English Crass

Nha Trang, Vietnam. Teaching English is a far more rewarding experience than I would have imagined. The difference between compulsory attendance and personal volition in a classroom setting is astounding. My students are eager, engaged, determined and genuinely excited to learn. This is in marked contrast to my own school years, from which I recall tedium, sleepiness, scribbling lyrics in the margins of my notebook and surreptitiously ogling my female classmates. Somewhere along that oblivious path I managed to graduate with a degree in something or other. I am clearly prepared for this.

There are some interesting challenges in teaching a language that has both sounds and letters that are unfamiliar to non-native speakers. I often find myself pursing my lips, contorting my face and drooling down my chin in a futile attempt to encourage emulation. We once spent an entire class lesson simply trying to pronounce the letter X. We finally cracked that particular nut by remembering that there are piles of chicken "necks" in the market, and by removing the "N" you get the correct pronunciation for "X". I can't deny that my methods veer (or careen) from standard teaching orthodoxy but then again, I slept through most of my English classes. I scarcely want to mention what demons I had to pacify in order to get them to correctly say "next".

We have an incredible amount of fun though. Once they understood "X", it was only a short jump to the subtleties between "six and sex". Little in this world is more amusing than watching four grown women giggling uncontrollably about sex in an English class. It is a widely held belief in Vietnam that the only reason Vietnamese women attend English class is to find a husband, and the only reason foreigners teach English is to bed a potential bride. One of my students obligingly offered a quip from her friend:  "I don't think you learn English, your teacher show you how to love!"  This set off a fresh round of giggles and a teasing question about the methods I would employ. Then the real laughter starts.

Even a class as industrious as mine likes to cut loose every now and again. Most nights we end class with dinner at a local restaurant or sip smoothies at a juice bar. But last week class ended before it started when a bottle of wine and a suspicious bottle of brandy magically appeared with the notebooks. Nothing claims authenticity in brandy like a giant label across the front that reads "AUTHENTIC". Still, it didn't take long for the bottles to drain or for the singing to start. I nearly split in two when the girls belted out the 60s hit, Sealed With a Kiss. Brian Hyland must be rolling in his grave. And I quote:

"Doh we gotta sah goo-bye forda summa,
Darlin I promise you diss...
I sen you aw my love, evry day inna letta
Seal wit a kiz!"


My God, I love Vietnam.

Rescue, Rescue, Read All About It!

Nha Trang, Vietnam. The path to divemaster has been fraught with perilous obstacles, most of them wet. To succeed I needed to master a variety of practical dive skills, exhibit expertise in theoretical dive knowledge, prepare myself to react to a host of rescue scenarios, build up my stamina for an endurance test, and, if it all goes well to that point, ready myself for the infamous snorkel test.

For lack of a better pun, my training has gone swimmingly. To kick things off I received training as an Emergency First Responder, allowing me to legally start poking bodies at the scene of an accident. I'm an Emergency First Responder, can I help you? Those ten magic words unlock a treasure trove of litigious defense mechanisms know as Good Samaritan Laws. So if I happen to snap a few ribs while over-enthusiastically performing CPR--and believe me, I am very enthusiastic about it--no problem, I'm covered.  No matter, I was prepped for the challenging road ahead.

As the boat slid languidly from swell to trough, I anxiously awaited the next test. My eyes darted rapidly across the deck, muscles tense, adrenal glands primed. The customers were blissfully unaware of the pressure cooker around them. And then a shout...Rescue! Rescue! Game on. I grabbed my fins and a flotation device and dove in, pointing straight towards the flailing instructor. Arms thrashed wildly, water splashing all around me. As soon as I got within striking distance he lunged, climbed on top me, held me down as my breath ran low, tried to drown me. I broke free and swam to the surface, gasping for breath. Welcome to the Rescue Diver course.

