The Talented is proud to announce the launch of his first ever animation which is part of a collection of self-portraiture called that is now showing at the National Portrait Gallery in Canberra. Those who know Oslo will be well aware that his contribution is very much based on a true story...
Tokyo. Japan– More than two-dozen cardboard boxes were taken into police custody this morning as investigators from the National Fraud Squad scrambled to trace the present whereabouts of investment funds worth ¥7 billion that went missing from the Social Security Centre’s weekly bingo kitty last week.
Investigators suspect that one of the cardboard boxes now in custody concealed the funds during a regular stationary inventory before walking out of the building through the front door after passing through a handful of security checks undetected.
A spokesperson from the Fraud Squad would not divulge any information regarding the expected duration of the boxes’ stay.
“There are many issues we need to address before we simply let them go,” said Detective Sugimoto. “ The first question we want answered is: Where is the money?”
No cardboard boxes were believed to have been drenched with water during their ordeal.
Sometimes you encounter a person with a real chip on their shoulder sometimes they seem to have an entire scoop.
“Do you have any pineapple rings?” I asked the broody waitress as she made a note of my drink order – beer – but as this was an Italian-style pizza establishment I doubted whether she understood the joke.
“Sorry but we only have pizza,” she replied with a snarl. “With cheese or without?”
It was a limited menu but one that made cents – in both senses of the word. There were four of us so we decided to really chance our arm and order one of each.
As we waited the waitress muttered something that sounded like “Last drinks!” but we decided to decline her kind offer as we were a little embarrassed to take further advantage of her generous hospitality.
Ironically the Cheese Pizza arrived before its cheese-less counterpart and we were just debating how to attack the steaming rings of dough when the waitress came over and told us very matter-of-factly that it tastes better if eaten when piping hot.
“But–,” started my companion as he sought to draw attention to what was missing from the table.
“No buts,” the waitress snapped. “Eat them while they’ve still got some fire left in their belly.”
“But,” continued my companion ignoring her specific request. “it would help us to have a knife or something to cut the pizza into smaller pieces. There are four of us after all.”
The waitress was tall to begin with but she drew herself up to be her full height and towered above the table like Roppongi Hills at dusk. She stood as all matriarchal woman stand when they want to make sure their statement is clearly understood which seemed surprisingly natural from a person who looked to be pushing thirty-two. She wiped her hands on a grubby apron before placing both on her hips.
“All you had to do was ask,” she finally blurted out and with that she turned on her heels and disappeared in a trail of table dust. A few loud thumps could be heard resounding from the kitchen and by the time she returned the pizzas were looking decidedly cold and forlorn.
“Remember to pay at the counter on your way out,” she said as she placed the knife on the table looking at the four of us as if she knew we were planning to sneak out the bathroom window between our dessert and digestive. She might have been unfriendly to the point of being rude but her intuition was pre-programmed to foil such plots long before they occurred.
“Have you got any vinegar?” I gulped unable to restrain myself from a last subtle dig. My companions looked at me with a mixture of horror and disbelief.
“We close in twenty minutes,” she said bluntly. “If I were you. I’d get a move on.”
It was a day like none other a Hanoi day. I was standing in a grubby police station near my house. The man I suspected I needed to talk to was fast asleep under his desk. He was using a plastic shoe as a pillow. A copy of the latest Newsweek rested on his nose.
I had come down to the station to report the loss of a piece of paper. Not just any piece of paper but the immigration form I filled out when I arrived at Noi Bai international airport. Alongside your passport this yellow piece of paper is one of the single most important pieces of paper you will ever receive in Vietnam. I mean you will get other fairly meaningless pieces of paper – tickets bills love letters and so forth – but your immigration form is of utmost importance. Lose this and you will not be allowed to leave the country – even if you are deported.
So important is this piece of paper that should you lose it you are expected to head down to your local police station and report it missing. The boys in peach are expected to file a written statement on the matter. And that’s just what I had gone to do.
But I had made the fatal mistake of going a little bit too early. It’s common in Vietnam for people to take a nap after lunch. Something to do with assisting the digestion process. I believe. Try to do anything during this period of the day and you will only be met with a solid wall of open mouths (a little bit like that revolving head game at the fairground minus the clowns). Even if you do manage to stir someone from their slumber they will generally only be able to point outside and mumble something that sounds like. “what does it look like I’m doing?”
Anyway in my case (actually case number CSGT/197608327-11-03) I was fortunate because the policeman woke as I stood there uncertain of my next move.
“What do you want nephew?” the rotund man asked. He had definitely had one too many banh baos the local version of a meat pie.
“I lost my customs form,” I replied taking a step towards the desk that just moments ago was used as an incubator.
I thought briefly about telling him the full story that my immigration form had actually been lost by my embassy which perhaps should have known better in such circumstances. But I merely shrugged my shoulders and pursed my lips together in mock confusion.
