A poorly researched analysis of Vietnamese pronouns
I overheard one foreign fellow in a café speaking of how he had become a chu (uncle) in recent times. Of course anyone can be a chu. All you need is a chau (niece/ nephew/ whippersnapper) to call you one.
He was referring of course to the more depressing fact that now he is in his late thirties all the young, nubile ladies around town, serving him his coffee, or beer, (as if collectively) had elevated him, or relegated, or shall we say banished him, to the status of being an older man. To them he was no longer an anh (older brother/ male friend). He was an uncle.
“Hat’s off to the Vietnamese,” he said taking it on the chin, “They know how to make those old rascals with idle hands behave themselves.”
Every man must face the day, some sooner than others, when the grey flecks appear, the crow’s feet deepen, the belly goes and you start buying string vests. Then the young ladies will miss your glances, thank heavens for them, and you must resign yourself to games of Chinese checkers in Lenin Park, shuffle off to the bia hoi or, for the more athletic specimen, whack a shuttlecock in the close proximity of traffic.
The words, or phrasing is somewhat weakened in translation, but allow me to demonstrate the potential power the words Chao Anh (eg: Hello young buck) can have, and by comparison Chao Chu (eg: Hello old fart).
If I am within the age of a woman and keen for a bit of harmless flirtation the greeting ‘Chao Anh’ can mean, in my mind, anything from – ‘Hello tiger’, ‘Hey there good looking’, ‘Let’s get it on’. (I admit to taking certain liberties but if I don’t, who will?)
If, on the other hand, they say ‘Chao Chu’, well, I would understand it as - ‘Good day to you venerable uncle’, ‘Hello middle-aged man’, ‘Are you looking for my father/ mother?’ or, perhaps, just - ‘don’t even think about it’
Hat’s off indeed. Everyone is put in their place. And that’s grand. But can it all be so categorically satisfying? Surely in this mixed up-muddled up world things can’t be so pleasantly simple.
Of course not. Now usually young loving couples in these parts comprise of an anh, who is older, and an em, who is younger. But what if, as in the film Vertical ray of the sun, the boy and girl are born on the same day? Could she be in fact the chi, and he the em? And if she was, and they fell in love would he keep calling her chi?
Traditionalists, oh ye pernickety old souls, would perish the thought. The man, they say, must remain an anh, otherwise they won’t have any relevant songs to sing in karoke, apt love poetry to recite or be able to whisper sweet nothings without slightly shuddering and thinking of their siblings.
I, myself, am partnered by a woman one year my senior (she never lets me forget) but these prickly pronouns prevent us from communicating in Vietnamese, her native tongue, as she refuses to be called either an em, because I’m younger, or chi, because she sounds old. If I dare to be as cheeky to say ‘em yeu chi’ (I love you older woman) she winces as goose pimples break out all over her skin, and says - “Don’t be weird.”
In fact, several older couples have taken me aside and told me to get a nice young pretty wife only for me to discover later the woman in their relationship was older than the man, but it was a fact that was never uttered aloud. Were they trying to keep things simple for me?
Perhaps we’re not so different in my part of the world. My grandfather whose last tuppence worth to my brother was to grab him by the lapels and tell him to make sure he got a nice, young, country woman: fine child rearing hips and they produce nothing but boys, he told him squarely. It was only posthumously did the shocking truth emerge, he was a year younger than my grandmother. (Who also for the record was a city girl and whacked out five boys in a row without batting an eyelid. There goes the theory.)
When speaking Vietnamese we must select a pronoun, especially important when forging a relationship, so I’m told. We are told to pick a title based on our relationship, gender and status. For mother we have a choice of me/ ma/ de/ u and father a platter of bo/ ba/ cha/ tia. For an uncle younger than a mother, we say cau, not chu, and his wife is a mo not a co. And there’s a lot more where they came from.
Confused? Well spare a thought for those children born before their supposed uncles or aunts. (A cousin once removed in our old humdrum language). Imagine the torture of having to visit some relatives, and coming face to face with a child - snot dribbling down his sleeves, chocolate on his cheeks and an evil grin of pleasure as you arrive humbled before your mouth opens. And everyone stands around smiling, prompting you to do your duty, and mumble to the brat - “Hello uncle”
It would be enough to make you stick your head in the sand, I’d say, or at least hit the booze. (I suppose you could take solace in the fact you can drink your uncle under the coffee table) For more desperate measures- get thee to a monastery, as being a monk simplifies things greatly as everyone will refer to you as Thay (master/ teacher/ monk man), and you will call all and sundry - Thi Chu (generous master/ chap/ chapette)
Of course things get complicated when people start messing around with marriage – like when an estranged husband’s younger brother married the estranged wife. Previously the brother called her chi (older sister) as she was the spouse of his older brother - after they wed did he change? And if so, at what point exactly did he change? And what if the husband then married his brother’s ex-wife? And if they all had children? Does anyone know the answer to these questions? Is there a university department calculating the permutations of these eventualities? Is there a hotline for unexpectedly large family gatherings to establish who’s dishing out the rice, and more importantly who’s pouring the wine?
