Heads, helmets...
The two professors' respective recent accidents, one fatal, in Hanoi, which I mentioned previously, has apparently caused quite a stir according to this article. Nothing else new stated in the article. "Lots of motorbikes, lots of crashes, lots of deaths... etc, etc"

Wonder how many of those upset people wore helmets to work today. My friend who used to work in traffic safety along with Mr Greig Craft, who's mentioned in the above link, said even the Viet Duc emergency ward doctors, despite seeing countless serious if not fatal head injuries from day to day, don't wear helmets - if they won't, who will? Especially when so many other Hanoians have such glamorous haircuts, which a helmet would just do no justice to, if not ruin for the night.

*****************************************************************
This is from a Boston Globe article on Papert(full piece here):
Strangely, shortly before the accident, Papert had been discussing how to build a computer model of Hanoi's notoriously chaotic traffic. He found it an interesting instance of a theme closely associated with his work: "emergent behavior," or the way that large groups of agents following simple rules, with no central leader, can spontaneously create sophisticated systems and activities. Examples include schools of fish, anthills, bee swarms, and, apparently, Vietnamese motorbike drivers. Like bees, Hanoi motorbikes move in swarms, unrestrained by laws, lanes, or traffic signals. Somehow, the swarm self-organizes to keep people moving and, mostly, not crashing into one another. Papert was fascinated, and spent his first days in Hanoi talking with his former student, Northwestern computer scientist Uri Wilensky, about how to model the city's traffic flow. As the two were crossing a six-lane road separating their hotel from the university, Papert was hit by a motorbike. Traffic in Hanoi is a self-defining flow of merging groups. Lights are few and often ignored, and divisions between lanes are determined less by lines on the ground than by a shifting, implicit group consensus. "Hanoi is one of the first places I've been where traffic really is organic," says Wilensky. "It really is more like a herd of buffalo." The system would be impossible without a large reserve of tolerance and informality. Newcomers to Hanoi, who are often unable to figure out how to cross the street, are told to step into traffic at a steady pace; the motorbikes will part around you. When the city began introducing traffic lights some years ago, a Vietnamese performance artist went to one of the busiest intersections in town and videotaped himself repeatedly crossing against the light to see whether traffic would make way for him; it did. "People were still nice," as he put it -- they hadn't yet embraced the tyranny of traffic lights. But there's a problem: as Vietnam grows richer, the number of motorbikes and cars on the street is rising furiously. From 2002 to 2004, the percentage of Vietnamese households owning motor vehicles went from 22 percent to 33 percent. These new vehicles are pouring into a hopelessly inadequate grid of winding alleyways, ancient dike roads, and Soviet-style highways. And as density rises, drivers behave more aggressively: 9,400 Vietnamese died in traffic accidents in the first nine months of this year.

Traffic, traffic, traffic...
This is woeful. A few days ago a 78-year old mathematician, Professor Papert, from the US was knocked into a coma. HORRIBLY ironically he was talking with another prof about the traffic when it happened, at least that's how I understood the following from the article - "The accident occurred when Professor Papert talked with Professor Wilensky about a math model, imitating the current situation of Hanoi’s traffic, where transport lights are not enough, and motorbikes speed dangerously..."

Or does that mean he was lecturing on that topic prior to the incident? The article isn't the Mae West I'm afraid. A shorter International Herald Tribune version here.

What a guy!
When he came the first time back in 2000 one man in Hanoi said this kind of visit "happened once in a thousand years". But smoke him a kipper he's back for breakfast. Mr Bill Clinton that is, showing up Dubya's comparatively stale APEC visit by braving the traffic and walking through the streets towards Hoan kiem lake (surprised the turtle wasn't sticking his head up) and speaking to the folks along the way as well as shaking their hands.

"It feels great to be back," Clinton said as he set off for his stroll.

The feeling among most Vietnamese was mutual.

"I love you!" a young man shouted, reaching over the crowd for a handshake.

"There are no words to describe how happy I am," squealed 17-year-old Nguyen Thu Hang, jumping up and down and clutching Clinton's freshly signed autograph. "I'm going to frame this and hang it on my bedroom wall!"

Apparently his smart attire was also commented on by a tailor. He visited Bac Ho's Mausoleum and generally didn't put a foot wrong.

Reminds me of that Red Dwarf episode (or episodes?) where Rimmer's alternative self from another dimension arrives, ACE Rimmer. Everywhere he goes everyone says... "What a guy!"



Clinton was in town to sign an agreement between his foundation and the Vietnamese to get more drugs to AIDS/ HIV drugs to children. Here's the AP article in full.

Zippos and paper planes
Artist Bradford Edwards explains here why he's fascinated by the US marines' zippos found in Vietnam and their slogans. A few classics are mentioned, such as - “If you got this off my dead ass I hope it brings you the same luck it brought me.” Edwards' personal favourite makes reading the article worthwhile in itself. I won't spoil it for you.

Edwards, whose dad flew for the US army in the Vietnam war, also had a show last week in Hanoi with a Vietnamese artist, Nguyen Manh Hung, whose father also flew (in a different direction, naturally) in the same war.

What did they do? Why they built an enormous replica plane of course (crossed between a US F-4 and a Ruski MiG 21). Entirely made out of paper and bamboo it was supposed to be set on fire... "We wanted to make our own version of a fighter jet and burn it in a symbolic effort to exorcise this ‘instrument of destruction’ from our own lives.”



...but, alack, permission was denied for the fire. Rumour has it it's now flying on eBay, though I couldn't find it. Drop us a link in the comments if you can.

I drank bia with the Hoan Kiem turtle (or more accurately how an old man told me a tall story I'd like to believe)
Here's a piece about the Hoan Kiem turtle - a lot of articles I've read claim the big fella often magically appears on big days; it is conveniently a symbol of good luck, so it's a good omen when he pops his wee head up on days of national importance.

However there maybe another reason for this synchronicity. I say this 'cos I met the turtle at the old Tong Dan bia hoi (RIP - we still remember you well) a couple of years ago. He went by the name Nam, he drank a lot of bia and smoked Vinataba and resembled a 50-year-old man. I didn't understand it when he said he was a turtle (goo goo goo joob), so he explained...

...the story was that he was an army man. In some division of the navy. A sub-aquatic diving minesweeper chap or something (none too exact translations by a local friend means I'm conveniently sketchy on the details). Retired he still had his contacts from his "hello Sailor!" days which had led to him being asked by an old friend to put on a wet suit and swim around Hoan Kiem on holidays with a fake turtle on his back so the crowd would "ooo" and "oi gioi oi" at the sight of the legendary turtle swimming across the lake. He got well paid, the spectators went home feeling lucky. So everyone's happy. That day he was celebrating his latest gig (for what day I can't recall).

