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.

GTFO

I admit it. I'm kind of addicted to the lol cat. It is the result of a cunning linguist who coined "lolspeak" then built a website in honour of it. Much like the Taj Mahal, but cheaper and no one had to die.

Ok so it's basically a bunch of cats who are speaking to each other sms.

Eating cheezburgers is considered the ultimate in fun. Vomiting up cheezburgers is the opposite.

I heard about this while listening to a linguistics podcast - it is even being debated and studied by contemporary linguists.

Linguistic podcasts ... cats ... sms speak ... what a proud breakthrough for me to admit all this in public. It's such a weight off my shoulders.

One of the first books to be translated into lolcatspeak is the bible.

God is called "Ceiling Cat" and Satan is "Basement Cat".

Here's how Ceiling Cat invented everything. It started with "Boreded Ceiling Cat makinkgz Urf n stuffs" and finished with "An Ceiling Cat sayed, Beholdt, teh good enouf for releaze as version 0.8a. kthxbai."

"An on Caturday, Ceiling Cat was dun makin al dat stuf; an he restd, thinkn uv how awsum it wuz."

Here's how Original Sin is handled:

"Teh snaik sed, 'U wont die frum froot, srsly. Ceiling Cat just sed dat cuz teh froot will maek u guyz smart. U guyz wud be ceiling catz!!!'"

Sensitive stuff.

As with the real bible, Ceiling Cat can be a bit moody. When the snake becomes implicated in the apple fiasco he is eventually punished by Ceiling Cat:

"Ceiling Cat sed to teh snaik, 'Cuz u did dis, ur cursd aboov all teh moocows an farm animulz!!! Ur gonna moov on yur belly forevah, cuz ai gonna taek ur legs an giv dem to teh Chinese to eat!!!! Ur gonna eat durt forevah!!!!!'"

Ceiling Cat then evicts Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden:

This is my favourite.

Jesus, who goes by his original name, gets crucified here and I quite like this bit:

"Den dey spitz hairbalz at himz and giv him beetdownz wif teh big stik. wen dey finish wif teh beetdownz dey taek teh lime helmetz off and taek himz to teh krucify place. Srsly."

OK so it's stupid.

But it's also funny.

It's stupid and funny. Stupid and funny. Like Cheesel but better dressed. srsly.

Rosary Cat

They've done a great job on the lolcatbible. So much so that I find it more believable than the original.

Sassy Gay Friend

This has got something written all over it.

Cult or shit? I'm not sure.

Do The White Thing

I'm in Jakarta this week to do a presentation to the board of directors of a large company. In this country of 231 million they can't find anyone as fantastic as me. So they spend a few thousand dollars on me fly here. I stay at the Grand Hyatt and have me speak to 15 executive for 20 minutes on something they are gagging to hear. What pearls. What wisdom. What wonderful me.

What? Wonderful?

Moi?

Last week I received 2 separate requests on the same topic, albeit from different sources:

22/02 from S:
"... [the client] keep mention to bring "caucasian" expert. Sorry, not try to be racist but the CIO said that the new Board now dominated by the "caucacian" especially the CFO."
Caucasian - tick.
Expert - cross.

So not just caucasian ... but the caucasian. The article puts quite a sting into it and adds an almost dehumanising quality.

23/02 from W:
"... [the client] also coached us that the "WHO" giving the message is as important as the message itself. He told us the profile of the ideal presenter: Caucasian, even better if a british citizen ..."
Tick. Cross.

So I've got 2 crosses against my name? Turns out it didn't matter. My skin colour pulled me through. Horray for my white skin! They asked me to come over "just in case we can't get anyone better". I'm not sure if these were the exact words used but that's how I remember it; though I'm pretty sure at one point they said "at least you're white".

In follow-up conversations, as we went through a list of potential candidates to support me, I heard things like "I know he's from NZ but his name sounds a bit Chinese - are you sure he's white?".

I'm also the only one who seems awkward with these conversations. When I say "I can't believe we're even having this conversation" and the people listening to me just smile politely. They're probably not even listening ... just sitting these waiting for The Caucasian to shut up so they can ring the maid to check she doesn't forget to buy fabric softener. Lemon.

