The Spirits of a Christmas past
The rain told cold stories in soft voices and the breeze sliced through the walls themselves that night. The rickety wood panels were shivering. The fan was shifting ungainly, the lights were flickering. On the couch facing a TV that had just turned itself off, sat me, and my two flat mates with trembling paunches, and we were all shaking in our boots.
In fairness, not one of us had lived in a haunted house before.
We pulled on our winter socks and snuggled up, too afraid to go to our separate bedrooms. The pitter-pattering rain had now become a hard pelting rain. Bizarre scraping sounds, like claws scraping metal, could be heard screeching far below and the rafters creaked just above. Shadows danced. I could hear faint groans. An out of sync banging. Suddenly our telephone started ringing but when I picked it up nobody was on the other end. Our computer turned itself on. The internet connected itself. Doors slammed. The kettle steamed. None of us remembered filling it with water. The door on the balcony swung open and the wicked wind swept across the lake though the room chilling us to our bones.
“Jesus,” said myself.
“Perhaps, Si, you shouldn’t have been sleeping in the altar room.” said Jacob with a tremor in his voice.
“Yeah, well you two tip your fag ash in the libation cup,” Si retorted.
“That’s not technically a libation cup…” said I.
“And you burn incense in the toilet to get rid of the smell…” added Si.
“That’s not good?” said Jacob now with bulging eyes.
“No! It’s sacred!” said Si slapping his head.
“The toilet?”
“No!" said Si standing up and walking across the room to shut the windows. "Jesus!”
Just then the bushes rustled, the trees shook and as a whipping wind passed the house, then silence. Then we noticed we couldn't hear the normally ever-present croaks of the filthy frogs from the lake. Only our beating hearts seemed to be audible.
“Do you really think there’s a ghost?” asked Jacob.
“Well we’re not versed in the local laws of ancestor worship, are we?” moaned Si. “It’s hardly unlikely that we could have disturbed the spirits of the house. We sleep in the altar, piss and smoke in the pots and have absolutely no respect for their family.”
“Well”, I rationalised, “If there is a ghost he seems to be alright, all he does is turn things on and off. Maybe it’s the ghost of a remote control.”
Again lights flickered, a rattling of pipes trundled above us, distant groans could be heard and then the creaking came, this time, from below. Once again a sequence of clicks danced around us. The kettle boiled. The computer turned off. The TV went on back on and the door on the balcony closed. That was no remote control.
“…”
“…”
“Cup of tea?”
Then as clear as day to night there were slapping footsteps. Stomping up, as bold as brass. Faster and faster. (Well, if there is a ghost we supposed, it’s his house. Why shouldn’t he make himself at home?)
We were cowering in the blue light shining from the TV. The Spirit’s footsteps were right by the door. The handle turned. The door stood tantalisingly ajar. The dark thick air seemed foreboding from outside. A pale white hand came into sight and pushed it open.
“Jesus!”
“No!”
"Mother of God..."
“Merry Christmas!” shouted our landlord grinning like a loon. He was drunk and swaying with a bottle of whisky and some glasses: “Drink! Scotland!”
We gasped in relief. Lit cigarettes. We sat him down and he opened the bottle. I tried to explain in Vietnamese how we were afraid that we had disturbed the spirits of his ancestors.
“No!” he chuckled. “My family from country! Here new home. No ancestors! No spirits.”
He sat grinning like a child pouring the twelve year old scotch, the one we’d given him, to the brim of the glasses.
“Oh, so did you build this house?” asked Jacob, still with an inquisitive tremor in his voice. “Perhaps... there are spirits from another family?”
“No,” said the landlord with a shake of his head, wincing from knocking back his whisky in one. “It used to be a brothel! Nothing but happy spirits! Down the hatch!”
We sat for a moment taking this in. The landlord swigged back Si's whisky, filled it and skulled that one, too.
As Jacob tried to explain how one is to sip and savour 12 year-old scotch, my thoughts went back to the day our neighbours unveiled a plaque back in Dublin saying ‘Ernest Shakleton lived here: 1880-1887’.
My father stood in the crowd as the bearded Shakletonites toasted their idol and compared exploits from varying trips they had themselves taken around Iceland, to van Dieman's Land and back, around the Cape of Good hope and so on.
My father, out of curiosity to see his reaction, took the city council official aside, and asked if anyone famous had lived in our house, perhaps out of jealously, why can't we have a plaque? The answer was no although the council man told him that our house had been a brothel. My father went back, straight to the shed, whittled up a little plaque and wrote on it: 'Ernest Shackleton shagged here: 1880-1887' and hung it on the inside of the door.
By the time I finished my memory our landlord had finished all the whisky in our glasses and now was just swigging from the bottle. I managed to procure a wee dram informing the landlord I would like to make a toast.
“To the ladies of the house!” I said with a grin.
“Yeah, and the ghosts of a Christmas past!” said Si.
“Cool bananas," said Jacob.
“Tee-hee-hee," tittered the landlord, "hee-hee-hee."
He was drunk, I could see, and as I poured him another whisky I could see him gazing around the room, his thoughts as clear as cartoon-thought bubbles above his mischievous little head, if this was a brothel, and there were ghosts, he was thinking that this could be a ghost story with a good old happy ending.
Friday, October 10, 2003
Dep (but pronounced zep): An insight into mankind via plastic sandals
*Pre-note: Central to a solid understanding of this story readers should be aware that Dep is to be pronounced zep. Practice before continuing.... dzep zep zep zep zep ... got it?
She was pushing her bike as she passed me in an alleyway that leads to a café out the back. The sort of alleyway which seems narrower the further you go in, which doesn’t stop the locals driving down them. We pressed up against the dusty walls, sacrificing cleanliness to avoid embarrassing physical contact, I pushed back and she kept her head down. Both of us trying to avoid her chest brushing off me, which would be doubly regretful if she were looking at me when it happened; there’s no need to personalise such unforseen complications, I’d feel like she’d thought I’d done it on purpose. She must be a nice sensible woman I thought as I pressed myself back some more, making sure the wheels weren’t going over my dainty little toes.
As I scraped my back off the wall I noticed she was looking at my feet. At first I thought out of concern. I was wearing, dare I pun, yes I shall, a fairly pedestrian pair of plastic sandals, known as flip-flops in my part of the world, jandels to antipodeans, thongs to others, plastic slippers in Danish. Here they fall under one handy banner, simply dep.
Dep are a big business in this hot and industrialised part of the world. The sock is a strange foreigner who visits solely in winter. Even some Vietnamese people are unsure of the word sock in their own language. But not dep. Lord no! They come in all shapes, colours, and materials. Made from plastic, leather or wood there are working men dep, office men dep, svelte dep, perfunctory dep, cute as a button dep, gay as Christmas dep, girly dep, Grampa dep, shower dep and the list goes on.
But there is more to it that that. As her eyes rolled over mine, brushing past each other intimately, I saw her take in size, colour, expense and status. I saw her gaze was cold and condescending. I felt a tingle of shame. I had clearly not impressed. Should I be wandering the streets wearing such footwear? Had I miscalculated? Had I barged into the treacherously oblique realm of inappropriacy? Did I accidentally skip the page on the inflight cultural intergration manual that said there are some dep for the streets, some for the house, and some for the little boy who lived down the lane that shouldn’t be seen at all. With this one brief inspection I was instantly undermined. Like a sweeping karate kick I was floored. It was the kind of stare that reduces you to your bare facts. There’s no escaping your profile. It is as clear as Hollywood lights. You have a low salary. Are unmarried. Have scant taste. Speak with your mouthful. Pick your toenails in public, drive a cheap motorbike and probably smell in summer. It is an ephiphany. Now I know why the ladies chortle at me at the reflexology centre and play paper, scissors, rock to see who takes or returns my sandals.
I’ve wasted years in the dark, paddling around in the wrong kind of dep. But no more, I tell you, no more! I turned around and headed back out to buy another pair, right there and then, but of course all these thoughts had happened in an instant, so she was still squeezing past me trying to avoid my oafish frame and scuttle out the door unscathed. As I turned she bolted with fright thinking I was all aroused and up to no good in a dark lane in the middle of the afternoon, looking for an unsolicited rub. I would have explained my revelation if I could have, but she wouldn’t have listened, not while I wore those dep, and there was no time to waste. So I just waddled behind her down the alleyway, my flip-flops flapping in their testimonial performance. I watched her as she trooped off, in her high-heeled brogues that clicked authoritively, demanding attention, like a German Officer. My lord I thought, they’re a fine pair of shoes, and thus, by proxy, she must be a fine woman, with a decent salary, elegant tastes, delicate table manners, be good in the sack and a sweet scent must exude from her no matter whether the weather be hot or not.
That’s as good as a scientifically proven fact.
*Pre-note: Central to a solid understanding of this story readers should be aware that Dep is to be pronounced zep. Practice before continuing.... dzep zep zep zep zep ... got it?
She was pushing her bike as she passed me in an alleyway that leads to a café out the back. The sort of alleyway which seems narrower the further you go in, which doesn’t stop the locals driving down them. We pressed up against the dusty walls, sacrificing cleanliness to avoid embarrassing physical contact, I pushed back and she kept her head down. Both of us trying to avoid her chest brushing off me, which would be doubly regretful if she were looking at me when it happened; there’s no need to personalise such unforseen complications, I’d feel like she’d thought I’d done it on purpose. She must be a nice sensible woman I thought as I pressed myself back some more, making sure the wheels weren’t going over my dainty little toes.
As I scraped my back off the wall I noticed she was looking at my feet. At first I thought out of concern. I was wearing, dare I pun, yes I shall, a fairly pedestrian pair of plastic sandals, known as flip-flops in my part of the world, jandels to antipodeans, thongs to others, plastic slippers in Danish. Here they fall under one handy banner, simply dep.
Dep are a big business in this hot and industrialised part of the world. The sock is a strange foreigner who visits solely in winter. Even some Vietnamese people are unsure of the word sock in their own language. But not dep. Lord no! They come in all shapes, colours, and materials. Made from plastic, leather or wood there are working men dep, office men dep, svelte dep, perfunctory dep, cute as a button dep, gay as Christmas dep, girly dep, Grampa dep, shower dep and the list goes on.
But there is more to it that that. As her eyes rolled over mine, brushing past each other intimately, I saw her take in size, colour, expense and status. I saw her gaze was cold and condescending. I felt a tingle of shame. I had clearly not impressed. Should I be wandering the streets wearing such footwear? Had I miscalculated? Had I barged into the treacherously oblique realm of inappropriacy? Did I accidentally skip the page on the inflight cultural intergration manual that said there are some dep for the streets, some for the house, and some for the little boy who lived down the lane that shouldn’t be seen at all. With this one brief inspection I was instantly undermined. Like a sweeping karate kick I was floored. It was the kind of stare that reduces you to your bare facts. There’s no escaping your profile. It is as clear as Hollywood lights. You have a low salary. Are unmarried. Have scant taste. Speak with your mouthful. Pick your toenails in public, drive a cheap motorbike and probably smell in summer. It is an ephiphany. Now I know why the ladies chortle at me at the reflexology centre and play paper, scissors, rock to see who takes or returns my sandals.
