I had a breakfast of mango, rice and leftover chicken at 7am. Two French tourists and I were going on an excursion to see the Cai Be floating market and despite Tet holidays still on, I was guaranteed by the owner of the homestay that the market wasn’t closed and that we should rush to see them trading round 8:45am.

After watching the owner’s wife and sister repair the longboat’s engine with tools I’ve never seen before, we headed across the river to where the ferry docked and to where our next boat waited for us.

It was very cool out and the sun was still hidden behind the horizon. The planks under foot made this pleasant hollow sound when stepped on and the quiet on the water only enhanced this acoustic. The palms in the distance wore the early glow well and when some fishermen were preparing their boats to head out, it looked like they were ghosts walking on the water, taken by the river in their past lives, perhaps ghosts fading mistily into the morning fog. One fishing boat quietly passed us. The driver was smoking a cigarette and crouching down aft near the engine’s steering handle. For the first time in Vietnam I received an unusual look from a local; a strange, piercing stare. It was cold, communicating that perhaps we weren’t appreciated. Maybe it was because he wasn’t making enough money to get by; maybe because his wife kicked him out of the house for spending all his money on the drink. Who knew what was going through his head. Still, it was an eerie yet interesting, Heart-Of-Darkness moment.

I spotted some ladies doing laundry in front of their huts in very loose-fitting clothes. It truly felt that my dreams were segueing into another vaporous dream but turned out that this dream was actually reality. I kept saying to myself, under my breath, “I can’t believe I’m on the Mekong River in Vietnam, this is unbelievable.”

We then transferred to another boat. Though I don’t remember her name it was driven by a very young and cordial girl who never ceased smiling and talking to us. She was to be our guide and wore a rice hat the whole trip. As soon as the sun came out fully scorching my hatless head I soon realized why she preferred her headgear to mine.

After a short trip we quickly transferred to a raft. It was manually driven by an old and skinny lady…also in a rice hat. At first when she started rowing I thought that she was going to break in half. Her hands were wrinkled and leathery and she looked frail. A person her age in Canada would have been in an old folk’s home or cared for by children, grandchildren. It was only after when I tried driving the raft and realized how much strength one needed to manoeuver it; how well she managed on her own. I was lucky to not have tipped it (if that is even possible) losing all my gear and possibly a French tourist, or myself.

We then entered a very narrow and serene channel with a strange kind of palm leaf which stood erect from its banks. It was producing a much enjoyable leafy shade as we “cruised” for some time. But what about the floating market? I thought to myself. I had my gear out taking photos but the market was something I really wanted to see, the bustle, the local commerce, and all of that, over the water in boats.

At the end of the channel we transferred back to the longboat and continued on to the floating market but when we arrived we only saw two boats trading Corossolier (Mãng Cầu Xiêm). The driver of the boat that was trading then said, “Tet holiday, no market.”

At that point I was pretty peeved because I explicitly asked the owner of the homestay if the market was on. He guaranteed that the market was on. I then realized that he might have been more interested in his cut of the 15 dollars we paid for the excursion. Apparently, from what I heard, during disputes regarding service or quality, the Vietnamese simply shrug their shoulders and blame the miscommunication on the language barrier. Should I have gone back to complain, he probably would have smiled and said sorry. Well, regardless, it was still great to be out and I had gained some valuable insight as to how people survived and made a living on this ancient river.

On our way back, we dropped by a honey and fruit farm. At the honey farm it was more like a showroom with the main product, a cosmetic gelee royal that cost $10, literally pushed into our faces in four different languages. Its main ingredient was – you guessed it, honey. I wasn’t really interested so this time I just waited around for the French husband who was trying to bargain. Apparently, it was too much for Vietnamese prices.

It was at the fruit farm where I met a tour guide who brought to my attention something interesting about Vietnam, that he compared the country’s outline to the shape of a woman. The conversation went like this:

Tour Guide: “Hey, how a [sic] you?”

Me: “I’m good thanks. How are you?”

Tour Guide: “Ah, beautiful, beautiful. You [sic] like Viet girl?”

Me: “Ah, well, yes, beautiful girl, very beautiful people.”

(At this point he begins gesturing a curvy body, an S-line.)

Tour Guide: “Country…like beautiful girl in Ao Dai.”

Me: “Oh, what is Ao Dai?”

Tour Guide: “Beautiful girl in traditional dress.”

In my interpretation of the conversation, he may have been trying to a) sell me a Viet prostitute b) tell me that Viet girls in the countryside had nicer bodies than girls in the city c) that everyone in Vietnam likes fit girls with curvy bodies or d) how I interpreted it initially, that a Viet woman’s shape is that of the country’s outline.

I think the reason why I interpreted it that way was because of a poem I read by Pablo Neruda where he compares the Americas to a beautiful, busty woman. North America being her healthily plump upper features; Central America, her skinny waist; South America, her curvaceous hips. It is a beautifully written poem, with the metaphorical comparison made in organic and romantic language. Unfortunately, I do no remember the poem’s name. If you happen to know the name of the poem, please let me know.

As a result of this interesting cultural newness, I’ve decided to do a social experiment and will let you, dear reader, be the judge. I have included Vietnam and a Viet girl in an Ao Dai. What do you think?

I have also added other countries. What body types do they remind you of? And, if the images happen to remind you of a body type, is the image in your head a beautiful one or a not so beautiful one? By the way, how much do you think the image in your head is a function of actual shape rather than your perceptions of the people of that country?

And regarding Neruda’s metaphorical comparison, do you think America looks like a beautiful, zaftig and pleasantly plump beauty?

Salud!

Today was my last day in HCMC – pheww!!

After waking up in the morning I was surprised to learn that my landlady…do you remember her? The doddering Viet I had told you about, the murmerer. Well, I was surprised to learn that she knew more than those words I had been repeatedly subjected to over the last few days (“ok,go”) because as I was cleaning up the room and stuffing my rucksack with an equal amount of clean clothes to dirty laundry she entered and said, “you go, money now!”

I was blown away not so much for the audacity as this new lexical revelation. This time however it was said with an angry emphasis so an exclamation is just.

The reason why she freaked on me was because last night I came in rather late and didn’t have the chance to pay for the last two nights. So, I quickly paid her and was out, scratching my head…I learn new things all the time.

I again opted for the American breakfast because eggs, bacon and ham seem to be a proper start to my day. I usually eat the local dishes for lunch and dinner. Last night for example I had fish for dinner, Basa, to be exact, a Mekong mud-fish.

As I was eating my breakfast I recalled a few things a Greek guy had told me last night while we were gutter drinking on Pham Ngu Lao street. I was a bit myself in a head-spinning, drunken haze but do recall him emphasizing his “yellow fever” for sexy Chinese and Korean girls and that he had been living in China for four years working at a hotel. He even went as far as telling me how he goes about hooking them. “Pssst!” he leaned into me as I finished off my last seventh beer (50 cents per beer by the way), “Do you know my secret?” he said, “I pretend to want to marry them.”

boat ride in vietnam on the mekong river in the early morning

He also mentioned unfortunately that his country was falling apart and that he had no plans to ever go back to Greece. If you’re out there, Giorgos, I wish you all the best.

I also remember him telling me that Cambodia – my next stop after Vietnam – will be the “devil’s playground.” He then amusingly asked me if I had a strong stomach for the streets are rife with old men, tourists, walking around holding hands with sixteen year old girls (kind of like in Vietnam); that rebel-looking children in tattered clothes carry around unconcealed weapons and that I should never drink tap water for its high iron content and manganese/ arsenic contamination.

