*Apparently my clothes reek of exhaust fumes by the time I make it into work everyday. Bathing in the noxious byproducts of combustion for hours each day makes this not too surprising. Now, I put my clothes into a plastic bag, knot it tightly shut, and head to work in the official uniform of the white-trash -- jeans and a thin, white t-shirt.
*Speaking of sitting in traffic, today, an old man on a motobike leaned to his side and hocked the biggest loogie the world has ever seen. The thing looked like an exploding water balloon when it hit the street. People in China got hit.
*While we're on the subject of spitting, a funny anecdote. I was driving to work the other day in heavy rain, and a taxi -- or more specifically, what I like to call a "needless honker," -- began honking his horn loudly behind me despite the dense traffic, as if this obnoxious sound was going to part the "red sea" of motobikes and grant him easy traveling. Naturally, I threw up the Vietnamese equivalent of the middle finger -- the index and middle fingers crossed so that it vaguely resembles a vagina. The taxi began honking more loudly. I responded by making vagina fingers again. The two men in the car, now noticeably angered, pulled up along side and brandished the middle finger. So, here we had an American man gesturing the Vietnamese "fuck you" and a Vietnamese man gesturing the American "fuck you." If that's not cultural respect, I don't know what is.
The man proceeded to roll down his window and attempted to spit on me, accompanied of course by the obligatory "fuck you" (in a laughably bad accent). However, joke was on him.
I had my rain coat on.
*The randomness of Dragon continues. The students have a speaking test soon which requires them to debate a topic. The students were given about 15 minutes to come up with said topic, conditional on my approval. The first three proposals by Dragon were all rejected.
1. Should students go to school?
2. Should we have no parents?
3. Should we start WWIII?
Yeah...That's Dragon.
*One of my students, Tommy, a quiet bloke with a soft demeanor, wore an absolutely killer shirt today. It's mostly white with some generic design on the front. The centerpiece, however, and what makes this shirt awesome, is the huge purple collar that stretches the length of his shoulders. He looks like a cross between a 70s porno star and Cuban drug dealer.
*Imagine you're the teacher of an American 11th grade class. You walk into the classroom and tell the students that they will be singing a song in front of the whole school in roughly three days. How badly would that go down? The students' faces would be a combination of "you can't be serious" and "I'm going to kill you." Not at a Vietnamese high school. The 11th graders went ape-shit when I told them they'd be singing, even the boys. The song they chose?
Westlife's Nothing is Going to Change my Love For You.
Check it out here: http://mp3.zing.vn/mp3/nghe-bai-hat/Nothing-Gonna-Change-My-Love-For-You-Westlife.IW6IC0DF.html
*Nearly every day, I eat com chien bo (beef fried rice) because it's cheap (about $1) and near the school where I work. The manager who runs the place, aptly named pe de (gay) man, has a fondness for tall foreigners I suppose. He likes to jump on the back of my motobike while I'm waiting for food and hug me tightly. When I'm sitting down and eating at the restaurant, he can't help but give me a shoulder massage or two. The other day, while walking past pe de man, he ever so subtly caressed my crotch. Rather uncomfortable.
I now have my food delivered every day and the place is right next door. The look on the delivery girl's face every time she comes to the school is like, "What the hell is wrong with you?"
If only you knew the truth friend.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
Bloody Vietnam
A pretty bizarre thing happened tonight. Wait you say! You're in Vietnam! Something bizarre happens every day!
To which I reply...
...
Touche.
But tonight something even more bizarre happened. I was eating dinner at a large outdoor seafood restaurant. We were having a couple of beers, laughing, and enjoying the atypically cool weather. Often, at these large outdoor restaurants where one sits on a cheap little plastic chair (remember this...it plays a crucial later role in the story), a group of boys on a bicycle swing by to "entertain" the patrons. On the back of the bicycle is a giant boombox system, something one might've seen on a basketball court in a rough neighborhood in the early 90s. This thing is absurdly large and has a karaoke system to boot. I guess we could stop the story right there and that'd be bizarre enough, but with this being Vietnam, there's always more to the tale.
The trio of boys operate their business like this:
Boy A grabs the microphone and starts singly (badly) some Vietnamese song to music blaring out of the boombox.
Boy B walks around the restaurant floor, making sure to stop at each and every table, and sells some nasty candy. Boy B often lingers around a table in an attempt to get what I call "Get the hell away from me" money. As the name suggests, this is money you give a beggar/seller to get the hell away from you. (Remember this too).
Boy C stands guard by the bicycle and controls the volume, putting it just loud enough so that no one can hear their friends speak.
So the entire 10 or so minutes this occurs is pure agony, for all involved. It's mostly a civil affair, however, with the restaurant guests biding their time until the bicycle boys move on to the next poor suckers down the road.
Not tonight.
One man -- an obviously inebriated man...the more I think about it, the more I remember just how intoxicated this guy was...he was just hammered -- took exception to the lingering of Boy B and proceeded to grab the nearest weapon at his disposal...
A small, plastic chair.
