Author: Deidre

Am I in Vietnam? Or Switzerland? Or perhaps the Lake District? It is cold. When I wake I see the delicately arched windows are a misted blank. I know that beyond the pines there is something huge, massed that I cannot see. I remember Scrunching myself up to avoid the bed’s cold corners Damp french…

The shutters of the staffroom are opened to reveal adjacent row upon row of identical tombstones of men who died from the village in the Vietnam war. We have been forewarned that teacher’s day is one of the most important festivals in Vietnam and we have had a formal invitation from the local committee to…

A Middle-aged english village schoolteacher We have been here for ten days and I have settled in. I feel have got into my stride with teaching; communication has developed a pace. The children are working hard and we are having fun. I think that  escaping from the Hanoi floods and the contrast of everything here disorientated me. Particularly difficult was being expected to teach the day after we arrived. I am compiling a list of induction material and suggestions for future volunteers. It has been very exciting zapping to school every morning on the back of a motorbike but it has meant that I haven’t got the feel of the lie of the land under my feet. Today I have the afternoon off. I have been lent an old gearless bike by Phuong’s cousin. I cycle slowly along the ochre dried mud tracks to the schools and beyond, abreast of the buffalos  pulling woodladen carts. I smell the deep dank smell of their skin. In the lake are fuschia coloured water lilies. I hadn’t noticed their perfume before. The morning glory plants in full bloom drape over the palm thatched dwellings. I test the route, making a map for future volunteers, taking my time, navigating chickens and dogs. I will get up earlier tomorrow morning and cycle to school calmly. I cycle past our village shops. Hello, hello, hello. This is OK. I am the middle aged English schoolteacher on her bike and I recognise my pupils. Just past the railwayline to the left there is a track which curves past the huge lake and up the hill. I hear music from a large building partially hidden by giant fan palms and banana trees. I push my bike upwards in the heat. It is a large hidden temple..so close. I am beckoned to enter. A seat is offered to me. About forty people sit in a crescent on the floor in front of the altar. Beside me is a group of musicians playing traditional instruments that I have never seen before. In front of the altar people are kneeling. A man is adorned in a gauze pink ankle length dress by helpers. He kneels and prostates himself, then rises and dances in a jerky fashion to the music before being disrobed. Fruit and vegetables are distributed to the congregation. I am reminded that I know nothing of the spiritual beliefs prevalent in Vietnam. Is this a wedding? A feast is layed out in the courtyard. I am given a little packet of food wrapped in a banana leaf. I feel this is an exciting event to attend on my first solo bicycle trip, but what is it? Phuong doesn’t know what it can be. He is surprised I happened upon it and says it is illegal to dance in the temple. Peter suggests it might be a coming out ceremony. Phuong asks around in the village and reports back that it is an addictive cult that is prohibited by the government. I suppose Peter could be right. The made up man dancing in pink gauze was strangely mesmerizing. All week I have been teaching using the story of Goldilocks and the three bears. I feel that in this lone exploration into the forest of banana trees and giant bamboo I have been rewarded for my hard work. My discovery was definitely more exciting than three bears eating porridge.  I am glad that I do not have to go back home to my mother and be told that I am a naughty girl.   The cousins have been rethatching the cottage with palm leaves these past two days. We are to have a party to celebrate its completion here tonight. Phuong asks us if we mind them killing one of the dogs for the barbecue. Keeping up the prevalent stereotype of Westerners I try and look momentarily pained as I reply  graciously ‘that’s fine.’ Secretly, however, I would be more than happy to see the demise of the one who has been keeping us awake all night with its incessant barking.

I’m getting into my stride and cracking the repetition syndrome with more classes. I read stories and I use my props.  The children’s attention to the stories is miraculous and I can feel learning crackling around me. They answer questions which have not appeared in their text book. But it’s not simple. I find it…

Photo – family pagoda on the hillside  Families have an altar to their ancestors in a special place in their sitting room. Here they can talk to the people they love that they have lost. Here, in the village headmaster's house where we are staying, there is a special presence. Above Uncle Ho, above the…

        [Middle picture is where we are staying] We are teaching hard and tentatively finding our stride; at the senior school in the morning and the primary school in the afternoon. After every two periods the three hundred children assemble in the playground to the sound of the drum. They exercise in a…

 In Phuong’s garden there are fish, cassava, grapefruit, longan and lychee trees with shivering leaves, tea bushes, lemon and lime trees, banana trees, pineapple palms, crimson aubretia and many chickens. I am sitting in a shady part of the porch, resting in the heat and planning my lessons. Through layer upon layer of foliage I…