Forty years ago, Americans came to southeast Asia and got to play with big guns, and in that regard, little has changed.  There are subtle differences of course;  modern enthusiasts aren’t also getting fired at, themselves.  On the other hand, we pay a bit more of a premium in cash for the ammunition than the soldiers used to.  So it all balances out…

Several miles from Ho Chi Minh City are the tourist-friendly Chi Chu tunnels used by the Viet Cong to sneak about the city underground.  It’s a popular and particularly claustrophobic tour that peculiarly enough finishes at a gun range where visitors can fire AK-47s and other period weaponry of the Vietnam war, living out their childhood GI Joe fantasies without the burden of sacrificing four or more years of one’s life to military service.

I opted out of the experience, but not for any disdain of heavy weaponry; I just wanted a little more bang for my buck.  While there are smatterings of large gun ranges all around the world, Phnom Penh is infamous for being the one spot on the backpacker trail where random, non-military non-citizens can drop in and, for an extremely inflated fee, play with the big toys.  Rocket launchers.  Grenades.  Grenade launchers.  Etc, etc.  Bang, bang.

What sort of mad firing range would allow tourists to drop in and fire rockets at a variety of unseemly targets (more on that later)?  Why, none other than the Cambodian national army, of course!

Getting There is Half the Fun

The tuk-tuk picks us up at ten in the morning, sharp.  I’m the only one with the funds or interest in wreaking havoc on peaceful Cambodian hills and meadows, but the German at my hostel who’s been staying in Phnom Penh for the past two weeks has heard many rumors of this base and was itching to come along for the ride.  We cram onto the long, single seat of the tuk-tuk, next to a little boy and girl who seem to be joining us on this ridiculous mission for reasons neither of us can understand.

The kids that come along for the first part of the journey. I can only guess they were the driver's kids. Cute, but they seemed very confused the whole time.

Thankfully, they’re short term companions.  The driver takes us a few blocks from the hostel and we all switch into 4×4 Ford Bronco, which seems vastly more appropriate for the day’s events. After ten minutes of sitting in the car with the doors open, a young woman approaches and wordlessly guides the children out of the car.  Our last obstacle overcome, the driver starts out on our epic journey of explosive mayhem.

It’s a ninety minute ride spent almost entirely in silence other than the Cambodian music playing on his radio (I know this is a very narrow-minded, foreign thing to say, but I swear that every song sounded identical, save a single Cambodian hip-hop tune), punctuated by this bizarre exchange which took place about twenty minutes from our destination:

“Do you want cow?” the driver suddenly asks me, in slightly broken English.

“A cow?  Like moo moo cow cow?”

“For explode with rocket.  Need to get now.”

“You’re asking me if I want to buy a cow, and then blow it up with the rocket launcher?”

The German nods his head.  ”I’m surprised you haven’t heard about the cows, mate.  Every story about people going to shoot rockets usually involves them getting offered a cow to shoot at.”

“I don’t want to blow up a cow with a rocket!  It’s just such a… dick move.  So pointless.” I pause for a moment, considering the situation.  ”If I blow up cow, can I eat the cow meat?”

“The… meat?  It is not for eat.  Is for explode.”

“It’s just… I would have a hard time blowing up a cow just to blow it up.  Eating some meat, even just a little, would validate it somewhat — it’d be like it died for something at least, you know?  Rocket-fried steaks!  That’d be something!”

“You cannot eat!”

Guns and rockets, casually laid out in the rear of the bronco.

“Relax, man, I’m mostly joking.  I’m not going to try to eat the obliterated cow.  How much more would the cow cost?”

“For you, four hundred American dollars.”

“Yikes!  Does anyone ever actually pay to blow up the cow?”

“Many times.  Russians like very much.  Last week, Russians get two cow and old car.  Eight rockets.  I have video.”  Ahh, the Russian nouveau riche.

“Too much for me, I’m afraid.  No thanks.”

“No cow?”

“No cow.”

“So, you want chickens?”

I opt against purchasing chickens for all the same reasons I avoided the cow, in addition to the fact that hitting a chicken with a rocket launcher is almost certainly beyond my abilities.  Two men stand listlessly at the gate to the army base as we pull up to the lowered bar.  While one of them speaks to the driver, the other slowly steps over and stares sheepishly at us in the back, with a small, confused grin.  I smile back.

After a couple of minutes, a confident young Cambodian man steps over to us and hops into the front seat, guiding us over to a small building about the size of a two-car garage.  He has the sleek smile of a salesman and wears a plain white t-shirt with no military gear save a camouflaged hat bearing the Cambodian insignia on its front.

“So,” he says, turning to me, “you want to fire the rocket launcher, hah?”  His accent is strong, though his English is quite good.  ”But noooo cows?”  He stretches out the “no” in feigned surprise and bemusement, before laughing at himself.

“That’s right.”

“So what else?  Light machine gun?  Heavy machine gun?  You want to fire grenade launcher?”  His eyes light up as he speaks.  He’s so happy to serve, and suddenly I get a sinking feeling in my stomach that, with enough cash, this is probably one of those places where demented and bored old men with way too much money can go to hunt disenfranchised poor people that hopped on a bus thinking they were getting a free trip to some scenic Thai island.  The smiling, nameless man in the army hat – I’ll call him “Smiles” — lists off prices, and they’re every bit as bad as I’d been warned.

Eventually, I talk him down from the exorbitant price of four hundred dollars to the still exorbitant price of three hundred dollars.  But I would like to fire a rocket launcher, and barring any large scale global wars, this will likely be the only time in my life I have this opportunity.  Besides, three hundreds dollars pays for two nights at a seedy hotel room in Jersey City.  Who the hell wants to stay in Jersey City anyway?

My lump sum of cold, hard American cash wins me the right to one rocket, one launched grenade and fifty rounds fired from a heavy machine gun.  Smiles runs into the building with another man dressed fully in fatigues — I’ll call him “Fatigues,” though he’s grinning every bit as much as the first man.  Hell, everyone is all smiles here – and they both come out shortly with their hands full of an assortment of black steel, explosive munitions and long, sexy chains of bullets.  Space is cleared in the back of the bronco and all the gear is set down, softly of course.

There are no roads out here; only dry, dirt paths cutting through the open, arid brushland.  We drive gently over the bumpy terrain, always cognizant of the various explosive devices located mere inches behind me.  Stopping next to a small tree, there’s discussion in the front followed by Fatigues motioning for me to exit the car with him.  He and Smiles slowly remove all of the weaponry, placing it in the shade next to another tree, farther from the car; our driver never leaves his seat.

At this point, I was very glad to have brought the German.  Someone had to take the pictures, right?

A fistfull of Grants.

Preparing for the day's excitement. As Smiles instructs me in the usage of each weapon, Fatigues sets up the next round

Round 1: Rocket Launcher

Lessons from Smiles on how to hold, aim with and fire the rocket launcher. To his credit, he got much less smiley once the weapons were in play.

As he instructs me in proper holding and stance, he's very careful that my finger doesn't come near the trigger, and that my camera man doesn't stand any closer than he does right now. For a shady, hidden-in-the-wilderness kind of operation, they're pretty safe about it. Then again, who wouldn't be extra safe when playing with rockets?

This picture illustrates nothing other than that rocket launchers are not only more dangerous than cigarettes; they also make you look even cooler when holding one

Ready, Aim...

FIRE! With the hard click of the trigger, a loud "WHOOOSHHH" fills the air, lasting less than a second. Before my eyes can track the path of the rocket, it's already hit its target with a burst of smoke and flames. "Ohhhh Nice shot, nice shot!" says Smiles, clapping for some reason.

And why was it so unimpressive that I actually hit my target? Because my target was a large, amorphous hill. Missing it would've actually been more impressive (though still within my capabilities). The rocket actually explodes with such force that even from far away, it create and earthquake-like rumbling beneath me that radiates upwards through my feet.

Round 2: Heavy Machine Gun

Fifty rounds of ...I didn't get the size or name, sorry. If anyone that reads this knows the specifics of any of the weapons fired here, please let me know!

Safety first: Smiles not smiling as the German takes a position perpendicular to me. The gun is surprisingly light.

Yes, I know I should be looking forward as I shoot, but it's just so... fun. I figured the bullets would pack a lot more kick, but it's almost criminal how light and easy to shoot this gun was. While firing 50 bullets in less than that many seconds, I shouted every possible cliche I could get out in time. "Get Some, Motherfuckers!" was most definitely included.

If you've read this blog at all, you would know there are few pictures where I feel I look in any way "cool." Â Let me have my moment.

Round 3: The Grenade Launcher

Grenade launchers. So sexy.

I stretch my arm out, holding the grenade launcher in one hand like a handgun. Smiles suddenly seems less concerned about safety. "Can I shoot it like this?" I ask. "No problem," he says. At the last minute, rational thinking takes over and I hold the pommel against my chest for support, clutching the gun safely with two hands. It's a good thing. FOOOOOOOMPP. The grenade fires out with a pop, and the kick punches me sharply in the chest. Had I held out the gun with one hand, as casually as I'd initially planned to, fingers would likely have been broken.

I'm so proud of my pretty little explosion. Entertaining, but not as (literally) earth-shattering as the rocket was.

We passed this guy on the way out. Everyone in the Cambodian army just seems so happy, these days.

Wat Phnom, the eponymous temple in the heart of Phnom Penh

Exhaust smoke permeates the air to near choking levels while I barter with an uncooperative older woman selling bread from a basket she wears at her waist.  Overweight and wearing a headscarf and altogether too much clothing, she looks like a rotund pile of tattered hand-me-downs with a face, and clearly no one has ever taught her how to negotiate.  The bus honks its horn at me impatiently as I stand there with two loaves of bread in my left hand, insisting that they are not worth the equivalent of five American dollars.  Then again, I’m starving, tired and still very woozy from the inappropriately named “happy” pizza that I made the mistake of ingesting just before sleeping last night.

“NO!” the woman shouts at me, as I tug on the 20,000 Riel — the Cambodian currency — note she’d just taken from my hand after I’d asked how expensive the bread was.

In a tuk-tuk, catching my first glimpses of city life in Phnom Penh.

“Ohhh, now you speak English.”

In my other hand are the two small loaves of bread I’d hoped would get me through this five hour morning ride to Phnom Penh.  Five dollars for two small, bland chunks of peasant bread that shouldn’t cost more than fifty cents?  I’d rather starve!  Yanking the bill firmly from her grubby hands, I dump the loaves unceremoniously back in her bread basket and storm back toward the expectant bus.

“No!” she shouts again, following me.

“Yes!” I spin around and yell back at her.  ”You are a price gouger!  You gouge prices!”

“No,” she says more quietly this time, stopped in her tracks and staring at me unpleasantly.

“This is getting nowhere!” I hop on the bus expecting the driver to be bothered by a delay that did not even yield any bread, but he stares at me just long enough to make sure I am on board so that he can close the door.  ”20,000 Riel for two loaves of bread!” I explain to no one in particular with a huff, in the hopes that my outrage is contagious.  It is not.

I have my choice of seats on the bus and collapse into an empty pair, laying down with the intention of sleeping my way to Phnom Penh.  Cursing all six feet and three inches of my person, I hopelessly curl up on the thin seats and try to ignore the bumpy Cambodian countryside, my own self-doubt and the uncomfortable lack of two small loaves of bread in my stomach that pride had robbed me of.

Despite strong Hindu influences in its ancient past, Cambodia is now the most Buddhist nation on Earth with 97% of its populace listing themselves as Buddhists.

I wake upon entry into the city, groggy but in better spirits despite realizing that I’d missed what was likely a gorgeous and memorable countryside in exchange for this mostly gray city with a few oases of eccentric French architecture, where everything appears to have a cloudy film over it.  Maybe that’s just my tired eyes still reawakening.  A tuk-tuk picks me up directly from the bus stop and I fumble through my papers to find information of use to him.

“Hostel Nomads,” my note says.  For the first time since Hanoi, an honest-to-God hostel.  Lodging is so cheap in southeast Asia, they always tell me excitedly, you don’t NEED to sleep in hostels. But I want to.  Finding short-term compatriots with varying degrees of compatibility comes naturally in the common room of a hostel; trolling for the same company in the lobby of a cheap hotel just comes off as seedy and/or desperate.  Within minutes of checking in at Nomads, I’ve got a crew of two others interested in a tour of some of Phnom Penh’s more cheerful historical locations: The S-21 Prison Museum and The Killing Fields.  Thankfully I’m in a better mood since waking up, or today would just be one big celebration of despondence.

We agree to meet in an hour, and I use the time to check out the city’s namesake, Wat Phnom.  As with Angkor, “Wat” again is “temple” while “Phnom” means “hill.”  Legend has it that in the 1300′s, an old woman named Penh found five Buddha statues floating in the nearby Mekong River.  She ordered everyone she knew to pile dirt into a large hill, and then build a temple to house the Buddhas atop it.  It’s an impressive shrine — the tallest in the city — and I saunter around it for a while before picking up some spicy, fried noodles in a paper cup at the base of the hill.

“Where are you from?” the noodle vendor asks me.

“America!” I say, shaking her hand.

“Ah,” she says, excitedly.  ”America!  Yay!”  Her hand is limp in mine, but she smiles with genuine warmth as she tells everyone around us where I am from.  From all sides they surround me with smiles and tea, speaking to me in a mix of Cambodian and the one word “America,” recited each time more emphatically than the last.

Wat Phnom

A bridge near Hostel Nomads, with Wat Phnom in the distance

The temple at the top of Wat Phnom

No picture taking is allowed inside the temple, but they don't say anything about shooting from the doorway...

My happy (as in "cheerful" and not "laced with marijuana" -- an important distinction here in Cambodia) noodle vendor

The Asian equivalent of "jazzercise," performed freely on the streets by a predominantly female crowd. In China, groups of dancers can number into the hundreds.

Phnom Penh's happening waterfront. Lots of nice restaurants and bars here, though the insect population at night reaches the level of biblical plague

Phnom Penh has always been an important port city, strategically located where the Mekong, Bassac and Tonle Sap Rivers meet.

