by Sue Perkins
ALL: Yes, Gary.
We just came out with it. All of us. In unison. Christ, this is how cults get started. One minute you’re in an estate in south London agreeing with a stranger, next you’re in a poly-amorous commune making potato prints of your beloved leader.
Gary started up again.
GARY: What’s the secret of selling?
Nobody responded. I suspect we all knew that a reply was superfluous since Gary was inevitably going to tell us.
GARY: Get in their house. Get. In. Their. House. Got it?
US: Get. In. Their. House.
GARY: Once you’re in the house – you done it.
US: OK, Gary.
GARY: I ain’t finished. You get in, you give ’em a quote, get their details, and get out sharpish. Once you done that, old Gary here gets on the blower to ’em and works his magic.
As he sat there, perched on the bonnet, legs akimbo, it struck me that I still had no idea what the job entailed. Or what Gary’s ‘magic’ involved.
GARY: Here’s your script.
Excellent. Now we’re in business. I know where I am with a script.
GARY: Don’t mug me off by just learning it. You ’ave to be it. Be it!
He smashed the palm of his hand against his chest. I watched his moobs vibrating. He really was mesmerizing.
He handed us a sheet of paper. I looked down at it.
Nu-Again Carpet Cleaner. Make YOUR carpets Nu-Again.
OK, I thought. It’s not Hamlet but I can do this.
Gary sparked up a Benson’s and embarked on the three-minute monologue that was to encompass our training.
GARY: Right, time to get into the technical details. I’m gonna show you how to measure up and do the quote once you got in the house … Cos what you gotta do?
ALL: Get. In. Their. House.
GARY: That’s more like it.
I arrived back the next morning in a howling gale. Gary was already outside, in a Metallica singlet, marshalling the troops. Three of the lads were no-shows, making eight of us in total.
GARY: OK. You all good?
ALL: Yes, Gary.
GARY: Yous ready to go?
ALL: Yes, Gary.
GARY: Course you are, you fucking legends.
Out of nowhere, a Transit van burst into view. It clipped the kerb as it came round the bend and screeched to a halt in front of us.
Gary flushed with excitement.
GARY: What you waiting for? Geddin!
We pulled the rusty door to the side and climbed in. We were the household-solvent branch of Special Forces. We were ready.
‘Have you learnt this?’ said a pale bloke to the left of me.
‘Yes,’ I said, almost entirely smugly. I have a photographic memory, so I’m lucky in that department.
‘I don’t know it,’ said a guy at the back.
‘Me neither,’ said another. ‘You’re not supposed to – remember?’
There were assorted grunts from behind.
Gary turned around from the passenger seat and addressed the crew. As motivational speeches go, it fell some way short of the full Henry on St Crispin’s Day.
GARY: You know what you gotta do, don’t ya, lads?
US: Get in.
GARY: Yeah. You get it. Every house you get in, you get a quid.
Finally, the salary details!
GARY: You get the most quids, you get on Gary’s leader board.
He pulled out a small whiteboard, on which seemed to be scrawled the remnants of a shopping list. Someone in the family really liked Crispy Pancakes.
Great, I thought. I’ve got this. I’ve memorized the speech. I’m way ahead of the curve. I’ll be in twenty houses by lunch, that’s twenty quid, that’s seven packs of Marlboro Lights.fn1
After ten minutes or so the van came to a sudden halt and we all piled out.
GARY: See you later, you killers! Look at ya! You’re gonna smash it! We’ll pick you up at five.
A puff of black exhaust smoke and he was gone.
I looked around me. I was in another estate, much larger than the first. It struck me that I had no clue where I actually was.
The group fractured. The most eager got the houses nearby, the more sluggish, like me, had to wander a few roads down to avoid covering the same patch. Think door-to-door sales version of The Hunger Games and you’ll get the general gist.
