The Infamous Red Dress

By popular demand (that means you, Katie)...

Sorry... something strange happened to the hair...

Boxing Day Blues

Actually its not just Boxing Day, the blues are continuing. In fact, it’s not really blues, more fury. Spitting blood fury. And maybe because Rachel has gone up to Hoi An for a couple of days so I’m on my own but it seems to be getting worse right now. I’m sure I’ll calm down in a day or two but right now…

So I didn’t get the AC job. Fine. The feedback from the boss about the interview was more positive than negative – by far the best-qualified candidate just basically need to build-up confidence and project it more. Which is fair enough. I know myself well enough to recognise that is one of my weaknesses, especially in job interviews. And clearly they want someone who looks confident and comfortable sitting there waiting to be asked how to teach four year olds. (I would be once I was in that seat, it’s just job interviews). So basically the message was take some time, settle in and ‘fill your shoes’. They know I can do it, and they’ve promised to put little projects my way to build up my experience and confidence in the meantime.

This is all fine. At some point on the Delta this kind of knockback stopped being a mortal injury which would have me rolling over, playing dead and never daring to re-apply. Now, I take the constructive criticism on board and come back out fighting. I think that actually might be feeding my fury. Now that I know what I did wrong I just want to get back in there and do it again properly, but I’ll have to wait until the next vacancy comes up. So I’m frustrated too.

But what has really sparked the fury is the combination of that feedback – best-qualified but maybe too humble about it when answering the question about how I would deal with potential resentment what with it being an internal promotion and me only here five minutes – and knowing who they actually gave one of the two positions to.

The one girl I don't know and bear her no ill-will at all. She got the job, I didn’t. Fair enough. Good for her. Congratulations. The other, however, – let’s call her Wafty Woman, because wafting about is what she seems to do – had already got right up my nose long before the job came up.

As the final part of my new arrivals induction, I was scheduled to peer observe one of her lessons. OK so far. A couple of days before, she wafts up to me in the staffroom and introduces herself. Still OK. Then comes the weird, slightly insulting/patronising part.

She asks me why I’d requested the observation. Err, I hadn’t, it’s just part of the induction process. She presses on. Is there something I particularly want to see. Err, no not really. It’s just part of the induction process. It’s not a Delta peer obs, and I’m not currently thinking about doing any action research.  Still, she goes on, ‘Because I wouldn’t want to show you anything you normally do anyway…’ Excuse me??? What???

Two points occur to me here:

a)    IT’S A PEER OBS!!! I’m not the Delta External Examiner. There’s no need for bells and whistles. All that is required is an ordinary lesson. I would never dream of doing anything special for a peer obs unless specifically requested. The observer will still get something out of it.

b)   Something I don’t normally do? Erm, hold on… Seven years, four countries, and the Delta… ‘Fraid you’re gonna have to let me think about that one for a while. I’m sure there’re plenty of things I haven’t tried but to come up with something on the spot like that for a Pre-Int class just like I’ve taught hundreds of times… Oh just go boil your head woman… 

And still she goes on, ‘I’ve just done the CELT-YL, so I’ve got lots of ideas’. Somehow I managed to resist the urge to say, ‘Well, bully for you. I’ve just done the Delta.’

Then the irony. Come the day, come the phone call from one of the AAM’s to say she’d called in sick. We’d have to re-schedule. Half an hour later, another phone call. This time from Admin. Can I cover the class? So instead of observing the lesson for an hour unpaid, I get paid for teaching it for the full three hours. As Louise said, that’s one way of getting to know the class. And, guess what? It was a revision lesson anyway! So even less need for bells and whistles. And you know something else? I think I did it quite well.

So yes, Wafty Woman got the job, I didn’t. And it pisses me off. That ‘dealing with resentment’ question has come back to bite me on the arse. I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’ll be professional. I’ll try not to let my feelings show at work. But I really can’t see me going to her for help with anything.

In the meantime, thanks to Hannah for the company and commiseratory hug immediately after the news, Steve and Louise for getting angry on my behalf. And Rachel for the wine, the Dairy Lea Carbonara and sitting up until 1.30am putting the world to rights despite having a plane to Hoi An to catch early the next morning.

And I will be back, and I will get the AC job eventually, and I will do it so much better than Wafty Woman.

Christmas Day – Lunch at the New World Saigon Hotel

Gotta say before we start, trying to insert those photos into the Christmas Eve post just now was a bit of a nightmare, and while the rather tipsy-looking result may be suitable to the season, it wasn’t actually intentional. So I’m only going to put a couple in here and, if you’re interested in the rest click here or follow the links on the right to go to my Flickr photostream.

As usual I was awake ridiculously early – I’m not sleeping that well at the moment – so I had plenty of time to potter around tidying up and arranging presents in the living room to make it look like Father Christmas had visited before waking Rachel with the customary cup of tea. Then we set about opening our presents. Admittedly this didn’t take very long. My family and I are still getting to grips with the Vietnamese postal system, and obviously Rachel wasn’t where her family and friends normally expect her to be. So our present piles were both quite modest, but appreciated nonetheless. The kumquats from the restaurant last night were especially welcome (!!) not least because the miniature conical hats they came in are exactly the right size to hide those bloody awful grinning sheep coat hooks!

Rachel liked the little framed picture of two girls in ao dais I bought her, and we were both pretty impressed by mum’s unexpected change of calendar subject. For years and years now I’ve always got a calendar featuring either cats or Dr. Who. But not this year! No! 2011 will progress through the bevy of ‘lovelies’ (I use the word advisedly) featured in the Official England Rugby Calendar! Woohoo! Our only complaint is that the genius who produced this work of art forgot to add name tags (or maybe it was deliberate to spare blushes). Having been out of the UK for so long, Rachel and I are both a bit out of touch and barely recognised anyone. We’re pretty sure Johnny Wilkinson is Mr. March, and isn’t that Danny Whatsisface who used to date Kelly Brook as January? But the rest of them? Not a clue! An emergency email to Rachel’s brother is in the offing, but in the meantime, if you have any ideas, Dear Readers, please do get in touch!

