The Wheel Perverts
As I pull up to traffic lights I have to, unforntunately, stop. That’s a law which is fairly new and fading in flexibilty. I have, of course, the utmost respect for the Law but it does give the opportunity for the unheralded and silent wheel pervert to run his seedy little eyes all over my beloved muscular German motorbike. As you stop they roll alongside you and stare down at your wheels. I have no doubt there is one thing on their minds.
I strain my eyes into the distance and will the lights to go green. I try to concentrate on my breakfast to avoid this unwholesome fellow with his grubby little features and blank stare.
Some encounters are more bizarre than others. On one occasion after I zoomed off to escape one such character into the glory of the greenlight I ran straight into another red. I shifted uncomfortably, glanced back and sure enough, like all of life’s irritances, back behind me, nudging his way through the traffic, he came alongside me again. His eyes once more checking my wheels out, back to front, top to bottom. A little treat, no doubt, for his spank bank. The sun belted down for what seemed like the longest red light in history. I sat. My palms sweating. The fumes filling my noise. His stare unrelenting. The green came and I gasped, my bike too. We shot off together around the chicane by DBP and Tran Phu. I released and stretched out only to see in the distance the lights play the devil, and turn red.
I sat, head down, my engine rumbling. He slid past and pulled up just ahead of me this time and glanced back. I, with frustration, heat fatigue and general impatience was just about to launch in to a torrent of abuse. Then I looked into his eyes. He was smiling, shaking his head and frowing with twinkling eyes. A cocktail of an expression unique to Vietnamese.
“Are you following me?” Was my toned down response.
He shook his head and smiled-frowned some more.
“No, with all that smoke I thought you were making Bun Cha!”
The lights changed, this time he shot off. The Traffic edged off after him. My stalker was a dot at the next set of lights, I could see they were green and he zipped through. I sat on my xe may bun cha. Was this why fat children chased me through my neighbourhood? As I started the red lights went on. A policeman whistled at me to reverse behind the white line. A new law and flexible depending on the hour of day and whether or not it’s raining. As he watched me grapple with my xe may bun cha to get it backwards, he was frowning and shaking his head disdainfully. “Anh co thich an bun cha khong?” I shouted trying to drop a bit of humour into his day. He stood, expressionless but his eyes were fixed on my wheels. As he stood he swung his baton and stood with legs half-cocked.
Quite clearly a wheel pervert in a uniform.
Friday, July 25, 2003
Tuesday, July 08, 2003
You’re so early/ late/ handsome/ ugly
“You’re so late!” The cleaner says, as I arrive to work in the carpark approximately eleven minutes later than I did yesterday, which is I presume what she’s judging it on. I picture what I might have done in my erratic routine that might account for it and satisfy her bland curiosity. I stopped for petrol, my bike cut out twice at traffic lights, the internet was running slow and I couldn’t find my keys and my landlord was harassing me for money. Who could I blame?
“The traffic is shocking”, I said.
She appreciates this answer.
“Yes” Now she frowns like she just ate a large lemon. “Yes, the traffic is terrible”
We stand for a second. There is nothing else to say. Now she’s smiling. I smile back. The sun is shining. I can imagine birds singing, despite none being in the vicinity. It’s a nice moment, I think.
“You’re very ugly!” She says.
“Thanks” As I head for the door I'm not surprised to remember I’m not wearing my tie.
As soon as I walk in the door the receptionists clap their hands in delight. They’re obviously bored.
“You’re so early” They shriek with smiles, frowns and glances shooting left, right and centre.
“I…” Once again my day flashes before my eyes. “I… didn’t have lunch”
They don’t like this and frown some more. I stand awkwardly. I didn’t mean to offend anyone. They get back to eating nuts, answering phones and generally ignoring me. I head for my office.
“Hey…” They holler as I walk up the stairs.
“Yes?”
“Today you’re very ugly”
“Thank you”
As I trudge up the stairs I know it’s the lack of a tie that distorts their perception. I head for the booth and prepare to return safe in the knowledge that Clark Kent tore off his tie to emerge as Superman, and that I would soon do the contrary.
“You’re so late!” The cleaner says, as I arrive to work in the carpark approximately eleven minutes later than I did yesterday, which is I presume what she’s judging it on. I picture what I might have done in my erratic routine that might account for it and satisfy her bland curiosity. I stopped for petrol, my bike cut out twice at traffic lights, the internet was running slow and I couldn’t find my keys and my landlord was harassing me for money. Who could I blame?
“The traffic is shocking”, I said.
She appreciates this answer.
“Yes” Now she frowns like she just ate a large lemon. “Yes, the traffic is terrible”
We stand for a second. There is nothing else to say. Now she’s smiling. I smile back. The sun is shining. I can imagine birds singing, despite none being in the vicinity. It’s a nice moment, I think.
“You’re very ugly!” She says.
“Thanks” As I head for the door I'm not surprised to remember I’m not wearing my tie.
As soon as I walk in the door the receptionists clap their hands in delight. They’re obviously bored.
“You’re so early” They shriek with smiles, frowns and glances shooting left, right and centre.
