Big International School

Hello again!  This week has officially signalled the end of Settling In, and has heralded the start of Being Ready for School.  Encouragingly, for my new Big International School, the best way to do this was with alcohol and free food and over-excited networking and friend-making.  Putting on a brave face, and reminding myself to at least make an attempt at normality, I pranced around the room of a small French restaurant with a glass of white wine, introducing myself to, and doing the interested smile and nod when responses to my eager questions were given by potential New Friends.  Imagine if you will, a slightly more humid, but no less sweaty, posher Fresher's Week, and a hyperactive character from the muppets with an enormous afro of frizzy hair, and you may be picturing the scene appropriately.  I did let the Kermit the Frog smile slip out, but I think managed to avoid talking about poo for the entire evening. 

After 10pm, everything did become a little hazy, though, and involved outdoor bars, a multitude of pretty, tiny Vietnamese women in skimpy red dresses, old, fat Australian men and a rising feminist anger towards the repeated phrase, "But come on, Emma: who is really manipulating who in this situation?"  The women in tiny dresses are being manipulated by the men to whom they are serving large quantities of alcohol, and who are leering at them in a gross, pervy way!  Suffrage, people!

Clearly I will have to find my peace with this cultural phenomenon, because it's not going anywhere fast.  If you haven't read it yet, read 'The Quiet American', and please tell me who you think is manipulating who, and whether Passivity is Power.

I then did organised tourism to places I had already been, which really meant getting to know people even better on the buses, at the temples, and at the post office and in the market.  A group of girls and I sacked off the particular market they took us to as it is touristy and a bit intimidating (people want to touch you and sell you things you don't need for lots of money), and went for phở bò instead, which is the Vietnamese beef noodle soup.  It was delicious, but it did come up the following morning.  Oops.  After it had, though, I felt miles better, and had seconds at lunch time.

Today was my First Day at Big International School, which consisted of a lot of passive, awestruck activities, like wandering around the secondary and primary school on guided tours, inspecting photos to see how many bassoonists there are in the school (one, and a girl, yessssss!), listening to various presentations including one from our entirely hilarious primary school nurse, arguing with an AED machine, and informing us in a deadpan tone that if airways are blocked and we don't act fast, people will die.  If there is extreme blood loss and we don't act fast, people will die.  If there are serious burns or breakages, however, and we don't act fast, it's not too bad.  Unless it's a chemical or electrical burn, in which case, we should act fast or... you get the point.  I was also disgusted/amazed/immaturely amused to learn that there is such a thing called rectal diazepan that is used to treat epileptic seizures and as staff members we are a) permitted and b) expected to administer this should the situation require it.  Omg.  That would absolutely not be legal in the UK, and I'm not sure I'd like to risk it in case the Child Protection people jump out from behind a pillar and say, "Really?  Did you really think that would ever be acceptable?"

The school is very impressive, and I am very excited about finding out which classroom is mine, and buying Tupperware to bring my lunch in to heat up in the microwave, and getting involved with extra curricular activities, and figuring out whether, when private schools say 'the workload is heavy', it really means 'the workload is heavier than the madness you experienced over the last two years', or if it means 'the workload is heavier than you may have experienced at a good to outstanding school in the UK'.  I have a maximum class size of 24 as a pose to 35 and (I quote) 'behaviour is not an issue'.  Apparently students spend their lunch times doing their homework, and not because it's due in the next lesson... so... watch this space for comparisons in around six months time.

Off to figure out whether I can rent a scooter from just down the road, or whether I have to go all the way into town to do so.  Obviously, parents, I won't be riding this scooter on any real roads.  I will have it installed in my apartment as a piece of impressive cultural modern art, and I shall look at it and occasionally rest a cup of tea on it.

Xin chào!

My special hi-tech Stats page tells me that lots of people have been reading the blog.  Hoorah and huzzah!  Thank you and well done.  You do know you can comment and say hello, just by making a quick blogspot profile, right?  Right.  You should put this on your To Do List.  Also: if, by any chance, any of you happen to talk to Bridget Clay, please tell her that unless she emails me back with words of love and pining, she will not be enjoying the pleasure of my company, apartment and pool come October.