…Which reminds me, my Adult Elementary class confused rugby with a Rubik’s cube the other day, which made for a rather bizarre conversation for a while…

A quick Danish pastry breakfast followed, then showers and changing into our glad rags – yes, the red dress came back out again, photo to be posted at a later date (the neckline attracts even more attention in daylight, it seems!) And into a taxi down into the city centre and the slap up buffet lunch at the New World Hotel – three hours of free-flowing champagne, wine and beer, salads, antipasti, sushi and sashimi, dim sum, seafood, cheese board, soups, lamb, beef, bbq pork, steaks so rare they had the boys melting onto the floor in ecstasies, turkey and stuffing, fruit, ice cream, miniature Christmas Puddings, cakes and gateaux, and even (Praise Be!) Bread and Butter Pudding! Richard even pinched a large white chocolate Santa. Eyes bigger than his stomach – it ended up being passed around the table when he couldn’t manage more than the head.

Rich, Steve and Hannah

Rich's Chocolate Santa

Sarah and Louise

Most of our party (there were 14 on our table) did their best to get their money’s worth out of the $50 ticket price despite varying levels of hangover from the previous night. When we came to pay Steve and Louise figured out that the bill for our table alone came to about $800, and there were at least 20 tables with a similar number of covers on them in the dining room.

Eventually we heaved ourselves out into the burning sunshine (very Christmassy) and while some headed home to sleep it off, the rest of us wended our way up to Sheridan’s, the Irish pub in Le Thanh Ton. A few cheats took a taxi. But Rachel and I led the more intrepid on foot through the city (well, it’s on our way home after all). And really, despite occasionally losing people and Rich complaining about the distance and asking if the bar was in fact in Hanoi, it didn’t take that long to walk there. And it made the drink at the end of it all the more welcome surely?

Rachel, Hannah, Mike and Adrian

 A few more drinks and we were all about ready to drop. The party broke up, and, although Rachel was momentarily tempted by Dan and Lou’s invitation to go with them to a games arcade, we opted for the short walk home where with more wine, Baileys and Christmas cake, I continued Rachel’s cultural education. Yep, despite living in Japan all these years, she’s never seen Roman Holiday. Until now, that is.

Christmas Eve – Lights, Camera, Traffic, Action

After the excitement of yesterday we decided to have a quiet, moochy, touristy sort of day, which we’d round off by going into the city centre to see the Christmas Lights (and as it turned out, the Christmas Traffic).

So we had a lazy morning and a wander round to the local shops and market near my flat, and managed to find the bakery, patisserie and restaurant that a French charity run to train disabled and disadvantaged kids in the hospitality industry (Sesame – look it up, it’s listed in Lonely Planet). Then after lunch we set off on our latest adventure.

Which initially was as much of an adventure for our taxi driver as it was for us. The trouble with getting taxis and xe oms everywhere when you’re trying to sightsee is that often, despite being armed with maps and guide books, without a decent translation into Vietnamese, the people you ask have genuinely no idea where it is you want to go. One of my students the other week when we were doing giving directions pointed to Notre Dame Cathedral on the map and asked me what it was called in English. He said he often got asked for directions to it by tourists but couldn’t help them because he honestly didn’t understand the name. Of course, he knew it in Vietnamese but… Come on Lonely Planet, provide translations.

Anyway, with a little bit of consultation and regular referrals to our map our taxi driver did get us to the Jade Emperor Pagoda quite efficiently. He seemed as pleased as us when we found it. In fact, it was fair enough that he didn’t know where we wanted to go. Although Lonely Planet gives it a fairly big write up, and the Dorling Kindersley map I’m using places it as a big block of green on a street corner, it is actually quite small. Very nice but definitely smaller than I expected. It’s much more of a little local neighbourhood temple, and very much still in use with Vietnamese people coming in all the time to pray and light incense.

After half an hour or so enjoying the peace and quiet there, we headed back out into the heat of the street and walked a few blocks to the Museum of Vietnamese History. Located in a beautiful Chinese-style building by the entrance to the zoo and botanical gardens, it was another oasis of calm amidst the heat and chaos outside. I do tend to get a little bored in traditional museums with labelled exhibits locked away in cabinets. But I managed to entertain myself here by reading the French captioning and then comparing it with the English. Not surprisingly, given Vietnam’s colonial past, the French generally made more sense.

Rachel wanted to go into the botanical gardens too, but I convinced her that paying to enter somewhere that was heaving with kids visiting the ‘Winter Wonderland’ attraction was not a good idea, so we got a taxi down to Backpackerville where Rachel wanted to make enquiries about going up to Hoi An for a couple of days, and I wanted to do some Christmas shopping – specifically shopping for Rachel’s Christmas present. We were also pretty keen to get out of the heat and sample our newly-discovered favourite soft drink – Lime Ice Blended – from the Highlands Coffee Shop chain.

Enquiries made, shopping done, and Lime Ice sipped it was time to venture out to see the Christmas Lights. I had been warned to expect traffic jams like never before. A warning not misplaced. The traffic cops at Ben Thanh roundabout were just standing, watching bemused. Another one further up Le Loi Street was frankly lucky to be alive, if not plain foolhardy attempting to direct the traffic. Le Loi Street itself was pretty well stationary, which is not to say trying to cross it was any easier than usual. It was still terrifying.

And as for the crowds outside the brilliantly named Tax Department Store – crossing the road was probably safer than trying to walk down the pavement. Students were chasing each other with cans of squirty confetti stuff. Small children were getting elbowed in the face, and trampled underfoot. Proud dad’s used enormous SLR cameras as lethal weapons to muscle through to the window displays and take photos of their Little Darlings posing next to a Snowman. Having your photo taken posing next to shop and hotel Christmas decorations is apparently THE thing to do here. And when I say posing, I mean the real full-on Vietnam’s Next Top Model kind of pose.
 

But the lights and decorations were lovely, and did go someway to making this sweltering city feel a bit Christmassy.

Eventually the crowds began to thin out and we made it onto Le Thanh Ton Street, which is fast becoming my favourite place in the city. It’s the nearest part of the CBD to my flat (within 5 minutes walk in fact) and my end of it contains Little Tokyo with loads of Japanese shops and restaurants.