How Vietnam won the war
Mustering all of the force a drunk man can possibly muster, he swung the plastic chair as hard as he could at Boy B's back and sliced the damn thing open. I say again. He sliced the man's back open. Boy B's white shirt quickly turned a bright crimson red. The thing was absorbing blood like nobody's business.
The fight quickly escalated into an all-out brawl between the bicycle trio and drunk man. After a couple of knock-down, drag-out blows, drunk man began bleeding. Drunk man was so gone that I'm convinced he felt no pain. Hell, we probably could've drank his spilt blood and gotten a buzz off of that. So with drunk man doing his best imitation of the Hulk and bicycle trio teaming up to inflict all kinds of hurt, it turned into quite the sight. Many men tried to break the fight up, but emotions were running high, and it proved quite difficult. Finally, the thing quieted down a bit. Drunk (and now bloody) man went to the back of the restaurant and disappeared from sight. Bicycle trio went on their merry away to the next restaurant.
Except they didn't.
Five minutes later, bicycle trio comes back with what looked like three broom handles.
My friend and I looked at each other and had the exact same thought.
Check please!
Okay, we're taking bets! We've got plastic chair man vs broom handle trio! Broom handle trio has 2-1 odds, but remember gamblers, plastic chair man is absolutely trashed. Never underestimate the pull and power of alcohol in a fight.
Remarkably, amazingly, and thankfully, the crowd was able to discourage bicycle trio from continuing the fight. So, alas, round II with weapons never came to fruition -- at least I didn't see it. Who knows if they scheduled an after-school playground affair for the morrow.
This was even out of the ordinary when compared to regular Vietnamese fighting. Vietnamese fighting usually involves no violence (that is, of course, unless they're at war, in which case, they'll kick your ass). Let me give you the rundown of a typical Vietnamese "fight." Two Vietnamese people, often adjacent shop-owners, get angry at each other for unknown reasons. They then proceed to scream at each other at the top of their lungs on the sidewalk, for all to see and hear. As the fight becomes serious, both hold their hand high in the air with their index finger pointed straight to the heavens. This means business. When they get really mad, they point directly at each other and shout some nonsense. And the final act in this verbal barrage of violence is, well...I'm not even sure if I want to tell you. It's scary stuff.
The two participants grab their motobike helmets and flail them wildly through the air, purposely avoiding contact with the other by a healthy 10 feet. Then they get tired and go home.
There Will be Blood
In America, rats are disgusting, vile creatures. The mere sight of one will leave even the manliest of men running for the hills. However, in Vietnam, rats are part of the collective population, quietly going about their business through the night and not really bothering anyone. That's how another country will change you, will change your psyche. I sometimes have rats crawling about my feet while eating and it's no bother. I bet my mom is reading that part and freaking out.
The same thing occurs with blood and gore.
In America, one sees blood or gore and swears it's the most disgusting and out-of-place thing he or she has ever seen. In Vietnam, it's commonplace. After only a month in Ho Chi Minh City, I drove past the scene of an obviously horrific accident. One of the motobikes was in two pieces and both men were lying on the street in pools of blood. One man was moving and responding to the crowd, but the other was just a lifeless shell of a man. Had to be dead. My friend Eric helped an unconscious, bloody man involved in a motobike accident who was just lying in the middle of the street get out of the way of oncoming traffic. I remember going to a friend's house one time and having to drive through a thick pool of blood - the aftermath of yet another accident. When I was involved in my most serious motobike accident, the lady I ran into had blood dripping down her leg and onto the street.
Anyway, that's enough about blood.
Onto random thoughts. If they put drunk, plastic-chair-wielding man in a cage match with bicycle, broom-handle trio, and then put it on Pay-Per-View, you know you'd pay money to see that.
To which I reply...
...
Touche.
But tonight something even more bizarre happened. I was eating dinner at a large outdoor seafood restaurant. We were having a couple of beers, laughing, and enjoying the atypically cool weather. Often, at these large outdoor restaurants where one sits on a cheap little plastic chair (remember this...it plays a crucial later role in the story), a group of boys on a bicycle swing by to "entertain" the patrons. On the back of the bicycle is a giant boombox system, something one might've seen on a basketball court in a rough neighborhood in the early 90s. This thing is absurdly large and has a karaoke system to boot. I guess we could stop the story right there and that'd be bizarre enough, but with this being Vietnam, there's always more to the tale.
The trio of boys operate their business like this:
Boy A grabs the microphone and starts singly (badly) some Vietnamese song to music blaring out of the boombox.
Boy B walks around the restaurant floor, making sure to stop at each and every table, and sells some nasty candy. Boy B often lingers around a table in an attempt to get what I call "Get the hell away from me" money. As the name suggests, this is money you give a beggar/seller to get the hell away from you. (Remember this too).
Boy C stands guard by the bicycle and controls the volume, putting it just loud enough so that no one can hear their friends speak.
So the entire 10 or so minutes this occurs is pure agony, for all involved. It's mostly a civil affair, however, with the restaurant guests biding their time until the bicycle boys move on to the next poor suckers down the road.
