Captain’s Log, Day 5:
The barbarians of the island are leaving us tonight. Temporarily, but at least we’ll have a respite. They’re ferrying their numbers to the far beaches for drinking, orgies, and human sacrifice in celebration of the full moon. As long as they leave and avoid my beach, my side of the island, I can accept their perversity.
Is this ‘my’ beach? The memory of that first day seems so far away now. The sun and stars melt time into a blur, and only my notes can tell days apart. It’s all lounging and conversations punctuated by excursions for food. And WiFi.
Many of my companions and those I meet in the locale have been completely seduced by the siren song of simple island life, but not I. I was born in a city and matured alongside the internet. As glamorous as the ‘simple island life’ and travel can seem, I find myself wishing for the familiar comforts of home: a work space for origami and crafting, Chinese food delivery, 24/7 electricity…
That will come in time. I’m not yet wholly ready to come home. So tonight I make the most of my time here, blending in as I can.
Tomorrow I leave the island.
Halloween Hubris
“Oh my god!” Vicky almost squeals. “We should be durians!”
“Oh my god, we totally should!” Erin agrees in a near-identical tone.
The durian is a fruit native to Southeast Asia and often labeled the ‘king of fruits’. It’s yellow-green and spiky in shape, about the size of a bowling ball (and if you’re unfamiliar with the Western game, about the size of a human head). Inside its dinosaur-hide rind, you’ll find the flesh of the fruit in lobes, similar to how an orange is divided inside its peel. Except instead of fibrous cobwebs separating each one, there’s half-inch thick rind between the edible sections of the fruit. These sections are the color of rich butter, with a consistency somewhere between raw meat and canned mushrooms that’s at once soft, vaguely stringy, and of a slight springiness that disappears after the first serious chew.
The flavor is generally indescribable. But let’s make an effort.
Love, Friendship, and Insubordination
The minibus’ doors fold open to reveal the central plaza of the Cambodian river town Kampot. Obscuring any further inspection of the locale, however, is the throng of tuk-tuk drivers. Darkly sunned men ranging in age from high teens to low fifties cram the bus’ side. Their hands reach in, waving for attention. Their voices carry further, shouting “Taxi!” “Hotel!” and other similar buzzwords. The words tumble over each other just like their bodies. Some faces wear smiles, others don’t bother.
One by one the dozen travelers from Phnom Penh step down and the horde shuffles out of their way. For each backpacker there are two or three drivers, each one falling over themselves to grab a newly arrived traveler’s bag from the front of the van and haul it into his cab. As though this automatically earns the fare.
“Get off! Let go!” Matt writhes as a pair of men try to slip the straps of his backpack off of his shoulders.
Holiday in Cambodia
Hey there Reader,
I don’t usually put disclaimers here, but this time around it’s probably necessary. I grappled with the decision to include a post regarding the Cambodian Genocide of the 1970s and ultimately decided to put it in. While it deviates from the usual lighthearted tone of the blog, I felt it was both important in its own right as well as an integral part of understanding the modern-day culture throughout the country (and the next four weeks of my travels).
Much has been written about these events and this is by no means a comprehensive look. I’ve simply tried to take my experience of the day, keep it within the confines of a narrative, and share it with my readership as best I can. And some of you, who have been looking for a break from the third-person writing might enjoy the shift in this post to second-person (though I think you’d be hard-pressed to truly ‘enjoy’ its content).
Simply put: It gets a bit graphic, so if you want to skip this one, feel free.
Other Paths: Part I
“Hey! It’s Nikolai, right?”
The scruffy young man turns from the reception counter at The Eco Hostel. Possessing a slight frame weighed down by a scuffed up backpack, he could almost be said to be going for Ghandi-esque. This comparison is further supported by his complexion: he’s well-tanned from head to toe, an observation that can be taken literally, owing to the fact that he’s barefoot. By choice. The sun pouring in through the full length window, however, ruins his Indian savior look since it filters through and highlights his curly beard and equally wild hair (barely tamed by a small tie in the back). With this fuzzy halo he’ll have to settle for the Jesus look instead.
His face is relaxed, unperturbed by waiting for the receptionist to see if they have any free beds available. His green eyes, a staple of his Austrian heritage, slip from the young woman to find a similarly-bearded backpacker standing on the stairwell, and a smile emerges from behind a parting of the impressive curtain of hair. “Yes!” He searches his memory. “…Matt?”
“Yeah! How’ve you been? I haven’t seen you since Hanoi.” Matt takes the last few steps to the ground floor. “You ever sell that bike?”
Other Paths: Part II
“Hey, I nearly forgot,” Matt says handing over a cardboard tube duct-taped on both ends. “This is for you.”
Nikolai looks up from the small table set up in the driveway-stairway combo front of The Eco Hostel. He accepts the gift and returns the greeting before getting back to his beer and conversation with a young woman seated next to him. In twenty, maybe thirty minutes he would open it to discover an origami koi, a ‘thank-you’ for sharing his story.
Matt turns onto the street to catch up with his dinner group. Hugh and Carlijn lead the way to the destination they’d read about online, their respective English and Dutch accents still audible though their words are lost to the city’s evening honks and revving engines. Behind them and last in the group is a fellow American named Suarez. He looks up and lifts his chin to Matt in recognition.
The two of them had met the night before as Matt was picking up the details of Nikolai’s story.
As Custom Dictates
Matt sits in the Eco Hostel lounge in Ho Chi Minh City, staring at the Vietnamese-translated Korean soap opera playing on the small LCD bolted to the wall. He’s waiting for one of his dorm mates, Carlijn, to come back downstairs so they can head out. Next to him, his newfound British friend sits as well, both hungry for dinner (though the Brit waits for ‘tea’, since his ‘dinner’ would be what Americans call ‘lunch’). They’re going to going to Ốc Tre Một, a local seafood restaurant that Matt’s sleeper car friend Thắng had invited them to.
Complicating matters of narrative, the Brit’s name is also Matt.
“And you’re sure there’ll be something I can eat there?” British Matt asks. “I can do some fish filets, but you know I’m none too keen on seafood like squid and mussels and such.” He makes tentacles of his fingers and a grimace of his face.
“Yeah man,” American Matt reassures him. “What sort of seafood place wouldn’t have regular fish and other stuff too?” Though, truth be told, he’s still wondering why Thắng had made a point about asking if they were okay with seafood in his Facebook messages. Twice.
Dinner on the Orient Express
The trains in Vietnam are not wholly convenient when Hoi An is a part of your itinerary. Though it’s a popular tourist destination, the nearest train station is in the city of Da Nang, which is an hour bus ride away from the city of tailors. But what a ride it is.
The bus driver barrels down the approximately two-laned, mostly-dirt road, fully aware of his status as the largest vehicle in the local mechanical food chain. This means that the bikes, tuk-tuks, sedans, and even SUVs have to make way for this behemoth. In his graciousness, The Bus Master has equipped his ride with a wide variety of horn variations to communicate his will to them.
“Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba…” goes the reverberating fade-out horn that is used as the general chorus to the cacophony. “I am Bus,” it says. “Hear me roar!”
Matt smiles from his back seat, realizing he’s never going to find a better place and time to use the word ‘cacophony’ than in describing the driver’s disjointed and frenzied honking.