Rachel had been perusing the Lonely Planet and had come up with a couple of restaurants around Le Thanh Ton that sounded promising. And so it was that we found ourselves in a very posh Vietnamese restaurant called Hoi An, politely refusing the proffered Christmas Set Menus (starting price $60 per person) and delicately picking our way through the only slightly less expensive à la carte menu. Rachel seemed quite sanguine about it whereas I (knowing how much there was in my purse) sat there gently rocking and wondering how and when it would be politic to make a bolt for the ATM machine across the road.

But the bill did get paid not only without incident but quite willingly, and with a mental note to come back again for special ‘let’s-impress-people’ occasions. The atmosphere was lovely, the staff attentive and the food was spectacular – Drunken Shrimps cooked at the table by a waiter who threw ladle after ladle-full of unidentified alcohol into the bowl and then set light to it, and a beef stew served inside a coconut shell which also arrived at the table in flames. All this and Santa and two angels distributing gifts! 

 

Yay! Merry Christmas!

Sun, Sea, Sand and Sushi Deliveries

Merry Christmas! To all of you snowbound in Europe, I’m sure Rachel and I probably did spare you a thought at some point while we were lying on the beach in Vung Tau yesterday – I just can’t remember exactly when! 

 

 Vung Tau is a small seaside town about an hour and a half by hydrofoil from HCMC. We had heard mixed reports about it. Being something of an oil town, with oil rigs and tankers dotting the horizon, the cleanliness of the sea and the beaches can be less than ideal, but for a quick day trip out of Ho Chi Minh and a breath of fresh, sea air it’s the first place most Saigonites turn to. So we set out prepared potentially to stay over night, and, as ever when Rachel’s around, for adventure.

…Ever since she got here she’s had her nose in Lonely Planet looking for day trips, and trying to persuade me that tobogganing down a mountain is a good idea!…She has at least agreed to go geo-caching when I’m at work…

This is actually my first real time off since arriving in Vietnam – without consecutive days off you are a little restricted to what you can do – Thursday is my regular day off, and the school closes for Christmas at 5pm today (Christmas Eve) until Sunday morning, and as my lessons on Fridays don’t usually start until 5.15pm…

The day actually started at a Post Office just around the corner from school where I had been instructed to present myself, my passport and 7000 dong (20p?) in order to collect a parcel from home (my beloved moleskine notebooks – don’t feel like a proper teacher without them). All quite straightforward, although the chap did produce a wad of collection notes addressed to other teachers at school, in the hope that I’d cough up and deliver them for him. Err, no. I want promotion not slavery.

Then off to Backpackerville for breakfast at Bobby Brewers, before walking round to the port and catching the 12pm ferry by the skin of our teeth. Rachel had already warned me she gets seasick on stationary boats, so the immediate movement was welcome, as were the complimentary bottles of water the steward handed out. Rather more worrying were the sick bags they also hand out.

 She says it's not her best side!

So we arrived in Vung Tau about 1.30pm to be greeted by the SE Asian tourist-spot barrage of taxi touts. Eventually we made our way round to Back Beach which is supposedly the cleaner of the town’s beaches. Not the best beach in the world and definitely pretty dirty, especially at the southern end, but not the worst either of us have ever been on. It was also pretty quiet, all the bars and cafes along the beach seemed more or less deserted save for a few staff doing out-of-season repairs. There were, in fact, a handful of other Westerners scattered around, but mainly we shared the long sandy beach with Vietnamese families (who all seemed to go into the water fully clothed) and some very busy little translucent white crab things scuttling about – I think one of them tried to pinch me on the elbow.

What we didn’t really reckon on as we sat down on Rachel’s sarong was that the tide was actually coming in, and coming in quite quickly. Even sitting there watching the waves gradually work their way closer, as I waited for my already wet shorts to dry, it didn't really register. Then it happened. Just as my shorts were more or less dry, a particularly clever wave got me up to the shins, soaked Lonely Planet which was lying between us, and completely missed Rachel. She laughed, we took stock of damage and sat back down. And it happened again. Bigger and better this time. The second wave caught Rachel too, but clearly still had it in for me especially, depositing a dead fish between my knees.

This kind of thing only ever happens when I’m with Rachel. All those months in Bournemouth, the sea stayed respectfully at the bottom of the beach where it belongs. Nowhere near me unless I specifically go to it. But with Rachel, it attacks me.

We beat a hasty and very damp, sandy retreat back to the port area, to investigate whether or not there was anything there worth keeping us in town overnight. There wasn’t. It reminds me a little of some of the places I worked in in Japan. Not far from the metropolis, but not much going on in the place itself. Probably heaving at weekends, but dead midweek. Quite glad I didn’t get a job at the school there. So we purchased our tickets for the last ferry of the day back to Ho Chi Minh and had a quick drink while we waited. 

And waited. The 16.45 hydrofoil finally turned up about half an hour late. We boarded. The rather stressed looking steward handed out more sick bags. The boat pulled away from the dock and chugged out into open water. And chugged. Slowly. For about 15 minutes. The steward continued to look harrassed. Then a friendly fellow passenger leaned across his girlfriend and explained the situation to us. There was something wrong with the engine. The company were sending a back up boat which they would transfer us to (mid-ocean!!!) to continue the journey back to HCMC. And the steward continued to hand out sick bags.

The whole transfer was, in fact, very well organised and could have been much worse. The rescue boat was with us much sooner than the 15 minutes our new friend had estimated, and crossing from one boat to another was quite straightforward, as long as you waited for the people who were already making use of the sick bags (not Rachel thankfully) to get out of the way first. The rest of the journey was quite painless, apart from the occasional whiff from the sick bags, and we were back in the city just after seven. In fact, it seemed faster than the outward journey, although Rachel was bemused by something she hadn’t noticed on the way out. Every so often the boat randomly stops, reverses a bit, then starts up again and continues on its way.

We had discussed the possibility of getting dinner in Backpackerville before heading home, but by the time we got back to the city all either of us could think of was showering off the coating of sand left by the sea attacks. So a rather nervous and concerned taxi driver dropped us off in front of the apartment building (I think he thought these two Westerners with backpacks had got the address wrong and wouldn’t want to be left in such a Vietnamese area). We showered, changed and Rachel was very brave and phoned the English language sushi delivery hotline, and with a minor wobble when the girl at the other end thought we wanted our dinner delivered to the Pham Viet Chanh in District 1, within half an hour we were tucking in, and feeling very pleased with ourselves!

