LIFE, LOVE & WORK OVERSEAS
“Whether the weather is good, or whether the weather is
bad…” It’s an old, half-forgotten ditty from my childhood, but I’ve just got
home from a 30-minute motorbike ride in a tropical downpour, and weather is
very much on my mind.
And here is the weather report. From a few different
countries I’ve worked in. No, don’t worry, I’m not going to get all technical
and start waxing on about global warming, polar jet-streams, El Nino and other meteorological
oddities. What I will say is that I’ve noticed the weather in different
countries is as different as can be.
Take Indonesia for example. Weather here is very localized.
I came out of school one day, stood on one side of the road, and noticed that
on the other side of the road was a wall of rain. As I watched, in less than a
second the curtain of rain advanced across the road and enveloped me. On
another day I was riding along in a bajaj (a 3-wheeled taxi) and suddenly the
driver braked violently. Ahead of us, and closing in fast, was another curtain
of rain. One day I was driving my car down a street in Jakarta when suddenly a
bolt of lightning hit the street not 30 meters ahead of me. It fizzled and
crackled as it hit the ground, and left a large patch of dry asphalt. Had I
been 30 meters further on, I would have been toast. Or perhaps not. Perhaps the
tires insulate the car and leave its occupants unharmed. That’s one theory I
don’t want to put to the test; I’ll leave that to the Mythbusters team. Indonesia has two seasons: dry (very dry), and
wet (very wet). I was teaching a class one evening in Indonesia at the end of a
long, extremely dry season. Suddenly we heard an unaccustomed sound. Big, fat
raindrops were hitting the school roof. In an instant the lesson was forgotten
and the whole class rushed outside and stood with faces raised to the
long-awaited rain.
When it rains in Indonesia, it buckets down. But Indonesia
is no match for Thailand and Cambodia. There the rain comes down on your head
with the force of a high-pressure water cannon. And with it comes the
lightning. Sheet lightning, forked lightning, ball lightning – you name it they’ve got it. Thailand’s thunderstorms
are spectacular. I had a roof-top flat in Bangkok, and during a thunder and
lightning session I would go out and marvel at the display. Every ten seconds
or so the lightning would illuminate the sky for a split second, then plunge it
into darkness once again. One night I had a good idea: why don’t I put a bucket
out to catch the rain, thus saving myself of the tiresome task of lugging water
up from the tap on the second floor? Next morning I inspected my bucket of
rainwater. Floating on top of it was an inch of black grease.
Now, cross
to Cambodia.
I arrived at
the beginning of the rainy season, a time that the tourist guide-books advise
is best avoided. The mornings are cloudless and stultifyingly hot. A twenty
minute walk has me dehydrated and panting, and searching for the nearest air-conditioned
bar for respite. In the afternoon the
rain clouds gather, and around sunset the first fat raindrops plop onto the
roofs and awnings. With practised efficiency the waitresses and waiters snatch
up table cloths and condiment sets from the street-front tables, and whisk away
the seat cushions.
Then comes
the rain.
My god, the
rain. Within seconds streets become fast-flowing rivers. As if by magic the
endless stream of motorcycles ceases, riders huddling under shop awnings, bus
shelters, and trees. Lightning flashes etch freeze-framed pictures of a
glistening city onto the retina.
By morning
the skies are once again cloudless, the sun as searing and unforgiving as ever.
Next, love
in Asia. As I wrote in EFL minus the B.S., a single teacher
will have no problem finding a soulmate in Asia, no matter how temporary. But
there’s a price to pay when a male teacher hitches up with an Asian girl: he’s
expected to become family provider. This may manifest itself in requests for
money to help fix granny’s leaking roof, or father’s emergency motorbike
repairs, or a loan to see mother through a rocky period. In the case of my
current girlfriend, it came in the form of Younger Brother. An affable enough
guy with no English and no apparent means of support, Younger Brother was your
consummate freeloader. He had an unerring sense of timing and smell. Ten
minutes before a meal was due to be served, there would be a knock on the door
and Younger Brother would enter. He would help himself to giant portions of
food, twice as much as anyone else, eat it, lie down on the floor and sleep for
half an hour or more, then wake and leave with a brief “Goodbye”. His visits
became increasingly frequent, and I became increasingly pissed off.
“If he were
to occasionally come with some fruit or a few cans of beer in hand, I wouldn’t
mind,” I protested to my GF, “but he just appears, eats, and leaves without so
much as a thank you. Tell him he’s not welcome.”
My girlfriend
promised to do so, tomorrow or the day after. She didn’t of course; such a
thing would be unthinkable in the culture of Asian hospitality.
“Look, if you don’t tell him, I will. I’m sick
and tired of him feeding his face at my expense.”
“OK, I will,
I will. Soon.”
I took to
going out as soon as Younger Brother appeared, and not returning until he had
departed, but this failed to get the message across. (If he had noticed my
absences at all).
The final
straw came when I woke up one morning and saw that he’d slept the night. I took
him aside and said “I don’t like you sleeping here. I don’t like you eating
here.” To reinforce my point I handed him a print-out of a Google translation
reading ‘NO MORE FREE MEALS HERE FOR YOU’. Younger Brother said “Oh. OK”,
reached for his motorbike helmet, and departed. And has yet to return.
Halle-bloody-lujah! Problem solved.
There’s only one other problem remaining. My GF’s mother, a
pleasant, likeable lady, comes to visit us from up-country every now and then.
She’s no trouble around the place, she helps with the washing up and mops the
floor, but her visits do seem to go on and on and on. Now I’m perfectly happy
for her to visit for a week, even two weeks from time to time, but a five-week
stay does seem to be pushing it a bit. It’s a problem that’s going to take more
delicate handling than the last one.
I’ve been changing schools a bit lately. One school didn’t
offer enough hours, one school’s confusion and mismanagement defied description,
one school did nothing but complain about the teachers’ performances. I’ve now
got two jobs: 14 hours from Monday to Friday, and a second school offering a
10-hour block at weekends, teaching tiny tots and children. To top it up, I’m
doing two hours private lessons a week, and a third school is calling me in to
substitute once or twice a week. I’m working seven days a week (not an unusual
situation in Asia). It’s not a perfect state of affairs; with a seven-day
workload you’re liable to lose track of the days, and the hours are antisocial,
but it’s the best I can manage for now. I’m not the only one; my fellow
teachers report just as many frustrations and unsatisfactory employers as me.
Ah well, nobody promised us a rose garden, I guess.
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Here’s what
readers have said about EFL minus the B.S.: “This book is
about as good as it gets.” “So, you have checked it all out and decided to go
teaching overseas. Now listen you fool… don’t even think about it until you
have read this book!” “Excellent book.” “This book is spot on in giving the
basic lay down of teaching overseas.” “The book is a quick read and should be
read by every EFL teacher.” “Definitely a good read while on your flight to
whatever country you are going to teach.”
So there you have it. Buy your copy of EFL
minus the B.S. today. A quarter of a million readers can’t be wrong! (OK,
OK, I have exaggerated a teensy bit there.)