And You Thought it Was Bad Being a Four-eyed Nerd at Your School…

Khmer Rouge.  ”Khmer” as in the dominant racial group in Cambodia and  ”Rouge,” red, for the group’s general communist ideology.  Taking a particularly hardline stance, Pol Pot and his followers declared that the farmers were the true proletariat and nearly destroyed his country by trying to turn every citizen into one.  Urban Cambodians, particularly college educated ones, were torn from their homes and families and sent to work in the fields with the rest of the populace.  Money and books were destroyed everywhere, and almost every Cambodian whose profession was not “farmer” was either made into one or murdered.  Effectively, the entire country became one large labor camp.

"SIRENCE!!"

While I never cared much for being mocked in grade school for wearing glasses, I submit that my situation was better than what my Cambodian peers faced for the same infraction: Glasses-wearers were seen as “brainy,” which was enough under the Khmer’s regime to be executed.  If only contact lenses came into widespread use a decade or two earlier…

Much like Mao Zedong — a fan of and inspiration to the Khmer Rouge — Pol Pot led a series of massive, countrywide experiments that had never been proven successful before, to disastrous effects.  The “New People,” what they labeled those that once lived in cities, had no clue how to effectively farm and were suddenly told that they must produce three tons of rice per hectare; in pre-Khmer Rouge times, even skilled farmers could only produce one.  And Pol Pot had basically led Cambodia into its worst famine ever, as hundreds of thousands of new and inept farmers died of starvation.  At least they could’ve lived off of fresh fruits and berries on the land, you might protest.  No, the communists considered that “free enterprise,” one of the worst capitalists traits.  Punishment for such a crime: no pudding!  Just kidding.  Death, of course!

While the Khmer Rouge led Cambodia, more than a fifth of its population (over 2 million) died of starvation, torture, disease (Pol also banned all western medicine in favor of the healthier traditional remedies — apparently ginseng root and powdered tiger penis don’t do much to cure Malaria) and outright murder, and in the process, they almost completely reverted the country back to stone age.  All this in under four years.

Tuol Sleng -- Schoolhouse turned prison. Â Many high school students I once knew wouldn'tve said there was a difference...

In 1975, the regime took over a large high school — standard education no longer being a government priority — and turned it into a brutal and generally fatal prison center.  Tuol Sleng  (literally “Strychnine Hill”), as the morbid museum is now known marks the second depressing museum in a row I’ve been to, following Vietnam’s War Remnants Museum, but seems to be a necessary visit for anyone trying to understand the depth of the Khmer Rouge’s cruelty.

Upon entering the prison, inmates were stripped of all clothing and belonging and put into rooms often barely larger than phone booths.  Prisoners were fed four spoonfuls of rice porridge twice a day, and hosed off every four days.  Talking to other prisoners or drinking any water, even found water, without permission resulted in beatings.  While kept at S-21, inmates were tortured until they admitted to any and all accusations, generally giving up the names of countless innocent friends, co-workers, peers and family members, who were then rounded up and exterminated at the local Choeung Ek killing fields.

Though brutally tortured with electricity, starvation, hanging, knives, clubs, pliers, whips, waterboarding and any other assortment of unpleasant means, the intention was generally to keep inmates alive as long as possible to get the most thorough confessions from them.  Nearly 100% of inmates confessed, proving once again that torture is the ideal method to make anyone say anything you want them to say (truth not necessary!).  One of the few captured foreigners, a young Englishman unfortunate enough to be caught eventually admitted to being recruited by the CIA during a vacation to the States he took at age twelve.  He was killed shortly after his confession.  Of the estimated 17,000 people kept in S-21 from 1975-1978, only seven were known to have survived.  Basically, Tuol Sleng was not a very enjoyable place to live.

Classroom, converted into a torture chamber. On the bed sits a car battery. On the wall, a picture of the battery in use on an inmate, just to hammer the point in.

A list of the various Do's and Dont's at Tuol Sleng, all translated into tragically funny "Engrish"

Would grades improve if all schools had a gallows in the front lawn?

Bats!

Names and faces of all inmates to Tuol Sleng, all executed shortly after their stay here.

Cells at S21. I would not have slept comfortably.

Like a bitter chaser of misery following a burning, double shot of despondency, we waste no time upon leaving Tuol Sleng hopping on a cab and taking a route from the prison that, 30 years prior, would’ve likely meant certain death.  Choeung Ek.  The killing fields.  Once an orchard 17 kilometers from Phnom Penh, the open land was turned into a site of regular massacres by the Khmer Rouge with mass graves there containing the remains of thousands of Cambodians.  Politicians.  Teachers.  Engineers.  Writers.  Enemies of the State.  Today, a Buddhist shrine stands to honor the dead containing a pillar of skulls within, that no one may ever forget the atrocities committed here.

The shrine at the Choeung Ek killing fields.

Inside the shrine to the dead

Nomads at Night

Are we timid vacationers, hiding behind the fences of the world’s various all-inclusive resorts, too afraid to step out and sample the local flavor, be it insect, root or even man’s best friend?  Of course not!  We drink the classical poisons of third world villages so remote they don’t even know of the first two worlds, and subject ourselves to rashes, diseases, ailments and maladies, all in the name of adventure, of curiosity, of boredom.  We make love to foreign women with mocha colored skin and English skills limited to what can be learned from watching The Simpsons and take ridiculously ill-conceived chances simply because we’re lucky enough to find ourselves in places where such ill conceptions are even conceivable.  And yes, we drink an opaque beverage translating to “palm whisky” that tastes like paint thinner and is sold by the cupful from a large orange cooler attached to the back of an unscrupulous looking Cambodian’s bicycle, simply because we can.

Mobile palm wine and palm whiskey salesman

The palm (as in palm tree)-based concoction tastes like the morning breath of the recently deceased, pungent and without the promise of anything good to come.  The German who seems to live at this hostel has developed a fondness for it, but his admiration of the sour poison is not contagious.  He’s playing with the exuberant post-puppy that he calls “Dinner” tied to our table on the sidewalk outside of  the hostel.

“Why do you call it that?”

“Because some other backpackers apparently rescued it from a restaurant where it was going to be cooked up, but then they couldn’t take him home with them and had to ditch him at the hostel.”   The table stops jerking as the dog, who was just before attempting to eat his own tail, looks over at us with his mouth agape, clearly aware he was just the topic of conversation.  His slightly chewed tail begins to wag frantically as he bounds over toward me and places his front paws on my lap and stares at me with a degree of adoration that only puppies and prepubescent fans of boy bands are capable of mustering up.

Two liters of fresh palm wine! Some people really enjoyed it. I was not one of these people.

In China, I had briefly considered trying dog because that is what locals do.  Try Anything!  Do Everything!  Live a little, right?  At the back of a restaurant in Chongqing known for serving canines, they made the mistake of having a large cage with three dogs, presumably used for culinary purposes, on the floor near the restroom that I desperately had needed to use.  They barked and called after me, just like pet store dogs would, and as we made eye contact, I envisioned them dripping in kung pao sauce and wearing a crown of water chestnuts and bean sprouts and knew at once that I would never be able to dine on man’s best friend.

As I pet Dinner, the demure Davi sits next to me, decidedly not flirting.  The tall Cambodian girl looks like she could be anywhere from 14 to 22 years old; it turns out she’s 26.  Her face carries a mixture of serenity that could’ve been lifted from a statue of a Hindu goddess and the nervous suspiciousness of a wily street cat.  She tells us poutingly that she does not have a boyfriend.

“I’ll be your boyfriend,” I say.

“No!” she exclaims, though she doesn’t leave my side for much of the night.

As we play with our Dinner, more hostel guests arrive out front and we sip on palm wine and “Baroso” whisky, which seems to feature the bust of a Jersey Shore reject on its label.  I have big plans for tomorrow morning at 10 AM (see next post!) but tonight, we are exploring the nightlife.  We dodge swarms of gnat-like insects at an outside bar along the Mekong, then get lost in a maze of seemingly identical streets looking for nightclubs.  Davi guides us silently through the streets, advising that we skip some bars (including one with a “no handgrenades” sign outside) in favor of one further away that caters to foreigners.  They still search us brutally on the way in.

Tired and exhausted, I take my leave of the group not long after arriving at the last club.  Moments later, I notice Davi silently walking closely alongside me.

“Go away,” she says with a voice of total seriousness, as she moves in closer and follows me along through the dark, eerily quiet streets of late night Phnom Penh.

“You’re a very confusing person, Davi.”

“No I am not,” she assures me matter-of-factly.  It wouldn’t be the first time I did not understand a woman.

This Mr. Baroso was a subject of heavy conversation for much of the evening. Who is he? Is he really from New Jersey, as well all unanimously believe him to be? And if so, why is he the face of shitty Cambodian whiskey?

The wily Miss Davi

Picture taken very hastily (it was a really shady section of town and the doormen were glaring at me) outside a club in Phnom Penh that doesn't seem to appreciate grenades being brought in.

“Elephant!  Enter Angkor Thom like a king!  Ride the elephant!”

The short man in a red and gold period costume sits insouciantly near the head of the lumbering beasts as it trails me along a stone bridge.  Behind him is a large covered saddle, with what looks to be an overly wide red sofa perched loosely atop it.  Fit for kings, indeed, though how one gains access to the towering pillion is unclear.  The driver lounges on the front so casually, one would expect him to either slide off or lose control of the behemoth at any point, yet the elephant saunters along listlessly.  I smile up at the man.

A ride fit for a king, apparently

“Elephant?” he asks me.  I shake my head and resume my slow walk across the Angkor Thom causeway, under the watchful eye of the massive stone Gopura — a Hindu tower usually marking the entrance to a temple.  This one is  adorned with giant faces staring out in the cardinal directions, presumably for watchful protection.  Assisting them, or possibly just using the heads for a toilet, are a handful of monkeys that seem to have formed a playful bond with the thousands of weekly visitors to the site.

“Is only way to enter Angkor Thom!” he yells out after me.  My feet continue to prove him wrong.  From either side, an army of stone Devas (Hindu gods) and Asuras (demons) stare me down as I cross over toward the southern gate.  Motorcycles pass by with all the foot traffic, but Sapo explained that it is traditional to walk across; Sapo also looked pretty damned comfortable where he was, lounging on his bike as still as the stone figures alongside the bridge.  The figures sit there in perpetuity, both sides pulling a naga or “great snake,” which represents the Hindu creation myth of “Churning the Ocean of Milk.”  Angkor Thom has entrances at all four of the cardinal directions, and a fifth, the Victory Gate, which we pass through later on our way to explore more of the grounds.

Passing under the Gopura, past one of the first giant Angkor trees with roots dripping down over the rock like a psychedelic waterfall frozen in time, I catch my first glimpse of the Bayon Temple.  The temple was built by the great Jayavarman VII, an Ancient Khmer king of the 12th century and the leader who presided over much of Angkor Thom’s creation.  His pyramid-like palace sits on the grounds very close to Bayon, though it’s his temple, with its giant spires and multitude of serene stone faces that capture the most attention from tourists.

Posing with what I believe to be the gods and not the demons. It's not entirely clear...

How many millions of monkeys have these guys witnessed lazily crossing over into Bayon?

Crossing into Bayon, by foot, wheel or elephant

The multi-headed Gopura, watching over South Gate

Monkeys. I just missed the shot of this guy holding a Chinese man's baseball cap. The man had, for reasons unknown, tossed his hat up to the monkey, who proceeded to catch it, stare at it dully for a moment and the drop it to the ground and look away as though nothing had ever happened.

Intricate carvings along the side of the Gopura

Bayon Temple. From afar, it looks like a series of misshapen, rubble-y towers, though up close the rich calmness of the many stone faces is particularly impressive. Originally built as a Buddhist temple, it was used later by Hindus and then once again by Buddhists before being forgotten in the jungle. As such, several different styles of architecture and interior artwork are at play here. There is no moat around the temple as the city itself, Angkor Thom, has one enormous moat surrounding it.

The inside of Bayon is famous for being almost entirely covered in intricate bas reliefs like this one. Each tells a story, though I'm not exactly sure what the tale here is...

Because tourists like nothing more than posing with locals wearing period clothing! These girls hang out in Bayon all day and seem to do reasonably well with their business.

The long causeway between Baphuon and the Terrace of the Elephants

Baphuon. A Hindu temple honoring Shiva built in the 11th century. Originally taller, much of the three-tiered building collapsed over time and the restoration has been slow. A lot of effort was put into tracking down all of the original stones and where they were to placed, but then all of this information was forever lost when the Khmer Rouge came into power.

People selling paintings in Bayon. A little girl of about ten accosted me here trying to get me to buy postcards and calling me a "ladyboy" for not buying any. At first I put down her sales technique as ineffective, before giving in and buying some cards so she'd stop following me. Â What?

The official volleyball net of King Udayadityavarman II

Phimeanakas. The three-tiered pyramid-like Hindu temple inside the king's palace grounds. It's said that each night the king would spend time at the top with a different woman who represented the Naga (snake). It's so hard being king, sometimes...

More irreparable harm caused by third-rate renovation crews

The Terrace of the Leper King. Atop it sits a statue of Yama, the Hindu god of death. When re-discovered, the statue was so discolored and covered in moss, that it received the new nickname of "Leper King"

The Terrace of the Elephants. Attached by a long walkway to Phimeanakas, the terrace was the place where the king would view his returning army, hopefully after a victory.

Also from the Terrace of the Leper King

Artisans and dealers in kitschy trinkets can be found outside almost every archeological site — and there are at least forty spectacular sites alone on the overall Angkor map — though large dining areas are a bit more spread out.  Following my tour of Bayon and the king’s palace, Sapo and I stop for lunch (on my dime, of course) before plotting our next few stops.  Sapo’s a great driver, but fairly lacking on any interesting historical information; he seems happier to talk about his mistress, frankly.  There are plenty of other tour guides walking about, though, and I stop  from time to time to listen to the more interesting points.

While eating lunch, a girl of about twelve comes over to tries to sell me a t-shirt, failes, and then attempts to sell some magnets and other trinkets that I also have no interest in.  I push them away politely.  ”I rub your back,” she says excitedly, digging in her surprisingly strong hands to the area between my shoulders and neck.  ”Well, that’s.. not so bad actually…”  I let her continue for almost a minute until I look up and spot two female tourists in their 20′s staring peculiarly at a grown man getting massaged by a twelve year old.  I quickly toss her a dollar and wish her good luck elsewhere.  Talented kid, though.