Then we settled sleepily on the sofa with a couple of bottles of wine, some Baileys, cake and ice cream and a dvd.

So Christmas begins with sunburn on one foot and a cut from a shattered wine bottle on the other (I knocked it over, Rachel swept it up, perfect team work!)

Merry Christmas!!

Yay! Rachel's here, I had the interview for AC (should hear by the weekend) and I've just finished work for the next three days!!

So for those of you snowed in back in Europe - just to say 'Merry Christmas!' We're off to the beach tomorrow, then a slap up lunch at another posh hotel on Saturday!

xxx

Random Christmassy Stuff...

The combined lung power of 18 Vietnamese eleven year olds is roughly equivalent to the decibel level of a major British football match. Seriously, I have never known a game of Pin The Nose On Rudolph get so ear-splittingly loud... But at least, unlike their Japanese and Italian counterparts, they were shouting 'up/down/forwards/backwards' in English, amidst the screams...

Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer actually succeeded in raising a laugh from my 13 year old Advanced class. A Christmas Miracle...

Kiri's Angry Elf roleplay worked so well that the Elves and the Reindeer nearly came to blows in my Elites class tonight...

And all this despite my habitual Christmas amnesia. Yes, that's right. Every year I forget its Christmas. In spite of all the Christmas lesson planning going on around me in the staffroom, I always seem not to notice until suddenly I realize today is the last lesson before Christmas and I'm totally unprepared - no cards, no sweets, no glitter... nothing. 

At least this year I have the excuse of the mush my brain has turned into in panic about the AC job interview I've got on Tuesday, and all the stuff I need to do before Rachel arrives later the same day - have a horrible feeling she may object to there being no food whatsoever in the house...

And finally, seen on a cart on the front of a motorbike being driven past school tonight - a fully decorated Christmas Tree complete with working fairy lights.

So Cinders Did Go To The Ball...

… and returned home to a power cut.

Which just goes to show that it was an odd sort of night all round. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I did enjoy it. The food was very good – a huge buffet of Western and Asian food; steak, fried rice, sushi, turkey, salmon Wellington, puddings galore, you name it. More than one teacher remarked that they could have lived on the mash for a lifetime. And it was nice to get out, dress up a bit and spend a few hours in a swanky hotel.

It just wasn’t quite what I was expecting. The entertainment during the meal was a trifle random, and with 7 schools in the city all taking part, someone really ought to have imposed a time limit on the video-pantomimes submitted for the talent show… Dear me, but they were a strange insight into the warped imaginations of English teachers and the local staff who have to work with them…The free beer ran out long before midnight, and, after the meal, if you just wanted to sit and chat in air-conditioned comfort you were a bit screwed. The only seating was either in the ballroom (where the DJ was attempting to rupture your eardrums and induce epilepsy with the music and strobe lighting) or outside on the terrace where it was just a teensy bit humid. And I’ll never be able to look at one member of management in the same light again – was this person^* extremely drunk, or do they normally dance like that?

View from the terrace of the InterContinental Hotel

And, all the while, I was conscious of my own little control problem. Not having had the time or the money to get a dress made for the occasion, I made do with a long, red, beaded maxi dress I’d brought with me. Unfortunately, as Little Sis pointed out when I bought it, the neckline is just a little bit plunging. Or rather, if I’m not watching what I’m doing, I’m in danger of plunging out of it. I spent half the night twitching and plucking at my straps, and the other half wondering whether it was the free booze or my cleavage that was suddenly encouraging people who’ve spent the past six weeks looking straight through me in the staffroom to come up and talk. One teacher, who I’d observed during induction week, was so well-oiled that in the middle of the disco she came up to me, thrust her bleary face into mine and chuckled that it had been a bit scary being told that not only was someone was going to observe her, but someone who already had the Delta.

Getting Messy - Lip Gloss Attack 

It does rather leave me wondering if the combination of the ready-made Delta and my own natural shyness means that people are scared of me. Do they mistake the Delta for ultra-professionalism, and the shyness for arrogance and aloofness? Daft, eh? The Delta doesn’t stop me having rubbish lessons, and I think I’m quite approachable really. Arrogant? Very rarely. Should you be scared of me? Don't think so – unless I’m on the warpath about people leaving flashcards and board erasers scattered around the staffroom…!

From which you may surmise that I did indeed spend Monday morning working on my CV for the AC job. Hangovers were not, in fact, an issue. Tiredness and lethargy were. Actually, other than the occasional need to lie back down, I didn’t feel too bad in the morning. It was the moment I got off the xe om outside school that the tiredness and headache really kicked in.

How I managed to get through the afternoon and prepare reasonably coherent lessons I have only the vaguest idea, but I think it did involve long moments of gazing, stupefied at the backs of the cleaners as they whiled away their breaks playing Blast Billiards on the staffroom computers (an addiction it seems I have since picked up, though only in the privacy of my own home)! Needless to say, my complaints about the mess in the staffroom did not get voiced at the Staff Meeting – although I did perk up a bit at the mention of the Teacher Training department are looking for Delta-qualified teachers to teach the TKT course next year. Hmmm…. interesting…

My lessons actually went quite well, even if I did ask one of my Adult Beginners who works as an anaesthetist if he could hook my up to a coffee drip to try and keep me awake. He just laughed.

The application was finally polished and emailed on Tuesday morning, at which point I was going to go and do some serious shopping ready for Rachel’s arrival next week. However, with power cuts and massive, awesome electrical storms I actually did pretty well just to get to Zen Plaza and invest a million dong in wine glasses, spare towel, frying pan, a couple of plates and a bottle of watery-looking drain unblocker. Got absolutely soaked just running down the steps of the store to the taxi waiting at the kerb.