Now, I know this example is a touch extreme but what if Bill Wyman (ex-rolling stone bassist) was Vietnamese?
Bill, 50 million years old, married Mandy Smith, 19 back in 1989. All very well for them, but then his son Stephen, thirty-something, started dating Mandy’s mum, forty-something and things started getting a wee bit creepy.
Of course Bill’s marriage went belly-up before the interior decorator saw their living room, and just in the nick of time, it seems, as his dear son went on to marry Bill’s mother in-law (i.e. his own (ex) granny-in-law). If Bill hadn’t bailed Stephen Wyman would have become his father’s father-in-law and if he’d had a kid he would have been his own grandfather and you’d tear your hair out just thinking about it.
Admittedly that’s a mess in what ever universe you live in but they should be grateful when Christmas cracker time rolls around that they could look each other in the eye, clink their glasses of eggnog and say nice and simply – ‘here’s to you and me’
To avoid further confusion steer clear of graphs:
Figure 1: Verbal Interaction Process
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Monday, July 05, 2004
The football is over but who was watching?
The football is over. Vietnam breathes. In England they’re flicking past the back page to the cricket. In Parisian cafes they are turning a blind eye to ‘sandwich au grec’ on the menu. Meanwhile in Athens they’re waking up to a strange feeling: victory. Worry beads have been placed in the jewellery box, for now, while in Lisbon they’re sweeping up, shaking their melancholic heads, wondering - what if…
But strangely enough, in Asia, before the game, as the locals shuffled on the streets waiting anxiously for kick off, the ex-pats seemed to be heading for hills. Why? Too late, they say, too boring, they think. This wasn’t living up to the BBC’s billing: "The nation of explorers versus the founders of civilisation.” (This admittedly made it all sound like a game of Risk tm played by men in velvet pants and feather-peaked caps).
The sore-losing dearly departed, it seemed, had both eyes on a practical Monday morning. The French have already added Greece to their list of disasters along with Waterloo, Japan 2002 and the South Pacific. England can add Beckham and Vassell to the horrifically long list of penalty howlers that re-occur like every good curse should by nature. The Daily Mail blamed the referee and printed his email address for all to abuse. As for the Italians, they were on the bus for home seemingly weeks ago. Rasping their tongues out the window, crying “conspiraziano”. (Totti has laid his demons to rest in front of the Virgin Mary in Rome, pleading for Divine forgiveness for his spittle job on a sweaty Dane.)
So with the favourites out, and playing below expectations, and that’s an understatement, had ex-pat Europeans in Hanoi (except the Greeks I presume…) lost their taste for football?
“I wish England were playing,” said one English fellow, a minute before kick off as he headed for bed. “Football? C’est quoi?” said a French chap. “J’ai ne pas le foot…”
So as my footless-French friend and Englandless-English pal trudged off to their beds I quickly texted others but no reply. Maybe they were right. Too late. Too boring. Tomorrow was the start of another week. I decided to split.
But as I drove off, snaking through the inner-city streets, it struck me how the city around me was still buzzing: grinning teenage boys, let out late for the game, drove the other way, on pavements old grannies served up hot tea while men opened up a new pack of Vinataba, tobacco pipes whistled, TV’s were turned up, Nelly Furtado (half-Portuguese you know) was singing at the opening ceremony, kick off was beckoning but why was Asia waking up while all the Europeans (except the Greeks…) were going to bed?
The Vietnamese are the happiest of football purists, I surmise, as regards Euro 2004 they are basically neutral. Some may consider neutrality as hedging your bets, or sitting on the fence. But it has its bonuses. Switzerland, for example, sat pretty, while Europe butchered itself silly once upon a time. Though what invaders would want to march up a mountain anyway? So too Ireland, we drank the German spies under the table in Cork and told Winston Churchill to leave a message in Dublin, we’d get back to him in the morning.
To be neutral watching Euro 2004 is to enjoy it to the full, as the tournament unfolded and the top dogs went whimpering home, Vietnamese fans sat pretty enjoying the show, whether graced by the fleet-footed Zinedane Zorro Zidane or the pirates of Penzance, they will watch it regardless, let’s face it they even show the German league on VTV 4! Do they care about David Beckham’s absence and how he only scores during Castro oil advertisements? I doubt it.
For them, the Euro is a glitterati event, it’s mini-Monte Carlo, it’s the chance for a sporting flutter, a sneaky night out, girls dress up, couples meander across the Ho Tay causeway on the way to the game, men toast with a bia, the old ladies sell a pot and a half of tea, the late night noodle stalls rack up the sales, afterwards everyone sleeps in, perhaps a few are late for work, but no matter, the boss is too, and in short a Sunday night becomes a Saturday night.