I may be blogging with obsessive frequency over the next few weeks as lots of new and exciting things happen, but we will all run out of steam when me living here, and you living there becomes humdrum.  Until then, let's ride this wave of excitement together!

Lots of new things have happened in A3 0401, Apartment of Serenity: I now have gas, light fittings, a washing machine and dryer installed and the internet!  I also bought an orchid to talk to, so that the front door didn't feel too under pressure to make conversation.  The front door only knows two words: 'hello?' and 'locked/bye : (' so sometimes gets a bit overwhelmed.  It's nice that I have the orchid to chat to as well.

On Friday night I organised a very successful soiree attended by the BIS teachers who had already arrived at their new Imperia homes.  I met lots of fun people and Made Friends, ending up in a funky cool bar where I played pool, partnered with a Vietnamese barman who was very good and won every game for us!  Well done that man.  Since then, my jetlag and fear of large groups of people - new, young, hip, attractive teachers have arrived en force today - have prevented me from achieving my social potential.  However, I intend on remedying this with witty repartee and the suggestion of more socialising tomorrow on the bus to my medical check.  In Vietnam you have to have a medical check to be granted a working visa.  If you are infected, they send you home.  If you are fat, sweaty and male, they offer you a young, beautiful Vietnamese girl to be your wife.  True say: I've seen it.  Hopefully they won't reject my visa application on grounds of being a little tubby library dweller, or a neurotically challenged weirdo.  There is a section for mental health, though I'm not entirely sure whether they'll be able to properly test this in the given time.  If I can just maintain a sense of normality for 30 minutes or so, and avoid making what my mother refers to as Care in the Community Conversation, then I should be good to stay here for another two years.

The tourist in me has also sprung forth with a vengeance: unable to sleep on Friday morning, I went into the town centre very early and putzed about in awe of Graham Greene sights such as the Continental Hotel.  If you haven't read 'The Quiet American', you should: it's good.  I also found a small super market that had everything I could have ever asked for, and I bought vegetables, and prawns, and salt and mushed lemongrass and soap.  It was a good day.  They also sell duck and quail eggs as standard here, which is very exciting.  Pictured is the Opera House and the Continental; some scooters at a crossing risking death; the Notre Dame church - the Mary statue apparently wept once; a big shiny building I know nothing about; and a map inside the Central Post Office, designed by Gustave Eiffel, of Eiffel Tower fame.




I then spent Sunday at the zoo and took a lot of pictures of animals.  I won't bore you with them now, but I'm trying to set up a photobucket account that will allow me to post all my photos for you to peruse at your leisure.  There are lots of butterflies and elephants.  Turns out I'm a nature enthusiast.  I then went for ice cream with another family at a place called 'Fanny's'.  Lolz!  I didn't take a photo, and I am so sad I didn't.  I was with a five year old and an 11 month old; I wasn't sure if it was appropriate.

Xin chào, by the way, and cám ơn are the two phrases I have spent this week perfecting: 'Hello!' and 'thank you!'  Next I will learn taxi directions.  And then I will learn to say, 'I'm sorry I'm completely useless at this language'.  That is, after the lift man has taught me every number in my building.

Comments please! (It makes me feel loved and stuff).

Daily Challenges

So.  I won’t lie: Vietnam is pretty fun so far, and full of Daily Challenges to be overcome in order to win prizes, much like the Crystal Maze.  Yesterday’s challenge was the Move To An Entirely Different Country Challenge, which I passed with flying colours, to be rewarded with a beautiful apartment, air conditioning and new friends.  Great prizes, right?

Sadly, however, I failed one of today’s challenges, which was the Internet Challenge, but have been able to trade in tokens earned in the Make New Friends Challenge, and have been rewarded with wifi from New Friend Abi to bring you all this very latest blog update.  It is also very important to note that I cannot access Facebook here.  Repeat: cannot access Facebook.  So if you want to know what I’m doing, you have to read the blog, and if you want personalised messages, I need your email address.

