The Dave Reports

Vietnam

“Saigon…………..…Shit…………”

I can’t take credit for putting those words together so expressively, so profoundly.

That quote – if I remember correctly - is the first line of a perhaps the most famous (if not the best) movie set in Vietnam – Francis Ford Coppola’s “Apocalypse Now”.

This movie is technically brilliant, artistically breathtaking - and arguably quite thematically pretentious in the Brando-esque last act. It was also – before I set foot in this country, part of the main body of research I had done into what was to become – for an indefinite time - my new home. Because that’s really it, isn’t it? A year or two ago I met my friend Robyn - the first person I’ve really known well who actually lived here. But before that – and largely, before this (what I going through now) Vietnam - to me - was just a blur of movie memories…

“Research” – my euphemism for those several dozen wasted hours over the past 20 years watching Vietnam War movies and TV shows.

Well…”wasted?”…maybe not. But those movies certainly gave me a skewed vision of the country of Vietnam – and of what I could expect here.

Of course, my movie diet being predominantly American in origin, these movies have been about “the war”. They call it the “Vietnam War” in America. They call it the “American War” over here. How appropriate. How ironic. How amusing…

My expectations weren’t really aligned that closely with the movies. I wasn’t Born of the Fourth of July, so I didn’t really expect to be woken by the radio yelling Good Morning Vietnam, before being signed up for my Tour of Duty, to be given a Full Metal Jacket and assigned a Platoon and asked to draw First Blood, (Part 2), before ending up on China Beach in an Apocalypse Now and then being saved by the running legs of Forrest Gump but somehow ending up Missing in Action with The Deer Hunter…

Sorry…

…I digress...

I didn’t really expect that to happen, or anything like it. But one filmic link I could relate to, within hours – minutes! – seconds! - of landing in the country, was the aforementioned first line of Apocalypse Now.

“Saigon………….Shit………”

If memory serves, that line opens the film, and finds a young Martin Sheen sweating profusely into his fatigues in a shadowy Saigon hotel room.

He wakes up, looks out the window and spies the streets below, realises where he is…and says…

“Saigon………Shit……”

This movie memory came to me back in March, 2005, as I stood – like young Martin – in a Saigon hotel room of my own. Like young Martin, I was sweaty. Like young Martin, I was spinning out, I was stressed. Like young Martin, I was hypnotised into a semi-catatonic state by the constant whirring of an air-circulation device (in his case: a fan, in mine: an air-conditioner). Like young Martin, I was freaking out, wondering what the hell I was doing. Like young Martin (after our respective sweaty fatigues were shed), I was stark naked.

And…like young Martin, I was speaking a memorable phrase of “S”-based alliteration…

But unlike young Martin, this is what I said…

“Shrek Squeezed Through the Square to Skate Near the Skunk.”

So if you thought young Martin was headed for an Apocalypse Now, what the hell do you think about me now….

“Shrek Squeezed Through the Square to Skate Near the Skunk…Shrek Squeezed Through the Square to Skate Near the Skunk…Shrek Squeezed Through the Square to Skate Near the Skunk…Shrek Squeezed Through the Square to Skate Near the Skunk…”

Over and over. I just kept repeating it. Pacing around my little hotel room, naked as the day I was born, back and forth, up and down…

“Shrek Squeezed Through the Square to Skate Near the Skunk.”

Again and again…

What sounds cooler?

“Saigon…….….Shit……….”

Or

“Shrek Squeezed Through the Square to Skate Near the Skunk.”

I know which one I prefer…

But then again, I’ve been known to mutter “Saigon….Shit…” a few times under my breath since my arrival in this country too.

I didn’t sound half as cool as young Martin. But I tried.

But then again there was a difference in tone, in meaning. I think when he said it, he acted up into those two words a mixture of surprise, disillusionment, resignation, self-pity. “Saigon….Shit…” As in…”not again, damn…”

But when I’ve said it…well it’s been said more with a mixture of awe, wonder, disbelief, gratitude…I’ve muttered it to myself on the back of a speeding motorbike in peak hour traffic, from the top of the highest hotel bar in town, in the intense maelstrom of a bustling market place, from a boat approaching the city on the river…

“Saigon……….Shit…..…”

As in: “Damn, you’re a lucky bastard to be here, you know that?”

Which, for the record…I do…

2005/2006. Me. Vietnam. Saigon. I could not be luckier. Or happier.

Let me tell you why…

Oh, firstly though…“Shrek Squeezed Through the Square to Skate Near the Skunk” - why was I saying that?

Travel Fatigue? War Fatigue? Nervous Breakdown?

No - even though, like Martin, I was freaking out a little – I wasn’t on the verge of losing my mind like him.

I was repeating “Shrek Squeezed Through the Square to Skate Near the Skunk” naked, sweaty, pacing - in a Saigon hotel room -, because…

…well…I’ll get to that. Stay tuned groovers…

Iceberg Ahead

Why did I decide to come to Vietnam to live, to teach?

Why indeed?

Isn’t it rude, David, to answer a question with another question?

If you think it’s rude, then why do you keep doing it?...

OK, I’m stalling…

Because the question, “Why did I decide to come to Vietnam?” isn’t an easy one to answer.

Well, on the surface it’s easy, but, underneath, we a talking major iceberg, people. Major….

During the first lesson of my many classes over here, I introduce Q&A time and often get bombarded with questions. This one – asked with varying skills in English - is fairly prominent:

“Why you come Vietnam teach?”

Or in corrected English (it’s the teacher in me): “Why have you come to Vietnam to teach?”

When this question is asked of me in class, my students don’t get the submarine view of the iceberg I’ve exposed to you lucky folks below, but my stock-standard, above-the-surface answers are honest, and pretty accurate:

(1) I’ve always wanted to be a teacher,

(2) I’ve always wanted to live in a completely different culture, and

(3) I’ve always loved travel.

But…for you lucky folks at home…here’s the iceberg version…

Why Teach?

Number One: I’ve just said that I’ve always wanted to be a teacher.

Well, not always…not when I was a kid, or even a teenager. But certainly since my early twenties. And perhaps subconsciously - in retrospect - even before that. I’ve always loved school. I spent twelve years at it, and then another ten at University. I’ve always loved that challenging environment of learning, of growth, of potential. Perhaps that’s just it, huh? School, and Uni, was where I saw limitless potential in myself. The real world was the place where that potential was slightly less potent. School is hope. The real world is – be definition – reality. Hope vs. Reality. Hey, I’m just spitballing here, trying to work it out as I write. But I think there’s some truth in this – for me, and maybe for some others. At school, at Uni, there’s a chance, there’s hope, that you can be anything, one day. Afterwards…well….maybe not. And sometimes even being something is not all that great…

I dunno. I know I spent a lot of time at school and Uni, but I’ve also spent a good 10 years at least in the so-called “real world”, and it’s turned out pretty great for me – generally I’ve been just as happy there, or even happier – than during by decades of education.

But something obviously still appeals to me about school. And obviously, something appeals to me about being on the other side of the school desk. Not a student this time. The Teacher. ME. Hmmm….

Strange concept.

Many of my friends have often told me they think I’d make a great teacher. But I think their encouragement has been based less on any innate ability they see within me to impart knowledge, and more on that fact that they always see me so laidback, so unstressed by life, that they’ve assumed I have a limitless supply of the one thing so critical for any teacher’s resources: patience. And it’s true, with kids, and with adults – learning or otherwise – I’ve so rarely lost it or blown my top that I can’t remember if I’ve done it once. Sometimes, in my various careers I’ve had to deal with stressful situations – controlling or corralling adults or kids – and yes, sometimes it’s stressed me, sometimes the adrenaline might kick in and my face might go red. But I don’t think I’ve ever raised my voice in anger. It’s much more likely that I’d diffuse stress like I was diffusing a bomb - with a smile and laugh and a what-the-hell attitude.

So yeah, maybe my friends are right about the patience thing – I’ve got that one covered. But there’s a hell of a lot more than patience that makes a good teacher…

For starters: a hell of a lot of training and knowledge. At least four years accumulated worth – back home in Australia that is. A good friend of mine – who was coincidentally busting her butt to obtain a teaching qualification – shook her head in disbelief (tinged maybe with resentment) at me before I left Australia when I explained how easy it was going to be for an for an unqualified (in teaching) person like myself to teach in many parts of Asia and the developing world. And she’s right…absolutely right…

It ain’t fair at all.