I began to feel that I had conquered enough of HCMC. That tourist/ prostitute/ backpackers street was getting stale. The tropical trees were still pleasant to look at and the locals were friendly but when you pan up you see the crude smog; when you pan down, gutter garbage and black rivers running under bridges. Eyes! You are always wearing a coat of Viet eyes and at some point I thought that I was a walking slab of meat and the locals like condors. Some travelers had nothing but bad things to say about HCMC and Vietnam in general, that “Vietnamese people are rude compared to Cambodians…nothing even close to the Thai!”

ferry ride, vinh long, vietnam

Honestly, I hadn’t experienced anything bad so far for I always asked for things smiling and am respectful. I never assert any sort of Western status or arrogance. Although many people would say that they don’t do that – there is something about a Western traveler/ tourist visiting other parts of the world emitting such an aura, that they are better and are deserving of special attention. It is something that a Westerner can’t detect him/herself, it is under-the-surface but seeps out occasionally and unknowingly. I think only experienced travelers can see what I’m talking about, or ones who had retreated from their culture for some time giving themselves a long enough break to look at their own culture with a critical eye compared to the new one they’re in.

For three days I saw, felt and heard a lot in HCMC. Every day I went out in the morning looking for the city’s always-over-sixty pulse and found it dead on. I learned how to cross main avenues without fearing for my life and learned how bargaining sternly could save my wallet from thinning out too much and too fast. I also learned not to leave things unattended even at holy temples…the Viet can’t cook Mexican food even if it’s on a menu at a “Spanish” restaurant. A quick change in scenery was needed.

I took a Mah Linh bus to Vinh Long (60,000 dong = $2.88) at 11:00am, well, I didn’t really take the bus at that time because I bought the ticket and was given a lift 15 minutes out of the central district to some intermediary travel agency. Then I got on a coach bus for another 20 minutes until we arrived at a bus depot. After waiting for two hours at the bus depot I finally boarded a mini-van at 13:30. My stomach was burping and gurgling in response to the mud-fish I had yesterday and was starting to feel unwell.

We received boarding gifts on the mini-bus: a bunch of wet naps and a bottle of water. The company’s logo on the said items made you not forget what transportation company you were using. I think I still have the logo tattooed on my conscience.

Stuffed in my pockets were a few small tubes of hand sanitizers so I didn’t really need the wet naps, but shortly after things went awry internally. I could honestly say that the wet naps saved my life.

I say this because the mud-fish I ate gave me the mud butts (I apologize for the vulgarity but it’s the truth). You know that feeling, like a hose is spitting water up into your colon.

After riding in the bus for an hour I finally said, “stop, please!” a little louder and more assertive than how I said it the first few times. The bus driver knew immediately what was going on and put on a frightened face for his leather seats were being threatened of becoming abstractions more valuable than Jackson Pollock’s.

I bolted out of the mini-van and headed to the back of a market. Luckily, I found a toilet in time. And so, the Mah Linh wet nap saved me as there was no toilet paper. There was only an orange bowl floating atop a concrete water hole next to the hole in the ground. I shall remember that company logo forever!

After my toilet incident, I felt better. The green rice fields were greener and spanned miles and miles; some white mausoleums stood in the middle of some paddies; some were protected by barbwire others weren’t. We passed several bridges and along the water’s edge there were always several houses on stilts. Clothes were drying on rope and longboats were parked underneath the balconies. The farther I went out of the city, the more I saw a diffuse brown displacing the black and stagnant streams I saw running through HCMC.

I arrived at Vinh Long’s bus depot at 14:20. I took a motorbike taxi ($2.00, a few kilometers out from the city) and was dropped off in front of the landing ferry. I then walked into the Cuu Long tourist office and was given the price of 30 bucks per night for a home-stay – wow! That’s too much, I thought. Then some German lady on a bicycle interrupted me and said that there was a girl outside the hotel offering home-stays for half the price. I approached her, she spoke good English, showed me pictures – I was convinced. Three meals a day plus free bicycle rental for $15.00 was a bargain.

One of the pictures she showed me was of a guy wading in knee high, muddy water in a swamp. She then flipped the page and I saw him eating a raw snake, still in the knee high muddy water!

The girl put me on the ferry and said that her sister would pick me up on the other side. And indeed, a skinny, teenage girl wearing what looked like pajamas picked me up on a motorbike and drove me to a little hamlet hidden from the Mekong. Hidden, though in fact, right behind the bushes and trees was the wide and ancient river.

A little gate welcomed tourists to “Ngoc Sang” homestay. We walked through it and reached a house with a turquoise blue exterior and brick-colored ceramic tiles. A single table sat in the open pavilion with four hammocks tied from verandah rail to wooden pillars. The muddy moat encircled the house.

The owner, a jovial and carefree man, introduced himself quickly and returned to playing with his son on the hammock until he passed out from exhaustion. Three ladies were cooking in the kitchen. An old dog with a few knotted braids of hair approached me and gave me a welcoming sniff…an interesting greeting! Vietnam!!

Stay tuned for post 2/2 in the coming days.

Salud!

house on stilts in vietnam on the mekong river

After my frugal lunch of spring rolls and fried rice at a street stall, I visit the very colorful and exotic Mariamman Hindu Temple in HCMC. Built in the late 19^th century by Tamils brought over from French India, the temple is dedicated to the Hindu Goddess of small-pox and heat-related diseases, Mariamman. An apparently vindictive and unappeasable deity – Mariamman is said to cause disease amongst its worshipers but also to prevent it. In some villages in Pondicherry her head is seen resting atop the Earth while the rest of her body is buried (her body is said to be the village she protects.) Known for the temple’s healing powers, it is visited not only by the very small Hindu population in HCMC but also by local Viet and Chinese populations. Like any other temple, it has divine powers as well.

I enter from the main gate and immediately am faced with the shrine hall. Mariamman’s statue sits up high with her two protectors – Maduraiveeran and Pechiamman – on both sides of her. Coconut, rice, joss sticks, slices of pomelo are laid out on the offering table flanked by two massive lime trees decorated with red scrolls of parallel sentences and hanging golden coins. These ornaments are hung to mark the Chinese Lunar New Year in Vietnam. I unintentionally arrived in HCMC during this festive week.

There is an outer hall that encloses the shrine with several ceramic Tamil Hindu deities in the walls. Some are blue-faced, some red; some multi-armed or two-limbed…arms gracefully held out or cradled into the Namaste pose. Some deities are gripping tridents; others, scrolls, babies or swords. Nataraja, a four-armed depiction of Shiva is the most intriguing as he is held in a burdensome pose, performing a cosmic dance on top of Apasmara, the personification of evil and ignorance in dwarf form. However, this Apasmara is rather strange-looking compared to the other Apasmara figures I had seen in my life. It is naked, in light-blue shorts wearing golden chains and looks rather provocative in a black, fancy and upward pointing mustache. It has dark eyes as well as long, black hair and looks to be lying down like this.

