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. 

Melbourne: the characterless city

Woke up in Melbourne, flicked through the Lonely Planet and had this conversation:

Me: so what do you want to do? (I am practising being less controlling and more free, easy, flexible and compromising)

Frenchie: meh... I'm not sure there's much to see here. 

Me: you mean... in Australia's second city, historic, trendy, boho arts town?

Frenchie: meh... It just doesn't have much charm; it's not like Sydney, you know?

Me: ...?*

So obviously, whilst Frenchie was paying toll fees, I mapped out a colour coded route on the town map that included a variety of artistic, cultural and historical sites and Frenchie contributed a pretentious coffee stop (because he loves pretension!) and cross referenced the Lonely Planet information with what I could find on Wikipedia and drafted a set of guided tour notes to keep us informed for the rest of the day.

Flexible, easy, free and entirely uncontrolling. 

Obviously my efforts paid off as we explored a beautiful city full of historical buildings, arts centres, laneways, free self-guided tours of concert halls, awesome wicked cool hip hop dancers and beat boxers and pretentious, expensive but delicious breakfast, lunches and dinners. Have a selection of photos: 

Nowhere was Frenchie happier than the very cool Shaun Tan exhibition at the Australian version of the BFI.  There was quirky animation, introverted characters, imaginary friends and informative plaques, so Frenchie was fascinated and even agreed to pose for an embarrassingly adorable photo with the character he empathised with the most:

At this point I suspected that Frenchie had realised that Melbourne did in fact have personality, charm and character, but I didn't want to push it so I stayed quiet until we'd seen an exhibition on Geoffrey Rush, eaten some more, and spent a lot of money on tickets to see the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra play Mahler's 5th. I warned Frenchie that this wasn't easy listening like the Puccini and Brahms that he knows, and he struggled his way courageously through the first half of a modern, Australian composition named 'The Death of Socrates' (they always sell an awesome symphony with weird modern mumbo jumbo to ensure there's an audience and trick you into listening), studiously reading the programme and watching the conductor with a perplexed, scrunched up expression to gain a more informed and educated understanding of this world of classical music I am constantly dragging him into, and exited the theatre at the interval looking very confused:

Me: weird, right?

Frenchie: I didn't understand anything at all.

Me: I know, quite weird. 

Frenchie: I thought you said there were five movements. 

Me: ...?

Frenchie: and where was the trumpet solo at the beginning?

Me: ...?

Frenchie: no wonder that Mahler guy said it nobody understood it at the premiere. A hundred years later and still nobody gets it. I mean, he must have been really ahead of his time. He even had everything translated into English.* 

This is slightly amusing, if you know anything about Mahler's 5th. If not... sorry. 

Anyway, luckily, when Frenchie realised that he'd read the wrong page of the programme, he quite enjoyed the real Mahler and we were both fascinated by conductor Simone Young (woman - hoorah!) and I only got told off twice for using my iPad and camera during the performance. Honestly, the youth of today with their new-fangled technology gadgets, right?

So, just before we left to go to Cairns, Frenchie declared an official, royal republican decree, stating that Melbourne was 'impressive'. Very good!

For those of you who are aware, which is none of you because I kept this story quiet in order to protect my reputation as a Responsible Person: my credit card has finally caught up with me after being left at the hostel in Brisbane, forwarded on to the hotel in Sydney, where we missed it, and then forwarded on to Melbourne. Ahaha. When will I learn, hey?

*Frenchie claims liable and slander as he says I have entirely invented this conversation.  

Sydney-Melbourne

Happily back in Tin Can 2, which is not as nice as Tin Can 1 we have realised, Frenchie and I set off down the south east coast towards Melbourne. We only had three hours of driving to do, but this turned into four somehow, including a friendly stop by a policeman who unceremoniously shoved a breathalyser into Frenchie's face and almost fined him when I explained that he doesn't really drink. In Australia, this is a crime, but they let us off with a friendly reminder that the speed limit in a national park is zero mph because of the abundance of wildlife, and we continued on to our destination of Green Patch, Booderee National Park, Jervis Bay, which - slightly disappointingly - is completely deserted, untouched and looks like this:

Ugh. Life is so hard.  That rock, for example, has absolutely no respect for personal space. 

Only joking. After running around yelling, 'THIS IS BEAUTIFUL!  THIS IS BEAUTIFUL!', we decided to stay the night, despite the fact that there was no wifi or electricity.  What it did have was the grave of a girl named Harriet Parker who, in the 1800s was 'accidentally' shot by her friend Kate in an isolated lodge house nine miles from anything or anyone else. Creepy. 