But not for the Europeans. Those tired cynics, (the Greek Embassy excluded), they crawled off to bed. When France played Italy four years ago the bars were packed with ex-pats swilling beer, but not this time, they took the attitude if you’re not winning you’re sulking, while the Vietnamese got comfy in empty chairs across town.
But therein lay the great irony: the Asians would keep the Europeans awake through the night watching the end of a European competition.
I myself stretched out in my bed, deciding I would keep score by counting my neighbour’s cries of ‘vao’ (goal), recognisable by a sustained cheer afterwards, and not to be confused with a ‘wow’ or an ‘aow’, which are near or excruciating misses, I believe.
As I lay in my furnace of a room, itching with hot insomnia, I could feel the tension consume the air. There were whistles from my neighbour's TV. I guessed both teams were struggling to impose their strategy. But mid-way through the second half my neighbours erupted - ‘vao!’ That was it. One-nil. And judging by the subsequent low cheers from the TV it must have been the visiting Greeks who had gone one up. Game on.
I ran downstairs to watch as the Portuguese chased the game. The frustration built for the hosts. The pain etched on the fans faces. They had set out their sails too late. Outside the winds were blowing but in the stadium the air was dead. The Portuguese were left like fisherman running down the pier for fear of missing the tide. The whistles and cheers became a din. They rallied. Too little. Too late.
And that was that. It was all over. All across Hanoi City television sets were flicked off. In Lisbon the Portuguese were crying. The champagne was left in melting ice. Eusebio loosened his tie. In Athens they were on the streets, honking, cheering, kissing. And in Ha Noi, the Europeans were sleeping, the Vietnamese were driving home, getting into bed, Greece were the champions of Europe, but they didn’t really care, after all it’s just a game.
Then Monday arrives. Too soon for some. Some folk drive to work half-asleep. Europeans read about it on the internet. Journalists use pompous classical clichés to describe the Grecian triumph, which is ridiculous and unfair: it took Odysseus 20 years to take care of Troy and get back to his missus with the aid of several Gods; it only took the Greek Football team a German coach, man marking and three weeks to conquer Europe.
And did any foreigners watch it? Well, actually, yes. My antipodean pal for starters. “German efficiency,” said a Kiwi of the Greek demolition on the tournament. “Damn right,” said a Canadian, “Who was Jumping Jim?” (The clothed streaker who ran past Figo and out did the hosts by hitting the back of the Greek net).
And now Greece are on the map, their seven syllable names not quite on the lips of the locals, but who cares, smiling youngsters will ask their fathers if Greece will win the Olympics too, or will the Portuguese exact revenge in the shot putt?
May the Gods bless you Greece, and don’t forget to wave to Italy, France and the English tourists as you coast through the straits of Gibraltar, down the Mediterranean all the way home. You did it.
The football is over. Vietnam breathes. In England they’re flicking past the back page to the cricket. In Parisian cafes they are turning a blind eye to ‘sandwich au grec’ on the menu. Meanwhile in Athens they’re waking up to a strange feeling: victory. Worry beads have been placed in the jewellery box, for now, while in Lisbon they’re sweeping up, shaking their melancholic heads, wondering - what if…
But strangely enough, in Asia, before the game, as the locals shuffled on the streets waiting anxiously for kick off, the ex-pats seemed to be heading for hills. Why? Too late, they say, too boring, they think. This wasn’t living up to the BBC’s billing: "The nation of explorers versus the founders of civilisation.” (This admittedly made it all sound like a game of Risk tm played by men in velvet pants and feather-peaked caps).
The sore-losing dearly departed, it seemed, had both eyes on a practical Monday morning. The French have already added Greece to their list of disasters along with Waterloo, Japan 2002 and the South Pacific. England can add Beckham and Vassell to the horrifically long list of penalty howlers that re-occur like every good curse should by nature. The Daily Mail blamed the referee and printed his email address for all to abuse. As for the Italians, they were on the bus for home seemingly weeks ago. Rasping their tongues out the window, crying “conspiraziano”. (Totti has laid his demons to rest in front of the Virgin Mary in Rome, pleading for Divine forgiveness for his spittle job on a sweaty Dane.)
So with the favourites out, and playing below expectations, and that’s an understatement, had ex-pat Europeans in Hanoi (except the Greeks I presume…) lost their taste for football?
“I wish England were playing,” said one English fellow, a minute before kick off as he headed for bed. “Football? C’est quoi?” said a French chap. “J’ai ne pas le foot…”
So as my footless-French friend and Englandless-English pal trudged off to their beds I quickly texted others but no reply. Maybe they were right. Too late. Too boring. Tomorrow was the start of another week. I decided to split.
But as I drove off, snaking through the inner-city streets, it struck me how the city around me was still buzzing: grinning teenage boys, let out late for the game, drove the other way, on pavements old grannies served up hot tea while men opened up a new pack of Vinataba, tobacco pipes whistled, TV’s were turned up, Nelly Furtado (half-Portuguese you know) was singing at the opening ceremony, kick off was beckoning but why was Asia waking up while all the Europeans (except the Greeks…) were going to bed?
