Motorcycle Diaries

Since being in Vietnam I've had three trusty, and not so trusty bike companions who have facilitated many adventures, great and small.  The first, Little Moto, was so reliable and awesome that he got his own blog post, and a picture, which pretty much makes him a celebrity in Vietnam; the second was Kicker, who was so annoying (had to be kick started every time because the ignition didn't work) that I gave him back only after a month or so; and now I have Wobbler who, after a flat tyre that lead to what I suspect is a crushed wheel (whatever the metal interior bit is called) now wobbles disconcertingly if I drive too fast. 

In general, I am a very safe driver. When given the option of life or death, I invariably choose life, even if I'm late for something, or quite tired. Evidence to this is that I spent my first 11 months on a bike without mishap, which is quite something in Saigon. I'd say the average time spent before a significant accident is around 3 months, so I was really beating statistics. 

However, a few weeks ago, as I was on my way to a birthday party, a pizza delivery boy failed to acknowledge my existence and, essentially, drove straight into me from the side. My bike slid sideways, I face planted in the middle of a busy road, and I lost my shoe. 

It's funny what your brain does in situations like these. My first thoughts were that I needed to get out of the road, sharpish; my second that I quite liked that shoe, and needed to try and save it without having my hand run over. Thankfully I was able to salvage it and then get out of the road and into the nearest bar, whereupon the most wonderful demonstrations of humanity took the sting out of the whole event. First aid kits and green tea were produced; strangers got my bike to safety on the pavement; another stranger took my helmet off for me; I was ushered into a bathroom and then bettadined whilst squealing like a girl; ice bags were producdd; a taxi was flagged down and my bike looked after. Really, human beings are the most wonderful things. 

I managed not to cry until I got into the taxi, where I made all sorts of strange, suppressed noises, because I didn't want to bother the taxi driver, but really, this was probably a lot weirder and more disturbing for him. He had to rummage through my bag and take money out of my purse when we got to my apartments because my palms were ripped to shreds, and he did the whole thing without pinching any doe, which is very comforting. 

I managed to get to Risk or Death, who regaled me with stories of when she had biked through the deserts of Azerbajan in hot pursuit of international bandits and sustained similar injuries, and Frenchie took one look at me lain out, helpless on the sofa, when he popped over the weekend and said, "Eh, I 'av 'ad worse eenjuries een rugby. You Eenglish, you are 'elpless een ze face ov pain!', to which I agreed and plaintively asked for a cup of tea 

It took a day or so to get back on poor Wobbler once we'd picked him up from the bar and hammered the foot pedal away from the gear pedals (I say 'we' - some helpful Vietnamese men did it) but I got back on eventually, wrist splint, dressing and all, and spent about three days riding to work with one trouser leg rolled up so that the oozing wound on my leg could air. Mmmm. Tasty. 

Shallow wounds to the palms, left elbow, knees and hips were sustained, but all in all, not too bad an induction into the world of motor cycle crashes!

Anniversaire

This weekend marks a whole twelve months of Frenchie putting up with me and measuring his commitment to me in plane tickets, by allowing me to eat airport Burger Kings, in arguments about the colour purple (not the book) and in numerous nail biting and incredulous passport related stories. Yea verily, it must be true love. 

Thus we decided to celebrate our funny little union by being tourists and going to the South East Asia Aquarium, since we both quite like fish, Frenchie especially, as they talk far less than I do. To get to this Aquarium, we got to go on a cable car. Cool!  Have a picture:

It's me!  Looking only mildly frizzy-haired, but definitely a but gimpy. 

When we arrived at Sentosa, which is an island near Singapore, I had a bit of a culture shock and walked around a little dazed because as a child I didn't really go to theme parks and entire islands made up of plastic and concrete and FUN scare me a little bit. We decided to get on a free bus to go to the aquarium, and when a super friendly, over enthusiastic voice encouraged us to enjoy our time on ASIA'S FAVOURITE ISLAND!!! I stared at Frenchie, petrified, and asked to get off. 

Luckily, there was a Starbucks at our alighting bus stop, since efficient money grabbing from tourists is what Starbucks is all about, and I sat, glancing furtively at everything like a small, furry, caged animal, in a corner, drinking a frappucino until I felt better. 

