Category Archives: English Teaching Abroad

Vietnam from the sea to the table.


Living in the provincial town of Quang Ngai, it can be hard to forget that just a few miles beyond the confines of the city a totally different world unfolds.  As in any urban environment, people’s lives in the city seemingly revolve around providing services: coffee shops, restaurants, clothes shops, the wet market and the supermarket, the local hospital just around the corner.  At peak times, on crowded roads, hordes of motorbikes jostle for space with cyclists and cars, and even a few hapless pedestrians as cafes, food carts and street vendors spill out onto the pavements making them impassable.

The sea breeze, emanating from the South China Sea along the Vietnamese coastline, does not reach here to clear the stuffiness of stagnant, stifling air or ease the closeness of the oppressive summer swelter.  Verdant hillocks beckon in the distance, too far to get to by bicycle and, after my e-bike adventures in China, I am not too keen on braving the traffic on a motorized vehicle…  But the beach is only a bike ride away, one hour there and another on the way back.  Thirty-four kilometers of unbridled cycling freedom, whilst the rush of warm air keeps the worst of the heat at bay.   A treat in the cooler winter months, when cloud cover and occasional heavy downpours made for soggy but enjoyable ventures.  These days, bike rides are more likely to coincide with slathering on sun cream, sporting my wide-brimmed hiking hat and, lately, even a long-sleeved shirt.  Better to be safe than sorry; the wise words of my daughter!!!.  The sun can indeed be relentless.

But whilst MY trips to the beach focus on relaxing with a Vietnamese coffee, indulging in Ban Xeo (rice pancakes), dipping my toes in the gentle waves and building sand castles on a whim, the locals are busy making a living from what the sea has to offer.  With a coastline extending to the full length of the country, and plenty of deltas, waterways and lakes inland, it is no surprise that Vietnam’s fishing industry is buoyant.  Not only is the sea exploited to provide much needed protein – sumptuous seafood and fish – to supplement the diet of the local population, Vietnam is also a major exporter of shrimp and other seafood delicacies.   And as is still often the case in the developing world, the work involved is backbreaking and arduous.


Beaches are littered with fishermen’s paraphernalia.  Of course, there are the usual fishing boats, elongated in their shape with a distinct bow and stern, but circular tub-shaped boats are equally common.  Many of them are equipped with battery-run lighting for nighttime trips out to sea as fishermen take to the deeper waters along the coast to cast their nets.

Later, taking advantage of the force of the incoming tide, two lines of men and women, patiently and laboriously, tiny step by tiny step, draw in the nets from both ends, hauling in the catch.  Groups of villagers, or tourists, flock out of nowhere to inspect or photograph a (hopefully) abundant yield, whilst the workers carefully sort the various species brought ashore ready to be dispatched to fish markets and stalls.  Local housewives or restaurant owners come along to have the first pick of what the tide turned in.


On another occasion, we watch three people trawl the shallow waters edging the beach.  They plod on slowly and doggedly, dragging an unusual tool just below the sand.  Every now and again, one of them stops dipping a hand under the water as the metal bar at the bottom of their pitched wooden fork clangs.  They are collecting a type of shellfish, buried in the sand just below the sea surface…



But spare a thought for the makeshift scuba divers, earning their keep by scouring the seabed for shrimp or baby lobster…  We never found out what they were really looking for; a mixture of the obscurity of my photograph and translation problems…  It just seemed a lot of risk for a handful of shrimp…



Initially my curiosity was piqued by bobbing heads breaking through the waves in the shallower water and the humming of a battery perched on some slippery rocks near the water’s edge.  Attached to the battery was what very much looked like a garden hosepipe, supplying air to one of a team of snorkelers and scuba divers who were locating and collecting the precious seafood.  At least they were kitted out with wet suits and snorkeling masks but it is difficult to underestimate the damage the excessive air pressure must cause to the divers’ lungs…


Maybe it is befitting to give thanks to the Vietnamese fishermen, as well as the Almighty, for ‘giving us our daily bread’ and seafood….


The Pavement Food Culture of Vietnam.


‘Vietnam is not like China,’ the young bartender assures me.  I guess he must be somewhere in his mid-twenties…  I have taken refuge in a bar, to savour a cool beer and escape the crushing afternoon heat of Hanoi in August.  Inevitably our chit-chat turns to my recent past as we linger on my reasons for being in Vietnam and my less than favourable feelings about China.  ‘Unlike China, we know what goes on in the world, and can freely browse the internet, ’ he continues. ‘Not that long ago, there was yet another war between China and Vietnam.  Maybe it was not reported to the outside world, but it definitely happened…’  Uncle Ho may well have courted China in his bid to win the Vietnam War, but the love has long since been extinguished and replaced by unwavering distrust and suspicion, if not enmity.