When I pulled a few doubting Thomas looks he tried to prove he was a diver (and therefore potentially a good candidate for pretending to be a turtle) by pulling his top up and making his beer-belly continually undulate (if that's the right word). He said this was good for breathing underwater. I tried not to look. Perhaps, more convincingly, he bought a large round of bia for me and all my friends, which is pretty rare as he didn't know anyone of us.

We thanked him and tried to buy him one back but he "thoi"-ed us. He'd earned $100 that day and he was buying.

Who could argue with a turtle anyway? Le Thai To didn't so why should I?

By Yorkie P.

Make blog, not war...
For all of you expats who have trifling little north vs. south rows (usually concerning the weather and food!), well, check out how this local blogger created an all out war on the blogosphere.

Over 5,000 comments reported in the article plus the thread was picked up in other internet forums.

The blogger is a teenager, her next post will probably be about a boyband, but she trod on a very large nerve with this one.

All singing, all dancing...
The HITS group has organised another performance, this time a musical comedy, the Little Shop of Horrors. It's on this weekend in Hanoi - all the times, dates info here.

HITS' insiders have told Pittstop Works that a certain Peter Mahomet will be blowing Steve Martin's portrayl of the sleazy dentist Orin Scrivello out of the water...

You heard it here first.

Bragelina on the Nouvo
The Hollywood stars brave the Thanh Pho Ho Chi Minh traffic

All hail the weather...
Hadn't ever experienced hail in Vietnam until last night, in fact, I still haven't. I was safely indoors. Proof that worse things definitely happen at sea at this link.

While I'm here, a round up of Dubya images in Vietnam, looks like he'd a bit more fun down south to me.

Teacher’s Day

Teddy De Burca Jnr. gets sentimental, guilty and even a wee bit philosophical over Teacher's Day, a school holiday in Vietnam

I don’t seem to recall ever being in the habit of gift-giving as a pupil. No flowers, no thank you cards, no apples on the desk, no-nothing. I think it was one of those “something that happened when I was a child” incidents that possibly put me off.

You see, laying back on my imaginary chaise longue here, speaking to my inner psychiatrist, I do remember, once, bringing a present for a Ms. White, my first class teacher on the last day of summer term.

“Tell me about this day.”

Ok. Well, I was 6, she was in her twenties. She was all things nice, sugar and spice (never even raised her voice), everything a 6-year old boy looks for in a teacher. But it was more than that. I mean, she wasn’t up there with Wonder Woman, but my feelings for her were strong; in extremely relative terms, I had a crush.

So I gave her Chocolate mints at the end of the year – was it my idea, or my mother’s idea? Who knows. But I remember she smiled, patted my head and said, “Oh, these are my favourite!” I believed her, of course. But as I proudly sat down, back at my desk, I overheard her say the exact same thing to one of the three Dereks in my class who was giving her a box of Chocolate Marshmallows (no class). I was crestfallen. On the way home I opened up to my mother, who is a counsellor by profession and a good listener by nature, how technically you can’t have two different favourites. She tried to tell me how Ms. White probably thought all her pupils were special, so every gift was a favourite, plus who's to say you can't have two favourites - I liked Apple tart, she said, as much as I liked Apple Crumble, for example. But I was too young to understand all that, just old enough to feel betrayed.

So post-first class, at the ripe old age of 6, my generosity for teachers dried up. Tough luck for Mrs Thompson, Mrs Greene, Mrs Oldham and Mr Morton, who saw me through the rest of primary school. I never became emotionally attached to any of them; at the end of the year it was no hard feelings, goodbye and good luck.

Of course, they wouldn't have noticed one less box of cheap chocolates on the pile back home, or even if they did, as presents were presented (jinx) as a final fare thee well then there could be no consequences, no repercussions or no begrudgery.

But for Vietnamese pupils there's no such escape into the summer sunset. On Teacher's Day, aka Ngày nhà giáo Viet Nam, on November 20th, slap bang in the middle of the autumn term, the kids all get a day off but that's because they're expected to visit their teacher's house – current and in some cases former – bringing flowers and presents to show their appreciation.

There's also, so I’m told, the odd wink-wink-envelope being passed over from kids' parents – separately. Everyone has a different take on this, though I'm led to believe it’s common enough. One Hanoian described it as a "corruption that became a custom". Plus, no one wants to look like the family who doesn't appreciate a teacher's hardwork and investment into their kids' future, especially if they think everyone else's doing it.

However, teacher's low salaries are another part of this particular equation. Which is why some locals I've spoken to don't seem to see it as corruption, per se; perhaps it's more like a restaurant waiter in the west's 15 per cent tips beefing up an otherwise paltry income. If the cash gift comes from their heart it doesn’t matter, one friend said. Plus, rather than give the teacher a crappy gift then why not just let them spend the money themselves, she added. There’s deeply embedded cultural factors as well. In less well off days, teachers might have been given silk for an ao dai or decorations for their house, etc. So, there is a strong tradition of cherishing one's teacher and wanting to take care of them in Vietnam, unlike back in sunny Ireland, for example, where often teachers look like they could do with a good hug not to mention a nice bunch of flowers and sincere thank you. (Is that what the Teacher's Unions are for - support group therapy?)

Of course, not everyone under-appreciates their teacher back in Ireland, but then no one wants to be considered a teacher's pet or a lickarse either.

But it's worth pointing out, in Vietnam it's not about gushing praise on the teacher whether they deserve it or not. Judging by the abundance of innocent smiles and giddy shrieks of the kids cycling around Hanoi today, who usually meet up with classmates before heading en masse to the teacher's gaff, they love every minute of it. (It is most definitely yet another day for the florists of Vietnam along with Valentine’s Day, Vietnamese Women’s Day, International Women’s Day as well as good business for the fruit vendors.)

It can also be a great evening.

During my stint as an English teacher Ngày nhà giáo meant heading to the Bia Hoi after class with the kids (adult kids I should say) and 28 bouquets of flowers tied to my old Minsk (Boris R.I.P.), trying to think of a good excuse to avoid being dragged to karaoke or ways to avoid answering those a-wee-bit-too-personal-for-my-liking-questions. But how can't you love a country where a 50-year-old man gives you flowers and says "thank you my teacher" then challenges you to knock back your beer in one before driving home redfaced and merry?

The above would be despite asking students not to bother bringing me gifts or flowers, arguing technically it was just for Vietnamese teachers. But they were having none of it. Private students even rang me for years after I finished teaching them just to remind me of their gratitude for me teaching them back in the day. Just today a junior reporter at the paper gave me a gift, her way of saying thanks for my guidance or minor-mentoring since she started. I know Vietnamese folk in their mid-twenties who still go to their old favourite teachers' houses – for lots of 20-somethings it sort of doubles up as a class reunion. It’s all very sweet and the more I think about it the more it makes me feel a bit guilty about all those teachers post-Ms White that I spurned.

