Teachers' Day in Vietnam: Puttin' on the Ritz

In many countries around the globe, October 5th is celebrated as World Teachers' Day. In Vietnam, a country where pleas for punctuality are made with a wink and a nod, teachers are recognized on November 20th. As I found out last Sunday, it is worth the wait.

~

Last year, I 'celebrated' Teachers' Day in Korea, where I worked at a private language academy for the pampered scions of Samsung middle managers and LG junior account executives. The owner of that academy, who could be charitably described as a twitchy runt (or something similar), decided that teachers would not be allowed to keep presents given on Teachers' Day. Ostensibly, this was to prevent any sort of favoritism toward students who lavished expensive gifts on their teachers in hopes of receiving preferential treatment. 

In practice, this meant I had to look a bunch of Korean kindergarteners square in the eye and politely tell them, 'Sorry Ji-Su, teacher doesn't want your monogrammed hankerchief. And this glittery card has to go back, too.' Meanwhile, the Korean staff hovered outside the classrooms waiting to swoop in and confiscate all tokens of gratitude, which would later be returned to confused and angry parents. The whole day was such a fiasco that the owner eventually announced that the school would be closed on Teachers' Day in the future, just to avoid the whole thorny issue of employee recognition.

Gimme yer gifts.

~

Teachers' Day 2013 in Vietnam was quite a different scene. The celebration was held at the Sheraton Towers in downtown Saigon, one of the city's swankiest hotels and a place that few of us had any business being at under normal circumstances. People accustomed to squatting at roadside stands while slurping suspiciously aromatic noodles were suddenly confronted with modern man's greatest fear: multiple forks.

How many salads can one person have?

The polished marble floors and elegant wood paneling of the Sheraton are an interesting juxtaposition to the madly boiling chaos of 'real' Saigon. Bellhops wait at the front doors, alternately helping people out of shiny new Lexuses and dinged-up Vinasun taxis. Once inside, a smartly-dressed person* can wander at will past banks of elevators that only go to one floor and extravagant seafood buffets featuring an endless array of expensive, French-sounding dishes.

*I  returned the next day on my motorbike to pick up some belongings at the concierge. Wearing jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, I didn't make it halfway to the door before two very polite bouncers** asked me where I was going, and if they could help me, and if I wouldn't mind leaving as quickly as possible.

**Is there a classier word for a dude whose job essentially boils down to keeping out the lower classes?

The clothes make the man.

Places like the Sheraton always make my skin crawl until I've had a few drinks. Like many Millennials I am reverse-adaptable, a pretentious self-defense mechanism in which I critique post-modern literature at dive bars and make fart jokes at the opera. I felt like an impostor in my three-piece suit, as out of place as Kenny Powers at a Venetian fashion show. As I wandered around enormous chandelier-lit ballroom, it became obvious that many of my coworkers felt the same way. My roommate Kieran*, sharply dressed in all black like an Irish Johnny Cash, quickly found a bottle of tequila somebody smuggled in and was soon drunk as a lord. As it turns out he was one of the lucky ones.

*Kieran later went on to win the award for Best-Dressed Teacher. It was a remarkable accomplishment for a man who spends most of an average day wandering around the house hungover in his boxers.

Much to general dismay, the 'free booze' portion of the evening was not due to start for several hours. Apparently this was due to some unfortunate events the previous year, in which one foreign teacher became so uproariously drunk that he attempted to dance on the VIP table where all of VUS's grandest poobahs sat. When he was politely instructed to sit elsewhere, he threw a glass of wine at the president and lit a tablecloth on fire. Some, probably most, of the story is apocryphal, but in any case the promise of 'open bar at the Sheraton!' turned out to be misleading.

By the time the ceremony started, half the crowd was drunk anyway. Expats are nothing if not adaptable.

~

Bringing the ruckus.

Eventually the lights dimmed, a diminutive MC in shimmering ao dai traditional dress beckoned us to our seats, and the ceremony began. A team of fierce-looking drummers in red garb rushed the stage and began to beat the everliving shit out of some impressively large drums. Seated close to the stage, I could feel the percussion rattle my ribcage as my organs bounced about like bingo balls at the old folks home.  Their performance was kinetic, enthusiastic, and about 75% too long. There are only so many ways to hit something with a stick before it all becomes a bit repetitive.

When the drummers finished and their instruments were whisked off the stage by a team of burly roadies, our pretty little MC grabbed the mic and uttered the seven most horrifying words of any corporate event: 'And now, a word from the President.'

Synergies! Pro-active solutions! Market research optimization!

