Day 72: Koh Phan-gan - Full Moon Throw-down

Neon paint smeared on skin, glow sticks encircling necks and wrists, cheap plastic hats and ketamine coursing through veins - they danced on picnic tables, bar patios and the midnight sand. A never-ending, undifferentiated thub-thump coursed from bar to bar in time with one’s heartbeat. At the water’s edge intoxicated males, recycled water back to the ocean. Bumbling, pale-haired girls let themselves be dragged along the beach, hand in wrist, by equally bumbling brown haired boys. I sipped from my plastic bucket filled with cheap rum, soda and M-150 surveying the human wreckage. The British teenagers sullying this Thai beach where getting on my nerves. Beside me, my compatriots (a British couple from Newcastle) put their eyes together with mine and collectively frowned a disproving 25 year old glance towards them immature teenagers. We were ready to go.

As easy and fun as it was to get in (10 people, back of a pickup truck chucking water bottles at the prostitutes along the strip), Hat Rin was another getting out. We moved from the beachfront to the clogged backstreets of restaurants and knick-knack stands, pressing through the zombiefied crowds. Dodging revelers, scammers and addicts we made our way to the main road. That symbolic sight of Thailand greeted us – lines upon lines of tuk-tuks ready to take this dross back to hideaways across the island. Their Thai drivers lounged in small groups chatting and smoking cigarettes waiting for the dawn. We were early – only four in the morning after all, but us tired and wanting to shed whatever collective regret for whatever we had become a part of, pushed on.

My acquaintances sidled up along the waiting drivers looking for one going our way. Not hard to find, but he wasn’t leaving for an hour and was charging 300 Baht. Ridiculousness, we knew what the local price was - a cool 55 Baht and we weren’t going to be swindled! Next driver, 250. Next 250, then 250 again. Next 300 – we weren’t getting anywhere, they were organized and we were their suckers. My friend Tom tried out his arguments, “hey man we took a taxi on Tuesday from here it was 55.” He flashed his spread hand twice for effect. “We’ll pay 150 that’s a fair price.” One finger, five fingers his hand said. “Go. Go. Good luck find driver 150,” the tuk tuk driver responded, waving his hand away. “No one give that price.” My friend kept up. “Man don’t play us like that, we know the score, we’re not dumb tourists you can rip off. We’ll give you 150 each. That’s 450 you’d be making.” The argument didn’t go down well. “No, out, out. I don’t want. You no pay. You walk.” This is point where the Madam got involved and when I say Madam, I mean a 300 pound, filthy talking middle-aged women covered in fake jewelry. Bringing forward her posse of tuk-tuk drivers she got in my friends face, poking him in the chest. “You drunk. What you say. Have one more drink.” She mimed tilting back a beer and guzzling it. “You drunk farang, you pay. It not much money.” Stubbornly my friend kept up. “Your driver wants us to pay 250 that’s a bullshit price, that’s dumb farang price. We’re not going for more than 150.” With that the Madam pushed my friend sending him off by saying, “you drunk you go.”

As on cue her band of tuk-tuk drivers pushed in surrounding him, one taking a stab upwards trying to connect. He responded with a drunken flurry that led a couple more drivers throwing him on the dirt road. His girlfriend at 5”10 and stick thin, forced herself in. The rest of the drivers committed throwing her on the ground, putting their boots to the both of them. It was now or never. I’d known these people for less than 12 hours. Yea, they were drunk and being unreasonable, sticking up for themselves, but now they were on the ground, massively outnumbered and being kicked into submission. Engage ridiculous reach. Time to time, being 6”5 with broad shoulders comes in useful. Especially when you have 5 or 6 pissed off, iced-up, Thais raring for a chance to knock up some representatives of farangs they had to take shit from night after night.

I knocked them off of my friends allowing them to get up and us to flee around the corner. But we didn’t get far. The same group or different group of drivers (it’s hard to tell at this point) pushed us up against the wall on the side of the road. We’re shoulder to shoulder with our arms extended warning them meth heads to come get some. They get it. We break through their encircling ring, and in the middle of the street I have two come out of nowhere and tackle me sideways into a standing motorcycle. Quickly I getup throwing out some damage - enough to make them hesitant about moving forward. Furiously I gather my compadres and flee around the corner and down the street, hopping into the back of a truck with a covered awning. It’s filled with foreigners waiting to leave. A short time later the driver comes around asking where we’re heading. He says 250. Without hesitation I get out my cash and pay it - all. No negotiating this time.

                                        

Day 68: Ko Phan-gan - Get it while you can

The road is much freer with the wind in your hair – and also with it on your bare chest and between your toes. Little winding concrete road, jungle covered hillsides with the odd shack and a little Chinese made scooter between your legs – perfect for a cruise around these empty roads. I stopped at a lean-to and dropped a couple Baht for a coke bottle of what I hoped was gasoline. The road doubled back on itself getting higher and higher, finally depositing me on a dirt parking lot, with a solitary sign marking the trail’s entrance.