I walk around the hall against traffic taking photos of the temple’s interior and its visitors. Some slightly scowl at my ignorance of walking in the wrong direction but this – as though it were a stranger’s sudden ignorant reaction thrown up on their faces – quickly subsides and a faint smile is sketched as I sketch an even bigger smile. A bicycle is parked under a ceramic Kannigaparameswari statue and potted plants run along Kamatchiamman and Valambigai’s. There are broom sticks and garden hoses laid out messily as well as empty baskets. It is rather quiet and empty in the temple except for a group of ladies I encounter sitting around six large plastic baskets full of a confetti-looking material. As I walk closer, I notice that four of the baskets are full of yellow flower petals while the other two are full of small red baggies filled with the petals, ready to be given out as offering to devotees, prasadam.

After sitting down and conversing with a fellow German tourist, I observe the manner in which worshipers pay their respects at the temple:

A worshiper enters the temple. Mariamman at the front gate’s shrine is the first stop and is the first to be revered before moving on. Then, the worshiper proceeds counter-clockwise with a joss stick chosen for each deity in the pantheon-like corridor. For every deity, the worshiper stops, faces it, waves its hands in a Namaste gesture three times in front of the body (some have their eyes closed and head tilted down) and utters a few private words. The worshiper then inserts a joss stick into a bowl full of sand and proceeds to the next deity to carry out the same pattern of worshiping.

It is interesting yet still strangely voyeuristic on my end to see the worshiper serious and reverent while I (with my long lens for I’m not interested in violating their personal and pious space) take photos of them in their private moments. It is said though that the best photos of travel street photography are ones taken by shameless, uninhibited and likewise smiling photographers. The latter feeling I suppose is to disarm the subject who at times reacts to being slightly violated. I remember once taking a photo of a man in Belarus and then him telling me after how I was taking a bit of his soul away. In Ukraine and Mexico I wasn’t reprimanded verbally for shutter-pressing but simply threatened to have my camera taken and given to the secret Ukrainian police (strange because I later found out that this man was an illegal from the Caucuses region selling jeans at a bazaar) or chased by a gang of street kids in Puerto Vallarta for taking a photo of their “father” without giving them any “royalty” first.

What an exhausting yet eventful day. I have used the words ‘photocardiotourism’ before to indicate what I do: walk around from sunup to sunset; see and learn as much as I can; take as many photos and use as little public transportation as possible.

I then return to my room and nap for a good few hours before meeting with the German girl for dinner.

**postcript: dinner was a chintzy-portioned Mexican tortilla dish ($4.00) but with a healthy bottle of Tiger beer ($2.50). I think Vietnam is getting expensive. What do you think?**

Salud!   Oh, and be sure to check out the new mirrors I have up here

Mariamman Hindu Temple, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

At 6am this morning, not a minute later, my eyes shot open from my deep sleep. And why you may wonder? Because the other day my landlady – an 80 year old logorrheic murmerer who I shall not defraud any further after this post – fiddled around with the door knob, stuck her head into my room, and said, “ok, go.” This may not sound strange for not yet sensitized ears, though for me, as I had been primed already, this was a gesture terrifyingly ‘topping off’ her Tourette’s-like use of the paired words from the previous day. Not so much was this an annoyance as an incapacitating and uncontrollable mantra of my fresh beginnings in Vietnam which, due to my sensitive psychology, had already been affected by the wild reproduction of “ok, go” in my mind every morning…like a mental virus! So, I woke up armed with the slipper that the noodle vendor offered me yesterday from my shoe robbery incident at Xa Loi pagoda in the case that the murmerer would become a repeat offender in saying those words. Despite the bottom-grazing low I had reached to remedy this situation, I felt that it was the only viable way to extinguish the behavior for the language barrier between us was bigger than the Great Wall of China. **postscript: I wasn’t forced to launch the slipper at anyone’s head after all**

I went to grab breakfast at a place called Bobby Brewers on Pham Ngu Lao street. I ordered the American set: 2 eggs, toast, ham. The sausages had imploded on the frying pan to what looked like shrapnel on my plate, still tasted good though, like Longaniza back in the Philippines. Baked beans were also thrown in for the Aussies who apparently love their baked beans. I also got a fruit shake but the idiot I am I managed to spill it all over myself, half on my shirt and half on my cargo shorts. Though, I’m quite lucky to have the personality that is to practice the art of Zen and I don’t give a f*%@ because I purposely wear travel rags that would allow me to be had by the elements or to be post-stamped by foods marking where I eat on my trips.

Today I learned why I was offered birds to be freed at the pagoda yesterday (see photo on the left) and as to why there are less motorbikes on the road since when I arrived in HCMC. As I had read in my Lonely Planet (which will supposedly self-destruct for its bad, bootlegged quality) it is the Tet holiday in Vietnam. During this time animals are to to be spared, in fact, given a second chance as part of the Buddhist teachings of causality (see bottom photo of boy buying a turtle). Motorbikes, I suppose, were parked because Tet is all about staying indoors with family. It is a New Year holiday that marks the advent of spring based on the Chinese calendar and is celebrated by appeasing bad spirits; eating with family members; visiting the graves of deceased family members; and paying homage to ancestors by heading to the temple and offering prayers. 

Despite the holiday though things were open for those potential panickers who fear that they’ll starve to death on their vacation. At least in southern Vietnam, compared to the frenzy of hungry travelers I heard from up North, things went as Vietnamese as possible.

After my breakfast I walked around and continued taking photos of street life. Mother vendors were setting up their stalls, placing strips of boiled meat into glass cases, while their daughter-assistants were cutting up lemongrass and onion. Little tables were set up nearby with little’r stools for the patron to sit in.

Although I pretty much eat anything, some items looked grossly unappetizing and I fear such intestine-looking things like I fear gastroenteritis. It looked as though they were recently cut from carrion, boiled, and put in the display window showing organs I hardly am able to identify. Offal-type meats were sold and were also quite common in my Polish upbringing but in Vietnam they appear too much in “raw form” if that makes any sense at all. And to add to the effect, it is one thing when a fly gets caught in a glass case full of meat and soon buzzes out but when it gets wedged between meat and glass and cannot fly away, that is when I get turned off instantly.  I had a similar instance of temporary aversion in Mongolia last year when I was staying in a ger and the wife of a nomad cut out lamb entrails and cooked mutton right in front of me.

Some vendors were selling fruits of all kinds; fruits that I had never seen before in my life. For example, there was a fruit that reminded me of Valentine’s Day merged with a dragon. But when cut open its fleshy interior looked like cookies and cream ice cream (dragonfruit, pitaya). Another fruit looked like a burr but poisonous looking, or, a really bad hair-do dyed red (rambutan, chôm chôm). There was one which looked like a large hanging ball and chain with hard spikes which, I would imagine, if it were to fall on one’s head it certainly would deliver a lethal blow or perhaps twenty or so staples (jackfruit).

Other items being sold in the streets were books about the Vietnam War; memoirs of victims; bootlegged Lonely Planets and little knick knacks for souvenirs. The booksellers had so much strapped to their bodies, like a moveable storage facility on their person, of their own visible inventory. One guy’s stack of books tied by a cord was so high  – and yet he managed it so well – that it reminded me of the Caber toss at the Scottish Highland Games.

The names of schools, hospitals and other government buildings are both written in Vietnamese and French, a typical anachronism in a modern day Vietnam once colonized by Francophones. Moreover, I’ve only been here two days and I haven’t heard a single word of French spoken in the streets except for the one in every three tourists I encounter who are from France.

The motorbike cowboys are out in full effect. I spoke with a French guy while buying water and he was telling me how he had his iphone ripped right from his hands while checking his email the other day. When he told me he was standing on the curb with his phone towards traffic my pity was suddenly displaced by a judgment of sheer stupidity.