My attractive, if not particularly flavorful, lunch. I asked for something uniquely Cambodian (spaghetti bolognese and hamburgers were on the menu too) and got this. Unfortunately, I made no notes as to what was in it...

Sapo, thrilled to be eating lunch with me.

Following lunch, Sapo and I ride out northwards to a series of sites I’d picked out while we ate.  There are at least twenty spots worth seeing, and only enough time for five or six of those, so time is of the essence.  The temple of Preah Khan.  The large fountain at Neak Pean.  And the perfectly picturesque Ta Som and Ta Prohm, both so beautifully absorbed into the jungle.  Depending on time, we might catch a few others, before timing our day to end atop Ta Keo for one of the best views of the surrounding landscape.  It’s an ambitious schedule, but definitely worthwhile.

Preah Khan. A very large temple complex located just to the northeast of Angkor Thom

While Angkor Wat and most of Angkor Thom were still in marginally good condition, this was the first example of a temple that had been semi-reclaimed by the jungle around it

Preah Khan is low and flat, but very large, with shrines to over 430 deities within it. Most of the statues at those shrines have since been removed, either by thieves, or to protect them for safekeeping

Bird-like Garuda, ancient enemy of the snake-like naga (which Garuda here holds triumphantly in his hands)

Neak Pean. Literally "entwined serpents," due to the many snakes running along the base of the sculpture at this artificial island shrine. It is actually a series of five pools (a central one, with four others built off of it in the cardinal directions) built for medical purposes. Â The four pools are meant to represent Earth, Air, Fire and Water, and it was thought that entering these pools would provide balance to bathers, thus removing disease.

The temple at Ta Som. Built, like so many of the buildings here, by Jayavarman VII, this temple was a shrine to the king's father who ruled from 1150 to 1160

One of the more famous trees, this sacred fig tree has almost completely covered the eastern gopura (entrance) to the temple

The East Mebon. One of the older sites in Angkor, this 1oth century temple was built for the god Shiva.  Originally built as an artificial island, the surrounding lake has since dried up.  Landing stages around the base of the temple show it was  once reached by boat.

Elephants are a common motif here, with statues of the animals found on all corners

Pre Rup. Â Like East Mebon to the north of it, this temple was made of brick, sandstone and laterite. Â Meaning "turn the body," the temple was a place for funeral services where the ashes of the recently deceased would be turned in the four cardinal directions over the course of the ceremony.

Maybe this is just me being infantile, but I was fascinated by the fact that these statues of large cats were precise down to the asshole.

Ta Prohm. One of the most famous sites in Angkor, not for historical reasons so much as for being so picturesquely overrun by nature

Despite being so atmospherically reclaimed by nature, Ta Prohm is one of the newer temples here, built between the 12th and 13th century to honor Jayavarman VII's family

This local kid apparently found a good spot to take a nap

Ta Keo. Our final stop of the day. One of the recommended spots to catch the sunset in Angkor due to this temple's elevation. Sapo dropped me off down below, and then I hiked up a large hill to get to this temple. Those not in the mood for a walk once again have the elephant option here.

The temple is comprised of five tiers, all made of sandstone. Originally, it too was surrounded by water

I'm not alone in wanting to catch the sunset here. While the sunset does bring out incredible colors in the buildings and surrounding countryside, the actual process of waiting is tedious and boring.

Sunset over Angkor

Following sunset, there’s little else to do here, and Sapo’s clearly done with me.  Siem Reap’s a lively town with a burgeoning club scene due to the steady influx of young tourists here.  But I’m apparently getting too old to spend thirteen hours exploring ruins and then go out and rage until dawn.  I have a nice meal with some Canadians and, since I know I’ll be sleeping for a long time anyway, risk ordering my meal “happy.”  This simple adjective, added on to nearly any course on the menu in many restaurants in Siem Reap, means the dish is prepared using ample servings of marijuana.  I tried a “pot brownie” once before.  I found the experience both miserable and paralyzing, as I was abandoned by nearly all of my faculties; As I try it this time before passing out on a surprisingly comfortable bed, the experience is not as unpleasant…

The inner causeway into Angkor Wat. There are five spire-like towers at the heart of it, with the tallest one rising up from the center. I can also say from personal experience that at any given time, 50% of the world's ancient monuments are covered in unattractive scaffolding.

My driver meets me just outside the airport in Siem Reap, Cambodia; it’d be a far more poignant moment if I had actually expected him or knew the man in any way.

“Hello man!  I am your driver.  I am Sapo.”  Sapo?  Isn’t that the name of that stuff we scraped off jungle frogs in Peru and rubbed into open wounds on our bodies to “remove our toxins”?  That’s a fun memory…

“Where are you taking me Sapo?”

Welcome to Cambodia!

“I take you anywhere you want, boss!  You want to see Angkor Wat sunset?  Very nice.  I’ll take you right now!”

“I don’t know, man.  I should probably just take a cab…”

Sapo drives a small motorcycle, a vehicle type I had hoped to be taking a long hiatus from riding, though I guess I should’ve known better.

“Really good price!  I have a wife and two kids!”

The family man’s price isn’t bad, and here on the outskirts of Siem Reap, there aren’t many options to choose from.  It’s uncomfortable riding on the edge of his seat with my large backpack catching stray gusts of breeze and dragging me to either side, but it goes against the general spirit of my peregrinations to avoid a particularly attractive sunset.  It normally costs money to enter the enormous temple complex, but at night Sapo tells me he can get me into the main temple for free if we arrive after 6 in the evening.

“And then after that, I take you to very nice hotel!”

“Cheap and lively would be nice…”

Racing the sunset

“Yes, exactly, and then I pick you up tomorrow morning, take you on tour.  Many things!”

“Let’s just get this sunset taken care of for now, Sapo!” I yell over the wind, nervously  gripping him tighter as we speed around a sharp curve.

“Have to go very fast.  The sun is setting!  We make it, no problem!”

“Sure sure…” I answer.  It occurs to me as I once again risk my life upon a motorcycle, that I’ve actually seen the sun set on multiple occasions in the past.

Angkor Wat.  The legendary temple complex hidden away in Cambodia’s jungles almost as well as Machu Picchu is nestled away in Peru.  There are many parallels between the two sites, though Angkor Wat is almost five hundred years older.  And it is much, much bigger…

Sapo and me, speeding along uncomfortably on our way to Angkor Wat

A Brief History

The sun has almost disappeared when I first spot the unforgettable towers of Angkor Wat (literally “City Temple”), still waging their millennial battle with the jungle that surrounds them for dominance of this land.  For hundreds of years, it appeared that the temple complex — and there are scores of massive, ornate temples and palaces dotting the Angkor region — had lost spectacularly (just look to the centuries old trees firmly planted over the ancient stonework for proof).

A well-dressed Buddhist statue inside one of the outer rooms of the temple. There are several like this, decorated in fancy clothing and offerings, and rooms are almost choked with incense smoke

While most of the ancient city of Angkor Thom had disappeared into the jungle, Angkor Wat itself never fully fell out of use.  Originally built almost a thousand years ago as a Hindu temple to worship the god Vishnu, the enormous temple  – considered the largest religious building on the planet — eventually was repurposed by Theravada Buddhists who have continued to use the temple regularly to this day.

However, it was Angkor Wat’s re-discovery by the French in the 19th century helped boost its popularity on an international scale, and specifically the writings of Henri Mouhout who wrote of it:

“One of these temples—a rival to that of Solomon, and erected by some ancient Michelangelo—might take an honourable place beside our most beautiful buildings. It is grander than anything left to us by Greece or Rome, and presents a sad contrast to the state of barbarism in which the nation is now plunged.”

While Cambodia was under French control, the vast archeological site was opened up for the first time in centuries and the city of Siem Reap became a hot spot on the bucket list of that age’s most intrepid travelers and explorers.  All of that changed, of course, when Cambodia fell to the Khmer Rouge and Pol Pot’s decades of slaughtering his own people.  It’s only since his demise in the 90′s that Angkor Wat has once again become a national treasure, with more and more tourists flocking to it annually.

Surrounding the temple for several kilometers is a massive complex of stone buildings constructed around the 11th century known as Angkor Thom, or “great city.”  Only religious and political figures used the stone buildings in their day, and it’s believed that nearly all the land here was covered in small wooden buildings as well for the normal populace, though almost all hints of these structures have been destroyed by time and nature.  Some historians credit Angkor Thom as having a population of over a million during its heyday in the 12th century, giving it a sprawling population greater than the contemporary cities of London and Paris combined.

A layout of Angkor Wat's grounds. The large moat around it kept the jungle for reclaiming the temple for the past thousand years.

Today, Angkor Wat is probably this country’s biggest source of pride.  It graces both the flag and the local currency, not to mention any tourist brochure or poster ever made for Cambodia.  It’s also a minor point of contention with Thailand, as the Thais have laid claim to this land in the past.  As recent as 2003, false rumors of a Thai soap opera actress claiming Angkor Wat belonged to the Thais caused massive riots in Phnom Penh.

My own observation: I think it’s the most brilliant archeological site on the planet.  Every temple, even those most ravaged by history, is a masterwork of intricately carved stonework down to the smallest detail.

After dropping me off  at sunset last night, Sapo negotiated a price with me.  He started high, claiming his girlfriend was pregnant and he would have to pay for the baby.

“I thought you said you were married, Sapo?”

“Married yes, to my wife.  This is my girlfriend.  Different.”

“What??  Mistresses are a luxury, dude.” I stick to my original price and eventually he capitulates.

Angkor Wat, gracing the flag of Cambodia

True to his word, Sapo picks me up at five in the morning, and we zipped around the countryside from massive temples to impossibly large palaces, from sunrise until after dusk and still I saw but a fraction of what Angkor has to offer.  For better or worse, almost all the ruins are completely open for visitors to scamper through unhindered; Roped off areas and “Do Not Enter” signs are at a minimum.  This might not be best for Angkor Wat’s continuing health, but it sure is an incredible hands-on experience.

Other travelers to the Angkor region agree that after a day or so, Angkor Fatigue kicks in, where one begins to get numb to the endless variety of ruins to explore here.  In a similar vein, I feel that posting all of my pictures in a single entry might be too much, so I’m using this entry solely for my pictures from Angkor Wat (both sunset and the  following morning’s sunrise), and the following post will contain all of the remaining pictures from around Angkor Thom.

The main causeway leading into Angkor Wat across its large moat

Trying to capture the scope of the moat

Sunset at Angkor Wat, just about an hour after flying into the country

And sunrise the next morning. Over a hundred people already sat out here when I arrived at 5:30 am, waiting for the sun

Just a regular wall inside Angkor Wat. Look carefully at how intricately the walls are decorated.

A monk chatting up a tourist in one of the main room inside the temple

The stairs are thin, steep and worn down over time. Getting this shot with the ten second auto-timer on my camera wasn't nearly as easy as my suave demeanor makes it out to be

Sunrise at Angkor Wat

The outer wall of the Wat

Holes drilled into the rocks from the scaffolding. A tour guide explains that when Cambodia began renovations on the Wat several years ago, they went with the cheapest option. This is the result...

A fairly large monastery located just next to Angkor Wat. I wandered over and seemed to be one of the few foreigners over there. A young monk in training, looking to practice his English, took me on a tour of the grounds then introduced me to one of his elders. Taking off my shoes, we went into their small temple where the aged monk sprayed me with a thin mist of perfume and recited a blessing over me, while giving me a red, braided bracelet which I still wear. The young monk told me that an offering of any sort is now expected, and I sheepishly gave them the equivalent of a dollar, which they seemed content with. I asked Sapo about it later and he explained that offerings from locals are often just food or small personal trinkets, and one dollar was more than generous.

Easily the city with the most western influence, Ho Chi Minh City's even more decorated than usual due to the recent Tet holiday

Through the long, sweltering Vietnamese morning, that damned Fear still emanates forth from my gut, brought on by the premonition of my front wheel savagely rupturing in a chain reaction of death, destruction and physical mutilation.  But as the numbers on those roadside kilometer markers — still so uncomfortably shaped like little gravestones along the highway — get smaller, an undeniable sense of exhilaration wells up from within me.  Ho Chi Minh City.  Saigon, until the last Americans finally left in 1975 and those northern tanks came a rollin’ into town.

The speakers of idioms and purveyors of wisdom claim it’s all about the journey and not the destination, but this is certainly one destination worth being excited about.  Through good times and bad, my little bastard of a Minsk has been both a sensuous, well oiled machine and a clunky, death-defying lemon, with wheels that could barely have been more volatile if they’d been formed out of cheap balloon rubber.  I’ve euphorically sped down empty country roads buffeted by cool breezes while some of the most incredible landscapes in the world passed me by.  Likewise, I’ve sat on the cliffs of treacherously steep mountain roads with the stalled motorbike while having rich, visceral fantasies about pushing the damned thing over the edge once and for all in an explosion of flames, ruptured rubber, broken headlamps, scaldingly hot fake leather seats and cheap, unreliable engine parts.

Free fried rice cakes to go with my breakfast. I'm not sure what was in the center, but it was slightly sweet. They were "ok"

Miraculously ignoring every minor peril thrown my way, it seems like I’ll actually be pulling in to Ho Chi Minh City by early this afternoon.  I can’t escape the deep, background anxiety brought on by the troublesome tire, but aside from that it’s been smooth riding all morning.  Breakfast is at a roadside stand where the elderly proprietor tells me in broken English he’ll be going to China soon — specifically Hong Kong — after examining my passport in curiosity while I eat.

I have the pho, but a woman that I presume to be his wife excitedly brings me some strange fried rice cakes to go with it that they do not charge me for.  As I leave, he introduces me to his  son, a mentally handicapped man of about forty.  I drive away with uncomfortable thoughts of Agent Orange in my mind and a mildly guilty feeling that takes me a while to shake.

By noon, I presume that I’m barely an hour from the city, but hunger demands that I stop immediately.  It’s a much easier meal than my prior one; a beautiful Vietnamese girl wants to practice her English, and I suffer her company through the entire lunch with little difficulty.  She invites me to come visit again while I am in town and it’s a kind offer, but in a perfect world, I won’t be a Minsk owner for much longer.