I’ve wasted years in the dark, paddling around in the wrong kind of dep. But no more, I tell you, no more! I turned around and headed back out to buy another pair, right there and then, but of course all these thoughts had happened in an instant, so she was still squeezing past me trying to avoid my oafish frame and scuttle out the door unscathed. As I turned she bolted with fright thinking I was all aroused and up to no good in a dark lane in the middle of the afternoon, looking for an unsolicited rub. I would have explained my revelation if I could have, but she wouldn’t have listened, not while I wore those dep, and there was no time to waste. So I just waddled behind her down the alleyway, my flip-flops flapping in their testimonial performance. I watched her as she trooped off, in her high-heeled brogues that clicked authoritively, demanding attention, like a German Officer. My lord I thought, they’re a fine pair of shoes, and thus, by proxy, she must be a fine woman, with a decent salary, elegant tastes, delicate table manners, be good in the sack and a sweet scent must exude from her no matter whether the weather be hot or not.
That’s as good as a scientifically proven fact.
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
Is it the end of Hello?
Someone needs to put a stop to it, not that's there's anything wrong with a friendly hello. But my throat is dry, my voice is hoarse, my will threadbare, my alternative sensibilities yearn out for more. Also, my neck is stiff from turning on my bike everywhere I go, as I pass children, building sites, travel into the boonies, down country roads, over the hills and far away. Everywhere I hear "Hello!"
When you first come here you think it would be rude not to reply, yet the numbers are stacked heavily against you. Mark my words you'll rue the day you take on the task of replying to everyone. It's akin to counting the grains of sand on a beach.
Age or status isn't important. Infants, teenagers, shoe shine boys, middle-aged fruit mongers, doctors, pimps, truck drivers and toothpick vendors. As I pass them all they uniformly shout "Hello". When I'm full of vim and vinegar I holler back, yet when I'm exhausted and sunburnt I just raise my eyebrows. Yet you feel guilty ignoring them, just like the Monkeys, they're just trying to be friendly.
Only the old Ong's and Bac's are left out of it. My heart goes out to them. Sometimes they'll catch your arm and chance a risque 'bonjour' when they think no one is looking. These poor souls are remnants of phapophilic past when the country played host to French buereaucrats, dapper soldiers and pernod was downed in one. Then it was de riguer to learn French. Now despite strenuous French investment it is out of favour.
Even more tragically, once sadly, a old man with translucent skin, bewildered eyes, shaking hands and the fear upon him, met me in an alleyway in the suburbs of Hanoi. "Ruski?" he said hopefully and tentatively. Perhaps he'd studied there once upon a time and a flicker of a romantic past was on his lips. Poor chap. Perhaps all he wanted to say was 'Zdrat-s-voyei-tre' Then a bunch of whippersnappers came scrambling out of their boxes roaring "Hello! Hello!" Running through my legs and jumping on my bike. He shuffled away sadly, left out in the cold, now behind an iron curtain of linguistic homengenisation and new fads. Learning Russian now is like wearing leg warmers and buying a hula-hoop to be in fashion. Ah History, ye fickle mistress and cruel temptress! Now he is merely a crumb of the past and a bystander to the grand cult of Anglaise.
The other day, having nothing better to do than wait for beer drinking PM, I decided to count the greetings. There were no less than 72 hellos directed towards my good self in all. So, giving the matter no thought whatsoever, in any non-given SARS mid to peak season with an average of 25,000 Anglo-Tays, from north to south, I estimate there is a staggering one million eight hundred thousand hellos being uttered daily. That is a staggering 45 billion hellos per year.
The country is pushing itself to gross extremities. Exhausting that solitary word. Beating it into the ground of insignificance until it can muster no more. Soon Anglo-Tays will pass the polite hellos, seeming rude, stuck up or indifferent. It shall be nothing other than a faint whisper. Like a distant buffeting breeze unremembered. A sad image you'd have to agree. Like a candlelit dinner for one.
Therefore, I would like to launch the "wahey" programme of cultural integration task force. We shall teach country bumpkins and urbane city folk to shout "wahey!" when they see a Tay pass by their office, door, street corner, hammock, shop, tree, bench, massage parlour in any non-life threatening traffic situation. And when that gets annoying we'll change it to "Good Day to you there!" then "Yoo hoo!" and then "Let there be rock" and so on, so forth.
All in favour say "Wahey!"
May the future be bright and ridculous, amen.
Someone needs to put a stop to it, not that's there's anything wrong with a friendly hello. But my throat is dry, my voice is hoarse, my will threadbare, my alternative sensibilities yearn out for more. Also, my neck is stiff from turning on my bike everywhere I go, as I pass children, building sites, travel into the boonies, down country roads, over the hills and far away. Everywhere I hear "Hello!"
When you first come here you think it would be rude not to reply, yet the numbers are stacked heavily against you. Mark my words you'll rue the day you take on the task of replying to everyone. It's akin to counting the grains of sand on a beach.
Age or status isn't important. Infants, teenagers, shoe shine boys, middle-aged fruit mongers, doctors, pimps, truck drivers and toothpick vendors. As I pass them all they uniformly shout "Hello". When I'm full of vim and vinegar I holler back, yet when I'm exhausted and sunburnt I just raise my eyebrows. Yet you feel guilty ignoring them, just like the Monkeys, they're just trying to be friendly.
Only the old Ong's and Bac's are left out of it. My heart goes out to them. Sometimes they'll catch your arm and chance a risque 'bonjour' when they think no one is looking. These poor souls are remnants of phapophilic past when the country played host to French buereaucrats, dapper soldiers and pernod was downed in one. Then it was de riguer to learn French. Now despite strenuous French investment it is out of favour.
Even more tragically, once sadly, a old man with translucent skin, bewildered eyes, shaking hands and the fear upon him, met me in an alleyway in the suburbs of Hanoi. "Ruski?" he said hopefully and tentatively. Perhaps he'd studied there once upon a time and a flicker of a romantic past was on his lips. Poor chap. Perhaps all he wanted to say was 'Zdrat-s-voyei-tre' Then a bunch of whippersnappers came scrambling out of their boxes roaring "Hello! Hello!" Running through my legs and jumping on my bike. He shuffled away sadly, left out in the cold, now behind an iron curtain of linguistic homengenisation and new fads. Learning Russian now is like wearing leg warmers and buying a hula-hoop to be in fashion. Ah History, ye fickle mistress and cruel temptress! Now he is merely a crumb of the past and a bystander to the grand cult of Anglaise.
The other day, having nothing better to do than wait for beer drinking PM, I decided to count the greetings. There were no less than 72 hellos directed towards my good self in all. So, giving the matter no thought whatsoever, in any non-given SARS mid to peak season with an average of 25,000 Anglo-Tays, from north to south, I estimate there is a staggering one million eight hundred thousand hellos being uttered daily. That is a staggering 45 billion hellos per year.
The country is pushing itself to gross extremities. Exhausting that solitary word. Beating it into the ground of insignificance until it can muster no more. Soon Anglo-Tays will pass the polite hellos, seeming rude, stuck up or indifferent. It shall be nothing other than a faint whisper. Like a distant buffeting breeze unremembered. A sad image you'd have to agree. Like a candlelit dinner for one.
Therefore, I would like to launch the "wahey" programme of cultural integration task force. We shall teach country bumpkins and urbane city folk to shout "wahey!" when they see a Tay pass by their office, door, street corner, hammock, shop, tree, bench, massage parlour in any non-life threatening traffic situation. And when that gets annoying we'll change it to "Good Day to you there!" then "Yoo hoo!" and then "Let there be rock" and so on, so forth.
All in favour say "Wahey!"
May the future be bright and ridculous, amen.
A Walk in the Park
Every now and again I feel an emptiness of habit. The ghost of a former routine creeps up and taps me on the shoulder. There is a voice to it. It will say something like “Not much fibre in your diet these days” or “Fancy going to the cinema, don’t you?”
More often than not, the voice hits the nail on the head. Just like yesterday, when it said, "strolling through a park would be nice, wouldn't it?". At the time I was driving full throttle through the traffic, head down, inhaling my own fumes, gritting my teeth and yes, I had to agree, a stroll through a park was a nice idea. Now normally stuff like this is on the end of the list, down with things to do next month, like get a cool tattoo, ring your mother, buy some Bran Flakes, go to the cinema, but coincidentally I was actually passing one. Although I was driving, like the locals - as if there was no tomorrow, or very hungry - I had actually nothing to do and pretty much nowhere to go. I decided I would break with tradition and take a walk in the park. I had already decided it would be a beautiful moment. Perhaps, I might even write a poem.
I parked my bike by a tree and stepped into the confines of a park, which acts as a large traffic island diverging the traffic, sending one lot west and the other east. At first glance the park is serene. A whirlpool of motion outside. Inside, shaded benches, with geriatric old men sitting in their P.J.’s, puffing on fags, chewing their gums, shuffle around. The fountain sprays over children who frolic around gaily. Groups of men sit on their hunkers, watch and play chess, which I didn’t realise could be a team sport. Other kind and gentile folk stroll around with a dragged step. With the oppressive Hanoi heat, it would be foolish to be excessively lively. The end result is a classic moocher’s motion. A kind of a strolling slouch. Yes, I thought, this is nice. How about that poem? Yet, I needed characters. I needed inspiration.
Two fellows caught my eye. The taller one looked like he’d got out of the wrong side of bed every morning for 10 years straight. A huge frown, a messy hair-do, grimy hands scratching his ribs, he circled the fountain dragging his feet like he was sweeping up dust. He wore an old pair of football shorts and an oversized shirt. Then a friend approached him, a more chipper chap, strutting along like he was flipping pancakes with his dep (sandals). He grabbed the taller one’s elbow and muttered a quick confidence. The taller one’s face instantly broke into an enormous frown. In fact, he triple frowned. “Oh my god!” He said and then they disappeared around the fountain, into the shade.
I sat on the bench wondering what you would have to be told or see to frown so severely. Just then an old woman waddled in front of me, as fast as her million year old limbs would carry her. She perched over her sack of rubbish and produced a potato and sat mumbling to herself, nibbling the potato. I was half-thinking of trying to talk to her. Ask her some questions. How long has she been coming to this park? How many centuries ago was she born? Is the potato tasty? Then suddenly she pulled down her breeches and started to piss in the shade like an old frog with a conical hat.
I stood up and headed for my bike. Passing the two men who are still frowning, I nod knowingly. If I knew the Vietnamese for “Crouching granny, hidden urinal” I would have said it. But they probably don’t go the cinema anyhow. In this city, who does?
Copyright Pittstop Works
Every now and again I feel an emptiness of habit. The ghost of a former routine creeps up and taps me on the shoulder. There is a voice to it. It will say something like “Not much fibre in your diet these days” or “Fancy going to the cinema, don’t you?”
