Trouble in Hell's Paradise

Hell's Potatoes is now an established VBG*. Unfortunately, its founding members are off to a rocky start.

R joined Hell's Potatoes with about 23 minutes more motorbike experience than me. But oh what an eventful 23 minutes it must have been, because R has all manner of experience and advice to share with me on any given motorbike topic at any given motorbike time. Don't lock the spokes, mind the muffler, don't worry about wearing thongs, leave the helmet here like this, no-no-no-no-no that's not the way to do it, lean here, careful with shorts, it's free to park here, your blinker your blinker, park like this not that, what the fuck just happened at those lights.

These condescending tips are not just annoying. They are also threatening gang harmony. R seems a little unclear as to who is the Alpha potato in this crop and is skating on very thin ice. Unless his behaviour improves dramatically he will find his membership card revoked quicker than Meryl Streep can throw a child at an SS guard.

This is places me in peril. Here is a recent example.

Last Sunday R warned me that the muffler on my bike can "get very hot" and to "be really careful". 

Derr ... I told him. I'm not an idiot ... I told him. It's not like I've never been on a bike before ... I told him.

What he didn't tell me, is to be very careful of this muffler when I park my bike outside a restaurant, especially when I don't do it properly due to my throttle hand getting twitchy and lurching the bike violently between R's bike and another. Nor did he tell me that his bike muffler also gets hot. Nor did he mention that if I tried to wriggle my body (and dignity) quickly out of this highly visible spot while wearing shorts and thongs, I may bump my left leg against my muffler and it would hurt. Or that as a reaction to this initial pain I might tip back over my seat and fall against R's muffler with my right calf. Or that now, with pain on both legs, I would stumble backwards through our two bikes and land on my arse in the dirt in front of the al fresco diners at - where else - Al Fresco's.

I went to the chemist to get something for my burn. I showed her the leg and reenacted the injury using a nearby bike. She shoved a tube of something in front of me (which I bought) and apologised for having no bandaids, bandages, gauze or related material. That is, if a non-chalant shoulder shrug with a blank face counts as an apology.

Moving on though ... Hell's Potatoes is starting to build it's own language. We are starting to speak in our own code, much like rappers and management consultants. I expect this means we'll be selling drugs soon. 

Here are some common terms.

Potato Salad

Any large gathering of potatoes, particularly when semi clad and in situations requiring immobility and lounging . For example, all around the swimming pool (and adjacent bar area) at the Sofitel Metropole last Sunday they were serving up a LOT of potato salad.

Mashed potato

A motorbike accident involving at least one potato. Often includes a muffler burn.

Baked potato

After a long day on the road, ie last Sunday, you lift up your t-shirt sleeve to find a sharp red line of sunburn.

Potato wedge

A manouever commonly seen when taking off from the traffic lights. It requires at least 2 stupid, fat potatoes  sitting beside each other on separate bikes at the front of the traffic lights. Both potatoes accelerate too quickly on green and get a bit confused about where each other is going. This results in both potatoes weaving back and forth in front of the traffic in a confused manner. In all the confusion the other traffic grinds to a halt, expecting at any time for a crash to open up the road. As a result, by the time the potatoes clumsily recover their trajectory, they have ruined the entire traffic flow of the street.

Potato famine

A potato orders a meal at a local restaurant. On arrival he realises it is completely inedible.

___________________________

* Vietnamese Bikie Gang

Never ask a local

266 Doi Can, Hanoi

Across the street from work there is a really popular street cafe. The floor is dirty and the washing up facilities seem dodgy but it is always packed and super fresh and fast and tasty and $1. The customer service ethos here is consistently cold-friendly ... typical Hanoi.

The waiters love taking the piss out of my attempts to read the menu board (I hear 2 or 3 laughing echos at every attempt). The last occasion when I ate in an off-peak time, the cook came out to squeeze my bicep, call me handsome then present me to the head waitress and ask me if she was pretty. She's about 25 so I figure they're worried about her dying an old maid. For some strange reason (not botox) I felt like her child bride. All I needed was a pretty pink parasol.