Despite dropping down the league table with Internet setback, I did extremely well at the Supermarket Challenge, which was more complicated than it at first appeared as it involved gathering together many weapons in preparation for the task, such as the knowledge of where the supermarket was, a members card stolen from the Information Centre boss, Ms Hua Thi Hong Cam and a taxi booked by Ms Van.  Ms Van is set to become my absolute Vietnamese bezzie (we’ve already swapped phone numbers), as she is the source of all important information such as why internet man can’t install the internet, but when this problem will be amended, when the gas man can come, and how much a water filter will cost me.  She lives in the Information Centre and, as I am finding most petite Vietnamese women do, runs everywhere in an enthusiastic and over-excited way.

Our local Costco-style supermarket is called Metro and has everything in bulk.  Whilst wandering around in a slight daze adding up the millions of dong I was spending and dividing by thirty two, some inadvertent ‘speaking to myself’ slipped out around the milk:

            Crazy Emma: urgh, it’s all full fat.  Where’s the semi skimmed?

Friendly Stranger: there’s some here – Anchor.  It’s also one of the cheaper brands.

Friendly stranger is called Ceri and her husband works in oil and she is organising a Scottish dance (I’d like to refer to this as a kayliegh, but know this is not the right spelling and am embarrassed) in November.  Apparently BIS always take a table and they’re a lot of fun, so maybe she will see us there (Abi had joined me by this point).  We even got her number!  If making friends is this easy in Vietnam, I think I should reduce the points it is worth as a challenge.  So far it’s worth 20, which is quite a lot.  Internet is worth about 100 because of its value.  Acquiring gas: also 10.  Post-Supermarket Challenge, my kitchen now smells of French bread and onions, and I am drinking tea out of double handled mugs.

Now for some atmospheric description: inside my apartment it is a cool oasis of air conditioned calm.  The floors are either shiny white tiles or hardwood floorboards; the sheets (in both bedrooms) are white as snow; there is a walk in wardrobe where I can hide if anyone comes to get me; there is an en-suite bathroom with a shower that has two shower heads – a little one for everyday showers, and a huge one for battering traumatic thoughts out of your head via water.  I haven’t learnt how to use the Trauma Shower yet, as I have had no traumas.  Soon, I have no doubt, there will be reason for the Trauma Shower – maybe permanent inability to access the internet – and I shall blog about it via Abi’s wifi in great detail.  (It’s good to be realistic).  My door talks to me to tell me it is locked, but I translate the funny Vietnamese sounds as ‘Hello!’ and ‘Bye L’, and as such feel welcomed and missed every time I arrive or leave.  What a loving front door!  In the kitchen all the surfaces are shiny, and there is a washing machine and a tumble dryer placed delicately in the middle of everything, unplumbed because the roof for them on my little outside balcony is not yet built.  Hmm. 

It is at this point that The Curse of Unfinished Accommodation, by which I have been afflicted for two years now, kicks in.  The Imperia apartments are a new build, and as such are pretty much a construction site outside of my front door.  When they are finished (when will this be?) I will be living in a 5* hotel, but for now I must resist the temptation to pull off the masking tape along the corridors, or scrawl my name and mark my height on the unpainted walls.  Little workmen ring my doorbell with alarming regularity, walk in, speak Vietnamese to me, realise they can’t do whatever it was they came to do because the infrastructure is not yet ready, or that they are in the wrong apartment, or – on one occasion – fix my door, and then leave.  I can’t imagine how this would look to the neighbours, but so far I don’t think I have any, so it’s okay.

The lifts work, internally covered in blue plastic sheeting, and swimming pool in the courtyard is up and running, and is enormous and blissful so I went for a swim last night at around 10:30pm once the workmen – of which there are millions (communism, hey?) – had gone home.  I was then kindly looked after by an elderly security guard, who led me to the entirely wrong lobby, convinced that this was where I lived, despite my insistence that this was not my new home.  Ah, the hilarity of language barriers.

Today, the lift man taught me to say ‘four’, which is my floor number.  The taxi man tried to teach me to say ‘thank you’, but I keep getting the pronunciation wrong so people will just have to think me ungrateful for now.  The lift lady held my hand and a workman told me I was beautiful.  Either the Vietnamese are a very friendly peoples, or I should start being more vigilant about who I am letting into my apartment so freely…

Finished the day by walking out to our local neighbourhood to buy orchids so that I have someone else other than the front door, and the milk section of supermarkets to talk to when Abi isn’t around.  Photos of apartments etcetera shall follow.