Within 5 hours of arriving - via an overnight in Bangkok and an early Sunday flight to Jakarta - I was told they had pushed it back by a week ... did I mind staying an extra week and maybe we can find someone better in the meantime.

So we're still hunting for an upgrade. It ain't over until the fat lady sings and I'm not on until next Tuesday now.

Like any good Nazi, I have joined the throng. Within days I was saying things like "Do you think they'll take an Indian? He's worked in Europe." I'm no Schindler. I"m 17 going on 18.

I felt both white and underqualified as I walked into the Jakarta office on Monday morning. I blushed as I was greeted and thanked for coming over to do the presentation ... maybe out of embarrassment but probably in an attempt to appear less white. Srsly

Those fucking Indians and Chinese can do almost anything; the uppity fuckers. So it has proven difficult to find a suitable potato. I eventually tracked down an Irishman but he couldn't get here for another 14 days.

So it's back to me. I am going to rote learn a bunch of stuff I know nothing about, stand confidently in front of over-valued potatoes and ooze my white confidence. I'm thinking of stealing one of my bed sheets and working it into headwear. Something like this:

Quote of the Day

This from my colleague in Jakarta. I walked up to him while he was peering at his screen.

F: "Hey Anthony!"

A: "Hi F. How are you?"

F: "Good ... well actually ... not so good. [laughs] I have a problem for today ..."

A: "Hmm ...?"

F: "It's a new proposal. I'm looking for a company which is smart enough to implement our products ... and yet stupid enough to want to use them."

McDieters

McDonald's is teaming up with Weight Watchers. This from today's SMH:

''This is a noble cause,'' the chief executive of McDonald's New Zealand, Mark Hawthorne, said yesterday.

''We serve 1.5 million meals a week in New Zealand to 4 million people and we're making every best effort to generate a change in behaviour, to create an awareness in consumers about making healthy choices.''

What about creating an awareness that every week, 2.5 million kiwis are not getting the meals they ordered?

Crossed

She looks so innocent here on the map. Ordinary even.

Just wait until peak hour, when she's stripping down to her knickers in broad daylight.

One Down

Last Friday marked a year since I arrived in Vietnam. Actually maybe it was Thursday.

I took this photo while riding to work last Friday. Or Thursday.

Sometimes I have to stop and remind myself where I am. So many things I don't notice any more.

Maid In Voyage

I can only assume that my maid's job hunting skills are as poor as her cleaning, so decided to give her as much notice as possible. I wrote her this email last Saturday:

From: Anthony

To: Hao

Date: 27 February 2010

Subject: Departure

Dear Hao

I want to give you as much time as possible. I am probably leaving Hanoi in April and moving to Indonesia.

This is not 100% sure yet and I also do not know the date I would leave. However, I am telling you now because I want to give you time to find other work.

I can write you a reference and help you advertise on foreigner web sites or supermarkets.

Kind regards

Anthony

This morning I received her reply.

From: Hao

To: Anthony

Date: 1 March 2010

Subject: Thank you very much

Hi Anthony,

Thank you so much!!!

Please advertise for me following your way. And I want to ask a favour of you. Shall you come to Indonesia to work in a long time or short time? If you ưant, I can go with you and after that I come back vietnam.

Thank you!!!

Hao

I found this funny. Then odd. Then scary. Then sad. Then creepy. Then sad. In that order.

How should I put this to Hao? Perhaps something like this:

"Sorry. I can't take you on international assignment with me. So how about I pin something on the noticeboard of the local Fivimart instead? I was thinking ... a handwritten piece of paper with some tear-off phone numbers."

In the end, I responded thus:

From: Anthony

To: Hao

Date: 1 March 2010

Subject: Re: Thank you very much

Dear Hao

My job in Indonesia will not be for long so this is not possible.

However, I will help you advertise on web site and at the stores. I think it will be easier to communicate if you leave your email address as contact?

Please let me know your hourly or monthly rate and I will arrange to help you.

