Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Weigh me a Nordic bum tea



My girlfriend and I live in a little alleyway just off fourteen-laned Dien Bien Phu Street, one of the main west-to-eat thoroughfares of the city. Every day we open our balcony doors to let in some fresh air as it’s just plain nicer than a stuffy house. But what inevitably also drifts in, are the sounds and calls of the hawkers and recycling ladies plying their trade down our alley. This doesn’t sound like much, until you take into consideration that they come around at a rate of about one every ten minutes in the morning, shouting indeterminable things or making strange noises. It’s always great fun when we have friends or family visiting from abroad who aren’t use to the randomness of it all. Let me break it down for you:

I’m sitting in the living room when suddenly I hear, from a distance, and in an impossibly high and fragile voice: “Weigh a bum me Nordic teaaa!” and then a little closer and a little louder…“Weigh a bum me Nordic teaaa!” Fret not, as it isn’t Thor or Odin asking for the dimensions on your anal excretions, it is but an old conical-hatted lady trollying her mobile bakery of fresh breads, buns and cakes down our alley. This morning I was lucky enough to witness two on the same turf, coming from opposite directions. I thought there might be a showdown, there were tell-tale signs; a glint of a fresh croissant in the one’s pocket, an itchy-baguette finger on the other, a Swiss roll tumbling across the alley. Alas, they stopped for an amicable chat and a taste of each other’s wares.



As they depart, along comes another high-pitched wavering call: “Get ya-ya! Get ya-ya!” Ya-ya? Like the sisterhood with their divine secrets? Not for me thanks. Actually, it’s the recycling lady asking if anybody has any plastic bottles, cardboard or dirty secrets they would like recycled. We wash our own dirty secrets, thanks.

Some of them don’t even have to say anything. There’s the ubiquitous caramba man who comes along on a bicyle with a “sshka sshka sshka” of his shaker. He’s offering cup massages, which leave you looking like a leopard with leprosy, but also a business card with the directions to some other contraband services, or so I’ve heard.

Then, along cycles the Olé-type ice-cream man, who has a car battery hooked up to a looped player with speakers, all taped to his bike and busting out a trademark tune for the kiddies, with a massive cooler box on the back. Those are the modern ice-cream sellers. The old school ones still just pedal along and ring a bell, advertising their chin mau or nine colours of ice-cream with traditional flavours like young rice and green bean.



There’s also the spoon-banging soup lady, fruit-sellers, feather-duster purveyors, various bangers, clangers, shouters, ringers and the one who sounds like a tortured, electrocuted cat that just won’t confess. She's one of the people who walks around with nothing to sell , chanting random slogans or something, which is confusing and slightly unnerving. Maybe she works for the government

Most of the hawkers just sound like they are absolutely insane, that is, if what they said was actually in English.Our favourite is a man who comes along at least three times a day, again with a hooked up, homemade sound-system. “I’ve lost my car! Help me find my car! My Car!” On loop. Every five seconds. Thrice daily. Without fail. Either he is really determined to find his missing automobile or he has the memory of a goldfish. It must mean a lot to him. A lot… We have a chuckle every time he comes along. “Have you seen his car yet, honey?” “No, not yet, I hope he finds it soon.” "Yes, I do hope so." He’s actually selling Banh Chung, a traditional Vietnamese snack of peppered pork and green bean wrapped in leaves, very popular in the period leading up to Tet (Lunar New Year).

According to our friends Dave and Nat, they had a daily hawker come round their alley where they used to live with the creed of “Vagaaaaaiiina! Vagaaaaaiiina!” Wonder what she was selling.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Vietnam's Wine Industry Uncorked

I wrote this article a while ago, had it lying around gathering computer mites and whatnot, so I thought I might as well stick it up here. Even though it’s quite old, most, if not all of it, is still relevant to the country today. I’m especially a fan of Jim Cawood’s philosophy on wine and the trends in the market. He has a regular column in AsiaLife, and his wine boutique Vino (74 Hai Bai Trung) stocks a small but exclusive range.



In a country synonymous with downing cheap, freshly brewed beer and shots of homemade rice alcohol those involved in the wine import industry in Vietnam are collectively waiting for the local market to make the shift from a beer, whisky and brandy-orientated society to one appreciative of quality wines at reasonable prices. The recent economic downturn which has led to uncertainty in the market, however, may lengthen the wait even further.

Surprising to many, Vietnam has a vastly competitive wine import industry, but a schism exists which may take patience and energy to change. On the one hand, the country has a thriving expatriate and tourist wine market, with mid-range to top-end wines from all over the world being sold at five-star hotels, restaurants and boutique stores such as Vino, Red Apron and the Warehouse, usually with US dollar price tags. Yet, the dichotomy of the market presents itself when one looks at the massive, untapped local Vietnamese clientele that traditionally are male beer and spirits drinkers.