Another girl’s camera was stolen while walking at night with friends. Rather than having the camera strapped across her body and in front of her, with a hand on it, she let it dangle off of one shoulder. Apparently she was even drunk. Why do some people lack common sense?

I then spoke with an Aussie girl about how careless travelers could be these days, particularly in HCMC which is even known as the capital of thievery in South East Asia (hey, shoes stolen at a Buddhist pagoda over here) – but she then came out doltishly saying, “I don’t really care, my camera is insured.” And then I thought to myself: Is such an attitude directly correlated to becoming a victim? Does such carelessness make a thief’s life easier?

I then imagined the dialogue between two young Viet kids. It went something like this:

“Hey, Tran, you get anything last night on dumb tourist street?” says one kid.

“Heck, yeah, these foreigners have so much wealth that they don’t care for their cameras and phones, they’ll just buy new ones…got an iphone, a handbag full of credit cards and money. One guy even tried to chase me but I was too fast on my motorbike. You know, Duc, you should get yourself a scooter and start a business with me, we could become partners and soon take over the world.”

Yes, hardware is replaceable but what about those memories stored on the memory card? Wouldn’t she want to escape her mundane reality at some point in the future and occasionally recreate those moments of her vacation in her mind? I guess not. Being a visual person I then pictured a Viet kid quick to change language functions on a camera and format each and every card in order to sell it on the black market…probably back to another tourist for “cheap, cheap! Just for you my friend!”

Stay tuned for post 2/2 in the coming days, check out the photo of me with my new friend!

Salud!

Me and my new best friend..who is actually not wanting to be my best friend

After the War Museum, the next landmark I decided to check out was the seven-tiered Xa Loi Pagoda in HCMC’s district three. Built in 1956, it is known for possessing a sacred Buddha relic and for its part in sourcing demonstrations against religious persecution carried out by the Pro-Catholic government in the early 60s. There is also a memorial there for Thích Quảng Đức, a Buddhist monk who self-immolated out of protest producing this Pulitzer prize winning photo.

For some reason though, with map in hand and a self-proclaimed spatial orientation comparable to a pigeon’s – I couldn’t find it. I asked a young boy sweeping the entrance of a restaurant to point me to it but he just lifted his hand like a sick patient and arbitrarily waved, not even lifting his eyes from the pile of dust and street refuse he had amassed.

Not by a sudden spurt of determination, I finally saw the pagoda in the distance by randomly turning onto Ba Huyen Thanh Quan street. I walked through a dense gathering of vendors selling eggy flavoured and red bean-filled pastries as well as joss sticks and Buddhist text. Some were also selling Bánh mì, a culinary relic from the days of French colonialism consisting of grilled meat and vegetables stuffed inside a baguette.

There was a school nearby. Hearing the sound of children in urban areas always soothes me and this most human music weaved itself into the hustle and bustle of a pagoda-generated commerce. Before entering the gates, I was immediately offered to set free a few birds for good luck but was not paying attention because I was transfixed by the pagoda’s 32 metre bell tower. I first strolled into the garden taking photos and made my way up the main hall’s stairs. I took off my shoes prior to entering it, as is required in shrine halls.

The hall was full of warm hues in places absent of shadows. Sunlight beamed at sharp angles through the windows and banners hung from the ceiling bearing the vibrant spectrum of Buddhism’s universal colors. The wide prayer space in front of me lead up to the Gautama Buddha sitting in the lotus position. Near the side walls, forming narrow corridors, there stood a row of pillars less aesthetic in design than practical in purpose.

The hall was completely empty. In the far corner, a monk was sitting at a desk reading a book. After noting the hall’s contemporary décor and the smell of incense permanently infused in the air, I approached the monk and asked for a photo. He agreed with a smile. I then looked up and paused in front of Buddha, admiring His most venerable aura but curious as to why some statues depict him potbellied and bald while others with long hair in a bun and far less pudgy. The stretched ear lobes appear to be the most preserved feature out of all the depictions I had seen of Him.

I then noticed that I was standing next to a spring blossom tree. It was about two heads taller than me and its bright yellow flowers complemented Buddha’s gilded exterior graciously. A few vases of flowers also stood as part of the shrine as well as golden trays on pedestals topped with offerings of rice, oranges and money. Beguiled by the newness and the hall’s tranquilizing disposition, I entered a meditative, eye-shut trance.

I felt the room suddenly fill me with warmth. I was fully aware of my surroundings though my thoughts segued into tame and noiseless mental images. Under my feet there was no ceramic tile but a water lily. I was standing on it with one foot in the air no higher than a Buddhist sage’s raised foot. I then imagined floating down the Mekong River at dusk on this lily pad. It was a precious and personal moment, unwontedly holy to my surprise.

I then imagined being in a dense forest valley enshrouded by low-lying vaporous clouds…monkeys howling in the distance and suspicious objects rustling in the bush revealing to be young tribal boys hunting for salamanders…I imagined standing near a waterfall in the jungle and feeling a cold, misty spray falling on my cheeks. I was so deep in my thoughts that I even felt mist delicately titillating my left cheek; however, upon opening my eyes, I was disappointed to learn that it was not a natural cascade, but a monk nurturing the spring blossom with a handheld spray bottle. I moved out of his way; he smiled and said hello. I quickly returned back to reality.

I sat down against a pillar and watched the monk get on his tippy toes, reaching for the tree’s crown. I noticed a man enter the hall and kneel down but was there for only a few series of kowtows and left.

After absorbing as much as I could, I got up and walked to where I took my shoes off but they were not there. I thought that perhaps a monk moved them elsewhere for he needed to sweep the floor; seeing that when not praying they are usually tending to Buddha’s garden and His home like pious and obedient worshipers. I called to the monk who was reading in the corner and gestured that my shoes were not where I had put them. He walked over and looked at the empty floor, and again, with that very same languid hand gesture as the boy sweeping the street – which I interpreted as ‘get lost’ – he signaled that my shoes were in fact, ‘lost.’ In other words, my shoes were stolen at the entrance of Xa Loi pagoda in HCMC

Insensitive as he was, he just went back to his duties and paid no mind. I began scratching my head – gone? From a place of worship? One of the most prominent pagoda’s in all of Vietnam? Right at Buddha’s doorstep, of a religion where the most vital teaching is the lesson about doing good and the karma you get for it?

At this point I thought two things. 1) It is okay because for somebody to steal from a pagoda the person must really be poor or in a bad situation in his/her life and 2) this is a sign that I should go back to my room and ensure that my belongings were still there. The situation stirred up some unnecessary psychological angst within me even though my cameras, money and passport were on my person; my money belt was strapped on to me so tightly that I could probably hang off of a tree from it – but my rucksack and other possessions were unsecured in a room with an unstable door and a lock that would befit a diary and not a motel.

A paranoic whirlwind of thoughts left me with nothing but worry, confusion and inner tumult. But this was not healthy for a second day because I then submitted to thoughts of the elderly Viet woman coaxing her grandson to pry open my door and to steal from me; to thoughts of being robbed at gun point and having my camera gear taken; or to being seduced by a Viet girl, drugged, and then also taken for all my things. And so, I quickly rushed back to my room.

