God Bless Cambodia

by Randy Ross

“Mince alors. Zut. Holy shit,” I say.

  “Holy shit,” he says.

  Guillaume tiptoes back into the muck to restart the engine. His black shoes are now brown up to the buckles. I wade in. He guns the engine and I push, forcing mud into my Keens and between my toes. After ten minutes, we wrestle the bike free and exchange high fives.

  He pulls up in front of my hotel, shuts off the engine, and gets off the bike.

  “Our paths will cross again,” he says in French.

  “J’espère,” I say, unconcerned with whether I’ve conjugated the verb correctly.

  We exchange hugs and I watch him ride off.

  Across the street, there’s an empty spot where the moped lady hawks her wares during the day. I decide that the next time I see her, I’ll give her five dollars.

  Blog Entry: October 28

  Hoi An, Vietnam

  Partied with a cool Parisian guy. Reminded me of a slim Gérard Depardieu. Got a marriage proposal from attractive young Vietnamese woman. Her family owns a chain of car dealerships. Should I go for it? Cast your votes now.

  I erase and start over.

  Blog Entry: October 28

  Hoi An, Vietnam

  Tip of the Day: How to Send Overseas E-mail

  It’s identical to sending e-mail in the US. Here’s a five-step refresher:

  1) Make sure computer is plugged in.

  2) Press ON switch.

  3) Open e-mail program: Google Mail, Yahoo mail, Hotmail—you name it.

  4) Type: “Dear Randy, I am deeply sorry for not e-mailing before now. I realize that you have been a great friend. To show my sincerity, I have wired $100 into your bank account. Please buy yourself a beer, a wife, or a town in Vietnam.”

  5) Press SEND.

  Before I sign off, a message appears from W. Pittman:

  Dear Mr. Burns,

  We appreciate your thoroughness and will certainly correct the latest factual errors you noted on pages 145–147, 165, 173, 186–189, etc. We rely on feedback from thoughtful readers to correct future editions. We hope that you will visit us when you are in Saigon.

  Onward,

  Wallace Pittman

  President, All-American Language Schools

  Author, Solo Salvation: Travel the world on your own

  I Googled Pittman back in Boston, but I decide to Google him again. Nothing has changed: He still has a Wikipedia page, a web page, but no blog or presence on Twitter, Facebook, or LinkedIn. I still can’t believe a guy named Wally scored one of life’s trifectas: A book deal, a successful business in an exotic locale, a beautiful, young wife. I have to see this guy for myself in Saigon.

  The next morning, I check out of the Bang Su at seven a.m. for the eight-hour bus ride south to Nha Trang. From the lobby, I see the row of bikes and mopeds secured with a rusty chain. The moped lady is nowhere in sight.

  Nha Trang is known for its beautiful beaches, Vietnam’s Riviera. Among the city’s many sights: The Yersin museum devoted to a French researcher who traced the bubonic plague to rats. The town was also a notorious R&R spot for American soldiers during the Vietnam War. Alfie and his fellow kids are staying at another Bang Su hotel, the cheap hotel option. I’m going with the super cheap option, which charges eight dollars for a queen room with a full bath. “Sounds dodgy,” Alfie says. Alfie is still young, but he’s probably right.

  At 1400 hours, I exit the greyhound and detect an airborne agent that could be mustard gas or a burning squid factory. The curbs are piled with smoking garbage. Rats frolic in the streets. Yersin museum, rats, fleas, bubonic plague.

  I’ve read that untreated, the plague progresses like this in less than a week:

  • First: Fever, chills, aches; you lose interest in online dating.

  • Later: Lymph nodes in armpits fill with stinky pus, swell to the size of an apple, and turn black. You cancel the upcoming ski trip to Jackson Hole.

  • Finally: Body turns blotchy purple, limbs turn black with gangrene, and then things get really unpleasant.

  I cover my nose with my hat and move out.

  One klick from the bus stop, hustlers overtake me. Several men brandish DVDs and travel books. A woman offers what appears to be the local specialty, boom-boom with Vietnamese girl.

  “That’s very kind, but no, thank you,” I say. “Non, merci.” “No boom-boom.” “Bonne journée.”

  1430 hours: At my destination the Hotel Dong II Long, I encounter resistance from a local couple manning the front desk.

