Dunninjapan

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Welcome to my webpage.

Included in this website is my monthly installments about my life.  Please check back around the middle of every month for new updates.

Thanking you for your time to read about my life.  Signed-dunninjapan

NEW!- PLEASE CLICK ON PAST INSTALLMENTS(left) TO SEE DUNN ARRIVES IN JAPAN REWRITTEN

DUNN IN THAILAND

The Australian Prime minister, little Johhny Howard, having recently issued a warning to Australians to defer all non essential travel to Thailand (including Bangkok) succeeded in planting a small seed of fear in the back of my mind just one week before my scheduled honeymoon to Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore and Hong Kong.  Added to this apprehension, I tried hard to block out the thoughts of another tsunami hitting the region, and, of course the dreadedBangkok belly was always lurking.  Then, when I boarded my plane in Osaka airport, I recalled the urban myth about one being drugged in a Bangkok bar and waking up in a bath of ice with one'ss kidneys cut out.  For those unaware of the myth, apparently Australian kidneys fetch a high price on the black market.

Underestimating my travel books warning about unscrupulous tuk-tuk, taxi drivers, and private car rental drivers in Bangkok, I was overwhelmed as I pushed my way through the noisy, determined crowds in front of the Bangkok International terminal.  Coming at me from this way and that, wielding the glossy brochures or dirty folders as if they were weapons to overpower me, I fought the drivers off until I reached the shuttle bus desk  Thereupon I was informed that I had just missed the last bus to the city.  Now my defenses were down.  

"How much to the city?" I asked a dark uniformed man standing in front of a long queue of taxis.

"Which hotel are you staying at sir?" he replied in a loud clear voice.

"The Mandarin" I fired back.

"300 Bahts sir"

"Ok" I said.

Just then Yuki, her face wearing an extreme expression of confusion and disappointment, tugged at my arm. 

"What!" I asked her with my hands upturned. 

She uttered something indecipherable. I leant closer to her, pushing my ear close to her mouth, "you are supposed to bargain with them" she whispered.

"Its too late now, come on, lets just get in the taxi" I said picking up Yuki's heavy suitcase and launching it in the back of the first taxi on the rank.  And with that we soon found ourselves inside a taxi smelling of 'pud thai', speeding towards the city at around 90 kilometres an hour. 

I had failed my first test of bargaining.  Pushing her travel book under my nose, opened to the page with the headline 'Bargaining in Bangkok', Yuki felt it pertinent to remind me of this actuality.  A traffic jam up ahead signaled the beginning of my second test. 

"Tollway?, tollway?, tollway?" our driver shouted.

"300 baht we pay, thats all" I said determined now.  I can play this bargaining and negotiation game, I thought.

"OK, tollway?" our driver repeated.

"We pay 300 baht to you-no more" I said turning back to Yuki, who now looked even more worried than ever.

"I pay, I pay. Busy now" said the taxi driver.  The next moment the driver had swung the steering wheel hard onto a highway ramp, narrowly avoiding the stationery cars up ahead.  A few minutes later, as the taxi slowed in front of a tollgate, the driver held out a green note with the numbers 20 on it.  I knew, from this moment on, that there was long way to go yet in this taxi trip.  Not to mention my entire honeymoon here in Thailand.

Yuki, for the remainder of the trip to our hotel, kept her head buried in her travel magazine, and, upon arrival at our hotel, she proved her worth.  She had just memorized the thai words for 'thankyou', and 'please give me discount'.  These words coupled with her cute smile, made it impossible for our taxi driver to refuse our final offer of 280 Bahts for the fare. 

I entered the hotel, mentally beleaguered, but relieved in having reached our first safe destination.  After spending 2 years in Japan a country that nowadays avoids conflicts of all kinds, where negotiation is never usually conducted orally, instead everything is communicated in writing, or, as is the case in business, most negotiations take place in a relaxed environment such as over sake in a Japanese pub, I found myself in unfamiliar territory.  Over the next few days in Bangkok, I honed my negotiation and bargaining skills in Patpong; at the Chatachuk markets; for many tuk tuk and taxi journeys; and with the throngs of scammers conveniently positioned in front of every tourist attraction in Bangkok, trying to sell you everything from Jewellry to paintings, to food and clothing.

More updates coming in the next few weeks.