“I…” Once again my day flashes before my eyes. “I… didn’t have lunch”
They don’t like this and frown some more. I stand awkwardly. I didn’t mean to offend anyone. They get back to eating nuts, answering phones and generally ignoring me. I head for my office.
“Hey…” They holler as I walk up the stairs.
“Yes?”
“Today you’re very ugly”
“Thank you”
As I trudge up the stairs I know it’s the lack of a tie that distorts their perception. I head for the booth and prepare to return safe in the knowledge that Clark Kent tore off his tie to emerge as Superman, and that I would soon do the contrary.
Thursday, May 15, 2003
The Strolling Minstrel
The man strolls with an electric guitar. His various side kick street urchins hold his hand-held amp, a straw hat and a bucket of misery. If ever a man in history needed a hug it is this pitiful wandering minstrel of Hanoi. I try to be kind. I see him for what he is. A pain in everyone’s arse. So I approach him with the benign intent of giving him a reassuring hug. There-there, I'll say, life ain’t so bad, come on, put a brave face on it, chin up and please stop singing. Just for a minute while a drink my coffee.
But as I go to open my mouth the youngest street urchin, in charge of finances, appears at my hip and pokes me in the mid-rift. I take a step back. From the stare on his face, his blackened eyes and hollow cheeks it would make you think the plague itself had sprung upon us. He mutters incomprehensibly. My ear strains to grasp his mumble: “Money, money, money.”
ABBA, at the time didn't come to mind. Life isn’t so simple. I pushed him gently aside, claiming impecunity, and point out that my clothes are as tatty as his, and my motorbike belongs in a museum.
But my curiosity is roused, who is this straw-hatted man? I wondered where he lived, for if heroin, whisky and Janis Joplin got Leonard Cohen down, then this fellow must live in a brothel, drink from a barrel in a gutter and shoot up mouldy brown on the hour. So as they dawdle down the road like a group of drunk blind men I decide to follow.
As I walk with them I watch the effect he has on the city, which is not merely unique; it’s breathtaking. This is the city that only lunch time can cause a lull. Only the Police can stop the hub-bub. But the minstrel is a natural.
The music, the most excurciatingly painful kind you can imagine, like a lovesick cat crooning on a torture rack, turns every corner before him. Couples who hear it duck into alleys. People at food stalls stare into their noodles as if they dropped their keys in the bowl. Normally silent men dig deep for conversation. Trendy girls search their phones, read texts or make calls. No one looks him in the eye.
Down the street I see men engage lampposts in conversation; others pretend their bikes are in need of attention. Some stare at their watches as if there is somewhere else to be. Flowers wilt. Babes in arm bawl. Cats wince. Milk curdles. Old Ba’s, who've lived through a generation of war, pour the tra da with trembling hands. There’s no escape. No one is safe from this abject misery.
One wonders what is this man’s intention? Does he think men will drink deeply, women will stop their gossip and one and all will pause to reflect and dwell upon past heartache, half-love or good-old-downright utter sorrow? Does he expcet people to slow dance in the street then chip in a nice crisp note for the privilege?
I followed him all the way to his home as he passed down desserted streets, doing the Police's work by clearing the streets for the dreaded SEA Games.
And then out of the dusk, like a miscalculated sunset, his wife appeared. Her off white dep, fat calves, orangey pyjamas and sour face, altogether the opposite of a reason to come home early from work.
He stood outside as he paid off his urchins, outcasts of a Dickensian school production. Then he sheepishly passed by the missus, avoiding her glare, down the tunnel, like a player sinbinned, heading off for an early shower, anticipating flying crockery in the changing room.
She didn’t look anywhere. Just straight ahead; then I appeared in her vision with a stupid grin and foreign manners, too polite for her to ignore, too dumb to insult.
“So that’s your husband, isn’t it? He’s quite a talent”
I didn’t know how to say ‘Albeit misunderstood’
“Huh! Doi Moi,” she said, “Tourists and money to be made, get out there and make it, I said, buy a Honda Dream or an Angel and work as a Xe Om, or a Bao Ve in the Bun Cha restaurant, but oh no! What does he do? He goes and buys a six string and an amp!”
I said I wished Jon Bon Jovi had bought a motorbike too, but she didn't understand. We sat for tea. We spoke openly. She told me of his shoegazing era and how he spent days in his bedroom reading the poetry of Nguyen Du, eating nothing but coffee beans and smoking cigarettes, until enough was enough, get out she said, get out and stay out. And so he did. And still he does. From dawn to dusk. Everyday like a bad dose of changeable weather that’ll be there when you least want it to be.
So next time you seem him with his bucket of misery and his sidekick street urchins remember that he’s just plying his trade. Poor chap doesn’t have another string to his bow, why he doesn’t even have a motorbike and all he needs in my humble opinion is a hug.
At the very least police should thank him. As he walks through the streets, prices stay low; brawls peter out, traffic moves soberly. The man would be considered a messiah in more old testament, gullible or whimisical times. An unsung hero in our very midst. Just like Jesus once was.
The man strolls with an electric guitar. His various side kick street urchins hold his hand-held amp, a straw hat and a bucket of misery. If ever a man in history needed a hug it is this pitiful wandering minstrel of Hanoi. I try to be kind. I see him for what he is. A pain in everyone’s arse. So I approach him with the benign intent of giving him a reassuring hug. There-there, I'll say, life ain’t so bad, come on, put a brave face on it, chin up and please stop singing. Just for a minute while a drink my coffee.
