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.