Showing posts with label thestuffthatmakesupalife. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thestuffthatmakesupalife. Show all posts

Monday, February 13, 2012

Chickens IKEA Bangkok

I didn't fire the maid.  

Another expat woman who volunteers at the orphanage and is very cynical after too many years in Vietnam said to me that if the maid was recommended by the landlady then I should get rid of her immediately, since the landlady will have put her in there to spy on us. 

I thought that was a pretty extreme position, but it demonstrates how bitter people an get after they've been here for quite a while.  She's been here 9 years to my one-and-a-bit, so I hope I've got a little while to go yet. 

Anyway, the reason I didn't fire the maid is just because of this: 

 That'll be me next to the guy in the suit. 

 

In other news, when we were in Singapore we bought some bed linen, because we didn't have very much, and what we did have didn't fit our king sized bed. It is pretty much impossible to buy bedding that isn't 100% polyester, and garish colors in Vietnam.  And even if you can find tasteful stuff, chances are it will be extremely expensive and the largest size you can get is queen size anyway.  

This is because Vietnamese people don't sleep in beds like ours.  They sleep on the floor, sometimes on fold away mattresses, with only a quilt to cover them.  All bedding is folded away during the day.  Most houses are too small for huge western style beds anyway, and most bedding is person sized, not bed sized.  Western style beds and bedding a considered luxury items and come with luxury price tags to match - appealing to the nouveau riche who are happy to pay A LOT for their luxuries. 

I have no explanation for the color choices though except to say that Vietnamese people really like bright colors. As many bright colors as possible. 

Anyway, so in Singapore we went to IKEA. We thought we were so awesomely grown up - we even measured our bed before we left Vietnam to be sure we'd get the right sizes. That's how organized we were. 

We chose these duvet sets:

 

Aren't they nice?  They don't fit, of course.  They exactly the same size as the mattress.  I felt pretty stupid when I realized that I hadn't made any allowance for the overhang - so at the moment we're playing tug of war in our sleep. 

 Luckily, we're going to Bangkok this weekend, where I am reliably informed by my office mate who has done EXACTLY this (buy the wrong size bedding at IKEA Singapore, then buy the right size bedding at IKEA Bangkok) there is an IKEA and it stocks king size bedding sets. 

Yes, Bangkok! Martin is going for work, so I am going to tag along and stay in the work-paid-for hotel room, visit temples, shop at IKEA and try to revive my Thai language skills. Poor Martin will have to work so I'll be doing all the touristy stuff by myself, but getting a weekend in Bangkok kind of makes up for being an advertising widow for once, n'est ce pas? 


Wednesday, February 8, 2012

A long post about maids and water and how sometimes making progress doesn't feel any different from walking backwards in the dark.

 In case you missed the horrible headline, I had to move apartments last month. It was a sudden move. We were actually evicted - though it's almost impossible to say that to someone without having them look at you askance.  You can see them wondering how obnoxious you really are.
Our last apartment was serviced. We weren't specifically looking for a serviced apartment at the time when we moved in - it was just a lucky bonus.  Actually, serviced apartments near the city centre are not much differently priced than unserviced furnished apartments, and this time we ended up looking at quite a few serviced apartments too- though ultimately the one we chose is unserviced.
The difference between serviced and unserviced is maids (and bed linen, though that's a different post). Our last place ran pretty much like a hotel. You put a sign on the door at night that says either "please clean room" or "do not disturb" and in the morning either the maids come in and clean your flat, or they just leave you alone until the next day.
I know.
It was pretty sweet. They would come come in and clean the bathrooms and the floor, wash any dishes, and make the beds, including change the sheets twice a week. They brought fresh towels and clean bed linen. One of the girls used to do my laundry until I made her stop (she washing-machined my silk dress! With Martin's jeans!)
I know. Believe me, you don't have to tell me.
There is a whole other facet to serviced apartment living too.  The apartment staff take of all the bills and the stuff.  Men would come and clean the air conditioners. Electricity and Internet and mains water and gas are all taken care of. And when I wanted drinking water I would just have to say to the receptionist - can you please order me two more bottles of La Vie and later that day the La Vie would arrive.
In my new apartment I have no staff.  There are security guards in the lobby, and there are maids whose job it is to clean the corridors and lifts and disappear the rubbish, but there's nobody whose job it is to look after me, in particular. In theory, this should be ok because I only work 2-3 days per week and I actually know how to make my own damn bed. But unfortunately, there are still lots of things that I don't actually know how to do. Like, order water from La Vie on the phone. And pay the electricity bill. And other things that I don't really want to do - like sweep and mop 150 sq meters of floor and iron half a dozen men's shirts.
So when my landlady recommended a particular maid to come in a couple of times a week I said yes please!
She's been twice now, and when she comes in on Friday, I intend to fire her.  It's not her fault, really. She's a nice person, but it takes her 4 hours to sweep and mop the floor and clean 2 (not very dirty) bathrooms. She seems to require supervision.  I went out for a couple of hours the other day while she was here, and when I got back, she was still here, and had only done the floor, nothing else. And she doesn't speak English. I asked her to order the water for me, but while I was out I got no less than 5 phone calls from La Vie - what's your address, and how many bottles do you want and your maid isn't answering the phone. So I had to go home to meet the La Vie guy and supervise the maid (sit on the couch) while she finished up.
There's not much in the world that makes me feel more like a horrible person than sitting on my tuffet while someone else cleans my toilets.  I know this lady needs the work, but I just can't bear having her around while I'm at home, and can't trust her to do the job well when I'm not at home.
I know.  Can you even believe that I'm complaining about this situation!  I'm sure you would all love to have a maid to complain about.
I said to Martin this morning that I will just have to clean the floors myself and he can give me $100 a month.   Do you know what he said to that? "After nine months you'll be able to afford a Lego death star!"
 Just what I've always wanted.
It's still taking me a while to settle into the new place, and it's not just about the water and the maid, though it is partly about the water and the maid.  The real issue has been that I feel now almost exactly the same as I did a year ago, when I first moved into Sweethome. Back then, I had a whole lot of stuff to learn. I still didnt really know anything much about how to live in Saigon.  I wasn't confident to use xe oms, I didn't know where anything was, or how the big dirty city worked.
And even though I have learned a lot now - I know my way around, I can mostly cope with the heat and I can ride a motorcycle, I keep getting stuck in ways that I wouldn't have had to get stuck if I hadn't had to move. There was a power bill posted through my front door the other day.  I had to use my translator app to figure out that it even was a power bill.  I took it to the post office to pay, and the lady gave me the Vietnamese 'no' hand signal.