Motivated by the promise of yet another In The World (I have previously a lot of driest/highest/largest In The Worlds in South America and do like to tick them off my list), we pushed on to the aquarium. 

We had been sensible enough to book our tickets online so laughed at all the other losers who were queuing for 15-30 minutes and pranced through an interesting looking exhibition of the history of maritime trade before being told that there was yet another queue of 45 minutes to endure. Oh. 

Luckily, we were in positive frappucino moods, and this only served to heighten the excitement and anticipation. By the time we finally got through the turnstiles, I lost Frenchie in a crowd, and found him, a few moments later, like this:

Frenchie really likes fish. 

Even more excitement was to come, though, but to go through it verbally would be boring. Instead, have some cool pictures of our favourite things:

10 points if you can spot the cuttlefish. 

These are massive. Like nightmares. 

These are actually transparent, and they had a really cool light show which made them change colour. Awesome. 

Like outer space!

Jellyfish ARE like aliens!

Really big, ugly grouper. 

Awesome manta ray!

Awesome other kind of ray!

These were Frenchie's favourites. Because of the colour. Obviously. 

If that wasn't all exciting enough for an anniversary, we returned home for our furniture present delivery. Now some of you might be thinking 'furniture?!  What are you, sixty?  Are you celebrating your diamond wedding anniversary?' which would be silly of you, because the wedding's not until December, but I appreciate that furniture doesn't scream 'young and madly in love'. When Frenchie picks it, though, it does scream 'awesome and travelly and cool'... but I forgot to take a picture of it, so you'll just have to take my word for it and wait impatiently for a picture of the anniversary furniture. 

Mr. Monkey's Many Adventures

Today's blog is filled with many exciting things, of Li Hi and Li Hi Wannabe proportions as I haven't blogged for a good long while and there is a lot to catch up on!

Firstly, and most excitingly, our assembly this morning was lead by an Arctic Explorer.  Wow.  What's even more wow is that he is 23 years old, and by this age has already been to the South Pole, set up his own business about the ocean and written a book about his trip to the South Pole.  I sat through the assembly, and even though I was chuckling at his numerous penguin jokes and photos of him in a penguin costume, I did ask myself: I am 26 - what, pray, have I done with my meagre and insignificant life?  Admittedly, this was slightly depressing and un-Li Hi and now I am trying to figure out how to organise a form trip to the moon.  I shall market it as 'Year 7: Space Exploration', and we shall tie it in with many cross-curricular activities including sci fi literature and Science and Geography lessons, and each child shall play an instrument to perform the 'E.T.' soundtrack as we are taking off.

Yes.

Then I shall travel around international schools empowering them to lead similar trips, and I too shall write a book, except mine will include lesson plans and pictures from outer space.

Back in reality, Risk or Death and I have had a rather relaxed few months, stretching our Li Hi desires to far less than their full extent by taking up yoga and by travelling to Singapore on our long weekends. Our visit to Singapore was very exciting and hedonistic and a great chance to meet and get to know RoD's new friend, Mr. Monkey, who, it turns out, has a number of things in common with us:

So we got along splendidly!  Mr. Monkey is a barrel of laughs, and we get away with taking pictures of him in public places and at national landmarks by explaining hat RoD is a primary school teacher and thus needs to create a 'Mr. Monkey Goes to Singapore' Powerpoint to show her five-year-olds.  I'm not sure if this presentation will/would ever have existed, but there is enough truth in it to help us sound convincing - not enough to get a picture with passport control, but enough to get us FREE SCARVES from the wonderful people at the Skybar on the top of the Marina Bay Sands Hotel.  How cool is that?  A lovely waiter man (Tristan) had his photo taken with Mr. Monkey, and then, as Mr. Monkey was posing in front of the skyline, he literally ran up to us, sweating and panting and gave us scarves!

Tristan: (panting)  Where is your colleague?
Me: oh!  Mr. Monkey?  He's over there, having his photo taken against the night skyline.
Tristan: please, take these (offers scarves) and wish the children all the best from us at the Sky Bar and Marina Bay Sands.
Me: thank you!  I shall take them.  For the sake of the children.

Cool.

I have seen this fo' real, yo.