More often than not, the voice hits the nail on the head. Just like yesterday, when it said, "strolling through a park would be nice, wouldn't it?". At the time I was driving full throttle through the traffic, head down, inhaling my own fumes, gritting my teeth and yes, I had to agree, a stroll through a park was a nice idea. Now normally stuff like this is on the end of the list, down with things to do next month, like get a cool tattoo, ring your mother, buy some Bran Flakes, go to the cinema, but coincidentally I was actually passing one. Although I was driving, like the locals - as if there was no tomorrow, or very hungry - I had actually nothing to do and pretty much nowhere to go. I decided I would break with tradition and take a walk in the park. I had already decided it would be a beautiful moment. Perhaps, I might even write a poem.
I parked my bike by a tree and stepped into the confines of a park, which acts as a large traffic island diverging the traffic, sending one lot west and the other east. At first glance the park is serene. A whirlpool of motion outside. Inside, shaded benches, with geriatric old men sitting in their P.J.’s, puffing on fags, chewing their gums, shuffle around. The fountain sprays over children who frolic around gaily. Groups of men sit on their hunkers, watch and play chess, which I didn’t realise could be a team sport. Other kind and gentile folk stroll around with a dragged step. With the oppressive Hanoi heat, it would be foolish to be excessively lively. The end result is a classic moocher’s motion. A kind of a strolling slouch. Yes, I thought, this is nice. How about that poem? Yet, I needed characters. I needed inspiration.
Two fellows caught my eye. The taller one looked like he’d got out of the wrong side of bed every morning for 10 years straight. A huge frown, a messy hair-do, grimy hands scratching his ribs, he circled the fountain dragging his feet like he was sweeping up dust. He wore an old pair of football shorts and an oversized shirt. Then a friend approached him, a more chipper chap, strutting along like he was flipping pancakes with his dep (sandals). He grabbed the taller one’s elbow and muttered a quick confidence. The taller one’s face instantly broke into an enormous frown. In fact, he triple frowned. “Oh my god!” He said and then they disappeared around the fountain, into the shade.
I sat on the bench wondering what you would have to be told or see to frown so severely. Just then an old woman waddled in front of me, as fast as her million year old limbs would carry her. She perched over her sack of rubbish and produced a potato and sat mumbling to herself, nibbling the potato. I was half-thinking of trying to talk to her. Ask her some questions. How long has she been coming to this park? How many centuries ago was she born? Is the potato tasty? Then suddenly she pulled down her breeches and started to piss in the shade like an old frog with a conical hat.
I stood up and headed for my bike. Passing the two men who are still frowning, I nod knowingly. If I knew the Vietnamese for “Crouching granny, hidden urinal” I would have said it. But they probably don’t go the cinema anyhow. In this city, who does?
Copyright Pittstop Works
Friday, August 08, 2003
The Karoke Professors
A group of people I instructed in a course invited me to a dinner. An innocent forenoon beer binge with random plates of food littered across the table. Like a parish hall disco from my youth, the lads are to one side and the lasses to the other. With myself, like a spectator at a ping-pong match stuck slap bang in the middle. I try my best to be enveloped by the women so as to chat pleasantly about the trivalities of love, death and marriage but over the course of the dinner the men get increasingly drunk and start to strain acorss the table to suck me into toasting and guzzling booze. They stand up like primary scholl students who want to go to the toilet as they clink and slurp. Quite soon the faces are red and their bositerous and cheeky side is unleashed.
The loudest and silliest student, who may also be the oldest, and by virtue, considered the funniest, is the first to get to the point.
“Do you know how to get to Karoke… (pause for effect) by hand?”
He bursts into laughter to such an extent that you’d think the whole restaurant was laughing. As his own biggest fan he chuckles away for a minute or two. The women smile politely and nibble on. Their untouched drinks curdling. I sit expressionless. I think about cracking a reposte: Does that mean you cartwheel to Karoke? But the joke, like all plastic things at sea, would be lost . I sigh and eat on.
Then one man beside me reaches for my arm, pulls me closer and whispers to my ear. “If you like Karoke, you should let me invite you, I am … something of an expert.”
I look at him. He’s a nerdish sort of fellow. Not the type you can imagine in a sleasy embrace in a red-lit leather-couched back room. I think about the grammar, ‘you should let me invite you.’ I stare into space. There I picture a hoard of spotty undergraduates following tutors and professors into seedy Karoke bars over bridges away from the heart of the city.
"Rule 1! Don't be ridiculously obvious!"
Then after two hours of field study they return to the libraries and lift wieghty tomes from high shelves and study the birth of Karoke. Learn how the Japanese invented it. How it means 'Empty Orchestra' in Nipon. They'll learn by heart diagrams, theories and formulas. They'll study how to sing, guzzle beer, cradle a lady and peel oranges simultaleously. The High Art of Karoke is a dextrous affair. Then after three years of intense study they'll sit the examinations which will include a practical assessment by the experienced madames themselves, where theory is put into practice. They'll be assessed on fluency, rhythm, tone and duartion. Most pass with flying coulours. On graduation day the Professors will apllaud and make grand speeches about how the graduates were once boys and now they are men, and how they are ready to enter the world and take their places in Karoke booths all across the nation. They'll cheer in unison. Mortarboard hats will be tossed in the air. And then like a swarm of busy bees in summer one and all shall start cartwheeling off to the North, East, South and West in search of the nearest place to sing and snuggle.
All of these thoughts flash past my mind when I rememeber where I am. The nerdish fellow is still daydreaming, perhaps reminiscing on a particularly fine piece of singing and fondling from his youth. A performance worthy of adulation. An a+ routine where his professor nodded in appreciation and a madame breathed deeply, her heart a flutter, flushed with surprise at his powerful presence. Like Pavarotti with a hard-on stuck in a tin box, he literally burst into song.
“Yes” He continues proudly, pushing his glasses up his nose, repeating for emphasis. “Something of an expert”
"I hadn’t realised it was a field of study," I tell him as if embarssed by my amateurism. "Tell me, how much study goes into this sort of thing?"
“Oh I’ve studied for a long time”
“And your wife, does she like to sing?”
“Oh no”, He says suddenly very seriously, taking the dig in the ribs to be an honest change of subject. “She’s too busy looking after our children”
“Right”
“Yes,” He finally adds before getting stuck into a fresh beer, “We are very concerned about our childrens future”
I lean back and silently raise my glass and toast.
God speed future. You can't come too soon.
A group of people I instructed in a course invited me to a dinner. An innocent forenoon beer binge with random plates of food littered across the table. Like a parish hall disco from my youth, the lads are to one side and the lasses to the other. With myself, like a spectator at a ping-pong match stuck slap bang in the middle. I try my best to be enveloped by the women so as to chat pleasantly about the trivalities of love, death and marriage but over the course of the dinner the men get increasingly drunk and start to strain acorss the table to suck me into toasting and guzzling booze. They stand up like primary scholl students who want to go to the toilet as they clink and slurp. Quite soon the faces are red and their bositerous and cheeky side is unleashed.
The loudest and silliest student, who may also be the oldest, and by virtue, considered the funniest, is the first to get to the point.
“Do you know how to get to Karoke… (pause for effect) by hand?”
He bursts into laughter to such an extent that you’d think the whole restaurant was laughing. As his own biggest fan he chuckles away for a minute or two. The women smile politely and nibble on. Their untouched drinks curdling. I sit expressionless. I think about cracking a reposte: Does that mean you cartwheel to Karoke? But the joke, like all plastic things at sea, would be lost . I sigh and eat on.
Then one man beside me reaches for my arm, pulls me closer and whispers to my ear. “If you like Karoke, you should let me invite you, I am … something of an expert.”
I look at him. He’s a nerdish sort of fellow. Not the type you can imagine in a sleasy embrace in a red-lit leather-couched back room. I think about the grammar, ‘you should let me invite you.’ I stare into space. There I picture a hoard of spotty undergraduates following tutors and professors into seedy Karoke bars over bridges away from the heart of the city.
"Rule 1! Don't be ridiculously obvious!"
Then after two hours of field study they return to the libraries and lift wieghty tomes from high shelves and study the birth of Karoke. Learn how the Japanese invented it. How it means 'Empty Orchestra' in Nipon. They'll learn by heart diagrams, theories and formulas. They'll study how to sing, guzzle beer, cradle a lady and peel oranges simultaleously. The High Art of Karoke is a dextrous affair. Then after three years of intense study they'll sit the examinations which will include a practical assessment by the experienced madames themselves, where theory is put into practice. They'll be assessed on fluency, rhythm, tone and duartion. Most pass with flying coulours. On graduation day the Professors will apllaud and make grand speeches about how the graduates were once boys and now they are men, and how they are ready to enter the world and take their places in Karoke booths all across the nation. They'll cheer in unison. Mortarboard hats will be tossed in the air. And then like a swarm of busy bees in summer one and all shall start cartwheeling off to the North, East, South and West in search of the nearest place to sing and snuggle.
All of these thoughts flash past my mind when I rememeber where I am. The nerdish fellow is still daydreaming, perhaps reminiscing on a particularly fine piece of singing and fondling from his youth. A performance worthy of adulation. An a+ routine where his professor nodded in appreciation and a madame breathed deeply, her heart a flutter, flushed with surprise at his powerful presence. Like Pavarotti with a hard-on stuck in a tin box, he literally burst into song.
“Yes” He continues proudly, pushing his glasses up his nose, repeating for emphasis. “Something of an expert”
"I hadn’t realised it was a field of study," I tell him as if embarssed by my amateurism. "Tell me, how much study goes into this sort of thing?"
“Oh I’ve studied for a long time”
“And your wife, does she like to sing?”
“Oh no”, He says suddenly very seriously, taking the dig in the ribs to be an honest change of subject. “She’s too busy looking after our children”
“Right”
“Yes,” He finally adds before getting stuck into a fresh beer, “We are very concerned about our childrens future”
I lean back and silently raise my glass and toast.
God speed future. You can't come too soon.
Friday, August 01, 2003
The Bao Ve and I set sail
Today after three years of a running pitched battle with the bao ve xe may (parking attendant), at my favourite bun cha restaurant, we finally buried the hatchet.
There is a relief that comes with the end of any war, there is a sadness too. I'll miss the sadistic pleasure of it all. There is fear also, a fear that now I am stepping into a new era yet to be furnished, yet to be thought of.
After three long hard years of subterfuge, deceit and spite comes a ship a'sailing across a calm sea that once swelled with wrath and fury. That ship is friendship. It is a beautiful, if unexpected sight. As if a 16th century Spanish buccaneer strolled into your local cafe and ordered eggs benedict and a rum-cokie-cola.
These long years started from the smallest of sparks. A long hot day had had the better of me. As I arrived to park my bike I saw him, sitting atop of a bike, chewing a toothpick, completely ignoring me. He grumbled, without looking me in the eye, to move the bike behind the tree where a mother is holding her child to pee in the gutter.
After leaving the bike there, I strolled back, a little hot, a little bit bothered, when suddenly I was blinded by a flash of light as a stately bike arrived with two young hip, rich ladies.
The two girls wearing tight pants and enormous sunglasses, slipped off the bike on to their high heels, the bao ve had already leaped into action and without a glance or an acknowledgement from the girls, he whisked it away. The two girls click-clacked inside to take the last two seats remaining.
I now had to wait or leave. The bao ve delicately parked the bike, preciously, pride of place in front of the restaurant, so one and all could admire it as they ate. Then he leapt back on top of his bike and got back to chewing his toothpick while I stood sweating on the street.