In Australia, to assume the same level of teaching responsibility which I have over here in Vietnam, I would need to spend at least three years hard slog in one of the hardest Uni courses I’ve known any of my friends to do – teaching. Then a year of “prac” – continual and stressful observation and examination. And then (even then) I might not get a job for many months, maybe years…

Weigh that up against how easy it’s been for me. Do a 40 hour course in class that a trained chimpanzee could ace. (And keep in mind that this course isn’t even necessary for some countries/schools). Throw in a 40ish hour online component that a trained baboon (less intelligent than the chimp even) could nail easily. (And keep in mind that this – as well - isn’t even necessary for some countries/schools). Then…without even asking for a job…

Have one offered to me. Take it. Start work.

It’s crazy.

It’s completely unfair.

But here’s the thing.

The world is completely unfair. I will get to this later – ad nauseum – about the inequality and unfairness – towards several parties – that I experience or observe every day in Vietnam.

But here, talking about teaching…damn right it’s unfair that with almost zero effort I am given the honour and responsibility of teaching dozens of people, while back home my poor friends sweat it out for years to beg and plead to teach a few…maybe, if they’re lucky…

It’s wrong. But…that’s the world today. And today, right now, even though I know about the inequality and craziness and hypocrisies of an uneducated grunt like me standing up and pretending to be a teacher – that doesn’t mean I am not about to take advantage of the modern world’s hypocrisy and lap it all up.

The opportunity is too good to miss…

But…I digress again.

My babble above only explains why I can be a teacher, why it is so easy for me. It doesn’t really say why I want to, why I might be ready…

Because sometimes, even now, after ten months…when I think: Me…teacher?, I just keep thinking square peg…round hole…

How could a permanently arrested-developmental-Peter-Pan-type-personality consider taking on any type of role involving responsibility, and requiring authority and maturity?

How indeed?

I’ve got to stop stalling like that…

You see…

I do struggle with the concept of me – after butting heads with any number of teachers and bosses over the years - as any sort of authority figure myself. I’ve had some great bosses, some great teachers. But when I haven’t, when I’ve come up against one full of hypocrisy and hatred, someone I’m told has automatic authority over me but does nothing to earn my respect…well, I can turn pretty obnoxious against that authority figure. Obnoxious, arrogant, boundary-testing, cheeky-as-hell. And I’ve been caned/beaten in school and fired from two jobs because of it.

So now – the tables are turned. How could I expect anyone to respect me, respect my authority in school, when I often struggled to do the same thing myself. Well…I’ll get to that later…

Probably the biggest issue I have with the thought of me as a teacher is that dreaded, nasty, horrible word: responsibility.

I do struggle with the thought that as a teacher, I may be - in a small way – partially responsible for someone’s education…and by extension, their future, their life…

That’s a huge thing. My parents had a huge impact on my life – in shaping the person I’ve became. In later life, my friends, my lovers, made a massive difference too. But – thinking back – to primary school, high school – my teachers really got their 2 cents worth in too. Some more than others. But the strongest influences were the worst teachers and the best teachers. The worst teachers were like the dark side of the force – and like the dark side (for Luke anyway, if not for his Dad), these bad teachers balanced against the good ones to have a paradoxically good effect on me - teaching me that the last thing I wanted in life was to end up like them – embittered, cruel, nasty - big-fish-in-tiny-ponds forever. But the best teachers not only set a great example for me with their lives, their teaching, their character - but they also had a huge effect on me. Those that took the time to give me special care and encouragement really changed me. Helped me grow – in probably the right directions. If I had none of these great teachers I doubt I’d be writing this epic right now. And if I’d had all teachers from the dark-side, I’d probably be writing on a prison wall.

I know a lot of people diss – or disrespect – teachers (as a profession) – and that really bugs me. You may know the old saying: “Those who can’t do, teach. And those who can’t teach, teach gym.” Really bugs me that some people would actually believe that (except the gym part, that’s totally true). From what I remember of school, and from what I’ve seen of the “real world” - particularly the corporate world – teachers really deserve our respect more than any other profession – well, maybe on an even par with health professionals like doctors and nurses. I think these professions deserve our respect for a few reasons, foremost being the value they give to individuals and to the community. A hell of lot more than a tax accountant or an oil-rig worker. But also because these professions – in education and health - are hard. Tough. The toughest. In fact if I had to say one “profession” that was the most important and toughest in the world, ever, the one I admire the most, I would say…“mother”. But right on the heels of that one – teachers and health professionals. So yeah – I think teaching is pretty huge responsibility, a pretty important gig.

I don’t take much in life seriously, but I do take the responsibility of teaching seriously.

It’s a big deal.

And becoming a teacher, becoming serious about something… anything…has never really sat too well on my skinny shoulders.

But then I figure two things.

One is – grow up mister!

(It’s really about time, isn’t it?)

And the other little voice (and to be truthful, this one is louder) says – What the hell? Why not?

I used to struggle with any concept of responsibility. I use to think I could never be an airline pilot – all those lives in your hands! - or a doctor - same thing really. So many jobs, so much responsibility, so much potential for ruining someone’s life.

But over the past few years, a strange thing happened to me.

I took on a massive responsibility in mid 2002, and carried it till mid 2004. It almost destroyed me, almost crippled me emotionally, but at the same time, conversely, it made me stronger. Not strong at the time - as some of you may know, or especially not strong immediately afterwards, when the walls came crumbling down. But - after all was said and done – after all that – I was, I am, a changed person. Either responsibility sits a lot easier on my shoulders now. Or else a job like teaching English really doesn’t seem like much responsibility at all compared with what I did in the two years before.

Or – perhaps – both.

OK, so I’ve sorta explained why I might be ready at this stage of my life to be a teacher…and also why I like the teaching environment. The hope. The potential. The growth. To be honest – and I know this sounds corny – I love learning. I love opening my mind and my heart and letting everything pour on in.

And I remember what I was like at school, and at Uni when something interested me, even just a little. Hungry for knowledge. Asking why. Improving. Enhancing. Getting Stronger. Faster…..”Steve Austin is the Six-Million Dollar Man”…

Sorry, that was random. That screen reference wasn’t even about Vietnam...

But my point is…I remember what it is like to learn. I loved it. Maybe - just maybe - some of the kids and adults I teach, are the same. They like to learn too. They see the potential in themselves. They have hope.

I would love to help harness that potential in these students, keep that hope alive, and – in just my own tiny way – help them. Teach them. Make them better.

Help to fill their hearts and their minds with knowledge, with wisdom, with hope.

God, I sound like Yoda. I don’t mean to.

I’m not arrogant about my teaching. I know that any difference I make to these people will be infinitesimal. A speck of difference in their path through life. But…every little bit helps. And in my youth, I had a few teachers – and one parent – whose teaching and encouragement really made me quest for more. So…maybe I will make a difference. Hopefully it will be a good one.

I mentioned above that I would like to help fill these students’ minds with knowledge and wisdom. That with might seem pretty big call when you think about the bruised and beer-battered state of my own mind. Everything is relative of course. To a few poor dumb suckers, the needle on the fuel tank of my brain may be nudging full, but to me…running on empty, baby. Running on empty. My brain may have learned a lot. But…my brain (I’ve discovered) is a lot like my stomach. My stomach has eaten a lot, over the years. A lot. But the big fella is still hungry. Insatiable. My brain is the same. I keep throwing stuff up there and he still keeps asking for more. I’m sure a lot of that has to do with the fact that alcohol and age are killing my brain cells faster than US napalm killed the locals over here, so I’ve forgotten most of what I ever knew. Either way…plenty of space up there to fill. Plenty of stuff out there to fill it. As I get older, the stuff I like to learn has changed a little. Oh, I still want to learn how Han and Chewie get their cargo onto the Millennium Falcon, but these days I really won’t lose any sleep if I never find out. These days, my learning interests are broader, and perhaps, at times, more relevant to the world.

I want to learn how different cultures developed. I want to learn which things all cultures share (like smiling), and why. I want to learn why people went to war in the past, and I want to learn why people are still going to war now. I want to learn the best ways to stop war and hatred and bigotry. I want to learn how to communicate with all people better. I want to learn how to help as many people as I can.

And I want to learn how to touch my elbow to my nose.

Of course, what all this stuff above (including the elbow thing) alludes to…is that I want to learn stuff that is next to impossible to learn….

The best historians and philosophers and journalists and barroom breeze-shooters of our times have never learned half of this.

But the quest – trying to get there – is (as Ally McBeal discovered at the end of her first episode) what it’s all about. The journey. Getting there.