So Ms Thompson, Ms Greene, Ms Oldham and Mr Morton... if you’re reading, you have it here in writing: IOU – one box of cheapish chocolates. A bunch of flowers and a kilo of mangoes would be just too expensive in Dublin.

And Mrs Fleming - my arch nemesis, we will meet again! - in case you noticed I left you out, that's because I didn't like you. But that's another story for the inner psychiatrist to wheedle out on another day.

More on "ai cung biet la ai day"
From the NY Times - On Saturday, Mr. Bush’s national security adviser, Stephen J. Hadley, conceded that the president had not come into direct contact with ordinary Vietnamese, but said that they connected anyway.

“If you’d been part of the president’s motorcade as we’ve shuttled back and forth,” he said, reporters would have seen that “the president has been doing a lot of waving and getting a lot of waving and smiles.”

Read more

And another piece from AP here.

Bits and bobs
With "ai cung biet la ai day" in town all eyes are on Viet Nam at the moment - lots of articles bouncing around, here's one from The Guardian.

A snippet:
The Vietnam war was over, and the two villagers from north of Hanoi had witnessed what would have once been unthinkable: the humbling of a superpower by a peasant army. In the paint factory on the outskirts of Hanoi where the two men work now, Mr Vu says the significance of the victory was apparent even then. "When a small country like Vietnam is invaded by a big country like America and wins, then all the other countries can learn a lesson - that they can win a war against America," he says.

"They ran like cowards," says Mr Nguyen.

KOTO bike ride
KOTO's annual bike ride is coming soon - November 25th. Read more here or sign up here

Dubya in the house
First spotting of "ai cung biet la ai day" on Kim Ma by Mr. Dockery Jnr., who's - far more importantly - been working through the night on Highway4 the third - opening next Wednesday. Watch that space.

Classics on the former here.

And more here too!

What a guy. Never misunderestimate him.

Beating the sound barrier
First of all I'd like to apologise for writing about the traffic once again, but I wouldn't be doing it unless I had made somewhat of a revolutionary discovery, which I'll get to later.

As we all know for expats that have to ferry themselves around on motorbikes, the traffic in Vietnam's major cities is kind of a barometer for how long left they have in the country.

People who keep throwing tantrums at the traffic lights or screaming at mild mannered xe om drivers are gently encouraged to take a break by their friends, a long weekend in Thailand, perhaps (the country that, if it didn't exist, would have been invented by exasperated expats in Vietnam).

People who start losing hair or show disturbing signs of diminished mental health, over facing the daily traffic, perhaps, know themselves it's time to start checking for jobs in lands afar. (You will inevitably receive an email from them in two or three months complaining about sitting on buses wherever they end up – no pleasing some people).

While for those who spontaneously combust in the middle of the motorway after one too many industrial-sized horn beeps in their ear, sadly it is one day after the day they should have left. "Alas poor Protec helmet, I knew your owner well."

But, all of this can be avoided, and I am here to help.

For the last year I've been collecting earplugs, even occasionally buying them (although this happens when I'm abroad as chemists don't seem to stock them in Hanoi). Vietnam Airlines are also very obliging (Cho xin cai nut tai! "Please can I have some ear plugs").

Then all you have to do, back on the roads in Hanoi or Ho Chi Minh City, is pop the little blighters into your ears. The deafening city will be instantly neutralised.

It's not like you're listening to music and are now blithely unawares to the out of control bus careering in your direction. You can still hear the beeps. It just doesn't hurt so much.

Instantly, your whole riding-in-the-traffic-persona changes. You mellow out. You take in the sights. Breathe the fumes with a nonchalant air. Smile at passing commuters. Stop for pedestrians. Whistle at the traffic lights. Arrive for work with a "look who got out of bed on the right side this morning" air.

It will change your life. In fact, without the slightest bit of evidence I would bet you a bundle of small denominations of dong that people who wear earplugs probably live longer, happier, more rewarding lives.

When you take them out is optional and depends on how much you enjoy listening to your work mates complain about the traffic.

(Don't people talk about anything else in this town?)

A new diva in town
'When the programme concluded, many people said: “She is so womanly!” ' Click the link to find out why they were so surprised.

(Cheers to Caitlin for the link)

Get out of jail free ... birth certificate?
What are the chances this kid will be called "Tu Do"(free) or whatever "The Great Escape" is in Vietnamese?

Incredible.

Not so happy hunting
Guest writer Johnny Nguyen offers his tuppence worth on the dreaded house hunt in Hanoi

You might think looking for a house in Hanoi would be an exciting time, as you dream of that perfect lakeside mansion with the mild mannered and non-interfering landlord and a swimming pool in a hither-to undiscovered neighbourhood where everyone sleeps in on Sunday morning and no construction ever happens.

But let’s face it, moving house is a drag. Finding that dream house is worth celebrating, for sure, but until then, you’ll have to search the length and breadth of the city, traipse up a thousand steps while feigning interest in houses you know you don’t want as soon as you step inside.

After years of wild goose chases into areas I had already said I didn’t want to live in, I believe it’s best to be strict with a lot of local agents. Send an email, prior to meeting up, stating your preferences or shall we say demands, particularly the price and the areas you’re happy to live in.

For those of you who are new to town and don’t know the difference between Bach Khoa quarter and Truc Bach village, try to ask a colleague for some helpful parameters to work within. Otherwise you’ll end up with the worst kind of city tour, one dominated by traffic jams in the suburbs as you’re dragged from one ‘villa’ to another.

You’ll be doing well to score the perfect combination of a great area, great price and great landlord. So don’t set your hopes too high as two out of those three is not bad.
Landlords and agents may also very well tell you what you want to hear – concerned about security? Why this area is as safe as ... houses! Can’t stand construction, why nothing is going to built near here ever again! (Apart from that about-to-be-built multi-story abomination across the road, of course.)

My advice, come back after the guided visit and ask the neighbours these questions yourself. Have a look out for hidden karaoke bars or late night pho stalls that might end up hacking into your precious sleeping time, or the infernal loudspeaker, which is used for community announcements, generally at 6-million-am on certain streets. Any one of the above can ruin a perfectly good house.

For those with initiative, or time on their hands, you can go solo. You can try and drive around town and again, ask locals if they know of any houses for rent, or look for ‘house for rent’ signs, which are common enough in areas where a lot of foreigners live already, such as Nghi Tam village, Van Ho or around West Lake.