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The young man speaks surprisingly good English, although he admits that topics unrelated to food leave him rather lost for words, English ones that is.  Whilst he has lived in Vietnam all his life, he has a younger sister (or maybe half-sister, I did not probe too deeply), born and raised in Germany.  As she does not speak Vietnamese and the bartender has never felt the need to learn this European language, their Skype conversations depend on the one language they have in common:  English, and the one passion they share: food.  His rather limited vocabulary suits me, I love food too and have been told by Vietnamese friends in China that street food in Vietnam is the way to go, it is absolutely the best…  Did I detect some bias here??  And what about hygiene??  Best to avoid the empty looking restaurants  and stands and head for busy, well-attended eateries ignoring the mouth-watering waft from tender and tasty pork morsels, chicken pieces, flavoursome mince cigars using betel leaves…


True to my friends’ and the bartender’s words though, food is everywhere in Hanoi.  On the pavements street vendors and shopkeepers flaunt their wares, a cornucopia of bright colours fresh from the field (I hope) and exotic, tantalising fruits to tempt passers-by.


Fish, painfully heaving to catch their final breath, vie for attention with large slabs of pork, pink and succulent.


Others peddle their goods from baskets suspended on their bicycles, moving on and attracting customers along the way, or visiting their regular clientele.   And who can miss the hard-working sellers eking out a meagre living carrying quang ganh (two baskets on either end of a long bamboo stick) on their shoulders, weighted with an abundance of  household goods or produce.  For many, life in Vietnam is still tough; progress and development has far from reached all echelons of society here.

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In the meantime,  the bartender, eager to practise his English, proves an excellent source of information.   He is local and directs me to a rather unusual restaurant where they cook poussin (baby chicken) in empty drinks cans.  Talking about taking recycling another step further…  My curiosity piqued and Google-Map enabled, I set out to find out the street.  ‘Mind you get there before six or seven in the evening,’ the bartender calls out as I am ready to leave. ‘Vietnamese people eat early, and they may have sold out if you get there too late.’   I make it to the shop before the rush, plenty of hapless chicks still on display.


I cannot say that looking at those pitiable blackened feet and wretched heads works wonders for my appetite as I watch the cook prise one ready-to-eat bird from its container.  To the contrary, I have tried chicken feet in China and, no thank you, I am not quite ready to suck the brains out from a baby chicken’s head… I go in search of more familiar, and to me, palatable dinner options:  fish baked in banana leaf sounds more like it… and some Vietnamese spring rolls.  Delectable.



Exploring the world, Google-Map-wise.

20171002_114702_001I was never an ace at reading maps, my children can vouch for that.  Scales on a map eluded me and translating the logic and sense of a carefully drawn, colourful map to the real world was mostly beyond the realm of my capabilities…  Needless to say that some of our most memorable holiday anecdotes chronicle my shortcomings as the family’s navigator on our trips abroad.   Nevertheless, had it not been for my gross underestimating of the distance between California’s Interstate 5 and the Sequoia National Park, we may never have set eyes on the famed General Sherman Tree,  the largest known living single stem tree on Earth.  The fact that it added an extra five hours to an already overlong drive from Yosemite to Los Angeles whilst  running low on go-go juice on a stretch of road that had not yet been discovered by McDonalds, was by the by…  It isn’t called the ‘scenic route’ for nothing.

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But with the advent of smart phones, readily enabled with Google Maps and generously fed with data, even an ignoramus like me has been given wings to fly and explore towns and countryside safely in the knowledge I will arrive at the expected destination, at some time…  I only recently joined the army of technology savvies, for a long time firmly clinging to the belief that a phone’s purpose in life was to facilitate spoken language.  You punched in some numbers, which prompted some bleeping, tinkling or musical interlude at the receiving end and, all being well, a human voice would reply and a conversation ensue.  China changed this forever!  In China, life without a smart phone was just unimaginable, so much so that, last year, on the occasion of my brand new phone malfunctioning and refusing to share any information with me, I was at my wit’s end.  A catch-22 situation, if ever there was one… I needed to get my phone fixed, but to locate a nearby repair shop I needed my phone as only with the help of Google Maps (using a VPN, of course) or MapsMe would I be able to find my way around town…  Lo and behold, I had to rely on an old fashioned printed map.  Since China, I have grown very fond of Google Maps.  It has guided me across Hangzhou, Shanghai and Beijing, Tokyo and Kyoto, Penang, Langkawi and Kuala Lumpur, Hanoi and, as cars these days come equipped with phone charging points rather than cigarette lighters, even the UK.  In other words, an absolute  must for the modern globetrotter.   My phone lavishly loaded with data, I feel ready to conquer the world and venture into the unknown…