Bananagrams

As you can probably tell, long haul flights are quite boring.  Took a pill on the second one and passed out for pretty much nine hours.

Rabies

My visa, when I finally went back to get it (in a different glamorous sun hat and summer dress that suited the Gloucester Road post code) ended up being pretty cool.  The picture comes out upside down because Vietnam is on the other side of the world and this is how they do things there.

Incidentally, I then had the most uber-cool panic attack which involved the realisation that because I have been so cool and travelly since the issuing of my passport in 2005, I may not have enough pages to fit all the visas to all the awesome countries I will be galavanting off to in the next two years.  That is a pretty cool predicament, albeit a little travel-knobby.

I also had my last set of jabs, hurriedly stabbed into me by a rushed nurse who was annoyed with me for being late to the appointment.  I stumbled into the room apologising for my poor time keeping, she gasped and cried, 'you're very lucky I was able to see you!' and then shook her head at me as I explained that I had been too disorganised to get my rabies prescription in time for the appointment.  You see, for rabies, you go to the pharmacist and pay for the vial over the counter and keep it in your fridge with your genetically modified cells, and the urine sample you may need one day, just next to the milk and orange juice, and then you take it to your doctor and they jab it into you.  In my defence, in the previous 24 hours I had gone to about four pharmacies (I told everyone six - hyperbole much?) and asked if they had it, but apparently pharmacies in the UK do not keep rabies vials in stock.  This is too bad as, of all the four jabs I had today, rabies is probably the most important.  If you get bitten by a rabid animal, the rabies jab doesn't even save you, it just gives you a sacred 24 hours to get to a hospital to receive treatment.  Without it, it is my understanding that you begin frothing at the mouth instantly, and dissolve into a puddle of saliva, which is then licked up by whatever dirty creature has nibbled you in the first place.  This is obviously absolutely no help if you are in the middle of the jungle/desert/mountainous area/ocean/savannah, three days' walk away from the nearest first aid shack, where most rabid beasts are to be found.  It seems like a Catch-22 situation to me.

Anywho, having charmed the nurse out of her fury with delightful small talk and £25 for a Hep B jab, I wrapped my dead arms around my neck for safe keeping, much like the fashionable arm scarves you see the top models wearing nowadays, and sloped off round the corner to the local pharmacist.  On a whim, and because I love irony more than anything, I popped in to see if they had a rabies vial in stock.  Obviously they wouldn't, since all the Boots-the-Chemists and Superdrugs across the whole of Greater London didn't.

Except they did.

Lolz!  I wonder if this has anything to do with the proximity of the pharmacists to my dearly beloved school, termly resting place of numerous children who froth at the mouth with alarming regularity?  Metaphorically, guys...

I now had four options:

1. Re-book an appointment with my nurse, who only works on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday mornings (today was Tuesday morning), and is booked up until the middle of September (today was the beginning of August.  I leave next Tuesday.).
2. Administer the jab myself.  Millie did it at Heathrow Airport with her Hep B, so why not me, Stockingstone Road, and rabies?
3. Find a drop in centre and hang around until a doctor could shove a needle in my arm again.
3. Seek out a friendly medical professional who would be happy to administer the jab in exchange for a glass of red wine.

Other than #2 (dangerous) #4 sounded like the most fun, so first port of call was Dr. Clay, esteemed sibling of Bridget Clay, but turns out she's too busy delivering babies and watching volleyball to be of any use.  Luckily, however, my dearly beloved sister has a friend who has a) brains b) medical qualifications c) a generous heart, who will apparently delight in the intra-muscular pain that the impending injection will cause me.  Thank goodness for highly and usefully qualified - if not slightly sadistic - friends of siblings.

Today I bought more clothes...

... that is all.

I do not know if they will fit into the suitcase I have not yet bought.

Visa-vis... aha!

So.  Having sobbed until I couldn't breathe on the penultimate day of term and wailed all my sorrows and overwhelming emotions to Bridget through a glass of red wine, punctuated by the occasional hiccough, I spent my last day brutally dismissing any attempt to capture a sentimental moment.

