by Chris Tharp
“That looks like a kick in the pants,” I said to Minhee.
“Sure. Looks fun.”
“I’d love to try it sometime.”
“No way. You are waaaaaay too clumsy,” she said, slapping my shoulder. I couldn’t disagree, but still…
We turned away from the kitesurfers and headed into a little restaurant right on the beach. I ordered a green Saigon beer while Minhee sipped from a fresh lime juice and lit up a cigarette.
“It’s lovely here,” she said.
“Yeah,” I replied, remembering the Mui Ne of eight years back.
“What’s wrong?”
I whispered, “I wish there weren’t so many Russians here. They’re everywhere. Look around. It’s madness.”
“Who cares?” she whispered back. “Why shouldn’t they enjoy themselves here? Their country is so cold.”
“Yeah yeah yeah… I know… I… I just…”
I eyed a Russian family sitting near the bar. The pretty blonde daughter sat with her brother, twirling her hair, swinging her coltish legs, and looking more than a little bored. Their mother drank and smoked with her husband, a giant balding man in too-short shorts and an open button-up shirt, revealing a dense carpet of a chest hair underneath. He reminded me of Tony Soprano. He noticed me staring and glared back with icy menace.
I quickly looked away.
“Never mind,” I said.
International travel is new to Russia, and they’re embracing it for all it’s worth. And why shouldn’t they? And why should I be surprised if some of them seem bereft of manners? The nouveau riche rarely travel well, so I shouldn’t have been surprised at the boorishness displayed by some of these new visitors. I should have been more surprised at my own. But probably at least seventy percent of all tourists in Mui Ne are now Russians, and were it any other group in such dominant numbers—Koreans, Germans, Swedes, or even Americans, God forbid—I’d have a similar gripe.
So why are they there? It is a beautiful, chilled-out spot, but that doesn’t explain why thousands of have descended like it’s summer in the Crimea. I imagine Mui Ne was spotlighted in whatever equivalent the Russians have to the Lonely Planet guidebook, though I’m told that destinations all over Southern Asia have turned into hotspots for our Slavic brethren. Their country, while traditionally powerful, has had a long grind, with the idea of international travel and leisure time being alien to the vast majority of their population. It’s now their time in the sun. Literally.
Whatever the reason, the Russians are in Mui Ne en masse—eating, drinking, smoking, singing, laughing, and displaying acres of skin for all to take in. They’re spending their newly minted cash as if neither it nor the oil that produces it will ever run out, and you can be sure that they don’t give a damn whether this American likes it or not.
*
By the next day I had reasonably given up on my anti-Russian obsession. It was certainly not worth poisoning our travel time. I’d just have to give them a wide berth and that was that. That evening, I was sitting in my room, relaxing in my T-shirt and shorts as a fat tangerine sun crept down the horizon. The doors to the expansive terrace were open, and from my seat I could see palm trees, the roofs of the seaside village’s many hotels and guesthouses, and just beyond that, the wind-whipped sea. The walls of the room were painted white and reflected the light, bathing the whole space in evening radiance. I was in pure vacation chill-mode, sipping from a glass of 333 Beer with a fresh lime squeezed (limes are pretty much unavailable in Korea so it was a treat) and floating inside. My wife lay on the bed next to me. She wore a tank top and cutoff jean shorts and supported herself on her elbows while mastering the latest game on her smartphone. The ocean air blew through the open terrace door and the many cracked-open windows, making everything smell salty, clean, and good. At that particular moment, I was a content man.
What was most amazing, however, was the scene unfolding on the laptop screen in front of me. As I sat there, savoring my beer and relaxing to the fullest, I was group-chatting on Facebook with several friends. Two were in Korea, one was in Miami, I was in Vietnam, and the other was floating on a riverboat somewhere in that great muddy delta that makes up much of the nation of Bangladesh.
