The Mid-Autumn Festival

Although I took part in a Mid-Autumn Festival play more than a month ago, this weekend was the real celebration of what the Vietnamese call Tet Trung Thu. It’s one of a few lunar festivals in Asia, but not the biggest. The biggest lunar festival is the Tet Lunar Festival in January or February depending on the moon phases.

I headed down to District One on Friday night to see what Trung Thu was all about. Let me first quickly give you some background and legends regarding the festival. Some say, the Mid-Autumn Festival is when the eternal herd-boy in the sky and his beloved weaving-girl meet (throughout the year they are separated across the heavens by the Milky Way) and their joyous reunion causes their tears to fall from the sky in a light rain called ngau rain. Curiously, some Vietnamese I’ve spoken to say it rains every Trung Thu and Friday was no different.

Of course, the central feature of lunar festivals is always the moon. Many stories and legends surround Trung Thu, including the famous Vietnamese story of “Chu Cuoi and the Banyan Tree”. I’ve heard many versions of the tale being told, but this is the core of the story which essentially stays the same: Chu Cuoi came from a poor family and when he was a young man he went into the forest near his village. He found two tiger cubs playing and one of them had injured (or even killed) itself. The mother tiger took some leaves from a Banyan tree and rubbed them on the mortal wounds of the cub who miraculously healed. Cuoi recognised the healing powers of the tree and dug it up and transplanted it to his house. He later became a powerful healer using the Banyan tree as the base for his medicines. He also married a beautiful girl, Chi Hang, whose task it was to water the Banyan tree while Cuoi was away healing or collecting medicinal herbs. One day Cuoi returned home early and Chi Hang had forgotten to water the tree so she quickly watered the tree and in her haste she poured dirty water on the magical tree. The Banyan tree duly uprooted itself and flew off into the sky. Chu Cuoi, acting quickly, threw his axe at the tree and held on. The tree, with Coui holding on for dear life, flew all the way to the moon where they can still be seen to this day; Chu Coui sitting under the eves of the Banyan Tree.

Trung Thu is traditionally a childrens festival and Friday night thousands of children were milling around the food and lantern stalls, enjoying the bright colours and jovial atmosphere the festival created.

Although I arrived as the celebrations were finishing, there were still some kids soaking up the excitement and stuffing their little faces with Banh Trung Thu; (mooncakes) pastry filled with sugary everythings, from Chinese sausages and eggs, to durian fruit and strawberries. They also loved the Banh which is like a snackwich-shaped waffle on a stick. Nearly every child had a traditional long den - a type of paper lantern with a candle inside. The lanterns often turn from the heat of the candle and cut-out paper figures inside throw moving shadows on the lanterns walls, giving the effect from the outside of a shadow-horse galloping, or some animal or person moving, inside the lantern etc.

This is also a lucrative time of year for the big bakery syndicates in Vietnam who mass-produce mooncakes and sell them, in pairs of four, by the millions. Thousands of tons of mooncakes are sold in the month preceding the Mid-Autumn Festival and many more during it. Kinh Do and Ha Noi bakeries are two of the largest producers and set up shop on every major street in HCM City. Their mooncakes range from cheap to the more exclusive - such as imported mooncakes from China and South Korea (a batch of four could set you back about (VND 500 000 or $32).

Although Trung Thu is all about the kids having fun with a lot of myth and history supporting the tenets of the festival, it seems as though consumerism and commercialism is also taking its toll just like it does with Christmas in South Africa and other westernised countries. I bet Pick ‘n Pay and Spar have already put up their Christmas decorations, painted fake snow on the windows and put Boney M’s A Christmas Collection on repeat?

Parky pleasures

I live just around the corner from Hoang Van Thu park. On a weekday morning or in the late afternoon it's like any other popular park in the world; packed with joggers, children and general stragglers out for a walk. Yet, when it rains or in the midday sun (especially on weekends), the park turns into one of those creepy, empty Stephen King-type scenes, complete with deserted amusement park rides and ethereal statues. The only life is the wind whistling in your ears and sodden walkways that crunch underfoot.

