I was standing, with my face in the sunlight, looking calm, very calm, and crying, somewhere inside. Sometimes the sight of what you lost, reflected in another love, is too much: too much of what was, and isn’t any more.
Family, home: little words that rise like atolls in earthquakes of the heart.
I looked at the domed house: separate entrances on the outside, joined lives on the inside. Whether they found the treasure or not, it was already that marvel, that miracle, an answered prayer.
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RIDING A MOTORCYCLE IS VELOCITY AS POETRY
The Mountain Shadow by Gregory David Roberts
Sometimes, it’s the little things. The way you wake one morning with a clear mind. Or when you wake with the mind a little liquidated, a little hungover.
For me, it was The Smiths. On hearing those distant melodies, early on a Monday morning after a 12-hour teaching weekend, I was taken back to the shores of dear old blighty.
There is something intoxicating about being a teenager and discovering The Smiths. You feel you have been let in on a little secret. Those melodies, those lyrics, the names of the albums; Hatful of Hollow. And here I was a dumb kid, trying his hands at drums and hanging around with my indie-wannabe mates. Of course we put a band together. The rest is history.
It’s a coming-of-age thing. You will always feel a certain amount of fondness and nostalgia for your teenage years, although they are troubling, they are very formative. A rich time in your life.
Anyway, coming back to the here and now. The quote at the beginning is from a book I am reading. I read Gregory David Roberts Shantaram 10 years ago, and engulfed it. An adventure novel, detailing escape from a maximum-level security prison in Australia to live in a slum in Mumbai. All the elements of the perfect adventure travel literature. The Mountain Shadow is the sequel, picking up where he left off (still in India).
In the passage above he describes life as the exile. A foreign country where he has made plenty of friends and is indeed in love with; but still he details that sense of longing, or not belonging. Of course, I can’t compare my own situation to his; I wasn’t a heroin addict, I certainly don’t live in a slum and I don’t work for the Indian mafia. There is still a sense of the missing home however.
You travel for adventure and new experiences, however, no matter where you go, home will always have a place in your heart. Home is sacred. Home is where the heart is.
Of my current time in Hanoi though, I really can’t complain. Teaching is great; I feel I am making some real milestones of progress recently. I have built some good relationships with the students now, and its a continual learning experience.
I was teaching my secondary class last week, which can be an experience in itself, and I was thinking whilst teaching, “I’ve never had this level of job satisfaction doing anything else.” It can be a marvel. When your lesson just comes together. All the pieces align; the gods gather, content, overhead.
As I mentioned in my last post, I was on the eve of moving.
I am now living, content in the Bamboo Mansion as we call it, or the Casa de Bambu as our group-message group has it. I live with a Spanish girl called Marta, whom I’m still yet to meet; a French girl called Saba – she is a French and English teacher to none other than the Vietnamese military – another French chap called Victor, who is a University lecturer; a German student called Carlo who I’ve become quite good friends with, and most recently, an English girl Olivia, who has just moved in.
I haven’t had a chance to talk to her properly yet, but she is from Manchester, this much I know.
Most recently, in my time off, I’ve been seeing some friends, including Al Cullen. He is my brother’s friend and is travelling Vietnam with his girlfriend. I was surprised but also impressed by his work as a documentary maker. He even did a doc on beloved Leeds United apparently.
I went to an Art Night at a place called ClickSpace. I was hopeless, but that was the point. There were some talented people, but for the majority you just turn up, order some wine and give it a go. I feel like I’m easing myself into my thirties or old-age. Jokes aside, it was a really pleasant evening.
The curator, as he made his rounds complimenting people’s different creations, in a low-baritone drawl of an American accent said, “Come on guys, at least you’re here. If you weren’t here, you’d be sat at home smoking weed and watching Netflix.” Speak for yourself, I wanted to say, but held my tongue. In truth I probably wouldn’t have been doing much.
Perhaps its ironic, no?
As I’m sitting here typing this now, looking through my window of the Bamboo Mansion onto the sea-blue facade of the nearest apartment, obscured slightly by a palm tree, the skies opened with rain for a second. And then stopped. Giving a little glimpse of what is to come, I think.
Apart from the Art Night, I have been socialising with my greek friend Daphne, whom always seems to have a collective of people round hers. She knew these traveller guys from South America, who perform acts on the street to keep travelling. One was nicknamed Jack Sparrow. They have now moved on to Sri Lanka.
They were sort of artists, and they cooked wonderfully, just from the food that is sold on the streets of Hanoi; simple vegetables and white fish. We enjoyed aubergine hummus at Daphne’s one night.
I also have met Daphne’s Italian housemate Giulia, whom is strikingly Italian, very witty and quick on her feet and has all sorts of food intolerances due to Antibiotics in her past. Poor girl can’t even handle sugar, which means no alcohol. I also met their Peruvian friend Elisa, who is a really lovely lady. I’ve made friends with her.
So lately, things are going well.
It is not long until Tet, which is the Vietnamese Christmas. Everywhere shuts down, no school, no work.
I had to work over the Xmas period, apart from Christmas day and New Years Day, so it does feel you get robbed a bit.
I am looking forward to Tet immensely, however. I will be taking a trip to Hoi An, famous for its Lanterns and then Da Nang, before Ho Chi Minh, and then into Cambodia to see my parents and check out Angkor Wat. Just a shame Jaffa isn’t joining. Anyway, I’ll be detailing this trip and Mai Chau in the future, so stay tuned as Loony Tunes say.
Take care and I’ll be reporting back soon, folks!
Until then, hope all is well in the Western world.
An Englishman in Hanoi 