A Day in the Life of an ESL Teacher in Central Vietnam

Saturday. 7 am.

I wake up after a humid night in tropical Da Nang.

The air-conditioner turned off during the night so I am covered in sweat.

A tingling sensation runs over my body as I locate fresh mosquito bites on my legs, arms and feet. Ouch!

It’s difficult to drift off in the heat amid the echoing chants of ‘Mot, Hai, Ba, Do! (Yo!)’ from the open-air bars that line our street. Families and work buddies gather at night to eat Banh Xeo (Vietnamese pancakes). They also drink themselves silly on $1 La Rue beers until the early hours.

It’s about midnight when a familiar wailing sound in the street below starts…

A dishevelled businessman sings a traditional Vietnamese song on his own.

He is sat in the road, tilting off his red plastic chair. Speaker at his side.

A synthesized backing track floats up to my bedroom and permeates my ears. The businessman gives it his all in his beer-fuelled state. Mouth pressed to the microphone.

I can hardly tell if he’s singing or groaning.

How can someone be tone-deaf and rhythmless at the same time?

A few weeks prior, my housemates and I studied a TESOL (Teaching English To Speakers of Other Languages) course in Ho Chi Minh city.

After graduating, we embarked on an eventful island break in Phu Quoc (injuries I still have this very day). Then we headed North to Da Nang in central Vietnam.

I sought beaches and a lifestyle similar to the one I was used to at home.

Da Nang fit the bill. It is full of language schools and less touristy than its neighbour Hoi An. I would suggest to all travellers moving through Vietnam to stay in Da Nang for 42 hours (at least).

We opted for a house in the centre of the city. Arranging the rental was an adventure in itself.

Although it’s central, I feel safe and secure. I have the option to shower or bathe in my luxury bathroom. There are four of us that share a slim, towering mansion. We each have a double bed and large room with an ensuite for only $150 per month!

After a shower, I dry in an instant and slather myself in mosquito repellant.

I get my teacher’s bag.

In it, I place lesson plans and worksheets.

I need to have backups in case of lesson changes when I arrive. Or god forbid the class changes. I pack board pens, sticky balls and stickers. I also bring my laptop in the hope that there is electricity and/ or a working projector today.

My laptop was posted over to Vietnam from the UK. I still wonder how it arrived. It is pretty miraculous because it is routine here for items (mine) to get lost in the mail.

I put on my helmet and haul my huge raincoat over my clothes, backpack and bike. It just hovers above the wheels. It’ll be okay.

7:30 am

I open the shutters at the front of the house to find the road is now a river. Bullets of rain pelt down my face, hands and feet.

I reverse my bike out of the house and into the chaos. I can hardly see if there’s oncoming traffic through the stream of water on my face.

My feet plunge deep into the street river as I push the bike stand down. Pieces of wood and sand collide with my feet. I pray that something sharp doesn’t dig in and give me sepsis.

A few days ago, a piece of grit flew into my eye and scratched my sclera. I still see it in the mirror today.

After closing the house shutters, I zoom out of my street and join the moped race.

First, I overtake an old Vietnamese man who looks lost.

Then in a flash, a man in a baseball cap helmet zooms by me. He overtakes at full speed on a large motorbike. His helmet is undone so the straps flap and bounce off his ears. It makes me think of Goofy — the Disney character.

The man’s shoulders are as big as a doorway. He seems to be on a mission.

I’m now in a computer game.

Next, I glimpse the sight of a family sat on a moped.

A couple and their two children are hiding from the rain under a piece of plastic. It’s flapping and uncontrollable in the typhoon breeze. A baby is asleep, leaning off the back of the bike. He is almost ready to fall off, onto the busy road. Adorned in a pink felt hat, his tiny face smudges against the wet plastic.

I drive by shops selling electronics, medicine, clothes, shoes and Banh Cahn (thick noodle soup).

I race past workmen, soldering metal without safety goggles. They join pieces of metal together on the floor in their flip-flops.

A woman sits on a tiny plastic chair, eating Pho Bo for breakfast, shoes kicked aside the floor in the rain. Her children play in front of her, inches away from the busy road.

I dash by without abandon. I am a worker bee, part of a hive of other worker bees swarming through the city.

I arrive at the crossroads.

I need to go through the traffic moving right and left.

There are no traffic lights here.

Without a second thought, I drive across instinctively, straight into the chaos. I am flanked by drivers on each shoulder.