Change is the constant in both markets. Within the expat and tourist market, there seems to be a move away from French and Italian wines towards Australian, Chilean and other “New World” wines. Although finding the terms “Old World” and “New World” wines derogatory, Jim Cawood of Vino – preferring the terms traditional and modern wine-making methods – explains this shift.

“The market has changed”, he says. “The philosophy of modern wine-making and the whole process is done in a more scientific way. The styles of the wines are more approachable and young and that’s what Vietnamese people like to drink and they’re just starting to realise that now. French wine is taking a beating because they spent so long dumping bad wines in the market.”

Jim, with sixteen years experience in the wine business, says that Australian wine is shaking off its label as “cheap plonk” in the export market. “It’s so far from the truth of what Australian wine, and Spanish wine, is as well. Spain is probably the most dynamic wine country around.”

Guillaume Blanchard of Celliers D’Asie, one of the main importers in Vietnam, has similar sentiments regarding which wines are becoming vogue.

“’New World’ wines are increasing, especially from Chile and Argentina, they are more competitive and affordable, as the quality is evident and they’re crowd-pleasing wines,” he says.

Nikolas Prehn, General Manager of the Asia-Pacific branch of Rudolf Prehn GMBH, Spanish wine specialists and distributors based in Hong Kong, likens the foreign market in Vietnam to a well-established Western market, with buyers deciding on price and quality.

“Many of the top hotels have well-trained foreign wine buyers, such as Juan Costa Ribas from the Caravelle, who will strive for a diverse high-quality wine-list covering all the major wine producing countries,” he says.

It seems as though the foreign wine market is highly competitive and also saturated. With a number of wineries, suppliers and distributors trying to get a foothold in the market, especially in the mid- to top-end range, for smaller brands trying to establish themselves it is proving to be difficult.

Maria Noble, Vietnam’s representative of the Grupo Garvey, a Spanish distributor to local import clients, explains the problem. “The problem with targeting the foreign or expat market is that, for example if you go to a place like the Park Hyatt or the Caravelle, they have, say 70 wines, and the chance that they are going to choose your wine is so small, unless you do a lot of marketing,” she says.

Maria says that: “With wine, unlike spirits, the margins are not that big and there are many, many offers so actually, unless it’s a really huge international brand, promoting one brand is not really worth it.”


Jim of Vino agrees that this market is probably oversupplied as you can get wine from anywhere in the world. “The market is getting bigger, but in my opinion a lot of that is being driven by the importers. I don’t think the food and beverage side of the trade is really pulling along the market so much. Getting those wines out there and into the marketplace and getting people to try them requires someone to sell them,” he says.

“There’s a million people knocking on my door trying to get me to buy wine from overseas, but then it sort of hits a bottleneck when it gets to the restaurant because there’s no-one really selling wine and that’s a really important part of the whole market,” he says, referring to the limited number of places with extensive wine-lists. He says: “No-one wants to have too much money tied up in wine sitting on the shelf, but I’m also a firm believer, as far as restaurants go, the more wine you have, the more you sell.”

All seem to agree, however, that the market is expanding, yet there are also a number of setbacks, not least of which deal with the logistics of importation and the imminent recession which can play a large role in both markets and it is still uncertain what the long-term effects thereof will be. Similar to restaurants and retailers, suppliers are not going to overstock so the distribution and supply side is always on the limit, says Guillaume of Cilliers. He lists a number of problems, from traffic jams in Europe that cause a cargo of wine to miss the ship to Vietnam, to customs officials running out of tax stamps on a Friday afternoon at the docks and waiting until the next week to unload the wine.

“That’s why people work with suppliers and don’t import themselves. People want to work with distributors who are reliable, that can bring in the product on a regular and consistent basis, and can find winemakers and that have reputable brands,” he says.

Logistics are not the only hurdle to surmount, however. Fluctuating currencies, method of payment, as well as taxes also cause importers to have sleepless nights. Taxes range upwards from about 60%, depending on import agreements and the level of alcohol. Maria Noble says that at the moment the euro is very strong so a bottle that could sell for about one euro in France or Spain could reach a retail price of six or even eight euros in Vietnam if the importer wants to realise a decent profit.

Regarding the industry, the potential definitely lies in the unexploited local market, which is slowly but indubitably moving towards a Western-style wine culture. Most experts in the industry will tell you that this is where the long-term growth of the Vietnamese industry lies.

Yet, at the moment the Vietnamese wine-drinking mentality seems to be more status-orientated than genuinely wine-appreciative. Maria says currently Vietnamese are buying wine “by the look of the bottle”. “They pay attention to the label and the shape of the bottle. The main things, are presentation, price and product in that order,” she says.

“The market is so fashion-orientated here,” says Guillaume, “and some people just like to walk around holding a glass of champagne, it’s a status symbol.”