So we had ghost stories, night time possums, kangaroos, wallabies and morning kookaburras for entertainment, and for food, we had the option of swish flat top BBQ in pitch darkness, or doubtful wood BBQ in the moonlight next to Harriet's grave. Frenchie assured me that he had spent many years as a member of a fascist Vichy Boy Scout group, and had learnt lots of things, including why the French are the supreme race, why intermarriage with foreigners is as good as treason and results in banishment to the colonies, and how to cook on a wood burning BBQ whilst evading food poisoning. Our steak, eggs, sausages and tea efforts were rewarded by the park rangers with two Camp Cooking badges for our sashes. I also earned my Transform the Tin Can badge (Frenchie got his between Brisbane and Sydney) and will be working on my Sunbathing badge, which is a challenge because despite the deceptive brightness of the pictures, it's actually quite chilly and I'm not sure how much of a tan you can get with leggings and a hoodie over your bikini. Both of us wimped out of our Bathe in the Bay badge because the water was really cold, but we did get up to hip height before both screaming like little girls and running back onto the beach. 

We then drove on to Tuross Head, and we weren't really expecting much but we were greeted with a beautiful moonlit beach and in the morning Frenchie made me breakfast (because my life is PERFECT) and we sat on the sand and watched the waves and ate sausages and eggs and all was right with the world. We then did adventure beach/lake shore walking over rocks and collected shells and hung out with sea birds and dreamed of coffee at the end of our adventure but found that Tuross Head is a ghost town in winter and everything is closed and there are no people to be seen other than an obese, toothless fisherman and his big dog... 

So we drove down to Eden through some very pretty countryside and stopped briefly for some coffee and a wedding magazine (gross disapproval from Frenchie) and arrived at yet another beautiful beach-lake campsite with slightly sinister undertones what with there being a graveyard next door and black swans on the lake. Although I am glossing over, slightly, these drives, they have been very entertaining. We have played lots of 'imagine we lived in that house/farm/ranch' and I have taught Frenchie to sing in the round since the radio doesn't work, and after three days he has mastered the words to 'kookaburra sits in the old gum tree' but cannot manage 'seek ye first' and so just sings 'hallelujah' to all the lines. He enjoys making up his own patriotic lyrics to 'London's burning' which included 'British dying, British dying!  Fire fire!  Fire fire!  French are laughing, French are laughing!'  He also insists on making up his own tune to 'gonna lay down my sword and shield', so this isn't working, currently, either. 

In Eden, we'd missed the whales, so instead we went for a walk through the national park of failed Victorian entrepreneur, Ben Boyd, lunched at yet another beautiful private beach and then headed down to Melbourne via a nowhere town called Paynesville. What we noticed on these last two days' driving was the whole lot of nothingness that exists between Eden and Melbourne. We drove for a very, very long time without seeing very much at all, and when we did pull into a petrol station in towns with population 200, the isolation was evident from the $5 they were charging for coffee. I guess it takes a lot of petrol and a truck driver's wage to get coffee beans into the middle of nowhere. 

Pictures to be added later when we (possibly) get some convenient Internet access!

Sydney

After the small-town feeling, sweeping beaches and inbreeding of places like Corindi and Cessnock, driving into Sydney over the Anzac Bridge was slightly overwhelming. So much so that we had to stop for chocolate and swap drivers so that Frenchie, rather than I had to deal with things like traffic lights and gear changes.

The rest of the day was spent doing very little other than saying goodbye to Tin Can 1 and vegetating in a room that was more than 2 square metres large.

The following day, however, we set off on a mission to learn about historical stuff and see impressive and world famous architecture. My agenda was filled with visions of tacky tourist photos in front of opera houses and bridges, whether Frenchie liked it or not and lo and behold, the photos were taken and Frenchie realised that tacky tourism is really fun!

Obviously, it rained for almost the whole day, because I'm British and I'd called ahead to make sure that the weather was to my liking.

Also to my liking was the collection of books in the Royal Mint library:

If you can't read it properly, the big book at the bottom is entitled 'Notorious Strumpets and Dangerous Girls', which is my second favourite book, the first being the third book down, 'Depraved and Disorderly'.

So we walked and walked and saw lots of churches and men playing giant chess and Art Deco type buildings and impressive streets and convict prisons and stuff, and then, with trumpets fanfaring, we rounded the corner to this: aaaaaaah.  Less exciting when it's sideways, but you get the idea.

Have a nighttime one, too:

We tried to get tickets to see Tosca, but since Australia believes that art definitely is not for everyone, we decided to waive the $300 charge and sing to ourselves in front of the opera house instead. It was just as good as the Sydney Opera Company, I assure you. 

We then walked through the pretty colonial dockyard of The Rocks, all the way up to the bridge, which was big and impressive and very high. 

All very exhausting, so the next day we had a museum day and got childish around some exhibitions, and then discovered an entirely pretentious Clapham-come-Islington-come-Brixton street called Newtown with lots of cool and trendy shops on it that I loved and Frenchie rolled his eyes at, though judging from this photo in a very trendy shop, he was loving every second of it:

 

TOO CUTE!

Back in another Tin Can very soon and onwards into the wilderness once more.  Over and out for now.