I didn’t want to walk in my socks so I walked back, yes – in the filthy, pestilential, streets of Vietnam – barefoot; of course making a conscious effort to stay away from the gutters while meandering around pools of water from suspicious sources. Since my arrival, I had also noticed there being food garbage everywhere on the streets, things which plop onto the pavement from eating street meat, highly intoxicated, at 3am.

A pair of Swedish tourists wearing ray-bans and checkered shorts looked at me, observed that I was shoeless, and chuckled.

As though he knew what had happened, a man selling noodles from his home threw me a pair of slippers. Appreciating this I felt obliged to at least buy a bowl of phở from him to return the kind gesture.

As I had expected: my belongings were there; my door was locked the whole time and the murmurer was out of sight so I proceeded to Ben Thanh market. At the market, I bought a pair of fake Nikes for $30. I gave in to the price. I just wanted to put the generously donated slippers aside and to cover my black feet with any footwear not to mention, appreciate having a pair of shoes once again.

For the rest of the day I lounged around in the park near reunification palace and while taking naps under tropical trees, I thought about the very same question that you, my dear readers, may have been asking yourself while reading – the question of: Which Vietnamese guy could possibly fit into a male, size elevens?

Salud!

After staring at the white ceiling for an hour I finally got up. I missed magic hour but the transit and stopover completely incapacitated me and so I needed my zzz’s. 

I brushed my teeth with bottled water; made sure my batteries were charged and my briefs clean and made my way downstairs. Fearing that she would suddenly appear and utter those words now reverberating in my psyche and penetrating my sanity, I quickly dashed for the door, but, as soon as I entered the tour agency, I noticed her napping on the sofa so I was in the clear. I grabbed a tourist map from the desk: the War Museum of HCMC was the first thing on the list.

I walked outside and finally got an urban panoramic view of the city, not the one-dimensional postcard perspective. I was now in the living organism of the polis, experiencing it, clinging to it for I now relied on it for food, shelter. I felt relief that I was finally not living through second (anecdotes) and third (books/internet) party sources but seeing and feeling Vietnam in vivo.

Faces from the night before, the shadowy glances under the streetlamps, were now staring out in the open, under the sun. What do they think when they see me? Tay Balo, for grizzly looking backpacker? Do they think that I‘m American? Or am I just a “foreigner?” Has every part of their judgment been influenced by the war? For example, if I were an American, would they think beyond what they see and wonder If I were the son of a Vietnam vet? Or am I someone who has simply come to Vietnam to party and to bed as many Viet girls as possible? When they see what Vietnam has become, does their heart pain? Do they feel a sense of hopelessness? Maybe they think something like: “Ah, Americans destroyed our beloved country and now they return to turn it into a brothel?”

The weather was beautiful apart from the haze that diluted the sky’s blue. It wasn’t so humid and not yet hot for it was still early in the day.

As I continued walking, I saw people setting up stalls on the street and some shops keepers opening up their gates for business. Motorbikes and scooter engines were heard sputtering from blocks away.

One of the very first things I noticed is how a buffer is nonexistent between home life and business, the shop they run. Gas burners sit next to cash registers; fridges next to computer desks.The owner could be a rice distributor set up from his home’s main living area and yet he sells cold beverages to tourists. Children play with customers and when hungry take from the shelf bread, rice cakes, noodles, or spring rolls, as we’re handed said items when making a purchase. Sometimes there is a cot set up right there in the centre of the office/kitchen or there is a hammock hanging (in the serendipitous event that an owner owns two trees sprouting from between the cracks of the pavement and close enough to hang one) in front of his property. Sometimes you have to wake the worker in order to make a purchase, as I had to do to buy water early in the morning.

Every other shop is a restaurant with plastic tables and flimsy chairs spilling out onto the pavement. Tour agencies have signs that say, “Best Tours in the Mekong.” There are Viet women already sitting next to their stalls selling postcards, wearing the traditional rice hats, fanning themselves and pressing buttons on their phones. Some rice hats have an added cloth strap that covers the face to filter the heavily polluted air. Not a single expression is seen on their faces. If they are happy or sad their presentations are rightfully sacrificed for their preservation. Strangely, this reminds me of the burqa worn by women in Islamic countries. Some women are simply waiting around, but for what? Waiting for nothing in particular as that seems to be the way of life in these here parts of the world.

I left Pham Ngu Lao street and headed North on Cach MangTham Tam towards the museum. I avoided all the tuk-tuk drivers stopping near the curb yelling, “tuk-tuk my friend!”

Motorbikes dot the streets but their collective numbers almost cover the grey of the pavement. By now my camera is already out and my lens cleaned. I see a scooter whizz by – I take a picture. Reviewing it carefully on my screen, I see a young family of four. First, the son on the seat; then father driving and after him, daughter and mother at the end. The daughter, about 6 years old, has a sunhat on and a malaria net over her entire upper body. Mother has on a helmet that looks like a cap, in fact every rider does. Some drivers have special rattan seats that look like highchairs built for infants and inserted between driver and handlebars.

In Cong Vien Van Hoa Park, I take photos of horticulturalists raking leaves and watering the plants and bushes. They and the city cleaners sweeping the streets are all in an orange getup which looks no different than a modern day prison uniform. Some ladies are walking around selling rice and green tea in a bag; boiled eggs and spring rolls. Their “pushcart” is a bamboo beam over their shoulders balancing two osier baskets hanging from both ends.

The national flag hangs everywhere. It is red with a yellow star in the middle. Quite prevalent is also the red flag with the hammer and sickle, a symbol of the Communist Party and union between peasant and proletariat. Of course, pictures of Vietnam’s Ho Chi Minh can be found hanging in some shops paying homage to the “Uncle of the People”, and in others, dedicated wholly to his iconography and cult of personality.

I arrived at the museum at about 10:30am. Its “lawn” was full of recovered helicopters, airplanes, tanks, mortars, jeeps – some surrendered and others captured – all designs of metal that represent carnage. Closer to the entrance there were bombs in different shapes, some round and bulbous, some long and thin with antenna-like protuberances. I am not surprised to learn that Vietnam was United State’s playground of destruction in the 60’s.

The first floor is about education and how relations in the last few years had improved between both governments. A section of wall is also designated to protests held around the world to stop the U.S from further carnage.

I then walk upstairs to a second floor exhibit, the “Aggression War Crimes” section and I see in big letters a portion of the Declaration of Independence written on the wall, the part that “all men are created equal” and “endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights.”

Let the onslaught of gross imagery begin. Death and destruction is all that I see in photographic form and preserved, in glass casements, the weapons that platoons used to carry out such atrocities.

I enter the “Agent Orange” section. As part of the United States’ military strategy to eliminate the Viet Cong, Agent Orange, a strong chemical defoliant containing dioxin – the deadliest chemical ever produced by man – was sprayed to over 500,000 acres of land. There was no shortage of photos depicting the disturbing effects of this herbicidal warfare. Mostly it was a show of their deformities and handicaps as well as some photos showing the effects of Agent Orange on American soldiers and their children. Having nothing to eat for breakfast, compounded with the images before me, I was forced to make for the bathroom but did nothing but dry heave. That was it for me; I quickly left.

Salud!         

Day 2: 2/2 coming soon, be sure to check back about my Buddhist temple incident.

