

“Well … y’know … my son. He said to me to get on that Facebook. He said ‘Dad then you can keep in touch with people and let them know what you’re doin’ … but I said to him ‘That’s the point Don – I don’t want nobody to know I’m doin’ …”

If tonight is any indication of what he gets up to, I tend to agree.

She responds with a hysterial fake laugh and listen out for the faint cracking sound of foundation.

I try to imagine what his Facebook status would look like tomorrow:

“Harry is ... hungover and I can’t find my goddamn wallet.”

I order another martini and think about my own potential goddamn hangover. Martinis are spontaneous. You can feel perfectly fine in the chair, but be clueless about what will happen when you finally stand up. It usually involves falling on a table or tipping over a glass. I think I'd rather stay invisible for now.