Small Bamboo

by Tracy Vo

  9

  JUST A PLANE RIDE AWAY

  At 10 a.m. on 13 July 1978, a bus took my parents and eighty-three other refugees to Kuala Lumpur airport. Each refugee was given a ‘Letter of Authority for Travel to Australia’—their passport out of Malaysia, they were told. My parents still have the letter, and on it is this note:

  Period of stay in Australia which may be authorised by issue of entry permit on arrival. INDEFINITE

  At the time Mum and Dad didn’t understand its importance, but they certainly do now.

  At the airport the eighty-five refugees lined up at immigration, where they were called one by one. Finally it was my parents’ turn. As it was the first time Mum and Dad had been through immigration or customs they weren’t familiar with the process, but they made sure they followed the officials’ exact orders. With butterflies in their stomachs they watched the immigration officer read through their letters, slam down his stamp and hand them back again.

  Out on the tarmac my parents looked at their aeroplane in awe, almost in shock—this was their passage to freedom. They took their seats at the rear of the commercial flight with their fellow refugees. It was only the second time Mum had been on a plane; the first was when she and her family escaped Cambodia in 1970. Dad, on the other hand, was used to flying—during his training in the South Vietnamese Air Force he’d been on a plane almost every day. But as the plane started to taxi down the runway, many of the refugees became anxious. Most of them hadn’t flown before and were worried about being air sick; in fact, on the bus ride to the airport Dad had to ask the driver to pull over a few times as some of the refugees were vomiting with nervousness.

  Mum and Dad, though, weren’t anxious or scared; they were so happy they couldn’t stop smiling at each other, and by the time the plane lifted into the air they had started laughing with joy. They were now on their way to a new life, a better life.

  While some of the other refugees spent most of the flight running to the toilet or vomiting from airsickness, Mum and Dad were celebrating. They couldn’t believe the generosity of the Australian government—the food served on the plane was delicious. Then Dad noticed some alcohol on the food trolley. He put up his hand to attract the steward’s attention.

  ‘Miss, do you have any whisky?’ Dad asked with a modest smile.

  The steward was taken aback at first. Here was a refugee who spoke perfect English and he had the cheek to ask for a whisky! Then she laughed and the immigration officials travelling with the group had a good chuckle too.

  ‘Well, of course, sir. How many would you like?’

  ‘Two, please,’ Dad replied. ‘One for my wife and one for me.’

  The steward gave my parents a big smile, as if to congratulate them on their journey. ‘If you would like more, please let me know. Enjoy!’

  When Dad told me this story, I was quite shocked because I’d hardly ever seen my mum drink alcohol. ‘Really?’ I asked Dad, to which he replied, ‘Of course, Mum likes a good whisky, you know!’

  After a five-hour flight, the plane touched down in Perth at 8 p.m. The immigration officials travelling with the group told them to wait while the commercial customers disembarked. The suspense was almost too much for my parents, who wanted to race out of the plane and explore their new home.

  Finally it was their turn to walk along the air bridge into Perth International Airport, with their visas ready. The process was the same as when they left Malaysia—one by one they were called by the immigration officer, who would check and stamp their documents.

  As they walked into the arrivals lounge, my parents looked around. It was so nice, so clean and modern. Outside the terminal, as they were led to buses, they were hit by the cold of a Perth winter night; coming from Ho Chi Minh City, they weren’t used to these conditions. Dad was freezing in a thin collared shirt but luckily Mum was wearing her new white cardigan. On board the bus they were told they were being taken to Graylands Migrant Hostel in Perth’s western suburbs, which housed all the Vietnamese refugees fleeing the war at that time. After World War II several migrant accommodation centres were established in Western Australia and one of them was Graylands, a large hostel which looked a little like a small community filled with units, a communal kitchen and living area. While the others in WA closed down, Graylands remained open for civilians displaced after the Vietnam War.

