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.
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