My friend who was chatting from his berth on a Bengali riverboat was my old travel companion, Sam—frequent character in this book and the guy I had originally come to Vietnam with those eight year earlier. Back then, we had chosen Vietnam because it seemed pretty cool, off-the-path, and hard (compared to Thailand, at least, where everyone seemed to go). But things had changed. He described his time in Bangladesh up that point, using words like “insane,” “full-on,” and “mental.” His companions and he were going upriver, straight into the heart of a country that sees almost zero tourism. I am told that the nation is so bereft of visitors that it’s impossible to even buy a postcard. I read on with more than a bit of traveler’s envy as I tasted the real adventure that he was embarking on. And here I was, in a beautiful room, cold drink in hand, feeling very pampered, soft, and ordinary. Vietnam—once so exotic—now seemed old hat. I may as well have been on Waikiki Beach sipping Blue Hawaiians and watching the hula show.
Travel is often compared to a drug, and though it is a cliché, the analogy is a strong one. Traveling, like a mind- or mood-altering substances, is often exhilarating; it gives you a rush, and can be absolutely addictive. And like drugs, the more you do, the bigger dose you require to hit that special receptor in the brain—the place that made the experience feel so good the first time. In a way, you’re always chasing that first hit.
Your first big travel experience is kind of a gateway trip, and often you feel like you have to outdo yourself in subsequent adventures. Maybe you bust your cherry by touring Europe. After that, you try Thailand, and then decide to get crazier with Indonesia. Then it’s India, and Nepal, and then you go harder—into the ‘Stans of Central Asia—until that’s not enough, so you head to Africa, hitchhiking your way from Cairo to the Cape. What may seem like an alien world to some back home is has now become incredibly pedestrian, so you chase out the less visited, the more dangerous, the more extreme. That is why my friend was riding in a cramped boat in Bangladesh, and right there, sitting in a high-ceilinged room on the coast of Vietnam, I also understood why.
SMOKIN’ JOE
Thailand, 2006 - South Korea, 2013
Like any great legend in Busan, this one was discussed over meat.
“Joe fouled religiously,” said K. Three of us sat for dinner at a packed restaurant specializing in Jeju Island pork, surrounded by the sounds of bellowing voices, clinking of glasses, and the pops and hisses of sizzling meat. K was an old friend, as well as the ringleader of the Busan Bangers, a group of basketball devotees that gathered three nights a week to shoot some serious hoops. K picked up the green bottle of soju and unscrewed the cap. “He even had his own a T-shirt made that read, Hacker.”
“But he’d call his own fouls,” added Gino, as he flipped over several strips of the deep-pink and fatty oh-gyeup-sal on the grill in the middle of our table. Gino was a well-known musician in town, but could also hold his own on the court. “Yeah he was hacky, but at least he was honest about it.”
“He’d come in hard with the elbow,” continued K, smiling with pure Hoosier heartland earnest. “My friend Bruce used to call it ‘feedin’ him the ol’ chicken wing.’ Heck, sometimes he’d foul you twice in the same play.” K filled our shot glasses with the clear liquor.
“But he kind of had to,” added Gino sympathetically, carrying on with his cooking duties. “He was an old dude. It was one of the only ways he could compete with the young guys.”
“Cheers!” I said. We brought our glasses together. I quickly took mine down.
“He didn’t view it that way,” replied K. “When called on it, he’d just say, ‘Hey, man. I’m known for my defense.’”
“Is that what he called it?” Gino laughed, knocking back his shot.
“Yup,” K sai
d, downing his. “But his fifteen-foot jumper was money in the bank.”
“And the dude always hit his free-throws, which is how we determine who gets to play in each game. So guess who was on the court every damned time?”
K chuckled, leaned back and said, “Well you know, he had a basketball hoop at his place in Thailand, along with a concrete driveway. He practiced for hours every day when he was back. For him, free throws were pure muscle memory. He just couldn’t miss.”
“And he didn’t miss too many games, either,” added Gino. “When he was around.”