For the next four days I was on constant alert, waiting for the next tragedy to strike. And strike it would, both on the surface and deep below. People ran out of air, collapsed unconscious at twenty meters, convulsed wildly, pulled off my mask, grappled my tank, yanked the regulator out of my mouth, and generally exhibited a level of gleeful malevolence whenever I or my training partners were nearby. For the coup de grâce, without warning, not one, but two divers simultaneously ran out of air at depth. While one grabbed my backup regs, I had to pass my air source back and forth to the other diver while the three of us ascended to the surface. It wouldn't have been so bad if one of them hadn't lost consciousness and stopped breathing at the surface, requiring me to drag him back to the boat while simultaneously stripping off his scuba gear (making it easier to perform CPR once back on the boat). Throw it at me, I'm ready.

Over the course of the next few weeks I rounded out my training with a variety of specialty courses. Navigation required me to complete an underwater scavenger hunt, finding compass bearings and collecting  words at each stop. Deep diving taught me how to sink to new depths, both literally and figuratively. For my Nitrox specification, we went deep to feel the effects of narcosis. For those unfamiliar, narcosis is toxification of the body tissues with nitrogen. It can cause the sufferer to feel a wee bit drunk--and make them increasingly likely to pull out their regulator and try to kiss one of the fish.

Next up, exams. Time to crack the books. Physics, physiology, equipment, oh my. I think I'll phone a friend.

Me Card Read Good

Nha Trang, Vietnam. Since I was going to be staying in Nha Trang for a while, it seemed prudent to put my hotel hopping heroics behind me and lease an apartment. Sure it was a touch less convenient--no more fresh towels, tucked in bed sheets, or housekeepers forced to hose down my general flotsam and jetsam--but it would give me the opportunity to get a better feel for daily life in Vietnam. With a little help from a diving colleague, I managed to luck into a cozy little place just two blocks from the dive shop. While not quite as robust as my African digs, it does have the benefit of being fitfully furnished. Standard features include a spacious living room with a pleather couch (guaranteed to bond to bare skin instantly), a bed with a fitted sheet, a mini-fridge, a countertop dual-burner butane stove, a shower/toilet area, and a healthy assortment of water bugs, cockroaches, winged insects and, god knows how it gets there, but a few nights a week an orange tabby mysteriously appears in my hallway.

Probably the most enjoyable part of having my own place is the ability to cook. I love trolling around the lively markets, where, with enough patience, I can find everything from tomatoes to televisions to tuberculosis--all in one convenient location. Women gleefully cleave through pig bones, hack slabs of tuna, hawk fruits and vegetables, and delightedly chortle at the American who abashedly picks up a basket of dried chicken necks thinking they are mushrooms. I particularly enjoy splashing through the water-logged pathways of the fish mongers, where women excitedly shake handfuls of shrimp in my face, entice me with mounds of freshly caught squid and carefully knot up live crabs with short lengths of twine. Sometimes I have to remind myself that despite the intense smells, the murky puddles beneath my shoes and the fish scales stuck to my legs, that this is probably the freshest seafood I will ever get my hands on.

Now that I had settled in I needed something to keep myself occupied. Sure, I go diving nearly every day, but that particular train starts at 5:30 in the morning and we are usually back by around 1:00pm. I generally take care of a little office work (e.g. drinking beer with the customers) and then I have the evening free for the finer pursuits (e.g. drinking beer with the staff). I felt that something was wanting. Then it dawned on me. Every single day of my life I have been speaking English. Most days of the week I read English too. And every now and again, as you are undoubtedly aware, I find myself writing in English. The signs were so obvious. If I can speak English, read English, and write English, it stands to reason that I would have no problem teaching English, right?

And so it is that I find myself spending three nights a week teaching a quartet of Vietnamese women the elementary principles of spelling, grammar and pronunciation. Every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday, the ladies gather in my living room for two hours of rigorous English lessons, aided greatly by a dry-erase board propped awkwardly on a chair and the complete fearlessness I display in the face of my own ignorance. So far we have covered most of the ABCs and almost the entire itsy-bitsy spider refrain.  Next week I think I am going to teach them how to subjugate verbs and the importance of avoiding the dastardly dangling partynipple.