The place reminds me of this cultural village we visited in Soweto last year - the name eludes me - that was set-up by a Zulu "professor/soothsayer" who predicted a number of events in South Africa's future (eerily, two of which was that Africa would have a female president that year (think Sirleaf) and South Africa would have a female president by 2010) . It had the same strange, peeling and cracked effigies of animals and gods as Hoang Van Thu Park. The wierdest was the warning upon entry that anybody who disrespected, vandalised or stole from the village would be struck with such a disproportionate number of afflictions it seemed unfairly cruel (the last of which was that your corspe would lie out in the desert, fed upon by hungy vultures, and your sould would never know the comfort of heaven or even relief of hell). No wonder the people of Soweto forced the soothsayer to flee back to Kawazulu-Natal. Mob law rules.

It's not unusual to encounter some brave souls in HVT Park on these barren days though

Or otherwise justifiably sad-looking ones

Even the usually happy hippo seemed a bit peeved

Godzilla in Paris? Probably the sequel

Raai wie's 21?

Raai wie's 21?

(Disclaimer: Nie rêrig Alet nie)

Ek hoop dit was 'n kickass dag Delanie!

Silhouette

Hey Emmie - I saw you guys still need a few entries for the silhouette competition so here's my two cents worth, even though it's more a reflection than a silhouette...

The Vietnamese Coffee Ritual

I've been teaching my academic English classes in the higher levels how to write and talk about a process - it's one of the skills they need to score high on the IELTS exam entry for Australia. One of the topics is: Talk about how to prepare a cup of coffee - now that sounds easier than it actually is in Vietnam as making a Ca Phe Da (iced black coffee - the caffeine currency of choice in VN) truly is a process worthy of mentioning.

Traditionally the Vietnamese coffee ritual is a six step procedure.

Step One: Choose your blend. Just like in most Western countries, choosing your blend truly is a class battle. Bourgeois coffee shops usually opt for the more expensive "Trung Nguyen" brand of coffee with its superior aroma and smoother taste, whilst prols and street vendors usually go for any wholesale (think Macro-sized bags) brand which is not as refined in flavour and usually much stronger.

Step Two: Boil the water. Whilst this step is reaching a climax, it is customary to offer the client a glass of Tra Da (Iced tea).

Step Three: Mount the coffee filter with the correctly measured amount of ground coffee on a tumbler, pour the boiled water over the coffee, put the lid on, serve it to the customer together with a pot of sugar, a tall glass of ice and a long spoon.

Step Four: Wait for the coffee to drip (it takes about five to ten minutes), savour the unique coffee shop atmosphere and watch the interaction of other customers, listen to the inevitable drumming of rain on the sink roofs or just inhale the aroma of well-brewed coffee.

Step Four

Step Five: When your coffee has finished dripping, remove the filter, stir in the preferred amount of sugar and pour into the tall, ice-filled glass and rigorously mix the liquid refreshment.

Step Six: Enjoy.

Now if you described the process like that you would score a nine or ten out of ten in my class depending on the correct use of body language and hand gestures :)

My neighbourhood

I took a walk around my neighbourhood the other day. Don't know why I didn't think about it before, but it was probably because it pretty much rains every single day here - dampens the spirits a bit sometimes.

Emmie - hier's my weergawe van 'n profile - my vriend Nguyen Chi Powder

This is my version of a creepy paparazzi weirdo who hides in the bushes taking pictures of former professional sports stars who've let their mid-riff go a bit...this is down at my local neighbourhood sports club which is actually just two tennis courts and a swimming pool

Finger lickin' good - it doesn't come much fresher than this - plugged, plucked and prepared on the spot.

Hitchin' a ride to school

Le Quy Don

I've been writing a story about Le Quy Don Street here in Ho Chi Minh City and taking some photies too.

A funeral procession (I think the deceased was an university professor) as there were many students and mourners: White symbolises death and tears in Vietnam

The staircase inside a Korean Restaurant

Outside a Vietnamese restuarant Bun Viet

Also outside Bun Viet

Polly wanna a crack pipe

Survivor: Ceres

Okay, now this is a funny disaster story by our good friend at the Cape Times Karen Breytenbach about two fishermen who got caught in a flood and rainstorm and were stuck in the Ceres Mountans for a few days, but, and this is a big BUT: What makes it REALLY funny (and in a sense pretty scary) is that one of them here fishermen be Alan's (aka Mullet) brother, ay!

God Bless Phil the Fisherman: I think he should hook up with my good Vietnamese friend Nguyen Van Troi "The Fisher King" (see previous post: Dis mooi né?). They could swop fishing stories over a bottle of Old Brown Sherry and a visbraai on the beach. Kingsley Holgate ain't got nothing on this duo.

Horsing around

I just read this article on News24 – yes, the site has not been banned (yet) in Soviet Nam – on how 'Organised crime targets sport'.