The path was steep and dry, the sun hot and unfriendly. The sweat came out like the waterfall before me, emerging mysteriously out of the skin of the earth to dribble down the valley. Nobody here but me and a cool spring water pool at the bottom, to reward a sweaty climb.

As I climbed down the path to the pool, my private walk was interrupted by two pairs of legs emerging from below the foliage on the path. As I got down lower the legs went up and up, and the golden brown skin with it. The skin finally petered out just below the hips, as the skin tight shorts left nothing to imagination. Her hair hung in long, waves down over the same golden brown shoulders, framing large almond eyes and a wide cheeky smile. Her friend beside her wasn’t bad either. I tried to discreetly slip past with a polite nod, but was met with the requisite questions fired at every farang. “What your name? Where you from?” “Andrew, from Canada,” I said. This was met a constant stream of giggles, groans and chattering in Thai leaving me unable to get a word in. Finally, I managed a, “your English is good, did you learn from a Canadian?” “Yes,” she replied. “Last boyfriend was Canadian, but Canadian boy no good, meet many woman, say he only need one.” What can I say I thought, Thailand was filled with sleazy expats and probably a few on them were Canadian.

Before I could reply she said, “I like you, you look honest. Let’s go in the water.” With that she took my hand and led me over the wet rocks and over into the small wading pools below the falls. I tugged at my shorts trying to keep them up as we slip slided over the rocks. “What wrong,” she asked. “Oh my swimsuit keeps sliding down on me,” I replied. “That okay, you can let them down,” she suggested with a smile, tugging on my waistband. “Ahhh you never know who you’ll run into up here, so I’ll keep them on,” I said grabbing her wrist and pulling away her hand, with a thought of regret. “Let’s sit down here,” I said. We were sitting in our clothes in a small wading pool together. Tiny minnows swirled around pecking at our feet, eliciting little gasps from us every time they chewed off a little bit of skin. She cupped her hands trying to catch them, showing me their slim, silvery bodies wriggling in her palm. I had a brief thought, instantly suppressed, of myself in her hand, wriggling back and forth. I splashed water, it falling almost inevitably in her eyes, she trying to keep her fake eyelashes on, me feeling sheepish. No bad. She splashed back; completely soaked we headed back to our scooters in the parking lot. She asking for a promise to stop by her workplace on the main road, he promising to stop on his way back from the beach.

Promises fall by the wayside as the bikes speed through the jungle, past temples, rickety shacks selling gasoline, outdoor restaurants and gogo bars. Another day in paradise. 

For the road - Andrew.

Day 51 – Luang Phabang

 In almost every city across the face of the earth a pattern presents itself. It doesn’t matter if you’re in the most modern fibre-optic covered metropolis or most god-forsakened shantytown. Those who are favoured by power sit along leafy boulevards in the center of town. On the edges sit those who have been driven out. The unwanted, the spit upon, the forgotten. I came among such a camp by accident. The narrow dragon boat pulled up to the other side of the Mekong to a village on the other side. 

Steps led up some abandoned temples. On the narrow path in the jungle I was seeking an inhabited temple, one with Monks in their orange sarongs hopefully sweeping the path or cutting the grass. Along the river I trod getting deeper and deeper, the route becoming nothing but a horse path. 

A hut and fire materialized against the jungle darkness. A hand was raised and beckoning. I drew closer. Figures were seated around a meager fire. They were passing a small clay bowl filled with the remains of a grey fish mixed with peppers, beside a soup with some herbs close to the fire a young man in nothing but a loincloth warming a bone beside the fire. A glass was held out to me. The clear liquid was fiery and burned all the way down. The figures nodded in approval. They shared cigarettes, I passed around my. Listening to DMX. We smoked asking simple questions, quiet in our sublime environment. I noticed something was off. Two of the guys had on full makeup and their hair stretched back and held by pins and combs. I realized then and their what was up, on our remote bank of the Mekong was a group of guys trying to survive anyway possible. A couple were plying their trade for those without enough money to afford the real thing, while another poled a boat down the river, and a fourth raised some meager crops on the edge of the jungle. We drank Lao lao the clear strong whiskey of region, smoked and shared stories. Nothing strange. 

 

Day 43 Hue

 Driving a cyclo (for you noobs that’s a motorcycle with no guts) in Vietnam is a experience. I rented one for a day having driven nothing motorized with less than four wheels. On the streets of Vietnam there are hundreds of these, no lanes, no speed limits and traffic circles just to fuck with you. Driving in the countryside is a breeze. Thatch roofed farmhouses in narrow terraced fields of rice and corn line the roads along with the occasional ancient ruins. The narrow road turns toward the brown silt laden river. Nobody goes above 50. I stop at the side of the road to check the map. A middle-aged lady stops beside me and asks where I’m going. She says she will show me the way to the Mausoleum I’m looking for. “It’s just a couple more kilometers up the road,” she says assuring me she lives nearby. I follow. We approach the turn-off. The bike ahead suddenly makes a turn going under the bridge we were supposed to take. I continue a little further but than stop. “Why you stop,” she asks. “We’re going the wrong way,” I say. “No just a little bit more, first we stop at my house then go to mausoleum.” “What,” I say, “no I just want to go to the mausoleum.” “No problem, no problem,” she says. “I just come from market. Children all at school, nobody home.” “No, no you said we were going to the mausoleum, that’s where I’m going.” “Please come, just for a little, no children it’s okay.” “Not okay,” I said and turned around the bike, gunned it, leaving nothing but dust.