I had been anticipating a comment such as this. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt during my time in this godforsaken country it’s never ask an older person for help and expect to avoid a lecture.
“You must fill out these,” he said and threw three forms in front of me.
“So you’re telling me that I have to fill out three pieces of paper to say that I’ve lost one piece of paper?”
“Yes. I must work hard you know… filling out paper work all the time.”
At this last remark I choose to bite my tongue swallow my pride and leave it there. I didn’t think it was such a good idea to point out that I was the one who was actually going to fill out the paper work.
I answered the questions in the spaces provided which were generally insufficient for the screeds of information requested. But as with all forms in Vietnam it’s not the information you give that is important it’s the fact that the piece of paper exists in the first place.
Author's NoteThis story is based on actual events that occurred on August 17. 2003. However please note that certain liberties have been taken in the English translation of the conversation that may or may not have been intended by the participants. As a result the author may have distorted some of the phrases used in the course of this encounter in a bid to capture the essence of a typical conversation that takes place in numerous small retail outlets in Hanoi on a daily basis. Anyone who has spent any amount of time in Vietnam will know what I’m talking about; anyone else will make of it what you will…
Pharmacist Name: Nguyen OanhAge: 51-ishOccupation: PharmacistNationality: VietnamMarital Status: MarriedEyesight: FailingHair Colour: Black-blackHairstyle: Parted permMake-up: Heavy
CustomerName:James SycamoreAge: 29Occupation: International Man of MysteryNationality: New ZealandMarital Status:SingleEyesight: 20/20Hair Colour: Black-brownHairstyle: Short back & wideMake-up: Light
ScenarioJames Sycamore strolls confidently into a chemist that sits prominently on the corner of a major intersection in Hanoi. The street outside bustles with myriad motor vehicles and little can be heard above the cacophony of horns. He is greeted by a ruddy-cheeked middle-aged woman standing behind the counter wearing thick-rimmed glasses and a spotlessly white tunic. The name-tag pinned onto her uniform introduces her as Nguyen Oanh.
James Sycamore: Hello Aunt. [Steps towards the counter accidentally startling the middle-aged woman by moving “too quickly” ] Aunt has health no?
NO: Not yet. [states the obvious] I am working. [Puts down her clipboard] Nephew buy what?
JS: Umm… Nephew wants to buy er… [Looks around and sees no-one – at least not yet] …er nephew no know what call that thing in Vietnamese.
JS: Yes… OK. How much? [Reaches into pocket and unfolds a big wad of cash which has been arranged before arriving in order to make the purchase snappy]
JS: Yes er… [Begins fidgeting tries to change tack] Sky beautiful. [Nods assuredly as if to convince himself. It is in fact grey and overcast]
JS: [Expecting this] Of course. Woman Vietnam very beautiful beautiful very [Pauses slightly for effect a well-rehearsed line] …a little bit beautiful.
At that moment another woman dressed in a white tunic enters. Her name is Yen Anh but she has the same hair same make-up same uniform and same all-knowing eyes. Sycamore’s ruse has been rumbled.
YA: Really? But person country foreign has much money [Looks accusingly at him daring him to deny it]
JS: Er… well… sometimes person country foreign has money sometimes person country foreign has no money.
NO: OK? . oh wait a moment… One thousand Vietnam dong a thing. Three thousand Vietnam dong a box. [Reaches into a box that is already open].
JS: One box [Looks over left shoulder and catches sight of a man selling baby rabbits on the footpath outside the pharmacy] Sorry… fifteen boxes.
Sycamore crams the boxes into his shoulder bag pays the pharmacist a twenty thousand dong note turns on his heels and heads for the door.
Sycamore chooses to ignore her but in his haste a box falls out of his bag and skids across the floor. By chance it falls at the feet of a traffic officer who has just stepped into the pharmacy for a quick rest in the shade while on duty. The traffic officer bends over and picks the box up.
A Little BackgroundOK is a popular brand of condoms sold by chemists in Vietnam. Chemists are almost always staffed by middle-aged Vietnamese woman with perms.
Born and raised on the wind-swept beaches of Aotearoa (New Zealand). I spent six years exploring northern Vietnam on an antiquated Russian lawnmower er motorbike before discovering the joys of Japanese transporation and moving to Tokyo in 2004. Currently employed as an editor at. I have previously worked as editor and graphic designer on various publications in Japan (. ) and Vietnam (. Pathfinder) founded Hanoi's first weekly gig guide (MUC) and published or co-published several collections of short stories (Once A Book A Time. In The Coming Time). Last but certainly not least. I co-produced Cafe Puku (60 Hang Trong St. Hanoi) with three NZ friends before trading in my daily free coffee for a lifestyle of raw fish.
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Related article:
http://upstairsforthinking.blogspot.com/2007/10/personal-hygiene.html
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