 So I showed it to a work colleague, and he said - "Most Vietnamese people pay this at the ATM".  We dont have a Vietnamese bank account, so that wasn't an option. So I asked the landlady, and she told me to take it to a Vietnamese bank, which finally worked.
Moving house meant losing our pack of friendly xe oms. There are xe oms around our new building too, of course, but I don't know these guys. It's a very intimate experience riding a xe om - and especially as a woman. I'm not the kind of girl who readily wants to feel a sweaty stranger between her knees, you know? And our last guys knew all the places I wanted to go. We had already negotiated prices and I could trust them to do things like take my shopping home for me, or wait for an hour and hold onto my helmet.  I had felt like I was all the way back at transportation square one.  And forget trying to pronounce the new street name - its no better than the last one so far as taxi drivers go...
I say had felt, because yesterday Martin managed to get a Vietnamese friend to talk to my Mr Duong on the phone, and so he will be there (hopefully) to pick me up and take me to work tomorrow.  I'm sure the price is going to go up - but it's worth it to have someone I know.  for 30 minutes in the morning Mr Duong will be in charge of my life in Vietnam, and I can just relax.


Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Customary

 Almost everything you buy in Vietnam comes with some kind of customs sticker.  Every wine bottle has a little sticker over the seal, for example.  Our new apartment is furnished but not serviced like the last one.  This means that there were quite a few small household items I needed to buy, like extra sheets and towels, cleaning stuff, and pots and pans.

 The landlady is going to bring me a microwave and a rice cooker today, but I couldn't wait until after Tet to make a cup of tea at home, so I had to buy myself a kettle.  Annoyingly enough, my kettle was stickered too:

 

 

That damn sticker WOULD NOT come off. 

 

 

 I had to scrub at it with the scrubby thing on the kitchen sponge.  Now my beautiful new kettle features brushed steel AND glass. But at least it has official communist approval. 

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Lunchtime at the clinical research unit

We begin by discussing running.  Opinions range from for, or against as a pastime (there is no in-between).

Then we move on to aikido.  Someone has been taking classes.  Pro: aikido involves throwing people for exercise.  Con: all the other participants are little children.

Next, we all discuss nannies.  Pro: Philippino nannies work during Tet.  Con: They demand health insurance.

Someone starts to tell someone else about the diptheria baby who is on a trach but there's no medicine in the whole country for him. And the government won't get it in for just one patient.

Everybody teases everybody else about washing lunchboxes - a serious business amongst the Vietnamese staff, whereas you'd be lucky if the expats dump out their uneaten sandwich crusts.



Then, the director comes in. 

So everyone else starts talking about statistics.  And those of us who are administrators roll our eyes and leave.  Way to ruin lunch break, Jeremy!

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Throned

As I was negotiating the new contract for my job, there was really one thing on my mind. 

And that was my arse.

For the whole two months that I was working previously, I had to sit in a horrible ordinary meeting-room style chair. 

(No photos because I'm THAT GOOD a blogger).

Not even any wheels on my chair.  So I said to my boss that I would only come back if they got a new chair for me.

And she agreed!

On Tuesday my chair was delivered, and it's the best office chair I've ever had!  The back and the seat are all one molded piece, so there's none of that horrible wobbly seat back that standard office chairs get. 

And the seat has a nice fat bum, just like me.  And - even better than all that - my chair has little arms.  I've never worked in an armchair before, and I've gotta say - I like it!

Friday, January 6, 2012

Shopping in Vietnam

When I started my job, the one thing that had me the most worried was the groceries. How on earth was I going to manage the job AND the supermarkets? Tabitha in Hanoi looked at me incredulously when I told her this.  Her opinion is that shopping in Vietnam is EASY. Way better than at home, she says.  Just go to the market! she says.

Well fine.

I DO go to the market.  Where I buy fresh fruit and vegetables. That's the easy part. If you think walking through blood puddles while dodging malevolent motorcyclists and hoiking grandfathers and carrying heavy bags of mangos and Thai basil in 35 degree heat is easy.

Anybody who has been here to visit knows that I actually adore the market, smelly bloody mess that it is, on a tourist basis. It's when I have to go to the market because I have no choice that I kind of hate it. A bit.

Martin insists on muesli for his breakfast (some poo-related reasoning, that I'll spare you the details of). And we like milk. And decaffeinated tea. That means the fancy western supermarket.

We eat meat.  That means the Metro - a half-hour cab ride away. Of course I can get meat at all kinds of places, but I have thing about refrigeration. And requiring it on my meatstuffs. I can only shop at the metro if I bring a copy of my passport. The metro doesn't give you shopping bags. The taxis are at the other end of a sloping car park. There are speed limit signs painted on the ground of the car park 5kph. As if I could keep my bulk purchases laden trolley to less than 5kph.

Buying any kind of fresh item at the supermarket, or the metro means queuing at the scales to get a barcode. Queuing in Vietnam means getting shoved around, ignored, and occasionally yelled at. Pushed in front of.  Lots of silent disapproving pointing from supermarket staff.  Apparently I don't wrap my vegetables in enough plastic.

Repeat for meat.

Once I'm through that section, my internal supermarket monologue goes like this:



Where is the goddam toilet paper?  Out of stock? Really? Of toilet paper?

Shampoo.  Cannot access shampoo.  5 Vietnamese women opening and sniffing every bottle.  Why won't they move? Oh she's moving.  No. No she's not.  Maybe if I smile at her. I'll beam. Nobody can resist my beaming confused foreigner face. BEAM.  Why won't they move?

Bitches! They've stolen my trolley again!  How can they just dump the stuff out of my trolley like that?