I walked up the path to my first house, steadied myself, then rang the doorbell. I heard footsteps from within. I took a deep breath as the door opened, and began, in my crispest RP:
ME: Hi there, I just happen to be in the area today …
There was a gust of air as the door slammed in my face.
OK, I thought, undeterred. Of course some people are going to be a little resistant to this stuff – we’re at the cutting edge of shagpile rehabilitation after all. I tried the next house along.
ME: Hi there!
MAN: NO, thank you.
Slam.
And the next house
ME: Hi …
WOMAN: Who are you?
ME: I just happen to be in the area …
Slam.
And so it went on. All. Day.
Like Liam Neeson in Taken, I have a unique set of skills. Sadly, the vast majority of them are not transferrable to practical situations. No one ever got lost and asked for the person who does stumpwork embroidery of butterflies. No air stewardess ever shouted on a plane ‘Is there someone onboard who can play Beethoven sonatas?’ I was useless. Utterly useless.
To compound the misery, around about 1 p.m. I discovered that I’d forgotten to bring any lunch, so I wandered around from house to house all afternoon with my stomach an angry and acidic mess.
At half past four, tired from the endless wandering and sick with hunger, I rang on yet another doorbell. A dog barked. The sort of bark that little dogs make when they want to sound bigger and more frightening. The door opened and a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel reared up and started licking my kneecaps.
WOMAN: Oh, she likes you.
ME: Aah, she’s very sweet.
WOMAN: How can I help?
I cleared my throat.
ME: Hi, I just happen to be in the area and wondered do you happen to have carpets?
This was the first time anyone had let me get my first full sentence out without slamming the door. I could now see what a ridiculous opening gambit it was.
WOMAN: Well, yes – we do.
I thought of the next line in my script: Did you know that there’s a cleaner that can restore your carpets to Day One freshness – for just a fraction of the cost of buying new. For just £29.99 we can clean your entire house – but, remember, we’re only here for today and tomorrow, so you’ll need to act fast.
I thought of that line, and I looked at that sweet lady with her sweet dog and thought, I can’t do this.
She seemed to sense the existential crisis raging within me.
WOMAN: Are you OK? Can I help at all?
I responded suddenly, without thinking.
ME: Yes! You can let me in your house. Just for a minute. I know that sounds mad, but I’m not a nutter, I promise. I’m supposed to be selling carpet cleaner and if you let me into your house I can earn a pound and it’ll be the first pound I’ve earned all day and I’m so incredibly hungry.
WOMAN: Sure.
And, to my utter surprise, she ushered me in.
WOMAN: Would you like a biscuit?
ME: Yes, please.
I felt like crying.
She showed me through into her living room. Gosh, these carpets DO need a clean, I thought. I immediately recoiled. That wasn’t the sort of thing I would ever think. Gary was getting to me. He was already in my head.
WOMAN: So, what do you need to get your pound?
ME: Well, I need to assess the space and give you a quote.
I had amended the script and put in the word ‘assess’ as I thought that sounded more professional.
ME: I’ll ta
ke your number, if that’s OK, and a man called Gary will call you to see if you want to take it any further.
WOMAN: OK. But I don’t have to take it any further?
ME: No.
Although I would – that deep pile is filthy. SHUT UP, GARY, SHUT UP.
WOMAN: Great. Now I’ll get you that biscuit – I can hear your tummy from here.
ME: Thank you. I’ll get cracking on the quote.
My mind flashed back to Gary’s training.
GARY: Right, time to get into the technical details. I’m gonna show you how to measure up and provide the quote once you got in the house …
I got ready to follow his instructions to the letter.
GARY: Go to the corner of the room. Put one foot in front of the other until you get to the opposite wall.
I walked along the wall, one foot in front of the other.
GARY: Then do the next wall along.
I turned, and did the next wall.
GARY: Times those two numbers together.
I did the mental arithmetic.
GARY: And whatever number you get, it’s fifty quid.
The lady reappeared, brandishing a Rich Tea.
WOMAN: So what does that come to?