The Vietnamese are the happiest of football purists, I surmise, as regards Euro 2004 they are basically neutral. Some may consider neutrality as hedging your bets, or sitting on the fence. But it has its bonuses. Switzerland, for example, sat pretty, while Europe butchered itself silly once upon a time. Though what invaders would want to march up a mountain anyway? So too Ireland, we drank the German spies under the table in Cork and told Winston Churchill to leave a message in Dublin, we’d get back to him in the morning.
To be neutral watching Euro 2004 is to enjoy it to the full, as the tournament unfolded and the top dogs went whimpering home, Vietnamese fans sat pretty enjoying the show, whether graced by the fleet-footed Zinedane Zorro Zidane or the pirates of Penzance, they will watch it regardless, let’s face it they even show the German league on VTV 4! Do they care about David Beckham’s absence and how he only scores during Castro oil advertisements? I doubt it.
For them, the Euro is a glitterati event, it’s mini-Monte Carlo, it’s the chance for a sporting flutter, a sneaky night out, girls dress up, couples meander across the Ho Tay causeway on the way to the game, men toast with a bia, the old ladies sell a pot and a half of tea, the late night noodle stalls rack up the sales, afterwards everyone sleeps in, perhaps a few are late for work, but no matter, the boss is too, and in short a Sunday night becomes a Saturday night.
But not for the Europeans. Those tired cynics, (the Greek Embassy excluded), they crawled off to bed. When France played Italy four years ago the bars were packed with ex-pats swilling beer, but not this time, they took the attitude if you’re not winning you’re sulking, while the Vietnamese got comfy in empty chairs across town.
But therein lay the great irony: the Asians would keep the Europeans awake through the night watching the end of a European competition.
I myself stretched out in my bed, deciding I would keep score by counting my neighbour’s cries of ‘vao’ (goal), recognisable by a sustained cheer afterwards, and not to be confused with a ‘wow’ or an ‘aow’, which are near or excruciating misses, I believe.
As I lay in my furnace of a room, itching with hot insomnia, I could feel the tension consume the air. There were whistles from my neighbour's TV. I guessed both teams were struggling to impose their strategy. But mid-way through the second half my neighbours erupted - ‘vao!’ That was it. One-nil. And judging by the subsequent low cheers from the TV it must have been the visiting Greeks who had gone one up. Game on.
I ran downstairs to watch as the Portuguese chased the game. The frustration built for the hosts. The pain etched on the fans faces. They had set out their sails too late. Outside the winds were blowing but in the stadium the air was dead. The Portuguese were left like fisherman running down the pier for fear of missing the tide. The whistles and cheers became a din. They rallied. Too little. Too late.
And that was that. It was all over. All across Hanoi City television sets were flicked off. In Lisbon the Portuguese were crying. The champagne was left in melting ice. Eusebio loosened his tie. In Athens they were on the streets, honking, cheering, kissing. And in Ha Noi, the Europeans were sleeping, the Vietnamese were driving home, getting into bed, Greece were the champions of Europe, but they didn’t really care, after all it’s just a game.
Then Monday arrives. Too soon for some. Some folk drive to work half-asleep. Europeans read about it on the internet. Journalists use pompous classical clichés to describe the Grecian triumph, which is ridiculous and unfair: it took Odysseus 20 years to take care of Troy and get back to his missus with the aid of several Gods; it only took the Greek Football team a German coach, man marking and three weeks to conquer Europe.
And did any foreigners watch it? Well, actually, yes. My antipodean pal for starters. “German efficiency,” said a Kiwi of the Greek demolition on the tournament. “Damn right,” said a Canadian, “Who was Jumping Jim?” (The clothed streaker who ran past Figo and out did the hosts by hitting the back of the Greek net).
And now Greece are on the map, their seven syllable names not quite on the lips of the locals, but who cares, smiling youngsters will ask their fathers if Greece will win the Olympics too, or will the Portuguese exact revenge in the shot putt?
May the Gods bless you Greece, and don’t forget to wave to Italy, France and the English tourists as you coast through the straits of Gibraltar, down the Mediterranean all the way home. You did it.
Monday, March 22, 2004
The Kickstand Monitor
In these days of tender world politics and holy wars the minor and petty tragedies of day to day life have been swept under the carpet where they fester to the point of insanity.
When was the last time some frank but helpful gent sidled up to you and whispered 'your laces are untied' or 'you're flying low without a license?' Or indeed, a loving doting companion flicked the breadcrumbs off your cheeks as you ranted about global terrorism during a pleasant brunch? I fear those quaint days of camaraderie and courtliness have passed into the shadow. And there they will stay unless we take action.
