Postage and package included… sometimes.

Today a delivery receipt arrived on my desk at work that said a package had arrived for me at the local post office. I was absolutely ecstatic. The reason for my elation was not because my parcel of clothes which I had ordered from an online t-shirt had finally arrived (thanks for the new threads, Threadless). I was relieved because of the fact that the package had actually arrived. One of the main gripes expats who live here have is the inconsistent and incoherent postal system in Vietnam. Let me explain.

For a foreigner, the Vietnamese postal system is as strange and unfathomable as rocket science would be to a sixth grader, or the rules of cricket to a Vietnamese farmer (the term Kafkaesque springs to mind, with the impending sense of doom replaced by a sense of inevitable extortion). For all we know, there may be a hive full of little post elves somewhere behind closed doors in the Saigon Central Post Office. I imagine they sit on piles of unopened packages, wearing little Bưu điện uniforms, doing little jigs while licking stamps, making paper envelope airplanes, sorting the post, and deciding not when they want to deliver the letters and parcels, but if they should deliver it!  

See that little elf on that box? I rest my case.

(photo from kinhtenongthon.com.vn)

 

 

Too many times I’ve heard stories of people’s parcels mysteriously disappearing into the “postalsphere” (I’m sure those elves had something to do with it). Go onto one of the online expat forums like Phu My Hung Neighbours, and on any given day you’ll find complaints and concerns about letters, gifts and parcels not arriving. In my experience there are basically four scenarios when awaiting post in Vietnam. 

Scenario 1: Your post never arrives. This is a very possible reality so don’t be surprised when this happens. Like a lost love, don’t dwell on it. Forget about it and move on – life’s too short to worry about that Kit-Kat or Crunchie chocolate bar that went missing in the mail. 

Scenario 2: Your post arrives…sometime in the following year. This often happens. I think the people at the post office just keep your post, hoping that you will eventually give up on it or forget about it (or maybe it’s those mischievous elves again?). This is especially annoying if you’re expecting a package containing food or goods which expire. I once had my parents send me a package from South Africa containing all my favourite specialities – chocolates, boerewors and droewors, spices and condiments (Mr Balls Chutney and Ina Paarman’s Spices), and a bottle of good South African wine (Springfield Estate Wholeberry). It arrived months and months later (even though they had sent it express mail) and everything had expired and become inedible – even the dried meat. The only thing which was still good to consume was the wine, which had actually got better with time! 

Scenario 3: Your post arrives, but it’s been tampered with. This is the most likely option. Two years ago I sent myself a package from Australia containing clothes, English teaching materials and books and some other personal items. Eight months later, the package arrived, squashed, ripped open, then taped closed and torn open again, obviously having undergone a thorough inspection by the authorities. Everything was there…except for a few English teaching books. I was upset for a while, but at least I knew that there were some post office workers (or maybe a couple of post elves?) who are now speaking English fluently thanks to my “gift”.

Scenario 4. You post arrives, but it costs an arm and a leg to collect it. I once received a receipt from the post office to collect a package which cost me eight times more to pick up then the contents was worth! One thing I’ve learned is if you want to make sure that the post office doesn’t overcharge you, make sure the price of the goods is clearly displayed on the package. Also, don’t send anything dodgy (like English books) or god-forbid some exciting and foreign like a vuvuzela. A colleague at work just had to pay the equivalent of $600 for a care package sent from Korea as it had to undergo a “culture check” (I think that means the elves had a look to see if there was anything interesting they could eat or sell). 

Scenario 5. Your post arrives on time, in one piece, and unaltered. Don’t worry about scenario, as it is never likely to happen. 

"Not delivering your shit, since 1978"

These seem to be the general experiences most expats I’ve spoken to here have regarding the postal service. Many foreigners these days just ask their friends, family or others visiting from overseas to bring something with them on the airplane to avoid the hassle and heartache of dealing with the postal service. Of course, I understand that you can’t  expect things to be the same as it is back home – but sometimes you just have to complain to get it off your chest. And after all, what else can you do? Write a letter of complaint addressed to the post office, hoping they will receive it?  Yeah, right...