What is this stuff?  Is is nuts? Is it seeds? Oh. It's MSG.  Right. There are VARIETIES of MSG? 

17 aisles of MSG and no salt.

Why has the cheese got a padlock on it? Are people that desperate for cheese? It's not even the expensive cheese.  It's the Vietnamese cheese. Steal the expensive cheese!  There's like, roquefort right there and you people are stealing the Vietnamese cheese?

Ooh look!  Weird kitchen implements!  What's this for?  What's this for?  Do I need a strainer?  Pegs!  No, I don't need a strainer. Wait, what about a lemon squeezer.  Ooh! Whisks.  I like whisks. 

Plastic cake plates.  Are they nice or are they awful?

Which one of these is rice wine vinegar?  How many things can you make vinegar out of anyway?

Teabags.  Hm. Ok. Fine. Lipton yellow label spew tea it is.

So, if I buy this deodorant I'll get a free towel, but if I buy that deodorant I'll get a pudding bowl.  Pudding bowl, towel. Towel, pudding bowl. Can't decide. No deodorant.  Why can't men buy their own deodorants?  Dammit. If I don't buy him deodorant then I'll have to hide mine.  Fine. Towel.  Why does deodorant come with a pudding bowl?

Ooh look!  If I buy this bottle of fish sauce I can get that huge bag of MSG.

Is that pigeon or chicken?  Oh. It's frogs. Ooh!  Chicken foetuses!  Gory!

The cake plates are horrible.  What IS WRONG WITH YOU WOMAN? YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE AN OVEN - WHEN ARE YOU EVER GOING TO SERVE A CAKE?

Sore feet.

So, the smallest number of toothbrushes I can buy is 3.  I know, I'll buy 12 toothbrushes.  I could set up a business selling toothbrushes on the street.

I'm hungry. Do they have any of those cakey things with the coconut inside?  There is hardly ANYTHING in my trolley.  What did I come here for anyway?  What does it say on the list? Toilet paper. Salt. If I don't find any toilet paper how am I going to wipe my arse?  Have I got any tissues at home?  Maybe some wet wipes.

OK. I'll just get one of those whisks and then I'll queue.

Queue.  Don't push in front me don'tpushinfrontofmedon'tpushinfrontofmedon'tpushinfrontofme. Look dude, I get that you're only buying one bottle of whisky and a pack of cigarettes but DON"T PUSH IN FRONT OF ME?  You're only like, 14.  Go back to school!  Fine. You go first.

She's waggling the sponges at me.  I'm not allowed to buy these sponges?  FINE THEN.

One million, seven hundred and eighty four thousand, eight hundred and forty dong. That's a ridiculous number. When is it going to stop sounding like play money? Oh look!  She gave me a lolly! 

Durian-flavoured?  

Taxi. NO I don't want to go on xe om.  YES, I understand that you can carry all this shit on a xe om. NO. 

There are no taxis.  oh look! Here comes a dodgy taxi. Should I, shouldn't I? He'll probably just take the long route, not stop and rape me. Ok fine, dodgy taxi.

Me
Tran Nhat Duat.

Dodgy taxi driver
EEAH?

Me
Tran Nhat Duat.

Dodgy taxi driver
EEAH?

Me
Tran Nhat Duat.

Dodgy taxi driver
EEAH?

Me
Tran Nhat Duat.

Dodgy taxi driver
EEAH?

Me
Tran Nhat Duat.

Dodgy taxi driver
EEAH?

Me
Tran Nhat Duat.

Dodgy taxi driver
EEAH?

Me
Just drive.  I'll point.

Damn. I forgot eggs.


Argh! There's blood all over everything. Can you get salmonella from the chicken juice in your shoes?



Do you see? I HATE shopping in Vietnam. 

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

The price of neighbourhood contentment? 20,000 dong.

This week I have become the epicenter of a tragic little feud at the end of my street. I started a new job which is all the way over in District 5 by the canal, and any Saigon-dweller would understand that this means a decent trudge of a commute from my perch at the top end of District 1.

The xe om drivers at the bottom of my street have become my neighbours and companions over the last few months, and there are two in particular that are favourites. They share responsibility for me and Mr Martin when we want to go out, with the other guys only offering us rides when neither of those two are there.  There is an understanding amongst them all that Mr Martin and I belong to Mr Talky and Mr Moley.

I know the names are ungracious. Mr Talky is exactly as described. He yaps away all through the journey, and regularly inspects my shopping and tells me off if I use a taxi. When I come back from my frequent trips to the market he likes to ask me how much I paid for whatever it is I've bought.  He's like my personal appraiser.

Mr Moley is more of a silent type. He offers no conversation - only shy, kind smiles at pick up and drop off.  Mr Moley has a magnificent hairy brown mole near the corner of his mouth. Like all grotesqueries, at first it was alarming, and now I almost never notice it.  The collars of Mr Moley's shirts are worn to rags, but they are always clean and pressed.

A couple of times, Mr Talky in his exuberance has taken me far off course from my intended destination. Each time, it has been because he has mis-heard me, or perhaps just mis-understood the Vietnamese words after they have been been mashed up in my mouth. One time, instead of the Big C on Hoang Van Thu, we went to Le Van Sy in Binh Dinh. Another time we ended up going to Benh Thanh Market instead of Vo Van Tan.  In any case, Mr Talky is usually off on some other business - he runs errands for one of the big houses across the road and I think because he is so outgoing he gets a little more customers than the other guys.

So on most days it has been Mr Moley who has taken me to do my shopping, or dropped me off outside a cafe somewhere. He takes Mr Martin to work a lot, too. He's really been my most regular guy.  For that reason, on my first day of work after being dropped off Mr Martin used some flamboyant sign language to explain to Mr Moley that his wife was going on a big trip today and so he should go and be ready for her. And so he was. And that is how on the first day Mr Moley made a whopping 100,000 dong for taking me one way. The taxi on the way home cost me 110,000 dong.

The next morning, feeling better prepared, I went to explain to the drivers.  This was the deal I was offering: 100,000 dong each day, or 50,000 each way, to take me to work and pick me up again when I finished.  Mr Moley took the job that morning, much to the indignation of Mr Talky who flounced off in a huff and hasn't spoken to me since. Very naively, I thought that the two of them would share the work between them. But instead, I had employed Mr Moley on a retainer and somewhat damaged my relationship with Mr Talky in the process.