Not tonight.
One man -- an obviously inebriated man...the more I think about it, the more I remember just how intoxicated this guy was...he was just hammered -- took exception to the lingering of Boy B and proceeded to grab the nearest weapon at his disposal...
A small, plastic chair.
How Vietnam won the warMustering all of the force a drunk man can possibly muster, he swung the plastic chair as hard as he could at Boy B's back and sliced the damn thing open. I say again. He sliced the man's back open. Boy B's white shirt quickly turned a bright crimson red. The thing was absorbing blood like nobody's business.
The fight quickly escalated into an all-out brawl between the bicycle trio and drunk man. After a couple of knock-down, drag-out blows, drunk man began bleeding. Drunk man was so gone that I'm convinced he felt no pain. Hell, we probably could've drank his spilt blood and gotten a buzz off of that. So with drunk man doing his best imitation of the Hulk and bicycle trio teaming up to inflict all kinds of hurt, it turned into quite the sight. Many men tried to break the fight up, but emotions were running high, and it proved quite difficult. Finally, the thing quieted down a bit. Drunk (and now bloody) man went to the back of the restaurant and disappeared from sight. Bicycle trio went on their merry away to the next restaurant.
Except they didn't.
Five minutes later, bicycle trio comes back with what looked like three broom handles.
My friend and I looked at each other and had the exact same thought.
Check please!
Okay, we're taking bets! We've got plastic chair man vs broom handle trio! Broom handle trio has 2-1 odds, but remember gamblers, plastic chair man is absolutely trashed. Never underestimate the pull and power of alcohol in a fight.
Remarkably, amazingly, and thankfully, the crowd was able to discourage bicycle trio from continuing the fight. So, alas, round II with weapons never came to fruition -- at least I didn't see it. Who knows if they scheduled an after-school playground affair for the morrow.
This was even out of the ordinary when compared to regular Vietnamese fighting. Vietnamese fighting usually involves no violence (that is, of course, unless they're at war, in which case, they'll kick your ass). Let me give you the rundown of a typical Vietnamese "fight." Two Vietnamese people, often adjacent shop-owners, get angry at each other for unknown reasons. They then proceed to scream at each other at the top of their lungs on the sidewalk, for all to see and hear. As the fight becomes serious, both hold their hand high in the air with their index finger pointed straight to the heavens. This means business. When they get really mad, they point directly at each other and shout some nonsense. And the final act in this verbal barrage of violence is, well...I'm not even sure if I want to tell you. It's scary stuff.
The two participants grab their motobike helmets and flail them wildly through the air, purposely avoiding contact with the other by a healthy 10 feet. Then they get tired and go home.
There Will be Blood
In America, rats are disgusting, vile creatures. The mere sight of one will leave even the manliest of men running for the hills. However, in Vietnam, rats are part of the collective population, quietly going about their business through the night and not really bothering anyone. That's how another country will change you, will change your psyche. I sometimes have rats crawling about my feet while eating and it's no bother. I bet my mom is reading that part and freaking out.
The same thing occurs with blood and gore.
In America, one sees blood or gore and swears it's the most disgusting and out-of-place thing he or she has ever seen. In Vietnam, it's commonplace. After only a month in Ho Chi Minh City, I drove past the scene of an obviously horrific accident. One of the motobikes was in two pieces and both men were lying on the street in pools of blood. One man was moving and responding to the crowd, but the other was just a lifeless shell of a man. Had to be dead. My friend Eric helped an unconscious, bloody man involved in a motobike accident who was just lying in the middle of the street get out of the way of oncoming traffic. I remember going to a friend's house one time and having to drive through a thick pool of blood - the aftermath of yet another accident. When I was involved in my most serious motobike accident, the lady I ran into had blood dripping down her leg and onto the street.
Anyway, that's enough about blood.
Onto random thoughts. If they put drunk, plastic-chair-wielding man in a cage match with bicycle, broom-handle trio, and then put it on Pay-Per-View, you know you'd pay money to see that.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Dragon and Bob
Teaching kids sucks. They're loud and retarded and always want to play games. Any teacher worth his salt has heard this countless times:
"Teacherrrrrrr.......play games."
"No! Now sit down and listen to my fascinating lecture on the difference between -ing and -ed adjectives."
I have one kid class right now, one that I had a lot of trouble with in the beginning. We've finally established some kind of a cooperative relationship -- they shut up for about half the class and I don't get on them for not shutting up the rest of the time.
The class has 17 (17!) girls and 2 boys.
Meet the two boys: Dragon and Bob
Dragon and Bob are the perfect sitcom pair. Or the perfect buddy cop movie. I can't decide which.