Originally written for Doanh Nhân Sài Gòn

Expat extremes

One of the defining characteristics of being an expatriate is the transient nature of your life. What I mean by this is that people are always coming – arriving for a new job on a short or long-term contract – or going – reaching the end of their stint in their temporarily adopted homeland. This has benefits in that you are constantly meeting new, interesting people who have left the comforts of their hometown and own country to experience the wonders of the bigger world and where every day brings a new challenge. Business contacts are made and built up, if that's your thing. This is especially true in Vietnam where “expect the unexpected” should be the official expatriate motto! On the other hand, this transitory lifestyle means that often just as you are getting to know someone and are becoming good friends, either you or them are leaving. It does prevent you sometimes from getting close to people as you often wonder "what's the point?". The life of an expat involves numerous farewell parties and teary send-offs, with promises of "I'll visit you here", or "Let's meet up there", made in earnestness but most often strewn by the wayside of life's busy, well-trodden road.

 In my six-years or so of living abroad - only a 2 or 3 on the expat-experi-o-meter - I’ve had both the ups and downs and have also noticed the very different labels stuck on and boxes people are neatly, but more often untidly stuffed in. This labeling is something I firmly don't believe in, but will attempt to provide my view on the spectrum of expatriatism in Vietnam of which I will try to show the two extremes.

Meet Arthur. On the one extreme , Arthur's the kind of expat the other kind is always joking about over a cheap beer on an even cheaper plastic chair. He’s the guy who lives in his expat bubble in his company-paid villa in Phu My Hung or compound in An Phu. Watching TV shows from home on his plasma flat screen, Arthur rarely leaves the comforts of his villa, and only ventures forth to walk his purebred husky. which he will have to try and sell or give away when his “stint in ‘Nam” is up - "because you, no Western country will receive a dog filled with heaven knows what third-world parasites".  This walk is filled with annoyances - the unbearable heat or incessant, "unpredictable" rain, and taxi driver's trying to hail his attention. If he runs out of milk, he doesn't wander down to the shop - he asks his live-in maid/cook what he pays her a three million VND a month for and sends her down to the shop and reminds her not to forget the receipts (because he has a sneaky suspicion she may be fudging the expenses and stealing from him, but he can't prove it yet)

Arthur has made no attempt to engage in the culture or learn the language, except for the few phrases (in completely the wrong tones) he uses to impress foreign visitors when he takes them for a "cultural tour" around Bến Thành Market or directs his driver to turn quẹo phải or quẹo trái, .   Arthur’s chauffeur drives him to work every day and he only knows a smattering of street names in District 1 like Lê Lợi or Đồng Khởi, as these are where his offices are. He may know where Bến Thành Market is, but ask Arthur where  Bà Chiểu or Dân Sinh markets are and he will stare at you blankly saying his driver will know so no there is no need to learn such insignificant details. Throw him in the middle of Gò Vấp or Tân Phú Districts without his driver, and he will have a nervous breakdown, trying to find a Mai Linh taxi as quick as possible (because the other companies all rip off foreigners, you know, and don't speak English, and besides, he has company a taxi card). 

Arthur has tried phở once or twice, but only at Pho 24 where it is clean, and the suggestion of trying it on the side of the street is just appalling to him. How unhygienic!  Buying a coffee off the street is the scariest. Do you know how or where that ice was made? Mostly, he only orders Western delivery or eats at high-end Western restaurants and occasionally tries Asian food when entertaining business guests, but only in immaculate, air-conditioned surroundings like the Khaisilk group of restaurants. When his one or two-year contract in Vietnam is up, he’ll have some fond memories – mostly of Chamber of Commerce cocktail parties, five-star resorts and good rounds of golf up and down the east coast. Arthur will not know much about the real Vietnam, the people, the culture, the language, but he will feel pleased for his experience in this “hardship post” that his company forced him into, and the kudos this stint would get him around the tie-and-jacket dinner party tables in Hong Kong or Dubai. 