  At 11 p.m. they arrived at the hostel and were taken straight to the main hall and introduced to the manager, Hammer, a big, burly man with a broad Aussie accent that sometimes made it difficult to understand what he was saying. He gave them a tour of the hostel, but there wasn’t much to see; the main area was the dining room. He told them about life at the hostel, that meals were served there every day, for breakfast, lunch and dinner. He also said they would need to establish a routine there, and that they were free to explore the city during the day. There was no curfew as such, but if they weren’t at the hostel at a particular time, they wouldn’t get their meals. It would be tough to find their way around, he said, but they’d get the hang of freedom eventually. Hammer also explained that he and his staff would help them adjust to the Australian way of life.

  It was a lot to take in, and the refugees were by now exhausted, but they were all struck by one word that meant so much to them. FREEDOM.

  After a quick roll call, the refugees were allocated their living quarters, each with two bedrooms and one bathroom, which were shared among couples and families. Hammer chatted away as he guided Mum and Dad to their unit.

  ‘You guys must be tired,’ he said. ‘Breakfast is at seven in the morning. Just come down to the dining room. There’s plenty of space for everyone.’

  Dad nodded.

  ‘Then you can go back to your rooms and relax until lunch. Dinner is at 5 p.m. There’ll be plenty of food. Don’t worry, you’ll be well fed.’

  Dad nodded again and smiled. Hammer must have wondered why this couple weren’t saying anything; some of the refugees didn’t speak English but most knew a few words.

  ‘Anyway, guys, you’re here.’ And with that he opened the door for them and handed them the key. ‘This is your home until you set yourselves up. Relax. Have a good rest. You’re finally safe.’ Hammer patted my parents on their shoulders.

  Dad was shaking, and he tried to stretch out his arm to shake Hammer’s hand. ‘Th . . . th . . . th . . . thank . . . you,’ Dad stammered. He was so cold he couldn’t even speak! That’s why he hadn’t said anything.

  Hammer laughed when he realised the problem. ‘Oh, mate, you’re bloody freezing.’ He put his arm around Dad’s shoulders. ‘No need to thank me. Get yourselves inside and get warm. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  By this time it was 1 a.m. As they looked around their unit, Mum and Dad were struck by how luxurious, clean and new everything looked—so lovely, so warm and welcoming; there was even a heater and an air conditioner. Then they looked at the bed in amazement. They had never slept on a bed in Vietnam. Instead each night they had to set up a thin mattress on the floor in the middle of the lounge room, kitchen or dining room—in fact, any area that was big enough to fit everyone on the floor. Shattered by their journey and overwhelmed by the prospect of their new life, they took a moment to take it all in. They hadn’t really thought about the challenges they were about to face. Even understanding Hammer was a tough task. Nothing was familiar; to them, Australia was an entirely new world. They showered then crawled into their new bed, where they lay staring at the ceiling. It was all so surreal.

  The next morning Mum and Dad woke up early. In Vietnam, as soon as they walked out their front door, they were confronted by dozens of people, honking scooters and riding so close together they’d brush toes, as well as street food stall keepers clanging pots and knives while chickens and roosters ran around amid the dirt and pollution. But at Graylands, Mum and Dad looked out onto a quiet street, lined with homes with beautifully landscaped front yards. Clean new cars were parked in the driveways. Graylands is in a qu
iet, well-to-do area mainly consisting of housing estates. This modern suburb of Perth was a far cry from the streets of Ho Chi Minh City.

  On their way to the dining room for breakfast, Mum and Dad bumped into Hammer.

  ‘I see you’ve put on warmer clothing!’ he said with a big smile.

  Dad laughed. ‘Thank you very much for taking us to our room last night.’

  ‘No problems, mate. Did you guys have a good rest?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, we slept very well.’

  ‘What are your names?’

  This time Dad was able to shake Hammer’s hand. ‘My name is Tai,’ he said, ‘and this is my wife Lien.’

  ‘Well, you know mine,’ Hammer replied warmly. ‘Make yourselves at home. Let me know if you need anything.’