Dragon is obnoxious, self-confident, intelligent, and extremely fat. He wears his weight like a badge of honor, welcoming any disparaging comments thrown his way and quickly brushing them aside. Without fail, every day, Dragon walks down to the snack stand near the school and buys 3 (3!) bags of chips, all to be consumed on the school premises. I of course don't let him eat in class, but he'll try to sneak-eat when given the chance. That's not the only thing he sneaks. Our teacher-edition books contain all of the answers, and if I leave those books exposed for more than a second, Dragon will snag all of the answers and pass them along. During class, he'll blurt out the stupidest shit and you can't help but laugh along. In one exercise, the students had to "design their own city" and write down some of the rules. Dragon's city name? Monkey-Dragon City. Its rules? Everyone can fly, everyone's hair is yellow, and everyone dies. Just the most random nonsense. The class loves it, and I'll be honest, I do too. The boy pushes the envelope and constantly crosses the line, but he does everything with an undeniable charm that makes it hard to remain angry at him for too long. He sits next to the oldest girl in the class (just turned 17), and although he doesn't realize it now (Dragon is only 13), he is spitting mad game at her and the girl is genuinely interested. I can't help but look at him and feel proud, thinking, "That's my boy!"
Meet Bob. Bob is shy, tall and skinny, and not all there. He has this clueless demeanor and brandishes this perpetual smile that it leaves one questioning if Bob knows he's learning English. He moves around with a child-like innocence and utter lack of awareness of his surroundings. The fact that he chose Bob as his name speaks volumes. Readers, think of a "Bob" right now. Chances are, you are thinking of my Bob. It's like he knew the name Bob was perfect for him. Bob is always good for a reaction or two. I sometimes pair him up with two girls because he explodes with this very audible "nooo!!!" But this being Bob, he's smiling the entire time. His English skills, while developing, are pretty bad. No matter how hard I try to instill in his mind that "play game" is not proper English, that's the answer I'll get every time when I ask, "What did you do yesterday?" Bob also has a certain charm that's difficult to describe, but of an entirely different nature than Dragon's.
Bob and Dragon one day during class.
Like I said, this class has 17 girls and Dragon and Bob. The students sit in a U-shape, with the two boys comprising the ends of the U. This way, they only have to sit next to one girl.
They're both good kids and I enjoy them a lot. If there was a movie detailing the two's adventures, I'd pay money to see it.
"Teacherrrrrrr.......play games."
"No! Now sit down and listen to my fascinating lecture on the difference between -ing and -ed adjectives."
I have one kid class right now, one that I had a lot of trouble with in the beginning. We've finally established some kind of a cooperative relationship -- they shut up for about half the class and I don't get on them for not shutting up the rest of the time.
The class has 17 (17!) girls and 2 boys.
Meet the two boys: Dragon and Bob
Dragon and Bob are the perfect sitcom pair. Or the perfect buddy cop movie. I can't decide which.
Dragon is obnoxious, self-confident, intelligent, and extremely fat. He wears his weight like a badge of honor, welcoming any disparaging comments thrown his way and quickly brushing them aside. Without fail, every day, Dragon walks down to the snack stand near the school and buys 3 (3!) bags of chips, all to be consumed on the school premises. I of course don't let him eat in class, but he'll try to sneak-eat when given the chance. That's not the only thing he sneaks. Our teacher-edition books contain all of the answers, and if I leave those books exposed for more than a second, Dragon will snag all of the answers and pass them along. During class, he'll blurt out the stupidest shit and you can't help but laugh along. In one exercise, the students had to "design their own city" and write down some of the rules. Dragon's city name? Monkey-Dragon City. Its rules? Everyone can fly, everyone's hair is yellow, and everyone dies. Just the most random nonsense. The class loves it, and I'll be honest, I do too. The boy pushes the envelope and constantly crosses the line, but he does everything with an undeniable charm that makes it hard to remain angry at him for too long. He sits next to the oldest girl in the class (just turned 17), and although he doesn't realize it now (Dragon is only 13), he is spitting mad game at her and the girl is genuinely interested. I can't help but look at him and feel proud, thinking, "That's my boy!"
Meet Bob. Bob is shy, tall and skinny, and not all there. He has this clueless demeanor and brandishes this perpetual smile that it leaves one questioning if Bob knows he's learning English. He moves around with a child-like innocence and utter lack of awareness of his surroundings. The fact that he chose Bob as his name speaks volumes. Readers, think of a "Bob" right now. Chances are, you are thinking of my Bob. It's like he knew the name Bob was perfect for him. Bob is always good for a reaction or two. I sometimes pair him up with two girls because he explodes with this very audible "nooo!!!" But this being Bob, he's smiling the entire time. His English skills, while developing, are pretty bad. No matter how hard I try to instill in his mind that "play game" is not proper English, that's the answer I'll get every time when I ask, "What did you do yesterday?" Bob also has a certain charm that's difficult to describe, but of an entirely different nature than Dragon's.
Bob and Dragon one day during class.Like I said, this class has 17 girls and Dragon and Bob. The students sit in a U-shape, with the two boys comprising the ends of the U. This way, they only have to sit next to one girl.
They're both good kids and I enjoy them a lot. If there was a movie detailing the two's adventures, I'd pay money to see it.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Trip to Korea
I'm at a coffee shop right now and pretty bored, so I thought it'd be nice to post an update about my recent trip to Korea.