On the other extreme is Jimmy; the expat who assimilates or goes as local as possible. He shares a small apartment or rents a room from a Vietnamese family in District 12 or District 10 for around $100 a month and complains that his rent is too high, and that he shouldn’t be asked “Western prices” because “he’s not a tây ba lô”. Jimmy sneers at foreigners who drive motorbikes that are fancier than a Honda Wave, as this is wasting money - showing off and rubbing their wealth in the poor's faces - and he often makes derogatory jokes about Western tourists himself. He eats at the local cơm bình dân daily for under a dollar, hanging out at a bia hơi, quán nhậu or a nearby coffeeshop with his local friends at the weekend and he feels a bit uncomfortable and alienated when he has to hang out with other foreigners, as "we have nothing in common". 

Of course, Jimmy speaks fluent Vietnamese, even knows how to nói lái and knows Vietnamese idioms, endlessly impressing his friends and other Vietnamese, when he busts out his Southern-accented slang. Jimmy knows the latest log standing of the V-league by heart and argues with his friend over whether Becamex Bình Dương can reclaim their former glory. He only shops at the local fresh market and detests driving into District 1. He prefers a weekend away in Vũng Tàu or Bến Tre, fishing, playing cards and drinking shots of rice wine with his girlfriend's uncles than spending too much money at a tourist resort in Mui Ne or a shopping holiday in Hoi An. Jimmy is always arguing with his Vietnamese girlfriend over where the best bowl of hủ tiếu Nam Vang or cháo lòng can be found, and loves the taste of all the things foreigners usually detest, like durian or mắm tôm. He knows all the Vietnamese musicians that are cool at the moment as well as the actors and actresses, and he watched some Korean soapies, but only during the week as he works all weekend at a local English centre.

Of course, these two fictional expats are the exaggerated extremes at both ends of life in Vietnam, and 99% of us are somewhere in between – mostly crowded around the 50% mark. Whatever the case may be, I think all of us can find some resonance in these characters and wherever expat life may take you, there will always be a Jimmy and an Arthur is some shape or form.

Originally written for Doanh Nhân Sài Gòn - March 2012

Come rain. Or shine.

As an expat living in Vietnam, there are a number of subjects that inevitably arise when talking to other long-term foreigners living here. I’ve compiled a mental list of the top, and sometimes most tedious, subjects expats in Vietnam talk about. I think at this time of year, the weather is probably right up there near the pinnacle. Put it like this, if "expat talk" was Twitter, #rain, #weather, #wet would be trending.

As I sit here in my air-conditioned office, I dread the idea of going downstairs to the canteen for lunch – plainly because it’s absolutely blistering hot outside. And as we know, this heat is a precursor - a sign of things to come, more specifically, of rain. Lots and lots of rain, like pats of warm butter dropped from above. Driving around on your motorbike in this rain is akin to being caught in a battle where big, fat globules are hurled like water balloons from the sky by mischievous gods attacking the mere mortals below.

I’ve been throwing furtive glances at the sky for the last few weeks – looking for that dark presence of a thundercloud on the horizon. Sniffing the air for signs of moisture. I thought Tropical Cyclone Pakhar was it.Watching how high and low the dragonflies are zooming about, estimating their trajectory against the horizon with my thumb and forefinger, squinting through one eye.

This is because it is that time of year when we expats start getting itchy. Very itchy and incredibly nervous. Let me explain why. At this time of year, we start playing a game of one-upmanship with each other by trying to predict when the “rainy season” will actually begin. The winner is recognized to have superior knowledge regarding not only Vietnam’s climatic patterns, but also all things “expatness”.  That's the prize. For the rest of the year, everything this expat says will be taken as the truth and cannot be questioned by other foreigners. When they say: “I think Vietnam’s economy will grow by 6.5% for the second quarter of 2012,” as another expat, you have keep your mouth shut and accept this as fact. Okay, maybe I’m over-exaggerating a little bit, but I think you understand why this title is so important, or it might just be in my head...