I chose my current job on account of its location, just a pinprick removed from the beach.  The fact that in reality, I am still about 16 km away from the sea did not seem a big hurdle at the time.  What is 16 km??  But Vietnam isn’t India, and the taxis here are definitely not as cheap as India’s rickshaw drivers.  Neither is public transport as convenient and ubiquitous as in China…  In Vietnam an early morning trip to dip a toe in the salty water starts at 6.15 am when the bus trundles past my road; actually this would be considered rather late for the Vietnamese locals, who rise early and make it to the beach by 5 am. But a later bus would mean not leaving until almost mid-morning when the heat makes a trip to the coast almost unbearable.  However, most people weave across town on motorbikes: a sign of progress and a step up from the humble bicycle.  With my e-bike ventures in China still fresh in my mind, and a healthy dose of scepticism about Vietnamese traffic rules, I have opted to stick to a bicycle.  Maybe slower and more effort involved, but I do get exercise, plenty of it…

So far I have managed to make it to the coast by bike four times…  Not that much, you think, but Vietnam is still in its rainy season and the weather is at best unpredictable, if not on occasions hostile to the cyclist.  Heady winds surge in from an overcast sea, often accompanied by prolonged spells of dull drizzle or sharp bursts  of heavy rain.  Although I took a few trips to the beach by bus in September,  I first biked there before the Vietnamese winter properly took hold.  We left indecently early to be ahead of the blaring sun and were back well before lunchtime… On this occasion, I did not need to call on the advice of Google Maps as we were accompanied by one of the old gang, the ones who cycled to the beach quite regularly and clearly knew the way.  It seemed child’s play.  Just keep  on going straight…

The next time, I ventured out all on my own, armed with a phone buzzing with data and Google Maps.  What could go wrong?  A flat tyre just as I had crossed the bridge…!  I had meticulously followed all instructions and kept on going straight, dismissing vague memories of a right turn as a mere figment of my imagination.  Luckily, I had only cycled a few kilometres and a helpful motorbike-taxi rider pointed me in the direction of a bicycle pump owner..  With my tyre just solid enough to make it back to town, I had no option but to find a bicycle repair shop.  Not too difficult here since they set up shop on the pavement in full view…   And once the mechanic had quite literally crossed the road on his motorbike to purchase a new inner tube, he gave my bike the once over.  With brakes tightened, chain freshly oiled and a fully inflated tyre, I set off again on my way to the beach, this time taking heed of Google Maps.  I knew it wasn’t going to be a case of ‘keep on going straight’, as I was leaving from a different part of town…

Feeling I had mastered bicycle trips to the beach, I went again the next week…  Overhead, clouds were threatening, but it didn’t look too bad.  At least Vietnamese rain is usually warm rain!  I did not consult Google Maps, I was confident that I was fully capable of ‘going straight’.  I passed the bridge, I passed the paddy fields, I passed more paddy fields with  water buffaloes lazily grazing the rice stubble… but where was the hill with the pagoda and where was the little village I was meant to pass through…?


Time to have a look at Google Maps, I decided.  I was indeed ‘going straight ahead’ in the wrong direction!  Rather than closing in on the beach, my journey took me further away than ever…  This right turn I had been imagining?  Definitely not a figment of my imagination.  But, of course, Google Maps had a shorter route for me in mind to get me back on the right track.  Having added on already a fair few extra kilometres to my trip, I wanted to save time and … my legs…  I obediently accepted Google Map’s advice and followed the suggested direction… straight into the muddiest road I have ever cycled through… In the end, I dismounted!  Better to ruin my white canvas shoes than falling face down in the mud and ruining all my clothes as well…



I still made it to the beach!!  Muddy and thoroughly soaked by a sudden downpour, I thought the only way to brighten up the day was to plough on regardless …

And as for Google Maps…   Maybe better taken with a large pinch of salt and liberally sprinkled with old fashioned common sense…




Living the Life of a Millionaire in Vietnam.

Becoming a millionaire happened instantly, or almost.  No effort involved.  Not even the buying of a lottery ticket.  How we all have mused about how we would spend these millions if we ever were to win the big draw… How our family and friends would bask in our generosity, charities of our choice would prosper,  just keeping enough for ourselves to see us through the rest of our days in reasonable comfort and luxury… Working would just be a pastime to stave off the boredom, no longer a necessity of life.

