Socially speaking, R is a very open person. He will unblinkingly recount stories or situations that would put most of us to shame. He doesn't mind people knowing anything, really. It extends well beyond A-said-B-to-E and into vignettes of personal grooming, sexual pecadillos or belittling awkwardness.
I don't even like people knowing that I went to the shop ... "I saw you up the road yesterday getting some milk, I think it was milk." will fill me with dread.
Not R, though. He can be told: "I saw this girl keep rejecting you last night when you were really drunk and tried to talk to her like 4 or 5 times until she hit you across the face." ... and he will be all like: "Oh yeah - that was really embarrassing, wasn't it? Great night though."
On the flip side, this trait is not so good for him in a corporate world where loose lips sink ships.
That’s why I couldn’t tell R about this blog. I was busting to share it with him because he’s been living here and knows the people and the culture. Unfortunately, I couldn’t take any risks.
There is a risk that he would accidentally mention the blog when he was pissed. Something simple like "Oh yeah- that was on your blog" ... or leave the page open on his desk in the office. Granted, these are very small risks for me, but they are not ones I can take in this culture. Some of my opinions could have me fired or deported. At best, I would be marginalized. Although I think I'm already living the best.
So rather than take tiny risks with big consequences, I couldn't tell him.
This also means that all my visitors to Hanoi get a briefing: don't mention the blog. I may as well be living in Brazil with a German surname.
In the interest of full transparency – or at least translucency – I told R that until he had “tackled” the issue of his open mouth (no, Ben, not in that way), there were a few things I was unable to tell him about myself. I'm sure he was expecting something salacious, much like the things he left me to discover when I cleaned out his apartment, so this will probably come as a disappointment.
But yesterday R finished his contract and left Vietnam: probably for good. We had a final meeting to reflect on his performance and experience over the past 8 months. It was also an excuse for me to get some one-on-one time and give him a few gifts during the final frenzied departure actions.
The first present I gave R was a wincing ceramic doll on all fours. It's an inside joke. A kind of inside joke befitting of toddlers. Toddlers with bad parents. The second was a few books which have either changed my life, or my mood, or both. The third was the address of this blog.
This last presentation went something like this:
Me: "So what are you going to do in the next few months?"
R: "A few things. I’d really like to take some time out to maybe write down some memories of this trip. It’s been hard work but really memorable and there are many things I don’t want to forget about Vietnam."
Me: "Well on that subject, I’ve actually got one more gift for you."
R: "I think you’ve given me enough, Anthony. I'm not going to help you with your shirt."
Me: "No. Remember when I told you there was something I couldn’t trust you with because you were a bit of a loose cannon?"
R: "Yeah. Of course I do."
Me: "Well I’ve been keeping a blog. Just writing about the occasional thing that happens here. You have the occasional mention in it as well. I didn't want you to know because I've written things about work that could get me in trouble."
R: "Are you kidding? Really?"
Me: "Yes. I couldn’t tell you because I couldn’t risk some of the things come out that I say about work people. But you are mentioned only as 'R'. So my final gift to you is to tell you what the web address is, and to hope that you read and enjoy it."
R: "Wow. Thanks. Does that mean you trust me now?"
Me: "No. I just means that you’re leaving Hanoi and no longer pose a risk. You’re still untrustworthy."
R: [laughs] "Oh. OK. Thanks."
Me: "I mean it though."
R: "Yes. Yes I know."
He was pretty touched. So I asked where my gifts were. I had already scanned the room, discretely searching for swatches of wrapping paper hidden behind columns or under tables.
"So where's my present then?" I finally asked him. R stopped feeling touched and started being awkward, which as good as a gift to me.
The second gift I procured from him was permission to write about a couple of things he’s been up to whilst in Vietnam. He complied readily, not out of willingness but out of empty handed guilt.
So now R has gone. I’m glad I kept this secret, though. But he has been a significant part of my Hanoi trip to date and can hopefully relate to the stories on his own level. It would be fun to read them in restrospect. I’m also a bit sad though; but that will pass. Like an ill wind. Bad R. Bad everyone.