Forget the destination. Enjoy the ride.

Nevertheless, our ride through life takes us to – and through - some pretty cool destinations.

Which brings me to the second answer to the original question: why come to Vietnam to teach?

I’ve talked about why I want to teach, why become a teacher.

But why Vietnam?

Why this destination…

Why Vietnam?

Well partially – like I suggested above – because Vietnam sits conveniently on a continent crying out desperately for English teachers. So partially – like I suggested above – because I can.

But when many people ask “Why Vietnam?” they specifically mean “Why choose Vietnam as opposed to any other country?”

Good question.

For many, many years I have been interested in travel. In different cultures. In the World. In everywhere. In everything in everywhere. This passion is well-documented I think in previous Dave Reports, so I won’t rehash it now.

One thing I will rehash is a favourite quote from one of my favourite movies: when Bill Murray gets released from his never-ending cycle of Monday monotony in Groundhog Day, near the end of the film, he says with relief, with exultation: “It’s different. Anything different is good.”

“Different is good.” I love that. Could be my mantra.

Different is good.

Part of life’s quest - for me – is not to be bored. I spent a big chunk of school life, much of my first Uni degree, and most of my first professional job (as an accountant) – extremely bored. I have rarely been bored since. I have been lucky enough to have filled my life with people and places and adventures that always, always excite me. Maybe I am just easily pleased – I think that’s part of it. But part of it is that I am always on that quest. And part of it is that – even when my body is not on the quest, my mind always is. Even when I’m not surrounded by adventure and excitement, I am either planning the next instalment and getting thrilled about that - or I am reliving it in song and story – just like I am doing this very second.

Never bored. Always something new. Always something different.

But there are many ways to find “different”. Movies. TV. Music. Art. Books. Food. People. And of course…travel…

Travel may be best way to find “different”, but it isn’t the most enduring, the most lasting.

The most enduring – and perhaps most satisfying way to experience different – is, I think, to live in another country.

Remove yourself from the comfort zone of your home country. Remove yourself from the comfort zone of your holiday mentality. And complete immerse yourself in another country, another place until it becomes “home”.

I have travelled in what some people think are a lot of countries – and I think are hardly any, not nearly enough. Somewhere between 20 and 25.

But – apart from my home country (and primary comfort zone) of Australia - I had (before Vietnam) - only lived in two.

By “lived”, I mean I had a job and a home and set up a life of sorts.

I lived in England for four years. I lived in the USA for six months.

The latter is debatable under the “lived” definition – two three-month stints at summer camp – but, that was a home and a life of sorts and definitely a job. England I most certainly lived in – my strongest, most root-laying second home ever. And – the first time I ever “lived” away from home – at the tender age of 20 – was when I moved to Sydney to pursue that career as an accountant (please stifle your laughter) – OK, truth be told I moved to Sydney to have a really great time.

Anyway – these three places I have lived – not travelled, but lived away from home – Sydney, New Hampshire, and London. Australia, the USA, and England.

See the connection there? What they all have in common?

Everything…

Nothing…

OK, when you forget about the rest of the world, and pretend it doesn’t exist, and compare just those three countries on paper, you will find (as I have) a plethora of differences. Cultural Quirks, Language Abnormalities, People Paradoxes. Look closely – and I did, and I have - and these three countries are worlds apart, literally and metaphorically.

Heaps of differences (and remember kids: “different” is good).

However, when you look at these three countries not just in relation to each other, but in relation to the World, to the other 200 or so countries out there…then…they don’t really look that different from each other at all.

In fact, if you asked a dozen of these countries to stand in a police line-up – I doubt you could really pick out Australia, the USA, and England from each other.

I know some of the locals of these three countries (and incidentally the biggest audience for this Dave Report too) will be very offended by or dismissive of this suggestion that their countries are largely indistinguishable from a few others.

But really, in the whole scheme of this, looking at the whole world, we three could be triplets.

Same language. Same customs. Same culture.

Globalisation has a lot to answer for, I know. Centuries before the term was coined, England globalised a huge chunk of the world with their Empire a while back, and the USA and Australia were little clones of England. After a little time on our own, these clones grew up, decided not to be clones anymore. But the biggest bully clone somehow managed to get its own back and globalised the world not with its empire, but with its popular and business culture. And what a job it has done.

Sure there are some differences. Australia and America are a lot more alike than England – for starters, the former two have actually acknowledged that they are now in the 21st Century, while the later is so traditional is has barely stepped out of the 19th. And residents of the former two know how to communicate to strangers without sticking an umbrella up their butts first. On the other hand, England and Australia are aware that they are just individual countries in a big world, whereas America thinks it actually is the world. And England has a wonderfully dry, witty sense of humour (shared mostly by Australia) that the crudity of American punchline-slapstick only rarely seems to grasp.

And then there’s a few foods, a few words, a few quaint little customs or holidays that are different across the board.

But that’s really it!!!

OK, picture this, if you can…

Like I said – Police Line-Up Scenario.

This poor country is mysteriously found dead: Nepal.

There was a witness to this brutal crime.

Evidence leads police to believe that one of these countries was the murderer:

Columbia, Japan, India.

So the police line the countries up behind some one-way mirrored window.

The witness comes in…sees Columbia, Japan, India….

And instantly points to Columbia.

(I never trusted Columbia anyway).

“That’s the one!” the witness exclaims! No doubt in their mind.

Now – picture the same scenario.

Except this time you’ve got this police line-up:

Australia, the USA, England.

The witness comes in.

Looks through the one-way glass.

Blinks a few times.

Turns to the cops.

And says, “You have got to be kidding!!!! They all look the same to me!!!”

And poor Nepal’s murderer gets away scot-free.

Anyway, I hope I made my point.

And no – my point wasn’t that the residents of the latter three countries look the same while those of the first three look different from each other. In fact, all three of the latter countries (despite having a white-bread Anglo-Saxon majority) are very multicultural and ethnic – and the odds are that picking someone at random from each of these three would lead to a disparately looking line-up. My point wasn’t that specific. It wasn’t about race or appearance or ethnicity. It was simply about the countries themselves. What living in those countries was like. The culture. The customs. The day-to-day life.

In case you missed it – in my little line-up scenario – I simply went a little metaphoric on your asses – turning the culture and lifestyles of those countries into the countries themselves.

The first three countries Columbia, Japan, and India – pretty damn distinctive. Distinctive from the rest of the world. Distinctive from each other.

The latter three. Sure, all pretty damn distinctive counties. But – compared with 200 other countries - distinctive from each other? Not even close. Distinctive from the rest of the world? Only as a group.

I don’t mean to disparage Australia, the US or England. I know I was born in the best country on Earth, and every day I am alive I know it more, and more, and I am eternally grateful for that. After my own country, I love these other two countries more than any other. I wouldn’t give up my time in England for all of the Crown Jewels, and I would do almost anything to work legally in the US again. I’m just making a point. There are a few other countries a lot like these three too. Canada. New Zealand. Tasmania…

OK, that’s enough…

Where all this is leading (if you didn’t work it out three pages ago) is this…

I have lived, and loved living in three of the best countries on Earth.

Compared to each other, these countries are very different.

But - compared to the rest of the world – these three countries are very, very similar.

So – presented with an opportunity to live in a similar country again – or a vastly different one (and remember class…say it with me this time: “Different is Good”)…

The choice was a no-brainer.

I figure that – as much as I try to avoid it (and most of my family and friends will admit I’ve given avoidance a pretty good slog) I am going to have to settle down one day.

And while I will die planning my next big overseas jaunt, this adventure I am undertaking now will most likely be the last chance, the last time I ever live overseas, live somewhere different, for an extended period of time.

With this in mind…

I did have the option – the visa - to go back to England. I could have sought other options for work in Canada, New Zealand, Sydney, Perth…

But…different is good. More different is better.

I really, really wanted to live somewhere with a completely different language, completely different customs, a completely different culture.

So I got out a map…

Well, it wasn’t that dramatic, that cinematic, that literal.

Because I guess I’ve been getting out a map – in my mind – for many years.

When – over the last year or two – the option of living abroad raised itself in my tiny mind and my itchy feet – I rolled my options around in my skull.

The only real job I could probably do in a completely different culture was teaching English.

The only continents this option really existed on were Asia, Europe, & South America. South America was considered – but briefly – the demand for English teachers there is lower, and thus the pay and thus the subsequent travel ops lower. Europe was quite similar – places like Eastern Europe and Turkey were the only options – and again – the opportunities for good jobs and money weren’t as high as elsewhere. Plus South America was rumoured to be unsafe and I’d technically lived in Europe already for four years.