You can even look up the classifieds in Vietnamese papers (Mua Ban) or online papers (www.vnexpress.net), though you’ll need a helpful translator for this. (For English language listings check out www.newhanoian.com)

Finding a house by yourself means you have more chance of getting a better price by cutting out the middleman. In general as well, don’t be afraid to ask for household items to be included in the rental price – chairs, tables or even a TV – to be provided. Most landlords, or landladies, will be happy to negotiate the terms of the lease.

In terms of signing contracts and the small print, don’t be afraid to assert any quasi-legal deals you might think of (admittedly you learn what these might be the hard way, once bitten, twice shy). A close friend recently had the nasty experience of finding that “dream house” then quickly losing it. She moved in after shipping everything she owned over, then one week later the landlord told her that he’d sold the house and she had to move out by the end of the month. Moving had been a complete waste of time, energy and money and, as you might have guessed, there’s little chance of compensation.

Finally, for those of you who are fortunate enough to have people to look for houses for you and companies or embassies to pay for the rent, please do us little people a favour and encourage your staff to haggle on your behalf – it helps keep prices down all over town!

Pittstop's H'ors d'oeuvre

1 - Rua Tay Di ! (And no, I don't mean "go wash a westerner")

2 - He flew through the air with the greatest of ease!

Misguided in Hanoi
Got sent this link and it's a shocker to be sure, in every sense, right from the misspelling in the headline: "Thing to do", though that could work quite nicely for a satirical - short but sweet - guide to Hanoi... The One Thing To Do in Hanoi

So what is it for you - that one thing that outdoes all the others?

Answers on a postcard please.

Tiger Land
A brewer turned breeder on why he bred a tiger in captivity: "I wanted to send out a message to other nature lovers that I am doing my best to save the tigers because there are reports that there are only 150 left in Vietnam."

Surf's up in Da Nang
The typhoon which has just thrashed the phillipines is bee-lining for central Vietnam.

Goedemorgen Hanoi
Here's a new book on Vietnam to keep your eyes out for. Written by a couple of volunteers involved with Voice of Vietnam. For those of you in Hanoi, book launch this Friday in Goethe Institute.

Spies like him
An in-depth Newyorker article on Pham Xuan An, the spy who loved them (the US), though not as much as they thought. Well worth a read.

No ticket to ride...

I have a mantra that goes something along the lines of "back right pocket, back right pocket, just remember back right pocket". Or perhaps, it's more like self-hypnosis. Either way, the desired effect is to drum it into my thick-befuddled head that the only way not to lose my parking ticket or, at least, give myself the best possible chance of not losing it, or waste time looking for it, is to always put it in the same place – you guessed it, my back right pocket. Yes, I see you ladies with your enormous purse-bags at Hanoi Towers staring hopefully inside, hoping that the piece of paper that is known as your parking ticket might suddenly be as large and colourful as a flag. I feel your pain. I have a man-bag of my own with a dozen or so pockets I never normally use, though for some reason these infernal tickets always found their way in, before crumpling themselves and playing hide and seek. I've seen you drunken boyos, too, realising you've lost it and deciding there's no point arguing with the stony faced bao ve (parking attendant), so instead you rev up and accelerate through the gate like the Lone Ranger taking off with a "Hi-Ho Silver!" But I've also seen you caught by the scrawny bao ve (you didn't notice those rau muong powered Popeye-muscles on him did you?), de-saddled and berated. I myself have embarrassed myself in parking lots all across the city, shouting that I didn't get a ticket (believing I hadn't) until they "released me". Of course, when I return home and empty my pockets, I come face to face with the elusive, laminated rapscallion of a card and feel more than a tad guilty. Foreigners are the lucky ones, as they probably end up getting away with losing the tickets (either through sweet talk or ranting in incomprehensible Vietnamese), and driving home, albeit a little sheepishly. Vietnamese people would be forced to wait until all the other motorbikes are gone, until the bao ve can finally survey the desolate car park and decide with a fair degree of authority that the 16-year old doe-eyed girl claiming to be the owner of the sole remaining motorbike, who even has the matching pink T-shirt (with I Love U written on it) and the right key to prove it, is not a bare-faced teenage bandit, before allowing her to take the bike home. My simple advice, choose a pocket and stick to it.

By Teddy de Burca Jnr

Obituary
Oh dear – "Hung Electric" electrocuted (and dies). Vietnamese version here (Nguoi khong bi dien giat chet vi dien).

The Snail - My gastronomical nemesis

Over the last six years in Vietnam I have eaten in the high hills with country peasants in the back of beyond, complete strangers on plastic stools in grungy back street beer joints and a toothless granny on the steps of my house. I have eaten the congealed blood of a duck, goat testicles, dog brain sauce, the heart of a snake, crocodiles, cockroaches, scorpions and even a poor innocent tortoise – but for the love of God please do not tell my future children that last one. However only once, has my stomach churned, literally, and that was down to the oc (snails) that crawled out of Hanoi's West Lake, on to my plate, down my oesophagus gullet, through my stomach, past my intestinal pipes and out my behind (along with everything else), all within the space of about 10 to twelve minutes (I wasn’t really counting). The snails didn’t taste so bad – chewy morsels, like muddy clams, which are dipped in lemon, salt and fresh chilli after being plucked out of their shell with a wee metal tooth pick. But the hygiene was obviously short of the mark in the colossal snail restaurant where, seemingly, thousands of young countrysiders’ work, washing the dishes and snails in suspect water. The wonderfully picturesque West Lake is itself a grand old polluted hole. Anyway, I'd only eaten a handful of the little blighters before my normally hardy stomach sent out distress signals by gurgling uncontrollably. Then cramp set in. I muttered we had to leave to my partner who scurried down the steps with me. Luckily for me, my trousers and my pride, my house at the time was also on West Lake. I raced home and opened the gates with shaking hands. Inside I unbuckled my belt and ran for the downstairs loo with my trousers slipping down to my ankles. I made it, just, and the relief was nothing less than Biblical. As I sat in the dark I realised I was still wearing my helmet. Then I flushed the snails straight back to where they probably came from.

By Teddy de Burca Jnr.

***************************************************************************
This piece originally appeared in Raised Eyebrows - Melbourne's
favourite A3 magazine created by illustrator Paul Oslo Davis
It's his picture of a snail at the top, click on it for a BIG version

Beep-beep beep-beep - yeah!

