You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘Coming Home’ category.
I’ve just found out something quite worrying.
You see I’d been waiting for the summer to warm up. Truth is I’ve recently resorted to switching on the central heating in the evenings.
Last year I got back into the UK last year after three summers away. Because summer was well underway by the time I arrived and because everyone was moaning about the weather I never really noticed the temperature.
But now, having gone through the winter, I’ve been waiting for warmth. So far the temperature has rallied around the mid to late teens centigrade. But we should be knocking on well into the twenties right? It will get warmer soon. Won’t it?
Finally, I gave up expecting heat and actually Googled to find what the average temperature should be.
Turns out this is entirely normal. Worse still, in August, potentially the hottest month, we’re still not going to get anything much higher than 20 degrees. Whaaaat?
Before going away I can recall sweating in the office in the summer. I can remember swimming in the North Sea. I can recall camping using only a cheap Tescos sleeping bag inside a cheap Tesco’s tent.
In this heat? Incredible.
In Hanoi it regularly reached 40 degrees in the summer but because I hid in air conditioning I am not sure I ever really aclimatised.
I think It was Nicaragua that ruined me. In much the same temperature I had only fans to keep me from meltdown. Maan it was hot.
But I got used to cold showers and sweating and grabbing my hat whenever I went out. I got used to sleeping on top of the bed rather than under sheets. I even got used to ice in beer.
Now I feel like as a result of that spell in Central Amercia my thermostat has been permanently hotwired. Maybe I’ll never be warm in the UK again.
This current temperature still feels like early Spring at best.
Sometime, way, way, way ago – I blogged that I had quit smoking.
If the tone is somewhat smug then it shouldn’t be. The truth is it didn’t last.
On my last night in Vietnam I smoked again. Then again in Nicaragua and back in Newcastle too.
Certainly I rarely smoked again at levels close to my earlier days in Hanoi when I was sucking down well over a pack a day. In fact, half the time in Central America I didn’t smoke at all. At one point I rationalised that just one cigar a week wouldn’t be too damaging.
No real hardship there – I found I could easily make the foot-long local specials last a week.
Also as someone who’d always been on the somewhat hefty side, being overseas was at first a blessing. In Vietnam I found that an upset stomach might not be pleasant but was an effective method of weight control. Couple that with a rice-based diet and the pounds just fell away.
But then, about the same time as my belly adapted, my taste buds we’re compelling me to seek out richer food. While my initial weight loss was stalling, I didn’t worry too much about weight gain. Surely the next bout of sickness would take care of it.
Vietnam ended and Nicaragua began. Boiled rice gave way to fried rice and beans and lots and lots of cheese. I must say I didn’t really notice it but I guess the weight started to really pile on. When you’re wearing sloppy shorts and t-shirts every day you’ve some way to go before they start to feel tight.
Before too long I was back in the UK and all those comfort foods I had missed. British food might be considered comparatively bland – but have you any idea the sheer quality of the ingredients compared to those in developing countries? It all tasted so good.
I was back to Embassy Number One cigarettes too after three years on local tabs and Marlboro lights.
Then there was something of a dawning. A bit run down I went to the doc’s. Occasionally dizzy and frequently breathless, paranoia made me wonder if I had brought back some horrible tropical lurgy.
After a stack of tests the answer was much more simple – I was just very unhealthy.
Certainly a step on the surgery’s scales made my eyes pop out. In all the time I was away – nearly three years in all – I hadn’t weighed myself. Ouch.
Christmas and New Year was the cut off. I haven’t smoked since January 1st. I know I’ve said this before but I feel like I have smoking licked. While I still have occasional cravings, they’re slowly giving way to a real revulsion at tobacco.
Weight loss has been slow – my dodgy scales suggest half a stone lost but their lack of accuracy might actually mean I’ve lost half that. But my diet has changed and I am feeling better for it. More fruit and veg – no more cooked brekkies or bacon sarnies from the staff canteen.
My holiday was tricky and I was far from well behaved calorie-wise but could have been worse. I arrived back Sunday and sat down with the diet books with the aim of getting serious.
