Hitting the Mekong: An Incursion into Indo China

By Evan Scarlett

Phuong can wake up in the morning, declare herself hungry, and walk one hundred meters to a freshly cooked bowl of soup or a mini-baguette filled with meat pate and vegetables. Pho and banh miwe have a choice at least between those two in the space of a two-minute stroll on the street. Phuong will then come home and devour half a kilo of lychees while I eat the leftovers from the night before because she will not touch them. Its funny that she eats my cooking, because maybe she has toshe is the only Vietnamese woman I ever met who could not and did not want to cook.

Then its off to town for a com tom for her and a pork baguette roll for me. Then we hit the market. Tonight it will be pork stir-fry with rice, of course. We stock up on fruit as well, and today she insists on buying one of those deadly, spiky, stinky-shoe-shock smelly fruit: a jackfruit or durian. I am not sure which.

This is the less smelly one, and I actually enjoy eating it with her. Its a lesson to Western women to watch these women eat so much food and still remain slim. Then she gathers the seed pods, boils them up, and peels them for me, and I am surprised at how much they taste like chestnuts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Aug 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499015096

Evan Scarlett

The author is a knockabout bloke. Some might say that he gets knocked about a bit. Some may say that he knocks about a bit. He was born in Melbourne, Australia, and currently lives there until his health improves and he can return to Kangaroo Island and, of course, Vietnam, where he belongs. He was told by his English teacher the day before his year-twelve exam that he had absolutely no chance in hell of passing the test as he was almost illiterate. He is a painter, musician, and chef as well as a lousy writer.

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Copyright © 2014 by Evan Scarlett.

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Rev. date: 08/07/2014

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CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

PART ONE

PART TWO

This book is

dedicated to

LY

Also to Gerry her brother in law who despite some of the things that I have said about him in this book is one; who I would consider to be one of the very greatest men I have met on this planet thus far. He knows that I will call a spade a spade and not worry about digging my own grave with my thoughts and words.

Western and Eastern logic are poles apart as much as the north and south and from one basic premise there develops a differing set of logistics that are contradictory, and yet also contrapuntal and so exist together in the theme of the song and dance of human beings. From the idea in most western cultures that the parents are there to look after the children to the opposite opinion that children are there to care for their parents and ancestors; there is no right or wrong path but merely a differing perspective of life. The very situation of this bipolar mix on the planet that gives rise to all manner of moralistic laneways, that we all think that we walk down upon, with our heads held high and our sanctimonious attitudes to our fellow human beings intact; is of course absurd.

The more hard line that a Christian becomes is the further away from Jesus that they will travel through life in with their baggage.

If he were lucky enough to have one Jesus must be rolling in his grave as he witnesses the swathe of destructions Christians have done to this planet and it people.

Evan Scarlett

Is a knockabout bloke, some might say that he gets knocked about a bit, some may say that he knocks about a bit.

He was born in Melbourne Australia and currently lives there whilst his health improves and he can return to Kangaroo Island and of course Vietnam where he belongs.

He was told by his English teacher the day before his year twelve exam that he had absolutely no chance in hell of passing the test as he was almost illiterate.

He is a painter, musician and chef as well as being a lousy writer.

INTRODUCTION

F IRSTLY I MUST apologise to any and all Vietnamese people who may be offended by what I have written, you shouldn’t be because I salute you and your peoples and your culture, the way that you live your lives. I can only hope that you do not fall prey to the American dream that has rotted the teeth of the world so far. I can assure you that all I have written is true, albeit my version and perception of events. I have a great and healthy respect for the Vietnamese people and I know they are a wonderful and deeply spiritual peoples. In the circles that I travelled in I met maybe some of the seedier side of life in their country and for that I am probably as much to blame as the people that I write about. The same could be said for the people of any country, here in Vietnam they are just a little harder to understand for a westerner like me. Of course in Saigon it’s a different country, it’s not even the same planet as where I spent my time in Vietnam. That being said I would think that most if not all the expats that I met would undoubtedly recognise some of the behaviour of these people that I have written about, as well as recognise themselves and their own behaviour of course.

PART ONE

I HAD PLANNED for many years to go to Indo China; I had talked with a mate about it recently, for a number of months, as he had been there before and now I was ready. I had been teaching my friend to be a cheese maker and every day we would have a couple down at the Millaa Millaa pub and discuss our plans for the future. This included our own cheese factory, but before that a romp through the Mekong.