  Hammer lived in a house on the hostel grounds with his wife and children so he could take care of things at any time of the day. Their children played with the younger refugees when they had a chance. With the constant influx of Vietnamese refugees it was certainly a very busy period for Hammer. Mum and Dad became very fond of this larrikin who reminded my father of the friendly and open Australian soldiers he had met and trained with during his air force service.

  When Mum and Dad walked through the dining room doors they could see some older Australian ladies serving food from bain maries in the kitchen. These permanent hostel workers were very kind and warm to the refugees. There was so much food, food they had never eaten before, such as bacon and eggs, and cereal, an entirely new concept to them—the ladies had to explain what it was and tell them to pour milk over it. In Vietnam, breakfast was just fried eggs, never bacon, or sticky rice or noodles. Of course they always had a baguette for breakfast as well. Due to the French influence, bread-making became an art for the Vietnamese.

  My parents accepted everything on offer, eager to try it all, then sat with some other refugees who had arrived a few weeks before them.

  Dad became instantly close to a man named Sang, who had been living at Graylands with his younger brother for a few months. Dad found him to be a gentle man, and they were both like-minded. They spent most days together inside the camp.

  My parents made plenty of friends straight away. In Vietnamese culture it wasn’t difficult to bond with other people. Dad would meet plenty of people on the streets of Ho Chi Minh City and they would hit it off. At the hostel, everyone living there already had something in common—they had escaped Vietnam by boat—so their shared experience helped them to form a bond. And many people had left their families behind in Vietnam and they wanted to build a new family in Australia. Dad befriended many of the single men who were living at the hostel. Many would become my parents’ life-long friends.

  Mum and Dad were very keen to learn everything they could about Australia and its lifestyle as soon as possible. They also wanted to fit in, as a show of respect to the country that was so willing to open its doors and build them a safe new home. At the camp they tried to get into a routine as quickly as possible. For the first few days the immigration officials left the refugees alone so they could familiarise themselves with their surroundings then, after about a week, they were given appointments with Social Security (now known as Centrelink), which had an office onsite. Each refugee was interviewed about their skills and told they would be given an allowance so they could set themselves up in Perth.

  The refugees also had to be tested on their level of English by the Education Department. If your level was not up to standard, you were assigned to an appropriate class and required to attend about 300 hours of English lessons over a period of six months. Dad’s English was pretty good after years of lessons with the South Vietnamese Army and also spending time with US and Australian soldiers in Vietnam. He didn’t have to study as much as Mum, who had only learned French in Cambodia and Vietnam. She would have to complete the entire 300 hours over half a year.

  After a couple of weeks, the new refugees were taken out of the hostel for a tour of the city. First stop was the iconic Kings Park, perched high on a cliff, with stunning panoramic views of Perth’s city skyline and the Swan River. Mum and Dad stopped at one of the lookouts and took in the views; they couldn’t believe how beautiful, green and open it was. The next stop was a St Vincent De Paul’s store on Hay Street in the city where they bought some new clothes. With money Mum had borrowed from friends in the hostel, they stocked up on pieces of clothing at $1 and $2 each.

  The refugees were encouraged to get out of the hostel and explore, all day if they wanted to, so they wouldn’t get bored. The Australian way of life is very different to that of Vietnam, which is very busy and hectic. There was always somewhere to go, people to see or something to do, but in Australia, life was very laid back, particularly in Perth. Some Vietnamese refugees were too afraid to leave the hostel grounds so they would just stay inside their unit complaining that there was nothing to do. They weren’t as proactive as my father in exploring this new way of life. Dad says most people just didn’t know where to start. It was all very overwhelming for them.

  If you had money to buy meals outside the camp, you didn’t have to eat at the hostel. However, many of the refugees, anxious about getting lost, were too scared to leave the grounds. Many also lacked confidence in their English skills. It was perhaps too much of a challenge for some, but not for my father.