DUNNINNORTHENJAPAN

On a small white sticker, which incidentally looked like any small white sticker you would find anywhere in the world, I wrote my name in Japanese Characters.  Turning to my work colleague Scott, I smiled, feeling rather proud of my effort.  Scott looked unimpressed, however, as he had already finished writing his name in two different Japanese Characters Kanji and Katakana.  The cute young Japanese girl, with the straightest black hair-yes I couldn't believe this either-accepted the pen back of me with a gracious bow.  This would be at least the 478th time she would have bowed tonight.  You see 480 teachers from my company, had already gathered for tonights banquet in the main hall, and Scott and I had just arrived in the lobby over 20 minutes late.  We had sneaked in a couple of preliminary drinks upstairs in the hotel room, that I confess. 

Tonight was the first night of the company's annual trip, designed for workmate bonding, inAomori ski resort in Northern Japan.  Sure it was the start of summer and there wasnt any snow, but I wasnt going to let this dampen my bonding spirit.  Of course earlier that day I was flattered to strip naked and bath in the hotels public bath with some of my work colleagues. Though I cant actually speak with most of them, (even the English teachers here have a very low grasp on the English language) obviously the company thought it was rather important for me to see them naked. 

As it turned out, the company trip for me, instead of bonding, was two nights of heavy drinking, and two days sitting in a bus with a hangover.  The bus delivered us to castles, temples, farms, shops and what the Japanese call 'good nature places'.  Occasionally some of us got off the bus to look around at these sights, though most times we stayed on the bus and slept.

The straight haired Japanese girl fixed her gaze on my nametag as she straightened out of her bow, "Stebu" she squealed. Yes! I thought-my Japanese writing is legible. 

"Konbonwa" I fired back confidently.

When I stepped in the main doors of the Banquet Hall, a few people sitting at the table closest to the door shot me a displeasing look.  The Hall was dead silent.  Just then I realized that I probably said 'Good Evening'  a little too loud.  Though I expected atleast half of the 478 other teachers in the room would turn and gaze at Scott and myself, being two of only 8 Westerners in the company, disappointingly, we got only a couple of looks.  Instead most eyes were transfixed straight ahead, at a short middle-aged Japanese man speaking into a microphone on a large stage.  I later found out that this was the CEO of the company.  In Japan CEO is 'shacho'.  Shacho directly translates to 'number 1 boss'.  The big shacho was speaking under a large white banner with Kanji Japanese characters scribbled across it.  Though I pen 'scribbled', any Japanese person reading this would probably consider this a horrible oxymoron- The Japanese practice writing Kanji for an around an hour a day, every day of their schooling life.  Kanji is in-fact a finely mastered artform.  There are over 10 000 Kanji characters which are perfected during strict calligraphy writing classes at school.  I'm told, by some of my students, that if they draw the strokes of a Kanji character in the wrong direction, or if they are a few degrees off the right angle, then they receive a complimentary rap across the knuckles.   A plastic ruler is the instrument of rectification here. 

In my school I have seen many similar type of tactics employed.  Tactics designed to ensure the students behave in the 'proper manner'.   Hands-on proper manner tactics, like many other health and safety laws in this country, are decades behind the western world.  I have witnessed first hand-pardon the pun- teachers slapping students across the back of the head, tugging their collars and pulling them into line. 

In regards to my acquirement of Kanji, so that I can blend into Japanese culture, I know but 3 characters.  I know the Kanji for exit; I need to know exit to get money out of the ATM.  I know the Kanji for adult, which comes in handy for buying tickets on the buses; and the other is middle; which is the middle button on my fan-this comes in handy at this time of the year.  I also discovered that the same Kanji is used for mid strength beer.

Scattered amongst the Kanji on the large banner above the big schacho's head, the numbers 3 and 0, would later have some significant bearing on the evening.  Only later, when I was privileged to meet, converse and pour the schacho a beer, did I learn what all the Kanji meant.

After enduring around 10 minutes of the schacho raving on to a still, silent audience, where, as the saying goes ' you could have heard a pin drop', a thunderous applause finally echoed throughout the large hall.  Not once in this time did anyone move, smile, or talk.  It felt more like a speech at a funeral instead of a gathering to eat, drink and bond.

Then, when the first bottles of Asahi beer arrived at our tables, the teachers around me grabbed a bottle each, and began charging towards the shacho.  

