Man on the Moon
Vietnam
Tired, washed-out and dust covered I pitched up one Saturday afternoon in a remote village in Northern Vietnam. Frustrated by the petty bureaucracy that had stopped me reaching Laos I had sort solace and solitude amongst the charming people of the hills. The village headman had been sceptical at first of my presence but my personable guide and a box of pencils for the local school had soon changed his opinion.
I was shown to a stilted house, fed a steaming-hot bowel of sticky rice and told that come sundown I could sleep undisturbed on the veranda that overlooked a bubbling brook that served as both community centre and laundry. After pouring tea for me, my hosts politely retired to the shadows and left me alone to the sultry afternoon. Soon the soporific clack of bobbins flying on silk looms sent me spiralling into a deep slumber and when I awoke the shadows were long and the heat had drained out of the day.
After another bowel of steaming rice and chills I took my short-wave radio, my diary and my camera and went to find somewhere to sit quietly and do what I always do on a Saturday – listen to the football on the BBC World Service. No matter where I am in the world – be it Asia, South America or even just at home shopping with my son and the GHG, I have to listen to the football. I have done this all my life and I guess I always will. In fact, one of my earliest memories is lying in bed, radio pressed to my ear listening to Liverpool play Spartak Moscow in the European Cup. I feel a shudder of excitement shimmer through me when at five to four each Saturday the commentator welcomes, ‘Listeners to the World Service…’ It takes me back to going to bed late in Japan or getting up early to listen to the game whilst in Brazil. To me, football isn’t a matter of life or death, its more important that that.
My hosts had been thoughtful enough to provide me with a beer and nature had provided me with a tree to lean against. The BBC, when I finally found it, hidden as it was between Radio Moscow and The Voice of America, was crackly and distorted – which is how it should be – atmospheric and strangely comforting. I took a long draft of my beer, opened my diary and wrote: I feel at peace. A few minutes later I heard the magic words:
“Welcome to Listeners of the World Service. As the Premiership reaches its exciting conclusion we are at Old Trafford today for Manchester United verses West Ham. The sun is shining and it’s a beautiful spring afternoon in Manchester…’
Then from the shadows, complete with bowel of rice and a can of Coke, my guide appeared:
“Mr Philip? You listen to football?”
“Yes…”
“UK football?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you want to watch it with us?”
“What?”
“Yes, TV…come…”
And that was how I found myself, squatting down on my haunches Asian style, in front of a flickering TV watching football which I couldn’t even see live in the UK.
As David Beckham lead the mighty Red Devils onto the pitch the villagers let out a cheer and clapped wildly leaving me with no doubt at all whom they wanted to win. Every touch of the ball by United was applauded, whilst every time the Hammers got the ball there were boos and shouts of what I guessed wasn’t school-book Vietnamese. Slowly, basking in the uniform brotherhood of the beautiful game, the questions came:
Where was my village?
What team did I support?
Where was my wife?
What did I think of Vietnamese girls?
And then, against the run of play West Ham, who we had established played for my village and, although not Manchester, were pretty good, slammed the ball into the back of the net. The implications of this being that not only were United losing but also that my beloved Liverpool would win a coveted Champions league place. Perhaps it was the beer, or the sheer joy of Liverpool in Europe, but I decided to celebrate in the traditional way. Quite what this sedate, remote village made of me running around the village square with my shirt on my head I don’t know. But I do know that they found my body surf along down the grassy verge rather amusing, if somewhat bizarre.
Squatting back in front of the TV the questions continued:
What were the crowd singing?
Did I often go to matches in my village?
How many people lived in my village?
Was my wife pretty?
And then West Ham hit the back of the net again and half the village jumped up, pulled their shirts over their heads, ran around the square and body-slid along the grass. I thought: any minute now they will start taunting the other villagers with, “you’re not singing anymore…”
During half time I handed out pencils, pens and other items liberated from my work’s stationary cupboard and gave my last miniature of single malt to the village headman. There was lots of backslapping, handshakes and warm smiles. I thought: I could stay here forever.
Just after the second-half kicked off United won a free kick and Beckham stepped up to take it. We held our breath as he smoothed down his hair and lined up the shot. He took a short run up…and curled it sweetly over the wall and into the back of the net. Everyone, even the headman, jumped up, pulled their shirts over their heads and ran around the square screaming before body-sliding back to their places. I thought: My God, I have created a monster.
It was after another stunning free-kick from Beckham that the headman called my guide over from the shadows and spoke rapidly to him. My guide, choking back a laugh, translated:
“The headman asks you if you think putting a man on the moon was impressive?”
“Err, yes, I guess so…”
“Well, he says that Beckham’s right foot is much more impressive…”
It was a long time before I could stop laughing and by that time United had won 4-2. The headman winked knowingly at me as I made my way through the shadows to bed.
The next day, when the mountains were still covered in mist and the paddy fields jewelled with dew I packed my bag, loaded up the Landrover and prepared to leave. I left the last of my pencils on the table wrapped in a ten-dollar bill and with a heavy heart climbed into the passenger seat. I really didn’t want to leave.
The villagers were already working hard in the rice fields and as we rumbled past they downed tools, pulled their shirts over their heads and waved. I doubt they saw my waves, or even the tears of joy in my eyes as we headed back to the city and I wish I could tell them how they touched me. Perhaps one day I will go back and tell them…
About the Author
Philip Blazdell has been traveling for the last fifteen years. His travels began when he followed a girl in nice purple pajamas to Istanbul and got into all kinds of trouble. He has never looked back. Philip’s pet hates are still Air Portugal and KLM, but thankfully he doesn’t have to use them as much as he used to. He still doesn’t enjoy getting up in the morning to go to Copenhagen though he is gradually coming to terms with this. When not traveling he can be found following his beloved Liverpool and is perhaps the only person in the country who actually believes they will win the league this year. On days when the Reds aren’t playing he can be found at home in a little Cambridgeshire village, cooking and drinking Tusker beer.
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