Pharmaceutical companies are scoring big time cashing in on parents who approach sports scientists and nutritionists and what-not to supply their soon-to-be-superstars kids with these illegal, performance-enhancing drugs.

Since it’s become public, they’ve found it harder to supply these drugs and some are now turning to untested veterinarian products instead. Now that’s not as weird as it sounds, as I know people - I won’t mention names – who have tried the occasional horse tranquiliser (Ketamine aka Special K) and are none the worse for it. How it can enhance performance, however, I don’t know though, as these people end up thinking they’re melting scuba-divers, trying to swim away on the dirty carpet of their dodgy flat for a few hours or overindulge, lose control of their muscles, disappear down a "K-Hole", hallucinate and lose the ability to comprehend language all the while squibbering around like fish-out-of-water till the effects wear off.

I’m sure there must be some kind of animal drugs which can help sports people, like an endorphin supplement used in bear-baiting (boxing, wrestling) or an amphetamine for greyhounds (athletics) or something, but I’d like to see an established professional sportsman try them. For example, let Os du Randt try one of these “uppers” and record the before and after effects. Before: Os du Randt. After: Bul du Randt. Should be a laugh.

I hope the South African Police Service crack down on these illegal horse-traders instead of spending their time on trivial matters like solving murders, rapes and hijackings.

Smash my head with a baseball bat - Mr Anarchy, Streetfighter, Black Cat

Tanka tanka tanka tank tank, tinky tink tink, tinky tink tink. Ho Ho ho, what a sporting weekend. Sometimes, I don't mind starting the week on the back of such a wholeheartedly sporty couple of days. The weekend was like a jelly-filled doughnut - except this time it was filled with the adrenalin-pumped blood and passion of the Ryder Cup and the frenetic pace of the English Premier League. Okay, admittedly, it wasn't a SuperSaturday as they oh-so originally dub the big weekends on Supersport, but it was good enough for me. A few passion-filled encounters is better than a whole line-up of weak, heartless ties - just like a good, creamy doughnut is better than three shrivelly, old dry ones.

Darren Clarke - whatta man he is. He epitomises the new-money lack of style and class of the working man-cum-rich cliché, but without the arrogance and drivelling self-pitying contradiction these Gatsby's of the 21st Century so often drag behind them like a dead horse.

Standing at the 18th of The K Club, waiting for his mate Colin Mongomerie to finish on Saturday afternoon, cigar in mouth and extra one in hand (whether it was for him or for Monty is not known), Clarke looked like a man in the final stage of bereavement - acceptance - after his wife passed away only six weeks ago after a long-suffering battle with breast cancer.

On the final day, he swatted off American Ryder Cup rookie Zack Johnson and stood back to watch Henrik Stenson finish the formalities as Europe made America kiss their Blarney Stone by a record-equalling 18½ to 9½ set two years ago at Oakland Hills. It was great to watch, as American Captain Tom Lehman, ever the bigger man, stood back and applauded their effort.

Oh and Paul Casey's hole-in-one on the Saturday to win another point for Europe was just another of the numerous highlights this year's Ryder Cup produced. I'm not even American or European and the competition kept me captivated - I can just imagine what it must have felt like for the fans of the nationalities represented...

And if that wasn't enough, the Premier League tie between Chelsea and Fulham was just as hard-fought - with Chelsea finally coming out trumps 2-0 courtesy of Frank Lampard's two-goal resurgence. There's nothing like a local derby - and they don't come more local than that one, with Stamford Bridge about 2 kilometers up the road from Fulham's Craven Cottage - it's a suprise the Blues even took the bus.

Make no mistake, although Chelsea had more talent in their reserve side than Fulham's first team - they didn't dominate the Cottagers - as the form book grew wings and flew out the window. Bones crunched, heads clashed, crowds jeered and chanted, booed and jeered, Michael Brown dived into Petr Cech's head with his boot, players limped or crawled off only to jump right into battle again - it was a massacre - and that, my friends, THAT, is what football is all about. It was fantastic to watch: no-holds-barred pride and pure passion.

Zartz - I can't wait for next weekend.

Updated Fantasy League

Eye on the weekend

It’s been a tough kickoff to the new football season for teams like Newcastle and Liverpool, not just for the footballers and coaches but for the dedicated fantasy league players as well.