"Whats going on?" I asked turning to a New Zealand teacher who had been with the company for three years.

"There pouring a beer for the schacho" he said, "why don't you grab a bottle of beer and go up there and pour him a drink yourself" he added.

I had no answer ready.  Instead I turned to Scott, who was also listening in on the conversation.  We smiled, waggled our eyebrows, and then reached for the bottles of beer in front of us.  The next moment we were pushing our way through the crowds towards the schacho.  We wrestled for a position at the end of a long queue.  Hereupon we looked on eagerly at the people at the front of the queue pouring Asahi into the top of the schacho's glass.  As the pourer bowed respectfully, the schacho, knocking his head back, sculled the beer.  Well to be honest the beer was only poured into a small glass, about 10 centimetres tall, and the schacho only drank the top off the beer. What a wuss!  I mean, most people can knock back 480 sips of Asahi without even raising a sweat, and this guy called himself number 1!  I used to scull close to 1000 sips in my younger days at University!  And Im told our Number 1 boss in Australia, former primeminister Bob Hawke, when he was at Adelaide University actually knocked back 480 yard glasses!  Though Im not really sure how reliable that last source is.

Anyway, after the schacho had completed the small scull, the pourer offered him some thoughtful words.  I have no doubt that these words had been mulled over and rehearsed by the Kyoshin teachers, perhaps everyday for the month preceding the annual company trip.

"Right Tsuyoshi, you only get once chance at telling the shacho your thoughts" I could just imagine a new apprentice teacher saying this to himself as he stared into the mirror in the hotel room earlier this evening "so Tsuyoshi make sure you get it right!" Although the Japanese teachers probably thought the shacho was a divine force, ascended from the heavens, just like their emperor, I can assure you that he was human.  And most human's cannot scull 480 beers in one night, or even 480 sips of beer for that matter, without having some loss of memory the next day. Thus, every word said to the Shacho that night, was probably all in vain. 

Over the next few minutes the pouring line slowly moved, and so too did the schacho's arm.  At first the schacho was knocking 'em back with ease, but in the time I had been waiting, his sculling movements became mechanical as if he was a robot running out of batteries. 

Then finally it was my turn.  From the very first instant I stepped up to the schacho, I'm sure the onlookers at his table knew I was a 'schacho beer pouring virgin'.  I had no glass ready of my own.  And I soon discovered I needed a glass for the 'cheers'.  Fortunately my direct boss, sitting on the stage behind the shacho, leant forward offering his glass to me. 

I accepted the glass, bowed and began, 'Watashi wa Steve desu, dozo yoroshiku' I introduced myself.  I held the beer bottle up.  The schacho extended his glass towards me, 'hajimemastare' I added my voice wavering a little in all the excitement.  Then I leant forward and topped up the shacho's glass.  As he prepared himself to drink my carefully poured few milliliters of Asahi beer, a voice shrilled up from behind me.

"He can speak English" my direct boss announced, "its ok, he is one of Gary's students" my boss added.  Gary is the Western boss in my department. 

"Oh ok great, how you doing matey, my names Steve, Im from Australia, Its great to meet ya" I rattled off.  The shacho pulled out of his scull, and shot me a puzzling look. Despite this look I pushed on, "So anyone mate, how long you been working for this fantastic company for"

He didnt answer.  I looked towards my boss, whose face was wearing an extreme expression of disappointment.  I frowned.  The two Japanese secretaries, both young chubby girls, sitting next to my boss, lifted their hands to their mouths in a gesture of embarrassment.  I locked my gaze on one of the secretaries and shrugged my shoulders, 'What' I mouthed.

"Its his 30^th year!" the secretary shouted at me, "thats what the banner says, and that's what he's been talking about for the last half an hour" said the secretary shaking her head.

"Oh" I laughed.  

I turned back to Scott, "Good luck tiger!" I whispered.  Stepping to the side, I bowed goodbye to the schacho, returned to my table, and bonded some more.

To see photos of the company trip please click on the link to photos above.

Bye for now

INSTALLMENT NO. 17 FEBRUARY 2005

Every day, for the last two months, some of the School students I've taught, have been practicing, either at home, so they tell me anyway, or during lessons, for the big, once a year speech contest.  Today, feeling like Dicko or Marica Hines from Australian Idol, I sat at the desk in front of the microphone and judged the children's performances.