So it was with some trepidation that I set off for my second late night in three days. Yes, I finally overcame my hermit inclinations and went to the Pub Quiz in Backpackerville. And another bizarre night was had by all… This bar has guest Question Masters each week drawn from the regulars. I missed Rich and Mike’s turn the other week, which by all accounts was quite successful. Sadly, this week’s host provided an object lesson in how to over-complicate the humble pub quiz, with questions running to several paragraphs and answers usually in at least 2 parts. She also included 12 questions per category when the bar’s standard answer sheet only had space for 6, so most teams ran out of space on the back long before we struggled through to the final round. Steve, Louise and I made our rather dazed escape home before the winners were announced. No power cuts this time, but a very lazy unproductive Wednesday morning followed.

^* Have to be bit more discreet now with the job application…

Xe Om My God!

Coming home tonight the xe om driver suddenly screeched to a halt in the middle of a four lane bridge. Parking the bike side on to the traffic, he got off and ran back into the traffic to retrieve somebody's lost wallet, leaving me sitting there in the midst of all this traffic, waiting to get hit!

Mixing Job Applications with Hangovers?

So there I am, pootling along dealing with my Archers-generated homesickness, and resigning myself to the fact that this will almost certainly be my last overseas job, and I may only do the one year, when the Academic Manager calls me into her office on Friday afternoon to 'make sure' I'd seen the new adverts for Academic Co-ordinator (Senior Teacher) and Assistant Academic Manager (ADoS) on the Positions Vacant noticeboard.

Suddenly, I can't think about much else, and don't get much sleep that night. This is what I came to Vietnam for, after all. And I think I have been feeling a bit frustrated lately - with myself as much as anything, for not networking enough, and letting my shyness take over. So (egged on by mum, dad, Baggy and encouraged by Steve and Louise) I'm going to go for it, and apply for the AC position. Of course, there's no guarantee I'll get it. When I told the AM that I was surprised to have it mentioned so soon, she did admit that she likes to get people's names and faces into the promotion system as soon as possible, so that if you don't get it this time, you're a familiar face and (hopefully) choice for next time. 

But sitting in the staffroom this afternoon, thinking about my application, I realized just how much I want this job. Only trouble is, the deadline is Thursday, and tonight is the Staff Christmas Party at the InterContinental Hotel. By all accounts, it can get pretty messy.....

A little touch of homesickness, courtesy of The Archers

As some of you who know me well may know, I am a bit of an Archers addict. Having had a rather un-agricultural country upbringing, The Archers is my little bit of ‘vicarious country life,’ as someone described it on another podcast the other day. It is, after all, set somewhere around the Worcestershire-Warwickshire border where I grew up. In fact, I have a theory that drive too fast down certain lanes near mum and dad’s and you’ll be sucked through a rip in space and time and find yourself having a torrid affair with Eddie Grundy.

Anyway, wallowing my way through two episodes of the Omnibus edition this morning I was overtaken by the need to take a look at the website, and lo… nostalgia for home hits me in the form of the background picture. Correct me if I’m wrong (I’m not), but it’s the very familiar view down the valley from the crossroads between Saintbury and the Dormy, with Meon Hill in the far distance.

The Archers (BBC website) 

New Title!

You may notice that I've changed the title of this blog.

You can blame this on Oye (The Moja Times) who continued his campaign to become my Blog Guru while we chatted on Skype last night. And Katie too who thinks I should write a book.... hmmm, we'll see....

So why change? And what's this title all about?

Well, I did feel just repeating my username was a bit boring - and possibly not anonymous enough.

Why 'Noodles and Ninja Whiteboards'?

Well, whiteboards obviously, being a teacher, play quite a major role in my life. Ninjas clearly relate back to my beloved Japan (and Ninja Whiteboards may also refer back to that notorious incident at Toride school). 

Noodles? Well, I'm in Asia. It's what you eat. (Plus fried rice doesn't alliterate with ninja!)

A Xe Om Revelation

Conversation on the way home last night between me and the xe om driver who picked me up from school:

Driver: What do you do?
Me: I'm a teacher.
Driver: Ah, very good. I xe om driver.

Am I getting old and grumpy?

 Am I getting old and grumpy? Am I being unreasonable? Am I in danger of spoiling other people’s fun?

Or am I justified in being irritated by some of the things that go on in the staffroom?

Take the computers, for example. It’s incredible how often people will spend ages carefully typing up worksheets for their lessons, and then as soon as they’ve printed a copy out, just wander off without even closing the document, never mind saving it to disk. Why? Why would you do that? Is it really so tedious and time-consuming? Is it not possible you, or someone else, might want to use that worksheet again sometime? On Saturday the terminal I sat down at had about five separate, unsaved documents open on it, not to mention Firefox open on the Live Ashes coverage. But no sign of anyone using the computer.

And as for wandering off without logging out of Facebook… well, I’m beginning to think that’s just asking to get your status sabotaged…

Then there’s the mess. Sure we have cleaners. But really, isn’t it just common courtesy to tidy up a bit after yourself? Last night I found three board erasers still sitting in one of the baskets we use to carry materials between lessons. The basket pile is just yards from where the board markers and erasers are kept, but clearly it was too far to travel for someone. And there was a huge pile of books just dumped next to the guillotines.

And it’s obviously much worse at weekends when the school is running at full capacity for the kids’ lessons. I am lucky. I don't start until 2pm while most teachers are in by 10am at the latest, and many much earlier. But this does mean that by the time I get in most of the materials, such as board erasers have already been taken. It also means that there is little, if any, spare desk space left.

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve spent the weekend squeezed into a corner between the DVD player and a guillotine. Not the easiest place to work to be sure. But when I went back during a break yesterday I could hardly believe it. Not only had someone been using the guillotine, but they’d left a complete set of freshly cut phrasal verb flashcards strewn across the table. Again, why? If you’re not going to use them, at least clear them away! Just in case the owner did return to claim them, I carefully gathered them up and sat them on top of the guillotine. Next break someone had been along and chucked them back onto the table. This time they went in the bin.

In fact, even when I am there with all my books out, I regularly seem to get people just chucking stuff down while they use the guillotine or the nearby photocopier.

So is it just me? I am being unreasonable?

Health Check

Truly, for someone like myself with an ironical disposition, it is experiences like Tuesday’s health check that make expat life worth living. You just have to sit back, relax and enjoy the ride with your sense of humour turned up to turbo.

Take pleasure in the baffling.