The next time I arrived I came with one single purpose: Revenge. I arrived and put my not-so- trusty steed up on its centre stand and bee lined to grab a seat, leaving the bike in place that mant he had to park it for me. I glanced to see the expression on his face as he tried to move my ugly East German 2-stroke. He was disgusted. I enjoyed my lunch. Touche buddy.
The next time I arrived, though, he wasn't there. The ladies all smiled from behind the smoking meat and told me to park the bike behind the tree where the rubbish is stacked during the course of the day.
As I strolled back into the restaurant the bao ve stepped out from behind the bathroom door smiling like a smug villain. He had heard me coming and hid. Sneaky-sneaky.
Three years of jousting followed. Three years of bitterness. I would leave the bike in the middle of the road and block the traffic. He never covered my seat in summer so I burnt my arse. I left the bike in front of the mad lady who sells che next door and protects her space like a wild hyena so he would get a bollicking. He 'accidentally' broke my kick stand and my clutch. I told him straight to his face he was a good for nothing. He told me right behind my back that I was a tay ba lo (backpacker). If I could have parked it upside down with the front wheel locked, I would have, just to see him drag it, just to see him sweat, just to see him work. If I burst into a ball of fire he wouldn't have pissed on me to put it out, but would have lit a cigarette off the flames. We were foes. Adversaries. Sworn to thwart and torment till death do us part.
Or so I thought. As then, out of the blue, a truce was called, just today, when I pulled out and drove away from the restaurant he emerged from behind the tree where the country bumpkins lean their bicycles and the buckets of fat sit, and where he had been hiding from work.
He smiled as I approached him. What ruse was this? He stepped out and as I passed him he pretended to jump out to make me swerve, crash or fall off, and that, as anyone in this city knows, was his way of saying he likes me. As I didn't flinch, immune to such antics, he patted me on the back with respect and shouted "Smelly bike!" and we laughed like old friends.
So now the war is over. Oh, my nemesis, my Kato, my Moriarty, no more! Together we shall set sail upon the unknown seas of peace and tranquility and learn to fault each other less, and bear the fruits of our friendship, till death, or whenever I leave this country, or you get the sack, do us part.
(2003)
Today after three years of a running pitched battle with the bao ve xe may (parking attendant), at my favourite bun cha restaurant, we finally buried the hatchet.
There is a relief that comes with the end of any war, there is a sadness too. I'll miss the sadistic pleasure of it all. There is fear also, a fear that now I am stepping into a new era yet to be furnished, yet to be thought of.
After three long hard years of subterfuge, deceit and spite comes a ship a'sailing across a calm sea that once swelled with wrath and fury. That ship is friendship. It is a beautiful, if unexpected sight. As if a 16th century Spanish buccaneer strolled into your local cafe and ordered eggs benedict and a rum-cokie-cola.
These long years started from the smallest of sparks. A long hot day had had the better of me. As I arrived to park my bike I saw him, sitting atop of a bike, chewing a toothpick, completely ignoring me. He grumbled, without looking me in the eye, to move the bike behind the tree where a mother is holding her child to pee in the gutter.
After leaving the bike there, I strolled back, a little hot, a little bit bothered, when suddenly I was blinded by a flash of light as a stately bike arrived with two young hip, rich ladies.
The two girls wearing tight pants and enormous sunglasses, slipped off the bike on to their high heels, the bao ve had already leaped into action and without a glance or an acknowledgement from the girls, he whisked it away. The two girls click-clacked inside to take the last two seats remaining.
I now had to wait or leave. The bao ve delicately parked the bike, preciously, pride of place in front of the restaurant, so one and all could admire it as they ate. Then he leapt back on top of his bike and got back to chewing his toothpick while I stood sweating on the street.
The next time I arrived I came with one single purpose: Revenge. I arrived and put my not-so- trusty steed up on its centre stand and bee lined to grab a seat, leaving the bike in place that mant he had to park it for me. I glanced to see the expression on his face as he tried to move my ugly East German 2-stroke. He was disgusted. I enjoyed my lunch. Touche buddy.
The next time I arrived, though, he wasn't there. The ladies all smiled from behind the smoking meat and told me to park the bike behind the tree where the rubbish is stacked during the course of the day.
As I strolled back into the restaurant the bao ve stepped out from behind the bathroom door smiling like a smug villain. He had heard me coming and hid. Sneaky-sneaky.
Three years of jousting followed. Three years of bitterness. I would leave the bike in the middle of the road and block the traffic. He never covered my seat in summer so I burnt my arse. I left the bike in front of the mad lady who sells che next door and protects her space like a wild hyena so he would get a bollicking. He 'accidentally' broke my kick stand and my clutch. I told him straight to his face he was a good for nothing. He told me right behind my back that I was a tay ba lo (backpacker). If I could have parked it upside down with the front wheel locked, I would have, just to see him drag it, just to see him sweat, just to see him work. If I burst into a ball of fire he wouldn't have pissed on me to put it out, but would have lit a cigarette off the flames. We were foes. Adversaries. Sworn to thwart and torment till death do us part.
Or so I thought. As then, out of the blue, a truce was called, just today, when I pulled out and drove away from the restaurant he emerged from behind the tree where the country bumpkins lean their bicycles and the buckets of fat sit, and where he had been hiding from work.
He smiled as I approached him. What ruse was this? He stepped out and as I passed him he pretended to jump out to make me swerve, crash or fall off, and that, as anyone in this city knows, was his way of saying he likes me. As I didn't flinch, immune to such antics, he patted me on the back with respect and shouted "Smelly bike!" and we laughed like old friends.
So now the war is over. Oh, my nemesis, my Kato, my Moriarty, no more! Together we shall set sail upon the unknown seas of peace and tranquility and learn to fault each other less, and bear the fruits of our friendship, till death, or whenever I leave this country, or you get the sack, do us part.
(2003)
Friday, July 25, 2003
The Wheel Perverts
As I pull up to traffic lights I have to, unforntunately, stop. That’s a law which is fairly new and fading in flexibilty. I have, of course, the utmost respect for the Law but it does give the opportunity for the unheralded and silent wheel pervert to run his seedy little eyes all over my beloved muscular German motorbike. As you stop they roll alongside you and stare down at your wheels. I have no doubt there is one thing on their minds.
I strain my eyes into the distance and will the lights to go green. I try to concentrate on my breakfast to avoid this unwholesome fellow with his grubby little features and blank stare.
Some encounters are more bizarre than others. On one occasion after I zoomed off to escape one such character into the glory of the greenlight I ran straight into another red. I shifted uncomfortably, glanced back and sure enough, like all of life’s irritances, back behind me, nudging his way through the traffic, he came alongside me again. His eyes once more checking my wheels out, back to front, top to bottom. A little treat, no doubt, for his spank bank. The sun belted down for what seemed like the longest red light in history. I sat. My palms sweating. The fumes filling my noise. His stare unrelenting. The green came and I gasped, my bike too. We shot off together around the chicane by DBP and Tran Phu. I released and stretched out only to see in the distance the lights play the devil, and turn red.
I sat, head down, my engine rumbling. He slid past and pulled up just ahead of me this time and glanced back. I, with frustration, heat fatigue and general impatience was just about to launch in to a torrent of abuse. Then I looked into his eyes. He was smiling, shaking his head and frowing with twinkling eyes. A cocktail of an expression unique to Vietnamese.
“Are you following me?” Was my toned down response.
He shook his head and smiled-frowned some more.
“No, with all that smoke I thought you were making Bun Cha!”
The lights changed, this time he shot off. The Traffic edged off after him. My stalker was a dot at the next set of lights, I could see they were green and he zipped through. I sat on my xe may bun cha. Was this why fat children chased me through my neighbourhood? As I started the red lights went on. A policeman whistled at me to reverse behind the white line. A new law and flexible depending on the hour of day and whether or not it’s raining. As he watched me grapple with my xe may bun cha to get it backwards, he was frowning and shaking his head disdainfully. “Anh co thich an bun cha khong?” I shouted trying to drop a bit of humour into his day. He stood, expressionless but his eyes were fixed on my wheels. As he stood he swung his baton and stood with legs half-cocked.
Quite clearly a wheel pervert in a uniform.
As I pull up to traffic lights I have to, unforntunately, stop. That’s a law which is fairly new and fading in flexibilty. I have, of course, the utmost respect for the Law but it does give the opportunity for the unheralded and silent wheel pervert to run his seedy little eyes all over my beloved muscular German motorbike. As you stop they roll alongside you and stare down at your wheels. I have no doubt there is one thing on their minds.
I strain my eyes into the distance and will the lights to go green. I try to concentrate on my breakfast to avoid this unwholesome fellow with his grubby little features and blank stare.
Some encounters are more bizarre than others. On one occasion after I zoomed off to escape one such character into the glory of the greenlight I ran straight into another red. I shifted uncomfortably, glanced back and sure enough, like all of life’s irritances, back behind me, nudging his way through the traffic, he came alongside me again. His eyes once more checking my wheels out, back to front, top to bottom. A little treat, no doubt, for his spank bank. The sun belted down for what seemed like the longest red light in history. I sat. My palms sweating. The fumes filling my noise. His stare unrelenting. The green came and I gasped, my bike too. We shot off together around the chicane by DBP and Tran Phu. I released and stretched out only to see in the distance the lights play the devil, and turn red.
I sat, head down, my engine rumbling. He slid past and pulled up just ahead of me this time and glanced back. I, with frustration, heat fatigue and general impatience was just about to launch in to a torrent of abuse. Then I looked into his eyes. He was smiling, shaking his head and frowing with twinkling eyes. A cocktail of an expression unique to Vietnamese.
“Are you following me?” Was my toned down response.
He shook his head and smiled-frowned some more.
“No, with all that smoke I thought you were making Bun Cha!”
The lights changed, this time he shot off. The Traffic edged off after him. My stalker was a dot at the next set of lights, I could see they were green and he zipped through. I sat on my xe may bun cha. Was this why fat children chased me through my neighbourhood? As I started the red lights went on. A policeman whistled at me to reverse behind the white line. A new law and flexible depending on the hour of day and whether or not it’s raining. As he watched me grapple with my xe may bun cha to get it backwards, he was frowning and shaking his head disdainfully. “Anh co thich an bun cha khong?” I shouted trying to drop a bit of humour into his day. He stood, expressionless but his eyes were fixed on my wheels. As he stood he swung his baton and stood with legs half-cocked.
Quite clearly a wheel pervert in a uniform.
Tuesday, July 08, 2003
You’re so early/ late/ handsome/ ugly
“You’re so late!” The cleaner says, as I arrive to work in the carpark approximately eleven minutes later than I did yesterday, which is I presume what she’s judging it on. I picture what I might have done in my erratic routine that might account for it and satisfy her bland curiosity. I stopped for petrol, my bike cut out twice at traffic lights, the internet was running slow and I couldn’t find my keys and my landlord was harassing me for money. Who could I blame?
“The traffic is shocking”, I said.
She appreciates this answer.
