A few weeks ago on a Wednesday morning, Steven suggested that I take the bike because my crazy Wednesday schedule takes me all over the city. I politely declined. I wasn't ready to be out on my own on the streets on Saigon just yet. So that Wednesday, I left the house at 8:15 a.m. to catch the number 6 bus to the top of District 1 and Somerset Apartments where I meet one-on-one with a student for an hour. After our lesson, I walked down the street and around the corner, down Le Duan about three quarters of a mile past the US Consulate to Diamond Plaza for my regular stop at Tours Les Jours for a red bean doughnut (where they always say 'Welcome to Tours Les Jours' when you arrive and 'Thank you for coming to Tours Les Jours' when you leave like a French/Vietnamese version of Moe's Burritos). After my doughnut, I headed out the back door to avoid the xe om drivers vying for fares at the entrance and down the street to the bus stop. I bought a ripe, sliced mango from one of two regular fruit cart ladies at the bus stop and happily munched away on my treats in the blazing heat while I waited for the bus.
When the bus came, I climbed aboard for a 10 minute ride to Vo Thi Sau, where I climbed off and walked the three blocks to SCC. I had lunch with the girls at SCC and spent a few hours working, before heading out around 3:30 to catch another bus down Nguyen Thi Minh Kai back to Somerset where I have my 4:30 lesson with another student. I walked about 6 blocks to catch the bus on Nguyen Thi Minh Kai and then another two blocks to Somerset from the bus stop.
At 5:30, I left Somerset and walked about six blocks to my stop on Nguyen Thi Minh Kai to catch a bus home and then four blocks home, stopping at the bakery to buy bread and the shop to buy water, before arriving home at 6:20.
Walking in the door and slipping my shoes off my feet, aching from all the walking, I told Steven that I might just take the bike next week...
So the following Wednesday, I got up with Steven and accompanied him on his ride to school. He pulled up along the sidewalk and climbed off the bike with his hand on the break so that I could scoot up to the front of the seat and take over. A quick goodbye kiss and I was on my way.
My first though after taking off on my own was that motorbikes don't have seat belts. My second thought was that I should really have a seat belt.
From the sidewalk, the traffic in the streets of Ho Chi Minh appears frighteningly chaotic. Buses, trucks, cars, bicyclists, cyclos, countless motorbikes and the occasional motorbike-pickup-hybrid carrying panes of glass or malfunctioning motorbikes compete for space on two lane roads. Traffic lights are usually observed, but beware the poor pedestrian who find themselves in the middle when the light counts down the last few seconds before the change, as critical mass usually wins out over light color for the last few passing through on a green. Traffic circles equal in number to traffic lights and while they succeed in keeping traffic moving, the pandemonium created by five intersecting streets of traffic intent on getting through the circle to the other side creates mini-traffic-snares that ebb and flow as each successive wave disentangles itself from the mob.
Being a part of the masses gives one a much different perspective. While there is a certain amount of chaos, moto-drivers follow certain rules of the road that keep everything running more or less smoothly, with the occasional fender-bender, usually waved off congenially by both parties. All that said, driving in the city is not for the tentative or faint of heart. If you are too tentative, you find yourself blocking the normal flow of traffic and potentially causing a crash. If you are anxious and unsure of yourself, you can loose your balance and again, find yourself blocking the normal flow of traffic and potentially causing a crash. The secret of driving in the city is to drive with confidence and to following unwritten rules of the road, all designed to keep traffic moving. From riding with xe om drivers and listening to Steven’s running commentary as he navigates his way through traffic, I have picked up the following rules of the road for driving in Ho Chi Minh City:
1. When the light turns green, go, nothing motivates more than 30 impatient horns behind you.
2. When you hear a bus/car/truck horn behind you, get out of the way, fast.
3. Always drive at a constant speed, not so fast that you can’t avoid obstacles that immediately appear in your path, but not so slow as to serve as an obstacle yourself
4. When a pedestrian, taxi, motor bike or other vehicle is crossing, cross behind them to let them continue on their way.
5. At intersections, it is safer to be a part of a mass than flying solo, always try to be a part of a pack when going through an intersection without lights (stop signs do not seem to exist here)
6. When going through traffic circles, head straight for the center and stay close to the middle until you’re ready to exit. When you’re ready to leave the circle, try to find cover behind a larger vehicle or a group of bikes going to same way you are going.
7. Be prepared to stop at all times and to start moving immediately once the obstacle has passed.
8. When the traffic clogs the streets, sidewalks are a viable alternative.
9. If at all possible, try to avoid putting your foot down as you slow down, just putter along in second gear until you can accelerate, thereby avoiding the possibility of losing your balance.
10. When walking your bike through fender to fender traffic, be careful not to run over anyone else’s feet.
Following these rules on my first solo day on the bike, I managed to get to Somerset, over to the gym, back to the school to meet Steven for lunch, over to SCC, back to Somerset and then home, all in one piece. The only gaff I made was to step on some poor woman’s foot when I lost my balance trying to go around a truck at a traffic light. Luckily, she didn’t seem to be too upset.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Saigon Cyclo Challenge 2009
During my job search in early Fall last year, I had read about the Saigon Cyclo Challenge, a cyclo race to raise money for charity. It was billed as "Saigon's Most Prestigious Charity Event." Little did I know how much both Steven and I would be involved in Cyclo Challenge just 7 months later.
Saigon Children's Charity's 9th Annual Cyclo Challenge was held on Saturday, March 7. Through my work at SCC, I had worked in various capacities in preparation for the event: calling potential sponsors, encouraging local travel agencies and international schools to display posters of the event, editing press releases and other race day material, consulting on games, even volunteering my husband as an extra volunteer. When the race day came, I was part of a silent auction team with the special distinction of being placed next to the VIP area, allowing us access to the VIP area and all of the fancy food and beverages that came with it. Steven had agreed to work at the front gate with another team of volunteers and at the last minute, his school, which had a team in the race, asked him to join the race team to fill in for a teach who couldn't make it. So in addition to his volunteering, Steven would also be racing a cyclo for the American International School.
We rode our motorbike the 15 minutes to the Taipei International School in District 7 where the event was to take place at 11:15 a.m. on Sunday morning. The skies were cloudy, but no rain had yet begun to fall and we arrived to a volunteer team filled with the promise of what the day would bring. The entrance to the school was decorated with a huge banner announcing the Saigon Cyclo Challenge 2009 and the school grounds were set up with ticket booths, food stands, sponsor tents and a fully stocked VIP section. After wandering around to get our bearings should anyone ask us where anything was, Steven and I parted ways, me to the silent auction tent and Steven to the front.
