The Sounds of SE Asia
August 22nd, 2002
You hear a lot of strange things in SE Asia. You’re subject to the snarl of any number of motorized vehicles that have never made the acquaintance of a muffler; the hum, rattle and wail of exotic insects and wildlife carrying on their nightly arias and a popourri of languages both foreign and domestic that can sometimes sound bizarrely comprehensible (“Is that Cambodian music, or are they singing in Spanish?” “Actually, I think that’s the latest Britney Spears single.”). One thing you don’t expect to hear, especially when surrounded by strangers in a little Cambodian cafe, is someone calling out your name.
Sean experienced this in Phnom Penh when, turning around in astonishment he was face to face with Albert, an old friend from college. Back when the two lads lived in Kingman Hall, Berkeley, California, Albert was a Korean-American didgeridoo player from SoCal studying computer science and dabbling in jazz. There he stood, bandana wrapped around his head, dressed in clothing that looked straight off Khao San or Telegraph (the differences are so scant) with an “ain’t-this-the-damndest-thing” lopsided smile on his face. When last the two had met, Albert was having a beer at Beckett’s and saying “Yeah, we should totally hook up in SE Asia somewhere.”
Crazy.
Crazier: Albert is travelling through Asia on a trip that makes Sean and Kim’s time in the area look downright cursory.
Phnom Penh, Cambodia’s capital city. Phnom Penh is 6-lane dirt thoroughfares with three kids, two parents and a dog speeding past on a Honda “Dream” two-seater. It’s a two-stroke, duct-taped miracle grinning “Where you go mister, okay?” wanting to give you a lift across town (25 cents a ride supports his family in a village several hours away). It’s a tin-roofed guesthouse on the lake trembling under the fury of monsoon rains. It’s the strangely out-of-place/right-at-home feel of upscale restaurants along the waterfront. It’s a pizza joint called “Happy Herb’s,” where adventurous diners with an evening to kill know to order their pizza “very happy.” It’s the “Russian Market” full of live crayfish in a tub, clothing, trinkets, exotic fruits, fresh meat from a blood-stainer butchers and the stench of oil from the part-by-part sale of several thousand disassembled Honda “Dream” motorcycles. It’s “Okay lady, you buy good price for you!” proprietors with a storefront you could pass by with half a stride. It’s the eyes of small bony children with plaintive looks and open hands. It’s complimentary tea and home-baked bread with your purchase of a few minutes of internet time. It’s darting Geckos near every light fixture. It’s museums of recent atrocity and ancient sculpture with a broken-down whirlpool watercooler in the corner whose small plastic placard reads, “A gift from the Museum of Natural Science, Washington, DC.”
Kim and Sean got a crash course in Cambodian history and thankfully avoided any such activity on the roads of Phnom Penh. Just a few days later it was off to the airport and into the long lines of Vietnamese customs. While they had heard horror stories from other travellers who had passed through Vietnam, it turned out to be not nearly as bad as people said. Vietnamese customs IS a pain in the posterior (they asked, among 100 other things, why Kim was in London Heathrow airport three months ago), but Vietnam itself is a fascinating, disorienting and thoroughly foreign place.
Coming from a land of gentle Cambodian smiles, the contrast was sharp against the weathered, bold look of Vietnamese people. Ho Chi Minh (formerly, and still, referred to as “Saigon” by locals) was the first city in Asia where Kim and Sean found people staring at them as they browsed through the market (with this came the sudden realization that they were the only light-skinned people in the place). There is absolutely no mercy when haggling with tourists and there is a totally different pricing structure for those with a fair complexion. The tour guide at “Reunification Palace” would prefer to speak to you in French (after all, their national hero Ho Chi Minh had many French friends), however, she will make the effort to stumble through an English description of a few of the atrocities committed by capitalists during the “War of American Aggression.” Vietnamese moto drivers are just as aggressive when trying to get your business as their Cambodian and Thai counterparts…but they do it without the smile.
It took a while for the two honeymooners to adjust to Vietnamese culture, but once they did they found the people to be just as warm and friendly as any other in Asia. The hotel owners were amazingly kind and some of the children hawking gum and books in the street are astonishingly intelligent as well as being fluent in English,
“Hey mister! Buy some gum!”
“No, thank you.”
“Okay then, paper-rock-scissors. I win, you pay me. You win, I give you gum for free. C’mon mister! Best
of three! C’mon!!”
If you’re ever feeling jaded and out of touch with humanity, get into a paper-rock-scissors game with a Vietnamese street kid.
The large, pink fruit with green leaves in the markets is called “Green Dragon,” and is only grown in one place in the world: a small, south-eastern region of Vietnam. Cut one of the melon-sized fruits open to find a creamy, milk-colored flesh speckled with tiny black seeds that tastes very much like a kiwi fruit, or enjoy one blended into a shake in a local restaurant. Make sure, should you visit Vietnam, to eat at one of the streetside soup vendors: it will be the best bowl of soup you’ve had in your life.
After a few days in Ho Chi Minh it was off to Dalat, a little town in the central mountains where most Vietnamese people go for their honeymoon. Evergreen trees and kitchy theme-park gardens surround some beautiful lakes and waterfalls, but it did not stop raining the entire time your heroes were there. After a day or two “soaking” up the Vietnamese mountain culture it was time to skedaddle back to Ho Chi Minh. Our nightly hangout: Sheridan’s Irish pub, a terrific little place that boasts the only Guinness in town. Sean wandered through the “War Remnants Museum” (formerly titled “The Museum of American War Crimes,” they re-named it a few years ago for PR purposes) looking at some awful things a body should never, ever have to see, like mutated babies preserved in jars (children affected by Agent Orange while in the womb). Kim wisely spent her time perusing one of the huge local markets instead.
The two said goodbye to Albert (he had travelled to Vietnam as well) over a beautiful Cuban cigar that would cost around $1000 back home and then made their own way to the airport just a few days later. Customs was just as much fun on the way out.
Coming back to Khao San Road in Thailand was like coming home. The proprietors of “Lucky Beer” remembered the two honeymooners and gave them the same street-view room. It was only a matter of minutes before your authors were contentedly munching some top-class, 50-cents-a-plate Pad Thai. Yummy.
Next: white sand beaches and palm-frond bungalows. Your heroes make their way south toward Singapore.