A little backstory:
Ever since high school when I moved to California, Korea was the country I wanted to go to teach English. I studied Korean on my own from the Internet and did two formal semesters at the University of Florida. During high school, I had many Korean friends and often ate at Korean restaurants with them and spent time with their families.
Before leaving for Asia, I decided to come to Vietnam over Korea for reasons I've yet to really figure out. Perhaps I had spent so much time mentally preparing for Korea that I knew it'd be impossible to meet my expectations, whatever those were. Or maybe part of it was the many Korean golfers I met on the course in Florida who kind of rubbed me the wrong way -- didn't really make an effort to be friendly or make an honest attempt to understand American culture, which I thought was kind of close-minded because I was making an honest attempt to understand their culture. Whatever the reason(s), I'm in Vietnam now. Fortunately, I had the opportunity to spend a great week in Korea with Dman and his father. I had a fantastic time and the country left quite a profound impression on me.
The following is only my impression and I know many people have had different experiences. My roommate here in Vietnam, Mark, loves Korea and can't wait to go back. He's not very fond of Vietnam or Ho Chi Minh City and will be peacing out as soon as possible. He did meet his future wife in Vietnam, so wasn't all for naught.
I found Korea to be quite an unhappy place. The poverty was much more significant than I imagined, and the lifeless, endless apartment blocks were rather depressing. People crammed into the subway cars after a long, hard day at work, and immediately fell asleep. Occasionally, I'd see a Korean man or woman using the complete stranger next to them as a pillow. Smiles were rare and eye contact was ever rarer. It was a big contrast from Vietnam, where the people pride themselves on being exceptionally friendly. The women in Korea were stunningly beautiful, but I never got the vibe that any were even remotely interested in me. Again, another big contrast from Vietnam. Probably didn't help that I looked like an American soldier with my short hair and Florida Gators sweatshirt. The Korean peninsula, both north and south, doesn't really like the American presence too much.
I found Korea to be much more "foreign" than Vietnam. The food was stranger (but delicious), less people spoke English, the culture was much more rigid, and generally, I felt like an outsider moreso than in Vietnam.
Despite that, I had a great time and would love the opportunity to go back. I loved the "foreign" aspect of it because it was truly a different experience. At times, I felt like I was in a different world.
Obviously, it's difficult to obtain a thorough impression of a country after only one week. Mark swears that the place is incredible once you give it some time and make some friends.
Pictures:
One of the first meals we had in Korea. We just walked up to a store and ordered. Had no idea what we would get.
View from "Building 63." Taken on the 63rd floor.
Crowded market/shopping area.
Nice.
Some snow on my last day there.
Dman killing a $2 bottle of soju by himself. Beast.
A little backstory:
Ever since high school when I moved to California, Korea was the country I wanted to go to teach English. I studied Korean on my own from the Internet and did two formal semesters at the University of Florida. During high school, I had many Korean friends and often ate at Korean restaurants with them and spent time with their families.
Before leaving for Asia, I decided to come to Vietnam over Korea for reasons I've yet to really figure out. Perhaps I had spent so much time mentally preparing for Korea that I knew it'd be impossible to meet my expectations, whatever those were. Or maybe part of it was the many Korean golfers I met on the course in Florida who kind of rubbed me the wrong way -- didn't really make an effort to be friendly or make an honest attempt to understand American culture, which I thought was kind of close-minded because I was making an honest attempt to understand their culture. Whatever the reason(s), I'm in Vietnam now. Fortunately, I had the opportunity to spend a great week in Korea with Dman and his father. I had a fantastic time and the country left quite a profound impression on me.
The following is only my impression and I know many people have had different experiences. My roommate here in Vietnam, Mark, loves Korea and can't wait to go back. He's not very fond of Vietnam or Ho Chi Minh City and will be peacing out as soon as possible. He did meet his future wife in Vietnam, so wasn't all for naught.
I found Korea to be quite an unhappy place. The poverty was much more significant than I imagined, and the lifeless, endless apartment blocks were rather depressing. People crammed into the subway cars after a long, hard day at work, and immediately fell asleep. Occasionally, I'd see a Korean man or woman using the complete stranger next to them as a pillow. Smiles were rare and eye contact was ever rarer. It was a big contrast from Vietnam, where the people pride themselves on being exceptionally friendly. The women in Korea were stunningly beautiful, but I never got the vibe that any were even remotely interested in me. Again, another big contrast from Vietnam. Probably didn't help that I looked like an American soldier with my short hair and Florida Gators sweatshirt. The Korean peninsula, both north and south, doesn't really like the American presence too much.
I found Korea to be much more "foreign" than Vietnam. The food was stranger (but delicious), less people spoke English, the culture was much more rigid, and generally, I felt like an outsider moreso than in Vietnam.
Despite that, I had a great time and would love the opportunity to go back. I loved the "foreign" aspect of it because it was truly a different experience. At times, I felt like I was in a different world.
Obviously, it's difficult to obtain a thorough impression of a country after only one week. Mark swears that the place is incredible once you give it some time and make some friends.