Just as the clock hit 12:30 marking the opening of the event the skies let loose and didn't stop for four straight hours. After the initial disappointment, the crowd seemed to resign itself to getting wet and the race went on. Because the downpour discouraged many people from venturing over to the auction table, I took advantage of the free food and wine in the VIP area and my front row view of the races and sat back to enjoy the day.
Johnnie and Quyen setting up the games.
Sponsor Parade
Steven waiting for the race to start.
Steven speeding by the camera...
Kimberly and the AIS team.
AIS Team and Fans
AIS Race Team on the Victory Platform
Me and my "I got to Vietnam before McDonalds shirt and Steven as the "Chair Lady" of the Cyclo Challenge
Saigon Children's Charity's 9th Annual Cyclo Challenge was held on Saturday, March 7. Through my work at SCC, I had worked in various capacities in preparation for the event: calling potential sponsors, encouraging local travel agencies and international schools to display posters of the event, editing press releases and other race day material, consulting on games, even volunteering my husband as an extra volunteer. When the race day came, I was part of a silent auction team with the special distinction of being placed next to the VIP area, allowing us access to the VIP area and all of the fancy food and beverages that came with it. Steven had agreed to work at the front gate with another team of volunteers and at the last minute, his school, which had a team in the race, asked him to join the race team to fill in for a teach who couldn't make it. So in addition to his volunteering, Steven would also be racing a cyclo for the American International School.
We rode our motorbike the 15 minutes to the Taipei International School in District 7 where the event was to take place at 11:15 a.m. on Sunday morning. The skies were cloudy, but no rain had yet begun to fall and we arrived to a volunteer team filled with the promise of what the day would bring. The entrance to the school was decorated with a huge banner announcing the Saigon Cyclo Challenge 2009 and the school grounds were set up with ticket booths, food stands, sponsor tents and a fully stocked VIP section. After wandering around to get our bearings should anyone ask us where anything was, Steven and I parted ways, me to the silent auction tent and Steven to the front.
Just as the clock hit 12:30 marking the opening of the event the skies let loose and didn't stop for four straight hours. After the initial disappointment, the crowd seemed to resign itself to getting wet and the race went on. Because the downpour discouraged many people from venturing over to the auction table, I took advantage of the free food and wine in the VIP area and my front row view of the races and sat back to enjoy the day.
Johnnie and Quyen setting up the games.
Sponsor Parade
Steven waiting for the race to start.
Steven speeding by the camera...
Kimberly and the AIS team.
AIS Team and Fans
AIS Race Team on the Victory Platform
Me and my "I got to Vietnam before McDonalds shirt and Steven as the "Chair Lady" of the Cyclo Challenge
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Snapshots of Life in Vietnam
Sometimes life here in Viet Nam gives me stories, but more often, it gives me snapshots. Since I don't always have my camera, I'll just list a few of them here.
Blind Man Crossing
The other day, I saw a blind man crossing the street, in a place where crossing the street with your eyes wide open can be hazardous. He had his cane held out in front of him, high above his head. As he walked he blew a whistle in rapid bursts, alerting oncoming vehicles of his presence.
Vietnamese Graffiti
I ride by a park every day where, presumably, a teenager has spray painted the word, "Garraffity" on the base of a statue.
BBQ Chicken
I pass by a new fried chicken restaurant on one of my regular bus rides and noticed that it had a picture of a big plate of fried chicken in the window, on which is written the name of the restaurant, "BBQ Chicken." The first time I saw it, I just shook my head at the Vietnamese, naming a fried chicken restaurant "BBQ Chicken." The second time, I looked closer and saw that, to them BBQ does not stand for barbecue, it stands for "Best Believable Quality." As opposed to, I assume, those unbelievable quality chicken places...
A Small Act of Kindness
I was riding in the back of my mini-bus to school the other day and noticed that the woman sitting in the seat adjacent to the driver was not your typical mini-bus passenger on her way to work. She looked to be in her eighties and wore well-worn clothes and a cloth kerchief over her head. As we stopped to pick up passengers, I turned and saw that an old man, probably about the same age as the women, climb aboard. He handed his 3000 VND fare up towards the driver only to have it returned a few minutes later. As I pondered the return of the fare, I watched as the driver's hand appeared through the window and handed a 5000 VND note (about 17 cents) to the old woman. The woman took the note and held it up in front of her face for about ten seconds before using the side of her kerchief to wipe the tears running down her face. As I watched and resisted the urge to empty my wallet into the woman's lap, I wondered about her story and how such a small kindness on the part of the bus driver could bring her to tears.
Blind Man Crossing
The other day, I saw a blind man crossing the street, in a place where crossing the street with your eyes wide open can be hazardous. He had his cane held out in front of him, high above his head. As he walked he blew a whistle in rapid bursts, alerting oncoming vehicles of his presence.
Vietnamese Graffiti
I ride by a park every day where, presumably, a teenager has spray painted the word, "Garraffity" on the base of a statue.
BBQ Chicken
I pass by a new fried chicken restaurant on one of my regular bus rides and noticed that it had a picture of a big plate of fried chicken in the window, on which is written the name of the restaurant, "BBQ Chicken." The first time I saw it, I just shook my head at the Vietnamese, naming a fried chicken restaurant "BBQ Chicken." The second time, I looked closer and saw that, to them BBQ does not stand for barbecue, it stands for "Best Believable Quality." As opposed to, I assume, those unbelievable quality chicken places...
A Small Act of Kindness
I was riding in the back of my mini-bus to school the other day and noticed that the woman sitting in the seat adjacent to the driver was not your typical mini-bus passenger on her way to work. She looked to be in her eighties and wore well-worn clothes and a cloth kerchief over her head. As we stopped to pick up passengers, I turned and saw that an old man, probably about the same age as the women, climb aboard. He handed his 3000 VND fare up towards the driver only to have it returned a few minutes later. As I pondered the return of the fare, I watched as the driver's hand appeared through the window and handed a 5000 VND note (about 17 cents) to the old woman. The woman took the note and held it up in front of her face for about ten seconds before using the side of her kerchief to wipe the tears running down her face. As I watched and resisted the urge to empty my wallet into the woman's lap, I wondered about her story and how such a small kindness on the part of the bus driver could bring her to tears.
Private Lessons
While I've managed to approach my classroom teaching with less dread, then trepidation, I have come to approach my private lessons with an eager anticipation. Since my first few months of bleak employment prospects, people wanting private English lessons and native English speaking tutors for their children have begun to come out of the wood work. It has gotten to the point where I have had to turn people down. While I wonder where all these people were in October when I needed them, I am grateful for their business and for the interaction that it allows me, to learn and to grow as a person and an "English teacher."