To beep or not to beep, that is the question. Personally, I beep at young couples with babies squashed in between their bodies, because if we crashed I'd probably be held responsible for the baby's injuries, even though it wouldn't have been my idea for them to take their baby out for a devil-may-care spin on a motorbike. I also beep at enormous articulated lorries even though I know it's utterly pointless. Old men beep when no one's in front of them, just in case someone might suddenly pop out of the asphalt, perhaps. Better safe than sorry. My next door neighbour beeps rather than press her doorbell; her dutiful country cousin-maid scuttles out to open the gate. Why my neighbour hasn't got a key or, if she has, why she refuses to use it herself is anyone's guess. The buses that barrel down the roads beep indiscriminately at anything that moves, flinches, breathes, exists – as long as it's in their way – even though we were here first. Sometimes I wonder do they beep at other buses. Middle aged dads teach their kids perched in between their thighs how to make the bike go beep; a valuable lesson for the future. The young teenagers with bony limbs, spiky hair and dressed in football shirts beep with extra loud horns they've installed to scare the bejesus out of anyone in front of them. It is highly effective but should be punishable by enforced exile to Mu Cang Chai*. Young corporate women beep outside bakeries while shouting "em oi!" A hot banh bao or bread roll is then delivered to them all of five feet away on the street (time is money). Everyone beeps when the lights turn green, a few people even beep when the lights are red. My friend from New Zealand beeps with orange plugs rammed in his ears – if you can't beat them, join them (or beep back) is his philosophy. Everyone beeps at once when Vietnam wins a football game. Cars and vans flash their lights while they beep, sort of a double reminder to make sure you notice that they're driving on your side of the road at high speed. Sometimes people beep accidentally - oops! Some folk don't even realise they're beeping - huh? Some people beep because someone else is beeping at them - grr! No one knows who's the last person to beep at night. No one knows if there's a sound when a motorbike beeps in the middle of a forest with no one around or how many hearts beep per minute on any given day in Hanoi. But I do know that every morning a motorbike passing my house beeps before my alarm clock does and afterwards, too; certainly handy for making sure I don't sleep in, as well as serving as a reminder that there's no point dreaming of a day without a beep.

By Teddy de Burca Jnr.


* Mu Cang Chai is a Vietnamese friend's joke term for the back of beyond

Guess these famous beepers, click on the link to get your answer 
1 - Heh, I'm doin' my thing while you're playin wit ya [*BEEP*])
2 - The original uncatchable Beep-beep
3 - The title of this blog comes from these rather famous beepers

I’d like to teach the world to shout “oi”!

Without the slightest shred of evidence, I’d say, with a fair degree of certainty, that if you shouted out “oi!” quite loudly you’d probably get anyone’s attention anywhere in the world. But the difference between the rest of the world and Vietnam is that it wouldn’t be considered even remotely rude here. In fact, it’s like, ‘hey’, ‘excuse me’ and ‘yoo hoo’ all wrapped up together into one beautiful word. As you might know it is to be said with a name to grab their attention, for example, “Paul oi!" or “Osama oi!” or for a complete stranger with a pronoun “Anh” (for older man) or “em” (younger man or woman), for example. If the person hears them they reply, like a charming little echo, with another “oi”, which is itself a “what?”, “yes!” “I’m over here” all rolled into one. I think of the powerful simplicity of “oi” every time I go home and stand at the bar while your typical surly barman cleans a glass and steadfastly refuses to acknowledge me. It would be so much easier if I could just holler out “barman oi”. But as tempting as it is I’d never dare. An English friend once said the main difference between Hanoi and London was if you stuck two fingers up at someone in a bar and said “oi” in Hanoi you’d get two beers, whereas in London you’d be punched in the face. So if you’re reading this outside of Vietnam then, please, remember, don’t try this at home.


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This short piece was originally written for Raised Eyebrows, illustrator Paul Oslo Davis' magazine, which is based in a town called Melbourne in a country known as Oz. You can discover all about Oz culture here - fascinating.

Pittstop's suggested nibbles
* If you read this article would you want to go to Hanoi, if you'd never been before? Written for Ho Chi Minh City expats.

* Funny story here about an escaped prisoner, who found a pretty good, and fairly audacious, hiding place from the police, which should get the Professor Moriarty award for deviousness.

Bite size entry
Pittstop Works has had around 800 clicks in just under two months - which is roughly a hundred a week, and that's just under 15 clicks a day, (let's not count all the times I click on it to check up on how it looks), which is funny as I just read this cute quote from David Weinberger "an advocate of new-media journalism" who said, as a witty play on Andy Warhol’s maxim, re: the internet: “On the Web, everyone will be famous to fifteen people.”

Saw it in an article on The Newyorker which is well worth a read.

Many happy returns
(Retracing your steps along Cua Dai Beach)

As travellers we make a lot of promises wherever we go. We always say we’ll come back – and in an ideal world perhaps we would. But after seven years in Vietnam, it’s only Hoi An that I’ve been to several times a year, every year without fail.

In this chunk of time the changes to the old port town have been significant. What once seemed a sleepy old place is now alive with tourists all year round while an over abundance of tailors, restaurants and gift shops blurs the mind.

Now these changes are starting to stir up the coastline. On the way in to Cua Dai beach from the airport in the neighbouring city of Danang, the taxi driver tells me there’s big plans for what is called China beach, which runs south from the port city.

As we swerve around an old man with no arms who’s cycling a bike, he points from one place to the next telling me how a string of resorts are planned. He tells me this is good for everyone.

The road we’re driving on, which goes behind Marble Mountain, is a work in progress. Along the sides of the road half-houses are left standing, people’s front rooms have been cleared to make way for the construction. Regardless, life goes on. The front door is now where the living room used to stand. Chinese symbols that were once above family altars now front the house. Children play outside as labourers shovel cement and lay asphalt on the road to be.

On Cua Dai beach, where a number of high end resorts are happily fully occupied, everything seems as it always was.

I find my old friend Hon’s restaurant and settle into a seafood banquet of fried squid, boiled crab and a bowl of clams with Larue beer on ice. Hon tells me she’s moved which is why it took a while for me to find her. After three years when the lease is up the local government insists they move spot. I’d always wondered why they never bothered investing in the shack-like restaurants.

There are a dozen or so places like Hon’s in a row. The owners and helpers dressed in denim jackets, and wearing handkerchiefs for masks, coo the sunburnt backpackers shuffling down the beach, inviting them to sit in the deckchairs. Sitting is free if you buy a drink; so naturally a few thrifty travellers just buy a bottle of water and camp out for a few hours. Hon tells me every three years her lease is more expensive making it harder and harder to survive.

In the sea Vietnamese children swim in t-shirts. The younger ones carry broken bits of polystyrene as floats. They stop and stare as an old Dutch woman in a skimpy bikini goes out to test the waters.

The sea is deep blue and calm but suddenly a wave comes out of nowhere to the sound of a motor. Everyone looks up to see guests at the Palm Garden Resort on a jet ski buzzing past the moored fishing boats.

As you sit on the beach hawkers come past one by one. A geriatric lady selling cigarettes and tiger balm; a young girl with jewellery who looks for a promise ("maybe later you buy?"); a plumper manicuring-massaging lady; and an old disabled man who walks on his hands with a copy of yesterday’s Vietnam News.