More experienced teams such as The Magpies and Mullets FC have been outplayed (or fantasized?) by upstarts like the Wretched Wilburys, the ilk of which can be considered to have had a lucky break with big risks paying off early.

Although overshadowed, the likes of Henno and Alan are soon to take command of the ever-competitive Hoskop League, especially with things heating up after a bottle of Scotch single-malt whisky as been added to the equation.

With Everton traveling to Newcastle and Tottenham playing away at Anfield, the “real” Premier League will probably take a close second to what’s happening in the fantasy league this weekend.

Here’s what things look like after Gameweek 6:

The Master of his Universe

Okay, as most of you who know me know, I'm probably one of the biggest JRR Tolkien fans in the world - I've had posters, paintings and drawings of Middle-Earth all over my room at home, in my flat, and if I could have afforded to bring them with - then they would have been in Vietnam as well. I've read the holy book of fantasy - The Lord of the Rings - about 5 or 6 times and The Silmarillion three times. It's engraved on the inside of my skin. I've even tried to learn Quenya when I was younger, but it was pretty much on par with my learning of Vietnamese - gutwrenchingly bad. I dreamt of the Valar, ents and Melkor. Sometimes I still do, which is just weird.

So, to my utter and most pleasant suprise, I saw that Christopher Tolkien, the genius' son, had edited a new Tolkien novel, to be published early next year. Talk about a bonus! It going to be based loosely on the "The Wanderings of Hurin" - which just happens to be my favourite tale of doomed love and despair in the whole world (matched only in doomed love and despair by the "Tale of Turin Turambar"; Hurin's son - and is to be called Children of Hurin. This better be good, but I'm sure it will because Christopher has spent the last 30 years editing the damn thing.

Television has proved that people will look at anything rather than each other - Ann Landers

I guess an update is in order, but as with most things when people don’t have anything to say they say too much and not really in the general direction of any cognitive outcome but let’s try.

Let’s start with the bane of the technology era - Television. Seeing as I STILL don’t have a computer at home, I have to demean myself to watching reality shows on Star World at night – during which time I became an avid follower of Rockstar Supernova. For those not familiar with the show – here’s the run-down. Three nearing-over-the-hill-but-not-quite-there-because-they-ran out-of-breathe rockers are looking for a new front-man or women for their band Supernova. The ONLY reason why this show held appeal to me was that one Jason “I have a huge neck toned from years of headbanging” Newsted of Metallica fame was one of the members of the band. The others are the effervescent Tommy “The Tommy Hawk” Lee of Pamela and Mötley Crüe fame and Gilby Clark from the classic 80s outfit Guns ‘n Roses.

Anyways, so I was glued to the screen for a few weeks, watching them whittle away at the contestants, dropping, in my humble opinion, three guys who would have been kickass frontmen (Ryan, Magnus and Toby) as well as a hard-rocking South-African born Dilana to choose instead a little Canadian hobbit called Lukas Rossi. It totally went against what the three pioneers of the metal music scene should have stood for and just pissed me off that they could pick this lip-gloss-wearing, peroxide-streak-toting little man with the on-stage antics of a Las Vegas diva meets Evita Bezuidenhout to lead them on a world tour. But hell, who am I to judge. I think Supernova only held the show to buff up their pension and after their world tour are fated to break-up due to “irreconcilable musical differences” (in other words, Lukas kept stealing Tommy Lee’s mascara and would puke on himself in the first hour of the post-performance afterparty” – hugely embarrassing to all and damaging the egos of the other three).

So now that Supernova’s finished, it’s back to the Vietnam specialties: 10 000 dong (R4) bad quality dvds, when, while watching, there’s a two in seven chance you’ll see the silhouette of someone standing up in front of the video camera that’s illegally recording the movie in the cinema to go to the toilet. At least the older movies have been remastered in a sense and the series’ aren’t band. Thus, in the last few weeks when I return from work I’ve watched a host of classics as diverse in genre as one can imagine (Last week I watched Predator and Trainspotting and part of the Fawlty Towers series). Right now I’m watching Over There about the Iraq invasion – pretty stereotyped, not portraying any comment about the war and gruesome in parts but not bad at all.

On tomorrow’s menu: Books, magazines and newspapers.