Jim Cawood agrees: “Expats look for something that’s good value, from a Western point of view, trying to find a bargain. That’s our mentality, whereas a Vietnamese person’s mentality is ‘does it look like it costs a million bucks?’ because that’s important. It’s got to look expensive, it’s got to be expensive. Still, for Vietnamese people at the moment wine drinking is a lifestyle upgrade.”

“That’s why whisky is so popular,” Jim says. “It has known value and it looks expensive. Champagne can do similar things, because it has known value.”

It takes times to turn things around, however. Nikolas Prehn says that, in his experience, it takes three to five years for a market to turn. “In other words, as incomes increase, the Vietnamese palate is exposed to more and more wine and will eventually learn to choose on quality rather than on the basis of shiny golden labels. We have seen the same happening in recent years in Singapore and Hong Kong and in the 1980s in Germany and the UK. I am confident that Vietnam, in five years, will have a growing, diverse market for wine.”

Everyone is trying to get their slice of the pie, yet it’s not easy. According to Guillaume, whose company’s current market share consists nearly solely of the foreign market, the answer lies in awareness and education. He says it’s different to spirits where you can spend a lot of money on promotion.

“Wine takes a bit more time, you have to get the trust of people, you have to teach them how to appreciate wine and that’s the goal right now. Working, doing trainings on a monthly basis at different establishments, holding, perhaps, tastings but not with the expats, with the local Vietnamese and getting in touch with them. Finding that connection and bridge is the challenge,” he says.

Jim espouses a more natural approach to things. “Essentially, at the moment everyone is waiting for the switch away from whisky towards wine. Everyone’s really pushing the market to try and grow as fast as it can. Which is good, but it can only grow in an organic sort of way. You can’t create a market in the same way you can for beer or whisky because wine is about choices and having lots of choices and not about promoting brands necessarily.”

Maria also thinks the future lies with the local consumers. She says that seven years ago when she arrived in Vietnam, there weren’t a lot of wines. “Now there is a lot. For the foreign market it’s difficult because it’s very competitive. But I think there is enough of a Vietnamese market for everybody,” she says. It seems that with a bit of patience as the country’s economy struggles through the economic downturn, wealth distribution grows, and a slight push in wine education, Vietnam’s wine-drinking future could well head in the right direction, with the search for wine-knowledge and appreciation being the driving forces for the industry’s growth.



*Photos courtesy of Nicholas Prehn

One of those things that make your day...

I was checking out Sticky Rice, one of my favourite blogs by far, when I found this little beaut in the comments. So maybe I enjoy toilet humour, like a good fart, and have the mentality of a five-year old, but stupid things like this give me a chuckle and make my day. Let me be.


Who calls themselves "male penis"? Isn't that a bit of tautology? Male. Penis. What, as opposed to a female penis? That's like calling yourself "Doos Steve Hofmeyer", or "Idiot Bush" - no need for the repetition. I mean, I understand if it was a spam ad, or a comment on a porn site or something, but this is a serious, albeit grammatically uncouth, comment about blogging on a post about a bloody omelette. I love it. Sorry about that.


Monday, March 16, 2009

The sad state of affairs

Many of my friends back home, especially those who studied journalism with me, often ask me why I’m first and foremost a teacher and not plying my intended trade full-time. What they don’t realise is that being a foreign journalist in Vietnam is far from lucrative and, unless you’re an editor (possibly deputy-editor), you’re probably in need of an alternative source of income. Nowhere in the world is the industry a well-paid one. Rewarding? One of the most. Able to retire at the age of forty? Erm…think again.

You can’t really work as a “part-time” or freelance newspaper journo in Vietnam, and full-time pays an obscenely small amount, so your options are limited to online media, magazines and the occasional guidebook, as there is no domestic English radio station. The infrastructure and support for English freelance journalists is non-existent; no development training programmes, fellowships or anything of that sort, so you’re flying solo here.

Thus, for example’s sake, let’s say you work for magazines – and trust me the plural is necessary as just working for one will see you sleeping in the gutter begging for banh mi crumbs in no time. This is unfortunately out of most editors’ hands as English magazines are usually distributed freely to businesses, hotels and restaurants around the country, relying heavily on advertising and publicity (I know this last part is by no means a localised feature of the magazine media industry). The publications in Vietnam include The Word, AsiaLife (previously Saigon InsideOut), East & West, Pathfinder, The Guide, and some English in-flight magazines like Heritage, the majority of whom I’ve worked with at some time or another.

Payment is either per word, per published page or per article. An average magazine per-word story pays between 500 Vietnam Dong (VND) and VND2000 per published word (note, it might get edited to shit and shreds). An average per-page story gets you VND300 000 to VND500 000 and a 2000-word feature article between VND700 000 and VND2 million. Okay, so US$1 is about VND17 000 (or R10.50 for the Saffas). The majority of magazines work on the per-word basis, so let’s make our calculations according to this payment method.