At 8:15am, my previous year 11 class, 98% of whom I have not formally taught this year, rocked up with an enormous bunch of flowers, a framed photograph, chocolates and a card.  To be fair, I threw child protection out of the window for a group hug with them, the legends.  However, non-uniform day had to be organised with a very disorganised form so I shushed them away to let me 'get on with it'.

Throughout the day, little people bleated, 'Why are you leeeeaving?' whilst handing me chocolates and cards.    Because the alcohol here is too expensive, the weather atrocious, and the children ask too many questions, small person.  That's why!  One darling handed me a little book of 'good luck' and 'thank you teacher' poems she had compiled.  I hugged a colleague in front of a year 9 French class when she came in to give me After Eights.  How did she know I love these?  They are my Christmas-gorge-yourself-and-feel-sick favourite.  I sat through two deathly boring assemblies, and at the end of the second, was handed roses and thanked in the awkward prepubescent way that teenagers show their gratitude, for being the best form tutor ever.  I said, 'Great, thanks, you guys.  You better run before you miss your buses.'  I wailed goodbye repeatedly to the most difficult child in my form, just for shits and giggles: he completely ignored me and left without even so much as a goodbye.  Fool.

The only way of taking all of this in, obviously, is to lay out all the presents in a sea of cards and chocolates and flowers and bookmarks whilst you, the island, sit absorbing the adoration whilst drinking your third glass of end-of-term champagne with the Bridge and listing all the things you definitely will not miss, ever.  Including the bell that rings at 9pm that can be heard from your house, and at all lesson times over the weekend as a constant reminder that you have work on Monday... work on Monday...

Turns out, I haven't got work on Monday!  Ahaha!  It's Tuesday and I haven't had to do any work at all (but I have still been having anxiety dreams about marking and detentions and telling children off who deserve to be told off).  Today, I spent my time on more important things: addressing The Vietnam List of Importance and Urgency.  So far, I have ticked the following off The List:

- Purchase appropriate shoes for enormous Western feet as Asian feet do not grow to this size;
- Order, try on and prance about it Summer Wardrobe from Dorothy Perkins;
- Organise Last Suppers with various friends and family in various locations;
- Return to the womb and hibernate in parents' house;
- Acclimatise to Vietnamese heat by getting sunburnt on neck, arms and face.
- Apply for, but not pick up visa.

Now the last one is a funny one.  In a state of holiday relaxation, thinking, 'there's nothing that needs to be done today, now or ever', I strolled to the station and hopped on a train at around 10:49am.  I got to the Vietnamese Embassy at 12:05 (it closes at 12:30).  Having travelled before to various silly destinations, I know that embassies fall into two categories:

a) The Russia: arrive at 9:30am on the first attempt to find a queue of 60 people.  Wait in the queue until 12:30pm, and then get turned away.  Turn up at 6:30am on the second attempt to find a queue of 15 people.  Queue until 11:30am and get visas.

b) The Syria: turn up at 6:30am to find no queue and abandoned square.  Sit on pavement, visit Starbucks, walk around the block, snooze against a lamppost until 9:30am when embassy is opened by friendly looking man.  Be first in queue and have visa processed in 20 minutes.  Leave at 9:50am and go straight to work for eight hours.  Commit suicide by 4pm due to fatigue.

Luckily, the Vietnamese Embassy falls into the 'b) Syria' category and when I rocked up at 12:05, I had just enough time to fill in the form and pass my beloved passport over to the kind lady behind the counter.  I asked when I could pick it up.  She said 12:30.  I looked at the clock, which said 12:15.  I thanked her, but another, uncontrolled part of my brain took me out of the building and to a posh restaurant for a prix fixe lunch where I read 'The Quiet American', felt glamorous, and perved on the good-looking barmen.  I ponced back at 1:30pm, thinking the embassy would be open for me to pick up my visa and wander on home but, as I already knew (I had looked it up this morning), the embassy only opens between 9:30am-12:30pm.

Hmm.  Will have to pick it up on Thursday. With any luck, they won't make too many photocopies of my passport and sell them to various illegal immigrants in the meantime...

Ooh.  'Henry V' is on the BBC.  I remember these 'key scenes'.  Adrian Lester is in it!