'Performance', for want of a better word. Each student, possessing their own unique dexterity, were able to first memorize popular English fairy tales, such as Little Red Riding Hood, and then, sometimes with amazing accuracy, regurgitate the stories word for word.  So at the end of the day, I wasn't sure if it could be called a recital, or perhaps a speech, a reading, a presentation, or, for students that performed in groups-a well rehearsed play.

I arrived early at the lecture theatre, in the company's biggest school in my council area, not knowing quite what to expect. At this stage I wasn't aware I'd be asked to comment on each student's effort.  Already the Japanese teachers, each from a different school in the council area, were huddled together in the lecture theatre, listening in on an explanation of the day's schedule from the MC. This MC, whom also happened to be the Manager from the head office in Kyoto, then handed the standard issue blue armbands, marked with the company's name, to all the teachers.  I couldn't help it, but I thought of the Jews and the concentration camps, as the first students arrived and checked in their names with the banded teachers at the door.

As I sat at the judging desk, I was greeted with either looks of excitement, nervousness, or nonchalance from each of students when they wandered past me with their families.

"Hello Shinji.  How are you today?" I asked he.

"I'm..." he hesitated, raking his mind, and limited vocabulary, for the word nervous. 

As you may be aware the Japanese do not have the letter r in the alphabet, and th comes out like su, so, although I felt sorry for the 3^rd grader who choose to do a story called 'a porcupine named fruffy' I'm sure the kids parents, whom knew no English, would'nt have noticed anything wrong with the sentence 'fruffy took a basu'.

The playboy label is popular here in Japan amongst the kids, and now, thanks to the young girl who played Cindarella wearing a playboy jumper, every time I hear that story, it just won't carry the same level of innocence for me anymore.

Over the afternoon, I counted 2 students, out of a total of 48, whom were actually able to inject expression, and changes in intonation and speed into their voices.  The remainder students sounding like robots. 

Then, after all the kids had finished, it was my turn to stand up and speak in my non-native tongue-I had to introduce myself to the crowd of over 100 Japanese, in Japanese.  Unlike myself laughing constantly throughout the afternoon at the kids trying their hardest, God bless their little hearts, to speak in their non native tongue, no-one laughed at my effort-thank goodness.    

Installment number 16.  JANUARY 2005

Flicking my scarfe over my shoulder, I hurry along the corridor feeling the wooden floorboards bend under me with each footstep.  The houses inJapan, a country so frequently hit by earthquakes, are made of panel and wood, designed to bend and stretch.  I skid down the steep staircase to see Yuki, my driver for the next 15 minutes to get me to the train station to go to work, sitting hunched on the edge of the floor ledging by the front door, zipping up her boots. I grab my shoes from the multistoried shoe cabinet and dump them on the concrete floor.  The concrete slab in the entranceway to the house, around two metres by two metres, surrounded in a u shape by the houses raised wooden floorboards, feels cold through my socks.  The idea is to take your shoes off and put them on without touching the concrete, but, I?fm still yet to master that art. 

I step out the door, onto the tiled path, and after a few steps, I find myself on the road, which today is slippery.  It snowed last night.  Yuki, who?fs a little more confident than I am in negotiating snow covered bitumen roads, overtakes me, before pressing a button on her key ring to open the car doors. I grab a handful of snow off the top of Yuki?fs car, roll it into a ball, then hold it up, threatening to throw it at her. She smiles, then, quickly ducks into the car. 

As Yuki drives off, I turn the heater onto full blast ?gSamui, Samui, Cold?h I said rubbing my wet gloved hand in front of the heater.  Looking back on it, I should have resisted the temptation to play with the snow, but, when it comes to snow, I just can?ft help myself.  Late in the evening, when it?fs snowing heavily outside, I often find myself stepping out onto Yuki?fs balcony, grabbing a handful of snow, moulding the snow into a ball and then hurling it towards the school soccer field, next door to Yuki?fs family house.  I haven?ft scored a goal yet.  But I have one and half more months of winter left yet.

On the car journey to the train station, Yuki overtakes two cars, speed?fs through a set of traffic lights continually flashing orange(as they do on small country roads over here), and as we go under the train line through a narrow tunnel, I find myself breathing in.  The tunnels to get under the bullet train, or, any other trains for that matter, are just wide enough to accommodate, say, one Ford Falcon. The scary part is the tunnels are two ways, but, most Japanese Daihatsu?fs, Honda?fs, Nissan?fs or Toyota?fs are very thin, so we make it to the other side.