But as I go to open my mouth the youngest street urchin, in charge of finances, appears at my hip and pokes me in the mid-rift. I take a step back. From the stare on his face, his blackened eyes and hollow cheeks it would make you think the plague itself had sprung upon us. He mutters incomprehensibly. My ear strains to grasp his mumble: “Money, money, money.”
ABBA, at the time didn't come to mind. Life isn’t so simple. I pushed him gently aside, claiming impecunity, and point out that my clothes are as tatty as his, and my motorbike belongs in a museum.
But my curiosity is roused, who is this straw-hatted man? I wondered where he lived, for if heroin, whisky and Janis Joplin got Leonard Cohen down, then this fellow must live in a brothel, drink from a barrel in a gutter and shoot up mouldy brown on the hour. So as they dawdle down the road like a group of drunk blind men I decide to follow.
As I walk with them I watch the effect he has on the city, which is not merely unique; it’s breathtaking. This is the city that only lunch time can cause a lull. Only the Police can stop the hub-bub. But the minstrel is a natural.
The music, the most excurciatingly painful kind you can imagine, like a lovesick cat crooning on a torture rack, turns every corner before him. Couples who hear it duck into alleys. People at food stalls stare into their noodles as if they dropped their keys in the bowl. Normally silent men dig deep for conversation. Trendy girls search their phones, read texts or make calls. No one looks him in the eye.
Down the street I see men engage lampposts in conversation; others pretend their bikes are in need of attention. Some stare at their watches as if there is somewhere else to be. Flowers wilt. Babes in arm bawl. Cats wince. Milk curdles. Old Ba’s, who've lived through a generation of war, pour the tra da with trembling hands. There’s no escape. No one is safe from this abject misery.
One wonders what is this man’s intention? Does he think men will drink deeply, women will stop their gossip and one and all will pause to reflect and dwell upon past heartache, half-love or good-old-downright utter sorrow? Does he expcet people to slow dance in the street then chip in a nice crisp note for the privilege?
I followed him all the way to his home as he passed down desserted streets, doing the Police's work by clearing the streets for the dreaded SEA Games.
And then out of the dusk, like a miscalculated sunset, his wife appeared. Her off white dep, fat calves, orangey pyjamas and sour face, altogether the opposite of a reason to come home early from work.
He stood outside as he paid off his urchins, outcasts of a Dickensian school production. Then he sheepishly passed by the missus, avoiding her glare, down the tunnel, like a player sinbinned, heading off for an early shower, anticipating flying crockery in the changing room.
She didn’t look anywhere. Just straight ahead; then I appeared in her vision with a stupid grin and foreign manners, too polite for her to ignore, too dumb to insult.
“So that’s your husband, isn’t it? He’s quite a talent”
I didn’t know how to say ‘Albeit misunderstood’
“Huh! Doi Moi,” she said, “Tourists and money to be made, get out there and make it, I said, buy a Honda Dream or an Angel and work as a Xe Om, or a Bao Ve in the Bun Cha restaurant, but oh no! What does he do? He goes and buys a six string and an amp!”
I said I wished Jon Bon Jovi had bought a motorbike too, but she didn't understand. We sat for tea. We spoke openly. She told me of his shoegazing era and how he spent days in his bedroom reading the poetry of Nguyen Du, eating nothing but coffee beans and smoking cigarettes, until enough was enough, get out she said, get out and stay out. And so he did. And still he does. From dawn to dusk. Everyday like a bad dose of changeable weather that’ll be there when you least want it to be.
So next time you seem him with his bucket of misery and his sidekick street urchins remember that he’s just plying his trade. Poor chap doesn’t have another string to his bow, why he doesn’t even have a motorbike and all he needs in my humble opinion is a hug.
At the very least police should thank him. As he walks through the streets, prices stay low; brawls peter out, traffic moves soberly. The man would be considered a messiah in more old testament, gullible or whimisical times. An unsung hero in our very midst. Just like Jesus once was.
Tuesday, April 01, 2003
I am not a madame, I am a monsieur
If there’s one thing that gets on my goat and leaves me stamping up and down, seething, lobster red, spitting and cussing like a loon, it is the frequent misconception that I am a woman. Not just that, but a French one, too. Madame, they say, madame!
I present myself in the basics: Tall, capable of growing a beard, short hair, no noticeable curves, not accustomed to wearing dresses, hairs on my shoulders and a middle stump to beat the band. Why surely any fool can spot me for a monsieur? Or mister, as they say around my way.
So I say to these people “I’m a dan ong ma! Toi la un monsieur- hieu khong?” Perhaps it’s the fury, my manly wrath, but most likely it’s the incomprehensible Viet Phap-lish that sends them scuttling away like crabs under rocks. Either way I’m pleased to have see them off without blood being spilled. But it never stops.
As one lot vanish, others emerge and dangle bracelets in my face. “Madame! Madame!” they coo. How can they not notice my fine purposeful manly stride? I bite my lip and try to remain focused on my mission to get to a café without making a scene. But still they come - pulling out more ladylike wares - necklaces, scarves and fans.
