The Buck starts here…

I have a cold.

I’ve taken some cold pills (which rarely, if ever, have any noticeable impact). Mostly though, I just need to blow my nose rather a lot. Such is the nature of a cold. Therefore, I need rather a lot of tissues. Not a problem, you may think. Oh, but it is.

I have an issue with the paper tissue. Firstly there’s the size thing. Tissue packets generally inform the discerning tissue-buying consumer of what “ply” their blowable sheet is. In the U.K, one gets regular 3-ply tissues, and “man-sized” 4-ply tissues. This has always puzzled me. Do men blow their noses harder? Is the fact that they are, on average, bigger than women mean that they can better carry the additional weight that a pack of 4-ply tissues must bring in comparison with a pack of 3-ply. The mind boggles.

Here in Vietnam, they’ve come up with the space-saving solution of 2-ply tissues. These have a slightly thicker density than air, and implode when breathed on with anything more than a whisper. They’re also called Pulppy. Which is what they become after being blow into. How endearingly cute. So I’ve had to survive with dear Pulppy until today, when I found some proper 4-ply, man-sized, all-singing, all-dancing tissues called Tempo.

Tempo. Not Jambo. One might get confused though. Jambo have ripped off the Tempo label, graphics and packaging. Then they’ve stuffed tissues which feel like they’re made of sandpaper inside. Blowing ones nose with a Jambo tissue is not a pleasant experience. I know. I’ve done it. The wholesale rip-off of a succesful products identity is not limited to the nasal arena in Vietnam. Several years ago a tour company called Sinh Cafe opened in Hanoi. They did well. So a whole bunch of other – & completelely unaffiliated – Sinh Cafe’s soon followed. The original now has a sign outside attesting that it is the original. The unoriginal “original” signs across the city are surely only weeks away now…

Which brings me to chickens. Not an easy leap to make one might think. Tissues and chickens? What could the connection be? Tissues for a cold. Cold is similar to the flu. Vietnam is chicken flu central.

Since November 1st, chicken has been illegal here. You can’t buy it, sell it, eat it, drink it or shag it. Life without chicken has been ok so far. There’s always dog or snake if you get really desperate. But the problem with having no chickens, is that nobody’s laying eggs. Its easy to forget that eggs dont grow on the supermarket shelves. And that’s where I was earlier this afternoon. By the supermarket shelves. I had a grand idea of making a chocolate biscuit cake. I needed chocolate. I found some Belgian style chocolate. Anything style has got to be better than the real thing. Especially when the real (imported) thing is sitting next to it and costs 6 times the price.

But no eggs = no cake = bowl of noodle soup for dinner.

And I still have a cold.

It was dinnertime. Tummy’s were a-rumbling. Concentration was a-tumbling. The lake looked a-pretty and the view was a-humbling. So my housemate Federica and I walked round it to find some grub. We came to a nice little Bia Hoi joint across the road from the water. The menu was in Vietnamese. As one might have predicted. Luckily I had a small phrasebook in my pocket. And I’ve memorised Thit Cho (Fried Dog) so that I never inadvertantly order it. I still have to drive past a dead dog market every day though. The poor fuckers always have a look of surprise on their crispy roasted faces. As though some trusted human was feeding them Pedigree Chum right before a metal stave was stuck through their little doggy heart.

So we ordered a few non-canine dishes and settled back to drink a few beers, wipe away a few tears, say cheers. The food came. Damn delicious stuff. I used to hate spinach. I always reckoned it tasted like ink. I’m not sure exactly how I came to this conclusion – having never sucked on a fountain pen or done shots of Bic’s finest, but I reckoned it anyway. But fly me halfway across the planet, fry me some green stuff with a little garlic, and try renaming it to Morning Glory, and you’ve got yourself a healthy(ish) dish that the Buck is happy to call his friend. Morning Glory. It’s such a nice name for a vegetable. I bet Popeye used to wake up with Olive some days with a bit of Morning Glory.

We ate the delicious food and talked about Italy. Federica is Italian. Italy sounds cool. And the people there are clearly very serious about their food. Which is cool. If a nation is going to be really serious about something then I think food should be that something. Better than being really serious about bombs or toothpicks or something equally prosaic.

As we cleared up the last of the Morning Glory, and wiped the noodle remnants from the corner of our mouths, the highlight of the evening occurred. It may yet turn out to be the highlight of the week, but given that it’s only Wednesday today, I dont think I’m yet qualified to make that kind of assertion. To my left a tank of fish had been swimming merrily all evening. I suppose its possible that the owners of the joint kept some Halibut as household pets, but I’m guessing that these boys were destined for the Wok. One of the fish was called Fred. Fred the Fish. Fred was a smart fish. He knew what was going down. He had seen his friends Barney & Betty leave the tank a few days previously. He suspected they weren’t coming back. Fred could smell the putrid loveliness of Dong Da lake, just across the road. If he could bounce there, perhaps he’d meet his childhood sweetheart – Wilma. They could have fish babies, and live a life of serenity.

So Fred made his bid for freedom. He took a swimming jump (the aquatic equivalent of a running one) and leapt clear of Tony & Gordon, two mackerel acquaintances. Fred hit the ground flapping. Just..a..few…more…feet…or…maybe…a…few…more…. hundred. A game of draughts (or chequers, depending on ones linguistic heritage) was hastily interrupted. A young man blocked Fred’s path while the crowd looked on. I was silently rooting for my finned friend to escape the clutches of his jailer. Just like I rooted for Steve McQueen in The Great Escape. But Fred didn’t have a motorbike to get away on. Perhaps more importantly, he was having a wee bit of trouble getting enough oxygen to help him breathe. The young draughtsman won the day. Fred was tossed unceremoniously back into his cell. And by now, he may well be no more. Goodbye Fred.

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