A Week in the Life of a New TEFL Teacher in Saigon

I came to Saigon thinking this would just be a gap year job, something to pay the bills while I ate my way through the city, got lost in jungles, and figured out what came next. Teaching? Full-time? Honestly, I thought I’d hate it. My only other teaching experience was in a public school, and let’s just say it didn’t exactly spark joy.

But somehow, here I am. Contract signed, standing in front of a classroom, wondering if I could actually survive two-hour lessons without losing the kids. Would they like me? Would they listen? Would I even like them? I had no idea, but I was about to find out.

Monday: Playing Tourist

Mondays are my sacred day off, and this week I went all in: the Củ Chi Tunnels and the Mekong Delta.

The tunnels were surreal. One minute I was standing in a quiet forest, the next I was crouched low, shuffling through passages so hot and airless they clung to me like a second skin. My hands shook, my legs wobbled, but I kept going. The second tunnel was even smaller, nobody else wanted to try, which of course meant I had to. Call it pride, call it proving a point (idk what point) but I dropped in anyway. What hit me most wasn’t the tourist friendly routes I struggled through, but the original entrances, still untouched. Tiny, impossible holes where soldiers once lived and cooked in for years. I could barely last ten minutes.

What really stayed with me, though, wasn’t just the tunnels themselves but the way Vietnamese people talk about them today. There’s this incredible resilience, almost a casual strength in how life carried on underground despite everything. No bitterness, no resentment, just a matter of fact acceptance and a focus on moving forward. It’s humbling, and I can’t imagine many cultures speaking about something so brutal with that much grace.

The Mekong Delta felt like stepping into another world entirely. The city noise disappeared, replaced by the soft splash of oars and the hum of cicadas. I sat in a little wooden boat, floating between palm trees that arched over the river like a green cathedral ceiling. At each stop, locals offered something new: coconut sweets wrapped in rice paper, honey so fresh it was practically alive, and, my personal favourite, snake wine. It tastes exactly like tequila, and if you know me, you already know I wasn’t about to say no to that.

By the time I made it back to Saigon, sweaty, sunburnt, slightly tipsy, I felt like I’d lived three different lives in one day.

Tuesday: Fireworks in the Rain

Tuesday was Independence Day in Vietnam, and the whole city felt electric. Streets were packed, families hauling fold out chairs, teenagers with face paint and little flags, food vendors juggling skewers, popcorn, and sugarcane juice. Everyone had their eyes on the sky, waiting for the fireworks.

Then, of course, the rain came. Not a drizzle. Not a polite mist. Torrential, monsoon-style, drenching you to your underwear kind of rain. Within two minutes, the fireworks fizzled out, umbrellas were flipping inside out, and most of the foreigners had disappeared faster than the first spark in the sky.

But here’s the thing, I stayed.

And that’s when the magic happened.

Instead of sulking, families just carried on. Parents danced barefoot with their kids in puddles, kids turned plastic bags into hats, and whole groups huddled together under tarps. One family waved me over, pulling me into their drenched picnic, laughing at how mad I was to stick it out in the downpour. Before I knew it, I was sat with them, soaked to the skin, grinning like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Walking home, my clothes sticking to me, my hair a mess, I couldn’t stop smiling. The fireworks had been a flop, but honestly? I don’t think I’ll remember the lights in the sky. I’ll remember the joy in the rain.

Wednesday: First Day Teaching

I walked into the after school centre thinking I was prepared. I had lesson plans, games, even practiced my fun but firm teacher voice in the mirror. Calm? Confident? Ha. Not a chance.

The first lesson was… terrifying. Twelve little faces stared at me like I was about to drop the secrets of the universe. I’ve given lectures to hundreds of students, networked in foreign languages, even presented at professional events, but nothing compared to this. Kids absorb every word, every movement. There’s no faking it. Every glance, every reaction felt like a personal test.

The staff were helpful and welcoming. They showed me where everything was, gave me extra resources, and offered tips for managing the class. I felt like I could ask questions whenever I needed to, which made stepping in front of the kids a little less intimidating.

By the halfway point of the first lesson, I was finding my rhythm. A few laughs here, a couple of games there, and suddenly the intensity felt manageable.

Then came lesson two, a completely different group of kids. Fresh faces, new energy, and a whole new challenge. I had to reset, quickly figuring out the balance of strictness and fun for this group. And just like the first class, little moments started to shine. A couple of students came in clutching drawings they’d made, and others who were shy at first warmed up and actively participated. By the end of the second lesson, I had adapted to both classes, finding my groove while learning something new about each set of kids.

By the end of the day, I was tired but proud. Two lessons, two hours each, and I’d survived, more than survived, I’d actually thrived. Their energy was contagious, and I left the centre with a smile I couldn’t shake.

The Rest of the Week

By Thursday, I was starting to get into the swing of things. Two-hour lessons with high-energy kids? Draining, yes, but also ridiculously fun once you figure out how to ride the wave. I was learning who needed a bit more attention, when to throw in a quick game to keep them engaged, and how to slip in a joke that had them laughing so hard they forgot they were technically in class. Every small win felt massive.

Outside of teaching, I’ve been figuring out a routine that actually makes Saigon feel like home. My work hours are a bit upside down (evenings during the week, mornings at the weekend), but that’s given me space to fill my mornings with good stuff. I’ve been volunteering at a dog shelter in Thao Dien, walking and playing with the sweetest pups before the city fully wakes up. Not a bad way to start the day. Plus, I’ve made it my mission to test out a new café every chance I get. Saigon takes coffee seriously, and I’m definitely not complaining.

Saturday was my morning class, then straight into my boldest decision yet… learning to ride a motorbike in Saigon traffic. Spoiler, I crashed (nothing serious, ), walked away with a tiny scar, and a very bruised ego. But honestly? I loved it. Back in the UK, driving feels like rules stacked on rules. Here it’s chaos, scooters flying past on all sides, no real order, and yet somehow it just works. Terrifying, but once you relax into it, kind of the most fun ever.

Sunday was technically another workday, but it didn’t feel like one. The lessons went smoothly, the kids were lively, and for the first time I could see how much more confident I’d become in just a week. I also dragged myself to run club in the heat, nearly keeled over, but it was worth it just to chat with new people. Between that, the dogs, the coffee, and the classroom, I’m slowly building a little life here.

Looking back, week one felt like a whole month packed into seven days, teaching, motorbike mishaps, rain-soaked fireworks, new friends, and all the little wins that made me smile.

Living abroad and teaching isn’t about having it all sorted. It’s messy, unpredictable and exactly the kind of adventure I came here for.

And while week one was pretty close to perfect, let’s just say week two… took a turn. But that’s a story for another day.

With love from Saigon,

Anaïs