Day 38 – Coconuts and boating; don’t mix

Imagine some short, shirtless, cutoff jeans clad Asian guys. An old rusted group of pots assembled into a drum set, a couple of guitars, and a lead singer in a Hawaiian skirt, coconut bra and Spanish sombrero. We’re on a boat in the middle of a couple islands off the coast of Vietnam. The staff on this booze cruise are attempting their boy band show. The singer is up on the table waving his coconuts in front of a shocked Vietnamese audience. The foreigners at the back are giggling and carrying on. Pause. Out comes the inflatable bar, I jump of the top deck of the boat. Hooking our toes into the side we float on inner tubes sipping orange and rum cocktails miles from shore. The bartender tries to refill my drink. I try to evade. “Don’t be lazy,” he says. “It’s hardly twelve,” I exclaim. No dice. Drink up.

Day 36 – Melancholy in paradise; Mui Ne

 I’m walking down the strip beside the sea, when some dude in a long ponytail on a motorbike comes up and palms me a flyer. “Check it out” he says, “five dollar buckets.” I have no intention but back at my bungalow I meet three American’s lounging, waiting for their bus leaving at one AM. We’re bored so we head over to Pogos, the local Boho place. Just a few backpackers inside but you can set your own music and there’s a pool table so we stay. The American’s intend to get right sloshed for their bus ride back to Saigon. I feel it’s my duty to help them. Buckets - coke and vodka. The bartender empties half a bottle into it.

I run into a fellow Canadian, Andrew, 23 from Ottawa. He’s got a surfer’s laidback calm and no shirts to speak of. He was backpacking across southeast Asia until Vietnam got ahold of him. He’s been here for four months. DJing six nights a week for room and board. Lounging in sun chairs during the day and trying to pickup whatever girls happen by. “See that one,” he points out to me, “I’ve been hanging onto her for every day she’s been here.” We order more buckets, gin this time (free on the house) while talking about home and playing pool. We’re so bad it takes and hour to finish.

At this time the Americans are gone, the girls too. Out comes the late night music. Ponytail dude and his gothic Asian girlfriend take requests. Nine Inch Nail, Deftones, Korn and Tool. We’re drinking more too. Ponytail dude keeps feeding us Rum and pineapple cocktails. I’m swooning on the dancefloor. Andrew’s friend from another bar comes over. Baggy jeans and t-shirt, and a toque pulled right down over his eyes, he doesn’t say a word just lights up his bong. We pass it around in the middle of the dancefloor. 1, 2, 5 times I don’t know, everything is spinning by this time. 

When native tribes reach out to their gods, this must be how it feels. Lights dim, music overwhelming, multiple substances coursing through their veins, tired but not feeling it, elation taking over. ‘The Nobodies’, courtesy of family values patriarch Marilyn Manson comes on over the speakers. Slow and then it picks it up “today I’m dirty, I want to be pretty, tomorrow I know I’m just dead.” Then we’re screaming out the chorus “we’re the nobodies, want to be somebodies, will tell ya we know just who we are.” The surf keeps rolling in one wave at a time playing to its own melody. Somehow I end up back in my bungalow. Small miracles we can pray for them, but sometimes they just happen.

Day 33 – Bia hoi

One thing North America needs to import is the unstructured, coziness and friendliness of the Bia hoi. That’s short for a couple plastic stools thrown onto the sidewalk, with some battered metal tables onto which litre jugs of beer are placed. Mix with random strangers and locals along with a steady stream of hawkers, cyclos, beggars and prostitutes and nothing gets boring. 

I plopped myself down beside a guy dressed to go door-to-door for the Mormons but he  was just a English teacher, out to quaff a few down after a busy 20 hour work week. Craig, an Aussie,  was a peculiar chap. He seemed to be trying to escaping the rigidity and conformism of modern society. He railed against the regulations and endless rules of the modern state, but all with a detached shrug of his shoulders. “You see all over these streets (Saigon) no lights, no signs. People going any direction they want. It’s total chaos, but it works. It works for them. There’s so few accidents every year.” For Craig, Vietnam was a lesson for more developed countries. “Right here what we have is Chaos Theory at work. That’s completely what it is.” I’m not sure about Chaos Theory but riding through those streets on the back of a motorbike, no helmet, nothing to hang on to, potential disaster around every corner, I felt more alive than ever.