Whilst that was an indulgent and exciting weekend, our new yoga hobby (which is often followed by gin, since we are now embracing the whole expat housewife lifestyle) is a little more Li Hi.  Every week we stroll in, trying not to be noticed, we shuffle our bottoms into our yoga mats (mine is purple, like all the others; RoD's is pink with flowers on it because she brings her own from home) and we chat about y'know, stuff and the weather and whatnot and then stern, slightly camp yoga man demands that we breathe really loudly and stretch and contort ourselves and RoD and I assume out serious faces and inhale exhale.

Our serious faces don't last for long because yoga, just in case you are unfamiliar with it, involves lots of very amusing poses like that 'lie-on-your-back-and-spread-your-legs-apart' pose, which I personally like to call the Position of Women's Oppression, or the 'sit-half-way-down-and-balance' pose, also known as the Really Reluctant Poo Position.  Some of the most upsetting for us are the more simple of poses, like the one that requires you to stand straight and then bend over and hold onto your ankles.  I approach such positions with a bit of a smug 'at least I don't fall over on this one' attitude, and even peek a look at myself in one of the three way mirrors to see how flexible and bendy and awesome I look in my leggings and baggy t-shirt.  Alas, I am only to be greeted by the sight of the lithe and supple Vietnamese ladies in the class who can literally - no exaggeration at all - bend themselves in half and touch their forehead to their knees.  It shouldn't be humanly possible to do this, nor should it be in accordance with the laws of physics that a sixty something year old Vietnamese woman should be able to do the splits in a straight line and then lie flat on her face with her hips, stomach, boobs, chin and forehead touching the floor.

Not photoshopped.  I've seen it with my very own watering eyes.

My comparative whale-like voluminousness sets me giggling in embarrassed shame: I am not flexible; I am not bendy; I am stiff and rubbish at yoga and I'm very sorry.  I try to stifle the laughs.  I look up to the ceiling.  My chest begins to shake as much as the muscles in my poorly toned legs and my abs whilst doing the plank.  I think I can keep it under control, but then I catch RoD's eye in the mirror and hear her make a weird snortsnuffle sound and suddenly, as the camp yoga man comes around and pushes down on my bum to make me stretch, I burst out laughing, really loudly in a guffawing kind of way and I spit in his face a little bit by accident.

He looks at me, disgusted.  I am horrified, but still laughing.  I am so very embarrassed.

"Come on!" he says, "At least try!"

What he doesn't realise is that I've been expending all my mental and physical energies for the past year on this (chorus of cherubim a and angels, please):

WOW.  Look at the GOLD letters!  Look at the RED RIBBON book mark!

...yes. That is nail varnish remover on my desk.

The Great Return

Ah!  Vietnam!

Land of mopeds and chickens in cages;

Great paysage of paddy fields and brown rivers. 

Where else can I eat a banh mi for 80p?

Or purchase great swathes of white cotton?

Yea verily, I understand not your bank accounts,

Or why the shop sells not bread,

But ah, Vietnam!  How I love thee!

So. Vietnam, ey?  Country of economic boom and rapid industrialisation?  Well, if you, like me, don't know what these things mean, I shall describe them in Emma language, which involves concrete objects that you can visualise.

All of that FTSE 100 stuff means that in the five weeks I've been away, the following stuff has happened:

- there are lots of new roads and buildings that had been started are now finished. There's even actual work going on at the site where the metro station will apparently go. Wow. Infrastructure. 

- there's now a yoga studio, a cafe, a shop that doesn't sell bread, a card system, a new entry system to the car park and new staff at my apartment buildings and apparently there will be a bakery very soon. Maybe they will sell bread? I now no longer have to go anywhere, but I will still go to my veggie market because it is cheap, local, awesome and has ball trees:

Not to mention flower towers:

Cool. 

- my bike man has moved house and his daughter is bigger than she was before. Apparently babies grow. Who knew?

- they have made a paved bus stop instead of letting people stand in the middle of the highway to flag the bus!  True progress. 

- Slender Laurel has an entirely new bathroom. Shiny. 

Some things do not change though: the Internet took two days to kick back in, and after riding around for 30 minutes trying to find the post office where my packages were being held, I gave up and came home. People in Vietnam think that places are in completely different places from where the previous person has said they were. I asked like, 8 people (in my amazingly proficient Vietnamese) and they all said the post office was somewhere else where it wasn't. No good!