  “How much for a room with a large bed?” I ask.

  “Eight dollar,” says the man.

  “I’ll give you six.”

  He shakes his head, “No.”

  I turn as if I’m going to leave. The man turns to answer the phone. The woman walks away. A Western tour group floods the lobby and the man checks them in. I hang back until he’s done.

  “Any more eight-dollar rooms?” I ask.

  “You again?” he says. “One left.”

  I register, collect a key, and ascend six flights of stairs. The room has two large beds and a view of a construction site. The pillows are heavy and hard; a blow from one could send someone home in a body bag. The toilet paper rolls are wet and crumpled like papier-mâché. I switch on the bedside lamp but nothing happens.

  Six flights later, I’m back at the front desk.

  “You again?” the man says.

  “I’m having a little problem with my room and was hoping you could help me.”

  “What problem?”

  “My lamp doesn’t work and the toilet paper is wet.”

  He makes a phone call and talks in Vietnamese. What I hear: Cluck, squawk, cluck. Squawk, squawk.

  I wait.

  He makes another phone call. Cluck, cluck, cluck, squawk.

  I wait.

  The woman appears and hands me a soggy roll of toilet paper.

  “We go.” He points to the stairs.

  In my room, he turns on the ceiling fan; its blades whirl inches from my head. Whop. Whop. Whop. Then he holds the lamp switch for several seconds. It goes on.

  “All fix.” He marches out.

  1530 hours: I put on a bathing suit and head to the beach for afternoon PT. Thirty feet from the hotel, I’m back in the shit.

  “Travel book?” “DVD?” “Boom-boom?”

  “No, thank you.” “No melónes.” “No, gracias.”

  The beach is long and gray. Local teenagers sit fully clothed on the sand. That’s weird, the waves look perfect for body surfing.

  I spread out my towel in the sand and run into the water. After lining up in front of a modest wave, I start paddling to shore. A surge grabs me and I zip toward the beach, hands outstretched, a middle-aged torpedo. The wave breaks, flips me over, and slams me neck first on the sand. A stinging pain shoots down my spine.

  Zut, merde, mince alors.

  I wiggle one foot, then the other. I turn my head gingerly. Another large wave crashes on my chest and starts dragging me into the surf. I crawl to my towel and lie there panting.

  I hear Singapore is nice this time of year.

  Back in my room, I search for the ibuprofen. Underfoot, I hear: crunch, crunch, crunch. The floor has been overrun by fingernail-sized beetles. After gobbling three 200-milligram pills, I stomp the bugs until the linoleum is covered with black, gooey carcasses. Suddenly I’m in the mood for a bean burrito.

  2300 hours: No luck securing a burrito, I settle for two twenty-two-ounce Tiger beers at a beachside pub. On the way back, I’m bushwhacked again.

  “DVD?” “Travel book?” “Boom-boom?”

  “No English.” “Danke, no.” “Kap Kuhn krab, no.”

  Inside, the deskman and his family are asleep on singlesized mattresses lined up on the floor. The guidebook says many Vietnamese hotel owners sleep in the lobby to save money on a security guard. I think about all my haggling over a few dollars with Vietnamese people who have no money.

  Merde.

  I scout the build
ing for another entrance. No luck. I tap the gate. Nothing. I bang the gate.

  The man appears wearing the same clothes he wore during the day. “You again?”

  “Sorry, sorry,” I say.

  I climb the stairs double-time, and flip on the room light. Several platoons of ants are gorging on beetle entrails. Suddenly I’m in the mood for tapioca pudding.

  But I’m not bothering the deskman and his family again tonight. I wipe up the mess with soggy toilet paper, flush it, and go to bed.

  0100 hours: I’m awakened by screaming, gunshots, and explosions through the wall. I cover my head with the rebar pillows. Fucking TV.

  0200 hours: The battle rages next door. I pop three more ibuprofen and rap on the neighbor’s door. Nothing. I pound the shit out of his door.

  Someone stirs inside. “Grunt, groan, grunt.”

  I imagine a guy with a room full of boom-boom girls.

  I yell through the door: “Sorry to bother you, but would it be possible to turn the TV down a little?”

  The door opens. An elderly guy. Alone and uncircumcised.