I was finally elevated to the Millionaire Club at an airport, Hanoi airport to be precise.  Having slipped out of China like a thief in the night, pockets and bags stuffed with the proceeds of several  months of relatively hard graft, Chinese renminbe (RMB for short ) would not get me very far on these new shores.  It was a neat little stash, admittedly rather decimated by my summer travel exploits, but when stacked up in one pile, it looked quite impressive…  It certainly helped that the highest denomination of a Chinese banknote is merely 100 RMB, roughly the equivalent of a tenner in the UK, so it takes a fair few notes to make a decent amount.

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As Chinese middle class citizens have taken to tourism and travel like oxygen-starved fish to water,  and Vietnam is literally just across the border, I assumed that a money transfer at the airport would not pose any difficulties.  After the first ‘money exchanger’ shook his head and sighed, ‘No, we don’t deal in RMB,’ I quietly began to rue my rash decision of clearing out my bank accounts in China…  Using my Chinese bankcards to withdraw cash had worked flawlessly in Japan and Malaysia…  Maybe I would have been better off using ATMs in Vietnam to extricate my Chinese money, readily dispensed in local Vietnamese Dong.  Luckily, not all money exchange facilities at the airport were reluctant to take the Chinese banknotes.

With an exchange rate of roughly 3500 VND to 1 RMB, my eyes boggled at the numbers…   (£1  roughly equates to 30,000 VND).  Although I thought it prudent not to exchange all my money – airports are notorious for their unfavourable exchange rates – I lost count of all the noughts on the screen…  Millions, loads of them…  Did I have enough room in my bags and pockets to hide all the notes and keep my cash safe??  But when paper money comes in denominations of half a million, it only takes two notes to make a million.  The stack put in front of me was rather underwhelming.  Was this what millions looked like??  It was in Vietnam….!!


And then it began to disappear, like water cascading through my fingers.   A taxi ride into town set me back 400,000 VND; a local SIM – one of life’s essentials these days – cost another  few hundred thousand (I can’t remember the exact amount)…  Even before leaving the airport, I had already parted with my first million..  A simple Vietnamese coffee cost 30,000 VND in Hanoi and maybe a bit more for the famed Hanoi Egg Coffee (to die for.. ).  Lunches and dinners, sumptuous Vietnamese cuisine, set me back  another few ten- or hundred-thousands each.  I was fleeced by a fruit stall holder and paid 20,000 VND for 4 rambutan; not that I would have been any the wiser about paying an exorbitant price if it were not for the raised eyebrows of another Vietnamese customer.  Still, with no quick conversion to real and equivalent prices in the UK or China, I just handed out the notes like candy…   After all, this was Hanoi and I was still enjoying my last few days of holiday freedom.

These days I try to get by on a million a week…  I know, it still sounds extravagant, but I live modestly.  Eating out is limited to just a few times each week, but some days the long teaching hours take their toll and sap all our energy and it’s even too much effort to pour boiling water over the ubiquitous instant noodles.   Late night pangs of hunger are often sated with strawberry or mango smoothies in the few establishments in the neighbourhood that remain open after 9.00 pm, when we finally finish work.  And on the warmer evenings, we might just make it to the corner café and indulge in a beer, deliciously cooled and diluted as it is poured over large slabs of ice dunked in our glasses..


What really makes our spending rocket is extravagant Western food tastes and preferences: colourful vegetables and sumptuous exotic fruits such as apples, potatoes, courgettes and peppers; and cheese and bacon and sausages (of some sort) and yoghurt…  I’m not complaining; it’s worth every penny and at least it’s available…  I could of course venture to the wet market and try my luck haggling over the price of garlic, ginger and even cauliflower, and maybe I will… soon… but for now, I stick with the sterility of the local supermarket.  At least here I know that the prices are the same for all the customers, regardless of the colour of their skin…

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But even millionaires can be penny pinchers.  So it was that on a trip to Da Nang several weeks ago I got totally incensed when the hotel staff overcharged me for my room.  ‘What? That is 5000 VND more than when I made the booking!!’ I argued.  Totally befuddled by too many noughts, it seemed a gross injustice.  It was only when I worked out that 5000 VND amounted to no more than around 16 p (UK £), I felt my cheeks flush…  Did I really make a fuss about 16 p?  In the grand scheme of things, would I even notice 16 p less in my purse???