The President of VUS is a very nice, soft-spoken man with a decent tailor and an extensive vocabulary. He is also either impressively deaf or remarkably mellow, because at no point during his lengthy speech did the room ever approach 'silence' or even 'a dull roar'. Apparently the entire back of the room was now NASCAR-fan drunk off pocket-bottle whiskey, and even the President's occasional pauses and exasperated chuckles did nothing to quiet the noise. Those of us in the front breathed huge sighs of relief when his speech came to its merciful conclusion.

Next up were the awards, and there were many to bestow. Like most Asian countries, Vietnam puts great importance on appearance without any of the 'it's what's inside that counts' doublespeak bullshit we favor in the West. So it was fitting that the first people called to the stage were the recipients of the prestigious 'Best-Dressed Teacher'. After sitting through 45 minutes of 'increased market saturation' and 'cutting-edge technologies', we were finally given something to ogle.

Looking good, kids.

And ogle we did. This was my first formal corporate event and thus my introduction to an unsettling reality of adult professional life - a lot of your coworkers clean up real, real nice. People you would normally describe as 'nice' or 'cute' or 'friendly' suddenly appeared as glamorous, radiant sex-deities. And as you'd expect, eyebrows were raised.

Other, less interesting awards for stuff like professional dedication and exemplary performance followed. Luckily, there were many 'repeat' winners so the flow of eye-candy continued uninterrupted. Beauty and success, as always, go hand in hand. At this point however the audience had thinned out considerably as dozens of teachers flocked outside to chug convenience store booze and chain-smoke in the parking lot. There are few occasions as mind-bogglingly boring as an awards event in which you receive no award.

Awards were followed by dinner, a scrumptious buffet of expensive meats stuffed with other expensive meats, diabetes-inducing piles of frosted chocolate desserts, and finally the free wine. Unfortunately I was completely unable to enjoy any of this, as I was immediately whisked away from the table for dance practice.

I probably should have mentioned this before. The most eagerly anticipated/dreaded portion of the evening was set to follow dinner: the teacher dances. Every year, teachers from every VUS campus semi-volunatrily squeeze themselves into ridiculous costumes and shake their asses in front of a sea of camera phones while the crowd works itself into a ravenous, inebriated frenzy.

Along with five other teachers, I was performing a traditional Vietnamese dance about a boy from the South who falls in love with a girl from the North. One member of our group, a part-time dance instructor named Gary, was comfortable performing on stage, but the rest of us were decidedly not. We found a bottle of champagne, passed it around, and started practicing our steps in the kitchen. My partner, a beautiful Vietnamese girl named My (which means 'beautiful' in Vietnamese, coincidentally) looked ready to puke all over her traditional silk dress.

We waited backstage and watched as the other campuses performed their dances, still handing around the champagne and applauding wildly after each performance concluded without any major falls or wardrobe malfunctions. There were Bollywood bellydancers, a hula-salsa number, and a surprisingly good rendition of 'Love Potion #9'. When the MC called out for the 'teachers of An Duong Vuong' I slapped hands with Jenny, a sweet little South African girl on my team, and got ready to rush the stage.

A taste of India.

Shakira is always great.

Our performance went off almost perfectly, and our co-workers flooded the stage to snap photos once the music stopped. Holding flowers and grinning like idiots, we buzzed with relief, friendliness, and mid-rate bubbly. All of us were hugging and shouting and generally feeling like the world's most successful buffoons.

Bassy (Netherlands) and Jenny (South Africa) performing a traditional Vietnamese dance.

 Eventually the stage cleared and we retreated to our backstage post, still basking in the post-dance euphoria. Then came the highlight of the night: the sexy dance.

Aptly named.

Three female Vietnamese teachers slipped onto the stage and proceeded to blow the place out. Even the normally reserved VIPs were hooting like freshmen at a toga party. I turned to Gary, one of my fellow An Duong Vuong dancers, and whispered, 'Thank god we didn't follow THESE chicks.' The girls were dynamite dancers with absolutely no reservations about delivering an all-out performance. Quite a few monocles were dropped during that dance. When they finished, they had to remain in costume for over an hour as hordes of partygoers clamored to take their pictures. I'd been told of the famous risqué Teachers' Day dance before. After witnessing it with my own eyes, I can vouch that its reputation is well-deserved.

~

After the sexy dance there were a few more performances, some closing remarks, and a polite variation of 'you don't have to go home now, but get the hell out'. A tidal wave of giddily hammered teachers streamed out the doors on their way to the bars, eager to continue their buzz and maybe make a pass at the cute co-worker they'd been eye-banging for the past five hours.