I now have four students and two potential students hanging in the wings. On Wednesday and Friday mornings, I work with a Korean woman who wants to improve her English to keep up with her young girls who are beginning to speak more English than Korean, spending their days at a local International School. From her, I learn more about Korea, a country I knew very little about and spend enjoyable mornings trading stories and enjoying her dry sense of humor. On Monday and Wednesday afternoons, I work with a fourth grade Korean student whose mother wants him to improve his English, but who prefers to talk to me about all things American and turn every conversation into a bloodbath of terrorism or a detailed listing of scientific facts. From him, I've gained a desire to improve my knowledge of world records and my prowess at 20 questions, as well as a desire to shield my own children from violent computer games. On Sunday evenings, I work with my new student from the copy shop who peppers me with questions on pronunciation, the most recent being "thalidomide." From him, a challenge to actually learn how to teach the difference between "p" and "f" to someone who cannot hear the difference. And Monday, Wednesday and Thursday evenings find me home with my 12th grade student from AIS whom I've been working with since October, who always challenges me with assignments on the stock market or interests me with stories from World Literature, leaving me satisfied that I'm helping her to understand and even more so that I can make her laugh.
I now have four students and two potential students hanging in the wings. On Wednesday and Friday mornings, I work with a Korean woman who wants to improve her English to keep up with her young girls who are beginning to speak more English than Korean, spending their days at a local International School. From her, I learn more about Korea, a country I knew very little about and spend enjoyable mornings trading stories and enjoying her dry sense of humor. On Monday and Wednesday afternoons, I work with a fourth grade Korean student whose mother wants him to improve his English, but who prefers to talk to me about all things American and turn every conversation into a bloodbath of terrorism or a detailed listing of scientific facts. From him, I've gained a desire to improve my knowledge of world records and my prowess at 20 questions, as well as a desire to shield my own children from violent computer games. On Sunday evenings, I work with my new student from the copy shop who peppers me with questions on pronunciation, the most recent being "thalidomide." From him, a challenge to actually learn how to teach the difference between "p" and "f" to someone who cannot hear the difference. And Monday, Wednesday and Thursday evenings find me home with my 12th grade student from AIS whom I've been working with since October, who always challenges me with assignments on the stock market or interests me with stories from World Literature, leaving me satisfied that I'm helping her to understand and even more so that I can make her laugh.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
A Broken Shoe
Yesterday, I was walking from my morning lesson to the bus stop where I catch the bus to Saigon Children’s Charity, when I tripped on a ridge in the sidewalk and looked down to see that the strap on my sandal had broken. Because of where the strap had broken, it was impossible to continue walking in the shoe. Not sure what to do, I hobbled over to the wall lining the sidewalk and sat down to ponder my options. I had a lot planned for the day. I was planning to stop into my favorite bakery for a delicious red-bean chewy rice donut before catching the bus to UNESCO where I’d planned to drop off my passport for a VISA renewal, and then on to the Saigon Children’s Charity where I would work until catching a bus to my 4:30 lesson and then home for dinner. All of these things required a set of fully functioning shoes.
I thought about catching a xe om home to get new shoes and then to UNESCO, but I had only brought enough money for lunch and a bus and knew that we only had bills at the house that were too large to expect a xe om driver to break. I could take the bus home, but that would require walking to the bus stop ten blocks away. I could buy a new pair of shoes, but again, that would require spending money I didn’t have.
I finally decided to take the bus and brave the streets of Saigon barefoot for the ten blocks it would take to get to the stop for the bus I could take home. I knew that I would draw attention walking barefoot through the cities most upscale district, but I didn’t see what other choice I had. As I got up from my seat at the wall, I immediately drew the attention of the xe om driver who had watched me hobble over with my broken shoe and he began to chuckle. I crossed the street and drew the looks and comments of some people sitting on the corner, but continued to walk along as if it was perfectly normal for me to be walking through the streets with no shoes. As I walked, I began to think about how shoes are such a social construction. Besides their obvious practical value, there is no law or written rule that says we must wear shoes in the street. It amused me that all I had to do to shake things up a bit, was simply take off my shoes.
After navigating two blocks of sidewalks, I found myself stepping over fallen branches and construction tools as the road on either side of the street opened up and filled with construction crews digging holes for underground piping and cutting branches growing into telephone wires. As I navigated my way over the branches and out onto the street, I noticed that I was attracting the attention of crews of construction workers on both sides of the streets. Some of them directed their comments to me, perhaps commenting on my lack of footwear, but as I didn't understand a word, I continued walking. One man then yelled something in my direction, obviously trying to get my attention and I turned toward them to find the whole crew looking my way. I held up my broken shoe and shrugged in what I hoped was an answer to their question and turned to be on my way, but before I could take another step, one of the men ran up to me, took of his dirty, white plastic flip flops and placed them on the ground before me. I looked at the shoes and then up at him and held up my hand shaking it in a Vietnamese gesture of negation and said, "No, I couldn't possibly.." or something similar in English. The man stood his ground and pointed at his shoes intently. Not wanting to insult him and still a bit stunned at this his generosity towards a complete stranger, I slipped on the dirty shoes, thanked him and walked away.
As I rounded the corner, my mind suddenly whirled into action as the shock of the interaction wore off. "I've got to get these shoes back to that guy as soon as I can!" While I had been facing eight more blocks of hot pavement, without his shoes, he was still looking at half a day of hard labor in bare feet. I continued to walk as I formulated a plan and as soon as I decided on a course of action, I looked up to get my bearings, realized I was walking in the wrong direction; I immediately turned right and headed straight to the HSBC building.
Walking into HSBC in my skirt with dirty feet in bright white plastic flip flops, I ignored the strange looks aimed in my direction and went straight to the ATM where I took out 100,000 VND or about $6. I walked out of the bank and up to the nearest xe om driver. I explained to him that I wanted to go to District 5 and then back to Hai Ba Trung, a block from where we were and negotiated a rate of 40,000 VND, a little over two dollars. I positioned myself side-saddle on the back of his bike and we were off.
We made it to my apartment just my leg had settled into what I thought might be a irreversible cramp - riding side-saddle, trying to keep your toes out of oncoming spokes, and maintaining a tight grip on the back bar to keep from sliding off at every stop is not the most comfortable way to ride on a motorbike. I handed the driver his helmet with a "Nam phut (5 minutes)," and hurried over to open our front door. I was up, shoes changed and back down in about three minutes, and we were off again.