For me, writing a thousand word article normally requires approximately 3-4 hours of research and 3-4 hours of drafting, writing and editing. So that equals about 6-8 hours of work for an average of VND1 million (or about $60). This doesn’t even include my own travel, accommodation and food/drink expenses when I’m writing restaurant reviews or need to travel out of town - I'm not a fan of chequebook journalism. Some publications do make allowances up to a certain (pitiful) amount for these expenses, but by no means all of them.

Let’s put this in perspective. I teach on average about 24 hours a week. Add about 6 hours of preparation time and that makes a total of about 30 hours a week. To make writing articles what I make teaching in a week, I’d have to churn out ten 1000-word articles a week, which equates to between 60 and 80 hours of work a week.

Now, I don’t know about the rest of you and call me lazy, but I’m not so sure I’m willing to spend two-thirds of my 120 hours a week working as I need at least 40 hours of sleep in order not to maim or kill anyone with my violent whirlwind of bad moods caused by sleep deprivation. It is a truly sad state of affairs. I’m not asking for millions – well actually I am if you’re counting in VN Dong – just enough to get by! Thus, my heartfelt plea to those paying the salaries in the media industry in Vietnam: Pay us more and don’t mess with my sleep, trust me, it doesn’t pay.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Quote/Misquote

I just found this jewel up on the notice board at school. It's from the Viet Nam News English daily from 16 February. The editors of this paper are notorious for their "ambiguous" headlines.

It's the headline for an interview with the director of the Department of Social Evils (no, I'm not making this up):

"Government inspectors get hard on prostitution, vow stiff fines".

'Nuff said...

Thursday, March 05, 2009

How to get an Australian visa Saffa style

Yesterday I got a call from the kind folks at the Australian Consular General here in Ho Chi Rock City, informing me that my application for a spouse/partner visa has been approved. Now this is pretty killer for two reasons, one being it came much faster than expected and I don’t even need to go in for an interview with the immigration officer, and two, all the effort of months of paperwork, planning and effort finally came to fruition.

So, for those of you thinking of moving to the land of Vegemite and flies (not even to mention sulking cricketers) in similar fashion, here’s my "No-fail sure-fire visa guide for Saffas":


1) Use your good looks and bubbly personality to charm a beautiful Aussie lass. Erm…easier said than done, especially if you’re blessed with an alluring and totally seductive Souff Effrican accent.

*Mental pick-up line picture*: “Howzit maai cherry, smaak ‘n tjop and dop at maai porsie? Oh sorrry, I forgets you call them a baarbie.” Okay, that’s a bit extreme, in some cases and geographical regions of SA (read: everywhere south of the Vaal River).


2) The next step involves convincing her that the two of you should move in together. A dozen Long Island Ice Teas, duct tape and a big hessian bag should do the trick. When she wakes up, you’ll need one of those Men in Black memory-erasing neural neutralizer and Bruce’s your uncle (make sure you’ve got some strategically placed photos of the two of you together around your pad).


3) Now it’s time to convince her that your relationship has moved to the next level and you should move to that historical haven of thieves, murders and general up-to-no-goods (not Parow – the other one). If all else fails, produce a list of successful South African emigrants who have moved to Oz and promise you’ll be topping that list in the future.


4) Sharpen those scissors because it’s time for a little bit of bureaucratic tape snipping. Before you apply, you guys need a few things.


a) Certified copies of every bloody piece of paper that has your name on it. This includes passport, ID, bills, notices of eviction, ransom letters and any graffitied material with your tag on it (remember scratching your name into the underside of grandma’s coffee table in Standard 5?).


b) Proof that you’re not a complete idiot, vagrant or fugitive. Thus, copies of any qualifications you’ve earned/bought and criminal clearance checks from every country you’ve lived in for more than six months. If you’re not in possession of any of these and you’re living in South-East Asia as I am, a quick trip to Khao San Road in Bangkok, the world capital for all your nefarious shopping needs, will suffice. For a fistful of Baht you can pick up uni degrees (under- and postgraduate) and police clearance certificates to your black little heart’s content. While you’re at it, arm yourself with a International Driver’s License, Reuters Press Card and PADI Master Scuba Diver certification.


c) Confirmation that your relationship is “true and genuine” (thank god for that brain-numbing neutralizing earlier, huh). Write a few testimonies (in different styles and fonts) and bribe some randoms off the street to sign on the dotted line. Something like “I’ve known blablabla and blehblehbleh for three years and can attest to the fact that they are in a loving and authentic relationship” will do. Next, go to a photo studio with some nice backdrops like palm trees, a jungle and the New York Skyline and get some pics taken. Add some info like “This is us at the Great Wall of China in 2006” and “This is us at the Ruins of Zimbabwe 1998-2009” and make sure to wear different clothes or even cut your hair for the last few photo shoots so it looks like you’ve been together for a while. Photoshop in your families and you’re sorted.