Saigon Upside Down

Sorry I haven't been able to blog recently, the Internet's been down for a while here in HCM City, but it doesn't really matter because I just spent the weekend crying over Steve Irwin and Newcastle (in no particular order). I'll be back in action soon, probably talking about the football (Premier League and Champions League) so sorry to those who were looking for anything deep about culture, politics or life outside football, but Loesil - at least this may help you with your tenure in the sports sub-editing department :)

Dis mooi né? Part 2

Some more pics from the weekend

Dis mooi né? Part 1

Here we were, three o' clock in the morning, walking down a desolate road somewhere in the Vietnamese countryside. We could smell and hear the see, but it was hidden from view by what looked like looming, impenetrable jungle on both sides.

"This is the stuff they warn you about in Apocalypse Now," said Christoff.

"This is why we shouldn't have drunk a bottle of rum on the bus here."

That's actually where it all started. I finished work the Friday afternoon at 5:30, sped home and quickly packed my bag while Christoff sorted the "Walky Drinky" squeegy bottles with some Captain Morgan and Pepsi for padkos. We went down to Pham Ngu Lao where we had a few Tiger Drafts while waiting for our bus to Mui Ne - pronounced "Mooi Né", imagining what wild and wonderfully exotic beach resort we would stay at. Little did we know that the one we were staying in was, as they say, "off the beaten track", down a side road some 15 kms from the main tourist beach aea - in fact it was in another area code.

We had fun on the bus, just generally talking crap and laughing, and after about 4 hours of driving we showed the bus driver our business card of the Dong Hai Resort, when we thought we were nearing our destination.

Walky Drinky - the way of the future - a trick learnt from many intervarsities

The dude just nodded and we carried on. A while later, his assistant came to us and said he wanted to look at the business card again and went to confer with the driver. A few minutes later a bus came from the opposite side and our driver flagged them down. They, in turn, conferred for a few minutes and it was duly decided that Christoff and I would transfer to the other bus because we had passed our resort. So we jumped on the other bus which, of course as Murphy's Law would have it, was full so Christoff stood and I sat on the steps. After what felt like ages our newly appointed bus driver decided that the above-mentioned turn-off was where we would be dropped and basically kicked us out with smile.

"Luckily it's not raining from all sides like Forrest Gump said," I optimistically mused. So we went for a pleasant early morning walk down what, for all we knew, could have been a wrong-turn, dead-end road which could have ended up like a B-grade horror movie with twisted incest-ridden axe-wielding half-breeds hiding in the jungle and hunting us d0wn but it wasn't because a few kilometers later we found our resort, woke the dogs up which woke the owners up and got our room.

The place was really nice: on the beach, quiet, but quite expensive and we felt a bit strange being the only non-Vietnamese and English-speakers there but it was a cool experience. The next day we took a taxi to the real Mui Ne where all the tourists hang out, drinking cocktails and lazing on the beach. This was more what we expected and actually found a place where we could stay the Sunday night for the tenth of the price we were currently paying, albeit a bit-more dodgy.

Anyways, we bought another bottle of rum and headed down to the beach, just chilling and swimming. Later we went to look for a place to watch the Springbok game but there was none to be found so we just carried on with what we doing and I woke up the next day wondering what happened to the previous one.

Christoff and our new friends (from right to left in case you couldn't recognise them)

Sunday was an awesome day - slight tropical breeze, coconuts swaying in the wind, the smell of mangoes and seafood in the air and we decided to swop accomodation for the better-located, cheaper but dodgier bungalows . It was grand, but what did we do? The same thing we did everyday Pinky: bought a bottle of rum (come on, when in Rome huh?) and headed down to the beach.

"Tropical the island breeze, this is where I long to be, all of nature young and free, La Isla Bonita"

Actually, now that I think about it, we did few other things. I went cruising around on a bike, checking out the scenery and other beaches and Christoff went for a massage, but mostly, we just lay on the beach drinking rum and making up stories about the fishermen in their peanut-shell boats. One story about the legend of Nguyen Van Troi, Troi: The Fisher King, is soon to become an international best-seller, surpassing The Da Vinci Code in the "not-sure-whether-this-is-fact or fiction" category.

Some of Nguyen Van Troi's posse

That night, a tropical storm, monsoon, hurricane or As the aussies call it, a Willy Willy hit with a vengeance and furious anger. Whatever you call it, it was a killer. The roads were flooded until the next morning, people were driving neck deep in dirty water, coconuts were bouncing of roofs like pinballs (with little ingenuity we could have worked out a scoring system and made it into a drinking game even Jannie Smuts would have been proud of: 2 points for a coconut in the swimming pool, 10 for one on the head). We just sat on our stoep and watched. Sardines caught by the locals looked like they were practising synchronised flying, sandcastles were building themselves, and the peanutshell boats looked like frisbees flying through the air.