BIALYSTOK, POLAND

PHNOM PENH, CAMBODIA

SIGHISOARA, ROMANIA

HAVANA, CUBA

MAZATLAN, MEXICO

OLKHON ISLAND, SIBERIA, RUSSIA

BIALYSTOK, POLAND

OLKHON ISLAND, SIBERIA, RUSSIA

CHIANG RAI, THAILAND

ULAANBAATAR, MONGOLIA

CHIANG RAI, THAILAND

OLKHON ISLAND, SIBERIA, RUSSIA

BEIJING, CHINA

It was pitch black when I got up. These love motel windows are great in keeping out the neon and street life but in the morning they give you the impression that you’re waking up in a cave and that you’re a miserable, sun-deprived troglodyte. Unlike the windows, the walls failed to keep out sex sounds all night from adjacent rooms, perhaps the nymphet found her place after all. Seeing that I found the window before the light switch, I opened it for the sun to beam in and to air out the smell of sleep. But after taking a whiff of the sweet, city aroma; and seeing grey buildings, grey skies, and garbage bags dumped in the unlikeliest of places, for example, on the roof of the metal awning right under my nose – I quickly closed it and continued groping blindly through the dark.

I showered in the plastic shoes provided by the motel, got dressed and left to do some last minute shopping. I bought a toiletry pouch, toothpaste, mouthwash and four small tubes of hand sanitizer at Lotte Mart. I then headed for the airport taking the express train.

My flight was at 14:00 – Seoul-Guangzhou-Ho Chi Minh City. I heard that my flight at 294 dollars was still too expensive.

Here’s something you don’t usually see at the airport – a skating rink! But as I was coming down the escalator, my canook sense (I say canook  rather than canuck for it sounds like canoe and brings back pleasant memories of Buckhorn lake) tells me that something was different. I then walked by it and didn’t feel that pleasant chill when one walks by a real rink. In fact, it was made of plastic. Plastic has invaded all aspects of our lives…noses, breasts, snoop dogg songs, and now a skating rink. I did see a boy hit his head on the surface. Just like ice I thought. But real hockey-playing canooks would probably take this sight as a serious moral transgression, a spittle on the red maple leaf…also because the boy was without a stick and a puck and started whining to the rink rat for help in getting up. The whiny-ness is actually quite common among young Korean girls and boys up until the age of 30.

I boarded the plane without any problems and arrived in Guangzhou at 18:00. The food on board was fried rice. What a surprise. I read an article in the flight magazine about an alternative to shark fin soup which is supposed to taste exactly like shark fin soup. I assume the people at Southern China airlines finally got it. I applaud them, but for the rest of China, not so sure. Particularly the industry of traditional Chinese medicine which contributes greatly to species extinction. 

Right off the international flights transfer ramp, after the security check, I entered a long corridor with stores on both sides. On sale were items like tea, books, designer bags and expensive watches; overpriced artwork; exotic insects preserved in plastic key chains; and jewellery made out of China’s most prized, fortune bringing mineral, Jade. But what I was most interested in was this tusk pictured here.

As you can see, running its length you find very detailed engravings. After following those details with my eyes up and down several times, I was immediately hypnotized and taken to sub-Saharan Africa where elephants are chased down and poached and have their tusks ripped out and sold…probably to China. I cringed inwardly hoping that this elephant didn’t succumb to such a fate.

And then my mind wandered again to the week before watching Ewan McGregor’s and Charlie Boorman’s “Long Way Round.” There was a scene when they were getting a lift from a trucker on the road of bones in Magadan, Russia. This was the segment of road where bad conditions prevented them from getting through.

Ewan was videotaping from inside this herculean soviet machine of a truck when suddenly the driver hit the brakes, popped out of his seat with a rifle, and took off after a brown bear he spotted in the bush. Eventually the driver caught up, shot the bear, skinned it for its coat and removed the gall bladder. The coat was to be sold locally but the bladder sent to China to be used in traditional Chinese medicine. The practice puts it at a very high demand paying out around $1,000 per unit. And then I thought: Is it possible that China is the biggest contributor to species extinction in the East? Maybe in the world? I also remember reading once that the Chinese government considered the tiger a “pest” and encouraged people to kill these animals under the anti-pest laws of ’59. That explains why they’re almost extinct and us probably too.

I arrived at Ho Chi Minh airport at midnight. Straight off the carousel I saw my bag but when I picked it up I noticed that someone had pulled off my Canadian flag. I think we’re one of the last species of travelers in the world who still have that flag on our bags not for that false sense of patriotism like some of our neighbors down South, but for our neutrality and multiculturalism which gives us a head nod from many around the world. The Danes used to have the flag as well but after the Muhammad carton controversy, I noticed those flags declining in numbers during my travels.

I was told by a friend who lived in Vietnam to always haggle for a cab. I told her not to sweat it, I get pretty stern when negotiating, there’s no way I’m going to get burned. I was heading into the backpacker’s district and I told the taxi driver that I was going to pay him 150,000 dong flat ($7.50) without the meter after he quoted me 400,000 dong. He agreed, victory was mine, I’m too sly for South East Asia. Turns out he still had the meter running and it said 110,000 dong at the end of the ride but was passive-aggressive and insistent that I pay him the amount we agreed on. I did, not only because his buddies were around where he stopped in the taxi rank, but because I agreed to the price initially.

I got out of the cab on Phang Ngu Lao Street. The cool yet fetid air hit me and almost knocked me back inside. It was like that whiff from the love motel but more tart, tropical and biological. I got my rucksack and cameras and started walking. I had no lonely planet so I was up to my own devices in finding a place to rest my head. The smell of street meat entered my nose but I resisted, at least for the moment. Motorbikes were zooming by with some having three or four passengers. Telephone poles were infested with wires in all directions as if they were growing wildly. They hung crossing the roads overhead and running parallel. In the distance the sight looked like a canyon of cables. Here is a photo taken not too far from where I stayed.

In the gutters I saw black pools; cockroaches were scurrying in pairs from one hole in the pavement to another. By their swift movements they actually looked like black lightning bolts on the concrete. A young boy was about to step on one but a man grabbed him. His father was probably teaching him the vital lesson that when you kill a cockroach by stepping on it you’re laying their eggs for them. Or, it could also be a lesson on Buddhism’s idea of causality. Why was this boy out at 2:00 am anyways?

I saw some feral dogs nosing around in piles of rubbish dumped indiscriminately. I also saw what I was warned about near the loud bars with flashy, neon lights: old white men holding and kissing the hands of young Viet girls. Every Viet man sitting on his parked motorbike whispered to me “marijuana…cocaine…opium.” One man even asked me if I wanted a blow job, I was assuming it wasn’t from him but somebody he wanted to sell to me.

I found a room above some tour agency after looking around for an hour. Here is a picture of it. Don’t mind my socks… drying on the coat rack after hand washing them….and of course me in the mirror. This mirror photo didn’t make the cut.

I paid 250,000 dong ($12.00) to the person in charge right away. It was an elderly lady who kept saying “ok, go” or “ok, let’s go” but monotone hence no use of the exclamation mark. She even said “ok, go” to a question like, “How do I flush the toilet?” or “Can I change my mattress cover for one without a fresh, smear of blood on it?” I feel bad because to understand me correctly she was forced to climb four flights of stairs in order for me to show her what I meant and for her to point to a plastic bowl. I thought she meant for me to fill it up with water and to clean the smear myself, but no. The bowl was for me to gather water from the tap and to pour it into the toilet after use. Apropos the cover, she did manage to get me another and even wanted to change my sheets but when her hands began shaking in undoing the elastic around the mattress cover’s edge, I grabbed it off her and said, “ok, go – I do it.” Although “ok, go” might have sounded rude to a Western ear, I just recited back, monotone as well, the only words she seemed to know. My grandmother in Poland would have been in REM sleep at 2:00am because she heads to bed at like 20:00, but still she would have been climbing those stairs out of courtesy and hospitality if something like that were to happen.