Why it’s no wonder I’ve taken to the drink with a vengance. And after all the drink it’s no wonder I end up like all the other monsieurs in nightclubs. I see them stagggering around. Drunk. Legs a kimbo. Leery stares. Dribbling into shot glasses. They make quite a picture, those monsieurs.
So I step onto the dance floor and try to get in amongst it and compete for them ladies. There, for a moment, I’m back. Surrounded by eyes like badgers in the backwoods. Yes, je ne suis pas dan ba, khong phai le madame, monsieur day roi! I’m anyones! But, like a bad teenage party, suddenly the music is pulled and the show is over and I’m outside rooting through my pockets in search of the elusive bike ticket, which late at night is as precious as winning lottery numbers.
But outside, again, the horror continues. A man suddenly skulks behind me and whispers ‘Madame!’ with a mischievous air. As if he's goadng me. I shoo him off and continue my search for the ticket. By now a group of women are around me, smiling, and saying "madame, madame". What do they want? A sisterly hug? Lipstick? A girly chat in the toilets? It can’t be advice on baggy trousers. Can't they see I'm a monsiuer!
Finally after finding the ticket I burst off on my, large, macho, manly bike in disgust, hoping that that might, at the last, assert my masculinity. Maybe they’d realise their mistake. I imagine the chatter in my absence. ‘Oh, that wasn’t a madame, why it was a monsieur.’ ‘Oh really? Very hard to tell these days, no disrespect to either sex.’ ‘I’ll say.’
Back at my very own barely penetrable fortress I call home a neighbourhood moocher passes as I fumble with my keys in the dark. He spots me and as it’s two am he has only one thing to say. ‘Madame! Al-lo! Madame!’
Those words, like the memory of a kick in the teeth, or a trip to the dentist, screech against my ears before I fall to sleep. Perhaps I should, as they say, beef myself up. Or then again maybe I should just try to sleep. Why every dan ong, monsieur, mister, geezer needs his beauty sleep.
If there’s one thing that gets on my goat and leaves me stamping up and down, seething, lobster red, spitting and cussing like a loon, it is the frequent misconception that I am a woman. Not just that, but a French one, too. Madame, they say, madame!
I present myself in the basics: Tall, capable of growing a beard, short hair, no noticeable curves, not accustomed to wearing dresses, hairs on my shoulders and a middle stump to beat the band. Why surely any fool can spot me for a monsieur? Or mister, as they say around my way.
So I say to these people “I’m a dan ong ma! Toi la un monsieur- hieu khong?” Perhaps it’s the fury, my manly wrath, but most likely it’s the incomprehensible Viet Phap-lish that sends them scuttling away like crabs under rocks. Either way I’m pleased to have see them off without blood being spilled. But it never stops.
As one lot vanish, others emerge and dangle bracelets in my face. “Madame! Madame!” they coo. How can they not notice my fine purposeful manly stride? I bite my lip and try to remain focused on my mission to get to a café without making a scene. But still they come - pulling out more ladylike wares - necklaces, scarves and fans.
Why it’s no wonder I’ve taken to the drink with a vengance. And after all the drink it’s no wonder I end up like all the other monsieurs in nightclubs. I see them stagggering around. Drunk. Legs a kimbo. Leery stares. Dribbling into shot glasses. They make quite a picture, those monsieurs.
So I step onto the dance floor and try to get in amongst it and compete for them ladies. There, for a moment, I’m back. Surrounded by eyes like badgers in the backwoods. Yes, je ne suis pas dan ba, khong phai le madame, monsieur day roi! I’m anyones! But, like a bad teenage party, suddenly the music is pulled and the show is over and I’m outside rooting through my pockets in search of the elusive bike ticket, which late at night is as precious as winning lottery numbers.
But outside, again, the horror continues. A man suddenly skulks behind me and whispers ‘Madame!’ with a mischievous air. As if he's goadng me. I shoo him off and continue my search for the ticket. By now a group of women are around me, smiling, and saying "madame, madame". What do they want? A sisterly hug? Lipstick? A girly chat in the toilets? It can’t be advice on baggy trousers. Can't they see I'm a monsiuer!
Finally after finding the ticket I burst off on my, large, macho, manly bike in disgust, hoping that that might, at the last, assert my masculinity. Maybe they’d realise their mistake. I imagine the chatter in my absence. ‘Oh, that wasn’t a madame, why it was a monsieur.’ ‘Oh really? Very hard to tell these days, no disrespect to either sex.’ ‘I’ll say.’
Back at my very own barely penetrable fortress I call home a neighbourhood moocher passes as I fumble with my keys in the dark. He spots me and as it’s two am he has only one thing to say. ‘Madame! Al-lo! Madame!’
Those words, like the memory of a kick in the teeth, or a trip to the dentist, screech against my ears before I fall to sleep. Perhaps I should, as they say, beef myself up. Or then again maybe I should just try to sleep. Why every dan ong, monsieur, mister, geezer needs his beauty sleep.
Thursday, March 20, 2003
Crytoscopophilia
Why does everyone keep staring in my house, as if I’d redecorated it lavishly, or deep-bedded secrets had carelessly been left for all to glimpse at in the hallway? The way they crane their necks around the door you’d swear the truth itself was spread across the interior.
