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.