Luckily, Martin, an Australian teacher who had been booked in with me, seemed to share my outlook, and an entertaining afternoon was had by all.

I’m a little hazy on the details but I think the health check is something to do with the work permit application. That would certainly explain why we ended up in a public hospital the other side of Chinatown, rather than one of the swanky, private expat clinics.

As instructed I arrive at Head Office a few minutes ahead of the 1.15pm appointment armed with passport, 6 freshly printed passport photos and a head full of cautionary tales from other teachers – ‘Take a good book, you’ll be waiting for hours’; ‘Take toilet roll’; ‘Go to the loo before you go, they only have filthy squat toilets at the hospital’; ‘They poke you up the nose with a sharp metal thing’; ‘The place will be packed. If someone goes into hospital the whole family move in with them and sleep on the floor.’

Miss Thao, the Vietnamese Co-ordinator, meet us, checks a few details, makes sure we have everything, and then hands us over to Quynh (pronounced more or less like the English Quinn), a TA delegated to navigate us through the whole adventure. Quynh is lovely but has clearly done this many times before, and therefore understands the necessity for speed. Despite being half our size she easily outpaces us, and we spend the afternoon sprinting to keep up with her.

We’re barely out of the taxi and she’s off. Martin and I look at each other. ‘Do you think she’s in a hurry?!’ I ask. He grins at me, and the race is on. Even carrying my rucksack on her back later doesn't slow her down!

First up she parks us in a waiting area to get to know each other, while she darts from desk to desk paying fees and filling in more forms. Then she shepherds us through into a cubicle area, telling us to sit and wait again on some small stools, accompanied by a strange wheezy cranking noise coming from a cubicle behind us. Martin suggests it’s a dialysis machine. I rather think a heart monitor. Whichever it is, it sounds pretty darn rusty.

It isn’t long though before we’re beckoned forward into a cubicle where two nurses preside. ‘Ooh goody,’ says Martin, looking at the trays we’ve been handed, ‘Two bloods and a urine.’ For some reason, the nurse decides to take my blood from mid-forearm rather than elbow. It stings quite a lot afterwards. It stings even more to note that she’s taken Martin’s from his elbow.

Then it’s off down the corridor to the aforementioned manky, paperless toilets to deal with the urine sample. Unfortunately, I’ve left my tissues in my bag with Quynh back out at reception, and yet somehow managed to retain possession of my passport. Which makes for a couple of awkward moments in there.

Sanitary juggling act accomplished, Quynh then trots us up, down and round the hospital to the Ear, Nose and Throat department, and to what is probably the highlight of the whole day.

Called in first, I’m greeted by a middle-aged male doctor who proceeds to engage me in conversation along the following (much abbreviated) lines:

‘So you’re British?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And where else have you worked besides Vietnam?’

‘Err, Italy and Japan.’

‘Ah, yes, Japan. Very different system to Vietnam. Still Asia but very different. I have Japanese colleagues. We can learn much’…

‘Ah, Britain… England, Scotland, Wale (sic) and Northern Ireland. Northern Ireland and Ireland different. Different systems. Belfast and Dublin different. IRA. Are the IRA still fighting?’…

‘Ah, British Empire… Singapore, Hong Kong, South Africa… all British colonies. Now you have co-common…’

‘The Commonwealth.’

‘Yes, Commonwealth. Vietnam was French colony. We don't have Commonwealth.’

And all the while I’m wondering if he really is a doctor or just someone brought in to entertain people while they’re waiting to be seen. And if he is a doctor, is he ever going to do anything? And when he does, which one of the terrifying implements quietly rusting on the tray next to me is he going to use?

Finally, with a quick flick of a light pen across my right ear, I’m dismissed and Martin is called in, presumably for the Australian version of the same conversation. Quynh confides that every teacher she’s ever brought to see that doctor has left the room in fits of laughter following the same string of questions.

We’re off again, jogging in Quynh’s wake and trying not to trip over old people lying across our path; this time to the X-ray department. Chest x-rays fairly straightforward, though the nurse does start hustling Martin in before I’m quite finished dressing. Then back to where we started, and eye tests just opposite the entrance to the manky toilets. Lord knows what strength lens they use, but as I leave I’m tempted to wail in my defence that I could in fact read that bottom line just fine without any glasses on at all.

Next, a blood pressure check with a nurse who doesn't speak much English, and definitely doesn't understand when I try to explain that I don’t know how tall I am in metres (Quynh having disappeared to find Martin). Eventually getting the message, the nurse leads me back out into reception where she weighs (why did I think breathing in would help?!!) and measures me, then disappears off in the opposite direction still clutching my notes. I have no idea whether or not to follow her, and wobble about in the middle for a moment before heading back to the safety of Quynh and Martin. Quynh decides to take matters into her own hands, and measures Martin herself.

Finally, what I guess must count as the general examination. Ushered into an office marked ‘Foreign Patients’, a female doctor studiously ignores me so I take the initiative and sit down on a small metal stool next to her desk. She turns to me, flicks through my notes, and begins to pay a ridiculous amount of attention to the scar on my neck from an operation I had when I was six years old, and which, after 30-odd years, I rarely give any thought to. I explain what it is. She seems unconvinced and, shining a light into my mouth, asks me to go ‘Eh eh eh’. Then she unwinds her stethoscope and listens to various parts of my chest.

Finally, she speaks to me. Or rather she makes a random series of susurrations from behind her surgical mask. Sounds like it could be ‘you are nervous’, or, maybe, ‘you are scared’. No, I think, not particularly. Bemused, yes, but not scared. Seeing my blank expression, she removes the surgical mask and tries again.

‘You are British?’

Oh, here we go.

‘Yes, that’s right’.

… And she bends forward and pokes me in the stomach…

(Again Martin gets preferential treatment here. She asks him if it hurts. He says it would do if it was full of pizza.)

While Martin is being seen, Quynh comes out to fill in the final few questions on my notes. Have I had any vaccinations before coming to Vietnam? Well, just the basics: diphtheria, tetanus, polio and hepatitis. Quynh whimpers and hands me the pen to write them in. Copying them onto the second sheet, she turns the page, and points.

‘This question always makes me laugh: “Do you think you are strong enough to do your job?”’