d) Fill-in the application forms. You may want to prepare for this one. Ask your physical trainer for a number of wrist and finger strengthening exercises as you’re going to have to sign your name about 21 gazillion times. Alternatively, get one of these bad boys.


e) Ahhh, the medical (violation) check-up, including a full-body cavity search. Be prepared to be poked, prodded, pricked and provoked by a bevy of white-coated evil people. They check your mental state too, so if they ask you which rugby or football team you support do not under any circumstances, no matter how dear they are to you, say the Stormers or Newcastle United, as you’ll soon be wearing a white coat too, albeit a slightly tighter, less-snug version.


f) With a clean bill of health and all the paper work filled in, all that’s left is to line the pockets of the Man with about AUD$1500 for some more CCTV cameras and research into fire-resistant Eucalyptus trees (or exploratory studies into breeding out retarded pyromaniacs from the gene pool).


5) Okay, it’s out of your hands now so crack open a cold one, sit back and wait for the Officialdom to make their decision – it’ll happen surprisingly fast in comparison to what you’re used to back home. If they come to the conclusion that you’re not worthy to bless their hallowed shores , hide in Andries Bekker’s rugby boots on their next Super 14 trip Down Blunder.


And that, my dear friends, is how you do it Saffa Style.


*Disclaimer: This is all rubbish and I take absolutely no responsibility for any of it. There are proper channels and procedures in place when applying for an Australian visa which will ensure accountability and impartiality on behalf of both parties. I didn’t have to abduct and brainwash my girlfriend, for some indefinable reason I think she actually likes me. Oh, and Aussie cricketers aren’t too bad actually.

Tuesday, March 03, 2009

Quote/Misquote

Jacob Zuma interview: BBC Podcast “This Week in Africa (28 March):

On the question of the emergence of an ethnic split within the ANC between Zulus and Xhosas:

JZ: “That is an imagined split. Imagined think. You can’t tell me that. Why should we conjure these things out of no-where. Absolutely imagined. Just imagination. It is wrong…there’s no Xhosa or Zulu or Venda thing. No, not at all. Not in South Africa. It’s imagination.”

I think I'm turning Vietnamese...

I was riding my bike down a side road near the Reunification Palace (I think it was Nguyen Trung Truc Street or something) and I stopped at the traffic light, which in itself is just weird already, seeing as no-one really does that unless they want to be stared, laughed and pointed at.

So I’m standing there deep in thought regarding the merits of either bo kho or pho for breakfast, when these four French tourists coming plodding along. So how did I know they were French? Was it the fact that all four looked like a travelling troupe of stout, Bordeaux oak wine barrels? Was it the proud, red Gallic noses? Was it the much-maligned and scorned sandals ‘n socks combo (although this is a continental European tourist faux pax of note)?

Well actually they came up to me and the stoutest, reddest barrel of them all said something like: “Excusez moi, où est le marché?” Now, my French is a bit like my Khmer which is a bit like my knowledge of the mating habits of South Sea clams: non-existent. My ignorance must have shone through eyes because barrel number 1 dropped in an Anglicised little tidbit that sounded like “Ben Thanh Market”. Ahhh cognisance, the market, okay. So through body language I directed them down the road and on the right path and finally the smallest, palest oak barrel rolled over and with a huge grin which split her face like a melon slice said: “Merci!”

And there I was, in my best Saigonese accent: “Rôi, không sao!”


I think I’m turning Vietnamese…

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Words

I love words. Sometimes I just want to wrap myself in cotton wool words like a mummy entombed in a whirlpool of characters and sounds that are constructed with care, or sometimes not, moulded into meaning. I want to be embalmed in an emulsion of phrases and feeling, and submerge myself into the linguistic subconscious. Dip my hand in selfishly and take generous, overflowing double-handfuls of words, bring them to my lips before they escape between my fingers and stuff them in my mouth like an overzealous child. I want to swallow them down, feeding my synaptic receptors with the primordial beginnings of thoughts until they spark to life as meanings and my relativity of them takes hold and I finish them off for myself. I want to taste them and slide them around my mouth, soften them with my tongue and push them against my palate and feel the different textures until they’ve had enough and turn bittersweet or sweet-sour and explode like pop rocks – little detonations of nuance and understanding, lingering for a second, teasing and slowly fading into memory. I feel like the one boy in the Beacon TV Bar advertisement.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

6- word stories

A couple of year ago (has it really been that long?!) I posted about some famous sci-fi and fantasy novelists writing 6-word stories ala Ernest Hemingway’s famous 6-word story. A couple of weeks ago, a Swedish friend Henrik and I decided to try our hand at it again (at four in the morning). Here are some of the results. Once again, I’d love if you were to add some of your own – last time there were some rubies in the dust.