Kind regards

Anthony

About 2 hours later I received the following email:

From: Hao

To: Anthony

Date: 1 March 2010

Subject: clean your room

dear Anthony.

To day ,when i come to your apartment ,i se your picture near main the door was fell down and brocken .

I had cleaned them .

good luck for you !see you soon !

I guess she really wants to come to Indonesia.

This story has 'Didn't End Well' written all over it.

Mai Chau

Dear Nancy

I actually think someone had a worst time in Mai Chau than we did.

There must be others out there like us.

Too Queued For Words

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good passport must be in want of a wait.”

Or put simply:

“Never stand behind a black man when queuing for Customs".

Yes this is racist, but like most (if not all) racism it is also a handy guideline for the oppressed.

Racism, snobbery, and bigotry are bad in life (— AND IMMA LET YOU FINISH —) but they work wonders in queues.

After September 11 I removed black men from the list and added all Muslims. Since then I have included anyone with a winter tan.

Ageism is particularly useful at supermarkets, or indeed anywhere where money changes hands. It is not uncommon to see a queue being are held hostage by an old lady struggling with her change.“Fools,” I think to myself, “I could have spotted that old bitch from Frozen Goods”.

No minute is more precious than the one saved in a fast queue. I usually try to establish which line will be moving the fastest and will use any methods at my disposal. 

Customs in Jakarta is known for its long, disorganised queues. After disembarking the flight and boarding a couple of escalators you soon find yourself descending down a wide staircase and into a huge pen of over 500 people. There are roughly 15 queues in this filthy, sweaty pen and each one has about 25-50 pigs lining up in it.

3 of the 15 queues are dedicated to Indonesians. These ones seem to move quickly.

Another is for diplomats. Stand beside this one and you can feel the breeze as ugly families sailing past you with ease. I stare at them bitterly, wishing cancer and car accidents on them.

As for the rest of us, we gormlessly inch our way along, scrambling evidence of a return journey and double-checking our arrival cards for errors as we get closer. Anything to pass the time.

Today: my welcome to Jakarta

As for me, I stand there listening to ABC Radio National podcasts, looking vacantly bored and plotting my escape like Papillon. Papillon with a laptop. And a passport. And a sulky look on his face.

The whole process is long and slow and boring and seemingly endless. Today in Jakarta I looked back from the front of my queue and counted 53 people still in my queue, give or take a pig.

Sometimes my disobedient mind starts wandering. I imagine I'm a holocaust victim, lining up for a shower. Then I catch myself of course. What a silly thing to imagine ... it's obvious I'm not thin enough ... I would still be in the soap factory, working off those last 43 pounds. so I look around, wondering who might be thin enough. Then I catch myself again, this time more seriously. "You're being completely ridiculous," I tell myself "... you're in Indonesia ... no one here is that skinny". I look around again, trying to make eye contact with other victims and all I get is blank stares, a docile smile at best. I wonder why I'm the only agitated one in the queues. Perhaps they don't know. Perhaps they still think they're off for a wash. I smile as the passing diplomats, gliding into an early shower. Finally I stop myself. I realise I'm being silly and reflect back back to the real holocaust and what really happened. Against my will, I start myself up again and wonder whether the plump arrivals got any joy out of hitting their target weight - if only for a fleeting, disobedient moment - on their freefall to size zero. 


This sounds - no is - quite immoral of course. I’m not saying it’s right at all. I’m just saying it happens. It happens to me. Perhaps I'm Queue Hitler.

Needless to say, picking the fastest line is quite a challenge with no time to dilly-dally.

The selection process starts from the top of the stairs. I quickly scope the entire pig pen for any obvious obstructions. Jakarta is dominated by Muslims and/or tanned folk so the skin guidelines don't apply. Indeed, potatoes are in the minority so I avoid them at all costs.

After weeding out the potatoes I look for old people or young families. These are the groups who finally reach the counter only to realise - surprise surprise - that they must have been in a queue for something because now they are at the front and someone is asking them for things. This results in them flustering through cluttered hand luggage for documents that could have been prepared 30 minutes ago.

They are even worse at the x-ray machine where, if I’m stuck behind one of them, I start mumbling “come on, get yourself ready” ... often within earshot. They rarely take heed and I hate them like diplomats.