Only time will tell, but I think I have had a positive impact on their progression so far. In fact, at the end of each evening they seem loathe to leave--though I have to admit, it's possible they are just stuck to the couch.

Will Work for Scuba

Nha Trang, Vietnam. There is something philosophically circuitous about deciding to settle down for a while in the town my father was stationed in when he served back in '67.  So much has changed that I doubt he would recognize it at this point, but there is at least one remaining element that may strike a nostalgic chord--out here, everyone smokes. Men smoke, women smoke, little babies light up in their strollers. They smoke while driving, they smoke while walking, they smoke while eating, and I'm fairly certain that plume of smoke I observed emanating from the bathroom was not the outcome of a fiery bowl of noodle soup. Frankly, I'm thinking of taking up smoking full time if only for the benefit of adding a filter.

Still, that hasn't stopped me from deciding to stay. The diving has a way of getting under your skin out here--and I'm not referring to the nitrogen bubbles that cause decompression illness. Rainbow Divers made me an offer I couldn't refuse. Build a computer, install some software and mess around with their Web site, all in exchange for a free ride all the way up to Dive Master, with an Underwater Digital Photography Specialty.

This is exactly as confusing as it looks

Long story short, after a month or two of training I will learn all of the skills I need to be able to lead my own dives. All of which will take me that much closer to my life-long dream of being too lazy to ever consider opening a dive shop. 

In the mean time, I work with the dive crew and get to go diving almost every day. We get up with the sun, head down to the storage facility, load the truck with air tanks and scuba gear, drive to the harbor, set up all the gear, then relax over a hot steaming bowl of spicy noodle soup (a few extra cents for a couple of hard-boiled quail eggs on top) until the customers arrive. We smile and chat while the boat pulls away from the harbor, then head to the front of the boat (the pointy bit, as they say) to be introduced properly, as the rest of the instructors cheer and clap and laugh where they are supposed to. It's a hoot. 

The dive is done and I'm on the sun deck for the ride back to port. The wind is blowing through my hair. The sun makes short work of my soggy bones. The sea air is sharp and clear. All I need is my bottle of rum. Yo-ho, a diver's life for me.

Pork Lips Now!

He was close. He was real close. I couldn't see him yet but I could feel him, as if the boat was being sucked up river and the water was flowing back to the jungle. Whatever was going to happen, it wasn't going to be the way they called it back in Nha Trang...

Everything I saw told me that Kurtz had gone insane.

Hmmm....maybe it was a mistake to have watched Apocalypse Now last night. The only thing I could presage heading into Nha Trang was that the ComSec colonel in charge wanted Willard to hunt me down and kill me. This did not bode well. It seemed my only chance was to roll in fast, guns blazing from the back of the Humvee. I'm not much for guns though, and the army stopped requisitioning Hummers back in '71, so I settled for screeching like a woman whilst riding in an air conditioned tourist bus. Nobody messed with me, that's for sure.    

Back in real life, the United States used Nha Trang as a major base during the Vietnam War, stationing Army, Air Force, Navy, and Marine units there. In a bit of a strange twist, my father was actually stationed here back in '67. On odd Halloweens I would don his old gear harness and helmet. I remember the canteen water tasting bitter and metallic. Perhaps I should have rinsed it first.

Far from looking to billow the ghosts of the past, I came to Nha Trang for a far more hedonistic reason--world class scuba diving. Having been enticed by a few days of diving on Phu Quoc island, I was beginning to itch for another adventure deep water adventure. Nha Trang was clearly going to be the antidote, it being the premier diving spot along the whole of the Vietnamese coast.

I decided that it was time to advance my diving skills, so I signed up for my PADI Advanced Open Water Course with the leading dive outfit in the region, Rainbow Divers. The course was grand, the diving was superb, and the scenary--tourquise waters broken up by brilliant green islands--was stunning. I could see how a few days here could could easily stretch into a few months. Perhaps I'll stay for a while...

