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 attend the ceremony. This is our last day here. Unfortunately Peter and myself have also been requested to sing up on stage and to wear very smart clothes – we left these in Hanoi. As we practice the night before, unexpectedly the headmaster enters our bedroom and sings a Vietnamese farewell song to us. He has a very good voice.
The committee hall is full to bursting – about 200 people. In the front two rows are the communist officials who to my mind have a distinct gangster aura about them, with their stocky build and confident slouch, badges and ill fitting dark suits. Behind them are the retired teachers, some of whom wear Russian style fur hats. We don’t know what to expect. People have been talking excitedly about this ceremony since we arrived in September. Students and teachers wearing traditional dress and carrying giant fans perform, very, very seriously. Students are as smart as can be which means, movingly, trainers and laddered tights. Tiny children with face whitener and rouge perform with surprising confidence.The sound system is bad and often blasts into distortion mode. Unclo Ho presides. I will pass over our performance quickly, though it should be noted Peter played the guitar well. I caught sight of Mr.Tang in the audience, his face animated either with astonishment or rapture. We all stand for the national anthem which is followed by many, many long speeches, each one introduced by a distorted blast of what sounds like ‘Never on a Sunday.’ There is a large no smoking sign but the headmaster in the front row is smoking and talking quite loudly on his mobile phone. To our surprise there is general inattention in the hall; most people are talking. Apparently the officials give the same speech every year.
The feast is laid for 200 people. The plastic water bottles on each table contain not water, but spirits. We are put on the top table with the head of the people’s committee and I am alarmed by the speed with which he downs too many glasses to count in one go. There is a marauding toasting approach.This is hard drinking. Not wishing to offend we top up with tea, but our glasses are repeatedly forcibly removed from our hands and filled with spirits as army officials and yet more unknown people approach us as if we are very long lost relatives to drink our health.The floor has become an impassioned forum and the microphones are passed swiftly around for singing and cheering. Suddenly, on the dot of 11.30 everybody departs on motorbikes and bicycles. We walk quietly back past the rice fields and banana trees. It is November 20th. A detectable chill of Autumn is in the air.