Vacancy: World leader. No qualifications required.

Capitalist seeks happiness. Will sell wife.

Angry axe needed. Heads will roll.

Seeking choir boy. Good voice unnecessary.

Party in jungle. Shrunk my head.

Indian binge. Curry will return…Viciously.

Door would not open. Tried windoooooooow…

He tortured her thoroughly. Good wage.

Shapeshifter seeks mate. Come as yourself.

Son of god seeks gullible partner.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Borneo (Part 2)

The Malaysian province of Sabah, whilst one of the poorest economically, is a veritable wealth of natural beauty. Stretching from the capital Kota Kinabalu in the west, around the Tip of Borneo to the north and along the east coast to Sepilok and Sandakan. Its biodiversity, from virgin rainforests to unexplored mountain valleys is a city slicker's perfect antidote.

Well, you may rightly ask, if we didn’t get up to any of that Indiana Jones nonsense, what did we do in Borneo? We got what we came for and what we came for was off the coast of Semporna. In two words:

Island style.


Does it turn you a darker shade of green? It should and if it doesn't you're a heartless, jaded and cynical person whose time on earth is best spent ruminating in your basement, burning effigies of your boss and throwing darts at a blown-up, vandalised photo of his face.


Waking up to a cup of kopi in a wooden stilt house built out over the Celebes Sea on Pulau Mabul, wondering which tropical island’s world famous coral reef or sand bottom to snorkel or scuba.

Watching colourful and weird fish you’ve only ever seen in aquariums, white-eyed moray eels and giant green turtles, all from the comfort of your balcony or kicking your feet up, with a smuggled 26-peso Filipino Red Horse beer and a game of cards.

Or just throwing your towel on palm tree-clad Pulau Sibuan with a good book and only being disturbed by one of the island’s 20 inhabitants asking if he could fetch you a coconut from 50 feet above your head.

Or being 50 feet under the water off Pulau Sipadan floating in an outer-space-like world with reef sharks and prehistoric turtles the size of little cars, with nothing above but bubbles and below 600 metres of murky, inky wetness.

So, we didn’t get to touch an orangutan. They keep those funny primates a good distance from tourists. We didn’t climb Mount Kinabalu. We didn’t get to white-water raft the renowned rapids of the Padas River. We did, however, get what we came for: a good tan and the kind of holiday which I can recommend to anyone looking to get as far from stinky Saigon as possible.

Friday, February 06, 2009

Borneo (Part 1)

Summiting was hard enough, with limited rations and the last dregs of our water bottles burning in our backpacks, but the descent from 4000 metres was another kind of torment altogether. Kinabalu’s thirty degree slope tore at our calf muscles and our resolve as we made our way down into the unexplored heart of the equatorial jungle. Only seven of the original party of ten had made it back. One had succumbed to a bowel-ripping case of Chagas disease on the way up, another to a sever and debilitating bout of Buruli ulcers and the final victim and mistepped the path leading to up to Lowe’s Peak (which turned out to not be so low after all) plummeting and bouncing spectacularly before he disappeared into the clouds below.

The incessant buzzing of throngs of flies was wreaking havoc with our fevered minds. The flies were competing with an army of inch-long leeches slowly making their way about our numerous cuts and blood-smeared shins. Combined with a ground temperature of 37 degrees and the pure, 100% humidity, it was like being spit-roasted over an open bonfire and tumbling down the mound of coals, having your legs seared with glowing-hot cattle-prods and you nether regions simmering in a stew seasoned with Bushman’s Fire “Dynamite” sauce (the one that makes the thermometer on the side of the bottle burst like an adolescents’ acne) – all at the same time. But no-one said the search for the mythical headhunters of Borneo was going to be easy. The unforgiving territory of Sabah, “The Land under the Wind”, stood in our way. Right now, it felt like “The Land under the Toaster”. The big Toaster. Directly under it…

I wish it was so! Oh how dearly I long for such a grand, colonial Conradesque tale of exploration and adventure, and wild loin-cloth wearing, spear-wielding natives – minus the testes stew part. I’ll own up. We never climbed the mountain. We could have, but didn’t. We didn’t delve head first into the jungle. We wanted to, but couldn’t. The trails were closed – how were we to know February was in the middle of monsoon season which would give rise to already treacherous jungle treks being insurmountable. Well, yes, there are guidebooks readily available which warn of such folly, not even to mention the internet…bah. Needless to say, we didn’t find the infamous headhunters either. Nor any heads. Not even one, shrunken, shriveled cranium, except for those we brought along ourselves.