Someone recently suggested that Vietnam should just simply chop off the last three zeros of its currency.   Not a devaluation, but  1,000,000 VDN would just become 1,000 VND with the same spending power…  No more notes of half a million, just notes of five thousand…  It would definitely reduce the number of millionaires amongst us, but at least our piles of cash would no longer feel like a mountain of Monopoly money…

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Riding the roller-coaster of Christmas.


The annual dilemma.  How to spend Christmas Day??  If anything, my Christmases have certainly been diverse and eclectic over the last five years..

The first year, we (my kids and I) basked in the LA sunshine, cosseted by the warmth of our extended Indian side of the family.  Fun was the order of the day, laughter de rigueur.  In India I nursed the one and only bout of gastroenteritis I succumbed to in a whole year there.  Really, on Christmas Day??  But it summed up my feelings and luckily I was roused from the comfort of my bed just in time to witness the multi-cultural Christmas parade passing through the main street of the hamlet of Neyyattinkara.  For my third Christmas, I made it back to the UK relishing in a traditional English Christmas with my family.  Christmas crackers, board games and the opulence of too much delicious food.   Last year, the fourth Christmas morning, I lounged in the luxury of white crisp sheets in a plush hotel in Shanghai, before joining the band of singletons in Starbucks…  So what would Vietnam have in store??

Just like China purged religion with landownership and privilege during the Great Cultural Revolution, Uncle Ho* (or those who were of an equal  disposition) banished faith and worship to the periphery of  Vietnamese life whilst reforming the country according to the same communist principles.  The legacy of being the winners of the Vietnam War.  Contrary to widespread belief, there are plenty of Christians in Vietnam.  In actual fact, although the country is predominantly Buddhist, about 7% of its citizens are Catholic and Vietnam has the fifth largest Catholic population in Asia, after the Philippines, India, China and Indonesia.

But celebrating religious festivals is very much a private matter, and as in China, Christmas is definitely not a national holiday.  Schools are open and employees report for work.  Business as usual.    Local supermarkets and small independent shops have cottoned on though, as some Western customs and festivals are slowly gaining in popularity.  In the run up to the big day, vivid rainbows of tinsel and garlands showered the shops; vibrantly coloured baubles, deep-red Christmas stockings and artificial spruces in all shapes, sizes and shades of green festooned their ceilings and doorways.  A token of progress and development, of fitting in with rest of the world.  Vietnam on the cusp of a new and unstoppable revolution.


Thoroughly modern Vietnamese Father Christmases no longer rely on Rudolph and sleigh for transport, but crisscross town on motorbikes to  deliver presents in broad daylight to those lucky children whose parents can afford to pay for such extravagance.  At the language centre where I work, children feasted on biscuits and crisps whilst being initiated into the secular language associated with the ‘birth of Jesus’ –  Jesus played no part in it.  The closest I came to conveying a Christmas message was showing a Sainsbury advert from a few years back:  Mog’s Christmas Calamity.  At least it was humorous and contained a suitable moral, ‘Christmas is for sharing’…  But whilst the teachers and office staff at my centre indulged in a Christmas Eve dinner hosted by our ‘boss’, the Christian populace of the town gathered in the town’s churches.  Not unnerved by the sight of Santa towering over the entrance, mass was eagerly attended and the churches’ naves rejoiced with exultant Christmas carols.


Christmas Day itself turned out equally exultant indeed.  In the absence of family, we gelled together as friends.  After a late night – for some lasting into the wee hours – we got up early, very early, long before dawn, and piled into the waiting taxi on our way to Da Nang…  A three hour drive.  Having breakfast on the go, we explored the caves and pagodas of the Marble Mountains and took selfies with the tallest Lady Buddha in Vietnam (Linh Ung Pagoda).


I cannot honestly say I was riveted by the thought of  a KFC Christmas Dinner, but after several  months of being deprived of proper Western food, it was a real treat…   And it comprised all the essentials of the authentic British festive meal!  What better Christmas Dinner than savouring mouth-watering, succulent popcorn chicken bites, soft chicken meat that I did not need to prise from the bone with my teeth (turkey…) accompanied by crisp, hot French fries (roast potatoes)…   And a choice of chicken gravy and ketchup.  Delectable.  So there were no Brussels sprouts, but who misses those anyway… ?


Instead of hearty after-dinner walks in the countryside, or slouching on a sofa to watch Christmas specials, we spent our afternoon and evening riding the thrilling rides, rolling the corkscrew roller coasters and circling the giant eye of Asia Park, Da Nang’s amusement park…  And as Christmas was just a normal day for most of Vietnam, there were no queues…  We lost count of the number of times we were shaken, jolted, plunged, catapulted and swung…

A roller coaster Christmas.  Bring it on.