On the way to our apartment, I had considered what to buy to give my shoe benefactor as a gift, not wanting to trivialize his generosity with an offering of cash. I decided on a kilo of sweet, bright orange tangerines that he could share with his fellow workers. I had considered buying the fruit at the "rich people's market," across the street from our apartment, dubbed so by my Vietnamese teacher, because the alternative - a detour to my cheap fruit sellers on Dien Bien Phu - would take us out of the way, but luckily, I happened to spot a lone fruit seller on Nguyen Trai just as we rounded the corner to our street. I directed my driver, who I was growing fond of for the grandfatherly way he helped me latch and unlatch the tricky clasp on my helmet, back towards the woman with the tangerines. When he stopped the bike, I leapt off, ran over to the woman, bought one kilo of tangerines and ran back to the bike, where my driver held out his hand to take it to hang on the bike frame as we drove.
When we came around the corner of Hai Ba Trung where I'd expected to see the construction crews, I was surprised to notice that there were construction crews along every block. I looked around me as we drove trying to remember exactly where I'd been when the man gave me his shoes, but everything looked the same. I asked my driver to stop, paid him and sent him on his way, taking to the streets on foot. I walked back to where the construction crew had been, now more sure of myself having retraced my steps, and found the block empty. I turned around to the workers on the other side of the street and saw that one man was working without shoes, but he was much younger than the man I remembered.
I walked over to the man, holding the bright white flip flops and he immediately pointed at the flip flops and then at his feet with a smile. I looked at him without speaking for a moment trying to figure out if he might have given the older man his shoes when he'd given me his or if he were just a man without shoes seeing that I had shoes to give. I stood there, looking around, holding on to the shoes for another few moments before asking, "Anh ay o dau? (Where is he?)" in Vietnamese, thinking that if the man had seen the transaction earlier, he would know who I meant by "he." The man just pointed again to his feet.
Just then two Vietnamese men in ties and construction hats walked over to me and said, in English, "Souvenirs!" pointing at the shoes.
"No," I said. "Not souvenirs. A man gave me these shoes when I walked through here with no shoes and I want to give them back. But I don't know were he is. Do you think he knows him?" pointing at the barefoot man.
The man in the tie said something to the man with no shoes, who shook his head and responded in Vietnamese.
"He doesn't know him. He was just another worker. He is probably gone off somewhere. It is lunch time. Maybe he went home for lunch. Keep the shoes. They are a souvenir."
I sighed, disappointed, but not ready to give up. I thanked them and motioned to the barefoot man that I was going to walk around and look. He nodded and smiled as I turned to walk away.
I walked further down the block, peering intently at the faces of the men as they flung shovels full of dirt from ever deepening holes in the sidewalk. They in turn, peered back at me with amused looks. As I walked, I remembered that my benefactor had on blue coveralls, and narrowed my inquiry to faces above blue coveralls. As I came up on the next block, I noticed that it was covered with tree branches. Then it hit me. Tree branches! I had been stepping over tree branches just before I was given the shoes, so he must have been with the tree crew! Thrilled at my recollection, I crossed the street to where about 20 men in blue coveralls where milling around a big orange vehicle. I held up the white shoes as I peered into the faces hoping that someone would recognize me if I failed to recognize the owner of the shoes. I received a few crazy looks before a man walked up to me and said something in Vietnamese.
I held up the shoes, "Anh ay o dau?"
Again, a response in Vietnamese.
"Anh ay? (Him?)"
He motioned to the next corner.
I thanked him and walked across the street, still clutching the flip flops. I walked up to another group of coverall clad men eating their lunches around the typical child-sized plastic tables of Vietnamese street restaurants. When they saw me they smiled and pointed up in nearby tree. I looked up through the branches of the tree and saw nothing.
I held up the shoes and said again, "Anh ay?"
Again they pointed up into the tree.
I walked around to the other side and positioned myself next to the trunk. Looking up, as the men yelled something in Vietnamese, I saw a familiar face smiling down through the branches.
Thrilled to have found him at last, I grinned as I held the shoes above my head. I saw a nod and a smile. Then I held up the bag of tangerines, for another smile. I then turned to the men on the ground and pantomimed my request that they give the shoes and the tangerines to the man when he came down from the tree and they smiled and nodded their agreement.
Walking around the tree for a better view, I watched as the man in the tree sawed off a branch, waited for his team to clear the street below, and dropped it down on to the pavement. With a clearer view of his face, I watched as he turned down to me and gave me another big smile. With a satisfied smile and a wave, I walked off, with a lighter step, mulling over how kind people can be, to give up what they have, even when they have so little to give.
I thought about catching a xe om home to get new shoes and then to UNESCO, but I had only brought enough money for lunch and a bus and knew that we only had bills at the house that were too large to expect a xe om driver to break. I could take the bus home, but that would require walking to the bus stop ten blocks away. I could buy a new pair of shoes, but again, that would require spending money I didn’t have.
I finally decided to take the bus and brave the streets of Saigon barefoot for the ten blocks it would take to get to the stop for the bus I could take home. I knew that I would draw attention walking barefoot through the cities most upscale district, but I didn’t see what other choice I had. As I got up from my seat at the wall, I immediately drew the attention of the xe om driver who had watched me hobble over with my broken shoe and he began to chuckle. I crossed the street and drew the looks and comments of some people sitting on the corner, but continued to walk along as if it was perfectly normal for me to be walking through the streets with no shoes. As I walked, I began to think about how shoes are such a social construction. Besides their obvious practical value, there is no law or written rule that says we must wear shoes in the street. It amused me that all I had to do to shake things up a bit, was simply take off my shoes.
After navigating two blocks of sidewalks, I found myself stepping over fallen branches and construction tools as the road on either side of the street opened up and filled with construction crews digging holes for underground piping and cutting branches growing into telephone wires. As I navigated my way over the branches and out onto the street, I noticed that I was attracting the attention of crews of construction workers on both sides of the streets. Some of them directed their comments to me, perhaps commenting on my lack of footwear, but as I didn't understand a word, I continued walking. One man then yelled something in my direction, obviously trying to get my attention and I turned toward them to find the whole crew looking my way. I held up my broken shoe and shrugged in what I hoped was an answer to their question and turned to be on my way, but before I could take another step, one of the men ran up to me, took of his dirty, white plastic flip flops and placed them on the ground before me. I looked at the shoes and then up at him and held up my hand shaking it in a Vietnamese gesture of negation and said, "No, I couldn't possibly.." or something similar in English. The man stood his ground and pointed at his shoes intently. Not wanting to insult him and still a bit stunned at this his generosity towards a complete stranger, I slipped on the dirty shoes, thanked him and walked away.