I keep cursing at my neighbours, yet they barely seem to notice.
I also keep chasing boys down the street kicking them up their arses after they stroll by and dismissively point inside my house, as I toddle down the steps, and say to themselves, that’s where the smelly guy lives, as if I can’t hear them loud and clear. Watch your mouth! I roar at them through the streets.
This show of emotion and carry-on has of course given me something of a name for myself; which in turn means more people peering their heads in to catch a glimpse of the innards of a domesticated man. Now hordes of children gather round the windows as I fry my omelettes. ‘F*** off!’ I roar. I jump out the door and scream. They scream in delight and tear off down and around the corner. They believe its some kind of game. Just as I get back to flipping my omelette they come back, grins cocked and ready. I recall doing the same to a gorilla in Dublin Zoo when I was 9.
I found an old woman peering through my shutters when I got back last night.
‘Excuse me’ I said respectfully.
‘Tell me’ She said curiously, ‘Is this where the mad fellow lives?’
People ring the doorbell just to see me emerge. People wait on my steps just to say hello. I have become a notorious spectacle. I just can’t figure out why. Everything came to a head when I saw a man collecting tickets and then beginning a speech introducing my house and a quick history of myself. It appears I was on the tour of local history and curios, along with the plane that crashed around the corner during the War.
‘Behold…’ He bellowed with great dramatic effect, ‘The house of the solitary man who we know so little of.’
I heard questions fired at him.
‘How tall is he?’
‘What does he eat?’
‘Does he wear clothes?’
‘Is there a woman in his life?’
The next thing I knew I had him on the ground, my veins were pulsating, my teeth gritted, my hand was on his throat, I had him pinned to the ground and was intent on killing him. Then I saw an ear drop beside me on the ground and I realised it was my own. Thirty or so other civilians were coming down on me with sticks, stones and fists. I looked at my own blood as I lay on face down in it, I felt life spilling from me and I wondered would I live to see my tax back.
I ended up in hospital, alive, if not well. I had been wrapped in bandages and plaster from head to foot. Everyday the nurses came in and spoon-fed me like I was a million years old and as delicate as a spider’s web. They looked at me with bland sympathetic eyes. I appreciated the anonymity, being wrapped so comprehensively.
Before long they debandaged me, to some degree, and sent me home on the city link bus with no crutches. I felt like asking one of the nurses out, yet I felt silly, as she’d never even seen my face.
When I arrived home I found my house to be there as expected. Where else could it be, I suppose? I stepped inside and closed the door gently as if I was tiptoeing gingerly into my room trying not to disturb my parents. I looked out the window and saw a labourer gaping at me with a huge grin on his face.
I wondered should I add another floor to my house. There I wouldn’t be spotted, for a little while, until he climbed the scaffolding.
Monday, March 03, 2003
Vagrant - Another story
People in this city are starting to get a reputation for themselves. With me, at any rate.
They stroll past nonchalantly and whisper audibly to themsleves, “Vagrant”
I twist and swivel in heightened fury. “Eh?”
They stroll away, hands in the air, as if to say, don’t blame me, it’s not my fault, you’re the one dressed in second hand clothes.
Yesterday two kids cycled past and bellowed “Yello Vagrant!”
I chased them for two blocks. Their silly giggles edged away gradually as I huffed and puffed behind.
Then, salt in the wound, on the way home, as I walked all sweaty and flustered, a man with his family cruised past at a snails pace in their stately car. Their windows were rolled down. The kids stuck their heads out like thirtsy pups. The father glanced at me strolling alongside and bellowed in a baritone-boom; “Vagrant!”
His family looked and laughed. Giggled and gassed. Shrieked and squealed. I stood in disbelief. Enough was enough. Not from a family man would I tolerate that.
I sprinted around in front of their automobile forcing him to screech to a halt. They stared in a horror, disbelieving this shredded personality was making a stand.
‘Look here! Youze!” I roared with my head pumping red “I am no vagrant. A vagrant is by definition a man of dishevelled appearance of no fixed abode. I’ll have you feckless feckers know, I have a house, no mansion I’ll admit, but it’s a place to call home, so kindly refrain from calling me a vagrant, right?”
The father held his hands in the air and nodded slowly, as if to say, o.k. Just don’t touch my family. The mother looked away as if it wasn’t happening. For a second I imagined her returning home and scolding her husband for his mindless insensitivity. The children hid behind the front seats except the youngest whose mouth hung in horror.
“Everyone got that?” I said. The father smiled forcibly, his face said diffuse, diffuse! I stepped aside and let them pass. Victory was mine.
The father fumbled with his gears and bundled away. I stood basking in my moment. That would shut those fuckers up for a while.
As their car headed away one of the kids stuck their heads out the roof window and shouted “Bum!”
I could hear them burst into peels of laughter as they wheeled around a corner. Even if I could catch them I had, sadly, no counter argument to that particular point. I turned away fearing to catch another souls eye all the way home.
People in this city are starting to get a reputation for themselves. With me, at any rate.
They stroll past nonchalantly and whisper audibly to themsleves, “Vagrant”
I twist and swivel in heightened fury. “Eh?”