Once the oldies and families are removed from the list, I'm down to about 7 remaining queues. The next step is to filter out the short, the frail and the thin ... these people, who are treated as equal citizens, make a queue look deceptively smaller. A headcount can quickly identify any clusters

The final step is to select a customs officer. Preferably someone young-but-not-too-young (well trained and efficient but not yet jaded by life), not trendy (won’t be distracted by fashion or mirrors), female (usually efficient, especially in relaxed muslim countries where they’re not allowed to flirt) and preferably someone in glasses (they are short-sighted and must focus on their work as they can’t see the rest of the pen).

I also avoid the book ends. Those officers have allocated themselves to the sides for a reason.

By the time I reach the bottom of the stairs, I've selected my queue.

Once committed, I start pegging myself against rivals ... noticing others who started with me and periodically charting my progress against theirs. This sometimes alerts me to an early disaster wherein I abandon my queue for theirs. But mostly it’s a learning exercise. If I’m doing slowly, I compare their queue with mine, their comrades and customs officer with mine, and hone my skills for next time. This is how I came up with the trendy filter and the potato filter. A watched pot indeed.

What else is there to do in a queue while listening to linguistic podcasts and wondering when the armpit sweat is going to start being visible to the other pigs. Did I mention it isn't air conditioned?

On a somewhat related note, an unusual thing happened to me a few weeks ago when I went through Chinese Immigration.

There is another universal truth: “Any airline or customs counter will take 4½ minutes to process the people before you, and 45 seconds to process you.

I was patiently standing in the "Foreigners" lane. Those before me seemed to take ages getting processed. Probably answering all their stupid foreigner questions and fumbling through their stupid foreigner documents. Fucking foreigners.

There are a lot of stamps in my passport and when it got to my turn he seemed to be interested in all of them. By the way his head was tilted, I suspected a serenade was coming and looked for a kissing motion in his lips.

Then I noticed something sitting on the counter beside me. It was a small white box and looked amateurish, like a prop from Doctor Who or a 4th grade woodwork disaster.

The top of the box had a weather-beaten sticker on it which said “Please Rate Your Server!”. Underneath this were green, yellow and red buttons which were labeled “Perfect”, “Satisfactory” and “Unsatisfactory” respectively.

I did a double take – quite literally (I looked up at the customs officer in shock, then back at the prop, then back again). I couldn’t quite believe that I was being asked to rate my service experience from Customs? Isn’t this putting a bit of pressure on them to let you through?

At this time I felt that my experience very Unsatisfactory. But I had a train to catch. So the next time he looked up I hit the “Perfect” button in full view. He noticed and smiled, then immediately stamped my passport and let me through with a smile. How Perfect is that?

On reflection, I wonder whether Customs people need to consistently rate Unsatisfactory in order to do their job well? Perhaps they are measured by how much of a hard arse they can be? Either way, my guy seemed pretty pleased with me. See? I really am a good person.

I Fucking Well KNEW It!

I've got ovarian cancer.

http://blogs.smh.com.au/lifestyle/chewonthis/archives/2010/02/post_33.html

Joke Of The Year

"This guy walks into a bar ... and then ... I forgot most of the joke but your Mom is a whore.

Ambiguity

There is a Facebook group called "All Rapists Should Be Hung".

I think they mean "hanged".

Word of the Diet

Urban Dictionary's Word of the Day:

"Stealth Abs"

Definition:
When your ripped six pack is covered by a thick layer of fat.

Suggested usage:
"This isn't a beer belly, it's my stealth abs. I just needed to avoid attracting too many ladies with my well defined stomach."

So I'm not getting fatter, I'm getting craftier. Perhaps more modest (if that's possible). Either way I'm glad we cleared that up.

My own take on it:
"These stealth abs are making it quite difficult to touch my toes ... and to see them.

Let It Be

There are good reasons why I don't get my hair cut in Hanoi. Many very good reasons, actually. This means that I haven't had my hair cut or a few months, when I was in KL. And it's looking ratty.