As I rounded the corner, my mind suddenly whirled into action as the shock of the interaction wore off. "I've got to get these shoes back to that guy as soon as I can!" While I had been facing eight more blocks of hot pavement, without his shoes, he was still looking at half a day of hard labor in bare feet. I continued to walk as I formulated a plan and as soon as I decided on a course of action, I looked up to get my bearings, realized I was walking in the wrong direction; I immediately turned right and headed straight to the HSBC building.
Walking into HSBC in my skirt with dirty feet in bright white plastic flip flops, I ignored the strange looks aimed in my direction and went straight to the ATM where I took out 100,000 VND or about $6. I walked out of the bank and up to the nearest xe om driver. I explained to him that I wanted to go to District 5 and then back to Hai Ba Trung, a block from where we were and negotiated a rate of 40,000 VND, a little over two dollars. I positioned myself side-saddle on the back of his bike and we were off.
We made it to my apartment just my leg had settled into what I thought might be a irreversible cramp - riding side-saddle, trying to keep your toes out of oncoming spokes, and maintaining a tight grip on the back bar to keep from sliding off at every stop is not the most comfortable way to ride on a motorbike. I handed the driver his helmet with a "Nam phut (5 minutes)," and hurried over to open our front door. I was up, shoes changed and back down in about three minutes, and we were off again.
On the way to our apartment, I had considered what to buy to give my shoe benefactor as a gift, not wanting to trivialize his generosity with an offering of cash. I decided on a kilo of sweet, bright orange tangerines that he could share with his fellow workers. I had considered buying the fruit at the "rich people's market," across the street from our apartment, dubbed so by my Vietnamese teacher, because the alternative - a detour to my cheap fruit sellers on Dien Bien Phu - would take us out of the way, but luckily, I happened to spot a lone fruit seller on Nguyen Trai just as we rounded the corner to our street. I directed my driver, who I was growing fond of for the grandfatherly way he helped me latch and unlatch the tricky clasp on my helmet, back towards the woman with the tangerines. When he stopped the bike, I leapt off, ran over to the woman, bought one kilo of tangerines and ran back to the bike, where my driver held out his hand to take it to hang on the bike frame as we drove.
When we came around the corner of Hai Ba Trung where I'd expected to see the construction crews, I was surprised to notice that there were construction crews along every block. I looked around me as we drove trying to remember exactly where I'd been when the man gave me his shoes, but everything looked the same. I asked my driver to stop, paid him and sent him on his way, taking to the streets on foot. I walked back to where the construction crew had been, now more sure of myself having retraced my steps, and found the block empty. I turned around to the workers on the other side of the street and saw that one man was working without shoes, but he was much younger than the man I remembered.
I walked over to the man, holding the bright white flip flops and he immediately pointed at the flip flops and then at his feet with a smile. I looked at him without speaking for a moment trying to figure out if he might have given the older man his shoes when he'd given me his or if he were just a man without shoes seeing that I had shoes to give. I stood there, looking around, holding on to the shoes for another few moments before asking, "Anh ay o dau? (Where is he?)" in Vietnamese, thinking that if the man had seen the transaction earlier, he would know who I meant by "he." The man just pointed again to his feet.
Just then two Vietnamese men in ties and construction hats walked over to me and said, in English, "Souvenirs!" pointing at the shoes.
"No," I said. "Not souvenirs. A man gave me these shoes when I walked through here with no shoes and I want to give them back. But I don't know were he is. Do you think he knows him?" pointing at the barefoot man.
The man in the tie said something to the man with no shoes, who shook his head and responded in Vietnamese.
"He doesn't know him. He was just another worker. He is probably gone off somewhere. It is lunch time. Maybe he went home for lunch. Keep the shoes. They are a souvenir."
I sighed, disappointed, but not ready to give up. I thanked them and motioned to the barefoot man that I was going to walk around and look. He nodded and smiled as I turned to walk away.
I walked further down the block, peering intently at the faces of the men as they flung shovels full of dirt from ever deepening holes in the sidewalk. They in turn, peered back at me with amused looks. As I walked, I remembered that my benefactor had on blue coveralls, and narrowed my inquiry to faces above blue coveralls. As I came up on the next block, I noticed that it was covered with tree branches. Then it hit me. Tree branches! I had been stepping over tree branches just before I was given the shoes, so he must have been with the tree crew! Thrilled at my recollection, I crossed the street to where about 20 men in blue coveralls where milling around a big orange vehicle. I held up the white shoes as I peered into the faces hoping that someone would recognize me if I failed to recognize the owner of the shoes. I received a few crazy looks before a man walked up to me and said something in Vietnamese.
I held up the shoes, "Anh ay o dau?"
Again, a response in Vietnamese.
"Anh ay? (Him?)"
He motioned to the next corner.
I thanked him and walked across the street, still clutching the flip flops. I walked up to another group of coverall clad men eating their lunches around the typical child-sized plastic tables of Vietnamese street restaurants. When they saw me they smiled and pointed up in nearby tree. I looked up through the branches of the tree and saw nothing.
I held up the shoes and said again, "Anh ay?"
Again they pointed up into the tree.
I walked around to the other side and positioned myself next to the trunk. Looking up, as the men yelled something in Vietnamese, I saw a familiar face smiling down through the branches.
Thrilled to have found him at last, I grinned as I held the shoes above my head. I saw a nod and a smile. Then I held up the bag of tangerines, for another smile. I then turned to the men on the ground and pantomimed my request that they give the shoes and the tangerines to the man when he came down from the tree and they smiled and nodded their agreement.
Walking around the tree for a better view, I watched as the man in the tree sawed off a branch, waited for his team to clear the street below, and dropped it down on to the pavement. With a clearer view of his face, I watched as he turned down to me and gave me another big smile. With a satisfied smile and a wave, I walked off, with a lighter step, mulling over how kind people can be, to give up what they have, even when they have so little to give.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Photocopies are a Girls Best Friend
I have been teaching 7th and 8th graders at Truong Vinh Ky through UNESCO for a little over three months now and I am definitely getting better at my job. I have gained most of the student's respect, by being fair and kind (most of the time); I have learned to prepare more advanced lessons for my more advanced classes and simpler lessons for my less advanced classes and most importantly, I have learned the immeasurable importance of being prepared. A class full of 36 seventh graders is not unlike a cage full of 36 hungry lions; if you are not prepared to give them what they want/need, they may very well eat you alive.