That is why it is relieving to come across the likes of Summertime Ryan. I first heard of him on the internet but was fortunate to have a mutual friend in Hanoi who made arrangements for me to meet this mythical man. Ryan, an ex physical education teacher from Portland, Oregon, is a man whose reputation precedes itself. He has single-handedly taken on a chronic problem in Vietnam: people leaving their kickstands down. There is no hard evidence of what he does, hence the mystery of the man, but local ex pats are fully aware of the impact he is making.
"No doubt about it," says one European coffee shop owner, "he's out there saving lives, dawn to dusk. There's a war out there, and you don't win any medals for fighting. He's a hero."
After his morning tai chi Ryan starts his day with a bowl of pho and an orange juice before he takes to the streets with one thing on his mind: “Those darn kickstands!”
As arranged we meet by Dien Bien Phu and Tran Phu, one of the busiest intersections in town, and one of his choice sentry points. Ryan, who cycled, is already in the middle of the road when I arrive. The bikes hurtle past, like a frenzied school of fish, quite an intimidating environment, but Ryan showing no concern for personal safety moves amongst the madness holding up signs to show certain individuals that their kickstands are down, and remind everyone else to check theirs.
“Look out there,” he growls in his husky Oregon voice, “each one is an accident waiting to happen. They’re like triggers on guns. Everyday thousands of innocent citizens, from housewives to students, crash because of it. The multitudes of masses have one thing in common: negligence on the road by forgetting to kick the stand up! And keep it up!”
Ryan and his striking young wife Lollio launched the “Kick the Habit” campaign this year promoting awareness with t-shirts distribution, posters and even a soon to be released pop song called –“I can’t stand it” sung by Ryan himself. (In the vein of James Brown he tells me.)
“We started like all great things," his wife beams as she speaks, "from nothing, but as sure as my name is Lollio Ryan, I know that from little acorns do grow big ol’ oak trees!”
Like many great enthusiasts their shared passion stems from a bitter personal experience. Several years ago after jogging to town the young married couple were sitting over a restorative fruit shake on Dien Bien Phu Street. While relaxing and watching the traffic they witnessed a horrific collision caused by a delivery boy with his kickstand down.
Ryan talks about the event in hushed tones. “For me,” he explains, “it was a metaphor for life: the tiniest of things could cause so much pain and destruction, like a cancerous cell, or Adolf Hitler. It's what I like to call the bad apple syndrome.”
Together they formed KRAP (Kickstand Related Accident Prevention) and drove around helping people, who they spotted with their kickstands down, bridging the linguistic gap with a simple animated point. Since then Lillio has even learnt the Vietnamese for “Hey! Your kickstands down!” (Anh/ Chi oi! Chan chong!)
“That’s way above my head,” chortles Ryan in embarrassed admiration for his wife, “but that’s Lollio for ya! She’s a one in a million!”
As his fight continues to reduce kickstand accidents (a figure which is sadly unknown) we asked him how we can help.
“First and foremost it’s about desire. The desire to see change. If your heart is up to that then I beseech you to take the streets in vigilance and help us stem the tide of this senseless waste of life.”
However Ryan heeds caution. When he began he was over eager and admits he has caused accidents by distracting people’s attention. (Cynics claim that Lollio's body hugging garish Lycra outfits are a sure cause of double takes by local men driving innocently to work.) There are plans to set up workshops to aid fellow vigilantes, but in the meantime it’s a delicate situation.
“It’s not as easy as running onto the road and shouting ‘Hey dude! Your god darn kick stand is down’. You could startle them, they may end up crashing into the kerb and that would be bad for the programme.”
So the rules, or hints for starters?
“Maintaining eye contact is not essential. There are two key targets: the stand and the driver. How you make it happen is up to you, be it a point, a heckle or holding up a sign. But I strongly condemn the use of inanimate third party tools such as hockey sticks or shepherd’s hooks. They are potentially fatal.”
I pressed a few locals on what their reaction was to an American man running around the streets. Although initially amused they have grown quite fond of him referring to him as the - "Tay bao ve" (the western guard)
"I like that one," Ryan says with a faint smile, "makes me feel like John Wayne."
The future for KRAP only seems to get better. With foreign funding pouring in and media exposure improving general awareness he has started to turn the heads of the powers that be. He already has a proposal ready for submission: a sign on every major artery coming in an out of the city: "KICK IT UP" or "CHAN CHONG OI!” David Beckham’s agents have also been contacted about a possible Southeast Asian Promotional tour – “Can I kick it?”
“But they’re just pipedreams,” Ryan says fondly gazing over the traffic cruising through the dusk, “right now they need me here on the streets; now they need me here more than ever perhaps. Today alone thousands of kickstand related accidents have been prevented, but tomorrow they’ll be down, ready to happen again.”
A hero’s work is never done, I suggest.
“Oh, don’t call me a hero,” he modestly grins, “maybe just a messenger of God.”
As the sun sets his day is over. Lollio is waiting in the gym for a work out. He embraces me, encourages me to spread the word and then takes off half-strolling, half-jogging through the traffic which converges around him then parts, like the red sea onto Moses.