Pictures:
One of the first meals we had in Korea. We just walked up to a store and ordered. Had no idea what we would get.
View from "Building 63." Taken on the 63rd floor.
Crowded market/shopping area.
Nice.
Some snow on my last day there.
Dman killing a $2 bottle of soju by himself. Beast.Saturday, June 20, 2009
Types of Drivers in Ho Chi Minh
The Hot Chick:
The hot chick drives with one goal in mind -- to get noticed. Motobike, helmet, and attire are often color-coordinated. Skin is milky white and is displayed for all to see. Posture is of the utmost importance, with the back perpetually held at an impressive 90 degree angle. Speed and aggression are nowhere to be found, as that would detract from the main goal. Doesn't wear the mask and sun-protection gear so popular with other Vietnamese girls because she likes to show her face. Favors very feminine motobikes. Despite the attention grabbing get-up, she never makes eye contact with the boys gawking at her. Be assured however, she damn sure knows you're looking at her.
The Racing Boy:
Undoubtedly the most dangerous of all the drivers, the racing boy throws caution to the wind and drives like a complete and utter moron. Favors reckless abandonment, speed, and "looking cool." Similar to the hot chick, attention is a high priority. Often wears eye-catching attire, such as purple, pink, and other ridiculous button-down shirts. Motobikes screech loudly and sound like a dying baboon. Prefers not to wear a helmet as that would be a sign of weakness and intelligence. Motobike of choice falls into two categories: old, "juiced" up beaters and new racing bikes. Doesn't realize that people can die. Also fails to realize what the rest of the world does -- his "racing" bike is a moped that tops out at 65 mph.
The Foreigner:
The foreigner has no idea what the hell is going on half the time and is surprised when he or she arrives at work unscathed. Accidents of all varieties are commonplace. Quick to exhibit road rage. Likes to use the horn more as an aggressive "fuck you" than an accident-avoidance mechanism. Usually far too large for a motobike. Often looks ridiculous when traveling on the streets. Prefers older motobikes that are prone to stalling and a myriad of other mechanical problems. Finds solace in beers after work with other foreigners with the conversation revolving around the "retarded driving" in Vietnam.
The Sun-Fearing Woman:
At the top of the sun-fearing woman's greatest fears' list is not the prospect of never getting married, as is commonly believed, but sunshine. Holds an irrational fear of our nearest star and would choose to blow the damn thing up if given the chance. Completely covered from head to toe in cotton of some sort, this woman looks like she is about to rob a bank or partake in guerrilla warfare. Spends roughly 12% of her day putting on and taking off arm-length gloves, masks, sunglasses, sweaters, socks, and the trusty zip-up hoodie -- despite the 100 degree weather.
The Older Man:
This man simply doesn't give a fuck anymore. In his mind, there is only one motobike on the streets and he's on it. He's too old and has put up with his nagging wife who refuses to sleep with him and his annoying kids for too long to have consideration for other drivers. Drives in a zombie-like trance with only his destination in mind. Subconsciously contemplates suicide. Regularly fails to notice red lights, street signs, and the big truck honking loudly behind him. Actions such as left turns and lane changing are performed instantaneously, with nary a glance at the sideview mirrors. Drives the motobike equivalent of a minivan. Wonders why he ever got married.
The Safe, Normal Driver:
This driver doesn't exist.
The hot chick drives with one goal in mind -- to get noticed. Motobike, helmet, and attire are often color-coordinated. Skin is milky white and is displayed for all to see. Posture is of the utmost importance, with the back perpetually held at an impressive 90 degree angle. Speed and aggression are nowhere to be found, as that would detract from the main goal. Doesn't wear the mask and sun-protection gear so popular with other Vietnamese girls because she likes to show her face. Favors very feminine motobikes. Despite the attention grabbing get-up, she never makes eye contact with the boys gawking at her. Be assured however, she damn sure knows you're looking at her.
The Racing Boy:
Undoubtedly the most dangerous of all the drivers, the racing boy throws caution to the wind and drives like a complete and utter moron. Favors reckless abandonment, speed, and "looking cool." Similar to the hot chick, attention is a high priority. Often wears eye-catching attire, such as purple, pink, and other ridiculous button-down shirts. Motobikes screech loudly and sound like a dying baboon. Prefers not to wear a helmet as that would be a sign of weakness and intelligence. Motobike of choice falls into two categories: old, "juiced" up beaters and new racing bikes. Doesn't realize that people can die. Also fails to realize what the rest of the world does -- his "racing" bike is a moped that tops out at 65 mph.
The Foreigner:
The foreigner has no idea what the hell is going on half the time and is surprised when he or she arrives at work unscathed. Accidents of all varieties are commonplace. Quick to exhibit road rage. Likes to use the horn more as an aggressive "fuck you" than an accident-avoidance mechanism. Usually far too large for a motobike. Often looks ridiculous when traveling on the streets. Prefers older motobikes that are prone to stalling and a myriad of other mechanical problems. Finds solace in beers after work with other foreigners with the conversation revolving around the "retarded driving" in Vietnam.