Yesterday a few of us went to eat with one of our local colleagues (Analyst B). I hate eating with locals - they're so fucking up themselves. You never see the chef come out to grab one of their biceps, much less call them pretty. As I attempted to frogmarch our group into my local, B decided there was a much better place to eat just around the corner. He took us somewhere off the beaten track and I pretended to be impressed and delighted even though I've been there before ... it's shithouse. This eatery's signature dish is a metal pot filled with oil, with 2 fried eggs, 3 chips, 2 beans, 4 pieces of steak and a round blob of something meaty swimming in them. You need to leave the lid on for the first 5 minutes or it spits oil out at you.

Given that today is the first day of the diet, I told him I was on a diet so would just get some pho'. I'm pretty good at saying "pho bo" or "pho ga" but B insisted on taking over by using words I didn't recognise. Show off.

This is what turned up.

When I pointed at the flotsam in my bowl and asked what it was, all I got was "that is a cube of congealed pig's blood" [top left] or "I think that's from the foot" [bottom middle] and "I don't know - probably something near the stomach" [the rest]. I started with sipping the soup, then tried gnawing on an artery to show I could fit in. Then I tried to eat the blood cubes ... I had a nibble then finally lost my nerve after dropping one back into the bowl, splashing soup over my shirt.

50 calories later and an "I'm too full", I started to think how good the local food will be for my diet.

Hell's Potatoes

On Saturday afternoon R and I went off to get motorbikes but instead came across an establishment called the "Potato Café". We responded to the call and went in for a drink. Upstairs there were groups of 4, all playing cards. We asked the waitress if we could have a pack of cards and she smiled as she said no.

As the  only potatoes in the joint, we were treated very well and the staff helped us learn to insult each other in Vietnamese. At one point, as my enthusiasm took over, I asked them if I could have a job on the weekends to learn Vietnamese? They suddenly couldn't speak English.

About half an hour later a couple of other potatoes arrived. They weren't as cool as us (no insults, no banter) but were still treated with kindness.

A few drinks later we decided to find somewhere to rent our motorbikes. As we departed the Potato Café we found that the staff had recovered their English skills. Using a lot of confident pointing, they advised us to go up the road for the best prices. We went up the road and saw nothing. We asked some guy who was leaning against a pole. He confidently pointed back up the road then grabbed my arm and escorted us to his store, a travel agency directly across from the Potato Café.

We sat down and asked for a 3-month rental rate. He offered $5/day, ie $150/month. I lied that our friends who teach English here only pay $40/month and that is our target price. He nodded and said we would need to go somewhere else and led us down another series of alleys, no doubt to find a purveyor of scabby bikes.

Eventually we found ourselves down a very dark and narrow lane. Our tour guide rang a doorbell and eventually a man in a white singlet yelled out at him from a window 2 stories above. This made him ring another doorbell, which did not answer at all. It felt as if we were buying heroin; a lot of heroin. Or a gun.

Then a door opened across from us, a woman appeared and started whispering a fairly lengthy monologue. She was wearing a loose white t-shirt, light blue pyjama bottoms rolled up to look like riding breeches and gold high heels. It was the type of outfit you would imagine necessary to ride a large stuffed animal (competitively). She spoke softly and slowly, pointed back up the lane a lot while at the same time kicking off her heels and slowly rolling down her pyjama bottoms such that when her monologue was finished she looked like any other  poorly dressed doorway woman.

Eventually we were taken back up the street to about 6 doors from the travel agency. Our guide dumped us with another woman and wished us well. She was very friendly and while she started at $50 we got her down to the target price.

She gave me a black motorbike to test drive. I told her I really can't ride a bike and asked her where everything was. She laughed at each thing I asked and pointed to the brakes, the indicator, the gears and the throttle. As I set off without a helmet and into the busy stree for my test drive, she  chased me down and flicked up the bike stand which was still down. As I took off again, I heard more yelling and looked behind to see her shaking her head and her hands at me and laughing. But I figured it was too late and just kept going.