For the first few days, Mr Talky glowered at me as Mr Moley and I drove past.  And then, Mr Moley started talking suddenly, and I came to understand that he wanted an extra 20,000 dong per day.  But somehow, the next day, Mr Talky waved at me again. And I think perhaps magically things have been resolved between us all. 

I am not sure if I am a loser in this scenario or not. My colleague who lives in district 2 - which for those of you not from round these parts is a considerably longer distance from work than where live - tell me that she pays her motorbike man 60,000 dong per trip - 120,000 per day. But I am conflict averse, and my husband's shirts are not frayed at the collars, and I don't really miss the bit of extra money.  So tell me, Internet - am I being had for a complete fool - or is this simply part of the complex way we must go about our lives as hopeless dependent expats. Because the reality is that on those terrible two days I really missed the extra security (perhaps imagined!) that I feel when the drivers smile at me on the street.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Dear Phil - we had your parents for dinner...

And they were delicious! 

Let the wild zombie rumpus begin! 

I'm just kidding -  of course I didn't eat your dear Mum and Dad.  If I did that, then who would send you parsnips next spring, and keep Winnie in swede and potato soups?  Hm?

No - we didn't have them for dinner - they had us for dinner instead.  After a hard day of shopping in Saigon your Mum and Dad took us out for a meal at a restaurant called Indochine somewhere in District 3. They were here as part of a food tour, and had eaten their way from Hanoi, then Hue, then Hoi An to Ho Chi Minh City - just like the very hungry caterpillar eats its way through the pages of that book.

Undoubtedly by the time they got here they had already eaten several Foods Served Inside Other Foods as seems to be the standard in Vietnamese restaurants that want to impress tourists. But if they'd had enough of that they didn't let on and reacted only with joy and admiration when served this spectacular dish of prawns wrapped in potatoes and jabbed into the side of a lighted-from-within pineapple.

Try making that at home - I dare you!

It was a very delightful visit, and I hope they DO come again and do that car drive around the mountains in the central highlands they were talking about. 

Now THAT would be a holiday full of butterflies.


Thursday, July 28, 2011

Peggy

I needed some pegs.  Lots of my tshirts have wide necks and they kept slipping off the hangers when I put them out to dry.  So off I went to the Big C - which is where I tend to buy all my plastic crap.

At first I was annoyed, because they didn't seem to have any normal pegs.  Vietnamese people seem to love things which are overly fussy, so all the pegs were weird shapes.  But then when I went back to the plastic crap aisle I decided to suck it up and just buy the weird shaped pegs. And then I looked closer.

Huh.  Those are actually shaped like little birds.  Like little hipster birds. And they're kind of cool colours.  I like them.

So I bought two packets. And when I got home I played with them for a while. 

 
I am suddenly a sucker for weird-shaped plastic crap. I think I'm turning Vietnamese.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Does this make you want to flop 'em out?

What do you think of this image?

Hint: It's not from a fashion catalogue. 

Let's zoom in:
Why is this child wearing a bathing suit that gives us a weird x-ray view of her kidneys, bladder and colon?

Actually, the picture comes from Tuoi Tre News who have a reasonably good article today about how malnutrition is causing stunted grown in around 30% of Vietnamese children.  The government is blaming this problem on a lack of breastfeeding, and products being sold to Vietnamese parents a nutritional supplements that are very poor quality - specifically: infant formulas.

The image used in the article is odd - but the article itself is good and points at a big problem in the Vietnamese infant feeding market. You might think it strange that I'm talking about infant feeding as a marketplace, but that's exactly what it is.  Every Vietnamese supermarket I've been into has an entire aisle devoted to infant formula products.

Daycare centers and kindergartens are easy to spot, because they all seem to be sponsored by infant formula companies which paint colourful cartoonish murals on the outside walls.

This article from 2009 describes the aggressive push by infant formula companies in Vietnam.  The law here is clear, that breastfeeding should be promoted and that marketing infant formulas in hospitals and the like is forbidden - but it is not well observed. The situation is unchanged now in 2011 - probably worse.


When she heard my mother was coming, my Vietnamese friend asked me to get my mother to bring cans of infant formula for her 2 and a half year old daughter. Vietnamese people are suspicious of the quality of the formulas they are feeding their children, and yet steadfastly believe that they should be feeding their children special formulated foods.  The irony of this is that an adult Vietnamese diet (assuming the family are living somewhere above the poverty line) is rich in vegetables, fruit and fish. Many Asian people cannot easily digest lactose and do well to stay away from milk, cheese, ice-cream and yogurt - and yet still get plenty of protein from tofu and soy-based products, as well as some calcium from fish and small animal bones and other items that are not part of a typical western diet*.  If the toddlers were eating what their parents ate - instead of over-boiled rice mushed with thick infant formula - they would most likely have a much healthier diet.

A further irony is that these formula products are favoured by Vietnam's growing middle classes.  They are very expensive to buy, and have been successfully marketed as somewhat of a luxury item.  This may explain why parents are so willing to pay such a premium for them to feed to children who are well past the age of being needed to be bottle-fed.

If there's something that really astounds me about the problem of breastfeeding in Vietnam, it's that breastfeeding is something that - on the face of it - is well respected here.  There are many many artworks and public monuments depicting breastfeeding mothers. 



The aptly-named "Unfinished Suck" from the second floor of the Southern Women's Museum shows a woman reaching for her gun. She has been interrupted whilst feeding her baby. This is a terribly affecting piece of work - as the expression on the faces of both the woman and her baby make you think that perhaps it is too late.

.

The detail in the image below is the central focus of another huge painting on the same floor.  It shows a baby attempting to suckle from a woman who has been killed a battle.


And here is the whole painting (click on it to see a bigger version):


Here is another depiction of a woman soldier breastfeeding, but it is much more tenderly evocative. I look at it and imagine that the artist was drawing a woman and a child he knows and loves - perhaps his wife was the model? This one is in the Fine Arts Museum which is not far from Ben Thanh Market.