However, all very good to be back, especially as I was greeted almost immediately with a wonderful shipment from home:

NIE

So. When I finally made it back to Singapore, the faint remembrance of some form of what Frenchie kept referring to as 'employment' kept nagging at me until, unable to ignore it any longer, I asked Risk or Death what it was we did when we weren't losing passports, throwing ourselves into abysses or driving in the wilderness and it turns out that I'm responsible for the literacy of a handful of young people. Panicked, and unconvinced by my own abilities, I found the nearest library and got my hands on a copy of this:

It was the big red emphasised letters that attracted me. This book has an appropriate sense of urgency. 

Not really, you guys!  I didn't really forget I was a teacher. Sillies. 

This week actually signalled the last week (hold your hip hip hoorahs: we cannot celebrate until the 1st September) of Important Reading for Masters Dissertation, undertaken at the National Institue of Education, which is part of the National University of Singapore which really is a delight, and here is why:

1. They have a Starbucks. 

2. They have lots of books about education (and probably about other things) that they let me read and take photos of when reading is too much.  

3. They have a free bus transfer to the MRT station (free!). 

4. They have awesomely named seminar wings:

In room B1-10 you get to talk a lot (chortle chortle, teacher joke). 

5. They have awesome clubs and activities. I know this because when I visited today, I walked straight into the Fresher's Fair, so I thought it only right to sign up for a club where I could continue to develop my already expert talents:

That's right. 

Next fascinating Masters update: 01.09.13. If it's before this, then it will be filled with despair and panic and some copied and pasted words that I need to hide somewhere. 

Home time!

Going through immigration in Darwin on my way home today was obviously a nerve-wracking and tense experience. I feared that Lady #2, with nothing better to do with her sad, bullying life, would be there waiting for me and I, full of vengeful rage, would see red and there would be a ruckus that I would lose because she was much bigger than me, more aggressive and generally seemed more at home with uncouth, violent behaviours, the big she-man that she was. Thankfully, no such altercation occurred, but I did approach the desk with a slightly sick feeling in my stomach, and handed over my passport as humbly as I possibly could, waiting for the new immigration lady's face to screw up slightly as she read the message that Lady #2 had left four weeks ago declaring me to be an international identity criminal. The conversation went thus:

Immigration Lady: (on seeing the stickers on my passport) ahaha. It's your luggage stickers. 

Me: (meekly) yes. Otherwise I lose them. I'm good at losing things. 

Immigration Lady: (gives acknowledging nod)

Me: (growing bolder) in fact, this trip I lost my credit card and my driving license, but they caught up with me eventually. The hotel staff are very nice here. 

Immigration Lady: (hands passport back) have a nice trip. 

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not even a blink of anything wrong. Absolute complete nonsense from Lady #2 who probably didn't even know how to use a computer, let alone put an international security warning on it. We had to disregard two flights, take an additional one as well as three nights in a hotel and three days watching paint dry in Darwin for nothing!  Expletives upon expletives!  Words cannot express how much I would like to sit that woman down and make her feel terrible about the fact that she full out lied to us for zero reason at all. 

In Singapore, they didn't even take the passport out of its cute blue holder with a white squishy aeroplane on the front!

Anyway, after a delay of four hours, alighting one plane that taxied down the runway, got ready to take off and then changed its mind, a change of plane and the meltdown of some German children at around 10pm, we are finally back in Singapore which, according to Frenchie, smells of organisation. Yes. And friendliness. 

Cairns

So there's something about northern Australia that hates me. Maybe, a long time ago, my ancestors were the British jailers who were mean to their convict ancestors, and the aboriginal curse still remains, or something. Whatever it is, this part of the country is not being shy about letting me know how it feels about me. 

When we arrived in Cairns, it signalled the end of Frenchie's holiday. I was brave for about a second and then sulked and pined and sank into seas of de-motivation. When he took a break from crocodiles to call me to check I wasn't drinking gallons of red wine to drown my abandonment issues, all I had to tell him was that I was in the art gallery, and that it was boring and when was he coming back?

