The Buck starts here…

I had a half-hour break between two evening classes at the language school I work at, so I nipped out to get some noodles. I slipped across the street to the local Bia Hoi outlet, and settled down at a small table on the pavement outside. Bia Hoi bars are terrific. Beer made fresh that morning at 5p a glass, and delicious food in a convivial & jolly atmosphere. Whilst I waited for my noodles to be cooked, I checked out my fellow patrons. On the adjacent table to me, 3 men were having a heated but well-humoured discussion. Since my Vietnamese is still limited to “Thank-you”, “Cheers” and a nursery rhyme about a duck, I had no idea what they were talking about. Perhaps they were discussing the fashion sense of one of their number. This bloke was wearing smart black shoes, an elegant gold watch, and a pair of silk Snoopy pyjama’s. Outside a pub. In Hanoi. In the winter. I ate my noodles and thanked Charles Schultz for his contribution to globalisation and menswear.

My class started, happened, ended. I hopped on my bike and skedaddled on home. I reached the edge of Dong Da lake and noticed a couple of youngsters leaning on a bike chewing each others face off. This is a not uncommon sight in Vietnam, where people often live with their families until they get married, and unmarried Vietnamese are prohibited from booking a hotel room together. A friend of a friend used to live in a house overlooking a park which would fill up every night with eager beaver teens at it hammer & tongs. I passed the amorous duo, only to find another pair about 10 feet down the street. And then another. And another. I counted 6 couples in all. Which led me to thinking: Did this lot all show up together in some kind of solidarity snogfest? Or is the outside of our house just Romance Central? I mean, I could understand if this was the only lake in the city. But Hanoi’s got more lakes than the bloody Lake District. The fact that they’re all harbouring mutant rat-fish is neither here nor there. Ho hum.

I barely had time to park me bike & change me shoes before it was time to go out again. My witty, charming and well-connected housemate Phil (the 1st two adjectives are a reciprocal – and requested – gift for the 3rd) had found out about the launch of a new wine vintage at the Sheraton Hotel by West Lake which, confusingly, is not west of the city but north. Exactly what happens at a wine launch night I wasn’t certain, but we were fairly sure it included free wine. So we hopped on to two xe om’s and roared off into the night, spotting several more pashing twosomes en route.

We arrived at the Sheraton to find some waiters seemingly in the act of packing stuff away. It appeared we had missed the launch. With muttered promises to never buy that manufacturers wine again (if indeed we had ever bought it in the past – I’m kinda sketchy when it comes to remembering the names of cheap, crap, red wine I have drunk, its the nature of the beast..) we slinked inside to buy a beer. Salsa was being strutted on the dancefloor, a motorbike time trial from the Isle of Man being shown on the widescreen TV above the bar. Phil helpfully informed me that an average of three riders die every year in this event. We saw a video replay of one dude being thrown from his machine, legs azoy. The pumping tunes obscured what may have been an illuminating piece of commentary.

Some of Phils friends emerged from the salsa pot with some unexpected and delightful news. The wine launch had yet to take place, midnight being the allotted time. We played pool, ate pizza, drank beer, chatted. Midnight approached. A switch was flicked & the music gave way to a prmotional guy giving his wine spiel. I’ll give you the edited highlights: “The Beaujolais Neaoveau is sensational!!” The 1st bottle had apparently been opened in Japan just two hours prior, so how this dude knew how sensational it was is a little perplexing. Its “neaoveau”. I.e. new. Now, call me a cretin, but I’ve always been under the impression that good wine is really old. He’s standing here boasting about how the grapes were only picked in September. A little more perplexing.

The lights dimmed. We started counting down. The clock struck 12 and the cork struck the ceiling. Two waitresses were frantically funnelling balloons onto the dancefloor. Others started circulating with canapes and newly poured glasses of this newly made wine. I dont pretend to be a wine buff. I enjoyed Sideways but had no clue what Paul Giamatti was going on about half the time. But this stuff was filthy. I reckon people have been leaving wine in bottles for years because it tastes better that way!! I drained my glass, said my goodbyes and headed for the door. A 6am start with a red wine hangover is one of those joys best avoided. But one glass of this noxious juice gave me one anyway. Snoopy would be proud..

Mexico City is in Mexico. Panama City is in Panama. Kansas City is in.. Missouri. And also in Kansas. A divided city. And I’m gonna get to see both halves..