‘Err, yes. Of course… If I said no, would you send me home?!’

And that’s it. It’s all over. We bid farewell to the row of old ladies sitting like spectators outside the doctor’s office (and with them the man who has remained stretched out fast asleep on the banquette the whole time we’ve been there, despite Quynh and I both nearly sitting on his head by mistake).

Quynh finally begins to slow down, and we take a taxi back to Head Office where we say goodbye and promise to see each other again at the Christmas Party the week after next.

Xe Om Update

OK. Now I feel a little more guilty. I think Friday's Xe Om driver tried to give me my change this afternoon when I got back from the health check (of which more later). And, assuming that he was just trying to get another ride when it was fairly obvious I was heading into my building, I just waved him away rather brusquely.

Xe Oms and the Meaning of Life

Tonight, for the first time since being here, I actually spent most of the xe om (motorbike taxi) ride home with my eyes tight shut.

Perhaps surprisingly, this had nothing to do with the traffic or the quality of the driving. In fact, it was simply an involuntary physical response to hurtling into pouring rain. On the long, straight stretch of Nguyen Thi Minh Khai from school to the river there was precious little bar the driver’s shoulder stopping the sharp needles of rain hitting me in the eye, the face, the neck and eventually even down my cleavage. By the time we whooshed through the flooded taxi rank and pulled up outside my building there wasn’t much of me that wasn’t soaking wet.

Yet, this is far from being the worst xe om experience I’ve had. I’ve already mentioned the difficulty of maintaining one’s dignity and public decency on one when dressed in a short, straight skirt. But there are other problems to catch the unwary too.

For a start, away from the tourist areas, it can sometimes be surprisingly difficult to find one when you actually want one. Walking across the road to the shop, no problem. You are bombarded with offers from all sides. But walk out of the flat, dressed for work in the early afternoon (as I do) and it can be tricky to track a driver down.

Then, as a relative newcomer to the area, it’s difficult to discern which drivers to trust. It appears to be a pretty unregulated profession (no surprises there) and while you can find little gangs (usually on street corners) who work together, and who, like the guys outside school, get to know you and your routine well and even take it in turns to drive you, you can also stumble upon someone who is apparently just taking a chance on a passer-by.

Take Friday, for instance. Now, I know this isn’t London. They aren’t Black Cab drivers. There is no knowledge here. Heaven knows I gave enough taxi drivers directions in Italy and Japan to know that. But really. If you’re going to set yourself up as a xe om driver, surely there are two basic rules you need to bear in mind. First, have some rough knowledge of the city you’re driving around. And secondly, have some change on you in case your passenger doesn’t have exactly the right money.

On Friday, I was hailed by this chap as I was leaving the apartment. I knew I should’ve walked away when, despite my print-out from the website showing not just the school’s address but a picture of it (located in, let’s face it, one of the main streets of the city centre), he had to ask not one, but two people where it was. Then after taking the circuitous route round the back of Nguyen Thi Minh Khai he had to keep asking me where to turn off. Which would’ve been fine if he’d actually been paying attention. Unfortunately, his response to my tapping his shoulder and pointing down the next alleyway was merely to slow down, pull in to the side of the road, and keep going.

He tried this tactic again at the next alleyway too. I persisted and we found ourselves halfway down an unfamiliar side street (which also looked like it might be a dead-end) with me simultaneously talking to him in the coaxing voice I usually employ for animals and small children, and rolling my eyes at the women watching me from a street stall. Finally emerging back into Nguyen Thi Minh Khai just a few doors down from school, he then seemed slightly stumped to find us facing the wrong way into the on-coming traffic. I gave up and got off the bike.

I got my purse out of my bag and proffered a 50,000 dong note (we’d agreed a fare of 40). He started waving his hands in the Vietnamese gesture of not understanding/not being able to help. In other words, he wasn’t even carrying 10,000 dong (probably less than 50p) on him. Now, I wasn’t being awkward here. I just didn’t have 40,000 in change, otherwise I would’ve given it to him. Hot and sticky, I gave up once more and walked away in a huff, leaving him with a 10,000 dong bonus. An amount so piffling to a Westerner one does feel twinges of guilt at begrudging it.

Still, I suppose he had at least attempted to get me to the right place. There is always a danger (especially if you don’t have anything written down) that the driver will misunderstand your pronunciation and try to take you somewhere else. I live in Binh Thanh district. Picking me up in Backpackerville the other week, one old boy assumed I was a tourist and tried to take me to Ben Thanh market. And, again, he didn’t have change when we finally arrived back here – much to the amusement of the 4-wheeled taxi driver parked up next to us.

But my increasingly familiarity with the city means my haggling skills are coming on. I know what such and such a trip normally costs, so I can make a fair guess at what’s a fair price for another trip. And in spite of tonight’s blinding, I’m getting fairly confident at riding pillion. Don't tell dad but I don’t even hold on most of the time now. And I’m coming to realize that safety and stability has as much to do with speed (falling off actually feels much more likely at a crawl) and the size of the bike (the bigger the better – who says size doesn’t matter!)

Finally, while stopped at traffic lights during Friday’s magical mystery tour, I noticed one bloke leaning against his bike on the street corner, puffing away on what appeared to be a huge bong. Now, where would a trip (yes, pun absolutely intended) with him take you, I wonder? Nirvana, or just Casualty?

Random

As I came out of the apartment building yesterday to go to work, a tiny old woman in pyjamas, conical hat and with precisely two fang-like teeth in her head spotted me and gestured towards a taxi parked nearby. When I made no objection to the idea, she hobbled over to the car and hammered on the side of it with her fist. The poor unsuspecting driver jumped out of his skin. Then, with a huge toothless grin, she waved me off.

Things To Do On Your Day Off

… Err, right now I’m thinking – stay in bed and recover from being kept awake all night by the neighbourhood’s World Record attempt on the ‘Loudest and Longest Funeral Wake’. Two days, tone deaf karaoke, pub gigs and opera of the Asian cat-strangling variety (definitely no Puccini here), topped off with the inevitable jazz procession through the streets at 6am. This time I did drag myself out onto the balcony to see it. Saffron-robed priests, a coffin draped in red carried by pall bearers dressed in white complete with peaked caps, and assorted followers bringing up the rear, dodging the potholes and motorbikes already buzzing round the alleyways.

