Half Paralyzed on a Tiny Raft, Pulled by a Dog

As published at SubStack, 1/11/24:

[Vung Tau, 1/9/24]

Dropping by Café Xí Muội at 5:35AM, I found it open, brightly lit yet without anyone in sight. I shouted towards the back, “Is it open, miss?” but got no answer, so I walked on in the dark.

Passing two middle aged brisk walkers, I overheard the man say, “She went to Taiwan to become a whore, made some money.” On a green patch, a dozen people stood with their arms raised, palms inward. Immobile, it was as if they had died standing up, so had become a memorial to themselves. Bravely or not, they had fought, often enough against each other, but it’s all chill, just more sewer under a broken bridge.

Dead, they finally reached equality, or equity if you will. “Progressive” whites or Jews are always coming up with ways to muck up your thinking and language. Are you a plus sized undocumented worker with a frontal hole?

Passing Cô Châu [Miss Chau] and Anh Tuấn [Brother Tuan], I thought of the charmingly named Anh Què [Crippled Brother], a noodle shop on Soviet Nghệ Tĩnh. The Vietnamese for handicapped is “khuyết tật,” but “què” persists. There’s even an amusing slur, “lồn què” [“crippled cunt”]. Literally a vagina during its period, it’s most often flung by one woman towards another.

An absurd name for asshole is “hậu môn” [“back door”], but only assholes use that in conversations.

With vocabulary, grammar and accent, each language is a series of hurdles, potholes, trip wires and booby traps designed to expose trespassers and imposters, so anyone claiming to be a global citizen is just burping through his back door. Ascoltarme, paisano, it’s hard enough to be at home in two cultures!

If someone has designed a better toilet, just sit on it, however, so my room in Vung Tau is filled with Western inventions, as are my two cameras, though greatly improved by the Japanese. As for medical interventions, though, I’ve decided to go strictly Oriental. This past week, I visited a Chinese pharmacist, an antique dealer who concocts a skin ointment then a store selling Korean ginseng and lingzhi mushrooms. The last I discovered just wandering around. My $143.77 of lingzhi was chopped into semi hard slivers, to be brewed at home. Another stroke of serendipity or providence occurred that afternoon when a man at DC Homestay sold me a pot made for this very purpose. I hadn’t even known such vessels existed.

Among those skeptical of Western medicine, none is more famous than Gandhi. As a healer and nurse, he used folk remedies to cure South Africans and Indians. Even his scanty dress revealed his spurning of modernity. We must be most thankful Gandhi didn’t return to the Stone Age. Ghanshyam Das Birla, “He was more modern than I. But he made a conscious decision to go back to the Middle Ages.”

Along that line, there was a Vietnamese poet, Nguyễn Đình Chiểu (1822-1888), who refused to use French roads or soap. Typing this on a Lenovo laptop bought at an Ubon Ratchathani shopping mall, I honor all such men. I haven’t used laundry detergent in years.

Today, I must profile the antique dealer, Phương, who gave me, absolutely free, an orange ointment and a dark detoxing drink. Phương is the Vietnamese spelling and mispronunciation of the Chinese 方. It means way, direction, means or method. Poet Nguyen Quoc Chanh took me to this mild eccentric. Phương doesn’t just see ghosts but talks to them, he claims. He’s often spotted on Front Beach picking up trash. When a young man said, “Let me help you, uncle,” Phương snapped, “Help me?! It’s not my beach. Just do it!”

Among his fengshui jades, celadon vases, bronze buddhas, hand painted plates, wooden carvings, Victorian lamps and South Vietnamse money, there was, unmistakenly, a bust of George Washington, sold to Phương by a Communist official. It’s unclear how he had gotten hold of this curio. He was just sick of hearing complaints about it. The bell for Phương’s shop had been taken from a US Navy boat. In Phonsavan, Laos, hundreds of American bombs have become decorative.