I left the Sheraton long after the main crowd, weaving through the extravagant lobby with my buddies John, Rob, Kieran, and Scott. We were on our way to a casino at another swanky hotel, where we'd heckle waitresses for free drinks and moan about the lack of $5 blackjack tables. We were sheep in wolves' clothing, and determined to capitalize on all the misguided respect our suit jackets would get us.

We didn't last too long at the casino, even though most of us were winning. Our friends were waiting at a nearby bar, and we soon wandered over for another round of hugs, toasts, and slurred pickup lines. The hours passed, the morning came, and I stumbled out into the street to catch a taxi home.

As I left the bar I saw a guy I recognized. Hunched over by the curb, decked out in glorious pinstripes, he was holding his tie behind his head as he puked all over his brightly polished shoes on the trash-strewn Saigon street. He rose unsteadily, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and shouted, 'Happy Teachers' Day!' He was grinning from ear to ear as he stumbled back into the bar.

'Yes', I thought as I waved down a cab.

'Happy Teachers' Day indeed.'

Typhoon Daze

Last Wednesday around 4 pm, I was running up and down the stairs of my house in Saigon, yelling in vain for my buddy Kieran. I'd just finished loading a few seasons of Breaking Bad on his USB, and I needed to return it before leaving for work. I also had to swing by the tailor to be sized for my new suit, a sharp three-piece charcoal grey number whose specifications I'd lifted directly from the GQ style guide. And as always I was running just slightly behind schedule.

Finally I grew frustrated of hunting for the elusive Irishman, and decided to leave the USB with our Canadian housemate Gabe. When I knocked on his door, Gabe was slumped at his computer, shirtless and blasting David Bowie at ten thousand decibels. He took a long, glazed look at my starchy work clothes and fidgety impatience. Then he chuckled, 'Dude, might wanna check your phone.' So I did.

Dear teachers,
Due to the typhoon all VUS classes will be cancelled. 
Thank you.

Jesus, Allah, Buddha - I love you all!

If you've never been so delighted that you pooped a little then you, sir, have never had a typhoon day.

~

Like responsible adults, we began to gather emergency supplies for the storm of the century. By this I mean that Johnny and Kieran went to buy beer, while Gabe ordered a small pallet of pizzas. I contributed by stupidly going to the tailor's anyway (despite warnings that the typhoon was due to hit any minute), though I did remember to pick up a sack of ten baguettes on the way back. In the event of a weather apocalypse, we would not lack for carbs.

Carrying armfuls of pizza, beer, guitars and other necessities, we gathered on the roof for a frontrow look at the typhoon. We made ominous predictions about the imminent flooding and readied ourselves for a few days without YouTube videos and air conditioning. Then at 6 pm, a funny thing happened.

Nothing.

The hours stretched on, half eaten pizzas were consolidated into single boxes, and the table began to resemble a forest of Tiger cans. Johnny played guitar and I played ukulele. The ashtray became a porcupine as the sky grew darker and darker. Once I thought I heard thunder, but it was just a passing jetliner. Around midnight we wandered downstairs to bed, feeling like Tom Sawyer after a successful day of playing hooky.

The next morning it rained a little, but the skies were clear again by noon. Hurricane Yolanda came and went without blowing down a single leaf. In Saigon we sent reassuring emails to our friends and family, telling them we were OK and asking them to send Honey Nut Cheerios anyway. We went back  to our usual daily routines - working, eating, napping, compulsively checking Facebook every ten minutes, and so on. Business as usual.

In the Philippines, things were a little different.

~

Although it boasts some of the most picturesque beaches and mind-blowing scuba sites in the world, the Philippines is a precarious paradise. The archipelago has been hit by dozens of major storms in the past year. If you read an article in the paper about the Philippines that isn't about a recent natural disaster, it's probably focusing on government corruption or the sex trade. The country, which is still struggling to recover from years of mismanagement under the dictatorial rule of Ferdinand Marcos, could really use a break. Super Typhoon Yolanda was not that break.

~

I visited the Philippines in August after years of avoiding the country for no good reason. I was under the misguided impression that it was the Cancun of Asia; a place for drunk nineteen year olds to smear themselves with gaudy neon body paint and guzzle rum buckets until dawn. Like many carefully considered value judgments based off the best available information, this turned out to be wildly inaccurate.

No jello-shots dispensed from this party bus.

In the town of Sablayan I dove with a local guide named Ramon. He was a tall, handsome man with perfect teeth and the confident mellow vibe usually given off by exceptionally competent people. He was knowledgable about the history of the region, both natural and political. He could talk about hawksbill turtles for days. He knew every shipping route coming in and out of Sablayan, and the career scoring average of Dirk Nowitzki (Filipinos are nuts for basketball). He had a degree in tourism and hospitality from the provincial university.