When I came back she showed me where the foot brake was located and we signed a contract. This contract had a list of conditions, the first being that you promise to be a very experienced and safe rider. I felt I'd learned a lot in the past 3 minutes and was happy to tick it.

Both of us now had motorbikes and were ready to roll. At the first traffic lights R pulled up beside me and said "What are we going to call our gang?" to which I replied "Hell's Potatoes". We both nodded solemnly and attempted a snarl. Then we gingerly put our bikes into 1st and slowly lurched off down a long road that neither of us recognised.

Cum’s for Thanking

I haven’t heard back from Trang for the past 3 weeks so I don’t think our Vietnamese lessons are going ahead. I think she’s given up on me and I don’t blame her. I was a bad student with a terrible attitude. She was a bad teacher with condescending eyebrows and a sullen mouth. With so much in common it’s a shame it didn’t work out.

Luckily I still have the 12 lessons I downloaded from the Vietnamese Survival Phrases web site.

Each lesson begins with a musical intro: 4 bars of such dischordant Chinese percussion that if music was racist this is how it would sound. Immediately after the music finishes in comes the VSP catchphase “You’ll be surprised at how far a little Vietnamese will go.” It’s my favourite line. I imagine a Vietnamese person running down the street banging on various percussion instruments with a stick, This is not racist because it’s funny.

The lessons themselves are delivered by a perennially cheery Vietnamese American woman who gives you the impression that this is the best job she’s ever had. She seems to be about 23 and I imagine her as a bit plump with decent knockers, greasy hair and lots of friends. As she speaks, she is so excited and positive that I detect occasional squeals trying to escape. I’m not sure if she thinks she’s attending a child’s birthday party or having an orgasm. So I nicknamed her Soon Yi to cover both bases. 

I have come to the realization that Soon Yi has been lying to me since the get go. Each lesson is turning out to a 4-minute glimpse into a seemingly basic (yet ultimately misleading) phrase. It’s hard enough to communicate in Vietnamese without these podcasts getting in the way of progress. I’ll give you an example.

Soon Yi dedicates our first lesson to thank you very much! and allocates the full 4 minutes to it. I am a seasoned language student and know how important it is to say such common phrases correctly. So I listen to this podcast 4 or 5 times to ensure that my accent and tones are outstanding.

Step one. We learn how to say thank you:

“Cảm ơn”

Cảm lies somewhere between “gum” and “cum”. If it was a suburb it would definitely be on the wrong side of the tracks and possibly pregnant or smoking dope. 

The C sound is pronounced like a hard “G” but not aspirated. It’s like saying “gum” when you’ve got a cold. This is the same as Thai so I found it easy. 

The strange question mark above the ả tells you to use a particular tone. I don’t like this tone at all. It is not only nasally, but rises and falls slightly throughout the syllable. It begins like a whining toddler who has lost one of those small plastic toys from the Fruit Loops boxes (“Muuummm”). However, before you know it the tone is ended abruptly finished with a gulp … much like a fish taking in air. So to put them together, imagine the kid starts to whine (“Muuuumm”) before accidentally swallowing the small plastic toy (which was in his mouth the whole time).

Ơn is pronounced like “urn”. Soon Yi tells me that this word has no tone at all, but when I try to say it the same way as she does I find it emasculating. My normal speaking voice was not particularly deep to begin with and this is about 5 semitones higher. It requires a bit of singing.

“Cảm ơn”

“Cảm ơn”

“Cảm ơn”

Got it.

Step two. We learn how to say very much: 

“Rất nhiều”

The pronunciation of this is actually quite straightfoward. And fun. It rhymes with “Fuck You”. So it’s basically “Rut New”, made to rhyme with “fuck you” said in a strong Vietnamese accent. As I practice this I imagine I’m a disgruntled shopkeeper in Cabramatta, mumbling under my breath,

Rất has a rising tone. You say it with an element of surprised enquiry, like the Whaaa in “Whaaat? You can’t be serious?!”