Breastfeeding also plays a part in literature any myth, whereas, I can't think of a traditional children's story from the West that talks about breast-feeding.  Take the milk-apple, for example.  According to myth, it is named for breastmilk.  Once upon a time, a naughty boy ran away from home. His mother waited for him to return under the leaves of a tree. When he never returned, she became the tree - and its fruit is the milk-apple - still waiting for him to feed him when he comes home.

Maybe the success of the infant and toddler formula market in Vietnam is a allegorical of the triumph of commercial advertising over art, or over propaganda (or both). But it is heartbreaking to see children who are genuinely loved, and whose parents want only the best for them literally dying from malnutrition - even those children who don't feel hungry.

I don't know what we as expats in Vietnam can do. Surely using all those same strategies to promote breastfeeding that are used all the time in the West is a good idea - breastfeed in public, encourage new mothers to breastfeed, if you are an employer - make sure any breastfeeding mothers on staff have time and space to feed or express milk.  Maybe don't buy formula for your friends' toddlers.

And finally: Don't demonise or ostracise those mothers who do choose to use formula to feed their infants.  Remember that infant formulas save very many more babies than they kill when the mothers can't or won't breastfeed for whatever reason. Breast is best, but I would rather a woman who doesn't breastfeed gives her baby infant formula than rice soaked in cow's milk and porkfat - wouldn't you?  Unless of course you're trying to make zombie babies:




*Soymilk in Vietnam is usually served fresh and therefore not fortified with calcium the way it is in the west.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Don't forget to tip your waitresses. They have families and bug problems of their own.

I used to think that I was the kind of person who was not bothered by bugs and crawly things. I'm not the kind of squealy girl that goes all stupid just because there's a moth around the lightbulb. And really, apart from slugs, I LIKE bugs (and stuff. Technically – slugs are not bugs. But you know…).

I even bit the abdomen off a fried wing'ed thing once. On purpose. You hold the wings and then just nip its belly off with your teeth. It was Thailand, 15 years ago and I was under duress but still...  that gets me points, right? (Tasted kind of like a salted peanut. Maybe a bit squishier.)

Except praying mantises. I thought I liked them.  They are kind of fascinating. They do exist in the south of New Zealand but not like in the numbers in a wet Auckland summer. And one time, I was on the bus in Auckland and I noticed a praying mantis - a big one - clinging to the back of the seat in front of me.  I tried to ignore it. Because - you know - I'm COOL with bugs. (Did you know praying mantises are carnivorous? Don't click that link if there are small children nearby. You were warned.)

It was a really FULL bus.

I had a window seat near the back of the bus and there was a young Asian student sitting in the seat next to me and his girlfriend was in the seat in front of him and the aisle was crammed with people and backpacks and that unfortunate tight feeling you get when you're in a crowd and there just can't possibly be enough air for everyone.



And then the mantis locked eyes with me. Have you ever really studied a mantis's face?  They have the steeliest gaze of any creature alive.  I tried to look away but it had me like Medusa and there was no escape. I moved  my face towards the window - my face moved but my eyes stayed locked with those evil green ovals and that is when it chose to leap.

I emitted an involuntary, visceral kind of groan - like the sounds that people make when they are having nightmares. A REALLY  LOUD involuntary, visceral groan. And the poor boy next to me proved that he was truly a hero by slapping me right on the tit and squishing the bug between his fingers. His girlfriend turned around - everybody on that bus turned around - to see what the commotion was and he held up his hand to show the green smear like some kind of awkward open-handed, snot-covered  victory fist.
I'm not an idiot. I like bugs, but I don't like bugs that might bite me. That includes mosquitos and sandflies and anything with an obvious stinger.

Oh and millipedes? I get that you're a marvel of nature, and have successfully tiptoed across the surface of the earth for a gazillion years but really - I prefer you on TV and not in my garden. I mean - have you ever picked a pebble out of the soil and then recoiled in horror as it unwound itself, all of its hundreds of little legs waving in the air? At once?

And can we please also exclude caterpillars and pretty much all creatures in their larval form? Especially those weevils that made a mass exodus that time from my pantry to my ceiling when Mr Martin was away on tour and it was night and the only defense I had was the vacuum cleaner and sometimes when you try to vaccum a crawling weevil off the ceiling it drops down  and lands in your cleavage? (And of the same era - Barney - I'm really sorry still about that time I invited you over for dinner and watched in horror as you spooned a live wriggling weevil out of the ground chilli.)

Just what is it with you insects and my cleavage anyway? Remember that time there was a shootout on the motorway and the armed offenders squad were surrounding our house and the woman was standing on her garage roof shrieking and while I was looking up at the helicopters circling overhead thinking "I should probably go inside," and that wasp came out of nowhere and stung me on the boob! I mean really.  As if there wasn't enough drama going on that day.

The other day my husband invited to come and look at the really interesting beetle that had blown up onto our balcony in one of these storms we keep on getting and was now stranded on its back and it was a FUCKING COCKROACH.

All of my memories of the Philippines are prefaced by this sentence: There was a LEECH on the bathroom floor. “What if there are leeches somewhere else? Are they in the bed? Strip the bed! I said STRIP THE FUCKING BED! Why are you laughing at me?!”

And now I am engaged in a kind of war where I am the only one fighting, and the only way I can win is if I clean up my shit because the ANTS. Who sent the goddam ants? Martha Stewart?

 
The ants don't care if they lose large numbers of troops. It doesn't bother them at all.  No matter what you clean if you leave a crumb out they will find another way to get there because as far as they are concerned that is their crumb.

I should really be celebrating the fact that the first 4 months in our apartment were almost entirely ant-free, but instead I woke up the other day having a nightmare where there was a thick trail - several ants wide - on the wall, and that when I spray’n’wiped it they scattered and pretty soon there were ants covering every surface. The walls and the bed and the cushions and there are so many of them that you can kill a million and it won’t make a dent.

(Hi Nana. There aren’t actually a million ants in my apartment. I promise they won't crawl in your ears while you're sleeping. Can't wait to see you next week!)