Soos hulle sê in Afrikaans: Een man se dood is 'n ander man se brood (of so iets) - coconuts collected after the storm

We decided to call it an early night because we had to come back to Saigon the next morning at 8 am. Little did we know (but we should of expected) that our bus was not late, it was not coming at all. Our travel agent guy gave us some lame excuse but said he'd booked us place on the next minibus back to HCH City at noon. So we waited and when it arrived - it arrived. With a ta-ta-ta-ta-ra-ra hooter honk that sounded like something out of a Laurel and Hardy skit (the sound still haunts my dreams to this day). The minibus was already packed ala African-style when we got in, but they took the lady and her child who were sitting in front and threw them in the pack despite her protestations, and we still managed to pick up four more people on the way. It was straight out like a scene from some surf-travel movie except we didn't have boards.

We arrived safely despite numerous heart-wrenching stunt-driving antics by our driver (think: 1-way road, our minibus overtaking a car, which is overtaking a truck which is overtaking a motorbike). And I even managed to pick up a $2 Dis Mooi Né? t-shirt as a souvenir. We can't wait for the next public holiday so we can do it all again.

Gone Fishin'

The 2nd of September holiday (National Day or Independence Day depending on where in VN you're from) is coming so Christoff and I are heading off to sunny Mui Ne for the long weekend.

Mui Ne is about four hours drive from HCM City, on a dodgy bus at night, therefore it's bound to be interesting! Through the year it's a quiet seaside community with a long, white beach and red sand dunes, but in the holiday time it comes to life with an influx of tourists and locals looking for some fun in the sun. Luckily, we're staying at a hotel a few kilometers outside the town so it should be more relaxed and laidback - exactly what we're looking for.

So look forward to an interesting post when we return on Monday with lots of cocktail-sippin', palm tree-lamming, beach-bummin', coconut-cruisin', hammock-lazin', sunlight-soakin' photos!

Mui Ne at its finest

Mooi so

Ek wil net graag vir my neefie Dewald Louw geluk wens met sy prestasie as die nuwe Afrikaanse Idol vir 2006. Ek het altyd geweet ons familie het musikale talent gehad - en nou het hy dit bewys (hy het dit eintlik al lankaal bewys).

Dewald - ek verwag 'n groot geskenk vir Kerfees (en natuurlik 'n getekende kompakskyf)!

Mid-Autumn Festival Play

Chu Cuoi and his wife Chi Hang at the Mid-Autumn Festival, or Trung-Thu

The traditional Unicorn Dancers associated with the festival (sorry the last one's quite blurry - didn't quite get the effect right).

Photo Post

Hey, sorry I haven't posted for a while but computer access has been limited. To make up for it (and buy me some time before I actually have to write something again) here are some photos from August.

Some Anime-junkie at the Anime/Manga Festival earlier this month.

On the Bonzai Party Boat for Andrew's 30th birthday. Me and some little kid - beer, kids and a boat - no, that's not dangerous. 2nd pic - brothers in arms.

I went to go help Manon and play with the kids a few weeks ago at an orphanage in my district - she's the one reading the story to the kiddy. That little girl in the background of the last picture's mother dropped her at the orphanage because her step-father said he wouldn't marry her mother if she kept her. Some sad but true stories.

They come in threes.

As the old adage goes – things come in threes. After the Vietnamese Massage Mafia Affair – as I now fondling...I mean fondly refer to it – Saturday evening saw more inner-city mayhem hit the streets of Saigon.

Christoff and I were on our way to meet some friends at a club called Bottomlime in Discrict 1 (basically the city centre with all the fancy hotels and skyscrapers), but we couldn’t find the damn place after about half an hour's walking and asking for directions. We hooked up with two Spanish guys, Luis and Eddy, spending their first day in HCMC and looking for a place to go out so we dragged them along. We decided a taxi might be the best idea so the four of us hopped in a cheap one.

We were happily cruising towards our destination when we spotted some bustling in the street ahead. Chris said he witnessed one guy running up to another dude and stabbing him in the back. The Spanish guys and I didn’t see it, but our taxi driver sure did, because he slammed on the brakes, popped the boot, jumped out and grabbed something like a monkey-wrench and ran towards the fight. Suddenly it was like a Smackdown free-for-all with guys jumping in and swinging at each other left, right and centre.