Nhiều has a falling tone. It sounds like how you would say “New” when you are disappointed. As I practice it I imagine I’m a puppy who isn’t allowed to go for a walk. A disappointed talking puppy.

“rất nhiều”

“rất nhiều”

“rất nhiều”

Got it. 

“Cảm ơn rất nhiều”

“Cảm ơn rất nhiều”

“Cảm ơn rất nhiều”

I’m a legend.

That night, armed with my shiny new phrase, I go out to eat. It is a very nice restaurant with great food and mean waitresses. As one of them clears my plate away I decide to soften her up with a bit of humble foreigner. I am a professional humble foreigner.

“Cảm ơn rất nhiều!” I say, beaming politely. She stops clearing, straightens up and stares at me. Her face is so expressionless that she must have been practising this in the mirror since high school. So I say it again and elevate my cheeriness: “Cảm ơn … rất nhiều!!”. She gives me a quick shake of her head as if a fly has landed on her nose. As I start looking for the fly her face reverts back to blank staring. In I go again: “Cảm ơn rất nhiều”. More of the same blank. I am feeling less and less thankful with each attempt. She stands there a bit longer, before quickly shaking off another fly and walking away from the table. 

A few moments later she returns with a menu. She hands me the menu, opened at the Cocktails page and tries to help me find something which might sound like a “Cảm ơn rất nhiều”. This is quite embarrassing but I persevere. “No no no! I am saying Cảm ơn rất nhiều – you know – this is thank you very much in Vietnamese! Cảm ơn rất nhiều? Thank you very much?”. By this time my voice is starting to take on a slightly distressed, pleading tone. Silence. She stares down at me. I stare back up at her. More silence.  I hear a dull thud as my dignity hits the floor. Her index finger takes charge and returns us both into the Cocktail menu. I order a Margherita and thank her in English. As she walks away I mumble “Cảm ơn fuck you” under my breath.

Trang must have seen this coming a mile off. No wonder she dumped me.

Confined Spaces

I am currently staying on the 14th floor of the Shangri La hotel in Kuala Lumpur. This evening I experienced a strange moment in the elevator.

As the doors opened for me on 14 there was one man in the lift. He was leaning against the wall and as I got in he stood up to shift aside and let me in. We settled a comfortable distance from each other: me on the back left, looking ahead at the doors and he at the front right, staring at the buttons.

The lift stopped at 12. Another single man got in. All three of us reshuffled slightly to evenly distribute the space. He too looked ahead; this time into the middle of the doors. No one said a word. No one looked at each other. Everyone stayed staring silently ahead as they moved.

Another man got in at 11. Without saying a word, everyone knew what he had to do. We all shuffled again and rebalanced the space. 11 also settled into position and looked ahead at the doors.

Another man got in at 10. More reshuffling, this time within a much more confined surface area. Our newest entrant looked at no one and settled into the buttons on the left hand side.

The lift stopped again - I kid you not - at 9. Another single man. This time the two men in his immediate path moved aside while the rest of us swayed uneasily from foot to foot in empathy but not quite sure where to go. 

I felt like we should have been wearing light grey suits and bowler hats and holding green apples.

Amici's Non è Mio Amico

By Monday I still hadn’t heard back from the owner of Amici's. He hadn’t called me as promised by Huyen. So at 8pm I implemented Phase 2 of my strategy ... become so annoying that Huyen will do anything to get rid of me, ie dryclean my shirt and tie.

I called Huyen, reintroduced myself and asked why the owner had not called me back yet. 

At first she pretended she didn't know who I was.

“Who? Huh? What?” 

--It’s me! Anthony*! With the shirt and tie! You have my shirt and tie!”

“Who? Who you?”

The little ragamuffin.

