Baby boom
All across Asia it's a baby boom - here's the first batch this year for Vietnam, as well as an explanation... basically the Year of Pig is considered a good, lucky year for having a kid anyway (in Vietnam, Korea and China), but this Lunar Year is the GOLDEN YEAR OF THE PIG, which means it's qua duoc...

Plus, from last week, I missed this story in the Snooze
on the current mania for trading stocks:
"The VN-Index is hotter than my girlfriend," joked Xuan Phong, a bank official. .

Which means his girlfriend must be pretty hot (though he prefers selling and buying more... ) as everyone and everyone's mother is into it at the moment. No joke.

As the article says, housewives and students are doing it... and, worryingly, no one I speak to thinks they can lose.

HCM Trail on the Cambodian side
Ex-Hanoian bon vivant Edward Pollard gave up the hedonistic pleasures of city life for a hammock in the jungle in Cambodge. He's quoted in this AP story titled "Rebirth in Cambodia: Wildlife on the Ho Chi Minh Trail is making a comeback"

Another recent AP brief writes that Edward's group, the Wildlife Conservation Society, has pledged to "boost tiger numbers by half across six Asian sites over the next 10 years". Estimates reckon "as few as 5,000 tigers survive in the wild in Asia, down from about 100,000 a century ago".

Go tiger.

United Colours of Brangelina
Jolie and Pitt are set to adopt a kid here in Vietnam

Sensationalist headline of the year
Thanh Nien runs a very peculiar story under a baffling headline.

It's not just the spelling ("People of Afro-decent com to Vietnam...", the whole article is, as those North Americans say in their quaint vernacular, pretty whack.

Plus, news just in, here comes the Vatican!

Nothing to do with Vietnam but...

History was made last week in Dublin - in all sorts of ways - with England playing Ireland in a rugby match at Croke Park, the home of Gaelic sports and a place where all other sports besides GAA ones were banned until recently. Rugby may not have been one of the "effeminate follies" T. W. Croke, the Archbishop of Cashel, was referring to in 1884 when he laid out his plans to restore Irish sports and shrug off English influences - he mentions "lawn-tennis, polo, croquet, cricket, and the like" - but still...

Here's the beeb's take on it (pre-match)if you're interested and a Guardian link on the fears over the singing of God Save The Queen, which was a pre-match concern.

Fittingly O'Gara and Shaggy showed their Gaelic football skills to finish the English off.




Been smiling all week.

Reading not writing
Ok, It would be better if I wrote my own articles but seen as Messers Elliott-o, Oslo and Witloof enjoyed my last link to Vietnam, I found another one for their reading pleasure. Perhaps a bit long and dull, but hey it's the New York times on Hanoi's art scene - what would you expect?

Spot your own pet-hate clangers and cliches. Personally I just wonder why it is they always end up in Bobby Chinn's (Hanoi c'est surprisingly chic!). Other spots namedropped are the Metropole (old world class oozes from the taps) and quite astonishingly the PARIS EFFING DELI:

I took in the street scene below as I sipped a glass of Beaujolais nouveau, which had just arrived that week, right on time.

Hence the nouveau! Thank heavens for the Oriental express!

Another good one is: “We come to Duc to create contemporary art and to talk about ideas with him,” said one of them, who like the others, had never left the country, though each of them had a Yahoo e-mail address.

Vietnam - c'est online!

Very sadly, the journo saves the best till last when she says: No wonder most tourists try it once (walk across a street), and then spend the rest of their trip either in the back seat of a taxi or in the cramped quarters of a tuk-tuk

Tuk-tuk?

Anyway, I promise not to just slag off articles written by people who were here for three days and write an article myself one of these days, but the post Tet malaise is deep in my bones. And it's so easy being lazy and cynical.

Advertorial
By the way, if you're in TPHCM and feel like climbing up a wall, a couple of friends have a wall with your name on it.