He topped himself before we got the chance to do it together and this to me, was a little strange. I know, and he knew, it would have been a great party thing to do, for two great friends. Just why he would commit suicide, before we had the chance to do this together, is something that I will never truly understand. We were great, if not short comrades and I will forever struggle, as to why he did what he did, before we could run riot together, through this part of the world, no matter how bad his life was surely he could blow some of his savings on a holiday first.

I have often thought that if things were that bad, then going on a good holiday and spending some of your last will and testament money, would in the least be a smart thing to do before you parted the planet.

When I finally decided to do the trip, without him, it was with mixed emotions, that I planned the voyage. The journey that I should have been taking with my friend Scott and now one that I am taking with the memory of a friend and the places he could have introduced me to.

Well the preparations went well up until the week before I was to go. I had a house being built whilst I was to be away and I would be selling my old property, during this time to some friends, as well. These were the really important things that managed to go too smoothly, so I shouldn’t bitch about the last week, but I will, because it got really stupid.

All the trouble was based around transport and it made me think that the trip was going to be a real doosey. For good or bad there had to be an omen in the events in the week before I was to leave. First, on the Monday I woke early to learn that the ferry that I had paid for to get to the mainland, had gone into temporary insolvency. I had lost the money that I paid for that voyage. Then I headed outside to find a puncture on my car, no big deal, except that the next morning I had another. I jumped in my other car this time and headed down the drive, to a sudden cacophony of metal upon metal friction that made me head back home.

I live in a remote location so I have two spares for my main car so I changed the tyre on the first car and headed into town to get the two punctures fixed.

Next morning; yes a third tyre was flat. All were punctures mind you and not of the same or similar intrusion, but they were in fact apparently totally unrelated accidents.

Plans for my passport renewal, (I had accidentally spilt olive oil on it, rendering it suspect to inspection) visa, air fares and busses were all ridiculous hurdles, that should not happen in a first world country, but the real killer was yet to come.

I rowed out to check my yacht and make sure that the batteries were being charged by the solar panel and that the bilge pump was rendering its expected assistance to the flotation of the vessel. The cover to the bilge was lifted and it was not working, then after tracing the wires I found that the power had been sabotaged, the wires had been disconnected. The boat was in the process of sinking, sure it would have taken six or seven weeks, but all around town, everybody knew that I would be away for an extended period. Someone obviously thought I had already departed. Maybe in all honesty they thought that, I would be back in time to save the vessel and it was just someone’s idea of a slightly sick joke. I wasn’t laughing. The sad thing is that I had no known enemies in the fishing village where that boat was moored. But there are some very strange people living in American River that is for sure.

I fixed the problem and now I was ready to leave my precious Kangaroo Island.

I headed to Adelaide and looked for a room, decided to try the YHA and then headed out on the town, to buy a couple of things for the trip. Back at my room and the obligatory half a bottle of Bourbon and I was on the upstairs balcony having a smoke and chatting to a woman. She was flirting and so I responded and was touched that she was making an effort to touch me inside. She wanted to hear me play guitar and so I went down to my room and when I returned and obliged, we had a circle of gatecrashers intruding on what should have been a private party. Suddenly she had shifted targets and was flirting with two teenage Taiwanese boys and then as I stood there waiting politely for a minute or two, for her to stop ignoring me, she asked me to piss off and leave her with her friends. I said no to the bitch, just who the fuck did she think she was. She started screaming harassment in a very loud voice and a heap of guys came to her rescue; as they are want to do. I wasn’t going to give in and slink off, because it would imply to one and all that I had done something wrong, so I stood my ground.

I went back to my room after she herself shifted location. I was sorely pissed off and just a little pissed, my head was spinning. I calmed down and figured that she was a local hunter who had a fetish for young Asian boys and she used both the YHA and me to attract a couple of targets. Thing is, I had spoken to these two guys earlier and there was little chance of her fucking either one of them, let alone both, of that I was certain.

Vultures like her come in many forms, they don’t necessarily need to have or be a cunt. I knew one with balls in Melbourne who was married and yet came to fleece my flatmate two or three times a week.