Yuki drops me off in front of a large Pachinko Parlour, and, although it?fs still 15 minutes before opening time, a large queue stretches around to the side of the building.  On a cold freezing January morning like this I would rather be rugged up in a nice warm bed, instead of waiting to play the Japanese Poker machines or going to work.  I run across the road and up the stairs of the modern train station.  I pull out a 1000 yen note from my wallet, shove it in the machine, get my 180 yen change and set off for the ticket gates, cursing, once again, about the high costs of traveling on the trains in Japan.

?garigato gozaimasu-Thankyou?h the ticket inspector shouts at me as I put my ticket in one side of the gate, before grabbing it as it pops out the other side of the gate.  When I reach the platform, I step into a heated glass booth.  It?fs packed in here today. The 8 seats are full. The 6 old men and 3 woman, standing shoulder to shoulder, in the small space in front of the chairs, shuffle along, so I can get in.  

As another woman pushes through the door behind me, I find myself, in the tight squeeze, stumbling backwards.  I recover just in time, to realize, that I was only centimeters away from falling onto a cute teenage girls lap.  Disappointingly, I readjust my scarfe and jacket. With the many layers of clothing I have on, I?fm like a large ball, so, if I did actually fall onto that girls lap, sadly, I probably would have bounce straight up again.  

I peer out the glass booth at the brave souls, lining the platform.  The businessmen, or salary men, as they are called over here, never enter the heated booths.  I don?ft know if the booths are for woman and children, or the elderly or pregnant woman, or if the salary men have thick skin, but, I get a shiver up my spine seeing some of them wearing only pressed suits, without any scarves, jackets, gloves or beanies.

The digital screen above the platform tells me that the train is still 6 minutes away.  I consider getting my book out of my bag, but, the thought of turning the pages over with my gloves on, is way too difficult.  Also, wrestling the bag of my shoulder, and pulling my book out without elbowing the old lady standing next to me in the face, would be nearly impossible.    Instead I turn the music up on my headphones.

When the train arrives, I time the walk out of the booth into the carriage, just perfectly, so that I don?ft need to break my stride, and catch a chill.  I?fm fortunate to get a seat.  This train is 10 carriages long, and although it?fs only stopped at 3 stations already, it?fs full. 

This morning, instead of burying my head in a book on the journey to Kyoto, the view out the train window is way too beautiful to ignore.  The symmetry of the rice paddies, some of which have no snow, others only a little, most a lot, are clearly accentuated.  I take pleasure in comparing how far the large chunks of snow have slid down the tiled roofs of the continuous rows of charming Japanese houses.

After a few stops I cast my mind back to how I was awoken this morning-by loud drumming and a Lion. Every year, on January 5^th, troupe?fs of 4 or 5 Japanese performers wander the streets to perform a Lion Dance on household porches.  The dance, depending on the amount the householder agrees to pay, can range from a couple of minutes to about 30 minutes.  Our Lion dance lasted about 20 minutes.  It was fantastic.  One man played a drum on the nearby street, as another hid behind the double doors, playing a flute.  2 men operate the lion.  One man wears a large mask, around 70 centimetres by 50 centimetres and another man operates the robes at the rear of the lion.  When the show was finished Yuki?fs grandfather paid the men with a bag of rice(in addition to the agreed amount before the show), which until a few hundred years ago, was the currency of Japan.  

My peaceful window gazing and thinking time, is suddenly interrupted by a tap on my shoulder.  I turn around to see a suited man,standing in the aisle, mumbling something, which of course with my headphones on, I?fve got no idea what it is.  I pull the headphones out and look up at this man, puzzinlgy- he's blurting out English words in random order and they make no sense whatsoever.  After about 10 seconds he stops, and finally, he becomes comprehensible.

?gI?fm sorry are you German.  You German??h he asks.

?gnah, I just couldn?ft hear you with my headphones on?h I said.

?gOh can you me tell far Kyoto station minutes is??h he said

?gyeah..?h I hesitate turning back towards the window, to see where we are ?gyeah its about 10-15 minutes, I think?h I said.