This comes hot on the heels of the local school’s open-air assembly at 7am on Friday morning, which also seemed to last several hours and involve the headmaster whipping the kids into a frenzy over the tannoy.

The Vietnamese construction industry, similarly, doesn't seem to have any conception of time, and with half the city a building site the sound of hammering, drilling and sawing is pretty much constant.

Teachers' Day

Saturday 20^th November 2010.

So my first experience of the Vietnamese national Teachers’ Day passed in the haze of a twelve and a half hour shift, disappointed-looking Juniors, bored-looking TAs and finally culminated in me giving some 13 and 14 year olds a very un-Asian-style bollocking (so much for maintenance of ‘face’).

Teachers’ Day is a national celebration of the esteem and respect in which teachers are held. It is mainly aimed at honouring those teachers in mainstream education, and for many people involves returning to their old school even after many years in order to see their former teachers. Schools hold Open Days with performances by the students and presentations of gifts and messages to the teachers.

But we lesser mortals in ELT do get a look in too, with teachers rushing into the staffroom at every break to deposit yet more gifts of bedraggled roses, chocolates, cakes, shower gel, useless knick knacks, rolls of fabric and, in one case I heard about, a box of washing powder. Not to mention the disconcertingly Mafia-esque offer, ‘If there’s anything you want, just let my mum know…’

Having few very young learners classes, and having clearly failed as yet to warm the cockles of my students’ hearts I didn’t fare quite so well, although I did come away with a Winnie the Pooh mug and an envelope containing 100,000 dong (just over £3). Plus my adult students took me out for sushi on Friday night, which is always welcome! However, dragging myself out of bed before 6am on Saturday morning to cover a Juniors class (average age 8) of whom fewer than half turned up and all of whom looked at me as if to say ‘Oh. You’re not our teacher. I’m not giving you a present’ was not so welcome. Bless ‘em. It was the final lesson of their course, and not only was their regular teacher absent but so was their TA. So they had to put up with a couple of strangers playing pointless games with them.

Not surprisingly there were no gifts from the Seniors class I gave the bollocking to either. Dragging a bunch of 13 and 14 year olds through an Advanced level textbook was never going to be easy. And maybe I’m not used to such young teenagers being at that level. 16 and 17 year olds, yes, but younger ones at that awkward point of painful shyness and cockiness, not so much. Getting any of them to say anything that is audible to the human ear is a feat in itself, unless its from the gaggle of giggling girls who randomly interject questions about sex whenever they feel they’re in any danger of being made to do any work.

Anyway, after having been at work already for nigh on ten hours, something snapped. I caught one of the boys writing on his desk with a board marker, and hit the roof. The lesson ground to a halt as I threw a toilet roll at him and screamed at him to scrub it off immediately. Then I made him spend the remainder of the lesson sitting next to the TA. Possibly not one of my finest moments as a teacher, but it did seem to do the trick. Going into the next lesson the following day with all guns blazing, I read them the riot act again, wrote MY non-negotiable set of class rules on the board (forget all that baloney about giving teenagers a voice) and threatened them with the set of humiliating forfeits that have been known to make 6-foot tall, 18 year old Italian boys cry. They were a little subdued to begin with, but we all emerged unscathed 2 hours later from a perfectly pleasant and productive lesson.

Worried about issues of face, I did apologise to Linh, the TA, but she told me not to worry. ‘Sometimes’, she said, ‘they need it.’

I still haven't got to grips with the whole TA thing. No doubt it will come up as an issue if I get observed with one of the kids’ classes. And I’m a bit worried that one TA in particular is starting to look bored a lot of the time. But honestly, the kids don't play up much and I’ve been teaching alone for long enough now that I don't feel I need that much help demo-ing activities or explaining vocab. What am I meant to do with him? I was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable about it, until last night, another cover TA came up to me after my Elites class, asked me how long I’d been teaching and said, ‘You know, it’s funny but you remind me a lot of my university teachers. You were so calm and in control of the lesson’. Ah! Now that’s how you end Teachers’ Day weekend – with a TA being nice to you!

Happiness is a kettle, 2 mugs and a dictionary...

My beloved parents have commented that yesterday’s post made me sound rather depressed … though not nearly depressed as it would have done if I’d written it a few days ago, it has to be said… So to set the record straight, things are not quite all gloom and doom chez Pippa. Relations between the new flat and me have been a little strained it is true, but things are looking up gradually.

For a start, what I didn’t mention yesterday was that along with cleaning I also spent part of my day off on Tuesday shopping for mugs and glasses. And right now I’ve just got back from another foray into the CBD where the ridiculously chic department stores keep international supermarkets hidden away in the attic or basement. These supermarkets, besides stocking such delights as baked beans, also include homeware sections apparently loosely based on upmarket ¥100 shops. You find me thus high on the purchase of an electric kettle to go with the mugs I bought on Tuesday! I’ve also invested in a jar to keep the sugar out of ant’s harm’s way.

In fact I’ve had a bit of a splurge today. In a sad comment on my life, I’m also quite overcome with excitement at buying a (legit) copy of the Macmillan Advanced Learner’s Dictionary for about £4.00! For those of you not in ELT it would cost at least £20 back home, and possibly a lot more. I also stumbled (excuse the pun) on a branch of the Body Shop and got myself a new foot file – all this mooching about dirty, dusty streets in flip flops is playing havoc with my heels, which weren’t in the best nick to start off with.

And I am slowly getting to know my new neighbourhood. In the mornings when I go round to the little bakery the landlady recommended, with a clear (-er) blue sky, sunshine and bustling streets, it is quite attractive and even endearing. Give me time, I’ll grow to love it. Plus, the journey to work every day, and the sometimes creative routes the drivers take to get me there, is helping me get my bearings around the city better than if I’d stayed burrowed away in Backpackerville.

I should say thank you to Matt, Debs, Julia, Alison and Oye for their comments on the blog too. Sorry I haven't replied to any of you – I’m still coming back down to earth. Anyway, thanks everyone, and honestly, I’m not as depressed as I sounded yesterday. Guesthouse Pip is almost ready for business!