I woke the next morning just a little annoyed with myself that I had been sucked in by her and had been used. My traveller’s senses were obviously seriously flabby, just like my middle-aged belly, was in the mirror. I have no mirrors in my shack back on the island, so I had not seen my distended stomach, for a year or so and it was a shocking sight.

I headed out again and noticed a guy that I had been talking to the night before. He was pissing himself as he saw me approach, he had witnessed the shit with the incubus and had a giggle with me that I had been sucked in by her. I remember him being a card shark the night before and I told him that at least I had also managed to notice that he was fleecing all the would be gamblers upstairs. He was good enough to travel the world unleashing money from backpackers and I asked why, if he was that good he didn’t go big time. Apparently he was unwelcome in most legal casinos in the world, but then I was beginning to remember that you hear a lot of people tell you a great deal of bullshit, when you are out there traveling. I did know however that he was a serious talent; I had seen him in action. He said though that the entertainment that I had provided him had distracted him from his game for a period. For nearly an hour he lost money as he watched me.

Traveling has always scared me, sure it’s exciting, but it always freaks me out at first. I guess it’s been nearly ten years since I went overseas and I was in denial of my fears as I normally am.

Something I need to remember, because I often fuck up by covering up my fear with alcohol.

The next day I went to the airport stopped off at the bar for a drink, not realising that you can no longer walk onto the plane, twenty minutes before take off. The flight was closed when I got there, but I wasn’t worried, because it was eight in the morning and the flight to Vietnam from Sydney didn’t leave until two. Qantas said they would get me there, but that I had to pay excess baggage, even though I had already paid it to Jetstar. And of course Qantas owned Jetstar. Then the Qantas flight was delayed to Sydney and I missed my connecting. Qantas said it was Jetstar’s fault and Jetstar said it was a Qantas problem. So I tramped around the airport going from queue to queue, waiting patiently for up to an hour each time to talk to somebody, each time just for some smug prick, to tell me that my problems were not theirs. That is until I spat the dummy at the Qantas counter and demanded to see the supervisor. It’s a shame on these companies that they fucked me around for over three hours in the end, before they gave me the customer service that they should have given at the very first request. You see they are after all just running a business for the making of money and it is in their best interests to take money and not give it back.

Finally they put me on the flight for the next Saturday, but I was told that I would have to pay excess baggage again. So I would get to enjoy Sydney for a couple of days. I decided on the Cross, because I was pissed off and needed to unwind. Bad move sunshine.

Much more alcohol and a day later, I decided to spend some money on a hooker that I had taken a fancy to. It had been thirty years since I had touched a hooker but this one was calling me from the nether regions. This was good except for the fact that I couldn’t get it up. Yet it was still good. If only I had left it there with the women of Kings Cross.

The next day a sexy, skanky woman started chatting to me in the street and asked if I wanted to go to her place for a smoke. To cut a long story short, I ended up the next day, in a seriously wobbly fashion. I had an amazing flirtatious drug induced and scary ride through the dark side of Sydney and a pathetic attempt at a fuck back at my hotel at three in the morning. The next day I don’t know what drug was in my system, but I was almost passing out on the way to the airport, standing in line, I had to concentrate to keep the dizzy spells from making me collapse. I was about five hundred dollars short and I vaguely remember her saying that she often ripped off guys, but always only just taxed them and that she liked me and was only getting enough money for drugs. She also told me that I was a good fuck, so there alone is proof that she was the type of girl who struggled with the truth. I am still not sure how she lifted the money from me, of course I did offer some money for the smoke and gave her some to have her hit, but after that it is all a bit of a blur.

At the check in counter they told me that my bags were not overweight, but it was not company policy not to refund excessive baggage charges. So I had paid three times for excess baggage, that, I did not need to. It’s funny how even so called respectable companies, will happily rip you off these days, much like a back street gangster in Manila, or a dug addict in Sydney’s Kings Cross.

I boarded the plane only to realise; that they had put me in what the hostess said was the naughty boy’s seat. Like the back seat on the school bus, the very last seat by myself, next to the hostess and the rear toilet. Probably just near the flight Marshall as well. My name had been flagged and yet she was happy enough to tell me that Jetstar had deliberately messed me around, I was being punished for being cranky about being fucked around and ripped off. I had been declared a threat to the security of the airline.