Visitors to Paris are greeted by that legendary, looming tower that once stood as the tallest building in the world.  Assuming the land isn’t reclaimed any time soon, tourists in Los Angeles flock to the historic “HOLLYWOOD” sign like pop culture pilgrims.  Jesus “The Redeemer” Christ smiles down on nearly everyone that comes to Rio, and of course, newcomers to Ho Chi Minh City are greeted by none other than ol’ Uncle Ho himself.  That’s right, upon entry to the city sits a one-man Mount Rushmore, seemingly formed from out-of-place stalagmites reaching psychedelically up toward the sky, with Ho’s stony facade welcoming all that come to visit.

The mountainous bust of Ho Chi Minh, greeting all that come to his city

As expected, it’s a much larger and crazier city than anywhere I’ve passed through since Hanoi, but it only takes a few roadside map checks to get my bearings and find the cheap hotel district.  More than anywhere else I’ve been in Vietnam, this city caters to foreigners with their peculiar foreign tastes; for the first time in so many months, I’ve got a truly eclectic selection of food choices from around the world:  Pizza, Mexican, Italian, tapas, sushi, burgers!  Irish pubs actually staffed by genuine Irish people!  And yes, Chinese food as well.  No thanks!  I take note of the Tex-Mex joint, then focus on my hotel situation (still no hostels — there haven’t been since Hanoi, sadly).

I’ll say one thing for my Minsk: It almost always breaks down in convenient places.  Driving down a street fully laden with chintzy hotels catering to tourists, the loud, barking revolutions of the motorcycle’s engine suddenly burp down to a soft hum before dwindling to nothing at all.

Dragons wandering the streets of Ho Chi Minh City. Tet still lingers everywher

“Really?  Really?!”

Possibly sensing that I would soon be ditching it in favor of transportation that doesn’t regularly try to harm me, my bastard of a Minsk has apparently decided to screw me over one last time for posterity.  Kickstarting the engine four, five, six times, I cackle madly and ponder whether I’m genuinely amused or simply broken.  All to no avail.  It’s dead.

“REAALLLLY??!?“

Unstrapping the bags and removing them weakly from the rear of the bike, I stumble into the first hotel I can find without bothering to lock up the Minsk.  As diligently as I’ve been about its security during this trip, it strikes me now that no knowledgeable Vietnamese person could ever possibly want it.  The room’s on the fourth floor (no elevator), has no air conditioning and is more expensive than what I’ve read about in the guides.

“Too much!” I say.  ”I’m tired and I’m broken, but this is a terrible deal.”

“Is good price!” he argues.

“No.  No it isn’t.  And I’m sorry but I require a victory right now, dammit!”

I storm out and barrel across the street to a different hotel with an ostentatious yellow awning hanging above it.  Third floor.  Air conditioning.  Very nice! Some brief investigating shows this offer to be only marginally true, but the room’s passable.  The short, springy bed calls out to me, and I desperately long for its coarse, caved-in embrace, but there’s no rest yet for Minsk owners.

Sunset from the rooftop bar at the Sheraton

My hair is dirty and disheveled, my clothes smattered on with several days of highway scum, my face, haggard, burnt and unshaven.  Pushing the tired motorcycle down the hot, once-Saigon streets, I mumble to myself like a madman, barking at the inanimate bike irately each time my leg gets too close to the engine and its pointy, unforgiving bits scrape across them.  In short, I am a walking, neon “Get the fuck away from me!” sign, starkly visible to all wary passers-by.

It’s quite fortuitous then that Nathan decided to walk up to me anyway.

“Pardon me, squire [Note: Nathan, a Brit, regularly called me "squire."  I've never heard anyone else of our age use this term, but admit that it amused me.], but that’s a Minsk, right?” he asks excitedly, coming up to examine the lifeless fossil.  ”First one I’ve seen so far!  I’m actually looking for one of them.  Can I ask where you bought it?”

Not one hour in town, and I’ve already got a buyer.  And he’s interested, despite seeing that the Minsk indeed lives up to its notorious reputation.  Some good news, perhaps?

“Well, I picked it up in Hanoi actually.  Just got into town today.  Barely.  I’m looking for someone to buy it actually, but I’ll warn you that the engine’s not playing very nicely right now.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard they do that…”  Ahh!  Clearly someone who has researched Minsks.

He trails me as we search for a mechanic, and I’m honest about the bike’s history.  Let’s face it: This Minsk has inspired gratuitous cursing, spitting, screaming, and kicking, cruel insults, streams of tears and even a couple of near-death experiences.  But, hey.  Other than that, it’s been a pretty rad time.

I regale him with stories of unforgettably lush, green valleys that stretch off into blue ocean horizons, and I warn him of those monstrous buses, cruelly bearing down on all hapless motorcyclists from north to south and back again.  And, with that same naivete that I once brought to the situation, he’s regaled by the Good and oddly enthralled by the Bad;  his desire to take off on this fool’s journey just increases with my every word.

The only mechanic we find willing to fix the bike wants to keep it overnight, and charges thirty dollars, which is almost more than all of my other repairs combined.  Assuming all goes well and the Minsk does a reasonably good job of pretending to actually be a functioning motorcycle tomorrow, Nathan’ll buy the thing from me for three hundred dollars — just a bit less than I paid for it — the next day.

“You ever ride a motorcycle before?” I ask.

“No, but I figured this would be a good place to learn.”

“Guess I can’t argue with that…”

Leftover US equipment at the War Remnants Museum

We spend a few hours walking through town, exploring the uncomfortably effective War Remnants Museum [hint: It's not very pro-American!] and walking through HCM City’s parks and thoroughfares.   By night, the city is said to have the best nightlife in all of Vietnam, and with an assortment of international travelers, we put this theory to the test.  The glitziness of it all, especially with the lavish Tet decorations still dangling from every outcropping, make the city seem so… un-Vietnamese after what I’ve seen elsewhere in the country.  Maybe that’s what makes this place such a good bookend to my journey.

A Proper Haircut

Morning comes, and three of us from the night before meet for a recommended haircut/massage combination.  The French Canadian explains that he’d just gotten his hair done the day before and it was one of the greatest experiences of his life.

“Haven’t you seen the barbershops here, man?  With the girls?  They’re so beautiful and stand outside in skimpy, matching outfits that make them look like prostitutes…”

“Perhaps they’re actual prostitutes..?” I suppose to him.

“No, not at all– I asked them.  It’s a great operation.  I love this haircut, and the massage?  So good!  But they do nothing else.  And only ten dollars!”  he exclaims.

The worst order of nachos ever, from the Sheraton in Vietnam. What you see is what we got. For eight US dollars.

Sold.  It helps that he tempts Nathan and myself, both particularly shaggy right now, with this idea after a few drinks the night before at HCM City’s Sheraton (ridiculously overpriced for Vietnam, and the WORST Nachos ever, though it does provide a superb view of the skyline).  At the hair salon, the girls are, as described, wearing matching, skimpy white dresses that seem to end mere inches below the crotch.  All breathtakingly beautiful.

I’m slid directly into a soft barber’s chair and treated to a relaxing scalp massage, which is often the norm.  What is most definitely not the norm is that almost immediately, a girl on either side of me takes each of my palms and begins to massage them while my hair is being washed.  It’s possibly one of the greatest sensations I have ever felt, sexual activities included.  The subsequent body massage was almost as good, and peculiarly preceded by unnecessarily covering my face with slices of cucumber for reasons I still don’t entirely grasp, even after researching this treatment online.

“You were right,” I tell the French Canadian exuberantly as we depart the salon.  ”Those girls actually were just salon professionals, despite those outfits.  It was just an incredible, wholesome experience!”

My face, cucumber'd

“Nah, mate, I was totally wrong!” he tells us excitedly.  Apparently, he explains, he had ventured his fingers up into the nether-regions of his masseuse and kept them there for the duration of the massage.  She neither complained nor discouraged his seemingly invasive action, and the final price of his massage wasn’t in any way altered.  This exchange only left me filled with confusion and unanswered questions.  First of which:  Who the hell just randomly puts their fingers into their masseuse’s vagina?  Maybe it’s a Quebec thing.

The Minsk is fixed, at least temporarily; I’m honest with Nathan when I tell him that this mechanic won’t be his last.   We swap information, and he heads off on a motorcycle trip across Vietnam that just a year earlier I might’ve thought crazy.  Actually, my thoughts on such a venture are unchanged.  It’s madness and stupidity, all subtly cloaked with a child-like sense of adventure.  I regret nothing.

But now it’s time to pay a visit to Cambodia, to see the great Angkor temples, and to research something interesting I’ve heard you can do to the cows there…

PostScript: A week later I got the following message from Nathan on Facebook: “The bike was fucking awsome. by far the best time ive had in my life. sadly though it was totally knackered and i had to sell it. absolutely gutted! So im taking the bus north and will try and get another in hanoi and take it to sapa.”  Feeling terrible for having sold the man a lemon, I wrote and apologized, though he insisted that he loved the time he had on it, and didn’t feel cheated by me in any way.  He knew what to expect.  We are the few, the proud, the stupid, the frugal, the frustrated and the drastically unprepared.  We are the unsung squires of the Vietnam highway system.  We are the Minsk owners.

Looking down on the city's crowded main thoroughfare from the Sheraton bar

A not-at-all culturally insensitive photo taken at the War Remnants Museum

The lively streets of Ho Chi Minh City

Coming out of a casino (poor choice) we ran into these two and had them pose for pics. The first shot was lackluster, so I encouraged the kids to put more Tet Tiger energy into it. One listened. Kind of...

Nathan, proud owner (at least for now) of a new used Minsk

Goodbye, my flaky travel companion. We had interesting times together

Even with the suntan lotion I purchased (finally) in Nha Trang, the skin-scalding sun that should feel so bright and energizing somehow feels dim and cold, and I feel no thrill at being on the open road, no joy from my supposedly carefree Vietnamese adventure.  All I feel is a sickening vibration that courses through the bones on my palms, straight through my arms across my entire body, turning it into a blurry clump of thick, man-shaped jelly sitting atop a motorcycle.  The wobbling from my front wheel has only gotten worse, and its effects tortuously rumble through the core of my being to a degree that never drops below feeling like a seven or more on the richter scale.

At slow speeds, the groove created from the misshapen wheel is more easily felt and so I carelessly push the Minsk until the tooth-clattering vibration is at a steady rate and the engine whines from the effort.  One and a half days to Ho Chi Minh City, barring any unforeseen calamities.  Please don’t let there be any more unforeseen calamities.

But I am in Vietnam, and I ride a Minsk down highway 1A.  My sheer existence blights the landscape like a colossal calamity magnet, attracting dark, malignant tendrils of disaster and misfortune that I cannot hope to outrun.  I can only keep driving as the tension, slowly radiating out from the pit of my stomach like so much regurgitated pho, rises and swells until the pressure is simply too much and something has to explode.

PFFFUUUPPPPPPP

“FUCK AHHHH FUCK FUCK AHHHHFFFFF FUHH  FUCK SHIT SHIST SHITTT AHHHHHHH!“

The front tire, shoddily replaced just days ago and then subjected to this morning’s abusive riding, has finally reached a point where it can bear traveling with me no more.  Having already died on me once, taking the softer “whimper,” route, it has now opted for the more violent and horrifying “bang” option instead.  And so I am now cruising down the highway at around 50 kilometers per hour without the benefit of a front tire.

Repairman number one...

There are probably lessons given in motorcycle riding schools that cover this eventuality; I have not been to such a school, and I certainly have no idea of what to do.  They say that in true emergencies, our instincts take over and guide us toward the proper decisions.  So far, my instincts have only caused me to scream a vile, incomprehensible stream of profanities and garbled shrieks at the top of my lungs.

My saving grace is a flat, straight and reasonably empty highway.  Had any of those three not played a part in this scenario, my landing might’ve been far less graceful.  The pop of the tire is preceded by a wheeze of compressed air escaping that lasts just a split second, but still manages to provide me with a slight warning.  My right hand and right foot work in tandem almost immediately, triggering both of the bike’s brakes, but from the first, sudden lurch that followed the initial burst, my control of the motorcycle has dwindled down to almost nothing.

The slightest twitch of the handlebars off center pitches the Minsk uncomfortably to either side.  First to the right, and then to the left as even the slightest adjustment I make can’t help but be a grave overcompensation and cause me to zig-zag uncomfortably down the road.  Right again, then left.  How many times this jerky wobbling from side to side occurs, I cannot say.  The entire ordeal surely lasted less than ten seconds, but as I somehow skid safely to a halt in the dirt beside the road, it feels as though an eternity passed since the initial blowout.

Innertube number two. He's slicing it to make a protective middle-tube to go between the new inner tube and the tire

For a time, I sit on the bike in a state of near shock, still shaking with adrenaline.  By all accounts, it was as skillful a landing as I could’ve possibly pulled off, but I’m sure a great deal of luck was on my side as well.  Before I even consider the need for a mechanic, a woman holding a small child has run up to me and seems to have something to say.  She speaks no English, but must’ve watched what happens and is aware of my problem.  I seem to be in a marginally populated area, so help can’t be too far away.

Without speaking, we walk together for about half a kilometer.  The heat of the sun is much more apparent when one is pushing a broken motorcycle than when one is deluged with cool breezes while riding one.  At the garage, the mechanic is young, but actually speaks some English.  It’s not like getting across my situation is very difficult, though.

He pulls out the innertube and whistles appreciatively, then tosses me a shredded black mass of clumps and tatters that resembles no earthly object.  Like the last mechanic to fix my flat, he’s quick about replacing the tube, and also like the the last fix, the freshly filled tube bursts almost immediately, despite being brand new this time.  He runs his fingers gingerly through the inside of the tire.

“Tire is bad.  Here.”  He takes my hand and guides it along the coarse inner lining of the tire, to a cluster of sharp, tiny metal points that seem to be growing out from the rubber.  It seems clear, even to me, that any new tube placed within the unwelcoming tire will most likely suffer the same explosive fate.

The strange, minaret-like tower across from my hotel in Phan Thiet

“Can you fix?  Do you have another tire.”

“Hmmm.  No.”  The freshly expired inner tube is in a much better state than the one that suffered the blowout, and he begins moving it about in his hands while he examines it.  Slicing the entire tube open from end to end, he slowly stretches it around the outside of a pristine inner tube he’s just removed from a small box.  Protecting the new tube with the old one?  Will that even work?

“Will that even work?”