*Uncle Ho:  affectionate Vietnamese soubriquet  for  Ho Chi Minh, the driving force behind Vietnam’s struggle against French colonial rule.








A Factory of Lies in the Name of Saving Face.

Gaining and Losing Face in China

Rain was pelting down, angry rivulets screaming down the windscreen.  I sighed, nervously, as heavy rains would inevitably delay my flight.  The taxi had been punctual, organised by one of only a handful of people in China I could really trust.  Still, I had not been entirely honest with her either, only divulging I was taking a trip to Hong Kong, omitting that it would be a one-way flight.  No return. It was better if she was not implicated.  Questions would be asked, and at least this way, she could reply with honesty.  She was not to know until later, and even then I would not tell her my actual destination.

It was so strange leaving China.  You are meant to feel emotional, engulfed by a certain sadness, clinging on to make these final lasting memories.  But there was nothing, just emptiness and overwhelming numbness.  The relief I had been expecting had not materialised, not then anyway.  And there was no regret in saying goodbye to friends; those that mattered I would see again in the different countries we call ‘home’.  In this shrunken world we live in, everyone is only a few flights away, and Skype or Face-time connect us in the meantime.  China is just a phase, a rite of passage for the band of English-as-foreign-language teachers.  One home in a string of many, but never intended to become permanent.   My departure from China was just the end of one chapter, and not the best one.  Not one I felt the need to reread..  Not then anyway, maybe later when the dust had settled and I could look back and add it the list of ‘experiences’.

At the airport I tried to subdue my anxiety.  Not about flying, I am pretty much a pro by now.  But my exit from China did not happen as planned and I would not be able to relax until the plane was in the air and I had left Chinese soil and airspace.  And although I had nothing to reproach myself about, a door had been closed, possibly forever.  I had spent my last few days and hours carefully dodging my agent, arranging a visa for Vietnam, whilst hastily disposing of my meagre belongings.  Within the small local  community of expats an oven, a portable induction cooker and even a handy airing rack were prized possessions and my ex-colleagues descended on my flat like vultures on a corpse, picking over the scraps.

My return to China in March 2017 had been fraught with problems.  My agent’s incompetence had not only prevented my timely arrival back in Hangzhou, it further marred the next few weeks as he seemed clueless about how to secure my residence permit.   A simple procedure that takes just a couple of days if you know what to do.  Instead of gathering the forms and papers himself, he eventually offloaded the task onto the school I was working for…  In good Chinese fashion, he was happy to take the money and let others do the work…  To add insult to injury, my agent had also negotiated a separate deal with the school to increase the fee paid to him because I was a properly qualified teacher…  Not that any of the additional money ever saw my pocket…  All in all, just like I was not exactly in awe of my agent’s performance, the school were equally unimpressed with him.  He was already skating on thin ice as he had previously introduced a string of totally unsuitable teachers, so the school were keen to cut ties with him at the end of the school year.  However, as my contract was with the agent and not the school, as often is the case in China, this meant I would not be able to continue teaching at that school.

Of course, I was not privy to the conversation that took place between the school’s principal and my agent and I can only surmise what happened from the snippets that reached me, and from my Chinese friend’s interpretation…  ‘You have done nothing wrong,’ she translated the events, ‘They just want to get rid of the agent, and are using any excuse to justify this…’  Apparently, I failed at team work… a flippant remark made by the 24-year old British ‘academic manager’ of the school, who was catapulted into the Chinese labour force straight from uni, ready to teach English, with not a clue about real teaching nor about a Western style workplace where discussion and exchange of ideas are welcomed…  Not so in China!!  Having arrived at the school in the middle of the school year, it only seemed normal to me that any professional teacher would ask questions about the how and what of the curriculum and teaching methods, if only to ensure continuity for the students.  Not so in China!!!  Questions are taboo; it was not a wise move on my part…

‘Michael (my agent) refused to accept what we were saying,’ one person in the know at school confided.  ‘Well, schools can only employ teachers directly after they have completed a full year with their agent,’ Michael stubbornly insisted.  Maybe the school indeed wanted to employ me directly in September, but refused to pay Michael’s price for buying me out…  And there will have been a price, I can assure you, a hefty one… I still had another seven months left on my contract with him.  Throughout August employment offers from the school, in various guises, blipped up on my WeChat.  Maybe I would be interested to be the school’s substitute teacher, filling in when other teachers were not available…  Or how about just coming back for one month in September and then they would rekindle the negotiations with my agent to release me from my contract…?  But without a real guarantee of a secure job and freedom from the agent, I would have been foolish to oblige.   At the end of the day, the school were equally culpable and never substantiated my ‘shortcomings’, as honesty would have meant someone would ‘lose face’ and that would never happen…  I was the fall guy, no chance of clearing my name.