ME: It’s … it’s fifty quid. But I’m sure Gary would do you a deal. What’s your number?
The woman started scribbling her number on my photocopied sheet. I bit into the biscuit. A cascade of crumbs fell to the floor.
WOMAN: There you go!
In my mind’s eye I saw Gary waving his leader’s whiteboard. I saw my name at the top, just above a faint mark saying ‘Viennetta’. I thought about the satisfaction of beating the boys. And then I thought about this sweet lady, and her sweet dog, who was currently licking biscuit crumbs off the carpet.
ME: Thank you. Thank you so much. We’ll be in touch.
I smiled, and walked out of the door. I carried on walking until I reached the edge of the estate, until I’d found a bin to put my Nu-Again script in, along with the sweet lady’s number. I walked until I found a phone box – whereupon I rang my mate Neil and asked him to come and get me.
One thing was for sure, there was no Neil in the Mekong Delta. No one was coming to get me.
Di Hei slapped my arms and bellowed into my face.
The translation came back.
DI HEI: OK! You! Time to sell!
I gulped nervously as she led me from the gloom of the house and into a brand new world.
The Mekong I’d floated in on was the stuff of romantic fairy tales – a still and silvery waterway lit by a retreating moon. Now, in the sunlight, I could see it was slicked with diesel and dotted with plastic bags that bobbed in the brown foam. Hundreds of boats jostled for space, laden with dragon fruit, coconuts and sugar cane. Dogs stood proudly on the bows, barking at the horizon. The air bristled with the shouts of traders hawking their wares.
My reverie was interrupted by a sharp poke to the ribs. ‘Move! Now! You move!’ barked Di Hei, gesturing towards her boat, a rickety wooden craft, its oars lashed together with twine. It wobbled as I got on. I wobbled as I got on. Di Hei ran inside, then re-emerged from the smoke carrying two cauldrons, suspended either side of a wooden pole around her neck. I offered to help. I say that – I proffered a lone palm in her direction. She snorted in derision, the mucus from her sinuses discharging into her mouth, then spat. I made a note not to eat anything from the pot on her right. Or the pot on her left. Or, indeed, anything, ever again.
Di Hei dumped one of the cauldrons between my legs, the hot broth soaking the hems of my trousers. Into the cavity of the bow, she placed towers of plastic plates and metal forks, corroded by years of being washed in river water. Then came chopsticks, a vat of stringy local greens named morning glory, and a pile of miscellaneous grey meat cosseted in thick white fat.
I had hoped for a gentle training period, an apprenticeship, during which I would be instructed in the ancient art of pho-making. Di Hei would take time to explain its history, before taking me, stage by stage, through the rich tapestry of flavours, the diversity of textures and the layers of aromatic, mouth-watering umami that made this national dish so very, very special.
Nope. Never going to happen.
There was a reason that Di Hei had the nickname Queen of the Noodle. There was a reason she sold more bowls of soup than anyone else in Can Tho. And that reason was that she had developed a failsafe way of attracting the tourist dollar. Not for Di Hei the lengthy sales pitch, the trust-building conversations, The Art of the Deal. No. Di Hei had no time for that. Di Hei had a much more direct approach.
‘Di di nào!’ she shouted again, this time to the driver. Come on, let’s go!
There was a splutter as the outboard motor fought for life, and with that we lurched forward through the water. I noticed the gobbets of pork sliding perilously close to my groin.
DI HEI: Di di nào! Di di nào!
We were now building up quite a head of steam. We headed out towards the other vendors, identifiable by the wares hanging from their masts. The greengrocers had cabbages, and the butchers had pigs’ heads swinging in the breeze. It was useful, not least because it made it easier to work out exactly who we were about to crash into.
Di Hei started cackling as she caught sight of a pleasure cruiser.
DI HEI: Ha, ha, ha! Yes! There! Now!
ME: Di! DI!
She pointed frantically at the tourists on board, urging the driver onwards.