Thus, with the first showers of March, only an “amateur” expat (who has lived here for less than two rainy seasons) will utter the prophetic words of “looks like the rainy season has started”. The old-timers (foreigners who have lived here for ten years or more) will scoff at these greenhorn predictions, these young 'uns who think they know it all. They will throw knowing glances at each other. This is because old-timers know that there are at least five or six big showers in March before one can actually say the rainy season has started, even a tropical storm won't throw them off!

Oh, and god forbid those partaking in this unspoken challenge actually ask advice from the locals who have lived here all their life and know the weather like the palm of their hand. This is considered cheating in this game of one-upmanship. You have to state your prediction based solely on your own shrewd observations,  using science, experience and whatever other talismanic trick you have up your sleeve, such as a left ankle that starts twinging when the weather turns or an itchy ear. My grandmother used to start sneezing uncontrollably just before a big thunderstorm. That kind of thing. 

So how do you actually win this game and become the most knowledgeable and well-respected expat of the season? Once you say the words: “The rainy season is here” (beware, there will be groans and moans from others) the unspoken rules state that for you to be declared the winner: (1) it has to rain consistently for at least three days and three nights (2) all major and minor roads need to be flooded under at least three feet of water for said period of time (3) you must know (and be able to produce) at least four people whose motorbikes broke down from flooded engines (4) you must show photo evidence of an intrusion of cockroaches taking over your house.  Then, and only then, will you be crowned winner. 

You are then allowed to bask in your glory (or at least drip in your wet triumph), until late October when the rain slows down and a new game begins: the game of who can predict the end of the rainy season correctly, which is when it all starts again…

Written for Doanh Nhân Sài Gòn - March 2012

The Curse of the Crazy Landlord

It’s inevitable. You move to Vietnam and start looking for a place to live. Nothing fancy. Just somewhere to lay your head at night, really. Lucky for you, a friend of a friend is moving out of this great place in Tan Binh District - a little bit further out than you expected, but it's just what you wanted; a nice two-storey house, with a rooftop terrace and three bedrooms – perfect for sharing with some friends, and it’s not too expensive either  - even though you know you’re being charged foreigner prices. Okay, so there's some fake grass and flowers in the landing of the stairwell, a huge copy of a Dutch pastoral scene - multicoloured tulips and peaceful windmills - in the living room and the furniture is that heavy, dark wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl horses and dragons.Nevermind, it's still a steal.

You meet the landlord and he or she is all smiles, agreeing to purchase some new appliances, buy some nice(r), comfier couches and hook up the cable TV with BBC and TLC. Everything seems fine, but then, just when you are settling in to your new place and discovering the best places to eat in the hood, it strikes. The curse. The curse of the crazy landlord. Crazy as in weirdo, watch you sleep at night, extort you of all your money, make you think you're the nuts one, crazy.

All expats who have lived here for at least a couple of years and in various locations around the city know the curse of the crazy landlord and also know that it is unavoidable. It is like a rite of passage. Like the Xhosa circumcision rite, just more painful and enduring. While not all landlords are crazy – my current landlord is wonderful – somewhere along the line there is always THE ONE you will never forget. The mere mention of his name makes you utter inane profanities under your breath and make little stabbing motions with your pen. And I use "him" loosely here - just as often it's a "she". A she-devil. You identify these malevolent landlords and ladies (such ironic terms!) by their malignant actions.  They are the ones that you tell your friends back home about and they refuse to believe the stories. Like when you tell them you saw the tokoloshe under your bed last night.They're all scoffs and sniggles as their cognitive dissonance kicks in. 