So the logical continent to begin - was Asia. Demand for English teachers was/is soaring here. For a couple of years before I left Australia, everyone I met seemed to know someone or of someone who had taught or was teaching English somewhere in Asia. It was safer than South America, warmer than Europe, and much, much cheaper to live in than both.

And besides, when this idea had begun percolating in the back of my brain, Asia had always been the place I’d considered first.

Asia it was.

But…News flash kids…Asia is pretty big.

And lots of Asian countries take English teachers.

The big ones:

Japan

Thailand

Korea

China

Vietnam

Fifteen, twenty years ago, Japan would have been at the top of the list for any English teacher in Asia. I’ve known – or known of – many English-speaking people who have headed off to the land of the rising sun to teach their native language. The temptations of a fascinating, rich culture, friendly people and a good salary have been too good to resist for many, over the years. In fact, 13 or so years ago, I knew a guy – Scott, who – despite excelling at University in a Commerce degree – decided to try his luck teaching English in Japan. He loved it so much he returned there for a couple of stints. I didn’t know Scott well – he was only a casual friend – but he was an awesome bloke – and an inspiration to me. Even though a few years younger than me, his openness to travel and new experiences weren’t something I had seen in many of my other stagnant, stable friends at that time, so Scott was – in his small way – partially responsible for opening my own mind a little wider. Scott – at maybe 21 years of age – was killed in Japan. There was a horrendous earthquake in his town which killed thousands, including Scott. Very, very sad. But Scott was the sort of guy not to regret any of his decisions. And I doubt that he would ever regret going to Japan.

Of course, an earthquake – or a tsunami, a hurricane – or a terrorist attack – could affect you in any country in the world. The only reason I can see why it would be preferable that it happen to you in your home country instead of an adopted country or one you are travelling through is that you have a bigger support network at home if you survive, if you need help. But – as I see it anyway – that’s no reason to just hide yourself at home for the rest of your life.

Which brings me…to me. And deciding where to go. Japan’s propensity for earthquakes had no bearing on my decision not to try it. What did hugely affect my decision to skip Japan was simply the fact that it has been so wide open to the West for so long.

Japan was of course the first Asian country to succumb to globalisation – and in many ways – like the electronics industry - they have led this globalisation. Of course cultural and economic globalisation were led - in the middle and late 20th Century at least, by the USA – and Japan was (ironically enough considering the way World War II ended) the first Asian country to open itself up to this phenomenon.

Their people’s obsessive work ethic and the country’s desire for economic power have led to re-growth in Japan that most other countries look upon in wonder. This progressiveness and openness of Japan have meant that in many ways – especially commercially – Japan is the most “Western” of the “Eastern” countries. Of course, the culture is still incredibly traditional and diverse, and the people are still fascinating and curious and wacky. It would be a great, bizarre, exciting place to live.

But of the Asian options, it would definitely be the least different from the countries I have lived in before.

And – don’t forget the mantras – “different is good”. “More different is better”. And I figured that a few others countries – like China, Korea, or Vietnam - were more different from Australia or London than Japan was.

Then of course there were two other – more practical reasons – why I didn’t end up in Japan. (1) Compared to other Asian countries – it’s so damn expensive. And (2) These days, it’s not all that easy to live/work there.

Ironically, a place that has been so hugely popular as a destination for English teachers has become less and less accessible – and attractive – as time has gone by.

Twenty years ago, to work/live in Japan, you just needed to be able to speak English. Ten years ago you needed to be able to speak English and have a Uni degree in any discipline. These days you need a Uni degree specifically in Education and a Visa which is supposedly difficult to obtain. Of course there are exceptions to this rule – ways around it – so I’m sure if I really wanted to teach in Japan – I could wangle a visa somehow and teach at one of the lower level schools. But – while I can’t wait to visit the place – I really have to say Japan started off at the bottom of my Asian list as a place to live and teach.

Next option: Thailand.

I love Thailand. I spent only a few weeks there with my friend Brit in 2000, but it remains (of only a handful of countries thus far visited) my favourite Asian country. The people are delightful and friendly, the food the most scrumptious I have ever eaten, and the countryside and beaches are staggeringly beautiful.

Maybe I will end up teaching there in the future. However, one thing put me off. In a similar way to Japan, Thailand – especially Bangkok – has become Westernised. But even though Thailand has opened itself up to the West like Japan, unlike Japan it has not contributed to global industry at an acknowledged international level. Compared to Japan – and to Western countries like the US and Australia - Thailand is poor.

So, because of its openness – Thailand – or at least Bangkok (where 90% of the teaching jobs would be) – is very commercialised, westernised. It’s so popular as a tourist destination too that foreigners (whether we are local residents or not) are simply seen as walking dollar signs. And, because of its comparative low wealth, this commercialism - this quest to wring out every last buck, in Bangkok - takes the form of tackiness, and sometimes sleaziness. The tackiness is kinda cute, and interesting – but not on a long term basis. The sleaziness…well, that’s really just depressing. They’ll wanna wring out your last buck my wringing out your last…well, let’s keep this as PG as possible shall we.

You can find sleaziness in any country, and city, in the world. Whenever or wherever the rich and immoral take advantage of the naive and innocent and desperate. In places like Bangkok though, this isn’t just locals treating each other like this. You can feel the West feeding of the Thais in Bangkok – using them, milking them dry of their innocence and leaving them cynical, greedy, hopeless copies of these embittered Westerners themselves.

When I see stuff like this around the world – it just depresses me.

So despite the fact that there was more about Thailand that I loved than any other Eastern country, the twin facts of its commercialism and Bangkok’s in-your-face greed and sleaziness put me off when I was booking my ticket.

For now…

But who knows about the future. Maybe I will end up there one day. After all, Thai women are quite possibly the most beautiful in the world…

The last three options I considered – China, Korea and Vietnam – would have all been pretty equal in my mind…if I hadn’t met Robyn.

All of these countries interest me. All of these countries have opened themselves up to the West a lot more recently than Japan or Thailand, so – while all commercially motivated, economic giants – they have been barely touched by globalisation, comparatively speaking. All three of these countries would – I believe – be equally different – and sometimes difficult to live in. All three of these countries would give me a daily taste of genuine culture and customs that might not be found so easily in Japan or Thailand or elsewhere.

China was the obvious choice. If – in a global influence sense - the 19th Century belonged to England and the 20th belonged to America, it’s quite likely that the 21st Century will be China’s. Less a sleeping giant now, and more an awakening behemoth, this country – quiet on a global scale until 20 years ago – might soon match its current population dominance with cultural and economic dominance in our future world. Too-tight grips on Communism and tradition kept China from blossoming economically for many years – but this is changing. Fast. The government is being led by the nose by China’s business leaders into inevitable change, and inevitable capitalism (but sssshhh! – don’t use that word!). The Olympic Games in Beijing in a few years will accelerate this globalisation almost as much as the internet that is now spreading throughout the country. The people want to speak English to understand the internet, to understand movies and books and tourists, and to increase their own opportunities for travel, for business. The government understands that they need to encourage young people to learn English for the country’s future – for the Olympics in three years, and for tourism and business always.

The country is desperate for English teachers. For every native English teaching position filled in China, there are apparently another hundred left vacant. This means three things if I selected China: I was assured of a job. The money would be better than Korea or Vietnam or Thailand. And the class sizes might be very big.

The latter was one of the few things that discouraged me from China. I knew – especially as a virgin teacher – that I would be much more effective teaching classes of ten or twenty than classes of fifty or seventy.

A few other things discouraged me about China. My cousin Fiona had left to teach there six months before I myself departed Australia. Her emails and photos gave a rich, fascinating picture of the country – a country I knew would always delight and never sate my travel appetites. Yet Fiona’s descriptions of her town – inland, grey, dull, industrial, polluted, drab - and her school (pretty much the same description applies) put me off. And the weather – freezing in winter. After London, I was happy to sweat it out a little in a hotter climate.