The Sun-Fearing Woman:
At the top of the sun-fearing woman's greatest fears' list is not the prospect of never getting married, as is commonly believed, but sunshine. Holds an irrational fear of our nearest star and would choose to blow the damn thing up if given the chance. Completely covered from head to toe in cotton of some sort, this woman looks like she is about to rob a bank or partake in guerrilla warfare. Spends roughly 12% of her day putting on and taking off arm-length gloves, masks, sunglasses, sweaters, socks, and the trusty zip-up hoodie -- despite the 100 degree weather.
The Older Man:
This man simply doesn't give a fuck anymore. In his mind, there is only one motobike on the streets and he's on it. He's too old and has put up with his nagging wife who refuses to sleep with him and his annoying kids for too long to have consideration for other drivers. Drives in a zombie-like trance with only his destination in mind. Subconsciously contemplates suicide. Regularly fails to notice red lights, street signs, and the big truck honking loudly behind him. Actions such as left turns and lane changing are performed instantaneously, with nary a glance at the sideview mirrors. Drives the motobike equivalent of a minivan. Wonders why he ever got married.
The Safe, Normal Driver:
This driver doesn't exist.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Teaching has its benefits
I can't see myself teaching English forever or even an extended time period for that matter, but the job certainly has its merits.
One of the most unexpected is that I never feel tired on the job. A class can be boring, torturous even, but I never feel the urge to lay my head down and sneak in a little shut-eye.
My last job at a naval hospital was good in that it afforded me plenty of free time to study for the LSAT and browse the Internet, but I hit up the office vending machine for caffeine more times each day than the fat co-workers...and that's saying something.
In Florida, I was working as a pizza delivery driver for Domino's. That job was good because....wait, scratch that. That job sucked. There was nothing good about that job. If any of my readers are aspiring pizza delivery drivers, abandon ship! But that's a story for a different day. At times, I was so tired, it was a miracle I didn't kill anyone while driving. D-man used to be so tired that he developed a hilarious habit of leaving entire pizzas on the roof of his car as he drove away, only to have them come cascading down the side of his Integra and get run over by his back wheel. He then had to embarrassingly stop and exit the car to pick up the "advanced signature" Domino's heatbag while traffic zoomed past. I put that in quotations because the heatbag was nothing more than standard non-conductive material with some velcro.
Teaching is an extremely versatile profession. You get exactly what you put into it. If I want to challenge myself and become the best teacher possible, that option is available to me. If I want to coast through my classes like a native-English speaking zombie, that option is also there. You put in a lot of hard work and you start to see great results from your students -- classes become more fun, they learn more, and you feel good when leaving the building. Compare that to pizza delivery driving. Sure, you could work hard and get that pizza there two minutes faster and maybe get that extra $0.50 tip (yeah!) but, at the end of the day, you're still delivering one of the main culprits of the obesity epidemic to lazy Americans. And you're destroying your car while you do it. There's no satisfaction in that.
There's another great perk to teaching as well.
You can blog while you do it! The students are taking a test right now.
One of the most unexpected is that I never feel tired on the job. A class can be boring, torturous even, but I never feel the urge to lay my head down and sneak in a little shut-eye.
My last job at a naval hospital was good in that it afforded me plenty of free time to study for the LSAT and browse the Internet, but I hit up the office vending machine for caffeine more times each day than the fat co-workers...and that's saying something.
In Florida, I was working as a pizza delivery driver for Domino's. That job was good because....wait, scratch that. That job sucked. There was nothing good about that job. If any of my readers are aspiring pizza delivery drivers, abandon ship! But that's a story for a different day. At times, I was so tired, it was a miracle I didn't kill anyone while driving. D-man used to be so tired that he developed a hilarious habit of leaving entire pizzas on the roof of his car as he drove away, only to have them come cascading down the side of his Integra and get run over by his back wheel. He then had to embarrassingly stop and exit the car to pick up the "advanced signature" Domino's heatbag while traffic zoomed past. I put that in quotations because the heatbag was nothing more than standard non-conductive material with some velcro.
Teaching is an extremely versatile profession. You get exactly what you put into it. If I want to challenge myself and become the best teacher possible, that option is available to me. If I want to coast through my classes like a native-English speaking zombie, that option is also there. You put in a lot of hard work and you start to see great results from your students -- classes become more fun, they learn more, and you feel good when leaving the building. Compare that to pizza delivery driving. Sure, you could work hard and get that pizza there two minutes faster and maybe get that extra $0.50 tip (yeah!) but, at the end of the day, you're still delivering one of the main culprits of the obesity epidemic to lazy Americans. And you're destroying your car while you do it. There's no satisfaction in that.
There's another great perk to teaching as well.
You can blog while you do it! The students are taking a test right now.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Vietnam likes to keep its money in-house
English teachers are very privileged in Vietnam and it's incumbent upon those employed here to always acknowledge this. We make the equivalent of English teachers in Korea and sometimes even Japan, with a much lower cost of living. However, as the last week has taught me, Vietnam likes its money to remain in the country's banks and not shipped overseas.
