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.

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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.