Further down the beach, near the entrance more local Vietnamese customers can be found sitting on plastic chairs under the shade of thin trees drinking iced drinks for less than 25 cents.
In the late afternoon taxi drivers play dice while xe om drivers sit in a sliver of shade, all playing the waiting game; as the day progresses the beach will empty and tourists will head to town for a stroll along the river, or to hit the tailors before dinner and drinks. The shuttle bus from the Victoria Resort shoots past first. A few more young backpackers on rented motorbikes are next. Then come the brave ones who cycled out in the searing heat. Two remaining xe om drivers look edgy until a couple of sunkissed English girls hitch up their skirts and jump on the pillion. The drivers’ faces light up as the buxom girls squeeze closer. They’re too excited to even mention the price. Happy days indeed.

Yes, it’s the cliché of the travel writer to say you’ll always return, but as I leave in the twilight, Hon waves me off with a sincere, “see you later”. She knows I always come back. I bet I'm not the only one.

Above, a simple tale of compare and contrast...

... below, well, the pictures tell the story but we wrote another one anyway.

The dizzying heights, the terrifying lows

What goes up must come down. Teddy de Burca Jnr. gets a taste for a habit he can’t afford to keep – flying business class

If you were ever wondering what’s different between business class and economy class on internal flights in Vietnam, the answer is, perhaps obviously, food and space.

Due to incredibly bad organisation on my part, my intended flight to Danang was fully booked, but there was space in business class, said the cunning woman at my local Vietnam Airlines ticket outlet. I had a tight schedule and for another couple of hundred thousand Vietnam dong it didn’t seem totally outrageous.

Anyway I was also curious to fly down with the jet setters on business and return with my fellow hoi polloi in economy. And how pleased was I when I received an invitation to the business class lounge where I could no doubt practice rubbing shoulders with the other go-getters.

Besides being the only person in shorts and a garish orange t-shirt, I admit I felt a bit inadequate in the mobile phone department and a laptop and a suitcase might have helped me assimilate better than my rucksack and plastic bag containing my toiletries and sandals. Still I guess they just took me for a flash young traveller – the sort who might have made millions after inventing a clip on-speedometer for snowboards and is now seeing the world at his leisure.

Now for a 55 minute flight between Danang and Hanoi, you’d hardly be bothered by a bit of discomfort, but the first difference on the plane is not surprisingly space – where there are three chairs down the back, up front there are only two. This will reduce the chances of a) your neighbour nodding off on your shoulder and snoring in your ear b) your neighbour elbowing you in the head when he turns the pages of his newspaper or c) everyone standing up awkwardly when someone on the inside has to go the toilet.

Then there’s the freshly prepared face towels, not the thin wet paper ones in wee plastic bags. You’re also presented with a juice. There’s also the marked increase in cordiality: “Good morning, sir!” It's all very pleasant.

Next up is the meal – as opposed to a bread bun with some ham, a shred or two of lettuce and a splodge of mayonnaise and a shot of water to wash it down (described as an “indefinable sandwich and a beaker of water” by one disgruntled punter), you are offered a piece of salmon sashimi, fish mousse on bread and insalata caprese (yes, that’s mozzarella and tomato in English, but when in business class it’s hard not to assume a pompous air).

On the side there’s a cloth napkin, a glass of water and a cup for coffee or tea. Why it was like a party in Vienna after a night at the opera.

Of course, on the way back to Hanoi I was back to where I belong, elbows drawn like knives and scrunched up in the cheap seats.

For this lowly travel writer, it was a brief moment in the sun sitting in business class – I’ll have to wait till the next time I muck up my own schedule or have the pleasure of being bumped up (before every trip I pray for it). Every now and then I can afford to live it up but sadly flying business class would be like drinking champagne on a Sprite budget.

How to get to the Land of Nod

Restless and jealous, Yorkie Pittstop wonders what he’s missing out on when it comes to post-lunch napping

After lunch, particularly when it’s searing hot outside, I always admire my colleagues attitude: eat lunch in the office, leaving ample time for a wee siesta. It looks lovely. And how they manage to just curl up in a chair or recline between two chairs pulled together is admirable.

On a hot Hanoi afternoon you can often see xe om drivers stretched along their motorbikes, head on the handlebars or xich lo drivers slumped in their own chairs. Fruit vendors can be found nodding off in doorsteps, inside markets sellers sleep on piles of fabric while in shops assistants can be found passed out under the cash register.

I’ll admit that I’ve tried in my office but perhaps there’s more to a post-lunch nap then meets the eye. Inevitably I end up looking as if a train just rolled over my cheek and forehead, just like when I was a kid and nodded off at school and the teacher asked me if I’d been asleep. “Oh no,” I’d say, looking up with a thick red line across my face. “Not me.”

I also struggle waking up again. It takes a couple of coffees and several splashes of water on the face to get me going again. I wish I could siesta, but it seems I’m conditioned to see the day through from dawn to whenever I head for the hills.

Besides the “art” of having a siesta there’s also the culturally ingrained (western) tendency to see taking one as a sign of idleness (and therefore you must be unemployed, downright lazy or fond of puffing on exotic cheroots). To work too hard in the west is seen as commitment to your job. But the truth is a quick nap could help productivity in the afternoon.

NASA (and they have a lot of brainy people involved so they must be right) research discovered the effects a 40-minute snooze had on pilots and astronauts and found there was a 34 per cent improvement in performance and a 100 per cent improvement in alertness. British Airways used this evidence to sanction naps for pilots.

Most adults around the world get an average of 6.5 hours, below the generally recommended 8 hours. Studies show that blood pressure and arterial blood pressure dropped during a siesta. A quick post noon nap also promotes physical well-being, improves your mood and memory and revitalises you. How can doing so little do so much, you wonder.

Oddly enough in Spain where the siesta is seen (at least by outsiders) as a national tradition, sleeping after lunch is becoming less common. Now, as the country aligns itself with international working times, less than 25 per cent of Spaniards enjoy a bit of a shuteye after lunch.

There are however now modern means to meet modern ways – even new terminology: the metronap (check out www.metronaps.com) – with downtown corporate nap parlours appearing in European and American cities. So dog tired business people can recharge the batteries, for a price that is.

Meanwhile in the UK, perhaps, the mad dogs will be left to themselves in the midday sun as Englishmen may soon be heading indoors. Each year as summer temperatures seem to be on the rise health groups are encouraging siestas as a way to beat heat fatigue and heatstroke.

In Germany there are reports of companies offering employees an extra 20 minutes at lunchtime to catch some zzzs – and apparently employees have taken to it rather well.

And so the pendulum swings – back in the tropics, at least in Vietnam, attitudes may be shifting as young professionals feel they don’t have the time for a siesta anymore. While others might prefer to use this free time to meet with friends for coffee or even go shopping.