So I thought about my next option. Korea. Well, that’s not entirely true. I really didn’t consider Korea too much. I really didn’t know much about it, just that it’s been split into the nice South and the nasty North and that a lot of the western world – including that definition of “political hypocrite” - the USA - had taken exception with the North’s accumulation of nuclear weaponry. That’s really all I knew. In fact, if (as I suggested above) my “research” into Vietnam basically took the form of eighties War movies, then my “research” into Korea can be summed up with one word – MASH. For those of you too young or too culturally-deprived to remember, MASH was the best TV series of the seventies and eighties – the best series of them all maybe, till The Simpsons and Seinfeld came along. MASH was a comedy with dramatic flourishes (which sadly declined into a drama with comedic flourishes) about a Mobile Army Surgical Hospital – a bunch of US medical/army staff - working near the front lines of the Korean War in the 1950’s. The series was so good it lasted three times as long as the real war. It taught me a lot about punchlines and wit and friendship and morality and the insanity of war. It taught me almost nothing about Korea except that it looked a lot like the hills of Southern California and that they were lots of little villages with old men and sick babies and oxen. That’s really all I got from MASH about the country itself. Of course, the series premiered in the midst of the Vietnam War – and while primarily a comedy – it used that comedy to make a lot of barbed points which (while ostensibly about the insanity of the Korean War) where often representative of the insanity of the Vietnam War, coverage of which the viewers had just watched on their TV’s moments before MASH came on and lightened the mood.

So basically, apart from my skewed vision courtesy of MASH - I knew nothing about Korea until about two years ago - when I became friendly with Jin. Jin was a student at an English language college in Brisbane – I knew a bloke who worked there and helped out with some role-play tests one week for some extra cashola. All the students in the class were Asian, and all were very friendly, especially Jin, a charming, completely guileless, utterly unsophisticated girl in her early twenties. I knew our friendship would never go beyond innocent friendship, but I kept in touch with Jin for the odd coffee or movie, or dinner, and showed her around a bit up the Sunshine Coast – something I think she never could have afforded to do on her own – her budget was extremely tight. Jin loved her family back in Korea, but she really didn’t want to leave Australia after the year or so she’d been there. Jin was proud of her home country, but she really didn’t talk too much about Korea – save for its food delicacies, which she cooked for me once or twice. I came to know Jin, but I never really came to know Korea.

Although I did keep getting the vibe that perhaps it was such an unknowable country because its people were aloof and distant and insular. Just a vibe.

But…when the time came to decide, and…knowing next to nothing about Korea, I put it into the same basket as China – maybe one day.

Which left only one real option.

Vietnam.

Which, really, truly, had been at the top of the pile for a year or two anyway.

I met Robyn Bishop in late 2003 and worked with her through early 2004 at the Uni of Queensland. I was working sporadic contracts of varying hours and lengths of time in those years because of my responsibilities at home. But in late 2003, things at home were ok enough for me to assume a permanent position at the Student Centre. Robyn Bishop began work there at the same time, and for about a week or two, we were both subjected to some ridiculous “training”. This “training” supposedly consisted in theory of Robyn and I being locked in a small room together and reading from a huge manual – but actually consisted (in practice) of us being locked in a room together and me telling Robyn about my nonexistent – but still fanciful – love life, and Robyn telling me about her wonderful adventures in Vietnam.

I’m almost positive that if I hadn’t met Robyn at that time then I wouldn’t be typing this from Vietnam. Oh – I’d still likely be in Asia teaching – but more likely in China or Korea or Thailand.

The reason I am teaching (“why teach?”) has been outlined above. The reason I am teaching in a foreign country now - at this time in my life – (“why now?”) will be outlined below. But the reason I am teaching in Vietnam can be summed up with two words: Robyn Bishop.

Robyn is a wonderful girl. She is maybe a decade younger than me. She grew up in a farming community near Rockhampton in Central Queensland, and she studied at University in Brisbane, and in Wales. She is down-to-earth yet worldly. She is sweet and kind yet sharp and intelligent. She is genuine…and very interesting.

When I met her, Robyn was deeply in love. Not with a man. With a country. Vietnam.

When I met her, Robyn has only recently returned from Vietnam. She has taught – mostly tutored – English and worked administration in a school in Saigon. She had lived there for over a year, maybe 18 months. She had travelled extensively throughout Vietnam and the surrounding areas. She had had a close relationship with a bloke – a foreign bloke called Mike, also a teacher – when she lived in Vietnam (and in fact, as people do, the relationship was left in limbo when Robyn left Vietnam, and she was still calling Mike “her boyfriend”, although this lasted not long).

Robyn loved Mike, and couldn’t say enough great things about him, but unfortunately distance and separate life-paths really didn’t help the long-term compatibility of their relationship…

And while Robyn loved Mike, she really loved Vietnam. When Robyn spoke about Mike, her face would often contort in confusion. But when she spoke about Vietnam, her face would simply light up with joy.

That face, that delight, sold it for me. Vietnam all the way.

Robyn showed me pictures of Vietnam – of the madness and movement of Saigon, of the beauty of the beaches, of the variety of the food, of the magnificent of the temples in neighbouring Cambodia. All wonderful. All fascinating travel opportunities. But the photos she delighted most in were those of the people. Her boyfriend definitely. Her ex-pat friends for sure. But especially the Vietnamese people. These photos – and the stories she told me about them – really sold Vietnam to me.

Robyn raved about many things to me. About the amazing buzz and energy and excitement of Saigon. About the limitless opportunities for travel from Saigon. About the limitless opportunities for socialising in Saigon. About the low cost of - and relatively comfortable standard of living. About the cheapness and deliciousness and infinite variety of food. But the thing Robyn raved about the most – above all else – was the people.

The Vietnamese people.

Robyn made many Vietnamese friends when she was here. She told me countless stories about their warmth and kindness and generosity and good-humour. She made fast friends with her motorcycle-taxi-man who doubled her around everywhere. She was made godmother of a close friend’s new born child. She had many happy memories of her time in Vietnam, but – like anyone’s experience anywhere - the happiness was the most extreme when it was related to people.

Robyn certainly didn’t paint a rose-tinted picture of the Vietnamese. She told me that many aspects of the culture and people had driven her crazy with frustration until she’d (mostly) learned to accept and live with them. But overall, Robyn had had such a wonderful experience of Vietnam and its people. I don’t mean to slander the cultures and societies of China, Korea, Japan or Thailand. But Robyn’s verbal advertisement for Vietnam lifted it way to the top of the list. From what I’d (barely) read, seen and heard of the other countries, my prejudices led me to assume that Japanese people were really batty and manic and eccentric and overly-commercialised, Thai people were gorgeous yet often westernized to a mercenary extreme, Koreans were aloof and mysterious, and the Chinese were inscrutable and often difficult to deal with. But - apart from the influence of a few 80’s right-wing Vietnam (American) War movies - I hadn’t really got a negative vibe of the Vietnamese people at all.

Before I arrived here, I figured that the Vietnamese were more laidback than the Japanese, less mercenary than the Thai, and friendlier than the Koreans or Chinese.

Robyn made an incredible sales pitch on the country and its people. And – importantly for someone as travel-shy as me at that stage of my life – Robyn was planning a visit back to Vietnam at almost precisely the same time as my planned departure time from Australia. She was thrilled at the thought that she could introduce me to her friends (ex-pat and Vietnamese), and enthusiastically promised me she’d get my foot-into-the-door of places of employment and accommodation. At that stage of my life (see below) I was totally up for some hand-holding from a local (or prior local) like Robyn – I was excited about the prospect of a new life overseas, but so not confident about the thought of finding my feet in a strange developing country on my own.

So…everything was pointing me to Vietnam. Robyn’s enthusiasm for the country and its people. Her own planned return visit coinciding with the time I would be heading off. Her assurances that her intros would make it a smooth transition for me. All of this contributed to the removal off any and all doubt in my mind about my final destination:

Vietnam.

Well…all this and two other very important things:

(1) I find Vietnamese women among the most attractive, gorgeous women in the world.
(2) I knew that if I lived and worked in Vietnam, even for a little while, upon my return to Australia I could always annoy my friends by uttering the immortal words:
“When I was in ‘Nam…”

Why Now?

OK so now we get to the final third of that iceberg of an answer to the question: “Why have you come to Vietnam to teach?”

I’ve explained why I wanted to teach.

I’ve explained why I chose Vietnam.

But…why now?

How did fate and circumstance and destiny and the planets line up perfectly in early 2005 to allow me to purse a new career, in a new country…now…?

Or in a more succinct saying: “How NOW, Brown Cow?”