So when I found myself stuck in Singapore a few weekends ago I decided it was time.

Singapore has more potatoes than Idaho, so I expected that most decent salons would have experience with non-Asian hair ... and in a reasonably modern style.

The hotel recommended somewhere nearby and made me an appointment for 2.30. I turned up at this place on time. It was a stock standard salon. I told by someone who I imagined was the cleaner to wait for 5 mins. About 20 seconds later another person took me to the chair and dumped a bunch of magazines in front of me.

Great, I thought, at least they know the drill. Oddly enough though, these were not magazines with pictures of men, or hair, or men's hair in them. 2 of them were women's hair things and the rest seemed to be Chinese homewares catalogues.

No problem, I thought, at least I am in Singapore so communication shouldn't be an issue.

A few minutes later the cleaner came back to me with a holster full of scissors. She approached the mirror and said to me "How short you want it?".

"What?", I said.

-- "How short? Hair. How short. You want short?"

"I'm sorry. I've never had a hairdresser begin a conversation like this. Aren't you going to ask me any questions, like what style I'm considering?"

-- "Huh? Sure. What style? How short you want the style?"

Now it was my turn to be short. I turned around looked her in the face and sunk the rusty knife in.

"I don't have any confidence in you doing a good job. Sorry. This is not going well at all."

And with that I left.

Finding other salons in this megamall was easy. Getting an appointment was not. It's approaching Chinese New Year so everyone is getting themselves ready. Oddly enough, the salons were most full of young men with their hair in foils.

Now I was fucked, but probably not as much as if I went the distance with this rogue cleaner.

I eventually found a place which seemed OK and could squeeze me in at 8pm.

Let me cut a long story short.

The place was full of young groovy people (staff and customers). She suggested a style which included a forward fringe with a slant across it.

Rather than admit that I was too old, I told her this style was a little too young. She was pushy so I said I would allow a slight gradient. Ever so slight. We negotiated the angle and off she went.

I was reading a magazine most of the time, stopping to obtusely answer her pointed questions (how old are you? married? girlfriend? where are you going out tonight? have you eaten? why haven't you eaten? when will you be eating? make sure I don't forget to eat OK? so how much money to you make?).

By the time looked back at the mirror, I realised we had a problem on our hands.

I'd been given a very modern cut. Something suitable for a Chinese 22 yo. Fringe combed forward, steep slope across my forehead, combed forward and quite voluminous in the back. It was too late to amend the fringe so I asked her for some more texture in it. This resulted in the sloping fringe becoming completely uneven.

I got back to the hotel, went to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. There was someone else staring back at me. It wasn't 'me. It was the lead singer of an ageing Chinese Beatles tribute band; in shock.

-----

Epilogue

I was just cleaning out my receipts and saw this one. My $38 haircut was broken down as follows:

$28 WASH+CUT+BLOW

$10 CREATIVE SURCHARGE

So this wasn't her fault after all. She was just earning the ten bucks by coming up with something creative. Anything.

Retiring

When I was in China we spent most of the time at our client's "campus" - 12km² of buildings and landscaping. 40,000 employees work in this technology factory, whose assembly lines are crammed with white collar education and prestigious job titles.

Most companies put their research scientists in windowless basement labs. This company puts them in Building A, which is wrapped in columns and looks very grand. This is to show the importance they place on research. It's a pale yellow colour but is nicknamed The White House.

Building F is larger still, if less columny. The floors are massive. Later in the afternoon we were walking through the 8th floor, past a sea of desks and cubicles and monitors. The desks were mostly empty due to Chinese New Year, and I noticed some large, thick mats rolled up under each of them. I wondered if this was some type of ergonomic innovation.

Each mat had a different pattern on it. I spotted a Hello Kitty looking glum (for once) under a desk. I guess I wouldn't like it much either. Most of the patterns were floral, or featuring the sort of Chinese good luck symbols you see in casinos. It was all so mysterious. Could they be gambling under there? Is Hello Kitty being forced to serve drinks?

I asked my colleague if he knew what was going on (albeit while raising an eyebrow ... just in case further speculation was on the cards ...). He told me that this company has a 90-minute lunch break. People eat for 45 min, usually at the staff canteen, then they return to their desks and the lights are automatically turned off for the nap. Everyone naps.