“Yes” Now she frowns like she just ate a large lemon. “Yes, the traffic is terrible”
We stand for a second. There is nothing else to say. Now she’s smiling. I smile back. The sun is shining. I can imagine birds singing, despite none being in the vicinity. It’s a nice moment, I think.
“You’re very ugly!” She says.
“Thanks” As I head for the door I'm not surprised to remember I’m not wearing my tie.
As soon as I walk in the door the receptionists clap their hands in delight. They’re obviously bored.
“You’re so early” They shriek with smiles, frowns and glances shooting left, right and centre.
“I…” Once again my day flashes before my eyes. “I… didn’t have lunch”
They don’t like this and frown some more. I stand awkwardly. I didn’t mean to offend anyone. They get back to eating nuts, answering phones and generally ignoring me. I head for my office.
“Hey…” They holler as I walk up the stairs.
“Yes?”
“Today you’re very ugly”
“Thank you”
As I trudge up the stairs I know it’s the lack of a tie that distorts their perception. I head for the booth and prepare to return safe in the knowledge that Clark Kent tore off his tie to emerge as Superman, and that I would soon do the contrary.
“You’re so late!” The cleaner says, as I arrive to work in the carpark approximately eleven minutes later than I did yesterday, which is I presume what she’s judging it on. I picture what I might have done in my erratic routine that might account for it and satisfy her bland curiosity. I stopped for petrol, my bike cut out twice at traffic lights, the internet was running slow and I couldn’t find my keys and my landlord was harassing me for money. Who could I blame?
“The traffic is shocking”, I said.
She appreciates this answer.
“Yes” Now she frowns like she just ate a large lemon. “Yes, the traffic is terrible”
We stand for a second. There is nothing else to say. Now she’s smiling. I smile back. The sun is shining. I can imagine birds singing, despite none being in the vicinity. It’s a nice moment, I think.
“You’re very ugly!” She says.
“Thanks” As I head for the door I'm not surprised to remember I’m not wearing my tie.
As soon as I walk in the door the receptionists clap their hands in delight. They’re obviously bored.
“You’re so early” They shriek with smiles, frowns and glances shooting left, right and centre.
“I…” Once again my day flashes before my eyes. “I… didn’t have lunch”
They don’t like this and frown some more. I stand awkwardly. I didn’t mean to offend anyone. They get back to eating nuts, answering phones and generally ignoring me. I head for my office.
“Hey…” They holler as I walk up the stairs.
“Yes?”
“Today you’re very ugly”
“Thank you”
As I trudge up the stairs I know it’s the lack of a tie that distorts their perception. I head for the booth and prepare to return safe in the knowledge that Clark Kent tore off his tie to emerge as Superman, and that I would soon do the contrary.
Thursday, May 15, 2003
The Strolling Minstrel
The man strolls with an electric guitar. His various side kick street urchins hold his hand-held amp, a straw hat and a bucket of misery. If ever a man in history needed a hug it is this pitiful wandering minstrel of Hanoi. I try to be kind. I see him for what he is. A pain in everyone’s arse. So I approach him with the benign intent of giving him a reassuring hug. There-there, I'll say, life ain’t so bad, come on, put a brave face on it, chin up and please stop singing. Just for a minute while a drink my coffee.
But as I go to open my mouth the youngest street urchin, in charge of finances, appears at my hip and pokes me in the mid-rift. I take a step back. From the stare on his face, his blackened eyes and hollow cheeks it would make you think the plague itself had sprung upon us. He mutters incomprehensibly. My ear strains to grasp his mumble: “Money, money, money.”
ABBA, at the time didn't come to mind. Life isn’t so simple. I pushed him gently aside, claiming impecunity, and point out that my clothes are as tatty as his, and my motorbike belongs in a museum.
But my curiosity is roused, who is this straw-hatted man? I wondered where he lived, for if heroin, whisky and Janis Joplin got Leonard Cohen down, then this fellow must live in a brothel, drink from a barrel in a gutter and shoot up mouldy brown on the hour. So as they dawdle down the road like a group of drunk blind men I decide to follow.
As I walk with them I watch the effect he has on the city, which is not merely unique; it’s breathtaking. This is the city that only lunch time can cause a lull. Only the Police can stop the hub-bub. But the minstrel is a natural.
The music, the most excurciatingly painful kind you can imagine, like a lovesick cat crooning on a torture rack, turns every corner before him. Couples who hear it duck into alleys. People at food stalls stare into their noodles as if they dropped their keys in the bowl. Normally silent men dig deep for conversation. Trendy girls search their phones, read texts or make calls. No one looks him in the eye.
Down the street I see men engage lampposts in conversation; others pretend their bikes are in need of attention. Some stare at their watches as if there is somewhere else to be. Flowers wilt. Babes in arm bawl. Cats wince. Milk curdles. Old Ba’s, who've lived through a generation of war, pour the tra da with trembling hands. There’s no escape. No one is safe from this abject misery.
One wonders what is this man’s intention? Does he think men will drink deeply, women will stop their gossip and one and all will pause to reflect and dwell upon past heartache, half-love or good-old-downright utter sorrow? Does he expcet people to slow dance in the street then chip in a nice crisp note for the privilege?
I followed him all the way to his home as he passed down desserted streets, doing the Police's work by clearing the streets for the dreaded SEA Games.
And then out of the dusk, like a miscalculated sunset, his wife appeared. Her off white dep, fat calves, orangey pyjamas and sour face, altogether the opposite of a reason to come home early from work.
He stood outside as he paid off his urchins, outcasts of a Dickensian school production. Then he sheepishly passed by the missus, avoiding her glare, down the tunnel, like a player sinbinned, heading off for an early shower, anticipating flying crockery in the changing room.
She didn’t look anywhere. Just straight ahead; then I appeared in her vision with a stupid grin and foreign manners, too polite for her to ignore, too dumb to insult.
“So that’s your husband, isn’t it? He’s quite a talent”
I didn’t know how to say ‘Albeit misunderstood’
“Huh! Doi Moi,” she said, “Tourists and money to be made, get out there and make it, I said, buy a Honda Dream or an Angel and work as a Xe Om, or a Bao Ve in the Bun Cha restaurant, but oh no! What does he do? He goes and buys a six string and an amp!”
I said I wished Jon Bon Jovi had bought a motorbike too, but she didn't understand. We sat for tea. We spoke openly. She told me of his shoegazing era and how he spent days in his bedroom reading the poetry of Nguyen Du, eating nothing but coffee beans and smoking cigarettes, until enough was enough, get out she said, get out and stay out. And so he did. And still he does. From dawn to dusk. Everyday like a bad dose of changeable weather that’ll be there when you least want it to be.
So next time you seem him with his bucket of misery and his sidekick street urchins remember that he’s just plying his trade. Poor chap doesn’t have another string to his bow, why he doesn’t even have a motorbike and all he needs in my humble opinion is a hug.
At the very least police should thank him. As he walks through the streets, prices stay low; brawls peter out, traffic moves soberly. The man would be considered a messiah in more old testament, gullible or whimisical times. An unsung hero in our very midst. Just like Jesus once was.
The man strolls with an electric guitar. His various side kick street urchins hold his hand-held amp, a straw hat and a bucket of misery. If ever a man in history needed a hug it is this pitiful wandering minstrel of Hanoi. I try to be kind. I see him for what he is. A pain in everyone’s arse. So I approach him with the benign intent of giving him a reassuring hug. There-there, I'll say, life ain’t so bad, come on, put a brave face on it, chin up and please stop singing. Just for a minute while a drink my coffee.
But as I go to open my mouth the youngest street urchin, in charge of finances, appears at my hip and pokes me in the mid-rift. I take a step back. From the stare on his face, his blackened eyes and hollow cheeks it would make you think the plague itself had sprung upon us. He mutters incomprehensibly. My ear strains to grasp his mumble: “Money, money, money.”
ABBA, at the time didn't come to mind. Life isn’t so simple. I pushed him gently aside, claiming impecunity, and point out that my clothes are as tatty as his, and my motorbike belongs in a museum.
But my curiosity is roused, who is this straw-hatted man? I wondered where he lived, for if heroin, whisky and Janis Joplin got Leonard Cohen down, then this fellow must live in a brothel, drink from a barrel in a gutter and shoot up mouldy brown on the hour. So as they dawdle down the road like a group of drunk blind men I decide to follow.
As I walk with them I watch the effect he has on the city, which is not merely unique; it’s breathtaking. This is the city that only lunch time can cause a lull. Only the Police can stop the hub-bub. But the minstrel is a natural.
The music, the most excurciatingly painful kind you can imagine, like a lovesick cat crooning on a torture rack, turns every corner before him. Couples who hear it duck into alleys. People at food stalls stare into their noodles as if they dropped their keys in the bowl. Normally silent men dig deep for conversation. Trendy girls search their phones, read texts or make calls. No one looks him in the eye.
Down the street I see men engage lampposts in conversation; others pretend their bikes are in need of attention. Some stare at their watches as if there is somewhere else to be. Flowers wilt. Babes in arm bawl. Cats wince. Milk curdles. Old Ba’s, who've lived through a generation of war, pour the tra da with trembling hands. There’s no escape. No one is safe from this abject misery.
One wonders what is this man’s intention? Does he think men will drink deeply, women will stop their gossip and one and all will pause to reflect and dwell upon past heartache, half-love or good-old-downright utter sorrow? Does he expcet people to slow dance in the street then chip in a nice crisp note for the privilege?
I followed him all the way to his home as he passed down desserted streets, doing the Police's work by clearing the streets for the dreaded SEA Games.
And then out of the dusk, like a miscalculated sunset, his wife appeared. Her off white dep, fat calves, orangey pyjamas and sour face, altogether the opposite of a reason to come home early from work.
He stood outside as he paid off his urchins, outcasts of a Dickensian school production. Then he sheepishly passed by the missus, avoiding her glare, down the tunnel, like a player sinbinned, heading off for an early shower, anticipating flying crockery in the changing room.
She didn’t look anywhere. Just straight ahead; then I appeared in her vision with a stupid grin and foreign manners, too polite for her to ignore, too dumb to insult.
“So that’s your husband, isn’t it? He’s quite a talent”
I didn’t know how to say ‘Albeit misunderstood’
“Huh! Doi Moi,” she said, “Tourists and money to be made, get out there and make it, I said, buy a Honda Dream or an Angel and work as a Xe Om, or a Bao Ve in the Bun Cha restaurant, but oh no! What does he do? He goes and buys a six string and an amp!”
I said I wished Jon Bon Jovi had bought a motorbike too, but she didn't understand. We sat for tea. We spoke openly. She told me of his shoegazing era and how he spent days in his bedroom reading the poetry of Nguyen Du, eating nothing but coffee beans and smoking cigarettes, until enough was enough, get out she said, get out and stay out. And so he did. And still he does. From dawn to dusk. Everyday like a bad dose of changeable weather that’ll be there when you least want it to be.
So next time you seem him with his bucket of misery and his sidekick street urchins remember that he’s just plying his trade. Poor chap doesn’t have another string to his bow, why he doesn’t even have a motorbike and all he needs in my humble opinion is a hug.