My "one" was Mr Hiep*. At first, he was lovely - a middle-aged ex-pilot for the air force. When we moved in, he bought a new water cooler and hooked up the ADSL internet just as we had asked. He even bought me a miniature MIG fighter plane made from recycled bomb metal and offered me a pack of Camel cigarettes: "From Mỹ (America)," he assured me. 

Mr Hiep lived behind our house with his family, which was fine at first, but this was also where the trouble started. It meant he had a key for our backdoor, which, in turn, meant that he would drop by unexpectedly at unforeseen hours of the day. His favourite time to drop by for a “chat” was 6:30 am on a Saturday morning, while I was inevitably still sleeping after a late Friday night out. I’d wake up from the smell of cigarette smoke (even though we didn’t allow smoking in the house, Mr Hiep always chain-smoked his way through all the rooms). I’d rub my eyes and he’d be watching me as I woke up – no knocking on the bedroom door either – just...kind of...watching with his red, beady, droopy eyes, like two pomegranate seeds stuck in a melting Dali clock. Other times he'd pop by around 10-11pm. He had this crazy landlord sixth sense that told him when the worst and most inappropriate time to visit was – and that’s when he would appear! 

Sometimes he’d also bring his children – and I’m sure he did this just to torture me. Before I knew it, there'd be little hyperactive sugar-fueled balls of destruction whizzing through the house screaming and going through all my possessions. Sometimes he would come over with a few beers, which he drank most of himself, or some food that I'm sure he knew I wouldn't really eat, like durian, moon cakes or nem chua, which he ate most of himself, and told us stories about the war. The drunker he got the worse his bad English got. 

"Fly to Cambodia," he'd recall, toking on a Camel. "Weather, no good."

"Drop maaany many bomb."

"Boom."

I started barricading the backdoor, but somehow he'd always find a way in. One time, when I when we came back from a holiday, Mr Hiep had decided to paint the inside of our house a very disturbing peachy salmon, without asking us. He'd also taken it upon himself to install an expensive and extremely garish water feature in the house, which made smoke come out of a fountain when you turned it on, and had a ball rolling in the smoke and water with disco lights shining everywhere. I could handle this seriously Western decor faux pas (yet what was probably the height of fashion in Tan Binh, Ward 7 at that time); however, what got me was Mr Hiep then decided that we needed to pay for all of it because he had done us the favour of painting the place and installing the smoking water contraption! He also decided to increase our rent by $100 because our house now had “added value”!

One day, I asked Mr Hiep to send someone to clean the air conditioners, I got home to find him sucking on the air-con exhaust pipe, spitting out the dirty water into a bucket. 

The last straw was when my housemate and I started noticing our utilities bills going up every month, even though we didn’t use more electricity or water. It took me a while to investigate, but I finally solved the mystery. Mr Hiep had plugged in his very large aquarium into our power plugs in the backyard. Not only that, but he’d also plugged in his washing machine to use our electricity and water!

We decided to move out to a more honest/sane place. When we told Mr Hiep, he couldn’t understand why, but immediately started showing possible tenants through the house, again at the worse times! I’d be lying in bed on Sunday morning when suddenly and unannounced four people would poke their heads around the corner and start walking through my bedroom and bathroom, expecting the place, poking their head into my closet, turning the shower on to check the water pressure, and such antics.

I guarantee you that if you ask any foreigner living here, all of them would have a story of a crazy landlord. It’s one of those things which makes living here in Vietnam so random and unexpected and one of the reasons I love it so much, even though it is infuriating at the time. We all need our Mr Hiep story.

*This is not his real name for privacy purposes. I also don't want him to hunt me down and find myself waking up in a bathtub full of ice sans three toes and a kidney.