It was an uncomfortable flight, what with coming down from whatever drugs were in my system, and the worst seat in the house, but she joked as we landed, that I was indeed not living up to my reputation as a problem child. There were at least fifteen other people on the plane being more of a pain. She was disappointed I think that I had indeed entertained her and kept her company, yet not challenged her people skills. Maybe she prided herself on being able to handle the ones placed in the naughty seat without the need for physical intervention. Besides for me she was pretty and very charming, so apart from the smell and nuisance of being next to the toilet it seemed hardly a punishment.

Upon landing in HCMC I had my obligatory fight with the taxi driver, who tried to fleece me five times the going rate for the ride into district one in Ho Chi Minh City. I was pretty tired by this point and I know that they get away with taking people for a ride and stealing money from them, but I argued well my case all the way there. He couldn’t fathom why I grabbed him by the throat and demanded to be let out of the taxi three times. Transport is becoming a tight squeeze, what with the price of petrol and all. I guess if they don’t rip you off, even the airline companies are losing money.

So I wandered round HCMC trying not to get ripped off, until a full day later I had found my way round the cheap hotel district enough, to get food and what I needed at a reasonable price. Then I finally began to chill out and enjoy the experience.

Well life’s pretty tough now, I am sitting in my hotel room at my desk, writing on my laptop and watching movies on the hotel TV; only 56 channels, bugger. The WiFi Internet connection is about ten times the speed back home; so that is a luxury in itself; and I have just had lunch. Four courses starting with a nice fish and vegetable broth, then a pork belly curry with rice, accompanied by a spinach side dish and followed by a lettuce and cucumber salad, served with a great vinaigrette and iced green tea. Then at last a banana dessert and all this for about seventy cents. Not surprisingly I had five meals yesterday. Ho Chi Minh City is great, but I think I am going to be leaving Vietnam already.

Tomorrow I am off on a sleeping bus to Phnom Penh, and I didn’t even know there was such a thing. The idea of having a bed on a bus sounds great. Then I hope to relax down at the beach for a week before taking a slow boat towards China up the Mekong River, through Cambodia and Laos.

I have decided to travel and live life with the eyes of one sitting in the naughty boy’s seat. I remember the school days where every day you catch the very same bus to and from school. The first year of secondary school you are not allowed in anything but the first two rows of seats. The second year you move back a row and such until in year five you are allowed to sit in front of the naughty boys seat. Then that magical day, the first day of school of your final year of high school, when you board the bus and march right up to the rear and plonk your arse down in the very back bench seat.

It makes me feel good just to think of that day.

I do feel good, I haven’t been in trouble, scared or drunk for three days now; which is very good for my travelling skills. Some people seem to manage to go off to the strangest places in the world and be as chilled as if they were having their breakfast in their favourite cafe back home, me I travel in near fear for at least part of every day that I am on the move.

The next day I caught the bus and was delighted by the state of Cambodia, at least the look of her for the first hundred kilometres or so. Though always you have to approach a capital city and things must of course get a little ugly. Phnom Penh looked no different than any other SE Asian city, but then I caught a tuk tuk to the lakeside district. It’s as sleazy as any I have experienced, I got offered drugs seven times and sex three times in the first half hour by a girl who was covered in mud and I wasn’t sure that I liked it, because the girls were all as rough and filthy as I had ever seen. I have never imagined hookers parading around looking like ferals before, it must be a turn on for somebody I guess. Maybe part of the fun would be in throwing them in the shower and scrubbing them down.

Sometimes a place grows on you however and it was hard not to like Cambodia, I drank half a bottle of Mekong that night, as I wrote well and painted a lovely picture and managed to delete a file essential to Microsoft office, as well as all my writing, for the last four days. I woke with a head and headed to a computer shop and got the whole of office reinstalled for ten American bucks, in a very reputable upmarket shop. Suffer Willy Gates, you deserve it.

Somehow I managed to hold up the bus to Sihanoukville, because I thought I had given another guy my ticket and after ten minutes of arguing and the guy telephoning the office where I bought the ticket and him telling me to look in my wallet, I finally did and found it. I felt a bit silly but in a foreign language a ticket can easily be mistaken for a receipt. I had been given both and my hangover refused to acknowledge the difference, because they were not written in English.

I landed at Chiva’s Shack and