Few tourists come to Sablayan, so Ramon supplemented his income by giving rides on his motorbike to friends and neighbors. In a good week, he made about 500 pesos - a little more than $10 USD. After we returned from our dive, he brought me to his home - a dilapidated hut crammed next to a hundred others in a corrugated shantytown, with a thin piece of plywood for a front door. He wrenched the 'door' open to reveal an unlit single room with a dirt floor. His elderly mother lay on a cot next to the wall, quietly coughing in the darkness.

And that was when I had the ugly realization that after a lifetime of hard work and filial dedication, all of Ramon's earthly possessions were worth less than my iPod.

~

Less than a week later, I was standing outside a small hospital in Coron, a small town on the island of Palawan famous for its shipwrecks. It was 2 am, yet the air was still stifling. I stood next to a cluster of divemasters and scuba instructors, both Filipino and foreign, all of whom looked worried. One of their brothers, a mischievous imp named Ken, lay on a thin bed inside, wracked by epileptic seizures. We had to stand outside because earlier one of the doctors threw a punch at Ken's friend Wizard, who was begging him to administer the oxygen that could save Ken from permanent brain damage. The doctor was more concerned with maintaining face than saving his patient's life.

And it wasn't even his oxygen. One of the German instructors and I had to retrieve the emergency oxygen tank from the dive shop and rush it to the hospital, because apparently Filipino hospitals are not equipped with their own oxygen supplies. Later, one of the dive masters had to rouse a local shipowner to buy a few pills of diazepam to help with Ken's uncontrollable spasms. Apparently Filipino hospitals are not equipped with medicines, either. It was no wonder that Wizard angrily described the place as 'not a hospital, just a place to die'.

We sat and waited for news from Ken. One of the dive instructors told me that his aunt had recently died in the same hospital from a simple case of asthma. I thought of the two Ventolin inhalers in my bag and imagined the terror of suffocating in one's own lungs. Another girl was cursing furiously in English and Tagalog in between chest-racking sobs, vowing that she wouldn't lose another friend to this place.

The Rocksteady family in happier days.

~

That story ended happily, an outcome that seems far too rare in the Philippines these days. The winds and waves of Yolanda have thrown the country into utter chaos as survivors struggle to find their loved ones, a place to sleep, and something to eat.

Like much of the world, there is little margin for error in the Philippines. If your house is demolished by a typhoon, insurance isn't going to cover the damages because who the fuck can afford insurance? Can the government help? Sure, if by 'help' you mean provide a few woefully inadequete supplies long after the moment of greatest need. Maybe if you're lucky you can seek help from family members, but chances are they're in the same boat as you.

And so ordinary Filipinos are left with the sobering realization that if this mess is ever going to be cleaned up, they must do it themselves. They must clear the rubble, they must rebuild the homes, they must bury the dead. And to their credit, all my friends in the Philippines seem to accept this fact with courage and determination. They aren't laying around feeling sorry for themselves, though they certainly have enough reasons to do so. In the aftermath, they seem pragmatic and rational - they're ready to start putting things back together.

~

From my comfortable, non-flooded home in Saigon it was easy to dismiss the hyperbolic reports of the 'biggest storm ever' as mere sound and fury, signifying nothing. It probably became a semi-popular Facebook joke - 'Typhoon Yolanda 7/11/13 - Never Forget'. And beneath those words, a picture of an overturned lawn chair.

I still can't entirely wrap my head around the sheer destruction and misery left in Yolanda's wake. As a relatively affluent American, I was born into safety nets that most Filipinos will never, ever know. If Saigon did get blasted by a monster typhoon, my family, friends and credit cards would make sure I got out and returned home safely. Most Filipinos have nowhere to run, and no benevolent benefactor to save them. Like childbirth, this is a pain I cannot comprehend.

I am fully capable of feeling another kind of pain though, this one mixed about 50-50 with a hot cup of shame. This is the pain that comes with remembering all the past disasters that I read about: the tsunamis in Indonesia, the mine collapses in Chile, the meltdowns in Japan. All of these terrible, terrible catastrophes that I somberly watched on the news and discussed in hushed tones at work. And that sneaky feeling of self-satisfaction I got from 'sending good vibes' and 'wishing all the best' to the victims as I scrolled past the donation page to check NBA scores for the thirty-seventh time. It's the pain of knowing that I made myself feel better about a tragedy without doing a damn thing to help those who bore its wrath. It's the pain of empty words and self-congratulations.

~

I've learned my lesson this time: send your love and prayers, but send a check as well. Because people can't eat prayers.