Winter seems to have hit overnight here. I came to South East Asia with visions of sandy beaches and raspberry daiquiris. And 1 pair of trousers. So naturally I needed to buy more – which is where I was when my phone started ringing..

Buzzing, and cogs turning. No speech. No deals. I checked the number that had called. It began “098”. That’s one of the local prefixes for mobile phones. I figured whoever it was would ring again. They did. Same problems. Crap connection. On the 4th attempt the caller finally got through.

“WHO IS IT?”
“It’s Jane”
“WHO?”
“Jane. J-A-N-E.”

The penny dropped. By strange coincidence “098” is also the country code for India, where my friend Jane is currently staying. A short conversation takes place. And I forget about my new trousers, hop on my bike and head to Hanoi Towers..

The travel agents is a friendly place. The glass of water they give me is clean & fresh. Romantic impetuosity garners worthwhile rewards. They find me an excellent deal on a westward voyage. Hanoi – Hong Kong – L.A – Chicago -Kansas City. Then back via Kansas City -Dallas – L.A – Hong Kong and Hanoi. Only about 30 hours in planes and airports each way. No worries. The adrenalin is flowing. Its all bisto.

I’m delighted to discover that on my return trip to Hanoi I’ll be transcending Thursday. I leave on a Wednesday night from L.A, travel across the International Date line in the Pacific Ocean before arriving in Hong Kong on a Friday morning. I’ve been trying to work out what happens to Thursday. Does it exist for everybody else? Will my watch start turning anti-clockwise? I’ve decided to write down my observations of time travelling through a non-existent Thursday, for the sake of science & humanity. Watch this space..

I dont have a cutlass or a parrot called Polly. I drink my rum spiked with Diet Coke. The nearest I’ve got to having a wooden leg was holding a pencil between my toes. Yet, I am a pirate….

It all began in 2003. Back then I was just a teenage explorer with a playstation addiction and a fondness for sausages. I arrived in Thailand with a rucksack filled with white t-shirts – they would keep me cool and keep me cool – or so went the theory. I left with my pack bursting at the seems with pirated tunes & flicks. My music collection quintupled overnight. Doki-doki. Feel the beat.

Fast-forward 28 months and this pirates ship is moored in Hanoi. My joy at learning of my houses’ proximity to the “National Cinema Centre” of Vietnam was tempered somewhat upon my discovery that they only show movies that came out in the West in the 17th Century, and then they dub them badly into Vietnamese just to completely ruin any artistic appreciation one might attempt to garner.

So we buy DVD’s. A decent DVD in the U.K might cost you anywhere from a tenner to twenty round pounds. The dong (Vietnam’s wonderfully named currency) is not so strong – this is a country where you can get a glass of beer for 5p and a DVD might set you back 50. And that’s where the fun starts. Just as a stolen galleon filled with gold bullion might turn out to be a motorboat stuffed with copper – you’re never quite sure what you’re gonna get…

The crunching of popcorn, and amorous pashing of teenagers is usually a sure sign that the movie’s been filmed on a camcorder in a cinema. Another great gag is when someone’s downloaded it from the internet where the picture is the size of a digestive biscuit, & then blown it up to fit your telly – thus making the resolution as grainy as an hourglass full of sand. The real pleasure can be had in reading the subtitles, which 9 times out of 10 bear absolutely no relation to the movie upon which they’ve been overlaid.

A few days ago I bought a dvd called Hooligans. It’s about hooligans. British soccer thugs. The ironic thing is that it’s all in German. I’m looking forward to watching it, and perhaps picking up the Deutcshe for “You’re gonna get your fucking heads kicked in” and “You’re not breathing anymore” Useful stuff.

“I greased the lens and framed the shot using
a friend as my stand-in
the script it called for rain but it was clear
that day so we faked it
the marker snapped and I yelled “quiet on
the set” and then called “action!”
and I kissed you in a style clark gable would
have admired (i thought it classic)”

The day had begun in darkness. A combination of the building site next door callously nicking all our natural, glorious sunlight; and a neigbourhood-wide power cut saw to that. So it was standing in the shadows that I held the telephone & accepted the 1st of 3 job offers which would transform me from a man of leisure to a teacher of 6 year olds, university students, and those fortunate enough to learn english in a dedicated language centre.

I scootered off on my reluctantly slow starting Honda Wave to meet the director of the university & deal with a few formalities. These involved him shaking my hand, and me blagging my tits off about my educationalist qualities, which are still largely untested. In the bag. Jackpot.

I returned to my house with visons of a cooling shower and a celebratory Bruce Willis movie. Power was still down. No cigar.