They stroll away, hands in the air, as if to say, don’t blame me, it’s not my fault, you’re the one dressed in second hand clothes.
Yesterday two kids cycled past and bellowed “Yello Vagrant!”
I chased them for two blocks. Their silly giggles edged away gradually as I huffed and puffed behind.
Then, salt in the wound, on the way home, as I walked all sweaty and flustered, a man with his family cruised past at a snails pace in their stately car. Their windows were rolled down. The kids stuck their heads out like thirtsy pups. The father glanced at me strolling alongside and bellowed in a baritone-boom; “Vagrant!”
His family looked and laughed. Giggled and gassed. Shrieked and squealed. I stood in disbelief. Enough was enough. Not from a family man would I tolerate that.
I sprinted around in front of their automobile forcing him to screech to a halt. They stared in a horror, disbelieving this shredded personality was making a stand.
‘Look here! Youze!” I roared with my head pumping red “I am no vagrant. A vagrant is by definition a man of dishevelled appearance of no fixed abode. I’ll have you feckless feckers know, I have a house, no mansion I’ll admit, but it’s a place to call home, so kindly refrain from calling me a vagrant, right?”
The father held his hands in the air and nodded slowly, as if to say, o.k. Just don’t touch my family. The mother looked away as if it wasn’t happening. For a second I imagined her returning home and scolding her husband for his mindless insensitivity. The children hid behind the front seats except the youngest whose mouth hung in horror.
“Everyone got that?” I said. The father smiled forcibly, his face said diffuse, diffuse! I stepped aside and let them pass. Victory was mine.
The father fumbled with his gears and bundled away. I stood basking in my moment. That would shut those fuckers up for a while.
As their car headed away one of the kids stuck their heads out the roof window and shouted “Bum!”
I could hear them burst into peels of laughter as they wheeled around a corner. Even if I could catch them I had, sadly, no counter argument to that particular point. I turned away fearing to catch another souls eye all the way home.
Wednesday, February 12, 2003
Chip/ Chips
When you are young the world is flat and simple. Gradually this impression fades until you are left wondering how even the easily comprehended can be so utterly bewildering.
Take for example chips. Every Tuesday night I ate chips as a lad. Potato, I believe, cooked in oil, known as frying, and served on a plate. Add salt, vinegar or pepper to taste, or for the true romantic, Hp sauce or ketchup. Knock yourself out.
Then you grow up, get a passport and travel the world. You discover mayo, Dijon mustard and seventeen other kinds of dips. You go to America and discover that chips are crisps and the versa is not vice, chips are in fact fries. At least sometimes.
So return home, confused and become disillusioned with your country. See how people devour chips with curry sauce, in between sliced pan and even pay for the crispy leftovers. Decide they’re a pack of boors and sots.
So leave. Go to Europe. Home of culture and sophistication. Eat French chips. Go to Brussels. Get punched by a biker who says that frites were invented in Belgium. Toddle over the border and eat chips with sate sauce in Amsterdam.
Go to an Australian restaurant that serves wedges. Make a bad joke that you want a sand wedge. Get served a sandwich. Leave the restaurant depressed. Decide that Asia is the place for you.
End up in Vietnam and settle down away from the West where the chip is dead and forgotten; along with roller skates and vinyl records. Walk upstairs to a café and see written very clearly and simply in chalk: Chips. Smile. Order. Sit down.
Wait patiently with a napkin tucked into your shirt, a fork and knife in a tissue which you have no intention of using. Sit looking hungry.
Then your neighbouring table desperate for friendship will say “I couldn’t help hearing you ordered chips…”
Try to avoid eye contact but realise escape is impossible
“They’re not really chips…”
Prepare to scream. Close your eyes.
“Why they’re not even wedges…”
Start to sweat. Look for another table.
“They’re quintessentially buffalo fries”
Run and jump off the tiny balcony kissing the eccentric furniture and your chips goodbye. It isn’t worth the pain.
copyright connla who would like you to note that chip(s) is defined in the 1978 Oxford dictionary as a long, slender piece of potato fried
When you are young the world is flat and simple. Gradually this impression fades until you are left wondering how even the easily comprehended can be so utterly bewildering.
Take for example chips. Every Tuesday night I ate chips as a lad. Potato, I believe, cooked in oil, known as frying, and served on a plate. Add salt, vinegar or pepper to taste, or for the true romantic, Hp sauce or ketchup. Knock yourself out.
Then you grow up, get a passport and travel the world. You discover mayo, Dijon mustard and seventeen other kinds of dips. You go to America and discover that chips are crisps and the versa is not vice, chips are in fact fries. At least sometimes.
So return home, confused and become disillusioned with your country. See how people devour chips with curry sauce, in between sliced pan and even pay for the crispy leftovers. Decide they’re a pack of boors and sots.
So leave. Go to Europe. Home of culture and sophistication. Eat French chips. Go to Brussels. Get punched by a biker who says that frites were invented in Belgium. Toddle over the border and eat chips with sate sauce in Amsterdam.
Go to an Australian restaurant that serves wedges. Make a bad joke that you want a sand wedge. Get served a sandwich. Leave the restaurant depressed. Decide that Asia is the place for you.