In his infinite wisdom, Michael forgot to inform me of the bad tidings (his ‘company’ losing the contract with the school) until a full three weeks later, the end of July .  And instead of being proactive in securing me an alternative job before schools closed for the holidays, he waited and waited in the expectation that I would be able to persuade my school to change their mind…  Once back from my trip to Japan, it took me a mere two days to have two firm job offers in hand: one in China and one in Vietnam…  The Chinese one was by far the more lucrative, but in the end I had no option but the turn it down.  No way was I prepared to pay Michael US$ 3000 to buy my way out of my contract when the only reason I could not return to the school was down to his conduct, and not mine…  Believe me, I tried.  I was willing to pay him US$1000 – I would have earned it back within the first month, but the $3000 he insisted on???  ‘You don’t owe him anything,’ my Chinese friend (who is in the business of placing English teachers with schools) assured me.  ‘He breached the contract, not you..  He lost the contract with the school, and that puts him in breach..’  I had read the small print in the contract before signing, but never in a million years had I thought that a breach clause, or series of clauses, would ever apply to me…

I accepted the position in Vietnam, delaying my arrival until September to first make full use of the summer break and enjoy my planned trip to Malaysia.  And so I set in motion the train of deception as I could not afford for anyone in China to become suspicious… I took days to reply to my agent’s messages and postponed meetings until the end of the summer vacation under the pretence that as I was too busy; it was my holiday after all.  I point blank refused to put myself through a series of unpaid demo lessons when I had already two job offers in the bag, just on the basis of an interview… And I certainly would not entertain the idea of jobs outside of Hangzhou…

I finally left China at the end of August.  Ultimately, it was easier for me to just pack my bags and quietly leave the country, not to return.  I know I could have fought it, and involved a lawyer…  As I found out in August, many clauses in my contract did not comply with Chinese labour law, making it a worthless piece of paper and invalid in a court.  My agent had breached the contract long before I did, as he did not pay me for the days I worked in July… but by then I had had it with China and the lies for the sake of ‘saving face’..   I firmly closed the door of my apartment one last time, leaving the key in a secure place for the agent.  I would wait until I had reached Hong Kong before sending him a message; I did not want to be in China when he unleashed his fury.

Would the agent really have had the power to prevent me leaving China?  He certainly could not make good on his threat of cancelling my residence permit: he did not have my passport.   Would Chinese immigration officers really have detained me at the airport until I paid up the US$3000??   Would the agent really have added  me to the blacklist so I can never again obtain a work visa for China, or maybe not even enter China on a tourist visa?? The rumour mill is rife with scaremongering and speculation and I really did not have the stomach for the legal wrangling that would have ensued.   Tired of arguing what seemed like a lost cause, I did not want to wait to find out.  It was time to leave the Chinese adventure behind, it had run its course and I was thoroughly unimpressed…

Sitting in the lounge at Hong Kong airport, safe from the threats of my agents and the tentacles of Chinese authority, I dispatched my messages and waited to board my onward flight.  But just as the morning downpour in Hangzhou had thwarted a speedy exit from the country, an impending typhoon affected flights in Hong Kong.  An aborted landing attempt on arrival and a three hour delay for take-off later, I was finally on my way to Hanoi.

Vietnam, a new country, a new chapter…

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Life in a hammock. I think I could do it.


Sometimes when I look back through my photographs, I realise I miss the crucial ones.  Usually there is no shortage of sunset and sunrise snaps, or even stunning scenery, but the images that eventually help me to tell a story, I may not have thought relevant at the time.   In the case of my visit to Pulau Dayang Bunting, it was all there, full in the face, but overcome by a sense of shyness, I hesitated to take out my camera to take the shots that could  accompany the story.  The story of have and have-nots, the story of how little we really need to be truly content and happy…


Shade was waiting for me at the quayside, as arranged.  Wiry and strong, he hoisted my suitcase up the steep and slippery steps on the way to his car.   From the pictures and description of the airbnb I had chosen, I was certainly not expecting to be collected in a luxury car, but Shade clearly lived modestly.  My suitcase comfortably fitted into the car boot, precariously fastened with a piece of string.  Rain was kept at bay by a large sheet of plastic covering  the back windscreen and fresh air pierced the taut tarpaulin stretched over the side passenger window.  But the engine was running fine, and on an island that mostly basks in sunshine,  who needs windows anyway when natural ventilation keeps everyone cool.