At the very least police should thank him. As he walks through the streets, prices stay low; brawls peter out, traffic moves soberly. The man would be considered a messiah in more old testament, gullible or whimisical times. An unsung hero in our very midst. Just like Jesus once was.
Tuesday, April 01, 2003
I am not a madame, I am a monsieur
If there’s one thing that gets on my goat and leaves me stamping up and down, seething, lobster red, spitting and cussing like a loon, it is the frequent misconception that I am a woman. Not just that, but a French one, too. Madame, they say, madame!
I present myself in the basics: Tall, capable of growing a beard, short hair, no noticeable curves, not accustomed to wearing dresses, hairs on my shoulders and a middle stump to beat the band. Why surely any fool can spot me for a monsieur? Or mister, as they say around my way.
So I say to these people “I’m a dan ong ma! Toi la un monsieur- hieu khong?” Perhaps it’s the fury, my manly wrath, but most likely it’s the incomprehensible Viet Phap-lish that sends them scuttling away like crabs under rocks. Either way I’m pleased to have see them off without blood being spilled. But it never stops.
As one lot vanish, others emerge and dangle bracelets in my face. “Madame! Madame!” they coo. How can they not notice my fine purposeful manly stride? I bite my lip and try to remain focused on my mission to get to a café without making a scene. But still they come - pulling out more ladylike wares - necklaces, scarves and fans.
Why it’s no wonder I’ve taken to the drink with a vengance. And after all the drink it’s no wonder I end up like all the other monsieurs in nightclubs. I see them stagggering around. Drunk. Legs a kimbo. Leery stares. Dribbling into shot glasses. They make quite a picture, those monsieurs.
So I step onto the dance floor and try to get in amongst it and compete for them ladies. There, for a moment, I’m back. Surrounded by eyes like badgers in the backwoods. Yes, je ne suis pas dan ba, khong phai le madame, monsieur day roi! I’m anyones! But, like a bad teenage party, suddenly the music is pulled and the show is over and I’m outside rooting through my pockets in search of the elusive bike ticket, which late at night is as precious as winning lottery numbers.
But outside, again, the horror continues. A man suddenly skulks behind me and whispers ‘Madame!’ with a mischievous air. As if he's goadng me. I shoo him off and continue my search for the ticket. By now a group of women are around me, smiling, and saying "madame, madame". What do they want? A sisterly hug? Lipstick? A girly chat in the toilets? It can’t be advice on baggy trousers. Can't they see I'm a monsiuer!
Finally after finding the ticket I burst off on my, large, macho, manly bike in disgust, hoping that that might, at the last, assert my masculinity. Maybe they’d realise their mistake. I imagine the chatter in my absence. ‘Oh, that wasn’t a madame, why it was a monsieur.’ ‘Oh really? Very hard to tell these days, no disrespect to either sex.’ ‘I’ll say.’
Back at my very own barely penetrable fortress I call home a neighbourhood moocher passes as I fumble with my keys in the dark. He spots me and as it’s two am he has only one thing to say. ‘Madame! Al-lo! Madame!’
Those words, like the memory of a kick in the teeth, or a trip to the dentist, screech against my ears before I fall to sleep. Perhaps I should, as they say, beef myself up. Or then again maybe I should just try to sleep. Why every dan ong, monsieur, mister, geezer needs his beauty sleep.
If there’s one thing that gets on my goat and leaves me stamping up and down, seething, lobster red, spitting and cussing like a loon, it is the frequent misconception that I am a woman. Not just that, but a French one, too. Madame, they say, madame!
I present myself in the basics: Tall, capable of growing a beard, short hair, no noticeable curves, not accustomed to wearing dresses, hairs on my shoulders and a middle stump to beat the band. Why surely any fool can spot me for a monsieur? Or mister, as they say around my way.
So I say to these people “I’m a dan ong ma! Toi la un monsieur- hieu khong?” Perhaps it’s the fury, my manly wrath, but most likely it’s the incomprehensible Viet Phap-lish that sends them scuttling away like crabs under rocks. Either way I’m pleased to have see them off without blood being spilled. But it never stops.
As one lot vanish, others emerge and dangle bracelets in my face. “Madame! Madame!” they coo. How can they not notice my fine purposeful manly stride? I bite my lip and try to remain focused on my mission to get to a café without making a scene. But still they come - pulling out more ladylike wares - necklaces, scarves and fans.
Why it’s no wonder I’ve taken to the drink with a vengance. And after all the drink it’s no wonder I end up like all the other monsieurs in nightclubs. I see them stagggering around. Drunk. Legs a kimbo. Leery stares. Dribbling into shot glasses. They make quite a picture, those monsieurs.
So I step onto the dance floor and try to get in amongst it and compete for them ladies. There, for a moment, I’m back. Surrounded by eyes like badgers in the backwoods. Yes, je ne suis pas dan ba, khong phai le madame, monsieur day roi! I’m anyones! But, like a bad teenage party, suddenly the music is pulled and the show is over and I’m outside rooting through my pockets in search of the elusive bike ticket, which late at night is as precious as winning lottery numbers.
But outside, again, the horror continues. A man suddenly skulks behind me and whispers ‘Madame!’ with a mischievous air. As if he's goadng me. I shoo him off and continue my search for the ticket. By now a group of women are around me, smiling, and saying "madame, madame". What do they want? A sisterly hug? Lipstick? A girly chat in the toilets? It can’t be advice on baggy trousers. Can't they see I'm a monsiuer!
Finally after finding the ticket I burst off on my, large, macho, manly bike in disgust, hoping that that might, at the last, assert my masculinity. Maybe they’d realise their mistake. I imagine the chatter in my absence. ‘Oh, that wasn’t a madame, why it was a monsieur.’ ‘Oh really? Very hard to tell these days, no disrespect to either sex.’ ‘I’ll say.’
Back at my very own barely penetrable fortress I call home a neighbourhood moocher passes as I fumble with my keys in the dark. He spots me and as it’s two am he has only one thing to say. ‘Madame! Al-lo! Madame!’
Those words, like the memory of a kick in the teeth, or a trip to the dentist, screech against my ears before I fall to sleep. Perhaps I should, as they say, beef myself up. Or then again maybe I should just try to sleep. Why every dan ong, monsieur, mister, geezer needs his beauty sleep.
Thursday, March 20, 2003
Crytoscopophilia
Why does everyone keep staring in my house, as if I’d redecorated it lavishly, or deep-bedded secrets had carelessly been left for all to glimpse at in the hallway? The way they crane their necks around the door you’d swear the truth itself was spread across the interior.
I keep cursing at my neighbours, yet they barely seem to notice.
I also keep chasing boys down the street kicking them up their arses after they stroll by and dismissively point inside my house, as I toddle down the steps, and say to themselves, that’s where the smelly guy lives, as if I can’t hear them loud and clear. Watch your mouth! I roar at them through the streets.
This show of emotion and carry-on has of course given me something of a name for myself; which in turn means more people peering their heads in to catch a glimpse of the innards of a domesticated man. Now hordes of children gather round the windows as I fry my omelettes. ‘F*** off!’ I roar. I jump out the door and scream. They scream in delight and tear off down and around the corner. They believe its some kind of game. Just as I get back to flipping my omelette they come back, grins cocked and ready. I recall doing the same to a gorilla in Dublin Zoo when I was 9.
I found an old woman peering through my shutters when I got back last night.
‘Excuse me’ I said respectfully.
‘Tell me’ She said curiously, ‘Is this where the mad fellow lives?’
People ring the doorbell just to see me emerge. People wait on my steps just to say hello. I have become a notorious spectacle. I just can’t figure out why. Everything came to a head when I saw a man collecting tickets and then beginning a speech introducing my house and a quick history of myself. It appears I was on the tour of local history and curios, along with the plane that crashed around the corner during the War.
‘Behold…’ He bellowed with great dramatic effect, ‘The house of the solitary man who we know so little of.’
I heard questions fired at him.
‘How tall is he?’
‘What does he eat?’
‘Does he wear clothes?’
‘Is there a woman in his life?’
The next thing I knew I had him on the ground, my veins were pulsating, my teeth gritted, my hand was on his throat, I had him pinned to the ground and was intent on killing him. Then I saw an ear drop beside me on the ground and I realised it was my own. Thirty or so other civilians were coming down on me with sticks, stones and fists. I looked at my own blood as I lay on face down in it, I felt life spilling from me and I wondered would I live to see my tax back.
I ended up in hospital, alive, if not well. I had been wrapped in bandages and plaster from head to foot. Everyday the nurses came in and spoon-fed me like I was a million years old and as delicate as a spider’s web. They looked at me with bland sympathetic eyes. I appreciated the anonymity, being wrapped so comprehensively.
Before long they debandaged me, to some degree, and sent me home on the city link bus with no crutches. I felt like asking one of the nurses out, yet I felt silly, as she’d never even seen my face.
When I arrived home I found my house to be there as expected. Where else could it be, I suppose? I stepped inside and closed the door gently as if I was tiptoeing gingerly into my room trying not to disturb my parents. I looked out the window and saw a labourer gaping at me with a huge grin on his face.
I wondered should I add another floor to my house. There I wouldn’t be spotted, for a little while, until he climbed the scaffolding.
Monday, March 03, 2003
Vagrant - Another story
People in this city are starting to get a reputation for themselves. With me, at any rate.
They stroll past nonchalantly and whisper audibly to themsleves, “Vagrant”
I twist and swivel in heightened fury. “Eh?”
They stroll away, hands in the air, as if to say, don’t blame me, it’s not my fault, you’re the one dressed in second hand clothes.
Yesterday two kids cycled past and bellowed “Yello Vagrant!”
I chased them for two blocks. Their silly giggles edged away gradually as I huffed and puffed behind.
Then, salt in the wound, on the way home, as I walked all sweaty and flustered, a man with his family cruised past at a snails pace in their stately car. Their windows were rolled down. The kids stuck their heads out like thirtsy pups. The father glanced at me strolling alongside and bellowed in a baritone-boom; “Vagrant!”
His family looked and laughed. Giggled and gassed. Shrieked and squealed. I stood in disbelief. Enough was enough. Not from a family man would I tolerate that.
I sprinted around in front of their automobile forcing him to screech to a halt. They stared in a horror, disbelieving this shredded personality was making a stand.
‘Look here! Youze!” I roared with my head pumping red “I am no vagrant. A vagrant is by definition a man of dishevelled appearance of no fixed abode. I’ll have you feckless feckers know, I have a house, no mansion I’ll admit, but it’s a place to call home, so kindly refrain from calling me a vagrant, right?”
The father held his hands in the air and nodded slowly, as if to say, o.k. Just don’t touch my family. The mother looked away as if it wasn’t happening. For a second I imagined her returning home and scolding her husband for his mindless insensitivity. The children hid behind the front seats except the youngest whose mouth hung in horror.
“Everyone got that?” I said. The father smiled forcibly, his face said diffuse, diffuse! I stepped aside and let them pass. Victory was mine.
The father fumbled with his gears and bundled away. I stood basking in my moment. That would shut those fuckers up for a while.
As their car headed away one of the kids stuck their heads out the roof window and shouted “Bum!”
