The Real Wizard of Oz: What Teaching English in Saigon Really Looks Like

You land in Ho Chi Minh City with a suitcase, a TEFL certificate, and a head full of romanticized expectations. The streets buzz with motorbikes, the air smells of pho and jasmine, and you’re sure you’ve walked into a movie. But after a term in the classroom, the glitter fades—and what remains is something far stranger, more exhausting, and ultimately more real than any travel blog prepared you for.

If you’ve ever taught English in Saigon, you know the feeling. You’re at the end-of-year party, surrounded by colleagues who’ve become your survival squad, and suddenly the energy hits you. It’s not celebratory in the way you imagined. It’s delirious. It’s cathartic. It’s like the scene in The Wizard of Oz where everyone dances around the flattened corpse of the Wicked Witch.

You survived. And now you’re not sure whether to laugh, cry, or just order another Bia Saigon.

The Classroom Isn’t Kansas

Teaching English abroad is never just teaching. In Saigon, you walk into a classroom with 35 students who may have zero common language with each other, let alone with you. The air conditioner drips onto your lesson plan. The wifi flickers. Some kids are on their phones, some are asleep, and one is trying to feed a lizard through the window.

But then, a quiet girl who never speaks raises her hand to say “Good morning, Teacher” in perfect English for the first time. And you feel like you just saw the Emerald City.

That’s the whirlwind. Moments of pure magic sandwiched between chaos, heat, and the constant hum of city traffic.

The Expat Comedy of Errors

Living in Saigon means navigating a world where everything is negotiable—including your sanity. You haggle with motorbike taxis who somehow know your homeroom schedule better than you do. You order coffee and get a bowl of soup. You show up to teach on a Monday only to find the school is closed for a national holiday no one told you about.

Your colleagues become your found family. You debrief over street food, swap classroom horror stories, and console each other after the 12-hour teaching day that somehow turned into an 8-hour party planning session.

When the term finally ends, the collective exhale is audible. The party atmosphere isn’t joy. It’s relief. It’s “We made it through that cyclone of noise, heat, and bureaucracy without losing our minds.”

The Witch Is Dead

In the Wizard of Oz, the Wicked Witch’s death isn’t just a victory—it’s an ending to something oppressive. For a teacher in Saigon, that witch is the first-term burnout. The homesickness. The cultural fatigue. The feeling that you’re speaking a language no one understands.

At the end-of-year party, you look around and see everyone dancing. Not because they’re happy-go-lucky, but because they’ve collectively vanquished something real and difficult. They’ve taught grammar to sleepy teenagers, navigated visa runs, and learned to say “xin chào” without feeling like a tourist.

The energy is tired, messy, and genuine. It’s the sound of teachers realizing they can do hard things in a strange place.

So You Think You’re Ready?

If you’re packing your bags for Saigon, don’t try to prepare for perfection. Expect the chaos. Expect the heat. Expect moments that feel less like a postcard and more like a fever dream.

You’ll lose your way in the streets. You’ll mispronounce everything. You’ll cry in the bathroom after a tough day. And then you’ll dance around the metaphorical witch with people who get it.

That’s the real TEFL story. Not the curated Instagram feed. Not the easy adventure. It’s the shared laughter of survivors who know they’ve stepped through a tornado and landed somewhere they never expected to call home.

But somehow, against all odds, you will.