"You know Anthony that some people have retired from here?"

-- "Well it's quite a young company but I guess ..."

"No. They have retired from here and now they sell mattresses. There are always new people starting so they all need mattresses"

-- "Oh. Really?"

"Yes. There is a store downstairs in this building where you can buy mattresses. The owner was a software programmer here. He has a PhD in Engineering from Beijing University."

-- "Does he make a lot of money?"

"Oh yes. A lot. I think he becomes quite rich."

-- "Seriously? From selling mattresses? He can earn more money than with his qualifications?"

"Yes. Getting rich is all about supply and demand. We have many PhD's here but not many places to buy a mattress."

Paradise Marred

Nancy seems to be looking forward to our trip to Bali.

I am too.

It is doomed, of course. Like all our holidays.

She knows it and I know it.

Yet here we go again, putting our knives into the toaster all the while knowing that nothing delicious is stuck.

Nancy doesn't even like the sun. Or beaches. Or islands. Or friendly smiling natives. Neither do I.

I think we've both been cursed with the Wandering Grimace gene ... a desire to travel but not to enjoy it.

If euthanasia is legal by the time Nancy is on her death bed (it's only a matter of time until both of these things happen), I will paint a port hole on the wall and tell her she's on a cruise. That oughta do her in.

Tet Tales Part 1: Schmosperity

More on Tet and how I've been spending my time.

1. Musings on the YOTT

Yep. This is the Year Of The Tiger.

Great.

I mean ... THAT'S GREAT!

RIGHT?

GREAT!!!

(right?)

When I first heard that it was going to be the Year Of The Tiger I thought of golf themes. I expected it would be all about virility and adultery this year. But apparently not. Although the previous Year of the Wood Tiger finished in Feb 1975, the same year Tiger Woods was born. I think them Chinese are onto somethink.

By all accounts, this is still supposed to be a good year: I've got sms's and facebook messages to prove it.

I could even go so far as to say this is an auspicious year because that's what it said on the discount leaflet that arrived with my pizza the other night ... and this piece of literature is as credible as anything else I've heard on the topic.

Either way, this tiger is packing fire in its belly and I wanna get me some.

I also wanna get me some of that Tet Special B - large pepperoni pizza, your choice of pasta and a garlic bread - all attractively priced for this auspicious occasion.

Anyway I think we all agree that our Tiger symbolises Prosperity and Health.

Now forgive me if I'm wrong (or don't), but this is all sounding veeeerrry familiar. Wasn't last year also pretty special? And the one before that? Actually I'm struggling to recall a Chinese New Year which was underwritten with a "this one's pretty crap" warning.

Indeed, I had vague memories of prosperity being mentioned last year so I went and looked it up. Sure enough. The Year of the Ox. Sure enough I found prosperity splashing around there. Actually not so much splashing as loitering; leaning against a lamp post smoking a thin cigarette.

So what about the year before that? What about the Rat? Sure enough there she was again, hanging around with money.

I think I've worked it out.

Prosperity is just sitting there at the end of each new year, pulling her bra up ... adjusting her dress down ... reapplying her lipstick ... waiting for the new ship to dock. Prosperity is a whore and Chinese New Year is her pimp.

These 12 animals to no represent different goals in life. They do not differentiate one year from the next. I think we should just to call every year the Year Of The Gnat and admit that this year we want to make as much money as possible. Human rights or not.

Perhaps Olive has the right idea. She sent this obscure email the other day to her "family":


Hi family,


In this new Tiger year, I wish you all...


Strong as tiger
Long-live as turtle
Sharp-eyes as eagle
Agility as rabbit
Smart as fox
Money as flood
Happiness as grasshoppers


It's cute, but it's stupid. We all know there is only one animal allowed per year. And as for the flood - well I'm not really sure when we are going to celebrate the Year Of The Flood but I can't wait. I'm like Noah excited.

So I replied back to the family (as Daddy of course) that she should add "Stupid as a cow" (an expression in Vietnamese) so that R does not feel left out.