But when the temperature is well over 30 degrees and considering in Vietnam I have longer lunch hours than I ever had before, plus there’s only so much coffee you can drink, there’s plenty of time and plenty of reasons to have forty winks. I just need to get into the rhythm of it. Perhaps all I have to do is practice… work on my naptitude, if you will.

Finger licking good, but only for some

The New KFC has been a vaguely controversial topic in Hanoi since opening last month. Who after all came to Vietnam to eat Western style fastfood?

Regardless, a few western acquaintances of mine turned up at a bia hoi with large bags of the famous battered chicken. Colleagues came to work with chicken burgers and fries. To be fair most seemed pretty happy with what they got. Those who steadfastly refuse to entertain the thought of eating “western junk” prefer not to mention the subject. Old timers will mumble something about the heady days when expats tucked into greasy fried chicken on Tran Hung Dao. The begrudgers mention we haven’t seen the last of avian flu (the answer to which, by the way, for KFC in Ho Chi Minh City was to push the fish burger).

As many Hanoians know plenty of KFC restaurants already exist in Ho Chi Minh City (there’s 20 in southern Vietnam), so despite the rather ironic novelty of being gleeful for the official arrival of western junk food in the capital city perhaps there’s less stigma attached to the psychological blow or impact that a McDonald’s opening would have.

The hold that such institutions have on westerners is rather curious – people have told me that despite never having really eaten McDonald’s much before coming to Asia they still feel compelled to eat there when they see one, say in Bangkok or Singapore. There’s a magnetic appeal to those golden arches (or whatever your preferred poison, for me it used to be a Whopper). Afterwards people will even admit they feel awful, but like any binge substance they come back to it. Again and again.

In a city full of Bangkok or Singapore’s culinary delights eating such junk food might seem like a heinous crime to many. So why do we do it?

Personally, I can blame the parents. As a child I was actually banned from eating McDonald’s by my mother. So, of course, when myself and my cousin (also banned from touching the stuff) came into money our first objective was a banquet at chez Ronald McDonald. In one sitting we would eat every kind of burger, knock back a couple of chocolate milkshakes, devour 20 chicken (I admit substance is debatable here) nuggets and a chocolate sundae.

So I know the guilty pleasure of a hamburger and fries but I’m also most definitely not alone in appreciating the obvious virtues of Vietnamese food. Streetside restaurants serving pho or bun dishes can be quickly prepared, making it for this humble columnist the ultimate fastfood (as in it comes fast but it’s healthy and you feel fine afterwards). A few travellers I’ve met told me they’d lost weight on trips to Vietnam despite eating like kings the whole time.

Would Vietnamese people eat in McDonald’s? A long time ago I would have said no, but as far as I know, thus far, there’s not a country in the world that has resisted Ronald McDonald’s formula (for obesity you might say), meanwhile KFC seems to be fairly upbeat on initial business (though it’s too early to judge). Although I can’t imagine any ba gia (old grannies) tucking into Big Mac meal, for young people it will probably prove popular enough.

Yes, it’s a sign of the times, it’s the way of the world, it’s what people want, but it’s also damn depressing, so depressing I think I’m going to go out and gorge myself on bun rieu, bun cha, pho ga, banh cuon, nem cuon, banh xeo, banh bao… after all we don’t need ‘finger lickin' good’ in Vietnam – we use chopsticks.

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Extra info from skimming through the internet...

What do Pamela Anderson, Martin Freeman of the Office, Sir Paul McCartney, Chrissie Hynde, His Holiness the Dalai Lama, the Black Eyed Peas, The Darkness and Ravi Shankur (Yes! the Ravi Shankur!) all have in common? Well they believe there are lots of other reasons not to eat KFC - even in America! You can check out these sites they're involved with and make your own decision - UK based one or the US version – or even watch a very disturbing video here. (Done by PETA - People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals).

Here's an article about how PETA plan to sue KFC, from The NY Times from today, August 22, and a few bits and bobs in a sober analysis by the Guardian from late last year.

Urban myths that may or may not be true: when KFC first translated the advertising slogan Finger lickin' good into Chinese, it came out as "eat your fingers off", while one guy claimed in Quebec, where KFC is known as PFK (Poulet Frit Kentucky), he saw a sign that read Finger licking' bon.

So "Finger lickin' ngon"? Well, once again, this is a land of chopsticks. But there's a question I didn't think of - are chopsticks actually available in KFC?

For those of you who think the Brussel sprout is the national veg of choice in Belgium think again... introducing The witloof now blogging his guts out from the heart of the EU.

A rare treat indeed, in fact a first, fashionista Petra Patterson slips into the controversy surrounding the plastic shoes now hitting the Hanoi streets... Crocs. (Check out the very sincere testimonials page.)

Is this the new Dep (dzep)?













Over the last year the new foot craze around the world has been Crocs, a light sandal-shoe originally designed as a boating/outdoor shoe because of its slip-resistant, non-marking sole.

The company promises that you’ll “stand out, look good, stay comfortable” but despite the fact the shoe has been a massive hit in the US, and is now sweeping the rest of the world off it’s feet, people can only seem to agree that it’s comfortable.

As the expats and Hanoians return from summer holidays, the shoe is already ubiquitous in town, though not yet available in Vietnam. I couldn’t help but notice that at the last soiree I attended over half of the shoes (if not more) left by the door were Crocs.

But inside the house the shoe-cum-sandal seemed to be splitting the critics.
“They’re just so comfy,” gushed Simone from New Zealand.
“But why would you pay $30 for dep,” moaned Paul from England, seeing no difference between the classic Vietnamese shower dep and Crocs. “It’s just a plastic shoe.”
“I strongly recommend them for Hanoi,” said Huong from Vung Tau, who claimed the shoe is even durable enough to tackle a Minsk motorbike.
“They make me feel comfortable, clean and light,” said Tuan Anh, who picked up a pair in Bangkok. “But other Vietnamese guys think they’re very xau (ugly).”

Outside of Vietnam it appears Crocs are also “you either love ‘em or you don’t”.

Shoe Blogger Sam Lyster claims “any shoe that can survive a session in a dishwasher should be avoided at all costs,” describing them as “plastic clogs” that come in various “unappealing colours”; a US teen on another blog complained that “everyone in school wears them”, while others, well, judging by the astronomical sales, they’re clearly voting with their feet (second quarter revenues tripled to $85.6 million over $25.8 million last year).

But if you don’t stand out, and they’re not pleasing to your eye, why bother? Simone challenged me as we left the party, “go on, just try them on”, she said slipping me her shoe, and I must admit, they certainly were light on the feet, but you could make the same argument about dep, couldn’t you?