He shrugs his shoulders, inspiring little confidence.  Shortly afterward, the tire appears fixed, though my anxiety levels would likely be much lower if I hadn’t been privy to the repair job.  He takes the bike for a quick spin around the block before presenting it to me with a polite smile.  I ask him about the bent wheel, but he tells me there is nothing that can be done for it, and I accept his answer because it is all I can do.  An hour of total labor, plus parts: seven dollars.

The Fear

Lunch in the town of Phan Rang.  The pho is different down here.  More ingredients (like quail eggs).  Richer broth.  It’s been an hour since the repair job, and the wobbling bike has so violently rocked the palms of my hands that they itch and burn, distracting me from the road.  But the most unfortunate thing to have been altered by the blowout has been its effect on my psyche.

It’s clear that The Fear has set in.  Any trust between the Minsk and myself has been forever shattered, and like a magnet my eyes continue to drift back down to the  front wheel.  In my mind, it’s no longer a question of if it will go flat again, but how soon, and how explosively and at how inopportune a time?  Going around turns that before I would’ve unhesitatingly blasted through at the Minsk’s decidedly not rocket-like top speed, I now find myself riding the brakes as my veins pump with anxiety and adrenaline, remembering the pop of the tire and the lack of control it brought with it and imagining the same calamity along these steep, mountain roads with their obvious disdain for any sort of safety railing.  Everything pleasant about the ride has deserted me, replaced only by an unabating Fear, and an irrational certainty that I will not make it to Ho Chi Minh City in one piece.

And the damned wobbling is really fucking pissing me off.

Random cows resting in the median strip at night in Phan Thiet

With barely more than a day to go in my journey, I finally begin weighing the pros and cons of abandoning the motorcycle on the side of the road (possibly with a forceful goodbye kick) and hopping aboard one of the many buses I’ve come to know and despise during my stay in Vietnam.  I might’ve given that option a bit more consideration, if only I didn’t hate how that story would’ve ended.  Passing what looks to be a large mechanic’s shop on the outskirts of a small town, I give the troubled motorcycle one last chance.

Two men of about my age come out to investigate when I pull up, though it’s significantly more difficult explaining this problem than one so obvious as a flat tire or stalled engine.  They stare at me, perplexed for several minutes as I relentlessly fail at this game of motorcycle charades before I think to prop the bike up so that the front tire spins freely, just a few inches in the air.  Placing a wooden block between that gap and the ground, I give the wheel a good spin and then we all look on as the tire intermittently rotates closer and then farther to the wood in wobbly turns.

The men double over in laughter, but with a series of nods and choppy Vietnamese I get the impression they’re willing to work on the problem.  It’s a long and complicated procedure involving the wheel being separated from the bike and the tire from the wheel, and in whole it takes a little over an hour to complete.  After a successful test ride and a payment of around fifteen dollars, I have the closest thing to a fully functional and smooth riding motorcycle than I’ve had in close to a week.

Riding the remaining hour or so to Phan Thiet should be a simple trip, especially with the Minsk no longer feeling like a angry, cantering horse on cocaine, but my awareness of the shortcomings of my front tire never leaves and so The Fear remains.  On the map, I’m mere centimeters from Ho Chi Minh City, but the actual kilometers involved can’t blur by me fast enough.

Dinner on the street in Phan Thiet. This was the only food option I could find, and it wasn't that bad though I'm sure this woman was flirting with me the whole time, even if I couldn't understand a word she said.

A religious shrine in an open room on the top floor of my hotel. There are much more Christians in the south.

My hotel in Phan Thiet

Heading out in the morning. Just a few more signs like these to pass...

Nha Trang in the morning

The events in this entry took place on Tet in Vietnam, the Chinese New Year back in Chongqing, and Valentine’s Day in most of the western world.  February 14, 2010 was a busy day…

Back in my bizarre new home of Chongqing, China, the streets are bedecked with glowing cartoonish tigers and ostentatiously large red lanterns bathing the throngs of revelers celebrating the turning of a new year in a warm, rosy glow.  Sure, they drink heavily and blast off plenty of fireworks on December 31 as well  – the Chinese do love their fireworks — but the main event is still the lunar new year, with its eccentric cast of zodiac animals.  Out with the patient yet stubborn Ox, always so quick to anger.  In with the sensitive and thoughtful — if sometimes a bit paranoid — Tiger, a particular favorite of mine as I happen to have been born on a Tiger year.

Apparently during Tet, it is not uncommon to find dragons in your hotel.

On the same day in Vietnam, they celebrate the annual holiday of Tet, which also brings in a new tiger-themed year and is celebrated with ubiquitous lanterns and country-wide revelry.  Yes, it’s the same general holiday, with just a little bit of regional flair and a snappy, one-syllable name.  It’s also most commonly recognized in the States for being attached to 1968′s massive Tet Offensive, the largest coordinated attack by the North Vietnamese in the Vietnam War up until that point.  Though militarily a defeat for the north, the offensive is famous for weakening morale in an America that didn’t imagine the Vietnamese capable of such a well organized, large scale attack.

My own morale’s a bit low for not being in my temporary homeland for its biggest holiday of the year, but the Vietnamese are no slouches at national celebrations themselves, and the classically beautiful Nha Trang is probably a bit more attractive in most ways than gray, smoky Chongqing.  Ahh, Nha Trang.  Blue skies, big beaches and hoards of scantily clad female muggers trolling the streets for clueless foreign types.

The last one there is a recurring horror story I keep hearing from tourists who’ve visited Nha Trang: A young man suddenly finds himself surrounded by a pack of seemingly non-threatening young women in typically trashy prostitute-wear.  No thanks, ladies, not interested, ha ha, um, wait, why are you ladies touching me there?? And of course, the next thing the naive fellow knows, they’ve got their arms locked around him like a giant sensuous spider, trapping him in place while they slip through his pockets and free him of his valuables.

This tragic scenario thankfully did not happen to me, though I did spot a few bands of women that matched the description and did my best to avoid them.  Yes, I did what most tall, masculine men would do when faced with an approaching hoard of hot, young women: I nervously scampered across the street, looking over my shoulder in nervous apprehension until the fiery harem had passed.

Alas, the only spicy thing to happen between myself and any scantily clad Vietnamese woman upon my arrival in Nha Trang was a series of heated games of Connect Four.

“Is that something sexual?” I asked, amused, stopping my aimless stroll through the small touristy section of town upon hearing the girl’s street-side request for a match at the classic Milton Bradley game.

“Not sex.  Is game,” she says with a hint of irritation, pointing back at the classic vertical blue and yellow game set on one of the tables.  Her job, at least as she described it while we played, was to play Connect Four with guests to her bar so long as they continued to order drinks.

I had two rum and cokes while she repeatedly bested me, seven games to nothing.

Leisurely Daytime Activities

Aboard the snorkeling cruiseboat

Walking past a tempting offer for a mid-day Nha Trang “booze cruise” (they typically end messy, with most participants asleep by sunset — not ideal for an all-night Tet throwdown), I settle in on a snorkeling trip to a chain of nearby islands.  Travel magazines have regularly named Nha Trang Bay one of the most beautiful bays on the planet, and with good reason.  The white sand beaches are well tended, though the waters along Nha Trang’s main beaches tend to be a bit more brackish and dark than those further out by the islands.

Our boat’s a melting pot of ages and races, with about half of the passengers hailing from China, whose biggest world export now seems to be tourists.  Sadly, my Chinese doesn’t go beyond “I hear but do not understand you” and “how are you?,” so my conversations with the Chinese on board don’t get beyond these two basic statements (until lunch time when I can suddenly add “these noodles are delicious!” into the foray).

I spend most of my time with Ethan and Michelle, a couple my age from Australia, and John from the States.  The latter’s a biology teacher in South Korea on vacation with his parents, who encourage him to hang around with us instead of them.  The cerulean water’s refreshingly cool and crystal clear, and the large lunch (free) and beers (overpriced, but blissfully cold) that await us after an hour or so of swimming is a perfect closing touch to the experience.  Ethan and Michelle take turns high diving from the top level of the boat, though with my recent shoulder dislocation in Laos, I stick to playing it safe down below.

Heading back toward the main dock, the cruise ship pulls over briefly at a large floating fish market.  The platform is arranged in a large grid, with rows of narrow wooden planks serving as walkways around each square section of fresh seafood, which are separated only from each other and the open sea by thin netting.  The Australians and I order beers — also on the menu at the agreeable platform — and check out the merchandise, both normal and exotic, while a Chinese family negotiates for fresh lobster.  The sharks, small but distinctly predatory, are fascinating but come in second in entertainment value to a bizarre squid-like fish that rapidly changes colors at random.

Riding in the thung chai

As the Chinese wait on their lobster, two Vietnamese women in traditional conical hats row over in what looks to be a large, round cauldron made of wicker.  Half basket, half boat, the round, floating Thung Chais are notoriously difficult to paddle unless one happens to be a skilled Vietnamese fisherman.  As the three Chinese passengers that opt for a quick ride in the thung chai do not fit this category, it’s not long before they are laughing hysterically as the boat spirals out of control like the Disneyworld Mad Tea Party ride, while staying firmly rooted in the same spot in the water.

Thung Chai rides are common for tourists between Hoi An and Nha Trang, though the reason for their unique shape isn’t wholly clear.  The best explanation given to me was that the French once taxed boats, so wily fishermen began tarring the bottoms of large baskets and riding in them instead.  Most people simply believe that their size and shape made them easily mobile and capable of navigating through narrow and shallow waters of coastal Vietnam.  The frustrated laughter coming from the basket eventually dies down and the tourists pass the paddle back to one of the Vietnamese women so the wicker boat can drop the queasy threesome back off on the platform.

Through some kind of promotion, the Australians have a free room at the classy and expensive Novotel hotel a few blocks down the road from my own.  Top floor and beach side, their hotel is the perfect spot for watching whatever Tet in Nha Trang has to offer.  We agree on a time to meet up, then retire to our respective lodgings for rest and relaxation.

The island beach near where the boat anchored for us to snorkel. Warm, crystal clear waters made for nice swimming, though there weren't many fish out, and very limited coral

Lunch aboard the boat was included. Beer costs extra.

The floating fish market. Each of these squares contains a different breed of (living) sea-food.

The color-changing fish. It would go from an almost-white to this dark, purplish color in under a second at random, then slowly change back again.

The Tet Offensive

Russians next door, irate at one another for reasons unknown, bellow at each other vociferously enough to serve as my unofficial alarm clock.  By the time I’m showered and dressed, the clamor has taken a hiatus as the man, mid-50s in boxers and a white tank top, is now standing outside of our rooms smoking a cigarette.  He looks at me suspiciously for a moment as I step out, before returning his surly gaze to the floor.

Ethan and Michelle, before a sea of motorcycles

The Novotel’s reputation as the nicest hotel in Nha Trang is well deserved, though the average age of  its patrons in the lobby seems to skew toward the 60′s.  The Australian couple and I, plus John the professor, share a single round of over-priced beer in the lounge, snacking on the free crunchy bar snacks of the upper crust, before taking to the chaos of the Tet-fueled streets.  Cans of identical beer purchased from shifty sidewalk vendors cost a quarter of the price out here, and while the surroundings might not be as clean and sterile as they were in the Novotel, there’s certainly a more festive atmosphere.

There don’t seem to be nearly as many street vendors out here as there would be in industrious China, but all the basics are still available: beer, lighters, cigarettes, hats, lobster, and of course, long staffs made of clusters of connected palm fonds.  The latter are sold tied together like long, leafy sticks, with their bottom halves rigidly taut for support while their tops fan out and flap in the breeze as they’re vigorously shaken by celebrants in the streets.  Whatever their purpose, they lack the immediate compelling draw of the lobster and beer.

At eight dollars a piece, the large shellfish are a bargain, especially as we negotiate for free beers with the meal as well.  The lobsters are large and succulent, and about as perfectly cooked as can be, given they’re prepared by a street person on a small grill hastily propped up along a busy sidewalk.  We take to the beach and rip through the shells with our hands like savages, shredding through the surprisingly well-spiced lobster’s meat while staining our hands and our beer cans with its recently deceased bottom dwellers’ greasy inner fluids.

Street lobster. Anything that doesn't kill you makes you less hungry.

Posing with lobsters, beer and the diligent sidewalk chef

Nearby, a party rages at an outdoor beach club popular with tourists.  The roped-off plaza is currently blasting MGMT to a backdrop of flashing purple and red lights while a sea of white faces thrash upon the dance floor.  There’s an expensive cover charge for the all-night affair, and it seems a shame to be in Vietnam for Tet, yet roped off in a private and distinctively non-Vietnamese setting for the night.  Surely the beaches and streets, so vividly decorated and overflowing with exuberant natives, are the places to be tonight.

Motorcycle madness

In Vietnam, the term “pedestrian” apparently has a more fuzzy definition than elsewhere in the world, as it includes not only walkers of all shapes and sizes, but those on motorcycles as well.  I’ve already seen scooters, packed with boxes of produce loosely tied  to their backs, fight their way down the narrowest passages in crowded markets, and no one but the tourists direct even the most casual of glares toward them.

This behavior is in full effect tonight along Nha Trang’s long beach promenade, as at least half of the tightly packed crowd facing a large stage are sitting upon scooters of some sort.  Like fresh squids piled atop one another at the local fishmarket, the revelers are tightly packed against one another, yet the bikes push through the masses with impunity and insinuate themselves into the crowd.  If you’ve ever been to a crowded nightclub, try to imagine that scenario with gangs of motorcycles pushing through and you begin to understand the madness of this situation.

On the prominently located main stage, the young pop band, a mediocre act dressed in matching white suits, finishes their act and heads off stage while a group of garishly dressed dancers replace them.  We use their arrival as an excuse to push through the ocean of pedestrians and motorcycles back out to the packed main street.  By now, the police have closed off the road entirely to new traffic — either vehicular or pedestrian — and a throng of people stand trapped behind a newly erected barrier staring at us with looks of heavy disappointment on their face.

A slightly less crowded side street, just a block from the main show at the beach

Beer-less and flustered on the prohibitively busy street, we slip down a smaller road lined with row upon row of colored lights and lanterns that look to be made from pairs of conical hats stuck together, and we take refuge at a large bar topped with an aged-looking thatch roof.  It’s a nice respite from the frenetic streets and we sit and drink for a time, watching as lines of Vietnamese people across the street make a show of walking over a small, traditional-looking wooden bridge that doesn’t seem to cross over anything in particular.