On our way to the house, Shade offered to give me a quick tour of the island.  Much smaller than the main island of Langkawi, Dayang Bunting did not take long to explore by car, especially as one side of the island is uninhabited and only accessible by boat, or on foot of course… armed with a machete to hack a path through the jungle.  A pity really, as that part of the island is home to the ‘Lake of the Pregnant Maiden’, a freshwater lake formed after the surface of a large underwater cave crumbled  and the cavity filled up with water.  Unfortunately, attempts to forge a hiking trail through the jungle had long since been abandoned, the thicket too dense and fast growing to turn it into a viable tourist attraction.


The island itself was divided into two parts, connected by a narrow, seemingly sturdy bridge, but barely wide enough to allow motorbikes or bicycles to get past each other, let alone accommodate the width of a car.  At least this bridge was still intact, because the smaller one that we needed to cross to reach our final destination had recently collapsed and was under repair.  The bridge had been in a dire state for some time, and although all island dwellers had expected its imminent demise, it had not stopped anyone from using the bridge until it finally gave way…  ‘Just so you know,’ Shade clarified, ‘We now have to go through the school grounds…’  as he veered the car onto the school premises, passing through the school gate, skirting the playground and exiting through another gate at the other side, before turning into the last stretch to his home.


My accommodation was comfortable, clean and with all the  essentials: my own private bathroom, a whirring fan to keep things cool, a TV and ample WiFi access…  plus a spectacular view over the bay.  As the main aim for this part of my holiday was relaxation, I spent plenty of time lounging in the hammock outside watching life at the seashore.  Local fishermen set traps to catch crab; others washed and rinsed their fishing nets after hauling in the early morning yield and the local ferry service was running smoothly, like clockwork.  Every morning, just before sunrise, the village water buffalo lumbered past my chalet, slowly submerging into the cool of the sea, looking for food.


Intent on not lazing about all the time, I borrowed Shade’s bicycle and ventured to the other side of the island.  Not where the lake was, but just over the hill…  Unfortunately, the bike was not exactly in best shape lacking gears to get me up the hill, and brakes to make it safely down again.  I pushed the bike along on foot, not wanting to risk life and limb.  ‘Take the motorbike,’ Shade had recommended, but with vivid and recent memories of e-bike rides in China, I much preferred to give the bicycle a go.  Shade looked sheepishly on my return, and agreed that maybe the bike desperately needed a decent overhaul before he would lend it to another visitor…  ‘Although,’ he added, ‘most of the guests happily use the motorbikes..’


Walking seemed to be the best way for me to check out the island and I do enjoy hiking.  But even this exploit came to an abrupt end when a well-intending local insisted on giving me a lift home on her motorbike…  So much for my endeavour to get in some exercise.  As we approached the entrance of Shade’s home, she stopped abruptly, motioning being frightened by the dogs which freely roamed the premises…  Malaysia being a predominantly Muslim country mostly adheres to Muslim rules and dogs are a big no-no.   Shade had needed a special dispensation from the local imam to be allowed his dogs.  ‘Well,’ he had argued, ‘living at the end of the road, the dogs are here to protect my home and property…’


His Airbnb accommodation consisted of a few beach-fronted huts, a spacious indoor dining  room for entertaining guests, and a romantic, secluded area for al fresco meals by candlelight.  In his younger years, Shade had been a chef in a renowned hotel but had since made playing host to foreign and local patrons his purpose in life, leaving the cooking and kitchen duties to his wife.  Whilst his father scoffed at the way Shade lived, ‘Look at your brothers in Kuala Lumpur…  One a pilot, the other a flight attendant.  They lead a comfortable life…’, Shade relished in greeting his English speaking guests in an accent polished to British perfection.   His father had been employed by the British military when Malaysia was still under British rule, so mastery of English had been a must in the household, and something Shade took great pride in.  Visitors from far flung places, as well as Malaysian tourists, have become regulars at his airbnb, and rather than quenching his thirst for knowledge by travelling himself, Shade’s international guests and neighbours are his window to the world.

Would I recommend the airbnb on Dayang Bunting for a break?  Definitely!!  The food was sumptuous, the hospitality unrivalled, the relaxation real.  So much more Malaysia than the touristy stretch of Langkawi.

Life in a hammock, simple and uncomplicated.  Quite tempting.  I think I could do it, one day …  just not yet…