New year sabbatical
Mr. Witloof in Brussels tells me he's been worried sick - sleepless nights no doubt - over the recent flatline here at Pittstop HQ. At least we know if a blogger drops dead someone will notice. Eventually over time, alas, they will move on to pastures new and abundant - perhaps in this case to our blog directory neighbours pitstop or even pittstopp.

But fear not Meneer Witloof - We've been busy, busy, busy what with all that Tet Lunar New Year malarkey.

Now that we're back hopefully we'll be posting with the frequency of a 16-year old internet nerd, reassured that despite our sabbatical, we're still ahead of the print press. Then again you wouldn't have to get out of bed too early in the afternoon to be quicker than the Seattle Times (and also CNN - both pieces via AP) who finally caught wind of the North vs South furore that a teenage blogger kicked off aaaaaaagess ago. In November to be exact.

The Seattle Times article has a few cliches I groaned at:
Southerners with money take their friends out to dinner; northerners tend to be thrifty and prefer to visit friends at home, said Kim Dung, a journalist who moved to Ho Chi Minh City from Hanoi 12 years ago. (She obviously hasn't been back to Hanoi since.)

and...

But northerners generally are more concerned about status and will buy one expensive motorbike while the southerner is more likely to buy two cheap ones, she said.

??????!!!!!!!!!!!!!????

The article concludes with one man from the south comically complaining... "The service is terrible [in the north/Hanoi]!" he said. "If you go to a restaurant and ask for an extra chopstick, the owners get angry at you."

Which if you were this poor couple who dined out in TPHCM one night a while ago, you'd probably find a wee bit hard to believe.

A moment
Around town you can see the vans lurk. Inside the eyes of men in uniform scan the paths. Ahead street vendors hightail it with their baskets of strawberries or water melons or flowers or whatever is ripe or in season. Old ladies at tea stalls pack up their miniature stools and shove their kettles inside the door. Deliverymen run out of shops mid-delivery to drive around the block. You see, blocking the paths is illegal. Any object blocking the path is subject to confiscation. Which is why street cafes have such cheap chairs - so it doesn't matter if they're taken. It's nothing new, if you live here in Hanoi you've seen the chairs, fruit, bicylces and pots being hurled in the back of the van, heard the pitiful pleas of the owner begging for clemency.

But the other day, a first of sorts. On a winter's morning, as the boys in the back of the van sat shivering in the cold, a woman cooking (chesnuts roasting on a open fire? Perhaps it was sweetcorn or chao) with a bep than is spotted on the street. Her stove is duly confiscated - nothing else.

One of the men then places it carefully in the middle of the back of the van, which lurches forward, and rolls away; the men in the back then huddle around their heater and warm their icy hands, the sounds of the woman shouting are soon left behind, soon unheard, soon forgotten.

I just wanted to say, I've never seen a bep than confiscated before. That's all.

Quickies
Chicken Run continues into TPHCM

If you're having a party and are the little boy who lives down a lane this website might help your friends find your house. Click on your street while "holding the Shift-Key down. A link is then generated which you can include in your email or web site..."


The design isn't magnificent but it's handy enough - here's a link to point you in CAMA's direction come this weekend (the last ever).

It's 2007
So 2007, underway and isn't that lovely. If you've been clicking on and finding nothing here is new you've obviously been spending too much of the festive season surfing the web when you should have been eating and drinking - what were you thinking? You'd do well to remember the internet turns you into a nerd.

Anyway, we were eating and drinking, which is why we weren't posting anything.

First good news for the Pittstop Team this year is founding-blogger-man Connla Stokes's story the Lover's Nest has been translated into Turkish, which is of no use to any of you probably, but on the off chance you are a) Turkish b) speak Turkish c) know someone who is a) or does b), well you can let them know their soon-to-be-favourite journal is called Esik Cini.

Anyway just felt like bragging.

You can buy and read the original in Tieng Anh here at Total Cardboard HQ

Or you can read it for free here.

More Vina stories coming soon.

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.

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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.