I could hear them burst into peels of laughter as they wheeled around a corner. Even if I could catch them I had, sadly, no counter argument to that particular point. I turned away fearing to catch another souls eye all the way home.
People in this city are starting to get a reputation for themselves. With me, at any rate.
They stroll past nonchalantly and whisper audibly to themsleves, “Vagrant”
I twist and swivel in heightened fury. “Eh?”
They stroll away, hands in the air, as if to say, don’t blame me, it’s not my fault, you’re the one dressed in second hand clothes.
Yesterday two kids cycled past and bellowed “Yello Vagrant!”
I chased them for two blocks. Their silly giggles edged away gradually as I huffed and puffed behind.
Then, salt in the wound, on the way home, as I walked all sweaty and flustered, a man with his family cruised past at a snails pace in their stately car. Their windows were rolled down. The kids stuck their heads out like thirtsy pups. The father glanced at me strolling alongside and bellowed in a baritone-boom; “Vagrant!”
His family looked and laughed. Giggled and gassed. Shrieked and squealed. I stood in disbelief. Enough was enough. Not from a family man would I tolerate that.
I sprinted around in front of their automobile forcing him to screech to a halt. They stared in a horror, disbelieving this shredded personality was making a stand.
‘Look here! Youze!” I roared with my head pumping red “I am no vagrant. A vagrant is by definition a man of dishevelled appearance of no fixed abode. I’ll have you feckless feckers know, I have a house, no mansion I’ll admit, but it’s a place to call home, so kindly refrain from calling me a vagrant, right?”
The father held his hands in the air and nodded slowly, as if to say, o.k. Just don’t touch my family. The mother looked away as if it wasn’t happening. For a second I imagined her returning home and scolding her husband for his mindless insensitivity. The children hid behind the front seats except the youngest whose mouth hung in horror.
“Everyone got that?” I said. The father smiled forcibly, his face said diffuse, diffuse! I stepped aside and let them pass. Victory was mine.
The father fumbled with his gears and bundled away. I stood basking in my moment. That would shut those fuckers up for a while.
As their car headed away one of the kids stuck their heads out the roof window and shouted “Bum!”
I could hear them burst into peels of laughter as they wheeled around a corner. Even if I could catch them I had, sadly, no counter argument to that particular point. I turned away fearing to catch another souls eye all the way home.
Wednesday, February 12, 2003
Chip/ Chips
When you are young the world is flat and simple. Gradually this impression fades until you are left wondering how even the easily comprehended can be so utterly bewildering.
Take for example chips. Every Tuesday night I ate chips as a lad. Potato, I believe, cooked in oil, known as frying, and served on a plate. Add salt, vinegar or pepper to taste, or for the true romantic, Hp sauce or ketchup. Knock yourself out.
Then you grow up, get a passport and travel the world. You discover mayo, Dijon mustard and seventeen other kinds of dips. You go to America and discover that chips are crisps and the versa is not vice, chips are in fact fries. At least sometimes.
So return home, confused and become disillusioned with your country. See how people devour chips with curry sauce, in between sliced pan and even pay for the crispy leftovers. Decide they’re a pack of boors and sots.
So leave. Go to Europe. Home of culture and sophistication. Eat French chips. Go to Brussels. Get punched by a biker who says that frites were invented in Belgium. Toddle over the border and eat chips with sate sauce in Amsterdam.
Go to an Australian restaurant that serves wedges. Make a bad joke that you want a sand wedge. Get served a sandwich. Leave the restaurant depressed. Decide that Asia is the place for you.
End up in Vietnam and settle down away from the West where the chip is dead and forgotten; along with roller skates and vinyl records. Walk upstairs to a café and see written very clearly and simply in chalk: Chips. Smile. Order. Sit down.
Wait patiently with a napkin tucked into your shirt, a fork and knife in a tissue which you have no intention of using. Sit looking hungry.
Then your neighbouring table desperate for friendship will say “I couldn’t help hearing you ordered chips…”
Try to avoid eye contact but realise escape is impossible
“They’re not really chips…”
Prepare to scream. Close your eyes.
“Why they’re not even wedges…”
Start to sweat. Look for another table.
“They’re quintessentially buffalo fries”
Run and jump off the tiny balcony kissing the eccentric furniture and your chips goodbye. It isn’t worth the pain.
copyright connla who would like you to note that chip(s) is defined in the 1978 Oxford dictionary as a long, slender piece of potato fried
When you are young the world is flat and simple. Gradually this impression fades until you are left wondering how even the easily comprehended can be so utterly bewildering.
Take for example chips. Every Tuesday night I ate chips as a lad. Potato, I believe, cooked in oil, known as frying, and served on a plate. Add salt, vinegar or pepper to taste, or for the true romantic, Hp sauce or ketchup. Knock yourself out.
Then you grow up, get a passport and travel the world. You discover mayo, Dijon mustard and seventeen other kinds of dips. You go to America and discover that chips are crisps and the versa is not vice, chips are in fact fries. At least sometimes.
So return home, confused and become disillusioned with your country. See how people devour chips with curry sauce, in between sliced pan and even pay for the crispy leftovers. Decide they’re a pack of boors and sots.
So leave. Go to Europe. Home of culture and sophistication. Eat French chips. Go to Brussels. Get punched by a biker who says that frites were invented in Belgium. Toddle over the border and eat chips with sate sauce in Amsterdam.
Go to an Australian restaurant that serves wedges. Make a bad joke that you want a sand wedge. Get served a sandwich. Leave the restaurant depressed. Decide that Asia is the place for you.
End up in Vietnam and settle down away from the West where the chip is dead and forgotten; along with roller skates and vinyl records. Walk upstairs to a café and see written very clearly and simply in chalk: Chips. Smile. Order. Sit down.
Wait patiently with a napkin tucked into your shirt, a fork and knife in a tissue which you have no intention of using. Sit looking hungry.
Then your neighbouring table desperate for friendship will say “I couldn’t help hearing you ordered chips…”
Try to avoid eye contact but realise escape is impossible
“They’re not really chips…”
Prepare to scream. Close your eyes.
“Why they’re not even wedges…”
Start to sweat. Look for another table.
“They’re quintessentially buffalo fries”
Run and jump off the tiny balcony kissing the eccentric furniture and your chips goodbye. It isn’t worth the pain.
copyright connla who would like you to note that chip(s) is defined in the 1978 Oxford dictionary as a long, slender piece of potato fried
Thursday, January 09, 2003
I Have to Measure My Head
Picture conical hats. Picture orchids and romantic strolls around Ho Guom Lake. See Uncle Ho. Engage the locals in conversation. Speak of industry, hardship and resilience. Haggle. Get ripped off. Take a saunter through the Old Quarter, pay double for a shoeshine and calculate it still only cost 30p. Marvel at it all.
Yet when you get home there is only one guarantee, first you’ll speak of the traffic. It’s all everyone here speaks of. It is our daily bread.
It all comes on vehicles large and small. Juggernaut trucks, speeding taxis, cyclos, soft gliding bicycles and a million or so motorbikes.
I take my life in my own hands twice daily. I can’t find a helmet to fit my head so I drive gingerly, once in the forenoon, and once in early evening. Sometimes I have to pull to the side of the road and take a deep breath. Then I plunge in once more.
As I weave in and out of the mess I see post-accident scenes. Police pulling fights apart. Blood stains and shattered glass. Crowds of onlookers gaping. It always reminds me, I have to measure my head.
The police remind me too, as they measure how many centimetres the bikes are from the sides of the road. Then they chalk around the bikes as if they are corpses in a homicide. People will be fined for moving their bikes before the Police arrive. In one instance I witnessed a man trying to get out from under his bike being pushed back to the ground by the Police who chalked around him while he lay beneath. The man looked more bewildered than a new born baby. I wondered what happens when a truck overturns. Which reminded me I have to measure my head.
Then I met a friend, a photographer, who tells me he spent an evening in casualty at the Viet Duc Hospital. He told me of his horror as hundreds of people were dragged past him. Grazed, bloody, shredded and teary. Some were wheeled past in a coma or perhaps worse.
“Yes…” Explained a doctor, “If the head travels at a certain velocity, and a certain angle, straight at the ground the person will die”
My friend told me all this in Puku café on Hang Trong. He was wearing a helmet and drinking scotch. I explained he was safe. We were on the second floor. He snapped at me like a war veteran. “This thing could save my life”
I looked at my hand. I had to measure my head. It was written there. Underlined twice for emphasis.
People ask me why I don’t have a helmet. I tell them my head is rather large. A family legacy. We are all plagued with healthily sized skulls.
Before I had taken some walks down Helmet St. known to the locals as Pho Hue. I politely asked if I could try on their biggest helmets. I had no luck. A strong mean looking woman emerged rolling up her sleeves. Allow me, she said. With scant regard for my ears or scalp she succeeded in squashing a helmet on my head. I could hardly breathe.
“It fits!” She said smiling hopefully, “Very stylish!” I motioned her to take it off. It took her and her friends 15 minutes to get it off in a scene straight out of the Ladybird classic ‘The Giant turnip.’
That was when I e-mailed my father. How can I get a helmet to fit my head? The reply came swiftly. He’d found a website. Helmets-are-us.com. They make helmets for all shapes and sizes in America, where else. I’ll order one, my father wrote, but you have to…
I had to measure my head. I had no measuring tape. Just a ruler. So I went to a tailor, on Tailor St., Hang Gai to the locals. I looked up measure in the dictionary before I left home.
“You want some trousers?” He smiled at me holding his cashmeres. “No my head, I want to measure my head” A cashmere hat? He looked at me as if I was slightly dumb.
“I’m not stupid, I’m willing to pay you to measure my head, no cashmere”
He shook his head and made a hasty phone call. I over heard him telling some one there was a strange westerner in the shop. Very quickly a woman arrived. It was his English speaking daughter bursting at the seams to show off her exemplary English.
“How can I help you?”
“Yes, I would like you to measure my head”
“Yes, I know,” She replied briskly, “You want to make a hat”
I have learnt sometimes its best not to fight.
So now I know. 65 cms. That is the size of the hat so therefore also the size of my head. The helmet has been ordered. My father assures me it will be here in no time. Now all I have to do is avoid falling towards the ground at a certain rate of velocity at a certain angle, as my new linen hat won’t save me. That’s a guarantee.
Picture conical hats. Picture orchids and romantic strolls around Ho Guom Lake. See Uncle Ho. Engage the locals in conversation. Speak of industry, hardship and resilience. Haggle. Get ripped off. Take a saunter through the Old Quarter, pay double for a shoeshine and calculate it still only cost 30p. Marvel at it all.
Yet when you get home there is only one guarantee, first you’ll speak of the traffic. It’s all everyone here speaks of. It is our daily bread.
It all comes on vehicles large and small. Juggernaut trucks, speeding taxis, cyclos, soft gliding bicycles and a million or so motorbikes.
I take my life in my own hands twice daily. I can’t find a helmet to fit my head so I drive gingerly, once in the forenoon, and once in early evening. Sometimes I have to pull to the side of the road and take a deep breath. Then I plunge in once more.