“No he didn’t. He was one of our most reliable guys for years. He’d almost always come out when he was in town, giving me a heads up via his girlfriend’s cell phone—he never owned one, you know. The message would simply say, in all caps, JOE WILL PLAY. “
*
It was late afternoon when our plane touched down in Chiang Rai, a town in northeastern Thailand located in the famed Golden Triangle region, named for its once-prolific opium production. These days, the poppy fields have been mostly eradicated in Thailand and Laos—with only the plantations in Burma continuing with large-scale cultivation—but the moniker remains. The Nok Air flight from Bangkok was cheap and short, and when Steve and I walked out the main door of the town’s tiny airport, Joe was there, waiting for us. He stood next to his little Toyota with his arms crossed, leaning just slightly on the driver’s side door. His was the only car in the expansive parking lot.
“Welcome to Chiang Rai,” Joe said, shaking my hand. His grey hair was tied back into a long, bushy ponytail, and his large dark eyes spoke of his Italian background. “Yeah man, I’m really happy to have you guys,” Joe continued, helping load our bags in the back of the old compact car. “I don’t really get too many visitors here, and sometimes I get a little stir-crazy, if you know what I mean.”
“Well, thanks for the invite,” replied Steve. “It’s good to have some on-the-ground intelligence.”
“Yeah, I’ve been living up here for years, so I know my way around pretty good now. I’ll be giving you boys the grand tour, don’t you worry.”
Joe worked in Korea but lived in Thailand. He was employed by a university in Busan but sent most of his cash back home to Chiang Rai, which was also home to his Thai wife and two kids. He owned a small house right out of town in the countryside, and his monthly remittances allowed his family to live a fairly affluent life, by Thai standards.
His wife was his second; he’d been married years before to a lawyer in California and even had two kids with her, but after they divorced, Joe split the States and resumed his lifelong vocation of wandering.
“You’ll like Fatima,” Joe said, driving down the two-lane road away from the airport. “She’s a good mother and an even better cook. You know I took her out of a bar?”
“Yeah?” I asked, taking the bait.
“Yeah, man,” Joe replied. “She was a bar girl in Pattaya and I was in the market for a new wife. So I walked into the joint, and asked the mama-san, ‘Who is your best girl?’ The mama-san pointed to Fatima, so I paid the bar fine, took her with me, and married her a couple days later. Scout’s honor, man.”
Steve was impressed: “Well, it looks like it’s worked out.”
“Damned right it has,” Joe said, keeping his eyes on the road. “We got a good arrangement… I mean, she knows all about my Korean girlfriend. I told her a few years back, I said, ‘Listen, Fatima… you’re a great wife and mother, but I’m just not interested in having sex with you anymore.’ And what do you think, she says? Get this, man, she says, ‘That’s okay. If you need a girlfriend, I can make a couple of calls!’ I don’t think a man can do much better than that.”
“Not really,” I added.
“No he can’t,” continued Joe. “It’s good for her, too. I work in Korea, send her cash every month, and she lives well down here, man. It’s cheap livin’. And plus, I’m out of her hair for several months a year, which is no skin off her back, I’m sure.”
“Whatever works,” Steve said.
“Yeah, some people may think it’s a bit weird. I’ll admit: it isn’t everyone’s bag, but different strokes for different folks and all of that… I’m a pretty happy man.”
He turned off the main road onto a dirt track.
“Well, here’s the palace.”
We pulled off onto the paved driveway and Joe parked under a little carport constructed to protect his Toyota from the ravages of the tropical sun and rain. A basketball backboard and hoop sat atop a metal pole nearby.
“That’s my baby,” Joe said with pride. “The kids around here think I’m some sort of a god. There aren’t too many Thais with a regulation-height basketball hoop on their concrete driveways, man. You guys up for some hoops tomorrow?”
“Sure thing,” replied Steve.
Fatima came out to greet us as we stepped out of the car. She was a short, plump woman with dark skin and that lighthouse smile that so many Thais seem to possess.
“Welcome,” she said.
“Thanks for having us.”
The kids stood in front of the main door, obviously ordered out by their mother to greet the rare visitors. The boy was tall and handsome and must have been about seventeen. He looked more Western than Thai, with his father’s strong jaw, cheekbones, and sinewy build. The girl was a few years younger and quite shy.
