Forgot to Buy the T-Shirt
After having the time of our lives mudbiking our way around the Vang Vieng loop, the following morning we left town and Vang Vieng's "Spring Break/ Girl's Gone Wild" scene behind us then head north to LauPraBang. We'd planned to do more mountain biking--slipping and sliding our way over more unreliable footbridges and plowing through more pot holes which had turned to gravelly ponds. 
On our way out of town, Kevin and his traveling companion Bilbo stopped off somewhere up ahead to tank up. I went past them not knowing or caring what had happened to them.
I had a gut feeling that I would never again have to sit with Bilbo when a tab arrived and watch her turn into that other creature, the hunchbacked hissy one, as she bent over the bill and went into a meltdown over who did or didn't have that second cup of coffee which added an extra 35 "precious" cents to the bill.
I rode for an hour, alone, in the mist, when my moment of epiphany arrived. I'd seen enough. I'd completed my to do list and if I turned the bike around, I could head back to Vientiane alone. Better than alone. On my own according to my schedule. I'd seen enough of Southeast Asia. I've seen it all. More than once. It was time to say goodbye.
Goodbye to the villages no longer untouched by Showtime, HBO, Star Movies or CNN.
Goodbye to the children working side-by-side with their parents until it's time to quit or until Power rangers comes on, whichever comes first.
Goodbye to the bus stop tourist traps which are not scheduled stops but are a necessary cog in the economy--they may lack clinics and schools but you'll usually find an ATM and some sort of burger on a menu.
To the monkey poop infested rivers.
To the side order of Salmonella with your noodles and beer.
And to the cats grown fat on gecko meat.
I've trekked up its mountains. Rafted its rivers. Drunk its drinks. Smoked its smoke. Strummed its strumpets.
Listened to the songs of the families working the fields.
So--now it's time to say
goodbye to all of this "useless beauty".And to start hanging with white folks again, maybe buy that house in Greece.
posted by 
7 Comments:
Oh, my head is swimming.
If the world was fair, someone would pay you for this, for yet another vicarious epiphaniacal moment, so you could pay for that house in Greece.
And we could come visit.
The pictures are picture perfect.
** **
I'm glad I caught myself before I posted. I, for one (although with a few cocktails, I'm certain I speak for many), know there's a better than Hemingway short story in this/that moment.
Please get it out.
I left your blog and wandered to renaissancemonkey and now I'm thinking - well, not exactly coincidence, but what a perfect meal of blogs.
Anyway, I thought you in particular would enjoy his post about guitars:
renaissancemonkey.blogspot.com
Booda, in a Hemingway short story, the who-had-what bill inspector would get to live and I wouldn't. Thanks for the guitar post link and the too kind words.
Hope you remember to bring your own bottled water to Greece. It's kinda hard to get on the islands. Or you could just wash up before meals with Ouzo.
Now that a few days have passed and you've had time to peak (peek?) (one of those) at your notes, aren't you thinking what I'm thinking? Oh, this is ... this is rich stuff.
Hemingway, shmemingway. You can be your own story teller. I mean, of course you are. I'm just not clear on why you're not selling these stories.
Apparently, you have to do that before they make a movie of it. :)
Booda--uh, um, eh, blush, ah, thanks.
Ack, David! So you're not going to hang out with us in Hoi An!
I know what you mean. After 5 years in SE/NE Asia, living in tourist traps and sooty enchanted islands and EFL teaching ghettoes, our next destination of Sydney (with grad school possibilities, and clean air) offers a strange kind of Anglo-saxon relief.
So will Greece be your new bolt hole, then?
Elizabeth,
I wish I could have withstood the beggars, touts and street walkers a little bit longer to meet you and your man in Vietnam.
Boy. You said it all. The lure of the exotic loses most of its charm once swarms of backpackers flood the place to go tubing by day and chow down on pizza topped with ganja by night. I s'ppose if the ganja were any good, and I mean Amsterdam good, I could have endured a few more weeks of "tuk tuk?" and "you want massage?" The packers are paying a hefty price for pizza garnished wth rag weed.
A motorcycle can only go so far to balance the tourist traps.
Greece seems to be this side of the ocean's Miami--a place for TEFLers to go and wait out death. Yeah--an island in Greece is gonna be the final bolt hole and y'all are invited.
Post a Comment
<< Home