Originally written for Doanh Nhân Sài Gòn

Writing column articles for Doanh Nhân Sài Gòn

Over the next few months I've decided to publish some of the column articles I've written for Doanh Nhân Sài Gòn (Saigon Entrepreneurs Weekly Edition). These are bi-weekly articles for a column called Một góc nhìn khác (From a different perspective) where I give an expats perspective on life in Saigon. I was introduced to DNSG by Jon Hoff, who passed the writing baton (read: responsibility to produce a piece every two weeks) on to me. I in turn, have tried to ease the writing load by getting my mate and colleague Mark Jones involved, as he is married to a Vietnamese girl and has a baby here - meaning he can provide a much embedded view on cultural differences than myself. 

I write it in English and it's then translated into Vietnamese, so bear in mind that the writing is slightly simplified as a lot of nuance gets lost in translation. Nevertheless, I always appreciate feedback - in agreement and against.

Hopefully this can ease me back into some kind of blogging form. Check back later the week for the first article entitled We're not so different after all.

Foreign Indulgences

Okay, as much as I ranted about the local food in the previous post, I must admit hauling along quite a number of what you could call “ foreign essentials”, things which are either too dear in Vietnam, too difficult to source out or just impossible to find (for reasons of either legality or culture). Turn the cart upside down, though, and they could be called a Westerner’s “lavish indulgences”, or more harshly; unnecessary excess crap to lug along on an already long flight. Of course I prefer the former term.

Be it as it may, I’d like to share with you now these fine items which are of various values; sentimental, monetary, sanitary or just plain sanity.

First on the list was an essential collection of 20 cds. I think Sarah and I have managed to put together a fine assortment of new albums , cheesy treffers (as they call rubbish music that’s only good for drunken singalongs in South Africa), local (as in Aussie and Saffa) or nostalgic albums. Classified geographically, these are:

Australian: Xaviar Rudd and Izintaba (Koonyum Sun), John Butler Trio x2 (April Uprising and Three), The Whitlams (Love this City), Eskimo Joe (A Song is a City) and Powderfinger (Golden Rule).

South Africa: Jack Parow (Self-titled), The Rudimentals (Set it Proper), Valiant Swart (Die Mystic Boer), The Dirty Skirts(On a Stellar Bender), Max Normal.TV (Good Morning South Africa), Springbok Nude Girls (Goddank vir Klank) and Black Mango Presents (Breathe Sunshine Vol 3).

International: The Flaming Lips (The Soft Bulletin), Florence + the Machine (Lungs), Pendulum x2 (Immersion and In Silico), Kings of Leon x3 (Because of the Times, Youth and Young Manhood and Aha Shake Heartbeat), Putumayo Presents (Sahara Lounge).

Cheesy World Cup Fever induced purchases: African Musical Safari, K’Naan (Troubadour), Listen Up! (The official 2010 World Cup Album).

*A quick endorsement from Metallica: If you haven’t heard of any of the above-mentioned artists go out and illegally download all of their music (except for the ones in the last category which are all pretty naff), and send the royalties to the Royal Society for Protection of African White Tigers.

Next on the list, (and never far from my mind) was foodstuffs: From South Africa and still in the mail are a fine range of Ina Paarman’s spices, stocks, and sauces. Sarah reckons Ina is like South Africa's very own Martha Stewart, but without the criminal record. Also, choccies (think Tempo and Bar One), four small potjies – quintessential SA outdoor cast iron cooking pots).

Our Australian amassment contained…wait for it, Tim Tams! Mint Slice! Gigantic Kit-Kat Chunky bars! Now before, you say: “But you can get Tim Tams in Vietnam, stupid.” As any discerning chocololic worth his block clearly knows, they’re just. not. the same, so rather keep quiet as not to look like you don’t know your cacao from you co…coffee. They’re made in Malaysia where different criteria are used to determined deliciousness, or is it deliciosity?

Anyways, sadly but not unsurprisingly none of the above consignment made it to Week Two of “The Return”. A half-jack of mezcal complete with two alcohol-bloated little worms only just made it into Week Two.

There were also numerous toiletries: think face cleansers without whiteners – I know it’s hard to imagine – and things that won’t make you break out in a rash and hives from just looking at the chemical ingredients on the label.