“Brother Chanh told me you have a magic ointment. I need you to cure me right away! I’m sick of this!”

“Why are you such a crybaby today?” Phương grinned.

After having us sit at small table, Phương made coffee. There was almost no traffic on that side street. Next door was a newish Buddhist temple. Opposite us was a modest house selling home cooked food to take home. With late afternoon, it was cool enough.

I don’t remember how we came to talk about the etymology of certain words and 19th century history, but we all agreed Emperor Gia Long deserves a much better verdict. That’s true of so many people, though, not to mention those who have been erased completely. Meanwhile, our worst criminals have been extravagantly feasted, lauded then enshrined.

Our most memorable topic was Phương’s experience in Cambodia fighting the Khmer Rouge. Halfway through this tale, I turned to Chanh, “We are spoiled brats! We’ve had it so easy! We haven’t been tested!”

Ambushed, Phương’s platoon of 30 was completely wiped out, except him. Buried under so much dirt, Phương was never discovered, however, so he was left behind as all his comrades, mostly body parts, were removed. There was just enough air for Phương to not suffocate. When he came to days later, he couldn’t feel his legs, but that wasn’t important, “I was just this hungry, thirsty animal. My only aim was to find something to drink,” so like a lizard, the maimed soldier emerged from the earth then slithered away, inch by inch, with no idea where the nearest stream or puddle was.

Phương was too confused to even pray, but after a few hours, he finally saw water. Trying to reach its edge, he tumbled down an embankment, so now, it was a struggle to not drown. Miraculously, someone appeared, but had this man been Cambodian, Phương would likely have been killed. Against all odds, he turned out to be Vietnamese.

Carrying Phương back to his hut, this man used herbs and herbal concoctions to heal him. How long this took, Phương can’t remember, but finally, he was placed on a small raft tied to a scrawny dog. His savior said, “Your survival is up to fate, brother. I can’t do anymore.”

Had the Khmer Rouge or just ordinary Khmers come upon a Viet saving a Vietnamese soldier, both would have been butchered. Without Phương, this dark peasant fluent in Khmer could pass as a Cambodian.

Seeing a road hours or days later, Phương crawled on land and just waited. Again, if he was discovered by Khmers, it would have been over, but as figures approached from afar, he could make out Vietnamese. Unable to form a sentence, Phương grunted enough words to persuade these soldiers he was one of them, or so he thought. Interrogated later, Phương was slapped around a bit, “They had to make sure I wasn’t a Khmer!”

Viet soldiers weren’t issued dog tags, but a personal number. Since Phương had scribbled his onto his shirt collar, he used this to prove he was a comrade. Finally brought back to Vietnam, Phương stayed in a hospital for two years, “When I was finally released, I didn’t recognize my mother!”

Miraculously, Phương would recover enough to get accepted into a Texas university to study physics. His stint in the US didn’t last long, however. He had to go home early because shrapnels still lodged in his brain started acting up.

Recounting his trauma, Phương was neither bitter nor boastful, just slightly bemused. Had I not yanked all these details from him, Phương wouldn’t have bothered. The next morning, he would, again, pick up trash scattered by the mindless.

For days I had wanted to talk about Phương, but was too exhausted to begin, so now it’s done. A tale ineptly related is better than not told at all, especially if it’s extraordinary, but which isn’t, really? All around us are survivors who have endured the most extraordinary.

Now, I’ll make some miso soup, to be eaten with kimchi and Hungarian salami. You’d be surprised what’s available in Vung Tau. After dinner, I’ll rub some of Phương’s ointment on my lower legs. It is working.

Everything works, sort of, until this and that breaks down. Just be thankful you still have some half dead dog or benign spirit to pull you downstream. Though life will never be the same again, sanity and normality must be regained.

[seller of lottery tickets in Vung Tau on 1/7/24]

[Vung Tau, 1/9/24]

[Vung Tau, 10/30/22]

[Vung Tau, 10/30/22]