In these days of tender world politics and holy wars the minor and petty tragedies of day to day life have been swept under the carpet where they fester to the point of insanity.
When was the last time some frank but helpful gent sidled up to you and whispered 'your laces are untied' or 'you're flying low without a license?' Or indeed, a loving doting companion flicked the breadcrumbs off your cheeks as you ranted about global terrorism during a pleasant brunch? I fear those quaint days of camaraderie and courtliness have passed into the shadow. And there they will stay unless we take action.
That is why it is relieving to come across the likes of Summertime Ryan. I first heard of him on the internet but was fortunate to have a mutual friend in Hanoi who made arrangements for me to meet this mythical man. Ryan, an ex physical education teacher from Portland, Oregon, is a man whose reputation precedes itself. He has single-handedly taken on a chronic problem in Vietnam: people leaving their kickstands down. There is no hard evidence of what he does, hence the mystery of the man, but local ex pats are fully aware of the impact he is making.
"No doubt about it," says one European coffee shop owner, "he's out there saving lives, dawn to dusk. There's a war out there, and you don't win any medals for fighting. He's a hero."
After his morning tai chi Ryan starts his day with a bowl of pho and an orange juice before he takes to the streets with one thing on his mind: “Those darn kickstands!”
As arranged we meet by Dien Bien Phu and Tran Phu, one of the busiest intersections in town, and one of his choice sentry points. Ryan, who cycled, is already in the middle of the road when I arrive. The bikes hurtle past, like a frenzied school of fish, quite an intimidating environment, but Ryan showing no concern for personal safety moves amongst the madness holding up signs to show certain individuals that their kickstands are down, and remind everyone else to check theirs.
“Look out there,” he growls in his husky Oregon voice, “each one is an accident waiting to happen. They’re like triggers on guns. Everyday thousands of innocent citizens, from housewives to students, crash because of it. The multitudes of masses have one thing in common: negligence on the road by forgetting to kick the stand up! And keep it up!”
Ryan and his striking young wife Lollio launched the “Kick the Habit” campaign this year promoting awareness with t-shirts distribution, posters and even a soon to be released pop song called –“I can’t stand it” sung by Ryan himself. (In the vein of James Brown he tells me.)
“We started like all great things," his wife beams as she speaks, "from nothing, but as sure as my name is Lollio Ryan, I know that from little acorns do grow big ol’ oak trees!”
Like many great enthusiasts their shared passion stems from a bitter personal experience. Several years ago after jogging to town the young married couple were sitting over a restorative fruit shake on Dien Bien Phu Street. While relaxing and watching the traffic they witnessed a horrific collision caused by a delivery boy with his kickstand down.
Ryan talks about the event in hushed tones. “For me,” he explains, “it was a metaphor for life: the tiniest of things could cause so much pain and destruction, like a cancerous cell, or Adolf Hitler. It's what I like to call the bad apple syndrome.”
Together they formed KRAP (Kickstand Related Accident Prevention) and drove around helping people, who they spotted with their kickstands down, bridging the linguistic gap with a simple animated point. Since then Lillio has even learnt the Vietnamese for “Hey! Your kickstands down!” (Anh/ Chi oi! Chan chong!)
“That’s way above my head,” chortles Ryan in embarrassed admiration for his wife, “but that’s Lollio for ya! She’s a one in a million!”
As his fight continues to reduce kickstand accidents (a figure which is sadly unknown) we asked him how we can help.
“First and foremost it’s about desire. The desire to see change. If your heart is up to that then I beseech you to take the streets in vigilance and help us stem the tide of this senseless waste of life.”
However Ryan heeds caution. When he began he was over eager and admits he has caused accidents by distracting people’s attention. (Cynics claim that Lollio's body hugging garish Lycra outfits are a sure cause of double takes by local men driving innocently to work.) There are plans to set up workshops to aid fellow vigilantes, but in the meantime it’s a delicate situation.
“It’s not as easy as running onto the road and shouting ‘Hey dude! Your god darn kick stand is down’. You could startle them, they may end up crashing into the kerb and that would be bad for the programme.”
So the rules, or hints for starters?
“Maintaining eye contact is not essential. There are two key targets: the stand and the driver. How you make it happen is up to you, be it a point, a heckle or holding up a sign. But I strongly condemn the use of inanimate third party tools such as hockey sticks or shepherd’s hooks. They are potentially fatal.”
I pressed a few locals on what their reaction was to an American man running around the streets. Although initially amused they have grown quite fond of him referring to him as the - "Tay bao ve" (the western guard)
"I like that one," Ryan says with a faint smile, "makes me feel like John Wayne."
The future for KRAP only seems to get better. With foreign funding pouring in and media exposure improving general awareness he has started to turn the heads of the powers that be. He already has a proposal ready for submission: a sign on every major artery coming in an out of the city: "KICK IT UP" or "CHAN CHONG OI!” David Beckham’s agents have also been contacted about a possible Southeast Asian Promotional tour – “Can I kick it?”