There were heaps of shoes in Western sizes, including a pair of gumboots (for Saigon downpours), and “real” football boots. What?! You mean the boots they sell for a hundred thousand uncles on Huyen Tran Cong Chua Street aren’t real?! The fact that your toes were sticking out of them after your first kickaround should’ve made that clear, buddy…

Books! I wish I could list all the books we had, but sadly the two pristine rectangular boxes we sent from Australia by post, containing our books, teaching material and other odds and ends arrived a few days after us, battered, bruised and misshapen sans most of our books. Luckily a lot of Sarah’s cook books were saved the culling and I’m pretty sure it’s not the first time Salman Rushdie’s novels haven’t made it into a country. A lot of our teaching materials were also rifled through and some removed (at least we’ll soon have a new generation of Vietnamese postal workers getting 7.5 on their IELTS tests).

Now to what I believe to be the most important items: A Bundaberg Rum Wallabies overall (great for messy nights out with the boys), my silk SA flag, as well as beanie and scarf and the ultimate South African cultural weapon: Our modern day assegai, that much maligned, often misunderstood hornet's nest in a stadium, the bane of all English supporters existence at the World Cup (or possibly a tight second after the Uruguayan referees in the second round match against Germany). The vuvu. The vuvuzela. 

Lavish indulgences? Please, mate. Essentials.

An Ode to the Raiders

A ragged bunch of mercenaries, battle-hardened warriors, drawn together from the far corners of the globe troop onto the field at the National University in Thu Duc District every Sunday in Saigon. A South African, a handful of British and Irish, Aussies, Scandinavians, Yanks and Europeans, all gleaming with the iridescent glow of sweat, toiling in the tropical heat or ubiquitous afternoon downpour, fighting for their pride, their fraternity, their band of brothers. Boots are laced up, shirts are pulled on and old war injuries strapped up as they enter the field of battle in high spirits. Staring down the opponents as the referee blows the battle horn. Commands and the call to arms are shouted from the stoic defence as speedy wingers and sharpshooting strikers take control, always against the odds, of a dire situation and slot goal after goal beyond the hapless and helpless opposition goalkeeper, and come out triumphant week after week.

Yes, it is the Saigon Raiders, the Saigon International Football League’s (once) premium football outfit.

Yes, that is one way to view these fine athletic specimens of sporting men. Another way would be looking at them as a dozen hungover, balding, aging expats chasing a round ball on a bumpy pitch in a foreign country, struggling with their weight and to keep their breakfast down. Haphazard defence tries to shore up errors from a midfield who have run half a sao (360m²) and couldn’t be bothered getting back to help their red-faced brothers. Strikers take potshots from 40 yards out and manage to put 2 metre tap-ins over the bar and blame it on poor passes. Arguments break out, either with themselves, their teammates, or the referee (oh, who would want to be a ref in a Raiders game!). Grown-ups act like children and stomp off, players fall over (dive) dramatically and howl in simulated pain, others try to decapitate the opposition with Cantona-esque flying kicks. A flurry of yellow and red cards are handed out, more shouting ensues. Litres of water are poured over simmering and steaming bodies amindst much coughing and spluttering. And that’s just the first half! Yes, the Raiders, languishing in mid-table of the SIFL for the past few seasons.

Yes, the Raiders! Oh, the multicultural team of my heart! How I love your fighting spirit, albeit sometimes amongst ourselves! How I love your witty banter and bold self-confidence! How I love our lack of aptitude and innate inability to score! Forward Raiders, as we sail our troubled ship towards the brighter tomorrow! May our crew steady the ship and trim the sail as we head towards the Arcadian shores of future pillage and success! I shall miss you (once I’m gone), Raiders of my heart.


A byword: If you’re interested in playing footy with the Raiders, as I’m sure you are after reading this glowing ode, let me know and I’ll hook you up!

A new beginning, part 2: Old news

Troi Oi, Mr President!