I was staring agape at this confusion when I noticed I was sitting alone in this taxi – Chris was half way down the road in the opposite direction and Luis and Eddy were hot on his heels. Sensibly, I followed and we got the hell out of there. We found out later that evening from another taxi driver that the guy who got stabbed was quickly taken to hospital and was alright.

These guys can give Kwazulu-Natal or the Cape Flats' taxi violence a run for their money. Well that’s two strikes, first the Massage Mafia Affair, then the Saigon Showdown – I wonder what the third one’s going to be...

Welcome to the Karma Hotel...

Bleh. I’ve officially had my first encounter with the infamous Asian organised crime syndicates. On Wednesday night I went out with Manon, a French buddy of Jan’s ex-girlfriend Dre, who is volunteering at an orphanage for two weeks here in the city (she leaves tomorrow). Her English friend Lois who was also volunteering left the Thursday so it was a bit of a farewell for her. It was quite late at night, or early in the morning, depending from which day you look at it, and the orphanage crew jumped in a taxi. I’m about to hail one when a motorbike taxi, xe om in Vietnamese, offers his services. I think yeah why not it’s cheaper than a taxi and the fresh air would do me good.

So we’re zooming through the empty streets, head whirling, when two girls drive up next to us. The one starts offering her and her friends’ services: “Massage, two ladies, very good.” Obviously, being the gentleman that I am, I decline. They started offering more profusely and I start declining more profusely, first in English then Vietnamese then Afrikaans. Obviously they didn’t get the message because the xe om stops and the one chick jumps on the back of our motorbike. Now there’s three of us and she starts copping a feel and I’m like “Hell no lady, I just want to get home and pass out.” I grab the motorbike dude by the shoulder and squeeze it quite hard so he gets the massage...erm message. Finally he stops and the chick jumps off, pissed off, and back on her buddies bike and they speed off. This is when I realise the little skank left me sans my wallet. I grab the motorbike dude again and tell him to follow the trail of short skirts and cheap perfume blowing in the wind.

So now we’re in full bike chase mode, the tequila is coursing through my veins and this guy must have realised I wasn’t joking because he was speeding like a demon. His Honda Dream could have beaten Valentino Rossi at this time. We catch up with the chicks and they throw my wallet in the road. This is when I realise the damn motorbike dude was in on it as he sped off as soon as I jumped off to pick it up. Luckily they only took my money (a few hundred thousand Dong) and left my cards and identification stuff.

Yeah well, you live you learn I guess. As James emailed me, incidents like these make you lose faith in then human race and distrust everyone and I must admit I felt a tinge of anger, but mostly at myself for allowing the situation to occur. I’m still wondering if it was just karma biting me in the ass. So much so that I went to go help out for an hour or so with the kids at the orphanage and take some photos to try and get my karma back out of the red or something in that line. I mean, it’s strangely ironic that I travel half way across the world from crime-riddled South Africa just to get jumped in Nam. Well, as I said with our flooded-house incident, every story has a moral. Damn tequila...

Over the moon

So things have been happening for me slowly but surely on this side of the Indian Ocean, or South China Sea to be more exact. Not only is this my 50th post on the blog it also heralds my big break, but I’ll get to that in a while.

Wow 50 posts, that doesn’t seem like a lot but it feels like a long time. There’s been a lot of musings and ponderings and useless info – not only by me, mind you (thanks dedicated comment posters) – and a crazy World Cup in between too. To think, I’ve been in Nam for more than four months already. Everything snowballed since Chris, pillow clutched firmly to his breast, and I got on the plane in Cape Town early one April morning to set off for Johannesburg, then Nairobi, a weekend in Bangkok and finally Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh City.

All the stress of trying to find work, get accustomed to the strange street names, traffic, food and general culture seems like a heartbeat – except every now and then a surreal moment of clarity hits you. Something small triggers it – a sign that reads: “Dung’s Baby Store” or a man pissing against a wall next to your house with no skaam and you just stop in your tracks and think: “What the hell am I doing in this place?”. Yet familiarity returns and sanity prevails in the end. I think this must be the equivalent of a first-year poppie from the platteland arriving in Stellenbosch for the first time, but once you get into and understand the scheme of things the ball starts rolling and doesn’t stop any time soon.