The afternoon drifted by slowly in a haze of sleep, book, and bettery assisted tunes. When I awoke, the power grid appeared to have taken pity on us and restored light to the upstairs, and juice to the T.V, but cruelly denied us the opportunity to locate food items in our near pitch-black kitchen. I discovered that my mobile phone has a built in torch. How much more useful is THAT than a Wapbrowsersimulatedcameraconeferncecallmp3player?? I found bread. I found butter. I found happiness. I found Bruce to be as thrilling as ever.

Refreshed and revitalised, I caught a xe om (motorbike taxi) to the Backpacker district in the north of the city, to meet my pal Penne – and her fella Alf. Curry was suggested and approved. Cheese was declared to be tofu, and disproved. Karaoke was located, and sung. And as is so often the case on these occasions, the Beatles and Jon Bon Jovi were prominent.

We emerged in the wee hours into the autumn rain. I loacted a xe om and waited while the driver ducked into his house to find his sturdy raincape. My sole protection from the elements lay in my helmet, and its attached storm trooper style visor. Into the night we roared, the khaki and the kat – driving down empty roads in a city that seems to sleep significantly more than New York. We neared the corner of my street. The driver slipped the bike back into 3rd gear, and leaned into the bend as he applied the brakes. The torque was too much. The bike slid out from under us as we both slid into the black road. I got to my feet, and uttered a few choice profanities. A group of men drinking beer on the corner sat and stared. There were no injuries. The bike was undamaged. Even dark days have a little light.

How I love to dance. Disco & ballroom, line & square, Russian & polka. Granted, I’m crap at most of them, but the point is to have fun. Now I have found a new type of dance. It’s free, I can do it however much I want, and the chance of incurring a serious bodily injury is only about 12%, rising by 3 percentage points for every glass of beer I drink. I like to call it “The Scooter-dance!!”

Hanoi is chock-a-block with scooters, motorbikes, mopeds, moto’s, xe om’s & other veichles with similar functions, different names, two wheels and a well-used horn. If I had to speculate I’d say that scooters (let’s call all the fish “tuna” to keep things simple) outnumber cars here by a ratio of about 70 to 1. Moving produce between markets is done by scooter, taking a family of 5 to school is done by scooter, for all I know the president of Vietnam goes to work on a scooter.

When Vietnam beat Japan in a football match at the National stadium in Hanoi a few days ago, the scooters were out in force. Thousands of teenagers circled the central Hoan Kiem lake for hours, waving flags & honking triumphantly. And honking the horn is not reserved for sporting victories or the occasional irritable toot at a slow driver. It is a constant background noise. A neccesary noise in fact, since Hanoi does not appear to have any road rules. Nominally, people drive on the right, but if it appears quicker to drive on the left or, indeed, on the pavement then Hanoians certainly dont feel inhibited.

Which brings me back to my dance. Crossing a road in Hanoi is a question of timing, rhythm, dexterity & courage. Little green men are universally ignored, and a Zebra crossing would require nothing short of the great striped beast itself lolloping across the road before anyone would actually bother to stop. So you have to just bite the bullet & start walking. Some people swerve to avoid you, some dont (one dude actually kept going until my outstretched hand stopped him) but the key is to feel the force, and have no fear – basically just be Luke Skywalker…

My own intergalactic journey is now on hold for a while. I’ll be hanging out in Hanoi for the forseeable future. I have a job & a house & a packet of sausages. I have found an enchanted city – now it’s time to really start exploring..

I always enter into the world of shoe-shopping with the noblest of intentions. I’m not expecting to be the hippest hustler in Hanoi, but it’d be kind of nice to look o.k. Easier said than done…

My sandals were pissed off with me. I’d worn them practically every day for the last 3 months & they no longer had a mutually supportive relationship with my feet. They could have been civil about it, perhaps sending a brief email requesting a divorce or even just snapping clean in two somewhere I was in a position to trade them in for a younger model. Somewhere unlike Hanoi. But no, they had to be vicious, and cause me pain for an entire afternoon. Ok, I get the message. And I need some trainers anyhoo. I’ll just find some…

I started my search with some vague ideas about what kind of trainers I wanted. My unpaid but highly knowledgable personal shopping assistant, the lovely Jane, had some vague ideas too. Together we could surely find something snazzy, laid-back, that sent out “cool english teacher” vibes. Or could we? Problems soon began to arise when it was discovered that Vietnamese people have small feet. Ubersmall – with a quirky punctuation mark over the “U”. I on the other hand, do not. Jane reminded me of the umpteen opportunities I had had to buy shoes before we got here. I reminded her of my generic opposition to buying stuff in general – it makes my backpack too heavy. Oh the folly of a plonker.