End up in Vietnam and settle down away from the West where the chip is dead and forgotten; along with roller skates and vinyl records. Walk upstairs to a café and see written very clearly and simply in chalk: Chips. Smile. Order. Sit down.
Wait patiently with a napkin tucked into your shirt, a fork and knife in a tissue which you have no intention of using. Sit looking hungry.
Then your neighbouring table desperate for friendship will say “I couldn’t help hearing you ordered chips…”
Try to avoid eye contact but realise escape is impossible
“They’re not really chips…”
Prepare to scream. Close your eyes.
“Why they’re not even wedges…”
Start to sweat. Look for another table.
“They’re quintessentially buffalo fries”
Run and jump off the tiny balcony kissing the eccentric furniture and your chips goodbye. It isn’t worth the pain.
copyright connla who would like you to note that chip(s) is defined in the 1978 Oxford dictionary as a long, slender piece of potato fried
Thursday, January 09, 2003
I Have to Measure My Head
Picture conical hats. Picture orchids and romantic strolls around Ho Guom Lake. See Uncle Ho. Engage the locals in conversation. Speak of industry, hardship and resilience. Haggle. Get ripped off. Take a saunter through the Old Quarter, pay double for a shoeshine and calculate it still only cost 30p. Marvel at it all.
Yet when you get home there is only one guarantee, first you’ll speak of the traffic. It’s all everyone here speaks of. It is our daily bread.
It all comes on vehicles large and small. Juggernaut trucks, speeding taxis, cyclos, soft gliding bicycles and a million or so motorbikes.
I take my life in my own hands twice daily. I can’t find a helmet to fit my head so I drive gingerly, once in the forenoon, and once in early evening. Sometimes I have to pull to the side of the road and take a deep breath. Then I plunge in once more.
As I weave in and out of the mess I see post-accident scenes. Police pulling fights apart. Blood stains and shattered glass. Crowds of onlookers gaping. It always reminds me, I have to measure my head.
The police remind me too, as they measure how many centimetres the bikes are from the sides of the road. Then they chalk around the bikes as if they are corpses in a homicide. People will be fined for moving their bikes before the Police arrive. In one instance I witnessed a man trying to get out from under his bike being pushed back to the ground by the Police who chalked around him while he lay beneath. The man looked more bewildered than a new born baby. I wondered what happens when a truck overturns. Which reminded me I have to measure my head.
Then I met a friend, a photographer, who tells me he spent an evening in casualty at the Viet Duc Hospital. He told me of his horror as hundreds of people were dragged past him. Grazed, bloody, shredded and teary. Some were wheeled past in a coma or perhaps worse.
“Yes…” Explained a doctor, “If the head travels at a certain velocity, and a certain angle, straight at the ground the person will die”
My friend told me all this in Puku café on Hang Trong. He was wearing a helmet and drinking scotch. I explained he was safe. We were on the second floor. He snapped at me like a war veteran. “This thing could save my life”
I looked at my hand. I had to measure my head. It was written there. Underlined twice for emphasis.
People ask me why I don’t have a helmet. I tell them my head is rather large. A family legacy. We are all plagued with healthily sized skulls.
Before I had taken some walks down Helmet St. known to the locals as Pho Hue. I politely asked if I could try on their biggest helmets. I had no luck. A strong mean looking woman emerged rolling up her sleeves. Allow me, she said. With scant regard for my ears or scalp she succeeded in squashing a helmet on my head. I could hardly breathe.
“It fits!” She said smiling hopefully, “Very stylish!” I motioned her to take it off. It took her and her friends 15 minutes to get it off in a scene straight out of the Ladybird classic ‘The Giant turnip.’
That was when I e-mailed my father. How can I get a helmet to fit my head? The reply came swiftly. He’d found a website. Helmets-are-us.com. They make helmets for all shapes and sizes in America, where else. I’ll order one, my father wrote, but you have to…
I had to measure my head. I had no measuring tape. Just a ruler. So I went to a tailor, on Tailor St., Hang Gai to the locals. I looked up measure in the dictionary before I left home.
“You want some trousers?” He smiled at me holding his cashmeres. “No my head, I want to measure my head” A cashmere hat? He looked at me as if I was slightly dumb.
“I’m not stupid, I’m willing to pay you to measure my head, no cashmere”
He shook his head and made a hasty phone call. I over heard him telling some one there was a strange westerner in the shop. Very quickly a woman arrived. It was his English speaking daughter bursting at the seams to show off her exemplary English.
“How can I help you?”
“Yes, I would like you to measure my head”
“Yes, I know,” She replied briskly, “You want to make a hat”
I have learnt sometimes its best not to fight.
So now I know. 65 cms. That is the size of the hat so therefore also the size of my head. The helmet has been ordered. My father assures me it will be here in no time. Now all I have to do is avoid falling towards the ground at a certain rate of velocity at a certain angle, as my new linen hat won’t save me. That’s a guarantee.
Picture conical hats. Picture orchids and romantic strolls around Ho Guom Lake. See Uncle Ho. Engage the locals in conversation. Speak of industry, hardship and resilience. Haggle. Get ripped off. Take a saunter through the Old Quarter, pay double for a shoeshine and calculate it still only cost 30p. Marvel at it all.