“This is my son Jacob,” said Joe.
“Nice to meet you,” said the son in fluent-sounding English.
Joe eyed him with pride. “He’s finishing high school this year and is going to ship off to the States to join the navy. That’s right, this draft-dodger’s kid is gonna join the military… hehehe.” Joe slapped him on the shoulder. “But I told him that he really has no choice if he wants to go to college. His old man just doesn’t have the bread to finance such a venture. Do you even know how much out-of-state tuition costs these days?”
“A lot,” Steve confirmed.
“My brother was in the navy,” I said, attempting to encourage Jacob.
“I’m looking forward to it,” he said. “Eventually I’d like to work for the State Department, so some military experience won’t hurt.
“I’m impressed,” I said.
The timid girl gave us a weak wave after we greeted her.
“Her name’s Sarah,” said Joe. “She’s pretty shy, plus her English has a ways to go.”
As we walked into the house, we were greeted with the mystic aroma of Thai food on the stove. Sweet and spicy flavors penetrated the air, and my mouth flooded in anticipation.
“Fatima has prepared a welcome meal for you guys. Fish curry soup? I hope you’re okay with it.”
*
The next day, after humiliating myself on Joe’s driveway basketball court (his shot from the line was indeed deadly), we boarded the little blue Toyota for a driving tour around the region. What struck me was how nice the roads were, even though we were in one of the poorer parts of the country. Thailand’s infrastructure basically works, with a system of sealed roads that would make some of the more rural states back home blush. The town of Chang Rai was modern, with cash machines on every corner and plenty of wizened old European expats settling in for late-morning retirement beers. We could also see signs of prosperity from the other vehicles on the road. We saw a lot of SUVs and brand-new Japanese pickup trucks that day, which is the vehicle of choice in Thailand.
As we pressed north, we stopped off at a large stone stupa that was over a thousand years old. Steve and I couldn’t pass on the opportunity to pick up a few tapestries done in the northern Thai style that were hawked by some women just next to the structure. Next we visited a museum dedicated to the history of the Golden Triangle, but the only thing that stuck with me was a famous photo from the sixties of a group of US GIs holding a fifteen-foot Mekong catfish. We drove by an immense golden Buddha statue that had been purchased and erected by a “Burmese drug lord,” according to Joe, and after lunch we pulled off to the side
of the road and climbed an observation post overlooking the confluence of the River Ruak and the molasses mass of the Mekong.
“You are now looking at the actual Golden Triangle,” proclaimed Joe. That’s Laos over there, directly across. See those burnt-out fields? Those used to be opium poppies, man. Acre after acre of them. But the Lao government has decided to start playing nice with the international community, and now they’re all gone.”
“We’ll be going there the day after tomorrow,” I said.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take you to the proper border crossing. A few years ago a couple of dumb European hippies attempted to swim across the Mekong down there, into Laos.”
I looked onto the big river cutting its swath, defining borders. The early afternoon sun reflected off the chocolate waters with luminous intensity.
“One of ‘em was shot dead by a Lao border guard. Right through the back, man. The other bozo had the good sense to turn back.”
“Ah, shit,” said Steve. “There goes our plan to swim to Laos.”
“Over there, on the other side of the Riak: that’s Myanmar, or Burma if you feel like calling it that. See those green fields. Those are real poppies, man.”
“What, they just grow them openly?” Steve asked.
“Sure, man! What’s anyone going to do? Besides, the government isn’t even really in control in these parts. Half the country is run by drug thugs and warlords. I’ve been there.”
My interest was piqued. “Really?”
“Yeah, man, really.” He lowered his voice. “Dig it: A few years back I went to Yangon and bought ten grand worth of emeralds and smuggled ‘em back to the States… in my ass. Unloaded them for quadruple the price. Good bread, but some sketchy stuff, man. I was in and out—one time. I’m not in the mood to tempt fate, if you know what I mean.”
“I’ve always wanted to go there,” I said.
“Well, you can go today if you want.”