“But they’re just pipedreams,” Ryan says fondly gazing over the traffic cruising through the dusk, “right now they need me here on the streets; now they need me here more than ever perhaps. Today alone thousands of kickstand related accidents have been prevented, but tomorrow they’ll be down, ready to happen again.”
A hero’s work is never done, I suggest.
“Oh, don’t call me a hero,” he modestly grins, “maybe just a messenger of God.”
As the sun sets his day is over. Lollio is waiting in the gym for a work out. He embraces me, encourages me to spread the word and then takes off half-strolling, half-jogging through the traffic which converges around him then parts, like the red sea onto Moses.
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
Nguyen’s Law
Little do people, myself included, realise the insufferable fate of a foreign man living in a superstitious state. Here I am continually under a curse, perhaps, as I have not laid the appropriate fruit on an altar on a specific day, or I barked at an old woman at a green tea stall, or even completely ignored the righteous ritual rites of ‘room’ days - kitchen god day, broom cupboard day, the place where bikes are parked beside a redundant Karaoke couch day, and so on. Perhaps I’m just a bungling foreigner threading on the feet of ancestor’s spirits left, right and centre. Or perhaps not.
I believe, there is a curse and the curse has a name. It is Nguyen’s Law. It goes along the principle that whatever you want you can’t have, without at least a bit of a struggle. Or at least whatever you do there’ll be something to annoy you along the way.
Take for example the shoeshine urchins. Poking your ribs as you contemplate life mid-coffee, or mid-bia when you chat with your friends, they mutter into your shell - Shoe shine Anh oi. You whisk them off with a flourish. No! Bugger off! Next time, nhe! Or perhaps you have your own adjectival phrase or expletive word of choice. Then, sure enough, a day will come. A day where you have an interview, or a wedding, or a flash function or a hot date. You will go to the café deliberately to get a shoe shine. You will sit. Order a black coffee. Wait patiently. And along will come a cigarette lighter sales man. You will order another black coffee. And a woman selling plastic buckets and mops will appear. Subsequently you arrive to your appointment a jittering mess; caffeine horsing through your veins and your shoes unpolished to the point of being filthy. You lean against the corner wall tucking your shoes under a cloth, incapable of polite conversation, waving people away. Which will lead to another curse, no doubt, including weddings, corners or waving.
How many times I’ve lay in my bed, stomach rumbling, a new day long since on its way. And I hear the soft husky cry – “banh my nong oi!”. I think, hot bread! Now that's a good idea. Yet when I get down to the door only a faint echo of the bread woman’s voice can be heard and a woman with a conical hat stands at my gate pointing at my empty cans, 500 dong notes flashing in her eyes.
So too, the house. Oh! Ye infernal gods! No matter where you live there will be a pea beneath the cushion. Or a boulder beneath the sheet, depending on how wealthy you are. A niggling irritance that, over the course of time, will eat your patience till it’s threadbare.
You find a house. The landlord seems fair. Not too alcoholic, not too greedy. A cute daughter flits about and as she speaks English, conveniently all queries must go through her. The rooms are oddly off-rectangular. There’s a plug beside the toilet which leaks. The stairs are a bit crooked. Not the best place in an earthquake. But you say aye. I’ll take it and hand over the deposit. Then beside your house you discover there are six and a half construction sites. Dozens of plucky little labourers are grinding, drilling or standing around doing nothing except maybe staring in your window. Either that or a karaoke bar you never noticed materialises. At the crack of midnight wailing voices croon like lonely cats. You lie in bed and suffer in whimpering exhaustion. You wonder what else can go wrong. Then the water pump starts up, creaking and clanking like a pre-industrial revolution experiment and you wonder how you’ll ever reach dawn psychologically intact.
Then you wake up with a headache, or a hangover more likely, and you crawl down the road with your gagging tongue. You have noticed millions of Nha Thuoc’s in the city but somehow you picked a street where there are none. You end up sitting in a café crying into your coffee. A boy approaches and pokes your mid-rift.
“Anh oi! Shoe Shine! Ok!”
“Panadol co’ ma!” you scream.
To top it all off, as you walk back to your house a banh my seller will stop and brandish some loaves in your pasty face.
Yes, I can’t think of how many times I have run out of petrol outside a noodle shop. Or had a puncture beside a petrol station. Or how many times I have thought the girl beside me at the traffic lights was checking me out until I heard her say ‘smelly foreigner’ and her friend replied ‘with a ghastly bike’. And why is it that whenever I had a late Saturday night people like to get up and drill at seven the next morning? Why is it when ever I turn up at bars they get shut down? Why?
It is the dreaded accursed Nguyen’s law that thwarts me. The law that states whatever is in abundance shall be perversely elusive. Whatever is most annoying in your present situation shall occur. Whatever irks happens.