The Spanish say pisar la oreja idiomatically to express the verb ‘to go to sleep,’ or ‘to rest one’s head.’ Literally translated this means “to step the ear.” And how strange for me to think of this when I rested my head on the pillow the first night in Vietnam. I would just have to get used to turning my head, sleeping on my side, and having my cheek and ear really “step” onto the pillow.

Day 2 coming in the following days.  Be sure to come back, Vietnam photos will be posted very soon.

Salud!

Technically, my trip doesn’t start until I board the plane tomorrow. I’m departing Seoul, South Korea and arriving, after a stopover in Guangzhou, in Ho Chi Minh City. Of course, assuming that my plane doesn’t plummet from 30,000 feet into Chinese rice paddies or isn’t shot down by Korean soldiers by accident. If I’m not creating any cosmic havoc or inconvenience, I have decided to assign this post Day O because I’m officially off from work. Thus, I begin to document everything and anything that I encounter, from Korea and China, to exploring cultures, cuisines and the people of SE Asia.

My trip commences today because this is the day that I start living out of my rucksack. I’ve got my trekking boots with me which I bought in China for only 5 dollars; a few shirts; a pair of shorts which I will have to scrap soon thanks to spelunking in Sagada, Philippines. I have some socks, 5 pairs of briefs and special laundry wash soap. I also have the most important item – toilet paper.

For prevention of illness I have a box of Smecta; my body is already pumped with organisms that fight against polio, hepatitis, diphtheria, etc. I also bought a few tablets of antimalarials.

My camera bag, which will be on the front of my body, will be strapped on to me as though I were carrying a baby in a sling. And might I add, caring for it like an obsessive mother would, too. I haven’t yet put on my hidden money belt for Korea offers me no reason to – it is very safe here. My decoy money belt though is connected to my belt and not a mad motorbike ‘cowboy’ in HCMC would be able to tear that thing off me for the life of him.

I took the Nooriro train from Sinchang at about 18:00. Seoul is about 1.5 hrs away by train compared to a 3 hour subway ride. Can you believe that my town has the last subway stop on the blue line, 110 km outside of the capital? Where else do you have it in the world where a subway line runs out of the capital city, into the suburbs, countryside, traversing other cities, and into the bush (in other words, cabbage fields and foothills)? And the ticket is only 7,000 won which is about 7 bucks.

I got off at Yeundongpo station and took the subway to Bupyeong where I was to go on a last minute date. Yes, on a date…and with a Korean girl, too. It was a first date might I add and I didn’t even care that I was already in my travel rags because I really didn’t care what the outcome was going to be. Unfortunately, my mind, body and soul – which she probably saw on my face like a movie screen – were already on the Mekong River watching the sunset or madly weaving through Pham Ngu Lao Street on motorbike. If she thought I was a space cadet – that’s fine, the first time in my life I’ll let that judgment pass. I certainly wasn’t sitting in front of a Korean barbecue stuffing my face with pig’s fat but eating phở bò on a little street corner in the backpacker’s district. Likewise, her thoughts were probably far off in outer space after seeing a bearded, flannel wearing, lumberjack looking weygook.

Anyhow, we had a few beers, or shall I say, I had a few beers for she’s as conservative in her drinking as I’m liberal with mine, and we parted giving each other artificial goodbyes and awkward, accidental hugs – I suppose it was the alcohol at that point.

I’m staying at a love motel not too far. For those not familiar with love motels it is like any other motel but designed to be anonymous and themed to be a place for transactions of the flesh. It is also very cheap to stay here compared to hotels. This is a place where people – mostly young couples – can spend time away from the moral radar of their parents and do what young people usually do….enjoy themselves carnally, eat pizza naked, I dunno, be loud and smoke cigarettes. Most young people in Korea live with their parents until they get married.

The anonymous aspect of the love motel is that you can ask the motel clerk to find you a girl for the night – from what I heard – though I don’t know if this is true, nor would my bad Korean permit me such an inquiry. The entrance to the parking lot always has car-wash styled, frilly strands of rope hanging from a low ceiling. Perhaps this is to conceal tags from outsiders looking in. I would assume this function being useful particularly for the men who appreciate certain precautions in not being caught by their very loyal and subservient wives, but I don’t know, just a thought.

The reception is purposely designed to limit contact, for example a black window but only at the bottom a sliding aperture for the simple exchange of money for room key.

The rooms are perfect love dens. Windows are black to keep the neon out and you can set the lights to be like the kind you need when reading a book, or, a dim red for that red light district effect. There are large beds for those sex Olympians and porno is always on the tv. But I must inform you that porno is illegal in Korea so you only see soft porn with an unconvincing Korean girl moaning fakely; a perfectly flaccid-inducing sight and likewise not good for any kind of four-play. You also get a plastic pouch full of goodies like two toothbrushes, shampoo, soap and condoms. After you do your business you just place the room key into a key box in the elevator rather than giving it back to the night or day clerk.

On this particular night I get a knock on the door of my room. Who could it be? Rheum-eyed and drowsy I get up, open it, and see a hot Korean babe standing there in a beige mini and a white see through blouse. She has beige sandal heels on and is wearing little cute white socks with frills around the elastic. The sight beams Korean princess. Seeing me her face went from being easy-looking to shocked in under a millisecond. She then turns red and walks away…I look out the door to check out the rest of the package: pretty decent nanobottom. I suppose I wasn’t the right customer, or maybe I dialed her number in my dreams but in reality she appeared. Maybe dreams are reality and vice-versa.

Is this the start to my travel adventure?

Salud!

And I’m not knocking the all-inclusive amenities or the stereotypical and most perfect beach that Varadero boasts of, the one with palm trees with healthily, sprawling fronds, and of course, a water which befits all shades of blue at some point during the day. Nor am I hating on the hardworking and overly-hospitable Cuban whose job it is to serve resort guests; who is well educated and who understands and must live with his/her sociopolitical circumstance. It is none of that.

What troubles me is the inevitable encounter with that guy; that tourist from Canada passed out on the chaise longue next to mine, with a bra around his lipstick-smothered neck, wearing last night’s vomit on his shorts, and still doing hair-of-the-dog in the wee hours.

I mention that guy not because he parties like a rock star – which is fine – but because at some point in his diversions, he’ll behave in a way which challenges me to take down my Canadian flag from my rucksack. The travelling Danes had already taken down their flags for the Muhammad cartoon controversy; I don’t want to have to relinquish my colors as well.

A young student from el Norte arrives in Cuba, he is a bookish graduate from U of T’s computer sciences program who has yet to be called gringo for he is rarely seen anywhere on the resort. But even if he were called gringo, he wouldn’t know what it means because he cares little about Cuba, its history, culture and its people. Well, back home he cares little for human interaction anyways but knows technology and computers like Cubans know revolutionary leader, Jose Marti.

The young man does not step off the resort to explore the real Cuba, and is even missing in action from all the resort activities because he brings his toys and gadgets and sets up an entertainment system in his hotel room. He thinks it better to lie in his big bed all day, with lotion and a box of tissues by his side, watching certain kinds of movies on his wall from a portable projector. His world has been shrinking for some time now, becoming a matrioshka doll of perpetual physical and mental confinement the older he gets and the less he engages the world.