Does this mean that I have turned into that kind of shriek woman I am so contemptuous of? Probably. Butterflies moths and beetles are still mostly OK. The non-disease-bearing ones in their adult forms, at least. For now, though, I am cleaning as I go and my kitchen positively glistens.

Probably my mother-in-law would be proud.


Wednesday, June 15, 2011

The Bishop Making Ceremony

This is not related to Vietnam, but I was going through some old photos today trying to make room on my laptop and found this:


About a year or so ago I was invited to attend an ordainment ceremony for an Anglican Bishop. I went along expecting a bit of pomp and men in dresses and wasn't disappointed.

Afterwards at home we conducted a little ordainment ceremony of our own, and Little Ted became The Right Reverend the Lord Bishop Little Ted.


Frogdog, who is an abomination (the Lord made frogs, and the Lord made dogs. The Lord did not make frogdogs) was allowed to observe but not participate, on the condition that he covered his head and concealed his hideous marks of the Devil. (The Devil being a 6-year old brother Joseph who was going through an arsonist phase).

Yes, Frogdog, Big Ted, Little Ted and Mr Rabbit all did come to Vietnam. 

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Have you had your bag snatched yet?

If there's one thing that really bothers me as a white woman living in Saigon, it's the bag snatching and petty crimes against foreigner women that are often accidentally quite violent.  It's not losing stuff that's the issue - though losing stuff is inconvenient and upsetting.  It's the fact that people are often injured as their assailants try to make a quick getaway.

  • Like my friend who told me about getting her bag ripped from her shoulder by a motorcyclist as she walked down Ham Nghi. And then dragged along the road. 
  • Or another woman who wrote about having her bag - again - taken by a motorcyclist, this time while she was riding a bicycle, and being pulled head over handlebars onto the road. 
  • Another friend of mine was not injured but very shaken and upset when her bag was cut from her person in Pham Ngu Lao.  Here to work as a volunteer for three weeks, she cut her trip short and left for home early after losing all her money, her camera and her phone.

As is often the case with crimes against women, the victims all blame themselves as much as their attackers. "I shouldn't have carried my bag like that." Or, "I shouldn't have had so much stuff in it". "I should have been more careful".

And while it's true that there are some things we can do to minise losses when - nobody deserves to be attacked in such a way. Furthermore, while holding your bag differently might give you some protection, the real beacons for these scum are the things about us we can't change -the way we look, the way we dress, our very foreignness.

So far, I have been lucky and nothing bad has happened to me. But in my head I think - nothing bad has happened to me - YET, and that it is only a matter of time. And so, I am often afraid to walk around the streets alone and very nervous about my bag, and my manner - careful to stay alert.  And it really, really bothers me that this has to be the case.

Downtown in the tourist areas there are police absolutely everywhere, and yet these crimes are happening every day and nobody is doing anything about it. The tourist police on the street corners help pretty, skimpily dressed Korean girls cross the road and completely ignore fat older people like me.  Outside the Tax Centre the other day there were 6 different fake Mai Linh taxis lined up, and police standing on the corner watching hapless tourists getting ripped off.

It all makes me very grumpy because I genuinely love living in Saigon and really wish I didn't have to feel so paranoid every time I leave the house.

Anyway, this is what I do to protect myself and my possessions on the street.
  • Men's clothes have pockets, so boys can much more easily get away with not carrying bags. But - I have LADY POCKETS. 
 No - that is not me! I'm a brunette, remember?
  • I usually have my money in one and my cellphone in the other. So that I can get home, and call someone in an emergency. And amuse taxi drivers. Maybe you don't have enough  room in there for a cellphone and so I prove there are advantages to being a bit of a fatty. Geez - I could practically fit a cellphone from 1992 in mine.
  • And that's another reason why I like the slightly padded t-shirt bras - not so many edges show. 
  • I carry ugly bags. Like backpacks. I know beautiful bags are cheap here, but it's an extra temptation - the bag itself becomes something to steal. 
  • If it has a long strap, I wear my bag around my body, and keep one hand on it. 
  • When I remember, I carry my bag on the shop side - not the road side.  It's actually not easy to keep away from the roads in Saigon so this tip is of limited value, but it's just another thing to do. 
Actually, probably these precautions do very little to reduce the likelihood of something happening to me, but it makes me feel better and more confident going out on the street.

Finally - we are here to live - not to hide!  Don't let them win. GO OUT. Live your life.

Friday, June 3, 2011

But where can I get a coyote?

I have always admired Shreve Stockton.  Not only does she have a real live coyote - she travelled across the US, alone, on a Vespa.  What's more - her Nana is a blogger too.

So I knew before I came to Saigon that I wanted to ride a motorbike. And I also knew that it's super scary riding motorbikes here.  Or even just bicycles. Or even just being on the road at all.  But I have decided that it's time - and I am going to get a bike and ride it.

I have found a place that will rent me a SYM Attila for 1.2 million dong per month.  Apparently it will be a red one - so something like this:


And I have found a guy who can help me to get a real drivers license.  So watch this space for updates!

Friday, April 29, 2011

More is more - or - how a manicure made me fear for my life

My Vietnamese friend kidnapped me for the day last Friday and took me to her house to meet her mother-in-law.

I know, I know.  That sounds really ominous, right?  But it wasn't.  It was a lovely day with lots of cooking and playing with babies and being part of a family.

At one point, I noticed that my friend had elaborately painted toenails.  And then I made a big mistake.

"Look at your feet!" I said.  "Very beautiful!"

Now, privately, I thought her feet were a little garish - but I wasn't going to tell her that. But, the deed was already done, I had complimented her on her nail polish, and now I was going to pay.

"You like?  I take you.  You get?"

And I tried to deflect - next time - maybe another day...

But no.  And an hour or so later I found myself sitting in a small Vietnamese salon around the corner from my friend's house. I regret not taking my camera.  (I always regret not taking my camera, and I never take my camera.)  Not because this salon was beautiful though - Oh NO.  Because this salon was so shockingly filthy (to my pampered western eyes) that I was certain that my description of it would not convince you.  But I'll try, shall I?