  The horror! The horror!

  0600 hours: I awake to the chirping of pile drivers and jackhammers. It smells like the burning squid factory has been doused with cat urine.

  I leave the Dong in search of breakfast and encounter the usual.

  “Video?” “Travel book?” “Boom-boom?”

  I abort the breakfast mission and fall back to the hotel.

  “You again?”

  “I’m really sorry about last night. Could you please book me a flight to Saigon?”

  “For today?”

  “How about right now?”

  About eighty dollars later, I land in Ho Chi Minh City, or Saigon to anyone who watches war movies. For accommodations, the guidebook lists a cheap option for fifteen dollars a night and a super cheap option for twelve dollars a night. For the hell of it, I look at the midrange options, which start at thirty dollars a night. No way.

  I settle on the fifteen-dollar-a-night Rising Son hotel in a quaint-sounding part of town called District 1. The price includes a room with a queen bed, continental breakfast, and Internet access. A steal if there are no beetles.

  The front deskman checks me in. He doesn’t ask for my passport and I don’t offer it. I collect my key and scope out the room.

  Bathroom: no tub or shower, just a spray nozzle on the wall and a drain on the floor next to the toilet.

  Decor: a framed wall plaque with a note from the local police. “Foreigner and Vietnamese woman must not stay in room without marriage certificate. You can rent other room for lady.”

  Pillow: covered with the small, hopping insects.

  I visit the desk manager.

  “Excuse me. There are little bugs all over my pillow.”

  He smiles. “Yes, may I hepp you?”

  “Are they fleas?”

  He smiles harder. “Bug no bite.”

  I look up at the lobby ceiling fan. Whop, whop, whop. A breath lodges in my lungs. I feel my hands grip the check-in counter. I’m having a Nha Trang flashback. I need to exercise.

  “Is there a gym, health club, within walking distance?” I flex my arms as if I’m lifting weights.

  He flexes back, smiling a smile that can mean so many things, and opens a tourist map. He draws a small circle on a street called Cach Mang Thang in District 10 and traces a line from the hotel to the circle.

  “Three kilometer,” he says.

  That’s almost two miles, a forty-minute walk. No sweat.

  Outside I take a few deep breaths. The sooty air calms me like a nonfilter cigarette.

  Across the street, idling buses surround an expanse of green. A large sign says, “Peoples’ Triumph Over Colonial Oppressors Park.”

  The traffic makes me feel oppressed. It’s like New York City during rush hour, but with no stop lights, stop signs, or traffic cops. Instead of yellow cabs, there are thousands of honking motorcycles spewing across six lanes.

  The tourist map includes a page of instructions for crossing Saigon streets that I distill to the following:

  • Walk slowly and steadily, and the traffic will part like a school of fish.

  • Don’t do anything stupid like change your mind or direction.

  I walk to the curb and watch as motorcycles and the occasional bicycle, bus, or car jostles for position. A middle-aged local woman on a motorcycle separates from the pack, veers onto the sidewalk, and heads toward me. She weaves around a few pedestrians and stops a few inches from my sandals. She guns her bike and smiles. “You like boom-boom with Vietnamese girl?” She points to an attractive, twenty-something on the back of her bike. “One hour, fifteen dollar US.”

  The twenty-something has long dark hair and wears jeans and flip-flops. She looks like a Western college kid, but without the ski hat, tattoos, or slutty clothing.

  I decline diplomatically and politely: “I’m almost fifty years old, I’ll never last an hour with her,” I say.

  “OK, OK. Ten dollar, one hour.”

  “Let me think about it and have my people call your people.”

  She frowns and drives off. I stutter-step into the street and then retreat to the curb. Another middle-aged woman on a motorcycle locks onto me, separates from the pack, and drives onto the sidewalk. She’s wearing plenty of makeup.

  “Why you no walk?” She smiles and points to the young woman on the back of her bike. “You like boom-boom with Vietnamese girl?”

  “Actually, I like older women,” I say. “How much for you?”

  “Me? Same price.”

  “Maybe another time. Let’s be in touch.”

  She watches me stutter-step on and off the curb, shakes her head, and then drives off.