-- “Anthony! The coffee! Spilled! Coffee lid! My shirt and tie … at your café! The owner. He does not call me. Why not?”

I start to realize how ridiculous this all sounds. The broken English has really stripped it back to the bone. 

“It is late. I work all day. I don’t need this. Not from you. Call tomorrow.”

-- “You promised me the owner would call me back --”

[I hear a pin drop.]

 “He will call. Tomorrow."

-- “But you said that before. And nothing.”

“He will call. Tomorrow. It is late. Go away please. I am tired.”

-- “What is his name please?”

“I can’t tell you. Please call back tomorrow.”

-- “You told me the manager would call me and now you--”

“I don’t care. I am tired.”

[Click]

That fucking bitch. I called her straight back. No answer. My heart is racing. I am a caged animal. Stir crazy. Ready to strike. Infuriated and angry and justified and mistreated ... my senses are heightened and my tongue is sharpened. My eyes are flickering and my fingers are furious. My thumb comes down hard as I press Send. 

This is Hanoi. This is not Tunbridge Wells. I soon calm down and reread my sms. 

The sms – get this – outlines how I am so outraged at all this that I will be - get this - writing a newspaper article about it. I can't quite believe what I'm seeing.

I imagine Huyen reading my sms and feel humiliated.

My watertight strategy has just sprung a huge leak.

Twittering Classes

I fucking don't get Twitter.

Although it's certainly making Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore look like twits.

Barracking

I fucking love Obama.

Full fucking stop.

Some Sole Winners are More Equal Than Others

The whole company has gone nuts over Dinh's Earth Hour iPod victory.  

Today I counted 17 emails of praise, each conceived by the careless tap of a Reply All finger. 

In most of the emails (few exceptions) Dinh is lauded for being the "Sole Winner". 

Sole winner?

Then it hit me.

It's Socialism. Everyone is equal. It’s like a school fete for retards. You have to make sure every one wins. 

Yet during one hour last week, when (most of) her lights were turned off, Dinh and made a break for another world of praise and iPods. And her peeps are loving her for it.

I want to achieve this level of popularity in Vietnam. And I want it bad. And I want it now. And for a desperate moment I nearly take my Reply All button for a spin. My victory announcement will be about how much I got paid last month for my housing allowance. Surely my colleagues, who don't even get a housing allowance, would laud me as some kind of Sole Winner for getting a sizeable one.

In the middle of all this fervour a different kind of email arrives for me. This one is not filled with joy. This one is filled with a series of stupid questions. So many stupid questions that for a moment I thought I was being telemarketed. 

For example:

"Whereabouts in document XYZ can I find the section which outlines the client's requirements?"

My answer comes in two parts:

a) It's on page 3, after the Table of Contents

b) It's in the same place you left it 2 weeks ago when you wrote the document.

Welcome back, Edwina. I hope you had a pleasant flight.

Neighbours

If you click Next Blog» at the top of this page, you are taken to somewhere quite random.

It's like the faraway tree ... you never know which new land will appear ... but you are very fucking glad you don't have live to there.

Until now. I just jumped on the Next Blog» and was sent back to Vietnam to this place. 

I am proud to live on the same street as this slogan.

I just made the mistake of clicking on it again and found Stacey's profile. In case you didn't realise, she lives in the midwest:

"Claiming my fair share of webspace, my kenzie's doodles site chronicles the journey in life with our daughter. Mama's Doodles is the outlet for my pent up creativity. Together, we enjoy making each day artful. These sites represent our daily doodles..."

I don't know if I want Stacey dead first, or dear kenzie.  My vote is on kenzie. She may be innocent but you need to cut this breeding off at the knees. It's like paying more at Coles for the cockroach baits with contraceptives in them. You're not shutting the door.

Hung Out to Dry

I was late to work on Monday because I was cleaning up for the cleaners. Turns out it was a good move.

Yesterday I got a call from the landlord. 