It’s a game of chicken.

Like magic — a partition opens on both sides. It resembles the time when Moses parted the Red sea.

We cross and the partition closes as soon as it opens, filling up with more drivers. It is a continual stream of bodies.

Next, I decided to manoeuvre and pull over to my favourite Vietnamese bakery. Dong Tien is the ideal place for sustenance. It’s a risky move though.

You must be quick to turn in the streets, as usually, drivers here are not very observant. They can crash into the back of you if you make any sudden movements.

I hit the right indicator and simultaneously zoom up a ramp to the bakery. I slam on my breaks to prevent myself from flying into the shop window.

I order a Banh Bao (like a scotch egg in a dumpling) and a Banh Mi Op La (egg baguette). I scoff the Bao and eat half the Banh Mi, tucking the rest into my backpack to eat later.

It’s not filling but it’s all I can get in the rush.

7:40 am

The next challenge.

The government are in the process of constructing a new highway with a bridge on the central road that stretches out of Da Nang. It takes drivers to the Hai Van Pass.

I need to drive down the road as my school is halfway along it.

The road is closed. No problem.

Hundreds, if not thousands of mopeds are now driving over the thin pavement at the side of the highway. I must join them.

I follow the crowd and accelerate up onto the thin, broken pavement. Slabs of concrete are pointing in the air at 90-degree angles. I snake around parked bikes, holes in the pavement and helmets hanging for sale. I keep eagle-eyed for other drivers who try to cut me off!

Oh, how I wish I took a picture. But there was no time.

I had to live it.

The crowd reaches a bottleneck and massages itself around a tight corner…

Freedom!

I slam down the accelerator and overtake meandering drivers. Some stop in the middle of the busy road to window shop. Others are happy driving at a snail’s pace. Safety first!

I pass two men on a bike. Both are sat with their heads through the steps of a ladder.

On another bike, a woman is sat backwards facing me. She is completely nonchalant. She sucks her fingers to savour the flavour of whatever she’s eating. Open helmet straps flap against her cheeks in the wind.

7:50 am

I arrive at the school.

It is a private language centre. I will teach two classes. The first has ten 12-year-olds and the second is a class of 14-year-olds.

I am lucky to get a parking space outside the front door.

I navigate my way through parents and running pupils.

A guard points to the parking space I’m already halfway in. I guess his work is slow today. He tells me in mime to keep the handlebars free.

I, unfortunately, can’t speak Vietnamese and he can’t speak English.

I forget and lock them.

I run up the steps to the school. The children say ‘Hello Teacher!’ as we run in together avoiding the rain.

I look back as the security guard has by my bike up in mid-air. He slams it down onto the concrete. He drops it so hard that he unlocks the handlebars. He can now move the bike an inch to the left.

I am greeted by many smiling Vietnamese faces.

I say ‘Xin Chao’ and ‘Hello’. After making small talk with the manager, I walk up two mouldy flights of stairs to the classroom.

It looks like it hasn’t been cleaned or renovated in at least 50 years.

The desks and chairs are piled up against the back wall of the room. Great! I quickly move the desks into a ‘c’ shape facing my desk, so that I can see every student.

I fire up the laptop and plug in the projector wire. I then try to fit my laptop plug into the wall socket and feel a slight jolt of electricity run up my arm. Not too bad today — I’ve had worse.

Hoards of children pile into the classroom at once. A chorus of ‘Hello Teacher’ echoes in the room. Five boys start playing card games on the floor at my feet, backpacks still on.

I point and tell them to sit on the chairs and they quickly stand up and obey my command.

The class goes well.

As usual, the teaching assistant was late. She is great at helping with classroom management. I avert my eyes and carry on teaching as she hits a child with a fly swatter. I stare momentarily in shock but ‘It’s not my country’ repeats in my head.

The second class goes swimmingly too.

Vietnamese students are keen to learn English. I teach a group of older students in a classroom the size of my bathroom. They love to get involved in English bingo.

I turn up the air conditioning as I melt and sweat. The teaching assistant indiscreetly turns it off moments after.

An hour later, the bell rings and we are all set free.

I pack up and clean the classroom. By the time I step outside the front of the school is empty apart from me and a student who has been forgotten.

I reach into my bag and scoff the last part of my Banh Mi.

I have one hour to drive to the opposite side of the city.

My kindergarten class starts at noon.

Here goes!