2. ¿Cómo se dice 'money' en ingles?

Cuntastic was pulled over by police the other day for not wearing a helmet. He kept clearly saying to her in English "Give me money" and she kept responding in English "Sorry I don't understand Vietnamese".

This went on for a while until he gave up out of sheer embarrassment.

Cuntastic is an English teacher, which equips her to quickly reach into the core of a student's confidence ... and exploit it.

The recipe is simple: make the foreign language speaker repeat a simple phrase so often in your language. Imply they are so hopeless that even after several attempts, you still think they are still speaking their language and not attempting yours. Continue stirring for 3 minutes. You will notice their self esteem unravel before your eyes. Finish stirring once they start walking away, ideally with shoulders hunched. It's the perfect ploy and I can't wait to use it.

This is actually what happens to me when I attempt to speak Vietnamese ... people don't even conceive that I could be speaking their language so they don't even try to match my words with any of theirs. Instead, they just stare at me, shaking their head, sometimes trying to match my words against their limited catalogue of English but usually just assuming I'm an idiot.

3. Man Down

Yesterday I was stuck in a motorbike pack behind a very, very slow moving large white van. As I attempted to wriggle my way around it (passenger's side), they started chucking red and white things out the window. They looked like wrapped sweets and I tried not to squash any as we inched forward. I initially thought it must have been some (auspicious) Tet ritual and that the sweets were for kids, or Buddha. I eventually craned my head down and realised they were just paper. Tet Origami.

The back door to this van was open and packed with old ladies in traditional dress, seated facing each other like soldiers in a military aircraft. A couple of them were crying, which was odd because Vietnamese people never cry in public. NEVER. So I figured they were all wrapped up in a Tet moment, loving ancestors; or possibly smoking heroin they'd scored under the bridge ... working their way through the buzz. I don't know, but it was all very traditional and ritualistic.

The van was being stalked by a clump of people with long white scarves wrapped their heads. They weren't really scarves - more like cheap bandages - which made the stalkers look like they'd been in a riot at an English football match.

But I thought it all looked interesting - charming, even - and wished one of the head trauma victims a Chúc mừng năm mới as we made eye contact. She looked horrified at my new year's greeting so I guessed I must have gotten my tones wrong and called her a cunt or something.

As I reached for my camera to capture this moment, I luckily noticed it. The coffin. In the van. These old ladies were facing a coffin and this was was a funeral march and I was wedged in the middle of it and I had just wished one of the mourners a Merry New Year.

Talk about awkward.

For a few minutes I tried to make some apologetic eye contact with her but by this stage I was persona non grata and no one would look at me. They must have all heard my earlier cheery greeting. I guessed that as it wasn't my funeral, I had no right to make demands or complaints about how I was being treated.

After another 5 minutes I was over my awkwardness and decided to plan my escape. This wasn't going to be easy. There were bikes either side of me and it had all become a bit of a traffic jam. Then the oddest thing happened. A man came out of nowhere in the van and stood facing the group. He started waving his arms around and howling words out at random. Then he collapsed off the van and into crowd, grief stricken and landing in a foetal position as they caught him. It was awful. Pure grief. I imagined at this point that the coffin was carrying a young person. Perhaps a motorbike accident.

It became a very tragic,sombre, terrible moment of grief and it touched me. Well it touched most of me. There was still a little bit left in my disobedient mind to come up with the following inappropriate thoughts:
1) "Good stage dive, man!"; and
2) "Good catch, mourners"; and
3) I wish some of those mourners had been on hand at my training course.

Why can't the entire brain be touched by tragedy? What allows that little evil bit to still function?

Anyway, once the foetus had been returned to the van I sat there another few minutes and recalled John McCain's writing of his own experiences in Vietnam, "I had learned what we all learned over there: Every man has his breaking point. I had reached mine." John and I define torture a little differently: 6 years of POW torture vs 10 minutes in a traffic jam. But I had reached mine and needed to make another break for it.

I picked a moment when they had stopped throwing fake lollies out of the window and accelerated up the side, over the rocky sidewalk and into freedom's arms.