First you should know that my friend effectively abandoned me there.  She was busy at home and so she dropped me off, insisted on paying the beautician and left me there.  And I felt like I couldn't complain or refuse by this time because this is obviously the place she goes to all the time and she thought she was giving me a real treat.

So I was left alone waiting for my turn in the salon.  Nobody spoke English.  Maybe I was the first Big Nose they had ever had to work on. When I arrived there was a young man sitting in a chair getting the wax scraped out of his ears.  She had a whole lot of complicated looking brushes.  Sort of like a chimney sweep but on a much smaller scale.

Next in line before me was a middle-aged woman who had come to get her hair washed. The salon had an interesting improvised hair washing sink.  It was an large funnel somehow suspended at about waist height, that poured into a pipe that bent upwards from the floor. She used a hose that was connected to a tap on the wall to pour water over the woman's head. The pipe then drained into the next room (about a metre away where the floor level was a few inches lower. It just drained suds'n'all all over the floor in the next room, and eventually I suppose ran out of the room into another drain somewhere else.  The woman getting her hair washed sat in a quite ordinary chair and leaned her head back over the funnel.

Mostly I love Vietnam, but here's something I really don't like: The dust that gets everywhere and into everything robs the city of colour.  And it was really noticeable in this salon.  Obviously, when the place was first opened and new there were some bright pictures on the wall.  There are some plastic flowers tacked onto the wall above the mirror and the walls themselves are painted.  But everything in this place was caked in horrible greasy grey dust. And the colours are all wilted underneath.

There was a mother dog and one of her pups lolling around on the floor. It was a hot day.  Their fleas and general manginess contributed to the depressing feel of the place. Their hair mingled in with the unswept cuttings from someone else's trim.

When it was finally my turn I began to panic a bit. I realised that she was going to use cuticle trimmers, and that those cuticle trimmers - cutting into my skin - would not have been cleaned since being used on the last customer. I have really thin dry sensitive skin and have seen my fingers bleed under not very careful cuticle trimmers before. So I decided - no way hozay!  She can't touch my feet.  I will not remove my shoes!  And I gingerly gave her my hand to work on, but decided that at the slightest hint of pulling or bleeding the cuticle trimmers were to be taken away.

Well, dear reader.  She was the most gentle and skillful nail technician I have ever had.  There was not even a pinch and certainly no blood. So all my misgivings (can you get HIV from cuticle trimmers?) faded.  A bit.

Finally it was time for the nail painting.  First - hot pink. Then, she got out her specialty nail painting kit and a tiny tiny brush, and started on the flowers.  Two for each fingernail - and three for the thumbs!  And then when the flowers were done, she started again and the leaves appeared.  But wait there's more!  After the leaves - the dots.  And after the dots I wasn't sure if she was done yet or not but she grinned up at me and nodded and so VOILA:

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Keepsafe angel

It's 5:00pm here, which means that the sun is almost completely set and the dusk is starting to fade. It's also the beginning of the rainy season.  There hasn't been much rain yet, but in the afternoons we are sometimes getting a bit of a drizzle, and most days it is clouding over.



My brain developed its weather pattern recognition software in the deepest darkest Dunedin.  Where the wind comes speeding either up from the Antarctic-chilled Southern Ocean or down from the glaciers of the Southern Alps.  The days are longer (in the summer at least) and the sun is bright and quick to burn pale and sensitive skin like mine.  It doesn't snow much down there (too close to the sea) but at the sight of low dark clouds my brain still wants to prepare for howling winds or biting sleet. 

After I moved to Auckland,  it took me a full year to stop carrying my knee-length woolen coat around with me everywhere, just in case.  Looking out of my window now I can see the clouds that gather every afternoon here.  They look dark and heavy like those windy icy clouds of my childhood, but they don't behave in at all the same way.  They mostly just hang in the air, getting bigger and bigger. They don't march across the sky.  In the early days of aerial warfare I think they used zeppelins - and I imagine that the rain clouds of March in Saigon fill they sky much like a slow-moving zeppelin would.   The spring rainclouds of Southern New Zealand are more like the messerschmitts in comparison.  Noisy and beautiful and swift.

Soon, these zeppelin-like clouds will get too heavy.  And when they do, they will simply drip. They will soak one drop at a time into the dust of the city below.  At this time of the season it is like an anointment* - later I'm sure the storms will have fire in them but now they seem almost peaceful.

I am watching these clouds swelling out the window and even though the air outside is actually heavy and thrilling and still warm and dry, I want to curl in a cosy corner and banish the damp from dark corners.


I turned the lamp on at my desk and noticed again this crystal angel that I hung from the lampshade.  My friend gave it to me when I got my first car, to keep me safe on my travels. It used to hang from my rear-view mirror, and after I sold my car I tucked it into my suitcase to keep me safe on my journey here.  And now it's watching over me in my little room - a keepsafe angel for when the clouds are darkening. 

* I doubt the motorbike riders agree with me on this point!

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

(Not really very) Desperate Vietnamese Housewife

For a while there, I was a working wife with a stay-at-home husband. Now the tables have turned, and I am stay-at-home wife. Wifing is of course not my whole life, but there are some things that have now become routine.

In the mornings we get up and have breakfast together. Almost every morning I manage to do this – to get up and set a breakfast out on the table of hot coffee, and fruit and bread and yogurt. The format of the breakfast is always the same, but the content varies quite a bit. While Martin would probably be quite happy to eat exactly the same thing every day, I like variety, so I try to make sure there’s a different fruit each day, at least. Often the bread is varied, too. Sometimes it’s thick slices of toast, and other times it’s a pastry of some kind. On special days it’s our favourite bready treat – chewy sesame donut balls. Crackballs we call them. Delicious.

We have a housekeeping service, so cleaning is a minimal concern. If there are dishes left unwashed in the kitchen the maids will insist on doing them. This bothers me a tiny bit but I wouldn’t say I lose sleep over it. Sometimes I leave the dinner dishes for the maids to do the next morning. Mostly, I try to do the dishes myself. The maids don’t do laundry (although sheets and towels are provided), so that is my job. I wash the clothes and I hang them on the balcony to dry. The airconditioning vents are on the balcony too, so they blow warm air over the clothes and everything dries quickly. I iron. Much more than I did at home – all the line drying and hard water makes everything come out looking pretty terrible from the wash, and ironing softens the fabric and smoothes the tiny surface creases. I iron everything except underwear, standing in front of the tv in the early afternoons, when the Korean soap operas are on.