UNESCO provides its teachers with two books to use for each grade level. My 7th graders are studying Star Team 1 and Tieng Anh (English Language) 7. My 8th graders are studying Star Team 2 and Tieng Anh 8. In my prescribed class "diary," I am to cover one page per 45 minute class period. A page in Star Team might have a story for listening comprehension, a few grammar questions and a writing activity. Some, I can stretch to fill a full 45 minute period, others, I cannot. It is the latter, which leaves me standing in front of a room full of hungry lions with nothing left to feed them. So when I plan my lesson, I do everything I can to make sure that I have a bag full of meat.
My "meat" consists of flashcards tailored to each lesson, crossword puzzles, dialogues and speaking activities, fill-in-the blank articles and stories for discussion, a potato for 'hot potato,' etc.; anything I can pull out at a moment’s notice to keep the class running smoothly. When I am prepared, my classes are fun, the kids (usually) enjoy themselves and even I (usually) enjoy myself.
The problem I have is not that that all of this extra preparation takes time, because have a successful class, to me, is worth the time spent in preparation, but it is all of the copies required to provide activity sheets to 4 classes of 36 students. If I were at home, I would simply print the copies at home (on recycled paper) or use an overhead projector, but in Viet Nam, without a printer and only a blackboard at my disposal as a teaching tool, it is a little more difficult.
In the beginning, I asked my supervisors at UNESCO to make some copies for me, thinking that as they were providing my other materials, they should provide for any reasonable requests for additional teaching materials that I should require to enhance the lesson. For two days, my requests were granted and I was greeted with stacks of handouts at the beginning of each day and I happily went on my way. After two days, a notice board appeared in the teachers’ lounge stating in block lettering "IF YOU SOMETHING PRINTED, SEND IT TO UNESCO NO LESS THAN TWO DAYS IN ADVANCE. IF YOU NEED PHOTOCOPIES FOR YOUR CLASS, ASK YOUR CLASS MONITOR TO MAKE THEM THE WEEK BEFORE YOU NEED THEM." And so ended my two day run of photocopies…
Given that I hadn’t planned for my classes two weeks in advance to give me time to give my copy requests to my class monitor, my next route was to ask Steven to print out some copies at school. Unfortunately, after a few rounds of copies, he found his copier at school guarded by regular school personal (perhaps to curb the use of the copier for non-school related matters...).
Frustrated with all of the dead ends, I decided to visit the photocopy shop a few shops down from our apartment. In the shop, I was able to print out worksheets and activities that I'd created from a thumb drive and to copy some pages of a book for my next week’s lesson. I figured that as long as I had the originals, I could make the copies at the school (still holding tight to my belief that school materials should be paid for by the school). While I was there, the man who helped me with my copies asked if I could help him with his English pronunciation and I gave him my name and number and left with a promise to meet up the following week.
On Monday morning, I was ready for class five minutes early with my originals and upon entering the class, handed them to my classroom monitor and asked her to make 30 copies of each document. The student looked at me confused and said, "But teacher, we are not allowed to make copies before the class." My face must have conveyed my frustration, because she immediately suggested that I ask her homeroom teacher for permission to let her make the copies now. At her suggestion, I went out into the hall to ask the teacher, who, after giving me a concerned look, and clarifying with the student the exact amount of copies that I needed, proceed to pull at 100 thousand dong note (about $6) out of her wallet. Feeling bad that she had to pay for my copies out of her own pocket, but faced with the knowledge that my class was about to begin and my lesson revolved around these handouts, I quietly thanked her and walked back into class as the monitor ran off with my originals. Not two minutes after I began teaching the lesson, my classroom monitor returned with my documents. "The machine is broken." I quickly forced my look of exasperation into a smile and thanked her for trying. As I turned back to the class, I mentally ran through a list of alternative activities to keep the wolves at bay for another 45 minutes.
As I left school that day, I vowed to go straight back to the copy shop that evening, suck it up and pay for all of the copies that I needed. I had tried every available avenue and found that if I wanted this done, I would have to do it myself. Of course after running to the bank to pick up money for our rent, a private lesson with a new student, rushing home for a quick dinner before my regular evening student came over, my vow got lost in the shuffle.
As I walked back up the stairs as my last student left on Monday evening, it suddenly struck me. The Photocopies! ARGH! Another day without being prepared! Another day when the only thing between me being a creative and interesting teacher, verses a lost, inept excuse for a teacher were my photocopied activity sheets (that I only lacked because I am lazy and cheap!)! I ran up the last few stairs, snatched up the original documents from my bag and went down the street to the photocopy shop. Closed! Using a combination of broken Vietnamese and pantomimes, I inquired at the pharmacy next store about the time that the shop would open the following morning and was told that it opened at 7:00, half an hour after I needed to leave for school. Head hung, I tromped back up the stairs formulating a last minute plan to be prepared for class the following day.
Back inside, with the word 'PHOTOCOPIES' running over and over in my head, I looked back through the books to come up with a lesson that did not require the use of photocopies. For a 90 minute period, UNESCO prescribed a page with an article about using a dictionary, another with a song on it, which the students would listen to and fill in the blanks, and a page in Tieng Anh, in which we would recite a dialogue about 'World Heritage Sites' together. All in all I calculated that it would take me about 10 minutes to cover everything in both books, leaving me with 80 minutes of bleak, uncomfortable nothingness. I needed my photocopies! I had copied and pasted pages of a Vietnamese-English dictionary onto one page and planned to write 8 words for the students to look up in Vietnamese and then use in a sentence in English to practice using a dictionary. We would then write the sentences on the board and correct them and recite them as a class. I had printed an article on children in Afghanistan for my more advanced classes, in which I had taken out words to use as a listening activity and written discussion questions for them to compare and contrast their lives with the kids in the article. For my less advanced class, I had printed out interviews from Kids Around the World, a website that interviews kids from different countries with basic questions like, 'What is your name?' 'Where do you live?' 'Who is in your family?' etc. With my photocopies, I was prepared, creative and competent. Without them, I was....not.
While I was going over my books, the phone rang and to my surprise and delight, it was Giai, my new friend from the copy shop. He was calling to confirm that our lesson was next Sunday, not that evening, presumably because he had seen or heard from the ladies at the pharmacy that I was there inquiring about the shop. I assured him that our lesson was indeed on Sunday, but told him that I would make him a deal and help him for 20 minutes that evening, if I could come over and make some copies. He told me that he would be happy to help me, but that he was just leaving for his evening English class. Trying another angle, I asked what time he got up in the morning. He said something that sounded like '3 a.m.' and began explaining that he needed to get up early to finish all of his work. Not wanting to impose myself on anyone at 3 in the morning, especially someone I had just met, I tried again.