Those of you that have known me for awhile may have followed my progressively more verbose “Dave Reports” over the years – reports like this one – filled with anecdotal ramblings about my life, my travels, my plans, my dreams, my disasters…

But…until I started this one – in Vietnam, in mid-2005 – the Dave Reports had somehow…stalled…

Despite my miniscule fan club asking me repeatedly for more…from maybe mid-2003 – two years ago – I haven’t really written anything about my life. Oh, there was the odd quick-bio spun off for countless potential internet dates – and a brief contribution I made in early 2004 to help the writer – and my friend – of the internet dating piece on me which featured in the Australian magazine on Valentine’s Day. And of course, there was a pretty poignant eulogy I’d written, in mid-2004. But that wasn’t about me – about my life.

So apart from whiney, whingey update-emails to interstate or international friends, I hadn’t written anything about my life for years. I hadn’t written anything substantial. Nothing. Zero. Nada. Zip.

Which really wasn’t like me.

I love writing. I love the creativity and thought-processing that it involves. I have the inspiration (but thus far lacked the discipline) to write many epic books, including one simply on writing. I spend every day with dozens of thoughts swirling through my brain that I consider are interesting or amusing enough to write down and treasure for myself and share with others – and of course – because of the fleeting nature of memory, and the fast pace of my life - 99.99% of those thoughts are lost forever.

But for a huge chunk of my life – somewhere between 2002 and 2005 – it wasn’t 99.99% of those precious thoughts and inspirations that were lost. It was 100%.

Because I stopped writing.

Like I said, the last Dave Report was released in mid-to-late 2003. But it wasn’t about 2003. It was at least a year behind.

In early 2003 I released a Dave Report – about early 2002, which, combined with 2001, was the happiest time of my life. This time would be categorised later (by me) as “The Farbridge Years”.

In mid-late 2003 I released a Dave Report – about mid 2002, which told approximately half the tale of a van trip I had undertaken around Europe. The first half of this van trip was happier than the second, but – if you read the first part of this Travel Tale - “Trippin’” – you may recall the cracks were starting to show in the foundation of that trip.

Anyway, in late 2003 and early 2004 I fiddled a little bit with the second half of “Trippin’”, but never got anything substantial down.

So that was it…

Stalled…

Despite good intentions, heaps of inspiration, and lots of free time…my writings were stalled. From late 2003 (till now) I have not written any Dave Reports.

And – because I usually (arrogantly) have an answer for everything – I think I know why…

Like I said, I stopped writing in mid-late 2003.

Late 2003 and chunks of 2004 where made up of some pretty damn difficult, hellish times in my life. So it would be understandable – excusable – that I might not be in the clearest, best state of mind to write anything in depth in those years.

But that’s not – I suspect – the reason. Because I wrote the initial two 2002 Dave Reports in late 2002 and early 2003, when my life was just as damn difficult and hellish.

But here comes the point…

The Dave Reports I wrote in late 2002 and early-mid 2003 were – yes, written when my life was often filled with anguish – but THE LIFE I WAS WRITING ABOUT WAS NOT.

My life – at the time I was writing – may have been horrible – but the tales I was sitting down to write – were not.

Writing – about my own happy life – one year previous – became a joyous escape.

I was really suffering emotionally from all I was going through in the real world in late 2002 and 2003 – but in my writing, I could escape into my happy memories of early 2002 and relive them in print, in creativity.

Life was hell, but writing was heaven. Even though I was simply reliving a life of only one year before – so much had changed that I seemed to be writing about a different person. I seemed to be writing a fantasy. The ultimate escape.

Which is not to say that anything I wrote in my 2002 Reports was fiction. It was as true as any autobiography can be – all about perspective - but totally, truthfully, my honest perspective. But my memories of early 2002 were so joyous compared with the time when I was writing about them…well it sometimes seemed that I was writing a biography, not an autobiography. Writing about a different person.

So – even though life was hell - it was heaven to write those reports – write about those happy times.

But then…the cracks started to show. Not in my life – because in my life the cracks had already opened so wide it was like I was sitting at the bottom of a huge fissure that had opened between two tectonic plates. Like continental drift had ripped two land masses so far apart that I was left sitting at the base of the deepest ocean trench. Now that’s a little bigger than the average crack in an egg-shell, huh? This crack – these cracks has opened in my life months before.

But only now were they starting to show in my writing.

Part 1 of 2002 was all sweetness and joy and love and light and hope.

Part 2 of 2002 was all that, but…if you remember correctly…with some pretty dark clouds beginning to cluster overhead…

So…too be honest…and this is really why I think the Dave Reports had stalled…

I JUST DON’T THINK I COULD FACE WRITING PART 3. I COULDN’T FACE WRITING ABOUT LATE 2002. I COULDN’T FACE WRITING ABOUT 2003 OR 2004. I COULDN’T FACE WRITING ABOUT HOW I HAD GOT TO THE VERY LIFE I HAD FOUND MYSELF LIVING AT THAT POINT.

I COULDN’T FACE WRITING ABOUT MY JOURNEY FROM HEAVEN TO HELL.

That’s really it my friends.

It was really a subconscious thing that I’ve only worked-out after the fact – but it makes pretty good sense to me. My reason for the big gap in Dave Reports.

And my sorry excuse for the huge gap in your subscription.

As I wrote closer and closer about mid-late 2002…I could feel things coming up in my writing – that I had lived through, that I was living then, that I was simply loath to confront.

I just wasn’t – at that time of my life – strong enough to relive those horrible memories.

Reliving happy memories when you are going through shit I found to be pretty therapeutic. Balance. Nice.

But the thought of reliving horrible experiences when I was still living horrible ones…couldn’t do it. Couldn’t face it. Just no balance there.

Anyway…there you go.

I just reached breaking point. In late 2003 and 2004 I needed some balance in my life – some happiness, some joy, some escape. I knew that I could find that in my friends, my friends’ children, my niece, in work, in movies, in sport. And I guess I subconsciously assumed that I couldn’t find it in writing about those horrible years. So I stalled…

I think it was a pretty good call.

Not that I don’t intend on playing catch-up one day.

There’s a pretty big hole to fill now. June 2002 to March 2005. I’ll get there. I want to get there, I want to write about those years, that life, that pain, that suffering, that heartache. And I will eventually. But not right now. Not quite ready.
So this report begins in March, 2005.

But I guess I owe it - to those of you who came in late - to fill in the blanks. Connect the dots, so to speak, from June 2002 to March 2005.

Because to do so will bring this particular ramble around full circle back to answering the original question: Why now?

For those of you that remember, when you last left The Dave Channel, it was mid 2002 and I was merrily zipping around Europe in a van with some friends. It was a trip I had dreamed about my whole life. After the trip, my life seemed pre-destined. I was in love with the best girl in the world, and the plan was to return to Australia with that love, and live happily-ever-after. Nothing was written in stone, yet I felt a security and a comfort in that relationship that I never could have dreamed possible before. I was 100% sure that my life was on track not just for happiness, but also for that great state of being which so many of my friends and family have been trying to nudge me towards for 20 years: “settling down”.

Obviously three years later – I’m living in a hotel in a small town in Vietnam as I write this, working short three-month contracts and wondering where my next home town - or country - will be. Pretty damn long way from “settling down”, wouldn’t you say?

What happened? What changed?

Well…a lot.

Everything.

In late 2001 and early 2002, if someone had told me I would be working as a teacher in Vietnam three years later, I would have laughed in their face – and probably asked for the name of their drug supplier.

From my mid-twenties to my early thirties, I had always had a niggling thought that maybe my path my lead me to itinerant life of a teacher in Asia one day. But – once I fell in love for the second time – I completely wrote that option off. I knew that my partner-to-be-forever was not the type to ever live on a low budget in a developing country – and that was fine. I knew that compromising on this minor dream was nothing for me – nothing when compared with the future of that relationship which I felt was so secure, so perfect, so forever.

Of course, forever turned out to be a lot shorter than all those fairy tale books had promised.

Everything changed.

In the space of a few months, everything I knew about the world, about my world, changed.

(1) My van trip – my ultimate dream of travel I had had for many years previous – self-combusted.

(2) My relationship – my ultimate dream of partnership, security and love for all the years ahead – ended.

And, worst (yet strangely, ultimately best) of all…

(3) My anguished shell of a body returned to Australia alone, where I undertook (willingly, without a hint of regret) the hugest, heaviest, most depressing and physically and emotionally draining responsibility I have ever encountered.

To say “things changed”, would be the ultimate understatement.

“Things change” in everyone’s life, every single day.

But this was intense. This was extreme.

In a few short months, joy and hope were replaced by misery and anguish.