ME: Di! We’re getting very close to that boat!
I noticed her left eye was starting to close in piratical fervour as she started to get within range.
ME: Di, honestly, we’re getting really close. We’re going to crash! We’re going to … Trung! TRUNG! What’s Vietnamese for ‘help’?
Trung was our fabulous fixer, cook, translator and go-to guy on the ground. When I turned round to get his answer, I noticed he and the rest of the crew had their hands covering their eyes. Our first day on the Mekong and already we were only one Risk Assessment Form short of a calamity.
So, this was Di’s sales technique. She would pick a tourist boat, set a course for it at full speed, ram it head-on, then barrack its passengers into submission. She simply frightened customers into buying from her. You had to admire her verve.
I braced myself. There was a sharp bump as we smashed into the side of the target vessel. On impact, the pork made its final hop onto my groin where it began its slow and greasy leak through my trouser fabric.
I was now less than a metre from a gang of wealthy Chinese ladies, wearing bonnets and holding parasols, all of whom seemed to be a tad shocked at being broadsided by a floating soup kitchen.
‘Hello!’ I said, with an unintentional hint of Leslie Phillips. ‘Lovely to see you all.’
Having traumatized them with the crash, Di wasted no time in getting stuck into her sales pitch, shouting what appeared to be a menu at the top of her lungs. One of the tourists responded, ‘YES! YES!’, more out of panic than interest, I suspect, whereupon Di Hei dug me in the ribs.
I took this as a cue to bung (culinary technical term) the entire contents of the boat into a single bowl; vast tangles of noodles, ladles of broth and a precarious heap of spring onions and pork.
I handed it over to Di Hei, who appeared horrified. She turned her back on the customers, and deftly flung two of the larger bits of meat back onto my lap.
She muttered something in Vietnamese, which, although I’m far from fluent, I understood to mean something along the lines of ‘Stop fucking with my profit margins, you hooning doofus.’
That night, I dreamt of the council estate in Addiscombe. I felt the dread as I approached a stranger’s door and rang on the bell. I felt the familiar lurch of disappointment as the homeowner asked what I wanted and I duly launched into my spiel. I felt the draught as the door slammed in my face.
‘Di di nào!’ screamed a voice from behind me, a voice somewhat incongruous in 1980s south London. Out of nowhere came
Di Hei, flying through the air. She smashed right through the door, her bare feet ripping through timber, and came to a halt in the hallway. I stepped through the wreckage to join her.
DI HEI: You! Look here! Your carpets are filthy. Filthy! You must clean them. You will buy this carpet cleaner. Yes? YES? Good. Yes, you will. We call you tomorrow.
And with that, we marched through the remains of the door and were gone.
At six o’clock, the van screeched to a halt at the pick-up point. My dispirited co-sellers trooped into the back. I joined them, beaming.
ME: Gary.
GARY: Yeah …
ME: You know that sales chart you’ve got?
GARY: Yeah …
DI HEI: You gonna need a bigger whiteboard.
5. I Want to Be You
The next day we headed to Vinh Thuan, a rural district of Kien Giang province in the Delta where we planned to hook up with a pair of rice farmers called Tuk and Huong. It’s almost impossible to overstate the importance of rice, or ‘white gold’, to Vietnam, and this area in particular. The Mekong delta produces around half of Vietnam’s rice and Vietnam exports around $4 billion of the stuff, around a fifth of the world’s total.
Steve, the director, was on fine form that morning. He’d been looking forward to this particular story since the programme had first been commissioned, some six months earlier. Steve loves a sequence on agrarian reform; give him an involved discussion on evapotranspiration, amylopectins and transgenic cropping and he’s in clover. Sure, he’ll endure the endless scenes of me monkeying around with children, he’ll tolerate the incessant punning, but inside he’s just counting the hours and days until we can get back to a meaty chinwag about the real issues – like the role of monoculturism in contemporary agribusiness.