25 May 2007

HCM CITY, VIETNAM – President of South Africa, Mr Thabo Mbeki, made a brief and disappointing visit to the southern city on Friday to speak at a business forum of expatriate South Africans and Vietnamese business delegates regarding improved trade between the two former-colonial nations.

Held at the Caravelle Hotel, the business delegation from South Africa consisted of a number of bored government officials, including the always-eloquent Minister of Foreign Affairs Nkosazana Dlamini Zuma, Deputy Minister of the Department of Trade and Industry Rob Davies and Minister of Education Naledi Pandor. A number of CEOs and directors from big South African companies, such as SAB Miller, Absa and Standard Bank, were also present.

Following an enthusiastic welcoming speech by the vice-chairman of the HCMC People’s Committee, Mr Nguyen Trung Tin, Davies led an informative presentation regarding South Africa’s increased trade role in Vietnam. Davies concluded that SA could supply mining technology, pharmaceuticals and chemical and agricultural products to Vietnam and that South Africa did not need the country's cheap labour because “we have our own, thank you” (okay, I made up that last part - journalistic freedom). In 2006, exports to the socialist republic were only $48 million – SA’s 68th biggest trade partner compared with Japan at $6000 million – and imports only $100 million.

The audience, which included two South African expatriates currently residing in the city and working in the education sector, waited anxiously for the promised speech by the president. The business forum was clearly treated as a stopover lacking in diplomatic clout, after official meetings in the capital Hanoi earlier the week, however, and it was evident that the president had no intention of preparing a speech of omniscient proportions for the event, much to the disappointment of the Vietnamese (and the expatriate) businesspeople present. In fact, he had no plan to prepare a speech at all and instead President Mbeki said he would just answer questions, of which most were from his own delegation.

The lack of communication, cooperation and clear goals between the two countries’ business sectors baffled Mbeki, who said “We have to look at the weakness of our organised business structures.” He was clearly surprised by his own delegation member, Mr Rob Davies’, statistics regarding trade between the two developing countries.

Perhaps the most emphatic point Mbeki made was concerning a question set by a Mr Lai Huu Phuong, of Ben Thanh Tourist, inquiring whether any South African tourism company had any plans to invest in Vietnam. Mbeki replied that one has to look at the [lack of cooperation in the tourism industry] from “a holistic point of view”.

“I have my doubts whether South African Airlines have any plans to fly to Vietnam,” he said.

Cam on, Mr President, xin cam on.

Miss-ed Saigon

I know a lot of people have ranted about expats behaving badly in Vietnam, not taking local customs and cultures into consideration, but it’s good to have finally had a lighthearted spin put on the matter. Last night I watched a local amateur acting troupe, the Saigon Players, perform a charity show called “Miss-ed Saigon”. The comedy show highlighted (sometimes painfully when you realise, “Hey, wait, I’ve done that!”), the inapt musings and behaviour of the expatriate community in Vietnam. Although it focused mainly on the “real expats”, those with real “hardship posts” at established multinational companies, villas in An Phu (District 2), drivers, and spouses who spend their time getting massages and manicures (basically, the type of expat life I can’t afford or wouldn’t indulge in even if I could), it still hit the spot quite accurately and had even the most jaded and cynical of audience members cracking up in recognition of some antics they too have dabbled in.

For example, they spoofed how difficult it was for some expats to pronounce Vietnamese names: Here’s a watered down version of the dialogue.

“Nguyen’s coming to the meeting.”
“When?”
“No, Nguyen.”
“The meeting’s at two.”
“Yes, the meeting with Thu is at one”
“No, the meeting with Oanh is only at three, what about Nguyen?”
“Huh? What about when? I told you, two!”
“But the meeting with Thu is only at one!”
“Oanh? At three, not two!”
“Nguyen?”

Shamed by “our” behaviour, a few of us decided to go have drinks at a bia hoi – local style (Actually Chi is Vietnamese, but she spent five years in London so she semi-qualifies with her posh Brit accent).