  Dad didn’t waste any time getting out of the camp and exploring the city for himself. About six weeks after they arrived at Graylands, he got a bus timetable from the main office and walked to the bus stop, which was right outside the hostel. He and Mum had received their first Social Security cheque of about $50 for the fortnight so he had money for the bus trip. He was a little nervous but also excited to be venturing out on his own.

  When he saw a bus approaching the stop, Dad checked the number to make sure it was going to the city, then put out his hand.

  ‘Where you headed, mate?’ asked the driver.

  ‘I would like to go to the city, please.’ Dad held out the money, and the driver gave him the change.

  ‘Righto, take a seat.’

  Dad was thrilled that he had achieved his first milestone—paying for a bus ride. Completing such a simple task gave him so much joy.

  In the city he wandered around the streets and malls all day, observing people as they scurried about their business. They were all dressed in clean, well-cut suits and polished shoes. The women, in classy dresses or skirts with a blouse, wore makeup and beautiful hairstyles. Dad said he was the only Asian walking around in the city. But he didn’t feel intimidated or uncomfortable. It was all so exhilarating, and he was learning with every step he took.

  In those early weeks at the hostel Dad decided to get his driver’s licence, and his friend Sang lent him $25 for it. One day Dad saw a driving instructor giving lessons to another refugee on the grounds. He waited until they had finished, then he approached the instructor.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. Can you help me get a driver’s licence, please?’

  The instructor looked at Dad. ‘Have you driven before?’

  ‘Yes, I had a driver’s licence in Vietnam.’

  ‘All right, mate. It will be $5 a lesson. I can come back tomorrow if you like?’

  ‘Okay, thank you very much!’ Dad shook his hand.

  The next day the one-hour lesson went smoothly. Dad was taken through all the usual procedures—reverse parking, parallel parking, road rules. The instructor was impressed.

  ‘Okay, good job, Tai. We can have another lesson tomorrow if you want.’

  ‘Actually, I would like to take the test now if I can.’

  The instructor shook his head in amazement and laughed at Dad, though not unkindly. He was just surprised. ‘No, mate. It’s too soon. You’ve only had one lesson.’

  ‘Please, sir. I don’t have enough money for more lessons and to pay for the licence,’ Dad explained. ‘Please, can you test me now and see if I’m good enough?’

  The instructor continued to shake his head, bu
t he must have felt sorry for Dad because he agreed to take him through a mock test. He made sure Dad understood all the road rules in Australia, explaining the terms used for different driving techniques, such as a three-point turn.

  ‘Okay, Tai, I’ll book you in for the test at the end of the week.’

  Dad passed his test, in a Datsun 120Y, with ease.

  10

  THE NEW LIFE

  While Dad adjusted quite easily to life in Australia, Mum found it difficult and her initial confidence and excitement evaporated as the days rolled on. After about a month in Perth she missed her family and her homeland terribly. Becoming accustomed to a new culture and a new way of life was made even tougher by the fact that Mum couldn’t speak much English. In those early days, Dad would head out by himself or with some friends he had made in the camp, but Mum would stay in their room for most of the day and cry, sleep, then cry some more.

  I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for my mother. Like Dad, she had been forced to leave a life she knew for a better one, thousands of kilometres away. My father tried to comfort her but she wanted to be left alone most of the time—Mum always was an independent woman, tough and resilient. She was glad Dad understood this and gave her some space. But even when she was feeling down she never wanted to burden him with her problems. She didn’t want to stop Dad from exploring their new country—at least he could learn for both of them—which was why she encouraged him to go away on a road trip across the Nullarbor a few months after they arrived in Perth.

  One of Dad’s mates in the camp had already bought a car, a Kingswood. He was planning a trip across the country to see the eastern states with a few other friends. ‘You should come with us!’ he said to Dad.

  Dad didn’t want to leave Mum but he really wanted to explore Australia, see what it was like in the east, and also visit his brothers and sisters in Melbourne, especially Brother Five and his family. He talked to Mum about it.