I was beginning to consider asking my parents to send my old, smelly trainers from the U.K when I noticed a basket of tennis balls outside a shop. Tennis balls are great – even for a non-tennis player such as myself. They bounce, have a lively colour, and are spherical. Mmmm – spherical! They also aid thought processes. So I stopped and entered the shop. The staff laughed at my dying sandals. I would have joined in more wholeheartedly if my right foot didn’t feel like the muscle was being chewed by a giant panda. “Do you have any shoes, ANY shoes, that might fit my ogre-sized feet?” They looked. There was one pair. I waited with baited breath to see if they would turn out to be pink stilletoes with pictures of Joseph Stalin on the side. Sadly they were just regular trainers. My feet slid in. My head nodded. My hand went to my pocket. Dong was exchanged. I stepped outside, complimentary tennis ball in hand. Hop, skip & a jump – the Buck was happy..

The day never really began because yesterday never really ended. 12 hour overnight bus rides can really mess with your perceptions of time & space. I have vague recollections of waking up in uncomfortable positions & stopping at random truckers’s cafe in the Vietnamese countryside for surreal pseudo-conversations…

And then at about 6.30am, our destination, Hoi An, within frisbee throwing distance, the rain began. We didn’t view this as either unusual or a significant problem. After all, it is the rainy season. The bus pulled over. The road ahead was flooded. How would we cross? Would we all drown in the attempt? Was the baggage compartment waterproof?

Two “no”s and a “slowly”.

So out jumped the driver, down came the window, and in went the bags, displacing the smug git who thought he had the back seat for the entire trip. The bus inched forward. Just to give you some idea of the water depth, people were crossing the street in boats. We passed two trucks parked back to back in waist-high aqua. Bricks were being passed from one to the other. Slow work. We exited the water with our sanity and baggage intact, entered Hoi An, found a hotel & fell asleep.

A few hours passed. A day dominated by water was doused by a new mini-episode. The shower was cold. No worries. Into the beautiful old town we wandered. We drank some water with our lunch. Our lunch was great. The water was wet. We saw some of the beautiful sights that this UNESCO (The cultural wing of the United Nations) protected town has to offer. This inclued a traditional chinese merchants house which floods every day. All the crafts on show have to be rushed upstairs, helped no end by the pulley system/hole in the ceiling.

After getting measured for a pair of jeans & a shirt (Hoi An is the tailoring hotspot of Vietnam) I decided to leave Jane in a world of fabrics, cuts and other fashion stuff on which I am clueless, and meander back to the hotel. I stopped for a mars bar. It was frozen. As a general rule – frozen biscuits & chocolate bars are great. As a specific rule -frozen mars bars are not. As I ripped open the familiar black wrapper (which inspirationally informed me that eating the contents would help me “work rest & play” – all worthy pursuits I might add.) the heavens opened. Someone upstairs had been on the ice tea’s.

I ducked into a bookshop to wait it out. Bookshops in Asia have an endearing habit of wrapping every book in plastic – thus preventing potential customers from reading any part of the book other than blurb & the sickeningly sycophantic 2 line reviews on the cover. (E.G: “This book was absolutely sensational! You absolutely, positively must, must read it! Yay!”) Having circumnavigated the shop twice it felt like time to move on. And still it rained.

I began to consider how soggy a person would have to be before they qualified as a clump of wet spinach. I reasoned somewhere between 37 & Bolivia. And then my saviour appeared. Cycling along – hands waving objects for sale. Those objects were umbrella’s and raincapes. Really, really, funky raincapes in a a variety of colours. I plumped for purple. A purple plastic bag with holes cut in convenient places for hands and neck. Damn did I look hot. I marched on, feeling impenetrable. The road had become a river. Ankle-deep, but a river all the same. The only safe haven was the pavement. I stepped up. Some Vietnamese people laughed at my outfit. I laughed. We all laughed. A truck drove by and drenched us. The truck driver laughed. We all laughed some more. The river kept flowing. The rain kept falling….