I can only liken it to the following metaphor:

Imagine you are dancing to your favourite music in a bright, colourful room with all your friends and loved ones. You feel happy, secure and more full of joy and future hopes than you ever dreamed possible. You have everything you ever wanted. Then – in less time than it takes you to blink your eyes – the carpet is pulled from under your feet. Who does it? I don’t know. Some bastard called “Fate” maybe – the same bastard that turns out to be your best friend most of the time. Anyway, it doesn’t matter who pulls the carpet out from under your feet. What matters is that it happens so quickly that you face-plant swiftly into the concrete floor below. You are shocked, disorientated, and you have a bloody nose. You look up. All your friends and loved ones have gone. The music has stopped. All that remains is you. Alone. In a dark, concrete room. With nothing. Or maybe worse than nothing…

That’s how July-August-September-October of 2002 felt to me.

Like one HUGE carpet-pulling-face-plant.

My entire world was turned around.

And not in a good way…

Of course…I survived. To paraphrase the fleetingly here-and-there final line of the long-lost Dave Report for 2002-2003: “Life Goes On.”

Life went on.

I recovered from the face-plant. I stopped being so selfish. I admitted that I was far from alone. I shouldered the responsibility that I needed to, that I wanted to.

And life…got better.

With a lot of help from my family and friends – most of them having no idea how much they were helping - I gradually pulled myself back…to myself.

I gradually pulled myself back to one of my defining mantras in life:

It’s not what happens to you in life that defines the person that you are, but how you deal with it.

I tried – as always – to deal with it with a smile. Philosophically.

Life – after “The-Great-Face-Plant-Incident-of-2002 did “get better” for me in 2003 and 2004.

But – like I’ve just said – that had a lot more to do with my gradually improving attitude than my circumstances. My circumstances were – objectively speaking – very, very sad in 03 and 04. Up and down yes, with lots of undoubtedly happy moments – but just as many depressing, soul-destroying ones.

But – paradoxically – as many things became worse – I became better. Stronger.

Simply because of my attitude. Simply because of my perspective. I got over the face-plant shock. I stopped looking at what I had lost, I looked at what I had gained, and what I had always had – which was a lot. I stopped brooding about my broken dreams, and realised that losing those dreams had given me the opportunities for thousands of new dreams to fill their place.

I started to hope again.

On June 2nd 2004, the responsibility I mentioned above was lifted. I expected to feel a sudden rush of relief, a sudden feeling of freedom. I felt neither.

But gradually – as time ticked down on 2004 – a feeling of freedom did return to me. Well, less “freedom”, more “independence”.

Even though I had enjoyed a brief relationship with an incredible girl from May to August of 2004 – this relationship was – in both mine and my partner’s hearts I feel – never serious. It was casual and fun for both of us. If was – for me - comforting and warm at a time I was the most exhausted (physically and emotionally) I have ever been, and hopefully for her - amusing and interesting at times. We enjoyed some good times, but we were completely incompatible for anything in the long-term other than friendship – incompatible for several reasons – perhaps one of the most important being timing. I simply – after the years I’d had – had very little left to give.

I really just needed to be selfish for awhile.

So selfish I became.

And – to many of my friends’ and family members’ chagrin – “settling down” got placed back on the shelf for awhile.

Of course we all want to fall in love, we all want the fairy tale. But in mid-late 2004, the timing for “in-love” was just off for me. I loved my partner like I’d love a best-friend, or a sister, and I hoped for “in love”, because she was just so terrific. But my wounded heart was never really in that casual relationship, so when my partner ended it, my primary feelings were not of loss or sadness for the relationship’s end, but instead of sorrow that I might not be able to ever return to her a fraction of the comfort she’d given me. And…something else…that didn’t surprise me at all. Relief.

I had willingly shouldered that massive responsibility in 2002 and carried it through 2003 and 2004. While I never regretted my decision, for much of that time, I wondered about the time when – no matter what the outcome – my responsibility would be over, and I would be free again. I never hoped for that time of course – I knew it was folly to hope for anything. But I couldn’t help but wonder (and yes, maybe even dream) about what I would do one day – some day, in the future – if I wasn’t responsible to anyone anymore.

Independent. Alone. Able to do anything. Able to go anywhere. Not needed by anyone.

In was during this “time of responsibility” (sorry - can’t talk about it more specifically than that yet) that I met Robyn, and the twin seeds of teaching and Vietnam started germinating in my mind. But I refused to entertain them seriously – because I had no idea how long my responsibility would continue for. I didn’t really want to think about when it would end, because that meant thinking about how it might end. So I refused to think about the timeline. One year? Five years? Ten Years? No idea.

But nevertheless, the possibilities of my next big move – once I was free again – were planted in my mind – down deep.

Then – just before that huge responsibility was lifted on June 2nd 2004 – I found myself taking on another one. The relationship I mentioned above started in May 04. Of course, a budding, month-old relationship had nothing like the level of responsibility and commitment of my original (2002-2004) responsibility. But – even though my heart wasn’t in it – I wanted to give the relationship a chance. Because she was so great and so gorgeous, I refused to sabotage it with my usual vacillation, so I kept my travel/teach/Vietnam dreams buried. They were still alive of course, and actually – within myself at least – pretty damn loud and vocal and excited. But – I kept them as muffled as possible for fear of ruining a good thing.

Well, that turned out to be irrelevant. My partner decided it was a good thing in the short term, but never destined to be a good thing in the long term, and my commitment/responsibility to her was ended. And like I said above…

Relief.

Independence and freedom and opportunity were the predominant feelings once that relief had washed away.

Oh, I went through a lot of other feelings in late 2004. Over the previous two years I had seen (and emotionally denied seeing) a lot of horrible stuff – I had needed to deny it to myself just to function, just to survive, just to stay “responsible”. But – no longer responsible in late 04 – I allowed waves of suppressed grief and anguish and pain to rise to the surface in a few horrible floods. It wasn’t pretty. But it was pretty normal – apparently. It was pretty necessary, I was told…

Anyway enough about the pain. Can’t think about that right now…can’t start feeling that again right now. I will write about late 2002, and 2003, and 2004 – one day, I promise. But not today. I only cover all this briefly to fill-in-the-blanks between Dave Reports and explain how I got here.

And how I got here was due to the renewed surges of hope, independence, freedom, and inspiration that returned to me in late 2004. Gradually, I came back to myself. Gradually…

Like I say, the seeds of Vietnam and teaching had been planted in my mind many months before. But they weren’t the only seeds…

The feeling of independence, of freedom was overwhelming. I knew that I could do anything! Well…not anything. If I could have done anything, I would have obtained an impossible Visa for the USA, and gone to work Carrie Bradshaw’s old job and lived in an impossible-to-afford apartment in Manhattan. Visas – and employment prospects - notwithstanding, if I could choose to live anywhere in the world, New York would be my first choice by far. Maybe it always will be. San Francisco would be number two, dead-heating with Paris. Then a little lower, we’ve got Barcelona, Tuscany, Vancouver, (or Banff), Wellington, Rio, Cappadonia, Perth – and a million other options following these. Of course – I couldn’t do everything. My options were limited by the visas available for certain countries and my long-term employability and survivability there. But – and this was another sign DAVE was returning - I didn’t dwell on where I couldn’t go, what I couldn’t do. I thought about what I could. And teaching in Asia was something I could. And Saigon really wasn’t that far behind Paris on the list. Maybe it was even ahead of it. Remember – “different is good.” I was more than happy to bump Vietnam to the top. I wasn’t thinking about opportunities lost, but instead opportunities gained.

And there were so many opportunities gained. For a brief moment, I rolled a couple of other options around in my head. One of the options I considered involved even staying home - and becoming a firefighter. I have never really liked jobs with a high testosterone-oestrogen imbalance (especially those like firefighting which are heavily balanced with testosterone), but despite this, a career fighting fires has always appealed to me, for many reasons. (OK, mainly because of the whole bat-pole thing.) But – at this time of my life anyway – I put it on the backburner (no pun intended). I figured with a lot of work I could get the physical stuff down, but…I also figured that I wasn’t quite up to (right then in my life) the mental toughness that the job requires – or at least would require in the initial stages.