"What if I came over at 6:30, could someone let me in to make copies?"
"Coffee? Well, I'd like to have coffee, but I have to.."
"No, no. Not COFFEE. COPIES. I would like to come over and make some copies."
"I see.. Um, I could ask my sister if she would like to have coffee with you tomorrow morning..."
"No, no, no, no. Not coffee. Copies. Copies. Like PAPER copies...!"
"If you would like to have coffee..."
"Don't worry about it. Please tell your sister that I can't have coffee because I have to work, but I will see you on Sunday at 5:00..."
I fell asleep that night thinking about photocopies, confident that my usually sound sleep would be interrupted by visions of me running after photocopiers only to have them always just out of reach.
This morning, I woke up early, originals in hand, ready to scan the streets from the back of a xe om, from our apartment to school, in search of an open copy shop. Having been passed by two full mini-buses, two days in a row, I had veered from my routine the previous morning and taken a new xe om driver to school. Luckily for me, he was in the same spot this morning and I flagged him down, happy not to have to risk getting lost while I was busy looking for a copy shop.
We passed numerous shops with their signs proclaiming, 'PHOTOCOPIES' in big block letters above roll doors locked down tight. As we passed each one, I calculated the time and distance back to it if we reached the school without finding an open shop. Finally, I spotted two copiers crammed into a small shop on the opposite side of a narrow alley. I motioned my driver to stop, which he did immediately, causing a near pile up of motorbikes behind us. I jumped off the bike and picked my way though the oncoming onslaught of bikes to the store, where the shop keeper was photocopying identification documents for a man dressed in business attire.
As I waited patiently while the man made double sided copies for his customer and trimmed them of all excess paper, I threw my driver apologetic glances, which he returned with patient smiles. When it was finally my turn, I glanced at my phone and saw that it was 7:00 a.m., leaving me just 15 minutes before the first bell. I explained to the man in Vietnamese that I needed 18 copies of each document and watched as he took my documents and set them one at a time onto the face of the copier.
After he handed me the second stack, I noticed that they were decidedly smaller than I would expected 18 pages to be. Upon counting each stack, I found that he was only making 8 copies of each document. When he handed me the next stack, I tried to explain that I needed 'muoi tam' (18) of each not just 'tam' (8). He looked at me with a confused expression on his face and said something in Vietnamese that I took to be the price of each page. I told him that I understood, but continued to explain that I needed 'muoi tam' pages. We continued this dance, until he, frustrated, marched into the back of the shop and out through a door that led, I presumed, to his house, leaving me in a state of barely controlled panic as the clock ticked ever closer to the ringing of that first bell. After about a minute, he returned, alone, not with the interpreter I thought he'd gone to get and I handed him a paper on which I had written '18.' "Muoi Tam," I said. "Ah, Muoi Tam!" and off he went to make me 10 more copies of each stack. At exactly 7:12, I was back on the bike and on my way with a bag full of photocopies.
Prepared as I was for my lessons, the kids enjoyed the activity, their homeroom teacher sat in the back with a satisfied smile and I left feeling like I had actually done a decent job. I left school vowing to spend my next free day planning, printing and making copies for as far ahead as I could plan.
UNESCO provides its teachers with two books to use for each grade level. My 7th graders are studying Star Team 1 and Tieng Anh (English Language) 7. My 8th graders are studying Star Team 2 and Tieng Anh 8. In my prescribed class "diary," I am to cover one page per 45 minute class period. A page in Star Team might have a story for listening comprehension, a few grammar questions and a writing activity. Some, I can stretch to fill a full 45 minute period, others, I cannot. It is the latter, which leaves me standing in front of a room full of hungry lions with nothing left to feed them. So when I plan my lesson, I do everything I can to make sure that I have a bag full of meat.
My "meat" consists of flashcards tailored to each lesson, crossword puzzles, dialogues and speaking activities, fill-in-the blank articles and stories for discussion, a potato for 'hot potato,' etc.; anything I can pull out at a moment’s notice to keep the class running smoothly. When I am prepared, my classes are fun, the kids (usually) enjoy themselves and even I (usually) enjoy myself.
The problem I have is not that that all of this extra preparation takes time, because have a successful class, to me, is worth the time spent in preparation, but it is all of the copies required to provide activity sheets to 4 classes of 36 students. If I were at home, I would simply print the copies at home (on recycled paper) or use an overhead projector, but in Viet Nam, without a printer and only a blackboard at my disposal as a teaching tool, it is a little more difficult.
In the beginning, I asked my supervisors at UNESCO to make some copies for me, thinking that as they were providing my other materials, they should provide for any reasonable requests for additional teaching materials that I should require to enhance the lesson. For two days, my requests were granted and I was greeted with stacks of handouts at the beginning of each day and I happily went on my way. After two days, a notice board appeared in the teachers’ lounge stating in block lettering "IF YOU SOMETHING PRINTED, SEND IT TO UNESCO NO LESS THAN TWO DAYS IN ADVANCE. IF YOU NEED PHOTOCOPIES FOR YOUR CLASS, ASK YOUR CLASS MONITOR TO MAKE THEM THE WEEK BEFORE YOU NEED THEM." And so ended my two day run of photocopies…
Given that I hadn’t planned for my classes two weeks in advance to give me time to give my copy requests to my class monitor, my next route was to ask Steven to print out some copies at school. Unfortunately, after a few rounds of copies, he found his copier at school guarded by regular school personal (perhaps to curb the use of the copier for non-school related matters...).
Frustrated with all of the dead ends, I decided to visit the photocopy shop a few shops down from our apartment. In the shop, I was able to print out worksheets and activities that I'd created from a thumb drive and to copy some pages of a book for my next week’s lesson. I figured that as long as I had the originals, I could make the copies at the school (still holding tight to my belief that school materials should be paid for by the school). While I was there, the man who helped me with my copies asked if I could help him with his English pronunciation and I gave him my name and number and left with a promise to meet up the following week.