Large blasts of Asian fireworks looming, we pay up and dash through the wild masses on the way back to the epic vantage point that only the Novotel balcony could offer.  Up ahead by a large monument, the crowd is at its densest with medium-sized circle open around a young Vietnamese man attempting to dance.  To no music in particular, the young man in his early 20′s performs an assortment of decidedly unspectacular moves before the mildly attentive crowd.

“He’s terrible!” cries Michelle.  ”I could dance so much better that that if there was actually any music playing.”

“No problem!” I proclaim, once again inspired to great feats of shameless spectacle through the amazing power of alcohol.  Using skills that every suburban white kid of my era incorrectly thinks himself to have, I immediate start beat-boxing — using my mouth, tongue and voice to create a theoretically rhythmic vocal percussion — to call her on her bold statement.  Without hesitation, Michelle begins to swing her arms to my impromptu beat, letting her body motions gradually grow with every movement into a hypnotic show of twists and thrusts.

The main stage, still early in the evening. Note the mix of motorcycles in the crowd

Through the sheer force of her presence, a new circle begins to form around us as people take note of her competing performance.  Within moments, our circle is now as large as the first one and still growing.  Sensing some kind of threat to his own act, the Vietnamese dancer — whose performance when compared to Michelle’s skillful gyrations could be described as paltry — crosses over into our own circle and without hesitation gives her a forceful push, causing her to only briefly lose her balance.

“WHAT?!” she spins around and bellows at him, spreading her arms wide in a challenge, her face almost flush against his, while still dancing to my blandly repetitive beat.  He stares back for a moment with a confused anger in his eyes before retreating back into the crowd in defeat, leaving only one large circle of people to cheer on the belligerent dance stylings of a drunken Australian and her arrhythmic American DJ.

Literally out of breath and having now used up every beat, gasp and shitty turntable sound effect my mouth is capable of making, I kill the beat and Michelle tempers her spectacle down gracefully into a flourishing bow.  The circle, now at its largest since we began, erupts into a sudden and unexpected applause while I now join her in bowing in thanks.

The unlucky ones. The barricade was put in place early on, and the same people were still trapped in place over an hour later when we returned.

“Thank you Vietnam!  We ARE the Tet Offensive!  Yeahh!!!” I raise my fists in the air as the cheers die down, keeping them up perhaps a few moments too long.

Wasting no time, we dash through the appreciative crowd in the direction of the Novotel, glowing like a beacon of extravagance just blocks away.  On the way, a vendor stands with a bushel of the strange, leafy staffs and suddenly I realize with all of my heart that I must have one.  Running through the masses, we take turns holding the flaccid green rod aloft, its heavy leaves flapping together as we shake it at the open sky, at errant motorcycles bearing down on us and at the rapidly retreating Year of the Ox.

Out in the ocean, a boat erupts with a steady stream of glimmering lights into the clear night air.  The appearance is less a series of short, individual blasts than a giant sparkling fountain of vividly colored explosions in the sky.  Rather than start slowly and build toward a definite climax, the stream of fireworks begin at full power and do not stop until the boat’s supply is apparently empty.  We cheer, shout, toast and show our appreciation with grand waves of the strange, green Tet staff, but as the fireworks end, it’s clear our night is winding down along with them.  Without a word, Michelle retires to bed, and it’s clear Ethan’s about ready as well.

Outside in the hallway, the remains of a giant food platter from a private party sits unattended on a large metal cart — satays, rolls, puff pastries and countless other finger foods — and the cornucopia of free victuals is too much for my Tet-riddled body to pass up.  An employee of the hotel eventually returns to the unattended cart and I stare at him sheepishly, caught in the act with a mouth full of half-chewed delicacies, but the porter just shrugs his shoulders.  Exonerated from any sort of blame, I grab two more sticks of the lukewarm satay and dash toward the elevator.

Near my significantly less opulent hotel, the outdoor club that caters to western clientele is still in full swing, though oddly enough the sound system is playing the same song by MGMT (“Kids,” by the way) that it was when we passed by hours ago.  For a few moments, I stand on the beach gazing in at the spectacle of dancing and revelry, before shrugging resignedly and stumbling off to bed.  This mostly solitary journey of mine around the world has been great practice for socializing with strange and intimidating groups of foreigners, but the energy and desire to do so now simply isn’t in me.

I’ve got to get up early tomorrow anyway; It’s still a long way to Ho Chi Minh City.

The wooden bridge over... nothing. As we drank at our outdoor bar, we watched as lines of people clearly made a point of crossing over the bridge. It seems like a fairly obvious new year metaphor, but we never found out for sure.

The proud owner of a new green Tet, uhh, staff-y thing.

The masses, as seen from the balcony

Fireworks, shot out from a boat in the bay

Blessing Vietnam with my Tet staff. I don't think Vietnam particularly wants the blessing.

Nice sunburn. Except around the eyes.

Despite being deluged at times by horrifying tales of Minsks gone wrong, I freely admit that after five hassle-free days, it’s possible that I got a little cocky.

In the grand scheme of Minsk disasters, my first series of mishaps rank fairly low on the devastating scale, with the motorcycle thankfully dying not with the proverbial bang, but rather a series of inconvenient whimpers.  Or perhaps sputters.  Just a kilometer or so outside of a small, mountain town, the engine and all its associated torque simply wheezed out on me with no warning and the bike rolled on to a sad and temporarily fatal stop.

Peculiar, I thought, pulling over and attempting to restart it.  Irritating, I thought, after a few failed kickstarts, each more increasingly violent than the one before.  Motherfucker, I thought after about five minutes of said failures, upon realizing that the Minsk was not, in fact, just taking a short break.  There are two positives here, though:

1. The road back into town has enough of a slant downhill that I can practically coast the entire way there.
2. I am actually right next to a town, rather than off in the wilderness somewhere.  There’s a Minsk mechanic in every town right?

Note the sudden influx of palm trees. As ubiquitous as they are in Vietnam movies, I hadn't seen many until passing south of Hue

I naively believed before today that the universal answer to this question was: “Yes.”  In fact, the standard answer is much closer to: “Usually.”  And today, sadly, when I’m in desperate need of one, it is assuredly: “No.”With the exception of a single mishap, my trip yesterday out of Hoi An had gone by rather smoothly.

The most dangerous vehicles on the road in Vietnam are, by far, the passenger buses, as they are driven by soulless bastards whose parents never loved them when they were small.  Their horns, always fired mere feet from the back of my head, sound off with the eardrum-crushing, cannon-like peal of angelic trumpets proclaiming the apocalypse.  Except those times where the driver opts not to use them at all, announcing himself instead with a violent, unexpected headwind that almost always pushes me uncontrollably to the shoulder.

They are relentless and they are plentiful.  Apparently, everyone has somewhere to go in Vietnam — especially with the huge influx of Chinese tourists — with caravans of these buses generally traveling in large packs.  I could almost accept that as an expected road hazard in a country with a growing tourist trade.  Except that every single one of them just has to be in front, which means there is a non-stop barrage of these deadly monsters passing one another on roads that weren’t originally built for vehicles of their stature.  What a great place to be learning to ride a motorcycle!

Case in point: If I’m on a narrow, two-lane bridge with no shoulder, it’s probably not good that two of these large buses are coming right at me, side by side, right?

Beautiful views through the mountains when buses aren't coming at me, especially in the early misty mornings

I’m guessing that it is not.  The bus in my lane has only just shifted over and is starting to pass, and has not yet made it onto the bridge yet, at which point, if I am still upon it, my life will be be forfeit.  All of my memories do not flash before my eyes, but there is a frantic realization that I am likely about to die and a stuttering stream of obscenities spews forth from me as I realize that the Minsk is already going as fast as it can.  I lean forward and apoplectically shout “FUUUCK” as though the sheer volume of my curse might flow through the bike like a shot of motor adrenaline and incite my tiny engine to work just a little harder this once.With scant inches between us, my bike clears the bridge at an angle right along its edge, and I dart out into the grass on the other bank, swerving recklessly to a jerky stop.  Quietly cursing as uncontrollably as a sufferer of Turrets, I get off the Minsk and sit down on the grass until my breathing is finally somewhat normal again.  No, I am not a fan of Vietnamese buses.

The rest of the day is thankfully less eventful.  For a while, a mysterious tower looms above me in the distance, perched away serenely on a hill.  It looks to be an incredible relic from another time, but I hadn’t read anything about it when looking into today’s route.  Over lunch in the small town of Song Ve, I’m told by someone with middling English skills that it’s called Cham Tower.  Tempting, but I’m too short on time, and there don’t seem to be any easily marked roads leading to it.

My mysterious, fried non-pho lunch

Lunch, surprisingly enough, isn’t pho for a change, but rather some cold fried pork served with bean sprouts and lettuce with a spicy Vietnamese sauce on the side.  The dish came with a lukewarm broth with small, flaccid chunks of squash floating within.  It’s nice to try something different I suppose, but pho actually would’ve been better.  I still smile profusely and mutter “raht nyan” which is my best attempt at the Vietnamese phrase for “delicious!”

Nightfall finds me in the city of Quy Nhon (Kwee-Nyan) at a fairly nondescript hotel along the main drag.  An old man with irregular patches of facial hair runs over to me as I stop and desperately wants me to follow him somewhere, but his English doesn’t even extend to “hello” and I’m too exhausted to be curious.  The hotel’s nothing to look at, but there’s a nice cafe behind it.

Four teen-aged girls in matching uniforms (it’s not clear if they’re for school or work) are sharing dinner — a simple broth, and a large bowl of what looks to be spinach — and they invite me over to join them.  They don’t speak much English and clearly think my presence is hilarious, but I’m not one to turn down a free meal.  A male in his 20′s eventually comes up and gives me a plausible escape from their constant tittering and talks to me for a while.  His name’s Minh and he’s a college student studying business at the local university, and he seems very excited about my trip.  After a few beers, I politely retire for a fitful night of sleep.  I acutely feel every spring in the bed, and the half-broken fan — necessarily on to keep the mosquitoes away — clicks relentlessly through the night.

Cham Tower

Minh, my friendly English-speaking company for the night

One of the girls that shared dinner with me. Looking at the uniform again it's clear that A) it's a work uniform and B) it doesn't go well with sweat stains.

Back to the Breakdown…

“Nyah-shih?” I ask a group of teen-aged boys skeptically.  I’ve been pushing the bike for ten minutes now looking for some sign of a mechanic in this small village, and so far I’ve seen no positive omens.  The three boys are huddled around an overturned motorcycle in someone’s front yard, and there’s an assortment of tools spread about.  It’s not promising, but I’m short on options.  One of the boys — the oldest looking, thankfully — smiles and nods his head, and within moments, he’s tinkering with the inner workings of the Minsk.

One of the boys attempting to figure out what's up with the Minsk. He does not succeed.

I watch in nervous silence as they turn bolts, detach cables and generally tinker with the bike with an uncertainty that grows in proportion to my rapidly shrinking faith in them.  After fifteen minutes of this, the head boy comes to me and shakes his head in disappointment.  ”Nyah-shih?” I ask again.   Mechanic.  And hopefully a real one this time.  The boys walk with me three houses down and knock on the side door of the house, calling out for what I hope is this town’s master mechanic and solver of problems.

My prayers are not quickly answered.  He gives a hearty — and in my opinion, ill-mannered — laugh upon seeing my bike and shakes his head vigorously while talking to me in Vietnamese.  I’m lost as to the subtle meanings, but it’s clear from his general mocking tone that he is not going to be able to help me.

I often wonder how situations like this would get resolved if it wasn’t for some miracle translator, always dropping in at the last minute.  In this case, said miracle goes by the name Yue and, despite the town’s extremely small size and isolated stature, he just happens to be walking by as I sit on the steps of the mechanic’s house with my head in my hands while an assortment of Vietnamese people shout at each other while gesturing madly toward my Minsk.

“Are you ok?” he asks me.

I’m not, but do my best to fake it in the name of politeness.  It turns out that there is normally a mechanic in town that can fix Belorussian beauties like mine, but he cannot do it now, nor can anyone in the area.

“Why not?” I implore.

Tet.  Apparently the New Year celebration isn’t a simple one-day affair, but an all-out week-long extravaganza that involves, among other things, not fixing tourist motorcycles.  ”But I can pay more.. can’t we just ask him?”

No.  This is out of the question.  You will have to take it to a city, they tell me, and even there it’s unlikely anyone will be able to work on a Minsk this close to Tet.  Honda, maybe.  Not this bike.  No chance.

His pessimism is quickly contagious.

“Where’s the nearest city?”

“Quy Nhon,” he tells me.

That’s right: Quy Nhon.  The city I slept in last night, and apparently broke my motorcycle diligently escaping from.  One and a half hours to the north, by Minsk speed.  I slump my shoulders, collapse back onto the steps and nod to the mechanic to call his friend with a truck to take me there for 400,000 dong.  Minutes later, the truck arrives.  Its young driver is glum, possibly a little drunk, and doesn’t seem in any way interested in taking a trip to Quy Nhon.  The offer of pre-Tet spending money was apparently too much for him to pass up.

My driver, Yue and me -- headed South.

We foist the bike up onto the back of his truck and he starts to head over to the driver’s seat, but I stop him and call Yue back over to translate.

“Quy Nhon is here,” I say, pointing at the map.  ”North.  I don’t want north.  I need to get to Nha Trang.  South.  What about this city?” I point at a blue dot on the map that looks to be about the same size as Quy Nhon, but in the opposite direction.  Tuy Hoa.  If the numbers on the map are fairly accurate, it’s thirty kilometers to Quy Nhon.  It’s 80 to Tuy Hoa.  ”Will there be a mechanic there, do you think?” He squints his eyes in thought for a moment before answering reluctantly in Vietnamese.

“He say there is mechanic there, but he will not go.  Too far.”

“I pay.  Umm, Double.  800,000 dong.  Tell him.”

The man considers my offer for a moment then says something.

“One million, he says.”

“Actually, 800,000 is all I have on me,” I lie.  ”Tell him 800 is a really good deal.” I’ve got just about 500,000 more than that, but I’m going to need some cash for repairs as well, and from what I’ve seen so far, I don’t expect Tuy Hoa to be an ATM kinda town.