Yesterday we decided to see some of the “must-see” sites in Saigion. We booked our tickets with a local travel agency, and had the good fortune to be guided by “Slim Jim” – a former soldier in the South Vietnamese Army with an astonishing capacity for inserting seemingly random snippets of cockney rhyming slang into his speech. The tour was a double-headed day trip from Saigon, the massive Vietnamese metropolis (8 million people, 4 million motorbikes, a shedload of coffee shops, and a small monkey called Trevor) where we are currently based.

Bright & early we were woken by the incessant, synthesized Israeli tune which, try as I might – and despite the fact that it is played by someone, somewhere in the street below me every 3 to 4 minutes 24/7 – I cannot remember the name of. Hoop-da-doop down to the travel agency from where our tour bus will depart. 5 minutes to spare eh? Think I’ll be having me some breakfast. Ahh look: a lady across the street is selling small baguettes (baguette-ettes???). Yes, I’d love one with unrefrigerated soft cheese and potentially unwashed cucumber please.

The bus departs. Our day is to be composed of 2 sections, placed together for geographical rather than thematic reasons. First stop is the headquarters pf the “Cao Dai” religion – an indigenous ideaology which combines Buddhism, Confucianism, Taoism, Hinduism & Christianity with a whole lot of brightly coloured buildings & people. It has about 2 million followers in Vietnam. Below is a picture of their symbol: the all-seeing eye, and of some of the officials walking into their temple at the start of the daily ceremony.

By the time the ceremony actually began (about noon) I was starting to feel quite unwell. Maybe it was the cheese baguette, maybe the sun, maybe a mosquito with an as yet undiscovered disease had bitten me on the tuchus. Either way, my temperature was high, my energy was low, my head felt like Maradona had just punched it past Shilton, and my bones ached like a shake. So it was boiled rice for Bucky’s lunch. And then back on the bus for part 2…

The area of Cu Chi saw heavy fighting during the American war. It marked the southern end of the Ho Chi Minh trail – the route through which the North Vietnamese Army moved men & supplies into the American-supported south. My pain had subsided to a sufficient extent that I felt sleeping on the bus would be to do both myself & this place a grave injustice. So in we trooped to watch the obligatory propoganda film. The Americans in the audience squirmed slightly at the somewhat biased take on events, but it was an interesting documentary nonetheless.

Then in we sauntered to the forest. We saw how small the tunnels where the North Vietnamese guerillas (Vietcong) used to shelter & live in were. Some of the group even crawled into one of the holes, as you can see in this picture below.

One of the tunnels had been specially widened for Western tourists (who tend to be somewhat wider than the Vietnamese). So we crawled through it. It was horrible. Hot, dark, suffocating. And this is a tunnel twice the size of the ones that were actually used during the war. We also saw some of the nice friendly surprises that awaited American soldiers walking through the area such as this one below:

And then finally…just as my headache is starting to inch closer to recovery, they take us to a firing range and give people the chance to fire the same guns that were used in the Vietnam War!! What an opportunity!! And one which I politely declined. Every shot was like a sledghammer to my cranial nerves. At least I could just get back on a bus & sleep it off though. For the poor bastards who fought wretchedly over this land that wasn’t an option.

Below are 10 of my favourite pictures from my 3 days in Angkor..

The last few days have been a photographic explosion for the Bucksta. So..in the interests of keeping my readers riveted, and my sanity intact – I will be posting them up thematically..And where else could I begin but with Animals!!!

This toad/frog/exotic oriental reptile was hanging out in our guesthouse in Siem Reap. When questioned he revealed only his name, rank & pond number – details I am unfortunately not permitted to share with you..

This delightful little lizard was chilling by one of the temples in the old city of Angkor. His name is Gerald and he’s a huge fan of Simply Red..

After a delightful lunch of bread and cheese, we stopped by a family of monkeys to offer gifts of banana. They enjoyed the banana’s immensely and decided to grab Jane’s bag & search it for other goodies. Our attempts to reason with these primates were met with derision from the cheeky buggers, & laughter from the gathering crowd of tuk-tuk drivers..

These pigs are being driven somewhere on the back of a motorcycle. They dont look very comfortable. I felt a bit sad.

I came upon this ant army who were mercilessly eating a worm alive. I was assured by their leader, General Glob, that worms are considered a delicacy amongst the ant communities of Cambodia. He even offered me a piece – which I respectfully declined..

This dog was taking a bath in front of the Terrace of the Elephants in the walled compound of Angkor Thom. Her name is Charlene, and she’d like to reassure Jim & Susan from Minneapolis that she’s safe & well in Cambodia, & will try & hitch a ride home on the doggy ferry next fall..