The cleaners have banded together and made some decisions on my behalf.

I need to follow a better laundry process.

I shouldn't be using the dryer. Yes, shouldn't. 

In future I will be hanging my clothes outside to dry. Will indeed.

So now I am the proud owner of a contraption which has been placed "Downstairs next to the pool - on the right – the dry side".  I remember the pool as being quite wet on all sides but who am I to argue?

The deal is that I wash my clothes and leave them on top of the washing machine. The cleaners will take the clothes, string them up on this dry side, take them in when they are dry, fold them and put them away.

They love me. 

And I love them.

My next goal is to get them to wash the clothes in the first place. Lazy bitches.

Earth Hour

Last week our company held a competition for Earth Hour. I only caught the tail end of it, meaning I didn't even know about it until Dinh was announced as the winner of the iPod. She was not simply announced as the winner, but “the sole winner for the VOTE EARTH contest” who “shared what thoughts were on her minds and why she cared about our planet.”.

During this hour, competitors were asked to reflect on how they spent this particular hour and what it all means to them. They then emailed their thoughts to some four-eyed administration assistant in Ho Chi Minh City who no doubt wasted a week’s pay ranking them.

When her victory was announced, Dinh’s written entry was published alongside this glorious news. 

What a winner she turned out to be. Here are some highlights:

“This is the first time all the electrical equipment in my house are turned off ...”

[Strong out of the blocks, Dinh.]

“During this dark hour, I feel hungry as the stomach asks me for some foods ...”

[Awww … this is just plain cute …]

“Earth Hour is really a Smart Hour when it seems that I have gone through all the comments of Smarter Food ...”

[Getting hungry, lapsing in and out of consciousness. I start to realise that she won because no one knew what she was talking about. ]

“I turn on my laptop and look for smart food ...”

[Huh? WHAT?? DINH!!! This is supposed to be Earth Hour!!! The No Power Hour!!! What are you doing switching on your laptop and hungrily scouring the net?]

“And I took this photo of my time.”

[Good to see that she lit up the planet with her flash during this symbolic hour of darkness.]

"I wish to have another Earth Hour to go with the rest of Smarters :-)"

[Firstly, this doesn’t make sense. Secondly, under Dinh's definition of an Earth Hour she could have another quite easily.]

All this and Dinh now has a shiny new iPod.

I jumped onto the Earth Hour website to find a loophole through which I could appeal. I expected the Comments section to be crammed with earthy people: mainly with hippies and divorced people. Surely their inspiring words would prove a lack of commitment on Dinh’s part.

This from JennyGoGo:

 “I've NEVER voted on Idol...but if Adam makes top two, I'm throwing down to solicit every vote on Earth for that boy!!”

For one, I get the feeling that  JennyGoGo has voted on Idol many, many times. She also makes Dinh look like Al Gore.

Chicken Dance

Tried a new café near work today. As the weather gets hotter, I need a shorter walk and better air conditioning.

Using my best Vietnamese I ordered a large latte with low-fat milk and no sugar. A small cup of bitter, sugary black slurry arrived. 

Guess who walked in from the street and took a turn about the room?

    

In came Albert. None of the staff or customers even seemed to think there was anything odd about this. He was given free reign over the joint.

After a brief dance across a couple of tables, then along the top of the wall, he was gone.

I suspect that the next time I see young Albert, he will be flavouring a hearty bowl of Pho' Ga.

Selective Hearing Part I

For a few weeks I have been trying to recruit local analysts with good project experience and English language skills. We can't afford to keep flying in our project resources from abroad. We are using one of Vietnam's largest companies to help us and they mostly send us recent graduates. The average age in Vietnam is about 26 and this whole industry is new, so the talent pool is quite shallow.

I recently interviewed 2 people. People dress quite poorly for job interviews in Vietnam. Worse than they dress for work. It's odd. And Interviewee A was no exception.

Interviewee A was so wet behind the ears that I spotted something running down his neck. 

