
                         Roanoke Times
                 Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.

DATE: SUNDAY, April 30, 1995                   TAG: 9505020087
SECTION: CURRENT                    PAGE: NRV4   EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY 
SOURCE: ROB SHEA
DATELINE:                                 LENGTH: Medium

TIME TO GET TO WORK|

A misty, Monday morning in Hanoi. My traveling companion and I, desperately seeking jobs in Vietnam, took the weekend to recover after plunging headlong into the bureaucratic cul-de-sacs of last week, but clown time is over. We need only contemplate the constant layer of mud covering the streets and the fact that many Vietnamese people have already been up for four hours to realize this.

This morning we have been invited to teach English classes by the man we've dubbed the "Vietnamese John Waters" (a pencil-thin moustache and penchant for skinny ties).

Our traveling sideshow has been visiting foreign language centers like the one we will go to this morning for over six weeks. The excitement level of the students is such that one can fairly refer to Vietnam as "Planet English."

And on Planet English, we get the rock-star treatment.

Not just for our foreign visages, but for our willingness to sing for our dinner. I swear.

Hellos rain from all sides as we enter the premises. Today is no exception. "Will you teach our class," ask both students and teachers.

Cigarettes and tea are offered, and after dispensing with formalities, we proceed to class.

Seeing Andrew's 6-foot-3-inch self looking back as we part ways, I give him a knowing glance. He smiles almost imperceptibly. We know the upcoming routine.

Today, planned by us in advance, our lessons call for uniting the Vietnamese passion for Western music with one of the shiniest pearls of American culture--a certain Hank Williams.

Singing in class is inevitable. After visiting over 50 classes in Vietnam, we're batting a pretty low average.

Even when the monsoon season turned our throats into scratchy old Victrolas, we still sung. And we would today.

I take my place in front of the class, and the questions fly. "What is your name? Where are you from?" Not too original, but neither is the next. "Can you teach us a song?"

Sometimes we oblige at once, sometimes we keep 'em on a string. Sometimes we are given no choice. And while the students ask for a wacky American song we have never heard, or "Jingle Bells" or "The Alphabet Song," we give them Hank.

Sometimes beautiful, twangy and true, "Your Cheatin Heart" is a show-stopper, but I opt for "Hey, Good Lookin" this morning, looking for a song with a bit more whimsy.

Hands clap and feet tap. No longer do the students yearn for the Carpenters, a band oddly popular over here. They want to know about "hot-rod Fords" and "two-dollar bills." And why I am singing with a weird inflection. "It's a Southern accent," I drawl. Thus a new lesson is launched.

When you're breaking the ice at 9:00 A.M., nobody gets 'em going like Hank.

by CNB