?goh thankyou very much, you see I?fm Korean, and it?fs my first time here in Japan, where you from??h he asked

I told him.  And so, for the remaining 10 -15 minutes to Kyoto, we struggled with a conversation about Korea, his honeymoon to Australia and how I?fm finding life in Japan.   

Finally we arrive in Kyoto, I wave goodbye to Wang lee Fok, of Fok wan lee, or whatever his name was, and I set off down the platform to catch a subway train.  I purchase another ticket, because the subways are owned by different companies here, this time it?fs only 200 yen, and I rush through the gates. 

As I stand swaying about in the squashed subway carriage, I notice many people around me holding white arrows.  It?fs quite a bizarre sight- as if we are on our way to some medieval war.  The arrows are actually a Shinto good luck item.  Shinto of course being Japan?fs national religion.   In the first week in January people buy the arrows in Shrines, for 1000 yen, then carry the arrows home, place them in the shine room or in the porch, so as to scare away bad luck.  Then, one year later, they return the arrows to the shrine they bought them from, throw them into a large box and say thanks to the Gods for protecting them over the year. 

I arrive 5 minutes later at my stop and take a few deep breaths to prepare myself for the ?esheep shuffle?f-as I like to call it.  Some subway stations have stairs and escalators to carry people up to the street, however, this station only has an escalator.  Within a few moments after exiting the train, I find myself surrounded by a couple of hundred Japanese people pushing forward as if I?fm in a mosh pit and the band has just come on stage.  After a minute of two, I feel the ground moving underneath me and I?fm rising upwards.  I get off the escalator, veer left around the glass cabinet housing the Ikebana(Japanese flower arrangement) then out the next ticket gate.  Then, I walk up another flight of stairs, down a long corridor past about 10 exits until I reach my exit-no.26, up another flight of stairs again, and I find myself squinting as I hit the street.  I cross the road, walk about a block, then into a lift, press no.5 and finally, I arrive at work.  I feel relieved as I look at my watch to realize that I?fve made it to work, once again, with 15 minutes to spare.  I spend the next 5 minutes unloading my layers of clothes, get my file for the first lesson, prepare the lesson and then walk into class.  Another fun filled day of teaching English is underway.

Installment number 15 December 2004

It had been 4 days since I last saw Yuki and all I could think about was getting back to Japan to see her again. After completing the first leg of my journey, the 6:00am Qantas red eye special from Adelaide to Sydney, I had to queue again-this time for my Vietnam airlines boarding pass. I chose Vietnam airlines because it's the cheapest. Now there's a reason why Vietnam Airlines is the cheapest, but, when I handed over my money to the sweet looking guy at STA travel, I never suspected anything. STA travel stands for Student Travel Agency. Instead, as you'll soon see, STA, by selling me the Vietnam airlines ticket, should be called BTA the Brave Travel Ageny.

At first, when the long queue in Sydney didn't move, I thought nothing of it, but, upon closer inspection, I realized that I was going nowhere in a hurry. About 100 Vietnamese people, patiently standing in the queue before me, cling onto trolley's the size of small trucks and one by one, they blindly steer their trolleys full of microwaves, DVD and CD players, in the direction of the check in desk. One guy even had a washing machine underneath his 5 suitcases.

I checked in my one and only suitcase in Adelaide. Everything I own and everything that I'd worked hard for in my life, including my degree and my Grad. Dip, is in that suitcase. Coincidentally, my suitcase weighed 29 Kilograms, representing a grand accumulation of one kilogram for every year I've spent on this planet. I wonder if, when I retire, I'll be up to 65 Kilograms or maybe, by then, I'll own a heavy house, some land or a car? Or better still-65 kilograms worth of $100 bills.

As the check-in desk clerk spends about 5 minutes, repeatedly explaining to each Vietnamese person, where(in Sydney airport) the excess baggage check in area is located, I begin to worry. Will I ever make my plane? Will the plane crash because of the overload of excess baggage? Will my luggage actually make it all the way through to Japan?. Although I had the assurance from the Qantas guy that my luggage would in fact `go all the way to Japan, I had grave doubts. Maybe, it's because my whole life is in that one and only suitcase and if I lost that bag, and if someone hit me on the head, then I'd be Mat Damons character from the Bourne Identity. I also saw the Seinfeld episode recently where Jerry loses his suitcase because he incorrectly tipped the baggage handler. Damn it ! I should have slipped the Qantas guy a tenner.