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If you’re curious to find out more, you can hear two extreme sides of the argument at www.crocfans.com and www.ihatecrocs.com respectively

Safe as houses, as long as you lock the door

A few years back I woke up on a bright Monday morning to a nice breeze coming through my room, which was most pleasant but rather unexpected. I sat up to realise the balcony doors were wide open. I scratched my head wondering had I foolishly left the doors like that all night. Possible as from time to time, my housemate and I would stand outside there in the evening, drink a beer or smoke a cigarette, while complaining about our other housemate, of course.

But I disremembered doing that the night before, in fact, I recalled, burnt out from the weekend’s indulgences, I went straight to bed and straight to sleep. So I climbed out of bed and ventured out to the balcony to investigate, perhaps, instinctively knowing what had happened but not wanting to even contemplate it.

Sure enough, outside there was a large empty envelope on the ground. It was an envelope I recognised. An envelope that hitherto I had known as “the big, fat envelope”, christened so, as it contained a month and a half’s salary, a lump sum I planned on spending on little old me on a Thai beach when school was out for the summer.

The cash was obviously gone; a veritable jackpot for whoever swiped it, and unlike jewellery or a CD player, completely untraceable. Shocked rather than upset, later on I told my neighbours, a couple of foreigners, as much to warn them to be careful (as in, don’t be naive like me and make sure you lock up at night, even hard-to-get-to-balcony doors).
“Oh yeah, we’ve been robbed lots of times,” said one, admitting that presuming the other to still be out they kept going to bed leaving their front door closed but unlocked.

On the last occasion one of them woke up as a shadowy hand hovered over the bedside table searching for a mobile phone or a wallet. He jumped up and chased him out of the house but the intruder was like a cat – up and over the gate and gone.
“I couldn’t chase him any further as I didn’t have any clothes on,” admitted the victim.

Of course, most urban Vietnamese houses have high gates, padlocks, and even barred windows. It’s pretty hard to get in, so those who try are probably well-practiced. At first I kept thinking about how amazing it was that the one time I hadn’t locked the balcony door I’d been burgled, until someone pointed put it mightn’t have been the first time they tried to get in.

Plus, even with locked doors, leaving windows open can be dangerous. Another friend told me how once he woke up to a spooky image – levitating trousers. He rubbed his eyes and looked again and watched as the trousers floated across the room. It took him a second to realise there was a man standing on his balcony with a large stick with which he’d plucked the trousers, through the bars, off my friend’s floor. My friend pounced towards the window and snatched the trousers back inside but the thief had already slipped out the wallet and – once again – instantly vanished into the night.

Of course, some of us are clearly more careless than others. Once, I ran out of the house late for a date and when I returned six hours later I discovered my keys dangling invitingly from the padlock. I might as well have put out a welcome mat and left drinks on the coffee table, says you.

Southern styled weddings

Family and friends who come over for a wedding in Vietnam might be surprised by what happens on the happy day in Ho Chi Minh City, reckons Teddy de Burca Jnr.

Nothing is what it seems. You feel a bit otherworldly, perhaps because of the stag’s night drinks the night before, or perhaps you’re not used to being dressed in a suit on a hot summer’s day in Saigon.

You even wonder if you’ve arrived at the right spot as there appears to be three weddings in three restaurants in a row. A bride stands alone next door gazing hopefully at each car pulling up – the sooner everyone arrives, the sooner she can go in and sit down.

Proof you’re on the right track may or may not be Exhibit A: the photograph sitting on a stand outside. It is a portrait of the happy couple. One on which a studio, through the powers of photo shop and camera gimmickry, has turned two people you know into two people you can barely recognise. The demure bride has been turned into a vamped up vixen, while the characteristically laid back groom comes across as an ambitious corporate tiger.

On the whiteboard you check the names and, confirming it’s the right place, step inside, and sign your name in the large white book in which everyone else has left illegible squiggles. You resist the urge to scribble a treble clef rather than your name.

You’re ushered upstairs and try to find a group to eat with. After everyone else has turned up and found a seat the well groomed compere takes to the stage with the slick ease of a seasoned chat show host. Another day, another wedding.

Crackers pop, tinsel flies through the air and lands on the shoulders of the compere who’s now screaming about happiness, luck and success for the bride and groom.

At your table nobody has eaten all morning. Beers are poured. After one slug waiters appear opening more.

Eventually food is plonked on the table and the master of ceremonies steps off stage (probably to the wedding downstairs) and just as conversation threatens to begin music is pumped out of the speakers and eight dancers take to the stage. Though it’s more prancing than dancing. The young boys grin madly as they pirouette; while the girls look positively bored. Your shrimp salad is finished. No one has said a word at your table.

Next, in the vein of Milli Vanilli two performers begin to mime Endless Love. The boy is not much more than five foot above sea level, and a skinny-ma-link to boot, but he leans back and gives it soul as he pretends to be Lionel Ritchie. The girl looks like she’s effortlessly impersonating Diana Ross though she drops her microphone as Ross’ voice still warbles over the last few notes of every line.

Steamed Prawns in Coconut juice arrive as the dancers remerge, this time in Chinese garb – (Ni hao!). The ice is melting in your glass and the tiger beer is now two toned. When the large baked fish arrives you are treated to two comedians. Despite your best efforts the humour is lost on you. A huge burst of applause and uproarious laughter breaks out. You think the comedian’s hit the mark but it’s the table of giddy teenagers where the boys with spools of gel in their hair and girls with bubble-gum coloured clothes are tram phan tram-ing glasses of Sprite much to their own amusement.

The bride and groom stroll around from table to table. A camera man rolls along with them while a photographer snaps their every move – every clink chimes with a click and a flash. The red alcohol in their glasses stays at the same level as they toast with the guests. Despite a rousing finish to their set nobody claps as the comedians exit stage left.

The Chicken Rice arrives. More beers are opened though no one has drunk much. The bottles are left ambiguously in between other bottles. The restaurant’s profits, you presume. After yet another international dance routine (hello Korea!) next up on stage is a mask-wearing magician-mime artist.

He dons a chef’s hat, pulls out a rubber chicken and also a never-ending long piece of string from his mouth. He manages to grab some attention by inviting a foreign man to join him on stage and spinning plates on his bald head.

The hot pot arrives. Judging by people’s faces at your table everyone has lost their appetite. Then finally the music stops. The compere says one more round of thank yous, bows and bounds off stage (possibly straight into the wedding downstairs to say farewell there).

People lean back, cigarettes are lit and smoke is puffed into the air. Then the guests shift to the exits, hop into taxis which quickly disappear into the Saigon afternoon traffic. Another day, another wedding.

As you turn back to see who’s left you spot the groom sitting with his baffled-looking friends who travelled from abroad, no doubt anticipating a traditional Vietnamese wedding. You wonder is he trying to explain what just happened.