Of course that's common sense, at least now. Vietnam is a developing country and truly needs every cent to remain within its borders. When I first arrived in Vietnam, I found it incredibly easy to get a bank account -- almost too easy. I remember feeling very surprised, especially after recalling the hour-long process of getting a bank account in the States. Now I understand why. Giving a foreigner a bank account makes it that much more likely that he'll keep his money local and in the Vietnamese currency (dong).
I made the mistake of buying a couple of plane tickets to Singapore on the Internet with my American credit card. So I need to send money to my bank account in San Diego to pay off the bill. First thing I tried was walking into my bank and simply requesting a transfer. The bank staff looked at me like I was an alien -- "you want to what?"
"I want to send money to America?"
"Why?"
"What's it matter?"
"Hold please." *ring* *ring*...."Please go upstairs."
I walked up upstairs and met even more resistance from one of the suits.
"I want to send money to America."
*looking very annoyed*..."Why?"
I gave him a blank stare.
"Sending money is very expensive and very difficult. I need to see your passport, labor contract, and visa."
I had none of that so I just left. I had seen Western Union signs EVERYWHERE in Ho Chi Minh City, so I assumed it would be a cinch sending that way. However, most of these locations only receive money, not send. In fact, there are only three locations in the entire city to send...a population of six million people and three locations.
Sending money via Western Union from Vietnam Chi Minh is akin to those incredibly annoying, time-consuming video game quests that has you running all around the map assembling some bullshit contraption, like the "magic sword" to defeat the "big boss" or the "special bomb" to blow up the enemy's headquarters. Of course video game developers insert these quests to add "length" and "bulk" to their games so that they can advertise it's a 15-hour playing experience and worth every penny of its $60 price-tag.
Let's stick with the "special bomb" and me as a video game character metaphor.
First thing I needed was obviously the most important -- the bomb casing (my passport). I walked into the bank with my bomb casing and explosives (money) and hoped everything was in order for me to assemble my kickass piece of destruction.
"I'm sorry sir, but these aren't the right kind of explosives. You need American explosives (dollars)"
*Changed my explosives at a different bank...came back*
"I'm sorry sir, but you need a timer (my visa) for this bomb."
*Got a copy of my visa*
"I'm sorry sir, but you need some specialty wiring (labor contract) for this bomb."
*Had my company MAKE me a contract so I could satisfy this requirement*
"I'm sorry sir, but you need a trigger mechanism (payslips)."
.................*blank stare*
And that's where we stand today...still no bomb.
Ahh, the video game of life.
Of course that's common sense, at least now. Vietnam is a developing country and truly needs every cent to remain within its borders. When I first arrived in Vietnam, I found it incredibly easy to get a bank account -- almost too easy. I remember feeling very surprised, especially after recalling the hour-long process of getting a bank account in the States. Now I understand why. Giving a foreigner a bank account makes it that much more likely that he'll keep his money local and in the Vietnamese currency (dong).
I made the mistake of buying a couple of plane tickets to Singapore on the Internet with my American credit card. So I need to send money to my bank account in San Diego to pay off the bill. First thing I tried was walking into my bank and simply requesting a transfer. The bank staff looked at me like I was an alien -- "you want to what?"
"I want to send money to America?"
"Why?"
"What's it matter?"
"Hold please." *ring* *ring*...."Please go upstairs."
I walked up upstairs and met even more resistance from one of the suits.
"I want to send money to America."
*looking very annoyed*..."Why?"
I gave him a blank stare.
"Sending money is very expensive and very difficult. I need to see your passport, labor contract, and visa."
I had none of that so I just left. I had seen Western Union signs EVERYWHERE in Ho Chi Minh City, so I assumed it would be a cinch sending that way. However, most of these locations only receive money, not send. In fact, there are only three locations in the entire city to send...a population of six million people and three locations.
Sending money via Western Union from Vietnam Chi Minh is akin to those incredibly annoying, time-consuming video game quests that has you running all around the map assembling some bullshit contraption, like the "magic sword" to defeat the "big boss" or the "special bomb" to blow up the enemy's headquarters. Of course video game developers insert these quests to add "length" and "bulk" to their games so that they can advertise it's a 15-hour playing experience and worth every penny of its $60 price-tag.
Let's stick with the "special bomb" and me as a video game character metaphor.
First thing I needed was obviously the most important -- the bomb casing (my passport). I walked into the bank with my bomb casing and explosives (money) and hoped everything was in order for me to assemble my kickass piece of destruction.
"I'm sorry sir, but these aren't the right kind of explosives. You need American explosives (dollars)"
*Changed my explosives at a different bank...came back*
"I'm sorry sir, but you need a timer (my visa) for this bomb."
*Got a copy of my visa*
"I'm sorry sir, but you need some specialty wiring (labor contract) for this bomb."
*Had my company MAKE me a contract so I could satisfy this requirement*
"I'm sorry sir, but you need a trigger mechanism (payslips)."
.................*blank stare*
And that's where we stand today...still no bomb.
Ahh, the video game of life.
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