The art gallery wasn't entirely awful: I found an attic gallery that I mentally converted into a flash penthouse suite and I looked in the giftshop, and eventually I pulled myself together to formulate a plan to keep me occupied whilst Frenchie was away in Papa New Guinea for three days. Really, what is this thing called 'work' that the rest of the world seem to be so preoccupied with?  Don't you people know that it's the Summer Holidays and as a child at heart you should demand six weeks off from your employers?  Throw down your clipboards and desktop computers!  Unbutton the top two buttons of your shirt and, hell, untuck it!  Turn to the nearest authority figure and say, "You can't do nuffin'. It's the 'olidays!  Naaaaaaaaah!" and then run away. Then, when you're fired, become a teacher!

Anyway, back on topic, I had a big plan that did not involve the Great Barrier Reef who, frankly, I am going to personify as a big, fat, smoking-jacket wearing aristocrat that nobody likes because he lies around getting sunburnt with a bald head and a cravat saying, "Those buggers want to dive?  Well let them dive, bloody hippie proletariat!  Charge them a pretty penny for it, Jeeves, and them we'll see how much they want to dive. Fiscal selection, that's what I say!"  And then he laughs like a pompous balloon and sips at his cognac whilst floating on the waves of his private beach on a blow up lilo. Great Barrier Reef...

My plan involved hiring cars, driving to uncrowded beaches, drinking tea in hippie beach teahouses and waving the proverbial vs at Cairns from its smaller, more northern cousin, Port Douglas. Good old Dougie, I thought, but it appeared I had been deceived and those I thought were allies were in fact double agents. Oh!  Et tu Dougie?

Arrived at Avis rentacar office, having had little sleep due to Frenchie's early flight and my desperately romantic goodbyes, tears, hanky waving and the like, only to find that my credit card, which has only just made it back to me after its own express post jet setting down the east coast in an envelope, was declared to have 'invalid details'. Why does Australia want to erase my existence?!  The nice lady with coffee stains on her blouse tried a number of times, and we tried to trick the system, but no, the payment could not be taken and the payment could not be made in cash. Good thing, too, because the ATM also denied my validity and so I sat, despondent, next to a manmade lagoon (not even a real beach because of the mud and the crocodiles and the jellyfish - north Australia sucks) and waited until Vietnam opened for business. Luckily, what Cairns does have is community wifi, so I was able to Skype a nice lady who insisted that I request the 'savings' option when abroad, rather than the 'checking' or 'credit'. Who knew?

Cash flow was restored, but still no luck with the card machine so I had breakfast and discovered that in order to select 'checking' you have to have a pin. 

Waitress: if you could just enter your pin?

Me: it's Vietnam. They don't have pins. 

I mean, I'm sure they do, but my Vietnam doesn't have a pin. 

Full of eggs and tea, I find the fighter in me and rise to the challenge, attempting to trick the system by paying online, which is apparently allowed. Hopefully, I rock up to Europcar, trying to look valid.  Europcar man insists he can help me, takes one look at my card, backtracks and explains that the number on my card is not embossed and therefore is no help to me or him. Embossed?  Embossed?! Turns out the Great Barrier Reef is not the only snob on the block. For the second time that day, someone asks me, with skepticism, if the 'fiancé' I have referred to has an embossed card. Having explained that I have a Vietnamese account and handed over a British driving license, I calmly inform both that no, he is in PNG, but works in Australia, hence why I am here. I refrain from telling them that he is French, but is based in Singapore, because really, life is becoming ridiculous at this point and if I start talking, I might have to carry on and explain how difficult organising a legal and valid wedding is when you're 'in our position' and one of us is apparently invalid in many legal ways!  

Take a breath. 

They nod, understanding that there is no 'fiancé', or bank account, or identity, just a fabrication of my invalid imagination, and that they should only use slow movements from now on, if indeed, there even is a hysterical woman standing in front of them. Maybe they too are dreaming, since they are Australian and thus according to their laws, I don't exist?

Then I phoned two call centres in two different countries, spoke to people of two different nationalities (different to the country I'm calling) to get a refund, checked in at a hostel (paid in cash) and then went and lay by the lagoon for three hours remembering how all-consuming a good book can be. 

Ate sushi, the sushi ladies were nice to me; spent twenty minutes looking for a cinema because I can't read maps; watched a film and laughed out loud and unashamedy at all the jokes like a lonely lunatic. 

Now I feel a bit better, and hopefully will master the bus system tomorrow and show them who's boss and not get too sunburnt.