Another option I considered was going to work for the Red Cross in Africa. A gradual maturing of my social conscience and sense of world morality over the past decade had combined with a realisation over the past two years that even someone as clueless as I could make a positive difference in the life of someone suffering. I wondered if any of my minimal abilities were transferable to those places in Africa were people don’t need language skills or office tap-dancing or erudite wordplay or movie trivia – but instead more practical – real - things like health care and shelter and food supplies. I was no doctor or nurse, I knew nothing about creating sustainable crops or constructing sturdy shelters. Yet I figured – I was a healthy, relatively young bloke who could use his body and spirit (if not his mind) to help those in need, if given the right direction. So I briefly entertained the thought of volunteering to the Red Cross to help those in this world who are undoubtedly in the most need of care – those in Africa. I figured I could assist in hospitals, assist in building things, growing things…just assist! Just help. But helping isn’t what it used to be. I did a little research, and found that volunteering for the Red Cross…well you’d think volunteering would be easy, but it isn’t. Not that I ever expected to get paid for volunteering (defeats the purpose really) – but I didn’t expect to have to pay them for the privilege of helping them. It was very expensive to volunteer. I simply couldn’t afford it. And then there was enough paperwork to drown the National Library of Congress in Washington DC. None of this would have really discouraged me but for the fact that – after the two years I’d just had – I didn’t think I had the emotional strength to see suffering on such a huge scale on a daily basis. I mean - I wanted to help those people that needed it the most – but when I though about it – I didn’t think I could – at that stage of my life. Of course, there’s a big difference between seeing a huge bunch of strangers suffering and dying to seeing a deeply-loved one go through the same thing…but still…emotional detachment has never been my strong suit. I’d faked enough of that over the previous two years and was paying for it then.

Maybe one day I will volunteer for the Red Cross and directly help those poor souls in the world who need it most. But right then in my life – in late 2004 – I simply was not strong enough to consider it seriously.

So the teaching option came back. Helping people sure. But not confronting suffering or pain or hunger every waking hour. And living a more comfortable lifestyle.

In a country where I could supposedly support myself, supposedly get a visa, and – based on Robyn’s guarantees – supposedly have a ready-made support group and job network in place. Something I could do. Something I had the strength for. Something I wanted to do Something that was good for me.

So teaching in Vietnam stayed on top of the pile.

Of course - even when I felt my primary responsibility lift away in June 2004 - I didn’t want to make any rash decisions immediately. Plus I had a girlfriend then. But even after September, when I was single again – I still didn’t feel myself for a few months. I didn’t want to react to what I was feeling and run away. I didn’t want a new career and a new country to be simply a knee-jerk reaction to everything that my heart and soul and psyche had suffered so recently. Instead I wanted to be sure that it was the best thing for me to do at this time of my life. I wanted to know myself again before I decided for sure. I wanted to relearn how to make decisions for myself – for my own life – without immediately considering another person’s well-being first. I wanted to rediscover my selfish side.

And…I wanted to feel strong.

I just felt so weak in late 2004…drained and crushed…like an empty Coke can on the road. I knew I would need at least a little of my former strength before venturing out into the big bad world again.

I knew this would take a little time…if I got there at all.

So in September 2004, I started telling people that I would decide by the end of the year – for sure, one way or the other - whether I was leaving or not.

And gradually…

I came back to myself. I knew myself again – sure – not that same Dave from early 2002 – certainly a lot more weary, wary, and wounded – but…yeah…I was back. I had changed – I carried, and still carry now – a lot of pain in my heart and caution in my soul – but overall…I was me again.

And I was independent and I was free and I was selfish – not selfish in a bad way - just alone and free to do whatever I wished with that “aloneness”.

And…I’m still not strong. At least – not the way I remember strong to be. I not the brave, fearless, reckless, do-anything soul I remember from before. But I’m getting stronger. I got stronger in late 2004.

The Coke can was still crushed, but not completely flat. The crinkles and crunkles were still all over its surface, it was still bent and twisted – but at least it had some shape again, at least it looked like a Coke can again. And hopefully…I figured…as time went on...maybe…as each day goes by…the can would get a little less bent and twisted, a little more resemblant of its former glory. Oh, it will never be new again. There will always be crinkles and crunkles on the surface, it will always look a little wonky. But one day – maybe there will even be some Coke inside again. Some juice, some sugar, some caffeine, some energy. Some life.

As the clock ticked down on 2004, my resolve to leave my comfort zone of home, family and friends became stronger. Because – yes, it was a comfort zone – comfortable and easy – but I’ve always tried to step out of that comfort zone whenever I can. And I began to think that by 2005 – I might be strong enough to do so again.

Some people may have thought (think) that leaving Australia to teach in Vietnam was (is) just dropping out. Just one more drop-out for me in a long line of drop-outs. By “drop-out” I mean that old term from the sixties/seventies referring to people who just abandon the straight-and-narrow, accepted and normal, secure and responsible, stable and serious path of society and take the easy option to escape somewhere different, perhaps somewhere less traditionally challenging, somewhere more relaxing, chilled out.

Maybe those people are right. Sure I’d dipped my Italian-leather-bound toes into the corporate world once or twice in my development – only to back off onto a less traditional, possibly more questionable path. Career wise, I’ve almost exclusively followed varied experience instead of money – maybe this constitutes “dropping out” for some. But I don’t think the decisions I’ve made have been the easy option. I’m sure if I wanted, and if I’d stayed on that corporate path, I could be raking in 200000K a year in some desk-bound, high-finance position, with all its pressures and challenges (which I presume are primarily the stifling of boredom and ethics). But that doesn’t mean teaching in a foreign culture is less of challenge. Just a different sort of challenge. Not really the easy option. So…no…I didn’t consider for a second that I was going to “drop-out” of the “real world”. Those people I know that think they are living in the real world – a world filled with dozens of electronic gadgets and clothing labels and wanky meetings and ribboned invitations – well – the more I see of this planet the more I realise that that existence is a lot less real than that of most of the world’s population. Sure it’s one component of the world – maybe a blessed, fortunate, head-in-the-clouds component. But “real”. Comparatively speaking…so NOT.

So not…I didn’t think I was “dropping out” from the real world. I was simply leaving one world to explore another…

No I wasn’t dropping out.

But “running away”. Another thing entirely. Maybe…

Maybe that’s another reason for teaching in Vietnam at that time. Because teaching in another country was also leaving my home. And leaving my home was something I began to think would be a good thing for me right then. Running away? Maybe…

Probably…

But that flat, that house, those roads…so many memories. Mostly good memories. But the freshest, most recent, most potent memories – predominantly horrible. Predominantly sad.

Being away from those surroundings, and those regular doses of memory – could only be a good thing.

I just needed space.

Distance.

Time away. Time to heal.

So by the end of the year…I decided.

Christmas is always my favourite time of year. I love it. So much love and giving and soppy sentiment. Not like a birthday – not one person elevated above others – I mean, those are fun too – to make one person feel special. But Christmas…shared. Almost across the globe. I love it.

But Christmas 2004…the worst, saddest Christmas I’ve ever had.

Oh, it wasn’t all bad. I still worked up a lot of smiles. My lovely niece Sarah was responsible for most of those. But bittersweet. Predominantly sad. Lonely.

I spent Christmas morning with my family, but…

I found myself alone on Christmas afternoon. Sitting in a deck chair at my family beach house at Kawana, on the Sunshine Coast. Watching the picnics in the park and the boats on the river. Thinking.

The weather wasn’t the best that afternoon. Not as bright as Christmas’s past. Bleak, overcast. A little rainy.

I went for a walk anyway, like I often do when I’m thoughtful.

I walked past happy families and friends. If there is one place on Earth I love above all others, it’s this one – alongside the south bank on the Mooloolah River. It’s not exceptionally beautiful – merely pleasant, relaxing, lovely. In no way spectacular. But I guess I love it so much because of the memories associated with it. The happiness I’ve seen and shared there so many times. It represents a life I’ve lived occasionally – and maybe would like to live regularly – always…in the future. Maybe. One day.

But not yet.

I walked up to Point Cartwright, the high cliff with the lighthouse overlooking the entire Sunshine Coast. A great place to think.

A great place to look across the vast ocean, feel your place in the world.

The sky was grey that Christmas day, and so was the sea.

It was a melancholy moment.

I had no regrets in life. But I had a lot of pain.

I remember it so well, the feeling inside as I stood in the shadow of the lighthouse and I leaned on the splintered wooden railing on the edge of that cliff, feeling the wind on my face – wind that was more than a breeze, less than a storm. I looked down firstly at the waves below – crashing against those eroded rocks. My heart was very heavy.

Then I looked out at the clouds, at the distant sea, at the horizon, at forever.

At the future.

And the future was then. It was time.

My heart lifted – a little.

I was going to Vietnam.

The Dave Reports

Monday, April 03, 2006

Vietnam Pics - Early Shots 2005 on Flickr

Vietnam - Part 1 - Why

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