Why Not Vietnam

By Jeanne Corée

This is the story of the author's escape to Vietnam a few years ago. She was living in great comfort in middle-class Surrey, the green belt of South London but life had become intolerable...

So, one day, she just took off to Vietnam with the vague promise of a job as a teacher.

The book tells the story of these challenging but wonderful three years.

She would love to share with her readers a message of hope and ultimately of love for Vietnam and for all troubled souls.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Oct 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781490716183

Jeanne Corée

I am of French nationality. Graduated from Bordeaux University (Russian language). Spent two years at Oxford University as a postgraduate student. Most of my professional career has been involved with teaching languages. I have travelled extensively (alternating between France and the UK and the Far East). I am the mother of two grown up sons. This is the story of my escape to Vietnam a few years ago. I was 50, living a very comfortable life in middle-class Surrey, the “green belt” of South London, but I was very unhappy. So, one day I just took off for Vietnam on the vague promise of a job. I did not know that my Vietnamese adventure would last 3 years. I have written this book as a tribute to the wonderful people I met there and to a country that has had such an impact on my life. I wish also to share and dedicate these souvenirs to all “troubled souls”...

Book preview

Chapter 1

W e are going to land. I look at the paddy fields stretching right up to the runway: rusty sheds, distant figures topped with a conical hat. At last, on the other side of the world, far from him.

I emerge from the plane and take in a gulp of hot, damp air. It’s like entering into a cocoon which already blissfully isolates me. I stand in the queue among a batch of tourists. It irritates me to see them in shorts, in bright T-shirts, a holiday smile on their faces. I don’t want to be part of this jolly mood. How can I when my heart is in tatters?

A customs officer in a most revolting bright-green uniform matched with an intimidating cap stares at me with a suspicious look but resigns himself to stamping my passport. I collect my suitcase and walk towards the exit. Crowds of friends and parents are waiting outside as visitors are not allowed inside the airport. I feel dizzy; I am not used to this stifling air. I am overwhelmed by the strident voices, the sight of all these bright tunics. Such a feast for the eyes after the dark clothes in London. I catch sight of arms waving at me. I have been spotted by my three Vietnamese sisters: Madame Thuy, Tam, and Phuong. All three on a welcome-committee mission, faithfully gathered with their smiles, their cheerful twittering, their bunch of flowers. So I pretend to be cheerful, and arm in arm, we make our way towards the taxis.

This is the second of September, National Day in Vietnam. All the houses, all the buildings are displaying the national flag: red with a yellow star. The streets are swarming with mopeds and bicycles, the pavements entirely occupied by crouching street vendors. I only see young faces, children heaped on the family Honda. Father, mother, two or three children are all in perfect balance on these small motorbikes. The youngest children, sometimes babies, are protected from the dust by muslin scarves wrapped around their heads. Sometimes a little old lady in black trousers and brown or pink tunic is also clinging on to the back. A lot of women pedlars carrying heavy baskets suspended on yokes waddle along the streets in this peculiar gait of theirs. As if they wanted to compensate the weight of their load with light, graceful steps.

The sky is heavy with copper clouds. We are in the middle of the monsoon season, and suddenly, it starts raining. Not drops, but buckets. The traffic immediately stops as thousands of cyclists and motorcyclists slip over their heads vast plastic ponchos. It looks as if the rain has awakened a multitude of dormant insects of all kinds of colours: bright pink, green, yellow, orange, turquoise, violet.

I feel dazzled. I am already falling under the magic spell of Saigon.

We are driving away from the town centre; our taxi is working its way across a gigantic roundabout amidst the most incredible traffic jam. Nobody stops; nobody slows down. Lorries, cars, Hondas, bikes, and a few pedestrians brave enough to attempt crossing perform a breathtaking display. We are now in Dien Bien Phu Avenue; this is not exactly a good omen for a French national! Dien Bien Phu, the last desperate battle of the French before their ultimate defeat and departure from Vietnam… where have the pretty colonial villas gone, the shaded avenues, the orchids, the bougainvilleas? This is a long, treeless avenue, entirely taken over by thundering lorries and antiquated buses which use their horns furiously and let out suffocating, filthy exhaust fumes. This district is not exotic! Nothing like I had expected.

The taxi stops outside one of those typical and ugly compartment houses. I must not give a thought to England and my beautiful house there. Must not think, must not think… This mini hotel is particularly unattractive and, in fact, gives me a shock. I had not expected a three-star hotel, but this is a little too gloomy. Tam explains that this is a temporary accommodation; she knows the owner, and it is cheap. She would have liked me to stay at her house, but there are difficulties with police regulations, lots of permissions to be obtained when foreigners are concerned. Well, I wanted to forget Europe and its comforts; this is the perfect setting.

My room is dark, quite sinister with its cheap, mismatched furniture, its struggling ventilator, and its unique lamp which diffuses a meagre, depressing light. But I am too confused, too tired to worry. Tam takes me to one of those numerous street restaurants called dust restaurants, as the clients sit on tiny plastic stools on the pavement right on the street level amid the exhaust fumes. I enjoy my first my rau xau, fried noodles, and then Tam takes me back and promises to call the next day.

This is it. I am on my own, face-to-face with my anguish. I must not give in to existential self-questioning. Just survive the first few days! Then, we’ll see. Maybe later I can start thinking again, but not now. I look around my room; I don’t mind starting my life here in such spartan conditions. This room is an oven; the fan makes a grinding sound which is most irritating. How am I ever going to sleep? The communal washroom on my floor doesn’t even have a shower. I have to scoop out water from a plastic tub and splash myself with a small plastic saucepan. I wash my clothes in the kitchen, right on the cement floor, surrounded by the servants who prattle words of encouragement. At least that’s what I am guessing since I don’t understand a single word of Vietnamese.

The next day, I venture into the small streets around. I feel embarrassed by the stares which follow my every step, even if they are meant to be friendly. I would like to melt into the crowds, daydream, absorb quietly the smells, the sounds, the strange surroundings, forget