Finally I get my boarding pass and I set off towards the international terminal. On the shuttle bus to the terminal, I received my first sign of what to expect in Ho Chi Minh City. An old Vietnamese lady refused to get out of my way so I could sit down- she was determined to reserve the seat for a family member trailing behind me.

When I located my seat on the plane, I found a Vietnamese mother sitting in it. She points at her 3 year old child sitting next to her, and, rattling off something in Vietnamese, she refuses to get out of my seat. A hostess had to step in and speak for a minute (in Vietnamese) before the mother finally budged. As the cries of babies, echo throughout the cabin, including the brat jumping around in the seat next to me and behind me, I thought 'this is going to be a long flight'. This was simply a teaser, as nothing nothing could prepare me for my arrival in Vietnam.

On our approach I notice rusted hangers and large stone walls, and I wonder if they're remnants of the Vietnam War. The plane lands and as I exit, I smile at the lovely hostess, descend the staircase in stifling humidity, and follow the other passengers onto a waiting 1970's Pepsi bus. 'Someone will be waiting for you in Ho Chi Minh airport, holding a card with your name on it, to take you to a nearby hotel, before taking you back to the airport for your next flight in 7 hours time' the sweet STA travel agent told me. I expected a man in a black suit and black hat would whisk me to a nearby five star hotel in a prestige car.

Not to be. Sure there was a card with my name on it, but that's where my fantasy ended. A little man, had already gathered about 6 other foreigners and when I introduced myself to him, he took my passport, told me to sit down, and then hurried off around a corner-out of sight. In my very first minute in yet another country, I'd just broken rule number one from My Lonely Planet travelers guide book-1.never give your passport to anyone under any circumstances. As I peer around the airport at the long queues forming in front of the customs desks, I'm reminded of my Primary School days. The low ceiling, with its polystyrene type square white tiles, has faded in some places to a colour that resembles a 90 year old smoker`s teeth. Young children slide over the shiny brown lino floor, which, when it was first laid about 30 years ago, was probably also a white colour. Two children have found an old swivel chair with its back piece broken off, and they roll all around the customs area oblivious to their parents waiting, impatiently in the customs queue. Skinny Vietnamese guards, dressed in old daggy green army uniforms, inconspicuously wander about the customs area. The humidity inside the building is stifling.

As I get up and take off my jacket, I step forward and scan the crowd for the dude with my passport. "What time does your flight leave?" a middle aged woman sitting a few seats away asks. She, like me, looks drained from our 8 hour flight. "midnight, how about yours" "11:30" I said. "Where are you off too?" I ask."Paris and you?" she said."Osaka Japan. I hope the guy will be back with our passports soon" I said with an air of worry in my voice. I notice a Japanese girl sitting nearby "Konichiwa. Ogenki desuka" I ask. She nods, forces a smile and looks in the other direction. Was my Japanese that incomprehensible or was she also worried about her passport. After a couple of minutes of silence, the dude with the passports returns. Handing us back our passports, he explains the situation for us all over the next few hours. We wait in the customs queue for around 30 minutes, and, having made it through customs, the dude insists on taking our passports again. I watched the other foreigners reluctantly hand over their passports, before I once again jeopardized my life. As we exit the main terminal building, a crowd of around 100 people sit in a mini grandstand staring at us.

In the carpark, I'm almost run down by about half a dozen people on motorbikes. I'm amazed to see people, somehow load their luggage and their excess baggage and then themselves onto the backs of motorbikes before speeding off. I jump in a minibus and then as we exit the carpark, I find myself shaking my head in disbelief at what's going on around me-Chaos. Chaos is probably the best word I can use to describe Vietnam. Hang on-Utter Chaos is getting more like it. With our mouthes hanging wide open, the others in the minibus, like me,are speechless. Can you imagine your street you live in. Now put about 10 motorbikes and a couple of pushbikes in a row on each side of the road. Then place another row of 9 or 10 motorbikes a few centimeters behind the first row, then continue this indefinetly. Now place between 2-4 people on most of these motorbikes, including children and/or household items such as TV's, washing machines and now get them all moving at about 50-60 kilometres an hour. This is Vietnam. Throw in a few roundabouts, quite a few potholes, mountable curbs and kids and people crossing the streets without looking and you are starting to get the picture.