On Monday morning, I was ready for class five minutes early with my originals and upon entering the class, handed them to my classroom monitor and asked her to make 30 copies of each document. The student looked at me confused and said, "But teacher, we are not allowed to make copies before the class." My face must have conveyed my frustration, because she immediately suggested that I ask her homeroom teacher for permission to let her make the copies now. At her suggestion, I went out into the hall to ask the teacher, who, after giving me a concerned look, and clarifying with the student the exact amount of copies that I needed, proceed to pull at 100 thousand dong note (about $6) out of her wallet. Feeling bad that she had to pay for my copies out of her own pocket, but faced with the knowledge that my class was about to begin and my lesson revolved around these handouts, I quietly thanked her and walked back into class as the monitor ran off with my originals. Not two minutes after I began teaching the lesson, my classroom monitor returned with my documents. "The machine is broken." I quickly forced my look of exasperation into a smile and thanked her for trying. As I turned back to the class, I mentally ran through a list of alternative activities to keep the wolves at bay for another 45 minutes.
As I left school that day, I vowed to go straight back to the copy shop that evening, suck it up and pay for all of the copies that I needed. I had tried every available avenue and found that if I wanted this done, I would have to do it myself. Of course after running to the bank to pick up money for our rent, a private lesson with a new student, rushing home for a quick dinner before my regular evening student came over, my vow got lost in the shuffle.
As I walked back up the stairs as my last student left on Monday evening, it suddenly struck me. The Photocopies! ARGH! Another day without being prepared! Another day when the only thing between me being a creative and interesting teacher, verses a lost, inept excuse for a teacher were my photocopied activity sheets (that I only lacked because I am lazy and cheap!)! I ran up the last few stairs, snatched up the original documents from my bag and went down the street to the photocopy shop. Closed! Using a combination of broken Vietnamese and pantomimes, I inquired at the pharmacy next store about the time that the shop would open the following morning and was told that it opened at 7:00, half an hour after I needed to leave for school. Head hung, I tromped back up the stairs formulating a last minute plan to be prepared for class the following day.
Back inside, with the word 'PHOTOCOPIES' running over and over in my head, I looked back through the books to come up with a lesson that did not require the use of photocopies. For a 90 minute period, UNESCO prescribed a page with an article about using a dictionary, another with a song on it, which the students would listen to and fill in the blanks, and a page in Tieng Anh, in which we would recite a dialogue about 'World Heritage Sites' together. All in all I calculated that it would take me about 10 minutes to cover everything in both books, leaving me with 80 minutes of bleak, uncomfortable nothingness. I needed my photocopies! I had copied and pasted pages of a Vietnamese-English dictionary onto one page and planned to write 8 words for the students to look up in Vietnamese and then use in a sentence in English to practice using a dictionary. We would then write the sentences on the board and correct them and recite them as a class. I had printed an article on children in Afghanistan for my more advanced classes, in which I had taken out words to use as a listening activity and written discussion questions for them to compare and contrast their lives with the kids in the article. For my less advanced class, I had printed out interviews from Kids Around the World, a website that interviews kids from different countries with basic questions like, 'What is your name?' 'Where do you live?' 'Who is in your family?' etc. With my photocopies, I was prepared, creative and competent. Without them, I was....not.
While I was going over my books, the phone rang and to my surprise and delight, it was Giai, my new friend from the copy shop. He was calling to confirm that our lesson was next Sunday, not that evening, presumably because he had seen or heard from the ladies at the pharmacy that I was there inquiring about the shop. I assured him that our lesson was indeed on Sunday, but told him that I would make him a deal and help him for 20 minutes that evening, if I could come over and make some copies. He told me that he would be happy to help me, but that he was just leaving for his evening English class. Trying another angle, I asked what time he got up in the morning. He said something that sounded like '3 a.m.' and began explaining that he needed to get up early to finish all of his work. Not wanting to impose myself on anyone at 3 in the morning, especially someone I had just met, I tried again.
"What if I came over at 6:30, could someone let me in to make copies?"
"Coffee? Well, I'd like to have coffee, but I have to.."
"No, no. Not COFFEE. COPIES. I would like to come over and make some copies."
"I see.. Um, I could ask my sister if she would like to have coffee with you tomorrow morning..."
"No, no, no, no. Not coffee. Copies. Copies. Like PAPER copies...!"
"If you would like to have coffee..."
"Don't worry about it. Please tell your sister that I can't have coffee because I have to work, but I will see you on Sunday at 5:00..."
I fell asleep that night thinking about photocopies, confident that my usually sound sleep would be interrupted by visions of me running after photocopiers only to have them always just out of reach.
This morning, I woke up early, originals in hand, ready to scan the streets from the back of a xe om, from our apartment to school, in search of an open copy shop. Having been passed by two full mini-buses, two days in a row, I had veered from my routine the previous morning and taken a new xe om driver to school. Luckily for me, he was in the same spot this morning and I flagged him down, happy not to have to risk getting lost while I was busy looking for a copy shop.
We passed numerous shops with their signs proclaiming, 'PHOTOCOPIES' in big block letters above roll doors locked down tight. As we passed each one, I calculated the time and distance back to it if we reached the school without finding an open shop. Finally, I spotted two copiers crammed into a small shop on the opposite side of a narrow alley. I motioned my driver to stop, which he did immediately, causing a near pile up of motorbikes behind us. I jumped off the bike and picked my way though the oncoming onslaught of bikes to the store, where the shop keeper was photocopying identification documents for a man dressed in business attire.
As I waited patiently while the man made double sided copies for his customer and trimmed them of all excess paper, I threw my driver apologetic glances, which he returned with patient smiles. When it was finally my turn, I glanced at my phone and saw that it was 7:00 a.m., leaving me just 15 minutes before the first bell. I explained to the man in Vietnamese that I needed 18 copies of each document and watched as he took my documents and set them one at a time onto the face of the copier.
After he handed me the second stack, I noticed that they were decidedly smaller than I would expected 18 pages to be. Upon counting each stack, I found that he was only making 8 copies of each document. When he handed me the next stack, I tried to explain that I needed 'muoi tam' (18) of each not just 'tam' (8). He looked at me with a confused expression on his face and said something in Vietnamese that I took to be the price of each page. I told him that I understood, but continued to explain that I needed 'muoi tam' pages. We continued this dance, until he, frustrated, marched into the back of the shop and out through a door that led, I presumed, to his house, leaving me in a state of barely controlled panic as the clock ticked ever closer to the ringing of that first bell. After about a minute, he returned, alone, not with the interpreter I thought he'd gone to get and I handed him a paper on which I had written '18.' "Muoi Tam," I said. "Ah, Muoi Tam!" and off he went to make me 10 more copies of each stack. At exactly 7:12, I was back on the bike and on my way with a bag full of photocopies.
Prepared as I was for my lessons, the kids enjoyed the activity, their homeroom teacher sat in the back with a satisfied smile and I left feeling like I had actually done a decent job. I left school vowing to spend my next free day planning, printing and making copies for as far ahead as I could plan.
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