As we shook hands I noticed that A's pants had the distinctive sheen of ironed polyester. His short-sleeved shirt had large sweat stains in the armpits. His hair was 1950's (Pee Wee Herman, not Jimmy Dean) and his face was framed by long, wispy sideburns and a beard that had been refusing to grow for several years.  He looked like a 14-year-old who was held back in Year 8 because he'd been bullied. Not someone I need to stand in front of the client. Apart from that, he only understood about 25% of my questions. Apart from a couple of uni assignments he had no other relevant experience and was not strong enough to learn on the job.

Interviewee  B was much older. He looked at least 27 and had excellent English and good experience. What a relief. He had worked quite extensively abroad - Chad, Nigeria, Uzbekistan. My only concern was that he seemed to screw up his face when I asked questions he didn't understand (or see the relevance of). 

At the end of the interview I gave him some feedback: "You are obviously intelligent and experienced and have excellent English. However, sometimes when I have asked you a question you look bored, or look at me like I'm an idiot. If you do this with the client they will think you are arrogant. That is my only concern." He screwed up his face, then said "I'm trying to be honest with you in this interview because we will work together. I have another face for the client." Hired.

I informed the agency that we would take B, but not A. I arranged for B to start this morning. 

This morning I received a call from B at 9am. He was on time, but at the wrong location. He was at our client's head office. No one knew who he was or who I was or where he should go. 

I called him back and spoke to A, who answered his phone. I knew it was A because he couldn't understand me. He was also waiting there at the client office, with B, for me to arrive.

I asked them to please come to my office and called the agency immediately. The person I spoke to confirmed that, yes, both had been sent to start today. I told her we had only selected one. She said "Then just pick the one that you want and send the other one away". I told her we had already done this - that is what the interview process was for. I insisted that she call A and explain that there was a mistake. She said "Oh - so you are too nice. You want me to be the bad one!" I said yes, I did, so please call A and tell him they got it wrong. No need to be bad. 

The last thing I needed was a line up. It's not a brothel after all.

About 15 minutes later I got a call from reception to say that I had a visitor. I went to the reception desk to find both A and B sitting in the lobby waiting for me, eager to start their first day's work ...

Best Email Strapline Ever

Some people quote Einstein at the bottom of their emails. Some quote Deepak Chopra. Even Oprah gets the occasional guernsey.  This from Hong:

Kind regards,

Hong

The courtesy of a reply, even if negative, is always appreciated: thank you.

Email Response Message of the Day

This just in. 

"I'm afraid I wasn't able to deliver your message. This is a permanent error; I've given up.  Sorry it didn't work out."

Vietnamese in 8 Easy Steps

As far as I can work out, the whole country is run on 7 words:

1. Saow;

2. Boim;

3. Ding;

4. Coum;

5. Meuo;

6. Owm; and

7. Baa.

When you ask someone for a word in Vietnamese they will select something from this list. They will also ensure you do not leave them until you have pronounced it correctly 3 times.

Later, when you go to use that word with someone else, this new person will stare at you blankly for 4 awkward attempts before admitting that they have no idea what you are saying.  After much effort on your part and no help on theirs, they will understand. They will then tell you that this word is never used normal conversation. It is too formal, or too informal, or only for an old man, or only used in the south, or a type of mango. They will then select another word (from the remaining 6) and not let you go until you can pronounce it correctly.

This process of elimination will follow you down a conga line of 5 well-meaning teachers until you have pronounced 7th and last remaining word correctly.

At the 8th person, you will be stared at blankly for a bit before being advised to use the original word. This (and only this) is the word you should use. It is easiest one for foreigners to remember, and everyone will understand what you mean.

Scabby Blue Propositions

Whenever eating out in Hanoi, it is almost guaranteed that someone will approach you brandishing a fistful of used, dirty, blue plastic sandals. They will hold them up to your face, point at your feet and ask you to consider something.

It even happens when you're wearing thongs or trainers, which rules out a shoe polish.

