[Vientiane, 8/3/23]
Leaving my Vientiane room just after 6AM each morning, I usually enter Wat Mixai, cross its grounds then exit into an alley where Cafe Vanille is. Today, that gate was still locked, so I had to take a much longer route to my favorite eatery and writing station. No problem. I could use the exercise.
Passing Laos Streetkitchen, I checked to see if Mimi, a dog I had gotten to know, was there, but she was probably inside, I thought. Ten yards further, she bounded down the steps of Hotel Aaron to greet me. Just as happy, I shouted in Vietnamese, “There, there’s the black faced girl!”
Immediately I concluded that Wat Mixai’s gate had been locked so I could give Mimi a sustained hug. She warmed my heart.
For the first time in nearly a month, I’m wearing shorts. On my left leg, there’s a crimson sore the size of a dime, but that’s it. On my right foot, I’m wearing a black sock to hide the wound on my ankle. Leaving Vietnam eight months ago, I had packed just one sock by mistake, but now, it became necessary. In no other circumstance would any man put on just one sock.
Seven and a half months ago, I bought two shirts in Bengaluru, India. At the time, I was a bit annoyed they were long-sleeved, a nuisance in extreme heat, but I couldn’t be bothered to look for short-sleeved ones. When sores broke out all over my limbs six weeks ago in Ubon Ratchathani, Thailand, these shirts became essential. Wearing them, I could walk around without disgusting anyone.
Packing light, I still had one pair of long pants, so as to look respectable at the literary festival in Bengaluru. After that event, I never wore them again until my skin disaster. Without these pants, I would have looked like some wincing and hobbling leper wandering foreign streets, in search of anything to hide my legs.
These long-sleeved shirts, pants and sock, then, have been providential, as has my drawn-out health ordeal, because, finally, I can purge all those toxins accumulated over decades. Ignoring so many signs along the way, my blindness also needed a correction.
Am I lapsing into the occult, religiosity or just madness? I report what I see and experience. I’m my own lab mouse.
Writing this, I’m sitting inside Cafe Vanille. I wish they would turn down the AC a bit. This ain’t Brittany in January! Before leaving Vientiane for Pakse, I’ll have to buy terrines, rillettes, chorizo, brie, gouda and whatever else from this excellent joint. Meowing, a bobtail cat has just wandered in.
Here’s a crazy one for you. Yesterday, I met an American in his early 50’s at Cafe Vanille.
After 23 years in the Marines, Michael opened a seven-room Airbnb in Jackson, MI, his hometown. With Covid travel restrictions and lockdowns, it promptly croaked. Free for the first time, Michael drifted to Medellin, Colombia, mostly to sample ayahuasca. After throwing up and/or shitting out your soul, you’ll enter the worst hell imaginable, then heaven, so it’s definitely worth it. Quickly picking up a girlfriend and Spanish, Michael couldn’t ask for more. Growing marijuana, he even made money, so will you marry me, he asked her. No, she shockingly said. No problema, Michael moved on to Venezuela, which wasn’t too groovy, so now, he’s in Southeast Asia.
In Laos, he’d already been to Phonsavan and Luang Prabang, but he was moving too fast, I thought. Some people are frantic, while others can’t get out of bed, so who wins? After just two days in Vientiane, he was thinking of heading to Pakse.
“It’s a very ugly city,” I warned, “with hardly any history. Its oldest temple is just 150 years old, which is nothing,” I chuckled. “I mean, it’s very pleasant and I actually love it, but there’s not much to look at. Most people only go there on their way to those islands in the Mekong. Don Det is nice. Go there!”
As Michael sized up my jive, I continued, “I’m Vietnamese, so feel very at home in Pakse. There are many Vietnamese there. Some guy pretending to be a Turk did rob me, though. I was very stupid.”
“That’s OK. You learnt from it.”
“Yes, every two years or so, I lose money, so I learn something! At least I’ve never been injured”
“Were you born in November?”
“How do you know that?!”
“I can tell. I was born in November. People like us are adventurous and open, and we only learn from experience.”
“If I keep learning this way, I may not survive!” I laughed.
“But you have, and we all must die.”
I stared at his gaunt face and shaven head. Beyond the racial differences, we looked similar.
Out of nowhere, Michael asked, “Can I see your ID, something with your birthdate?”
“What for?!”
“I want to see if you were really born in November.”
“Whoa! Why would I lie to you about that?”
“To flatter me.”
“For what purpose?”
“To gain my confidence…”
“To do what?” Still, I produced my passport.
Leaning over me, Michael saw “12 NOV 1963” in solid black, as if banged out on an old-fashioned typewriter. Satisfied, he returned to his table.
“That was very strange, man,” I frowned. “You said people born in November are very open and adventurous, but you’re actually very paranoid!”
Michael just grinned.
Moving on, I told him about the relative merits of Hanoi and Saigon, since he had never been to Vietnam. I also strongly recommended Phnom Penh.
Michael’s facility with language was evident in his ability to communicate with the waitress in basic Lao, and he had just gotten here.
“How do you do that, man? You’re amazing!”
His knowing my birth month was even more remarkable, but quite frequently, we’re reminded of our vast ignorance. Declaring ourselves wise men, homo sapiens, we can only be sure there’s no biological definition of woman, and any hirsute and priapic queer can breast feed.
It’s 9:05AM, and I’m about to order breakfast. With its smoked ham, blue cheese, walnuts, red peppercorns and apple, La Salade Fermiere [The Farmer’s Salad] is an excellent choice, but I’ve had that once too many. Collectively and personally doomed, a man may still fuss, if he still has choices.
Turning a menu page, I stare at more appetizing photos next to dish names in French, a conceit that heightens my vanity. About to eat, a man feels most secure, and selfish. Eyes darting, he’s hunched over his lonely portion.
Even when there are enough saucisses, lardons and raclettes to go around, he might just kill you if you dare to touch his plate, and let’s face it, there has been enough of anything to go around.
Though he always cites abstractions like freedom, democracy or God to justify his war, it’s really his stomach that’s at the crux, or rather, crust, of the matter. It’s not enough he must eat more than you. You must also be his bowing garçon.
Done with your shift, you can chow on his leftover or bugs. Already, it feels like destiny. Once upon a time, there were cheeseburgers and even steaks.
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