Your only hope is to thread carefully. For you thread on the thin ice of calm, below the waters of rage and despair. If, you can maintain a Zen like cool in a crisis, apparently, not only are you some boyo, but the world is your hamster. Or is that oyster? And old Nguyen’s law will have to wait till next time to ruin your day.
Amen.
Glossary
Anh oi - Hey brother
Banh my nong oi - Hey, I've got bread in a basket
Nha thuoc - Chemist
Little do people, myself included, realise the insufferable fate of a foreign man living in a superstitious state. Here I am continually under a curse, perhaps, as I have not laid the appropriate fruit on an altar on a specific day, or I barked at an old woman at a green tea stall, or even completely ignored the righteous ritual rites of ‘room’ days - kitchen god day, broom cupboard day, the place where bikes are parked beside a redundant Karaoke couch day, and so on. Perhaps I’m just a bungling foreigner threading on the feet of ancestor’s spirits left, right and centre. Or perhaps not.
I believe, there is a curse and the curse has a name. It is Nguyen’s Law. It goes along the principle that whatever you want you can’t have, without at least a bit of a struggle. Or at least whatever you do there’ll be something to annoy you along the way.
Take for example the shoeshine urchins. Poking your ribs as you contemplate life mid-coffee, or mid-bia when you chat with your friends, they mutter into your shell - Shoe shine Anh oi. You whisk them off with a flourish. No! Bugger off! Next time, nhe! Or perhaps you have your own adjectival phrase or expletive word of choice. Then, sure enough, a day will come. A day where you have an interview, or a wedding, or a flash function or a hot date. You will go to the café deliberately to get a shoe shine. You will sit. Order a black coffee. Wait patiently. And along will come a cigarette lighter sales man. You will order another black coffee. And a woman selling plastic buckets and mops will appear. Subsequently you arrive to your appointment a jittering mess; caffeine horsing through your veins and your shoes unpolished to the point of being filthy. You lean against the corner wall tucking your shoes under a cloth, incapable of polite conversation, waving people away. Which will lead to another curse, no doubt, including weddings, corners or waving.
How many times I’ve lay in my bed, stomach rumbling, a new day long since on its way. And I hear the soft husky cry – “banh my nong oi!”. I think, hot bread! Now that's a good idea. Yet when I get down to the door only a faint echo of the bread woman’s voice can be heard and a woman with a conical hat stands at my gate pointing at my empty cans, 500 dong notes flashing in her eyes.
So too, the house. Oh! Ye infernal gods! No matter where you live there will be a pea beneath the cushion. Or a boulder beneath the sheet, depending on how wealthy you are. A niggling irritance that, over the course of time, will eat your patience till it’s threadbare.
You find a house. The landlord seems fair. Not too alcoholic, not too greedy. A cute daughter flits about and as she speaks English, conveniently all queries must go through her. The rooms are oddly off-rectangular. There’s a plug beside the toilet which leaks. The stairs are a bit crooked. Not the best place in an earthquake. But you say aye. I’ll take it and hand over the deposit. Then beside your house you discover there are six and a half construction sites. Dozens of plucky little labourers are grinding, drilling or standing around doing nothing except maybe staring in your window. Either that or a karaoke bar you never noticed materialises. At the crack of midnight wailing voices croon like lonely cats. You lie in bed and suffer in whimpering exhaustion. You wonder what else can go wrong. Then the water pump starts up, creaking and clanking like a pre-industrial revolution experiment and you wonder how you’ll ever reach dawn psychologically intact.
Then you wake up with a headache, or a hangover more likely, and you crawl down the road with your gagging tongue. You have noticed millions of Nha Thuoc’s in the city but somehow you picked a street where there are none. You end up sitting in a café crying into your coffee. A boy approaches and pokes your mid-rift.
“Anh oi! Shoe Shine! Ok!”
“Panadol co’ ma!” you scream.
To top it all off, as you walk back to your house a banh my seller will stop and brandish some loaves in your pasty face.
Yes, I can’t think of how many times I have run out of petrol outside a noodle shop. Or had a puncture beside a petrol station. Or how many times I have thought the girl beside me at the traffic lights was checking me out until I heard her say ‘smelly foreigner’ and her friend replied ‘with a ghastly bike’. And why is it that whenever I had a late Saturday night people like to get up and drill at seven the next morning? Why is it when ever I turn up at bars they get shut down? Why?
It is the dreaded accursed Nguyen’s law that thwarts me. The law that states whatever is in abundance shall be perversely elusive. Whatever is most annoying in your present situation shall occur. Whatever irks happens.
Your only hope is to thread carefully. For you thread on the thin ice of calm, below the waters of rage and despair. If, you can maintain a Zen like cool in a crisis, apparently, not only are you some boyo, but the world is your hamster. Or is that oyster? And old Nguyen’s law will have to wait till next time to ruin your day.
Amen.
Glossary
Anh oi - Hey brother
Banh my nong oi - Hey, I've got bread in a basket
Nha thuoc - Chemist
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