Through all the rice paddies, there were suddenly these little flags everywhere. It's either something local or Tet-related

The driver doesn’t look happy about the deal at all, but he sluggishly agrees.  Yue, apparently finding my presence the most fascinating thing in town, comes along as well.  I have no idea what I’d do without this kid, and almost consider offering him a permanent spot as my sidekick, despite him not really having anything interesting to say that isn’t translated from someone else’s words.  It’s a long, quiet hour to Tuy Hoa, and my troubles aren’t solved just yet.

Our first stop in town, a large motorcycle vendor and repair shop, practically laughs in our faces when we show them the Minsk.

“They say they cannot do this Bike.  It’s very hard now with Tet tomorrow.”

“Yes.  I understand this by now, Yue.  Trust me, I get it.”

Another place cannot help or point us in the right direction.  A third place points us to a fourth, who then gives directions to a fifth.  Fifteen minutes of aimless meandering through town, and it’s obvious the driver’s just about done with this errant American and his shitty soviet lemon.  The places we visit keep getting smaller and more ramshackle, but possibly that’s the only way to go when dealing with Minsks.  He pulls up to a covered hovel on the side of the road where four people sit drinking beers while a fifth sits on the dirt floor tinkering with a motorcycle.

“They can do it!” Yue tells me excitedly after some words are exchanged.

“No shit??” I high-five my translator with overwhelming enthusiasm.

“Hiii!  Where are you from?” a girl in her 20′s, sitting at the table asks me.

Uniquely French-Vietnamese architecture. We passed many of these ornately colored and designed standalone homes on the way to Tuy Hoa.

I tell the girl — who has the unfortunate name of Dung — and gleefully she invites me to sit down with her and chat while they work on my bike.  She’s attractive enough and speaks near perfect English, but seems almost too happy to please.  After the morning I’ve had, I won’t complain too much about getting free drinks and lunch from her, but while her mechanic friend takes my bike fully apart, she focuses on me with an almost uncomfortable intensity.

“Why do you want to go to Nha Trang for Tet.  You know we celebrate it in all Vietnam, right?  I think you should stay here instead.  Tuy Hoa is the best.”  From what I’ve seen of the town so far, I’m fairly certain this is not likely.

“Well, I bet that would be nice, but I’m really looking forward to the beach…”

“Aww, Tet’s much better in Tuy Hoa, I promise.  I just got a new apartment, too.  You can stay with me.  As long as you want!”

“Aww, Dung, thanks.  I’ve got a friend to meet in Nha Trang, though,” I lie.

“Hmm.”  She pauses.  ”Would you like to go see my apartment now?  I can show you!”

She’s a pretty enough girl.  I’m not sure why I turn down the offer, especially seeing how sad the rejection initially makes her and how lonely this trip has at times made me.  Maybe I just wasn’t that attracted to her.  Maybe I really just wanted to be in Nha Trang by sunset.  Maybe I just couldn’t get around looking a girl in the eyes and softly calling her Dung.

We keep talking for close to an hour — often with repeated offers for that tour of her apartment — but by 1:15, my engine coughs to a confident start and I pay the man 400,000 dong and go.  All told, I’m almost even on time with the truck ride, but I’m broke again and I’ll be pushing it now to get to Nha Trang with the sun still out.  As long as nothing else goes wrong, I should be alright, though.

Large fishing nets seen as we drive along the coast to Tuy Hoa.

A yak pulling a large cart of Tet flowers

The only Minsk repairman in all of Tuy Hoa

Dung, being elusive. She wouldn't let me take a picture.

How green was my valley

Something Else Goes Wrong

Coasting down an impossibly steep and windy mountain, I take in the epic ocean vistas while celebrating the fact that my Minsk actually summited the thing in the first place.  This ride should be amazing, and with the lack of traffic that I’m guessing Tet has inspired, it should be incredibly easy driving as well.  But it’s neither of these things.  Because right now, my motorcycle is most definitely wobbling.

If this is the roadside hindu god of not getting flat tires, then I assure you, it's broken

Listening carefully, I note that the engine is purring with a newfound vigor and, based on what I watched the mechanic do, has more parts in it that are brand new than old.  So why are my body parts (more specifically, my poor battered testicles, I’m afraid) getting so violently vibrated to the sound of “Whup-Whup-Whup-Whup-Whup”?

Oh wait, that’s why.  Hello, flat tire.

Once again, I’m lucky to be near a town when this happens, and not, say, halfway up the mountain I just awkwardly bounced down.

“You.. ok?” a woman asks me slowly.  She’s got some basic English competency, but she’s no Dung.

“Well, I have a flat tire.” I point it out.  “Where can I fix?”

“Yes, I know.  Close.  Four kilomets there–” she points back the way I came.  Up the frigging mountain.

“Ohhhh no.  I’m not pushing this thing back there.”

“No.  Close.  Sorry.  English..  Ahhhh.  There,” she points.  ”Four.  There.”  I think she means four buildings down.  That’s better!

One of the gorgeous spots coming down the mountain, right before my latest hardship

There’s a house that I now see doubles as a gas station — no pumps, but there’s a table with many bottles of a brownish liquid that I’ve discovered is petrol — where she’s pointing, and an older man sits outside on a chair.  I pull up to him and point my tire out with a smile and friendly shrug.  For reasons I can’t understand, he is apparently enraged with me and shouts angrily while waving for me to go away.  Nope, no help here.

Next door are several motorcycles in various states of repair, and I take the chance and knock on the sliding door of the house.  A man comes out and gives me a much warmer greeting than what I received from the last stand.  He looks at tire and immediately nods his head.  I’m officially out of dong once again, but his eyes light up appreciatively when I pull out some American dollars from my reserves.  No problem there.  Barely ten minutes later, he’s patched the hole, refilled the tire with air and I’m ready to go.  Can it be this easy?

No.  No it can’t.  He sits on the bike about to give it a test ride, I assume, but the second his weight is applied, we both jump back a bit as the tube violently explodes.  He looks at me sheepishly and smiles, then holds his hand out to dispel any fears this sudden pop might’ve garnered.  No worries, man.  It’s cool. He motions for me to stay seated while he goes somewhere.  I presume it’s to pick up a new tube, but who can tell, really?

Hanoi 1192 KM. I've come so far...

Ten minutes.  Twenty.  Thirty.  I sit there watching a jumping spider attempting to pounce on one of the many flies that fill the garage I’m hanging out in, and feel the seconds drag.  The spider’s not having much success.  Forty minutes.  Forty-eight minutes have passed, when his scooter returns triumphantly.  It barely takes five minutes to get the new tube in place, but there’s no way I’m getting into Nha Trang now with the sun still out.  I pay the man his ten dollars and cautiously jump back on the small highway and haul ass through the dusk.

It’s almost imperceptible at first, but there’s a vibration to the motorcycle that wasn’t there before.  A subtle bounce at slow speeds that turns into an uncomfortable, steady vibration at faster ones.  Some quick experimentation shows me the sad situation: I’ve bent the front wheel’s rim.  It’s not a major bend, but when one is dealing with wheels, it doesn’t take much to get this kind of a drastic effect.  With the sun going down and no mechanics around, I have no option but to press on through.

The last of the sunlight has faded into a cool light blue I reach Nha Trang, but it’s a large city and I spend too long getting my bearings to take full advantage of the fading light.  By the time I find what looks to be the tourist district, it’s fully dark out and I’m riding with no headlight down loud and over-packed city streets.  All I can do is drive slowly, stick to the sides of the road and be as ostentatiously visible as I can until finding some decent lodging.  The Blue Star Hotel is cheap, a block from the beach and gives me a reason to stop risking my life out on the streets.  The price goes up eight dollars on the night of Tet, but that still only pushes the price to twenty bucks.

Damn, I miss Vietnamese prices…

Fixing my first flat. Note: not my last.

Store after store of tailors with wide assortments of materials, patterns and styles

Months after visiting Vietnam, while staying with a friendly couple in Berlin, I called attention to their curtains.  This isn’t something I normally do, as I’m relatively slow to notice anything related to interior design.  But they had unusually tall ceilings in their flat, with large windows stretching almost the entire height of the wall, and the uniquely ornate curtains seemed to fit perfectly within an inch of the floor.  The pattern was vibrant and colorful and unlike anything I’d ever seen.

“Have you been to Hoi An?” they asked.  It was a good leading question, as I had and quickly knew where they were going with the conversation.  They’d visited less than a year ago and, having had no luck finding anything to fit the windows locally, decided to take measurements and simply have their own curtains made in the oceanside city with a worldwide reputation for cheap, high quality tailoring.  The streets of  the small town are, quite literally, lined with tailors displaying materials of limitless colors and patterns, with some of their best work modeled on clusters of mannequins huddled together outside like well-dressed patrons waiting in line for a popular club.

One of Hoi An's many markets. Note that despite how narrow the paths between stalls are, people still pass through regularly on motorcycles.

Traveling as I was by motorcycle, with a small, dusty bag containing all my compressed belongings on its back, I opted against having any fine, custom made suits stitched up for me.  But among foreigners in Hoi An, this lack of interest definitely put me in the minority.  Over drinks at outdoor cafes, women (and men, to a lesser degree) would show off their new fineries — intricate dresses in wide varieties of styles, unique handmade bikinis and swimwear, and yes, apparently home furnishings as well.

A few people presumptively asked me what I’d had made while in town, then quickly rebuked my “dirty Minsk” argument by explaining that they were having all their new clothing shipped home.

“You can’t go to Hoi An and not having at least something made,” one girl explained to me pedantically.

Somehow I found a way.

Hoi An itself is small, though has a rich history as a major port city, though the bustling trade years between 1500-1900.  So much business was done with the Japanese, that the city was once divided in two, with the Japanese side across a small, covered bridge with an intricately adorned pagoda attached.  The town is entirely Vietnamese now, but the bridge remains as a popular tourist attraction.

Passing Through Danang (Hue to Hoi An)

Under a thousand kilometers to go!

The boat cruises down the Perfume River from Hue don’t appeal to me in any significant way, so I pack quickly after coming home from the Imperial Palace and make a slow, confused departure from the labyrinth of city streets.  Highway 1A is the main road leading from north to south, and eventually there are large signs pointing to Danang as well.  The city’s changed a bit from how it was portrayed in the war movies I’d watched as a kid, but I felt no particular interest in any of its few tourist draws.

During the war, the city’s airport had so many daily operations that it was officially the busiest airport in the world at that time.  These days, Danang most famously offers tours of the De-Militarized Zone (DMZ), though it’s an attraction apparently aimed more at those with a deeper interest in the Vietnam War.  The infamous China Beach is just outside town, as are the beaches at My Khe, but with plenty of beaches already in my immediate future, neither of these are powerful enough draws.

The most notable thing, then, is the ride itself.  Driving along green, mountainous roads that curve and dip along Vietnam’s coast, I’m hit with views so breathtaking at times that it distracts from my driving.  Pushing the Minsk as hard as I can in first gear, I crest impossible climbs only to be greeted with views of a deep, neverending blue stretching out to the horizon.  The dangers and annoyances of traveling along 1A are almost made up for entirely by the sheer pleasure of pushing through these mountain roads, so staggeringly high up above the ocean.

Following such a ride, a bland port city like Danang with its hectic and frenetic traffic couldn’t help but repulse me.  After about fifteen minutes getting lost in the city, I grab some pho from a particularly unfriendly vendor and head out to Hoi An as fast as the Minsk will go.

A seaside village passed along the way between Hue and Danang

A ride though the hills along Vietnam's coast. The road ahead, a tiny slash through the trees, is just barely visible

Danang's main bridge. It's not a particularly dirty city, but not a stunningly clean one either, and definitely not where I felt like staying the night

Happy Middles, in Preparation for Tet

Grumbling and bitter, I drop my bags on the floor of my hotel room and collapse on the bed.  I’m tired, and the pho from Danang was neither satisfying nor tasty.  South America spoiled me with its glut of hostels and the style of easy socializing with other travelers that comes with them.  Since leaving Hanoi, I’ve spent every night alone in cold, strange hotel rooms and I was looking forward to meeting some other people in the apparently popular Hoi An.

A nicely decorated bridge in the heart of the small port city

The biggest “problem” then, is that hotel rooms in Vietnam are too cheap, making shared hostels unnecessary.  In all the obvious ways, this is a good thing.  But it hinders my plan to spend the evening speaking more than the same three line of English for a change drastically.  The hotel itself lacks a common room, short of the small reception area, and I immediately dismiss the idea of standing about there looking for new short-term friends like some kind of potential stalker.

Taking a seat next door at an Asian fusion restaurant, I try to focus on the good: I will finally be eating food that isn’t pho. Fixed price lunch: Lemongrass chicken, spring rolls, seafood soup, creme brulee.  Eight dollars.  No problem.

“Buy my postcards,” says a little girl of about nine, who’s silently sauntered up to my table.

“Nah.”

“Here, nice,” she says, ignoring my disinterest.  The postcards are arranged in a booklet that folds out, and suddenly a long column of fairly bland pictures depicting life in Vietnam is hanging in front of me.  Farmers toiling in rice paddies.  Old women with conical hats staring confusedly at the camera, almost certainly not aware they were posing for a post card. “Twenty thousand.”

The Hoi An branch of the Dharma Initiative

“Ha. Way too high.  Even if I liked them…”

“Ten thousand,” she quickly barks.

“You kind of suck at bargaining, kid.  Plus, these post cards are terrible.  They’re all of people farming and donkeys and shit.  These are post cards to send to people you don’t like.”

“Post cards are very good.  You send your mom.”

The waitress comes out and shouts something to the girl in Vietnam, clearly attempting to chase her away.

“No, no, it’s cool.  It’s actually one of the best conversations I’ve had in several days.  Here, kid…” I pass her 10,000 dong for the set.

“Twenty thousand!” she protests.

“They’re ugly.  Take the ten and like it.” She grabs the cash and runs off to a new target.

A legion of young children, armed with shitty souvenirs, post cards and passable English skills ambush tourists in both the most and least expected places.  Looking at (and eventually purchasing, for some reason) a large metal gong in one of the markets, a pudgy Vietnamese child with a giant grin runs up to me, holding out some hand-painted wooden dragonfly toys.