As I weave in and out of the mess I see post-accident scenes. Police pulling fights apart. Blood stains and shattered glass. Crowds of onlookers gaping. It always reminds me, I have to measure my head.
The police remind me too, as they measure how many centimetres the bikes are from the sides of the road. Then they chalk around the bikes as if they are corpses in a homicide. People will be fined for moving their bikes before the Police arrive. In one instance I witnessed a man trying to get out from under his bike being pushed back to the ground by the Police who chalked around him while he lay beneath. The man looked more bewildered than a new born baby. I wondered what happens when a truck overturns. Which reminded me I have to measure my head.
Then I met a friend, a photographer, who tells me he spent an evening in casualty at the Viet Duc Hospital. He told me of his horror as hundreds of people were dragged past him. Grazed, bloody, shredded and teary. Some were wheeled past in a coma or perhaps worse.
“Yes…” Explained a doctor, “If the head travels at a certain velocity, and a certain angle, straight at the ground the person will die”
My friend told me all this in Puku café on Hang Trong. He was wearing a helmet and drinking scotch. I explained he was safe. We were on the second floor. He snapped at me like a war veteran. “This thing could save my life”
I looked at my hand. I had to measure my head. It was written there. Underlined twice for emphasis.
People ask me why I don’t have a helmet. I tell them my head is rather large. A family legacy. We are all plagued with healthily sized skulls.
Before I had taken some walks down Helmet St. known to the locals as Pho Hue. I politely asked if I could try on their biggest helmets. I had no luck. A strong mean looking woman emerged rolling up her sleeves. Allow me, she said. With scant regard for my ears or scalp she succeeded in squashing a helmet on my head. I could hardly breathe.
“It fits!” She said smiling hopefully, “Very stylish!” I motioned her to take it off. It took her and her friends 15 minutes to get it off in a scene straight out of the Ladybird classic ‘The Giant turnip.’
That was when I e-mailed my father. How can I get a helmet to fit my head? The reply came swiftly. He’d found a website. Helmets-are-us.com. They make helmets for all shapes and sizes in America, where else. I’ll order one, my father wrote, but you have to…
I had to measure my head. I had no measuring tape. Just a ruler. So I went to a tailor, on Tailor St., Hang Gai to the locals. I looked up measure in the dictionary before I left home.
“You want some trousers?” He smiled at me holding his cashmeres. “No my head, I want to measure my head” A cashmere hat? He looked at me as if I was slightly dumb.
“I’m not stupid, I’m willing to pay you to measure my head, no cashmere”
He shook his head and made a hasty phone call. I over heard him telling some one there was a strange westerner in the shop. Very quickly a woman arrived. It was his English speaking daughter bursting at the seams to show off her exemplary English.
“How can I help you?”
“Yes, I would like you to measure my head”
“Yes, I know,” She replied briskly, “You want to make a hat”
I have learnt sometimes its best not to fight.
So now I know. 65 cms. That is the size of the hat so therefore also the size of my head. The helmet has been ordered. My father assures me it will be here in no time. Now all I have to do is avoid falling towards the ground at a certain rate of velocity at a certain angle, as my new linen hat won’t save me. That’s a guarantee.
Tây ba lô (My life as a westerner with baggage)
As I saunter or drive through the streets in search of culture, or usually just coffee, sometimes I hear the locals say to each other “Look! A westerner with a bag!” ‘Tây ba lô’ in Vietnamese.
This can be translated as simply ‘Backpacker’. The term is commonly heard since backpackers are still, despite their abundance, found to be a novelty. The general attitude is that all westerners are rich. So why do they dress so shabbily?
Tây ba lô are considered odd as they are clearly cheapskates, eating nothing but spinach and drinking the grittiest beer in town, clinging to their budgets for dear life. Their dress sense, too, is considered to be ridiculous, usually Red Bull shirts and fisherman trousers, all the rage down Ko San road in Bangkok. Thus, to be called a Tây ba lô, especially if you're a local resident, is actually rather derogatory. Every time I hear a local refer to me as a Tây ba lô I wheel on my heel and show that I understand and they will scuttle away giggling: “The westerner with a bag understands Vietnamese!”
As I pulled up to the traffic lights on Dien Bien Phu street, dressed for work, with a tie, my shirt tucked in and polished shoes, I heard a young boy shout “Tây ba lô,!” I raised my eyebrows and shook my head. “Actually, I’m a working man, not a tourist," I said in Vietnamese smugly. "This is a schoolbag” I left him and everyone else in a trail of smoke. One – nil.
The very next day I was walking to the shop and a man, completely by himself, blurted to his chest, “Tây ba lô”. I turned around and said "Hey, if I’m westerner with a bag where’s my bag?" He just shrugged his shoulders and walked away as if the question was both stupid and irrelevant. An important lesson. Being a westerner with a bag is a state of mind.
My house is near Ho Chi Minh's Mauseleum down an alley or two. Further past my house in the heart of Ngoc Ha village lies what's left of the B 52, which crashed here in 1972 and is described as a Historical Vestige. Appropriately enough its like a crust left from a hefty sandwich. I wonder what the locals’ reaction was to any surviving pilots, who landed in the area. “Westerners with helmets and parachutes”?
Everyday one or two crafty tourists manage to find their way past my house in to the labyrinth of lanes and alleys to have a look. Perhaps that’s why my neighbours refer to my place as ‘The house of the westerners with bags’. I often meet the tourists and set them on the right path. Also, plenty of visitors have crashed here on a Southeast Asian tour. So perhaps the locals see the house as a giant manifestation of the bag itself. A kind of mothership where backpacks recharge before further peregrinations. It makes sense, sort of.
The other day I went looking for my own backpack and realised it had disappeared. Or perhaps I left it somewhere on my last laundry run. Paranoid, I pictured a delighted local showing it off to his friends as a trophy. "Behold, the Tây's ba lô!" At first I panicked. Did this mean I had been de-bagged? Had I been rendered impotent? As though someone pinched Shakespeare’s quill, Christy Moore’s guitar or Uncle Ho’s ciggies -- what's a Tây ba lô without a ba lô? Where did that leave me?
Then I realised it was exactly what I wanted. I was no longer officially a Tây ba lô. I felt liberated. I sat on Pho Ly Thai To and joked with the shoeshine boys that I am now a westerner with no bag but two trouser pockets. They seemed to appreciate the humour.
As I sat waiting outside Au Lac Café a group of five star foreigners rolled up to the Metropole Hotel and clambered out.
“Westerners," observed one of the shoe shine boys.
“Westerners with bags” I reminded him of the bags they had.
They collectively scorned me.
“They have suitcases! (Tay nay co va li co ma).”
Another lesson had been learned. You are what you carry. So as I pack my bags for a Christmas return to Dublin I realise am minus a backpack and minus a suitcase. So when I pull up to the red lights on my way to work and I hear the shy boys and giggly girls say “Tây ba lô” I shall raise my finger and correct them thus: “I am a westerner with two schoolbags, a satchel and three plastic bags.” Bit of a mouthful, but fair’s fair.
Henceforth, the world is simpler. There are backpackers, suitcasers and those fumbling in between fighting grimly to be neither of the above. Myself, ‘The westerner with a variety of bags’, included.
Copyright Connla Stokes 2002
As I saunter or drive through the streets in search of culture, or usually just coffee, sometimes I hear the locals say to each other “Look! A westerner with a bag!” ‘Tây ba lô’ in Vietnamese.
This can be translated as simply ‘Backpacker’. The term is commonly heard since backpackers are still, despite their abundance, found to be a novelty. The general attitude is that all westerners are rich. So why do they dress so shabbily?
Tây ba lô are considered odd as they are clearly cheapskates, eating nothing but spinach and drinking the grittiest beer in town, clinging to their budgets for dear life. Their dress sense, too, is considered to be ridiculous, usually Red Bull shirts and fisherman trousers, all the rage down Ko San road in Bangkok. Thus, to be called a Tây ba lô, especially if you're a local resident, is actually rather derogatory. Every time I hear a local refer to me as a Tây ba lô I wheel on my heel and show that I understand and they will scuttle away giggling: “The westerner with a bag understands Vietnamese!”
As I pulled up to the traffic lights on Dien Bien Phu street, dressed for work, with a tie, my shirt tucked in and polished shoes, I heard a young boy shout “Tây ba lô,!” I raised my eyebrows and shook my head. “Actually, I’m a working man, not a tourist," I said in Vietnamese smugly. "This is a schoolbag” I left him and everyone else in a trail of smoke. One – nil.
The very next day I was walking to the shop and a man, completely by himself, blurted to his chest, “Tây ba lô”. I turned around and said "Hey, if I’m westerner with a bag where’s my bag?" He just shrugged his shoulders and walked away as if the question was both stupid and irrelevant. An important lesson. Being a westerner with a bag is a state of mind.
My house is near Ho Chi Minh's Mauseleum down an alley or two. Further past my house in the heart of Ngoc Ha village lies what's left of the B 52, which crashed here in 1972 and is described as a Historical Vestige. Appropriately enough its like a crust left from a hefty sandwich. I wonder what the locals’ reaction was to any surviving pilots, who landed in the area. “Westerners with helmets and parachutes”?
Everyday one or two crafty tourists manage to find their way past my house in to the labyrinth of lanes and alleys to have a look. Perhaps that’s why my neighbours refer to my place as ‘The house of the westerners with bags’. I often meet the tourists and set them on the right path. Also, plenty of visitors have crashed here on a Southeast Asian tour. So perhaps the locals see the house as a giant manifestation of the bag itself. A kind of mothership where backpacks recharge before further peregrinations. It makes sense, sort of.
The other day I went looking for my own backpack and realised it had disappeared. Or perhaps I left it somewhere on my last laundry run. Paranoid, I pictured a delighted local showing it off to his friends as a trophy. "Behold, the Tây's ba lô!" At first I panicked. Did this mean I had been de-bagged? Had I been rendered impotent? As though someone pinched Shakespeare’s quill, Christy Moore’s guitar or Uncle Ho’s ciggies -- what's a Tây ba lô without a ba lô? Where did that leave me?
Then I realised it was exactly what I wanted. I was no longer officially a Tây ba lô. I felt liberated. I sat on Pho Ly Thai To and joked with the shoeshine boys that I am now a westerner with no bag but two trouser pockets. They seemed to appreciate the humour.
As I sat waiting outside Au Lac Café a group of five star foreigners rolled up to the Metropole Hotel and clambered out.
“Westerners," observed one of the shoe shine boys.
“Westerners with bags” I reminded him of the bags they had.
They collectively scorned me.
“They have suitcases! (Tay nay co va li co ma).”
Another lesson had been learned. You are what you carry. So as I pack my bags for a Christmas return to Dublin I realise am minus a backpack and minus a suitcase. So when I pull up to the red lights on my way to work and I hear the shy boys and giggly girls say “Tây ba lô” I shall raise my finger and correct them thus: “I am a westerner with two schoolbags, a satchel and three plastic bags.” Bit of a mouthful, but fair’s fair.
Henceforth, the world is simpler. There are backpackers, suitcasers and those fumbling in between fighting grimly to be neither of the above. Myself, ‘The westerner with a variety of bags’, included.
Copyright Connla Stokes 2002
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