What we eat is my responsibility. Early on, we ate almost exclusively at restaurants, but that loses its appeal after a while. It is cheap to eat out. We can get dinner at the restaurant on the corner of our street for under 150,000 dong for both of us (USD 7.50) including drinks, and an appetizer. But once I got the hang of shopping, I’ve learned that I can prepare a similar meal at home for less than 50,000 dong. But cooking means shopping, and every day or every couple of days I venture out to the market to buy what I need for cooking.

I am still learning how to shop here. There is a big market about two blocks away from our apartment. I love going to the market, but it is still intimidating at times, because of the language difficulties. And I can’t (or rather, won’t) buy everything that I need at the market. The market sells all kinds of fruit and vegetables, meat, fish and seafood – but the only foodstuffs I buy there are fresh fruit and vegetables. I still worry about hygiene and packaged foods are cheaper at the supermarket. There is an indoor market that has pretty much everything you need for your kitchen or home – so long as you know how to ask for it.

I am getting to be quite good at sign language and have managed to purchase a mortar and pestle, a spray bottle, noodle bowls, a can opener and one of those basketspoons that you use for deep frying to fish stuff out of the oil – all without the use of language. They always seem to have what I am looking for, but it seems like I can never see the things I want in their stalls, they are so full of stuff. When I mimed the can opener, the woman ran off to a neighbouring stall in a different aisle to fetch one for me. When I gestured crushing herbs in a mortar and pestle, the woman crouched down on the floor and started fishing out a variety of them from underneath the bottom shelf of her stall.

There is a big local supermarket chain called the Coopmart – pronounced kwopmart. I suspect it’s probably government owned. The first time we went, on our first night in the flat to get supplies we were overwhelmed by screaming Vietnamese women and narrow aisles and pushing and jostling. I remember that I couldn’t get to the soaps because there were women just loitering in front of the soap aisle, sniffing the packages and taking forever to choose which one they wanted, as if it were some super luxurious makeup counter they were at. And even by Vietnamese standards, soap at the coopmart is not expensive – but Vietnamese people seem to enjoy taking their time, and having something to choose for themselves. I like to think that this behaviour is a post-communist response to choice (yes, Vietnam is still a communist country. But in a capitalistic kind of way, these days) – it helps me to sympathise and remain calm!

It was a Saturday afternoon, then, so we rationalized – must be a bad time! All the workers have the day off, so they’re doing their shopping now. At a different time it will be better, less chaotic. We went again on Sunday night and had an even worse experience. I have since been to that coopmart a handful of times, at different times of the day, and it is always the same. Curiously, there is another coopmart store that is actually closer to where we live, and I have never been overwhelmed by people in that store. In fact, it can be quite quiet in the middle of the day. I’m not sure why this is – I think it’s just slightly smaller than the other store, but it still has all the same stuff. Now, when I need to visit a supermarket I go here, or else I go all the way into the city and use the supermarket at one of the department stores.

I use the supermarkets to buy heavy things, and boring things – like cleaning products and cooking oil. I also buy yogurt and milk (awful UHT milk. I have taken to putting sugar in my coffee to disguise it) and cans of lemonade and packaged foods like pasta, and chips.

You can’t get decent chicken here, it’s always stringy and tough. But I have found a decent butchers shop and buy pork loin and beefsteak there. I buy bread and pastries from the bakery. Sometimes I go to a patisserie to find little cakes for dessert. At any one shopping trip, I can only buy as much as I can carry home on my own. The coopmarts and the supermarkets at the shopping malls have trolleys, but you can’t take them out the door, so I need to be able to carry my stuff to the taxi, and from the taxi to the apartment in one go. I walk to the market and bakery despite the heat. It’s not far, and I like the exercise, even though it’s not much. It’s easy to get exhausted in the heat.

So all this running back and forth between stores and markets, and figuring out what I need to buy and where I need to get it from takes quite a bit of time. I don’t do a weekly shop anymore, it’s more like a daily shop – of one sort or another. If I get a job I will need to change my routine, but at the moment it is working out just fine.

I have been cooking about 3 or 4 times a week. We both like to eat at home on nights when Martin is working, and we like to eat out at the weekends. We might eat out once or twice during the week, but its really easier just to eat at home. Martin works quite late, so I like to have food ready for him when he gets home, so we can sit and have a meal together and chat.

I only have one gas ring and a microwave. No oven. No other elements. There is actually an electric ceramic hotplate installed in the kitchen but it doesn’t work, and never has. Because I do a lot asian style cooking though, anyway, I find that one pot is enough. I have been provided with 3 pots and a medium sized deep frying pan – I would like to get myself a proper wok. I keep forgetting about this desire when I’m out and about, and only remember when I realize that I’ve overloaded my pan again and need to cook in small batches to stir-fry effectively. With a bigger wok it would take half the amount of time to cook.

I have a rice cooker. And I bought a toaster. There is a small electric kettle, and I boil filtered water in it for coffee (not tap). Our shipment of stuff is arriving soon, and I’ll do an audit of what I have after it gets here before I buy any more large kitchen equipment. But I remember that I didn’t pack much kitchen stuff, because I realized (correctly, as it turns out) that while I was waiting, I would need to buy a whole lot of stuff to use during the wait period. I only packed the things I loved, so we’ll see what comes out of the box on the day, and whether or not I still think I love it!

The only other domestic responsibility I have is to supervise any workers that come into the apartment. They come quite often. There’s always something going wrong with the plumbing, or lightbulbs exploding, or the internet going down. The water delivery man. The window washers. The other morning I had literally seven people in the house for 3 hours, tending to various things.

The domestic duties and Martin’s work schedule have created a routine for us, and we have found it really quite easy to settle in, and slip into this new life. Things will happen that will make our routine change (especially if I start working), but at the moment it is simple, and I like the gentle pace and the gradual introduction to Vietnam as a life lived, rather than as a holiday from a life somewhere else.