(Sigh) Gone in 60 Seconds

Ho Chi Min City, Vietnam.  At the conclusion of the Vietnam War, on April 30, 1975, the city of Saigon came under the direct control of the Vietnamese People's Army. Communism had won the day, plunging the American public into a troubling introspective period, dominated by heated debates over the implications of wielding overwhelming force against an enemy that, at best, could put a serious crimp on our import of fresh spring rolls. Many Americans, reeling from the emotional trauma wreaked by this unprecedented event, purportedly made the risky decision to look up "communism" in the dictionary. They were then left to ponder how a simple political theory and ideology that advocates holding the production of resources collectively compelled our government to sacrifice 58,000 of our fellow countrymen. On the plus side, we certainly got a few good movies out of it.

No matter. With the American War of Aggression (as it is referred to out here) at a close, Saigon was immediately re-dubbed Ho Chi Minh City and completely remastered in THX 5.1 Surround Sound. I spent a couple of days trolling down the crowded sidewalks and racing around the busy streets. I hate to admit it, but I really love weaving in and out of traffic at full tilt. Since there is so much congestion in the streets it's easy to squeeze between slow-rolling cars and keep pace with the mopeds. The locals seem to get a real kick out seeing me speed past. I get a lot of waves and smiles, though it's definitely possible they are just poking fun at the pale, sweat-soaked foreigner who thought it was a good idea to bike across a country whose humidity is so high that you could easily steam a lobster on the pavement.

Ho Chi Minh is a fairly standard Asian city otherwise, replete with skyscrapers, museums and landscaped parks--and it is completely overrun with coffee shops. If the idea of the local version of a Starbucks every thirty feet turns you off, don't visit Ho Chi Minh. In fact, stay out of Vietnam altogether. They have a cafe culture here, where dozens of joints vie for the opportunity to serve up the best ice-cold cup of black and bitter brew. Throw a little extra sugar into these small caffeine bombs and you start to get an idea why the streets run a bit like the Grand Prix. Unfortunately, coffee tends to knot my digestive system into a sheepshank, so I was more of a bench-warmer than an active participant.

The city was certainly pleasant. I enjoyed strolling the parks and visiting the various pagodas scattered amongst the multitude of shops. In many ways it is reminiscent of New York's Lower East Side, though with a whole lot less Jewish grandmothers. Reunification Palace, the site of the hand-over of power during the Fall of Saigon in 1975, is laden with historical significance yet burdened by unimpressive architecture. By far the most intriguing experience in Ho Chi Minh was a visit to the War Remnants Museum, which primarily contains relics of the American phase of the Vietnam War. In addition to devastating documentation on the deleterious effects of Agent Orange on the local foliage and population (it is still effecting births today), the museum contains a wealth of photos from hundreds of foreign journalists that most of us have likely never seen. If you were one of the people abhorred by the images of dead American soldiers being dragged through the streets of Mogadishu back in 1992, wondering what type of people would revel in such a horrific act, you may be disappointed to learn that we are those type of people. The stomach churning photos I witnessed of smiling American soldiers dragging mangled bodies behind tanks and Humvees were as disturbing as any war photos I have ever seen. The coup d'état was a grisly image of a smug and satisfied Marine proudly displaying the twisted, sinuous arm and lower trunk of a body obliterated by a rocket attack.


I am not at all trying to suggest that we did not suffer similar indignities, horror and personal devastation. War is a terrible thing. But the next time we think of sitting on our high moral horse, we may want to consider that we are far from the White Knights of justice we may like to think we are. In truth, the War Remnants museum is one of the best organized, referenced and compelling museums I have ever visited, and is definitely a must-see if visiting the region. Having spent a bit of time around the Vietnamese at this point, I cannot for the life of me fathom what compelled Curtis Emerson LeMay (General of the US Air Force and the vice presidential running mate of George Wallace in 1968), to emphatically state: "...we’re going to bomb them back into the Stone Age". I am eager to report that not only have the Vietnamese people weathered the storm of French imperialism followed by American intervention, but I have been completely charmed by this misunderstood and resilient country.