What we did find, however, was even wetter, but not of the green and sweaty, variety, but of the bluest crystal kind. Something others toil their whole lives for, often selling body parts and in-laws to experience: Island living. Mmmm.

Some pics in Part 2.

Wednesday, February 04, 2009

Friday, August 22, 2008

Got goat?

When it comes to blogging, the adage of “no-one gives a shit what you had for lunch” is very relevant, but I’d thought I’d share this one time to make up for all those other times I didn’t.

My co-teacher Jason and I were roped into having lunch with the class we share this afternoon. First we thought we were heading to the bede (sic) hotpot, a joint on the infamously stinky Nhieu Loc Canal where transsexual waiters serve you, but unfortunately they only open at night. I guess it’s a kind of “from dusk til dawn” experience. Anyway, we ended up heading around the corner from our school to Lau De Truong Dinh – a goat hotpot establishment, specialising in all sorts of goat goodies, as we were soon to find out.

Things started out innocently enough, with barbequed goat meat and goat’s breast - this place's specialty - cooked on little clay tripods at your table. Now, the distinction between meat and breast may sound trivial to you, but I mention it because the textures are quite distinct. Despite being marinated in the same sauce and tasting similar, the meat has a, well, meaty texture and the breast is more…chewy, so the experience was more like munching away on a fake silicon tit. Served with grilled bitter gourd and ladyfingers this went down quite well. When new bowls were brought for the next course and our students shouted at the waiters to bring out four plates of pig’s brains, Jason (who was already on antibiotics thanks to a stomach infection) and I just shot each other a knowing look across the table.

Again cooked at the table, the big clay hotpot consisted of some distinguishable and mostly indistinguishable ingredients. As the broth heated up to boiling point, various leafy greens were continuously added along with button mushrooms and some bigger varieties, two kinds of noodles (pho and mi), lotus root, big chunks of taro, a big, yellow, wobbling block of tofu as well as sheets of tofu, and various floating, bobbing pieces of goat.

As the hotpot started steaming and boiling, the pig’s brain – which has the consistency of crème brule and the annoying habit of falling through between your chopsticks (try eating custard with chopsticks) – was added. Mmmm, I can still smell it. Hearty and nutritious, thick pieces of goat’s tripe, muscle and bone would surface from the murky depths of your broth, while eager students’ gazes silently urged you to have more. Chunks of cartilage, layers of what looked like the hide of the goat (minus the hair) and other unchewables secretly found their way under the table and on to the floor, well at least from my part. Sated and content, we rolled out of Lau De Truong Dinh, muttering fervent hopes that the establishment will accidentally become the victim of arson and burn to the ground to save the next naïve teachers from its wicked clutches. Actually, it wasn’t that bad, but just not what I had in mind for a Friday lunch.

Wednesday, August 06, 2008

Employ me.

Jobs, you gotta hate them – it’s in the contract. Show me someone who truly loves his job and I’ll show you a madman, an idiot or the luckiest summumabitch alive. The only thing that sucks more than your job is losing it. And that’s sorta what happened to me. Well, not really, because it wasn’t really my full-time (well as full time as the teaching industry be) job, it was in my field of interest I wish to possibly pursue as a career, but it wasn’t the one bringing in the Benjamins, or I guess what we in Vietnam call the Ho’s. Yet, even though it was my sideline “keeping my CV up-to-date” kinda job, it still sucked when I got this email from, first the editor giving me the heads up that she’s moving over to a rival magazine, and then the disastrous, email from the boss over in New Zealand citing various business schmizness terms like “economic downturn” etc as the cause for the sudden fall of the magazine. At least, the guidebook some of us VN bloggers having been sweating on has finally arrived. Anyways, anyone got a job where you get paid per word for transferring nonsensical thoughts into nonsense words?

Thursday, July 24, 2008

The bugle call

To linger or loiter, dilly-dally, drag, lag, postpone or prolong. Whether it’s waiting for a rainy day, idleness, or indolence. An excuse by any other name would smell as rancid as a lazy, sweaty butt-crack plying its shady trade on the couch as an undercover kartoffel.

Thus, let me embark (once more!) upon the road which I have trodden thus far – with lukewarm results and blisters of note. To blog! Oh, blesseth the soul of Mr Berners-Lee, he who hath brought us such glory and prosperous wealth of mind in an era which, at times, seemed floppy-disk weary and Commodore bleary. Mr Berners-Lee, who has forced the task upon me to continue the journey of star and sickle, alt-key and enter. Let us, in times of grave peril, hearken to the call so as to steady the heart and shake off the yoke of procrastination and further disengage souls from more important matters. Let’s go.

Wednesday, May 07, 2008

Weekly Randomness

Here's a little mobile "Nativity/Crucifixion scene" I spotted vrooming around last Christmas. It lends itself to a number of captions, e.g: "Silent bike, holy bike" or "It came upon a Saigon clear", and, what has to be my favourite "Hark the Herald Hondas Sing". You get the point.