“I’m a little fat kid!” he says proudly, too clearly for it to have been anything else.  No more is said about the dragonflies, but his arms still hold them for me to peruse.

“Yes.  Yes, I guess you are,” I agree.  He smiles, but doesn’t seem to be going away.  ”No thank you, little fat kid.  Sorry!” He runs off right away, but the huge smile never subsides.  Some people just really love their jobs.

Locals hanging up red lanterns in preparation for Tet

It’s an attractive town, and more so now with the advent of Tet, the celebration of the Vietnamese new year.  Large, colorful lanterns — most predominantly red — are strung down all the main roads, sometimes bunched together in strange patterns that are only more beautiful by night when they’re illuminated.  There’s an anticipatory feeling in the streets, and while the tourists passing through only grasp a hint of it, the people living here all seem involved in some way with preparations.  Many of the craft stores here specialize in the large, paper lanterns that decorate the street, though most are too unwieldy to be good souvenirs.

Over a dinner of a local broth and noodle dish called cao lầu, a older man named Sherman asks if he can join me, and I see no reason to decline him, despite an apparent inability on his part to look cheerful.  He says that he’s originally from Sri Lanka, though his complexion is decidedly more western than that and his nasally accent is most reminiscent of South Africa.  While he talks, I can’t help but notice that his face seems trapped in a perpetual sneer, as though the world not only filled him with disdain but had an unpleasant aroma as well.

My dinner of Cao Lau. My articulate notes vividly describe it as "OK"

“You know,” he tells me, “I had a massage just earlier.  They have them everywhere, and it’s so cheap here, you know.”

“Do go on,” I tell him.  I’ve been on an impromptu tour of Asian massages thus far, from the relaxing full-body “Thai massage” to the relaxing full body “Lao massage” (identical to the Thai one, shockingly enough).  Especially after a few days on the Minsk which ranged from uncomfortable to grueling, I’m about due to test out what Vietnam has to offer.

“Well, I’ll tell you.  The little tramp tried to swindle me.  The massage was nice enough, but I had left my pants on the floor, and when I looked up she had moved them to the table!”

“And was she going through them?”

“Well, not at the time, but I know exactly what they’re all about here.  I stood up and told her I won’t be taken so easily and gathered my things and left.”

“But was the massage any good?”

“It was alright.”

Street incense, jammed into a tree. Spotted in various places throughout town. They like their city smelling nice, apparently

Sold.  I pay my bill and follow his directions to the parlor.  At fifteen dollars, it’s nearly ten more than what I was paying in Laos, Thailand or (the winner so far) China, but at about 60 dollars less than what a comparable massage would be in the States, it’s still a bargain.

I will state now for the record that I’ve never actually had an offer for the infamous “happy ending” while receiving a massage, nor have I genuinely wanted one.  I like reeling in pain from a brutal massage that turns the oak-like knots in my back to a soft putty while the tension practically oozes from my body.  Why would I want to distract myself from such a good thing by bringing my raging hormones into the question?  I truly assumed that should the opportunity (and associated body part) ever arise, I’d simply brush off the offer and let the regular massage resume.

As always, I neglected to take into consideration just how influential the genitals can be at times when making decisions.

Lantern makers, hard at work throughout town. The stores are open year round, though I got the impression they went into overdrive before Tet

The rubdown started off pleasantly enough.  Though I ignore Sherman’s complaints as the typical paranoia of the old guard, I still made a point of folding up my pants nicely and putting them under my shirt in a corner.  The masseuse, a woman in her mid-twenties, immediately got to work on my back before working her way down to my legs and feet.  Thirty minutes in, she instructs me in reasonably broken English to flip over, and that’s when I notice a subtle shift in the tone of my rubdown.

Almost immediately, she massages my knees with the tips of her fingers, softly moving in gentle circles as she moves her way up my thighs.  Most of her gestures focus on the thigh itself, but every few strokes lead her hands astray to the sensitive inner thigh, and before I know it, she’s reaching up under my boxers to the top of my legs.  We’ve yet to pass the point of no return, as her motions on my inner thigh still sit comfortably in the PG-13 range, but as she starts to perform a soft, repetitive stroke on my upper legs, it produces an immediate reaction as surely as if she’d pressed a simple button.

My mind, ablaze with the un-sexiest thoughts I could come up with as a means of resistance, can seemingly do nothing to halt the inevitable.  Since then, out of pure curiosity I have tried to duplicate this effective inner-thigh maneuver, only to find my legs cold and decidedly un-erogenous.  All I can say is that the woman is a skilled professional at the top of her craft.

Hoi An at night

“You want me finish?”

“No.”

A pause.

“Well, how much?”

Fifteen bucks more.  I cave with little hesitation.

The sordid business complete, she instructs me to put my clothes on as she starts to walk out the door.

“It’s only 8:40.  Massage is one hour,” I tell her.

She pauses and looks perplexed for a few seconds.  Maybe the standard reaction is for men to dart out the doors immediately with their heads down, inspired by some kind of post-orgasmic shame, but I paid for the full hour, damn it.

“Ok,” she acquiesces.  Not a “happy ending” then at all.  A nice, ultra-relaxing “happy middle.”

To her credit, she put just as much energy and effort into the last twenty minutes as she had the first thirty-eight and the middle two.  Such a professional.

Hoi An by day

...and by night

The Ruins of My Son

Peculiar advertisements throughout town hype visits to My Son, a name that is slightly less confusing when explained that it’s pronounced “Mee Sahn”.  The My Son ruins are a series of Hindu temples dating back over a thousand years, and were the longest occupied temples in all of Indochina.  Sadly, much of My Son was destroyed by carpet bombing during the Vietnam war, but a few of the temples are still in reasonably good condition.  It’s still one of the most famous archeological sites in Vietnam, and a good way to spend a few hours around Hoi An.

The tourguide spoke fluent English and was pretty interesting as well, but he couldn't compete with the snake eating a frog for the group's attention

Indigenous Buddhists still use the temple for ceremonies

Bhadresvara, a variation on Shiva combined with the name of the king that had My Son created

The Linga, a representation of the Hindu god Shiva. It is often considered to be a symbol of male creative energies, apparently...

Generic tourist shot.

Recreational Activities

Down by the markets in Hoi An is a large, outdoor dining area served by about eight different restaurants that all seem to have the exact same menu, and the stands seem to be named after the owners or head chef’s, like “Miss Lam’s” or “Mr Chien’s.”  The food’s alright for the price and it’s a nice spot to have a few pints of beer while talking to other travelers.  I speak with a British couple for a while, and Vietnamese men come by at times, walking from table to table to advertise supposedly happening bars and offer drink discounts.

The outdoor food court in the center of town

We take an enthusiastic hawker up on his offer after being promised a free bucket of alcohol each, not realizing that a lot of the popular bars are far enough from the town center as to require transportation to get there.  He calls a friend over and the three of us ride on the backs of their two motorcycles to the bar.  His club’s a bit seedy, with an over-reliance on blacklights to mask the lack of actual decor, but our large, first drinks each were, as promised, on the house.

The drawback to the free ride out, is that it doesn’t come with a corresponding ride home.  The path is straightforward, but a bit of a haul and I amble my way down the dark streets alone, passing sections that clearly don’t cater much to tourists.  Families huddle in small kitchens around televisions, or sit on porches talking to one another and generally paying little attention to a passing American.

By day, the beach is a popular option, though it’s not exactly the beach resort I had initially hoped for.  While attractive enough, the beach is relatively small and sits a prohibitive three kilometers outside of town.  There are tuk-tuks (three-wheeled moto-taxis) that shoot back and forth almost constantly from the small city center to the beach, by I opt for the freedom (and general badassed riding sensation) of taking my motorcycle.

Hoi An's Japanese Bridge. It once separated the Japanese side of the city from the Vietnamese side, but now it's just a cultural landmark

At the beach I spot the first other Minsks I’ve come across since leaving Hanoi.  Two Aussies have been making their way north from Ho Chi Minh City for about a week.  One’s had no difficulties at all, but the other’s been dealing with daily setbacks.  He’s worked on motorcycles before, so he’s been trying to fix the bike himself with each breakdown, but it’s been a difficult trip so far.  Privately, his traveling companion confides that he wished his friend would just seek out a mechanic instead.  It’s a reminder that as lucky as I’ve been, the clunky soviet hogs have their notorious reputation for a reason.

The beach at Hoi An is small, and has a disproportionate amount of vendors and activities for the few tourists currently visiting.  A large ZORB globe sits unattended and unused on a flat patch of open beach.  Spotting a potential mark, an older woman runs up to me with a basket full of jewelry.

“Very nice, very nice!” she cries.

“Sorry lady, I didn’t bring any money.”

“Ahhh, no money no honey,” she laughs.  ”You know that?  ’No money, no honey’?”

“Trust me, I know.”

I swim for a while before drying off in the sun and hopping back on the Minsk.  Hoi An’s not really compelling enough for me on its own to stay another night, but even with my right schedule, a little rest from the weary road is welcome about now.

Huế (pronounced, near as I can tell, as “Hoo-yay”).  Thriving capital of Vietnam for centuries, only to fall into disrepair and disrepute under Ho Chi Minh and the Communist Party.  Maybe they would’ve had more respect for the city had it not been a symbol of feudal times and kowtowing to foreign invaders.  After all, the once powerful Nguyen family had all but signed over Vietnam to the French in their later years before the last emperor abdicated the throne completely in 1945.  And located where it is, in the very bellybutton of modern Vietnam, the large city became a central point of skirmishes between north and south in the war with the Americans and a symbol of the divide.

Its unfortunate location made Huế a popular target from both sides.  Intense bombings from the Americans blasted historical buildings and ancient monuments with typical wartime indifference, and the north were merciless both during and after the war to a city that put a face on collusion with both the French and the Americans.  Probably the most famous of these unpleasantries was the Huế Massacre of 1968, where the Viet Cong occupied Huế for several weeks following the Tet Offensive and viciously wiped out nearly everyone in the city with southward political leanings.

Despite any negatives associated with the imperial regime, the Communist Party’s distaste with Huế couldn’t last forever.  The Citadel, with its enclosed Forbidden Palace given in to disrepair and neglect, was eventually accepted once again as a treasured landmark and a large draw for Vietnam’s growing tourism industry.  Further down the Perfume River, tombs of ancient emperors sit serenely along the waterside, and a slew of tour boat operators now run up and down the river daily to visit them.  And the Thien Mu Pagoda, besides being idyllically located on the banks of the Perfume, is the tallest in all of Vietnam.

Of course, none of these things are on my mind as I arrive into the most densely packed streets that I’ve seen since Hanoi at three in the afternoon, sweating and penniless.  ATMs are, as promised, in plentiful supply and it doesn’t take too long to track down a moderately priced, no-frills hotel here either.  I’m sure that, sans massacres, it’s a perfectly lovely city to hang out in, but my schedule doesn’t allow for too much wasted time anywhere.  It should take less than three hours to reach the beachside city of Hoi An, my next stop, so after a quick appraisal of local options, I figure this place gets 24 hours of my time, tops.  In short: no rest today.

Huế is known for having a unique style of cuisine,  and I’m definitely up for something that isn’t pho by now, but a few others in the hotel are headed to an Indian Restaurant called Omar Khayyam’s, so I join along (excellent Indian food, by the way, should you ever find yourself in Huế…)

The Thien Mu Pagoda

Thien Mu, literally "fairy woman," dates back to 1600 and is the unofficial symbol of Huế

Me, in front of the pagoda.  It's about three kilometers from the town center and Citadel, and I risked riding without a helmet since I'd left it in the room and wasn't going very far.  Despite seeing many helmet-less riders in the north, this is illegal in Huế, and many people warned me that police write tickets for it.

Sunset on the Perfume River. It's said that in the autumn, flowers from orchards upriver fall into the river, giving it a flower-like aroma

The Citadel and the Imperial Palace

Up early, I note that my skin is a frightening mix of brown and  red, except around my eyes where my sunglasses have imparted on me a white, inverted raccoon style marking.  Suntan lotion is the first item on the agenda to help with the already tortured skin on my body.  The eyes are a bit trickier, as small insects and dust make the shades a necessity when driving.  I’ll just have to make a point of not wearing the sunglasses whenever possible and spend my idle time staring at the sun…

Morning bia hoi

The Citadel is fairly impossible to miss in Huế, due to the massive walls around it that are mostly undamaged despite the effects of time, war and mismanagement.  Vast fields of flowers that look untended yet bloom too vividly and widespread for that to be true surround the large Citadel walls, calling even more attention to it.  I’d passed it coming into town and wasn’t looking forward to returning; the large street leading into it might be the biggest and less organized road I’d been on in Vietnam.

Crossing is, as was expected, a nightmare, and I pull to the side of the road to catch my breath.  A group of about six men sit out on plastic stools at bia hoi (cheap, outdoor been venue) and motion frantically for me to come over.  It’s just past nine in the morning, but it doesn’t surprise me anymore that they’ve been drinking, and doing so for quite some time apparently.  I’ve got a few hours to kill in town and indulge them in a single beer.  They seem friendly enough, but as usual we’ve got no clue how to communicate and when the manager tries to extort 100,000 dong (way too much) out of me, I give him 10,000 (possibly too little…) and walk away.

There are official fees to enter the compound, and unofficial ones paid to dubious men in the parking lot to ensure my motorcycle will still be waiting for me  in one piece upon my return.

The Citadel walls from outside, surrounded by fields of flowers. Flower vendors line the streets here as well in droves, though they're possibly out in greater numbers when I visit due to the oncoming Tet holiday.

A large outer moat surrounds the Citadel itself, with a smaller one surrounding the walls of the Imperial Palace inside

The inner moat surrounding the palace and the Forbidden City. It was known as such similarly to the Forbidden City in Beijing, as only the emperor, his concubines and those granted access were allowed inside. The punishment for trespassing was death.

The entrance to the Forbidden City, now with even more Ho Chi Minh! There are three gates in the entryway: The largest, center opening was reserved for the emperor alone. The right and left entrances were for concubines and other dignitaries.

The complex is quite large, and renovations are still underway throughout the palace grounds. While some buildings and the gardens around them are in pristine condition, other sections are still overgrown and under heavy renovation

Found on one of the many archways in the compound. I like these guys.

A last shot of my morning bia hoi friends as I depart. They don't seem as thrilled to be in the photo this time...