Whether you sit indoors or outdoors. Whether at a street stall or a fancy schmance restaurant. Whether you're upstairs or downstairs. Probably even while working a plough. Someone will inevitably approach you with a scabby blue sandal proposition. 

I don't really know what they're proposing, but I want in.

Jeffrey Dahmer Jacuzzi

We went to a restaurant last night on Truc Bach lake. The dining area was basically some mats laid out beside the footpath, across the road from the kitchen, with low Japanese style tables. There were a few rats scuttling in and out of the water and along the mats. I thought "let's go eat Italian" as I squatted down to take my place.

4 girls sat down and take our order. They were interrupted someone from a nearby table coming over to us with 2 shots of some clear liquid. We knocked these back with a hearty "Xin Chào Việt Nam" before resuming our order. 

Neither of us was particularly hungry. After much confusion and clarification, using a menu with no English and no prices, I thought we had each ordered a bowl of Pho Ga.

10 minutes later a waiter brought out gas cooker, then a massive pan of hot broth, then a huge bowl of leafy greens, then two packets of noodles, then a whole raw chicken (cut up).

We realised then that the enthusiastic girls who took our order were probably just there to upsell. Actually it was not really upsell. It was more a case of ignoring what we want and giving us what they have. Of course when too much food started turning up, they were nowhere to be seen.

Our waiter lit the cooker and opened the lid of the pot. She grabbed my chopsticks and started putting pieces of the chicken into the broth. First the head, then the feet, then some other ambiguous pieces until about half of the chicken was gone. Apart from what appeared to be an anus, the only other parts left on the plate were the wings, breast and legs: the Colonel Sanders bits that I'd normally want first.

When I asked for another set of chopsticks she pointed at the ones which she had abandoned in the raw chicken. When I played dumb and insisted on another pair, I think I saw a faint eye roll.

The chicken's head kept bobbing around the pot throughout the meal. It seemed to slowly lose its buoyancy at various times, only to turn up camoflaged under a leaf of spinach in the ladel. Tricky thing.

Although the chook head spent its last moments circumnavigating the pot as his memories slowly dislodged from his skull ... I feel it was a worthy end. So I gave him a name. Darren provided my best meal yet in Vietnam.

By the end of the meal we'd forgotten all about the feet. Until they both popped up, on queue, like an Esther Williams finale.

This is how it all ended. [Click to enlarge]

As she cleared the table our waiter noticed the vignette which had unfolded in the pot, and laughed.

Two-timin' Trang

Given Trang's sticky fingers and low motivation levels, I arranged a meeting with another language teacher last Wednesday night.

Her name is Hoa. She seemed nice on the phone. Good English skills and a healthy (if random) dose of giggles.

She was 10 minutes early. I was 5 minutes late. It was supposed to be the other way around. She called me on arrival to say "Hi it's me Hoa where are you the guard won't let me in and I'm on the street are you still coming how far are you away thanks come soon thanks."

When I arrive she's sitting on the couch in the lobby area. She seems quite comfortable.

Me: "Sorry I'm late. Nice to meet you. How are you?"

Hoa: "I'm cold. Cold from waiting for you."

Me: "But it's not cold outside."

Hoa: "Yes but I've been riding my motorcycle. So I'm cold."

I unlock the door and we go inside. She walks in and says "You should not live alone here. Why do you live alone. That is not good." I tell her that's the way it is, to which she replies "That is not good."

She then explains that her rates are $10/hour and when I ask her why it is so expensive she tells me to go to her web site and it's all there. She then asks me if I've ever learnt Vietnamese before. I say no. She screws up her face. I say is there anything wrong. She laughs and says no, there's nothing wrong, but are you sure you've never learnt before? ... nothing ever? No, I say, I'm afraid not; nothing. 

"Oh ... no. Oh no."

-- "Oh no? Why oh no?"

"No. No Oh no. Just oh."

-- "No? Oh. Oh."

I miss Trang.