Friday, April 25, 2008

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Weekly Randomness

You've got to love the headlines from the Vietnam News sometimes. Here's a cracker from the boys up in Hanoi.

Thursday, April 03, 2008

Nepal Part 1: In the Valley of Gods

Namaste! This short greeting encapsulates Nepal. It surrounded us from the moment we got off the plane in Kathmandu and headed out into the freezing city, full of anticipation and relief after weeks and months of waiting, till the moment we dragged our weary, frozen bones back onto the plane 15 days later.

“Namaste! Where you go, sir? Want taxi?” “Namaste, want to go trekking?” “Namaste, come inside my shop, take a look.” “Namaste, want some hash?”

It literally means “I see or recognise the god inside you”. Sarah, I can understand, but me? What the hell do they see in me? Anyway, the greeting is everywhere. I think on any given day in Nepal you could find yourself muttering this phrase, depending on your mood, amount of eye-contact and social aptness, anywhere from a hundred to a thousand times a day.

Back to Kathmandu – the Valley of Gods. The city with its population of about a million denizens is nestled in the Kathmandu Valley, with Thamel, the tourist/backpacker area on the northern edge of the urban centre, Swayambhu, the Monkey Temple, away to the west, Patan City down to the south and the airport to the east, beyond which stretches the city of Bhaktapur. Driving down into the city bowl, we were met by a dusty haze hanging over the city reminiscent of a desert city like Cairo, despite the mind-numbing cold that we quickly had to get used to. We were warned that the traffic in Kathmandu was really bad, but coming from Ho Chi Minh City, it was more like a walk in the park on a fine Sunday afternoon.

Thamel, where we and most other tourists stayed, is a bric-a-brac mismatch of little bricked hovels (no more than hobbit hole-in-the-walls), tall, multi-storeyed guesthouses with rooftop terraces, and bright shops selling everything from Tibetan prayer flags, thangkas, trekking gear (think Gore-tex and North Face), Gurkha Khukri knives, yak wool and pashmina and a cornucopia of trance and hippy gear: hackey sacks, jester beanies, clothes, bongs, woven socks – all in Joseph’s Technicolor dreamcoat hues. If you’re a trancemonkey – this is Heaven. Thamel is everything you want in a tourist area – so much so that its possible to actually lose track of time and dawdle in this Middle-Earth meets Alice in Wonderland meets Alien Safari for years before realising it (the number of beared, dreaded, dazed old-timers we saw testified to this scary fact). The range of food is awesome too. From Nepali daal bhat, to yak steak, buffalo chilli balls, to Western pizzas and cappuccinos. Oh and one thing we really miss and need in Vietnam, which the Nepalis just get right: bakeries with sugar-free Western-style breads, croissants, pretzels and other goodies. Yum.

Walking down through the winding, potholed alleys, you’ll find yourself nearing the stupas of Durbar Square and, blinking, and rubbing the Wonderland crust out of your eyes as if you’ve just climbed back out of the rabbit hole into the bright sunlight, you’ll see more of the real Kathmandu, more colourful saris, and more poverty. The Square – the old court of the royal palace – is home to temples dedicated to a number of gods and goddesses, including the Living Goddess Kumari. Unfortunately foreigners are not allowed to enter the living quarters of the Kumari and have to vie for a quick glimpse through the temple window.

Near the Square is Freak Street – the 1960s home of the tousle-haired, tie-dyed hippies seeking enlightenment in Shangri-la, now just a skeleton of its bong-toking past, but still worth a visit.

The further you move away from the centre of Kathmandu, the more prevalent the poverty and pollution becomes, and as you climb out of the valley on winding roads, the smog lies low over the city. A beautiful city with an ugly face, its easy to get lost in Kathmandu without exploring the rest of this beautiful country.

When we were there, political turmoil with their upcoming elections (April 11) caused a lot of tension, with petrol stations being closed in answer to fuel hikes, daily power black outs due to load shedding and political rallies, especially by the Young Communists League, blocked traffic in the city. The newspapers were rife with stories of violence and threats in the rural, pro-Maoist strongholds and the army were on constant vigil. The election next week will decide the fate of the nation, as well as its out of favour king, as the electing of a new Constituent Assembly means their will be a rewrite of the constitution. I wish the best for this beautiful country and its beautiful people.


Souvernir shop on the streets of Thamel

A pipe shop on Freak Street

Joseph and his dreamcoat shop

Thangka Shop in Thamel


Rickshaw and monk

Woman coming out of a hobbit-hole

A religious festival in Durbar Square


A stupa in Durbar Square


Candy-floss monks


Kathmandu through Tibetan prayer flags