In the meantime, while I have been regularly walking home the two and a half miles from work, sport remains too scary for now. I’d like to start playing five-a-side again sometime soon though.
For the record this isn’t the start of some sort of horrible diet blog. Don’t expect any weight-loss updates – well not unless I am really successful and want to be smug about it. You won’t be seeing any pics of me demonstrating the new found roominess in my old trousers.
But, in between my rants, I also want this blog to continue to be something of a personal narrative and this feels like something I should bookmark.
And as far as life goes, mine seems to be at a crossroads healthwise. If I fail this time then it feels like I’ll shortly be too far gone to ever get it right.
Hopefully, the acceptance of this fact should be enough to ensure I succeed.
So I go into the Peninsula on Chillingham Road. For some reason whenever I start to get better after illness I crave Chinese food.
I swear I haven’t been in there for 10 years at least. Not since I last left Heaton. Not since Vietnam. Not since Nicaragua.
I order. Sweet and sour pork and chicken chow mein.
I pay and then nip out to the DVD shop while my food is cooked.
Less than 15 minutes later I am back and a bag of food is waiting for me.
The owner hands it to me and says: “You been away then?”
Prompted by this recent post and this one. (Plus this one from some time ago)
For some reason I am becoming increasingly nostalgic about my previous adventures (and it’s not just me).
Sitting in our snug Heaton flat we’ve been recalling the madness of Vietnam and, later, Nicaragua.
But I am aware that, sadly, the memory is fading. Despite the blogs and the Flickr account there are some non-documented events that are all but gone.
The journey to the airport, for example, is getting hazy but there are still parts that remain vivid.
I don’t remember getting picked up but I do recall sitting in the back of a cab with the feeling that “this was it” spreading over me.
Despite being well used to the route, I tried to drink as much of it in as possible. The conical hatted ladies, which had long since just become part of my wallpaper, were once more noted. So too was the general traffic chaos and the long thin houses – particularly the posher ones by Truc Bac.
Then when we pulled away from the city I relaxed. I recalled that when I had first entered the country as a tourist, four years earlier, everywhere was rice fields. During my time there industry was making an increased impact on the environment.
The driver turned on the music. It was Vina Pop. That sickly, high energy, New Century style ick. It had been the soundtrack to so many minibus rides when I had cursed it.
Today though I asked him to turn it up. Then up again. We were laughing at the noise. He lit a cigarette and offered me one. Despite the fact that I had officially quit I accepted a Vinataba – ‘Nam’s cheap and rough smoke of choice.
I sat back. The Vina Boys belting on the radio, knocking Vinataba ash out the window and I smiled as the driver chuckled.
I texted everyone I knew back in Hanoi and described the scene, ending with “What a f*cking country”.
Before long I was at the airport. I recall ridiculously slow progress through Hanoi’s always stern customs but between us we cracked a few smiles as they puzzled over some visa details.
Then I was gone.
I know I am not the only one who has left to be haunted by my Vietnam memories and finding it hard to let go. I find myself once more scanning all the expat blogs and checking out Flickr pics (like these fabulous shots). I also keep wondering what happened to all those KOTO kids.
This weekend will see the KOTO Bike Ride – the first time in four years when it isn’t me organising it.
So. Anyone else want to share their Leaving Vietnam stories. How about you, you, you, you, you, you and you? Any thoughts on what it is that makes Vietnam just so hard to shake off?
From Sam Brook‘s Twitter feed:
Something tells me we’re starting to go a little over the top with the coffee thing. I love coffee. I buy takeaway. I even buy beans and grind them.
But if there is a phrase that really bugs me it’s:
“Oh I just can’t start my day unless I’ve had a coffee.”
Come on. It’s a relatively small amout of caffeine. That’s all. It’s not alcohol. It’s not nicotine. It’s not cocaine. It’s not heroin.
But, I guess that’s the significance of that Twitter quote, obviously if people are willing to queue that long then they really do HAVE TO HAVE A COFFEE.
Or maybe its just the whole British loving to queue thing. For some reason, in the three years since I’ve been away, queue dynamics have hit a whole new level with line pens popping up everywhere from M & S to Greggs.
Coffee, queues, etc. Man, we’re such suckers.