I sometimes feel it mandatory that upon entering Cuba, you are also obliged to buy a historical tour along with health insurance, to at least walk away with some two-penny thoughts of the country and its history, something about Americans as yanqui imperialistas or bloqueo yanqui.

Another prime example is the spikey-haired, Jersey Shore beach titan from Ottawa, who comes to the resort with an entourage as big as his ego. His sights are set on celebrating his friend’s bachelor party and every day around midday he competes in the Testosterone Olympics by the swimming pool.

There are a few spectators.

A few ladies who catch a last-minute flight from Montreal are sunbathing sexily and staring at their muscles half-discreetly, so as not to express even the subtlest want in spending the night with them.

The guys square off in the push-up competition first. Soon after though, noticing the ladies observing, they take off their tank tops in their elephant-like musth, and look for a high enough bough on a pine tree to start the chin-up competition – but, unfortunately, they are not in Algonquin Park at a lakeside beach and can only find palm trees. The event is called off.

The lads always try their hardest to outdo each other and equally to impress the ladies. And wouldn’t you know, they don’t have to work as hard to hook the latter. The ladies are thoroughly impressed with the competitors and their Zeus-like physiques, and, as a result, they begin to size them up for the carnal and greased up events of the evening. But the ladies (who by the way win the most materialistic event for bringing seven pairs of bikinis, one for each day, in their Louis Vuitton hand bags probably filled with nothing but seven pairs of bikinis) hold out on the first day for not wanting to look unlady-like.

Day two things change; what happens in Cuba, stays in Cuba, right? Or does the expression only work for Vegas?

Moans are heard from the victors’ suites. The losers are relegated to the unoccupied rooms with the other meat heads.

Day three by the swimming pool, the Testosterone Olympics – which by the way are sponsored by endless supplies of resort rum – begin with a little game of soccer. But, inevitably, it ends up as is said in the Spanish world, llegar la sangre al rio – literally meaning, ‘with blood flowing into the river.’

A massive free-for-all erupts for a flagrant and unnecessary sliding tackle. The red card, however, is not for the tackle, but for the expletives launched at each other after the dodgy takedown. For some reason, their poor mothers are even called into the venomous mix of words.

The police arrive, but, as they should, they don’t bother to get hurt or involved – Que se maten los gringos, says one cop to the other while leaning on his cruiser and lighting up a cigarette made from homegrown leaves of tobacco. Let the gringos kill each other.

In the next few days things simmer down. The Olympics are called off. The guys are separated into vengeful sub-cliques and are well into the triangle of daily itineraries – hotel room – bar – beach. However, I hesitate to include beach.

For me, spending some time at the beach doesn’t mean wading in water up to your knees for a few minutes and then leaving because you’re scared of your shrine being stung by Jelly fish; or, because you’re terrified in seeing a dorsal fin up through the water’s surface. Also, if the Jersey Shore Olympian fully immerses himself in water, the algae and salt could do hundreds of dollars’ worth of damage on his very trendy haircut which he grooms every morning as if he were a show dog.

On to the next competition. There is another competitor, an older gentleman from the French-speaking part of Canada. He has recently divorced and seeks paradise in bedding as much much younger women as his ‘virile member’ allows. Need I say that he travels alone in this event.

This competitor is squaring off against no one but himself. The more he scores in Cuba, the more endorsements he receives in the currency of pride. And he needs it, his wife has left him with nothing and so he desires to exact some sort of personal revenge. This competitor, however, like many other tourists, is wankered from morning to evening and is never able to get to first base. And what makes this embarrassing for me as a Canadian “spectator” is his extremely boorish and insensitive attitude to the workers at the resort.

The way he carries himself is appalling.

He demands everything right then and there and never stops complaining. His glass of rum always needs to be full; his food needs to be the way he wants it, and occasionally, out of defiance, he deigns to say that he would rather prefer poutine and not fresh pescado. What more is that he is extremely lecherous with the lady bartenders who refuse to be a part of his disgusting competition. And, in the end, when not getting what he wants, he gets cut off at the bar which he then proceeds to get hostile with the manager. When asked to go back to his room, he throws his glass against the picture of Jose Marti – a transgression as deplorable as spitting on the Pope in the Vatican. But the manager and the bartenders bite their tongues and act accordingly. The rummy eventually leaves the foyer yelling and screaming that he’ll never come back to the bar again, let alone, Varadero, Cuba.

The next morning, it is calm and quiet. The ocean breeze carries in a little shame and embarrassment on its gulf stream. The man arrives at the bar, sits down, orders a coffee as if nothing went down the night before. Soon after, he begins to apologize profusely for his unruly behavior. The manager allows the lady-bartender to serve him; Jose Marti has been fixed and straightened and polished.

Lastly in the spectacle of which I was not third row but first, there is the young tosspot who looks like he has just been released from Prison. Though he may be liliputian, looking like rapper Eminem, he seems to have something about him that beams ‘stay away!’ He has a few self-made tattoos on his body which look like water dripped on pen-scribbled paper. The young man, too, as you guessed it, is drunk from morning to evening – but, rather than being a tactile and perverted drunk, he becomes violent and has a psychotic episode on the resort right in front of me.

After being refused alcohol, he heads back to his room and proceeds to destroy everything and anything. He takes the lamps and the sofa chair and tosses them off the balcony onto the winding, brick-interlocked pathway. I don`t know how, but he manages to kick in a massive door I wouldn’t even think the Jersey Shore titan could kick in; who might I add, are in the process of making peace with each other by mutually wanting to put the troubled young man in his place. But they are too terrified of his lunacy.

I stand by watching all this while trying to becalm the guy’s girlfriend. She is crying and panicking and keeps mumbling things like, “bad childhood” and “he really is a good guy.” Soon after, the banging and smashing comes to a halt. The titans had long gone to the beach for some wading in the dark. I see him heading down the open stairs and he begins walking towards us. At that point, I’m expecting him to launch his fist into my face, but, luckily, he just keeps walking by, leaving us both unharmed.

The troubled individual takes off into the night, and the next morning, he wakes up on a chaise longue next to mine. During the night, he is visited by his girlfriend who’s been looking for him for hours. She brings him more alcohol, pleases him, and apologizes, but for what? She spends the night sleeping on the sand next to him. Right at the beautiful sunrise, to hide her bruises, she wakes up and heads back to the hotel room. I can only lower my head in shame.

Shall I go on? These are just a few of my personal experiences and things I had accumulated while observing the behavior of some of my compatriots at a beach resort in Cuba. I couldn’t take it anymore so I took off to Havana, which was part of the itinerary anyways. There, I find a different kind of human altogether, one who could only be described in a separate, contrastive post.

I managed to learn some valuable lessons from my trip. One of them being that us Canadians; us hard-working tax-payers need Cuba as much as Cuba needs us. For us, it is to escape the frigid winters to a warm and sunny place; for Cubans, it is to survive off of our escapism. But Cuba seems to get the bad end of the deal. The Cuban cannot escape his/ her country by the click of a mouse, and to make their existence sometimes miserable, they cannot even watch the odd Canadian tourist escape being their true selves for a few days and act civilized.

If you’re interested in seeing the real Havana, check out this link:

http://mariuszstankiewicz.com/america/cuba-travel-photography/

Salud!