Since getting work things have happened even faster. It’s like a vicious cycle (like the days when Wilhelm and I worked at the Dros) that you can’t break. Get up for work in the wee hours, work all day and night, get home, have a few beers and sleep just to do it all again the next day. Luckily we’ve forced ourselves to slow things down a bit, making some free time over the weekend to relax and enjoy life a bit more – after all, this IS an adventure of a lifetime that precious few in the world will ever be able to experience and for this reason I’ve decided that gratitude is more important than easy off-the-lip cynicism which usually comes so easily to me. So I thank my lucky stars for all of it and know that one day I’ll look back at this and think: “Shit, did I do THAT?!”.

Which brings me to my second point: My big break. I’m officially in the model/acting industry. Yes, now would be the right time to rub out your eyes. One of the teachers at the Australian school took some photos of some of the teachers to send to a recruiting agency who phoned me on Saturday to be in (what I thought would be) an ad. It was actually a photo shoot for Getty Images who were setting up a photo bank (where all the magazines and companies can buy images of all sorts at exorbitant prices).

Anyways, the “theme” of the shoot was businesspeople (Prof Rabe would be quite proud of that self-edited gender correctness). We were in this big warehouse that was painted totally white doing stupid things like posing for handshakes, giving speeches and giving rounds of applause. It was weird, but I guess when looking at all the weirdness I’ve been exposed to since arriving here it fitted like a glove. They paid me too, which wasn’t actually necessary since I enjoyed the Zoolander role – they didn’t really think my “Magnum” or “Blue Steel” was up-to-scratch yet.

The agency phoned again yesterday, they need me for another shoot tomorrow which should be quite cool – I get to play a messy lawyer or something like that.

But wait folks, there’s more. I was also approached (hehe – see I’ve already got the lingo going) by VUS school to star in the leading role in their English Speaking Club’s Mid-Autumn Festival play in two weeks. I’m playing Chu Cuoi, a character out of Vietnamese mythology, who has to rescue his girlfriend Chi Han from the moon or something like that, don’t ask. There’s gonna be about 200 teenagers or something like that so I’m quite scared. I’ve been to the tailors to get fitted for my traditional costume as well so I have to watch my weight for a while too.

Oh yes folks, this is it. I’m gonna make it big, but I’ll never forget my roots. I’ll give a shout out to all of you at the next MTV Asia Video Awards. What to wear, what to wear…but don’t call me I’ll call you, or if I don’t have time my agent will :P

Noah's Ark in Saigon

Our house flooded last night. Christoff and I were out in the Pham Ngu Lao backpacker district last night, enjoying the Tiger beer happy hour celebrating that we didn’t have to work this morning. Anyways, we called it a night at about 3 o’ clock after Christoff got batted by a few chicks and his self-confidence was lower then Bafana Bafana’s (coupled with the waning of the Proteas might and the stumble and fall of the once-fearless Springboks, that’s doesn’t leave a lot of confidence at the bottom of the barrel).

Sorry, I'm digressing. So we arrive home just after three and unlock the gate. Christoff says: “Wie bad die tyd vannnie f*kken aand?” I plead ignorance. Unlock the front door. I realized something had gone pear-shaped when little cockroaches come rowing out in peanut shells, with toothpicks for oars. The geckos run across the slick walls two-by-two. There’s water everywhere. A waterfall runs down our stairs. Our empty fish pond is nearly full. The water comes out of the walls, out of the door frames (it looked like one of those rustic beaded curtains).

Ankle deep in water, Mr Diep – the man’s man, ladies man, and man about town – comes wading in with a smile and says: “No problem!” Luckily, both Christoff and I had dulled any sense of anger or worry we usually would have had in this situation whilst wrestling with the Tiger. Diep’s inside the roof, shoveling buckets of dirty water out, his sister’s on the floor sweeping the water off the balcony and his wife’s downstairs mopping. Christoff and I form a human chain to empty the full bucket appearing out of the roof into my bath. It was grand. A real group effort.

The more we tell Diep and his family not to worry and wait until the morning, the more adamant he is to fix it. We manage to rescue our house bar a few damp spots and fallen insect heroes.

Finally, Diep’s party left and Christoff and I just laughed trying to think of what insects and animals escaped the flood and what they used for boats (the mozzies proved their worth with a valiant and daring sea-rescue, picking up capsized ants who had tried to escape through the backdoor on canoes chiseled from Christoff’s toe-nail cuttings.

What a night. And best of all, Christoff regained his confidence: being part of a group working towards a common goal and finally achieving that goal with hard-work, teamwork and determination can do wonders for a man’s morale. Every story has a moral...