  I give up and retreat to the hotel. I shower, grab a fresh pillow from the closet, and get into bed. As I start to doze, my eyelids start to itch. I adjust my sleep blindfold. My eyelids itch some more. I adjust again. The itching turns to skittering, crawling, twitching, burning. I feel the lash of a thousand eyelashes, the puss of a thousand sties. I whip off the blindfold and run to the bathroom mirror. My face is covered with little hopping insects.

  I shower again and crawl back into bed, my head wrapped in a hand towel soaked in 30-percent DEET insect repellent. The bugs gambol freely on the exposed part of my face.

  After dressing and repacking my backpack, I head down to the front desk.

  “Excuse me. Those bugs in my room do bite.”

  “May I hepp you?”

  “Can you move me to another room?”

  “Hotel full.” His eyes are small, black, and lifeless.

  I take out Pittman’s guidebook and point to a page recommending the Rising Son. “Traveling Solo gave you guys a really good rating. That’s why I came here. Is there anything you can do for me?”

  “Fuck Wally Pittman!” The deskman slams his hand on the counter. “You friend him?”

  “No, I only bought the book.”

  “Then shut up about book.”

  I slam my hand on the counter: “OK, I’m checking out and want a refund.”

  “No refund.”

  “I’ve only been here three hours and the room is infested with insects.”

  “No refund.”

  “I paid for the room with a credit card. I’ll have my credit card company cancel the charge, and you’ll get a bad credit rating.”

  “Bad credit rating to you.”

  The ceiling fan wobbles and creaks. Here I am again, haggling with a poor local over a few bucks. Have I learned anything in the last week? Apparently not.

  I slam the counter, “Well . . . Fuck you!”

  “I call police.”

  I run out the door dragging my backpack along the ground. Outside I take a few sooty breaths. I’ve finally reached my threshold for squalor. No more cheap hotels. No more twenty-five dollar bus rides. No more hanging around with unwashed hostel kids. I have money. Time to throw it around. Give me West Palm Beach, a
dults in linen shorts, and potable ice.

  Two blocks away on Pham Ngu Lao Street, The Saigon Breakers Hotel.

  Lobby: chandeliers, paisley carpets, Breakers piano bar, employees wearing shoes instead of flip-flips, free bottled water, bell staff that expects a tip.

  King Single Room: ceiling sprinklers, radio/alarm clock, entertainment center with surround sound, Breakers bath amenities, bathroom telephone, full-length mirror, walk-in closet, cleaning staff that expects a tip. On the bed, chocolates and a clear package with a new sleep blindfold.

  Breakfast Buffet: tablecloths, cloth napkins, salad forks, Breakers eggs benedict, Swiss cheese omelet, spring rolls, deep fried cheesecake, wait staff that expects a tip.

  Dinner Buffet: candles, flowers, wine glasses, steamship round, sole in butter sauce, chicken in cream sauce, asparagus in cheese sauce, spring rolls, deep fried cheesecake, after-dinner chocolates, free bottled water, hostess that expects a tip.

  I spend the next two days eating, sleeping, using the hotel gym, and never leaving the premises. It’s like a vacation from traveling. And I love my new blindfold. But my hotel bill has reached $150, the equivalent of two weeks in a hostel.

  That night, I take a seat at the Breakers piano bar next to a couple in matching North Face fleece vests. They’re probably spending their Saigon vacation indoors as well.

  The bar menu is in small type. I hold it close. I hold it far. It’s still in small type.

  “You need longer arms or reading glasses,” says the woman next to me in a familiar, kvetchy accent. New York Jews, my people.

  “I’m in denial,” I say. “I’d rather not see than get glasses.”

  The bartender hovers.

  “Do you have 333 beer?” I ask him.

  “For light lagers we have Heineken and Budweiser, both imported.” The bartender is Asian, but speaks English without an accent.

  Glass shelves behind him sport Kentucky bourbons, French vodkas, clear tequilas, and no Vietnamese booze of any kind.

  “I’m in the mood for an import,” I say to the bartender. “A Budweiser would be great.”

  “Where you from?” the woman next to me asks. Her eyes wrinkle as she smiles. Her hair is unnaturally black but her eyebrows are graying. She was probably attractive at one time. I’m guessing she’s in her midfifties.

  “Boston,” I say.