Yet when you get home there is only one guarantee, first you’ll speak of the traffic. It’s all everyone here speaks of. It is our daily bread.
It all comes on vehicles large and small. Juggernaut trucks, speeding taxis, cyclos, soft gliding bicycles and a million or so motorbikes.
I take my life in my own hands twice daily. I can’t find a helmet to fit my head so I drive gingerly, once in the forenoon, and once in early evening. Sometimes I have to pull to the side of the road and take a deep breath. Then I plunge in once more.
As I weave in and out of the mess I see post-accident scenes. Police pulling fights apart. Blood stains and shattered glass. Crowds of onlookers gaping. It always reminds me, I have to measure my head.
The police remind me too, as they measure how many centimetres the bikes are from the sides of the road. Then they chalk around the bikes as if they are corpses in a homicide. People will be fined for moving their bikes before the Police arrive. In one instance I witnessed a man trying to get out from under his bike being pushed back to the ground by the Police who chalked around him while he lay beneath. The man looked more bewildered than a new born baby. I wondered what happens when a truck overturns. Which reminded me I have to measure my head.
Then I met a friend, a photographer, who tells me he spent an evening in casualty at the Viet Duc Hospital. He told me of his horror as hundreds of people were dragged past him. Grazed, bloody, shredded and teary. Some were wheeled past in a coma or perhaps worse.
“Yes…” Explained a doctor, “If the head travels at a certain velocity, and a certain angle, straight at the ground the person will die”
My friend told me all this in Puku café on Hang Trong. He was wearing a helmet and drinking scotch. I explained he was safe. We were on the second floor. He snapped at me like a war veteran. “This thing could save my life”
I looked at my hand. I had to measure my head. It was written there. Underlined twice for emphasis.
People ask me why I don’t have a helmet. I tell them my head is rather large. A family legacy. We are all plagued with healthily sized skulls.
Before I had taken some walks down Helmet St. known to the locals as Pho Hue. I politely asked if I could try on their biggest helmets. I had no luck. A strong mean looking woman emerged rolling up her sleeves. Allow me, she said. With scant regard for my ears or scalp she succeeded in squashing a helmet on my head. I could hardly breathe.
“It fits!” She said smiling hopefully, “Very stylish!” I motioned her to take it off. It took her and her friends 15 minutes to get it off in a scene straight out of the Ladybird classic ‘The Giant turnip.’
That was when I e-mailed my father. How can I get a helmet to fit my head? The reply came swiftly. He’d found a website. Helmets-are-us.com. They make helmets for all shapes and sizes in America, where else. I’ll order one, my father wrote, but you have to…
I had to measure my head. I had no measuring tape. Just a ruler. So I went to a tailor, on Tailor St., Hang Gai to the locals. I looked up measure in the dictionary before I left home.
“You want some trousers?” He smiled at me holding his cashmeres. “No my head, I want to measure my head” A cashmere hat? He looked at me as if I was slightly dumb.
“I’m not stupid, I’m willing to pay you to measure my head, no cashmere”
He shook his head and made a hasty phone call. I over heard him telling some one there was a strange westerner in the shop. Very quickly a woman arrived. It was his English speaking daughter bursting at the seams to show off her exemplary English.
“How can I help you?”
“Yes, I would like you to measure my head”
“Yes, I know,” She replied briskly, “You want to make a hat”
I have learnt sometimes its best not to fight.
So now I know. 65 cms. That is the size of the hat so therefore also the size of my head. The helmet has been ordered. My father assures me it will be here in no time. Now all I have to do is avoid falling towards the ground at a certain rate of velocity at a certain angle, as my new linen hat won’t save me. That’s a guarantee.
Tây ba lô (My life as a westerner with baggage)
As I saunter or drive through the streets in search of culture, or usually just coffee, sometimes I hear the locals say to each other “Look! A westerner with a bag!” ‘Tây ba lô’ in Vietnamese.
This can be translated as simply ‘Backpacker’. The term is commonly heard since backpackers are still, despite their abundance, found to be a novelty. The general attitude is that all westerners are rich. So why do they dress so shabbily?
Tây ba lô are considered odd as they are clearly cheapskates, eating nothing but spinach and drinking the grittiest beer in town, clinging to their budgets for dear life. Their dress sense, too, is considered to be ridiculous, usually Red Bull shirts and fisherman trousers, all the rage down Ko San road in Bangkok. Thus, to be called a Tây ba lô, especially if you're a local resident, is actually rather derogatory. Every time I hear a local refer to me as a Tây ba lô I wheel on my heel and show that I understand and they will scuttle away giggling: “The westerner with a bag understands Vietnamese!”
As I pulled up to the traffic lights on Dien Bien Phu street, dressed for work, with a tie, my shirt tucked in and polished shoes, I heard a young boy shout “Tây ba lô,!” I raised my eyebrows and shook my head. “Actually, I’m a working man, not a tourist," I said in Vietnamese smugly. "This is a schoolbag” I left him and everyone else in a trail of smoke. One – nil.
The very next day I was walking to the shop and a man, completely by himself, blurted to his chest, “Tây ba lô”. I turned around and said "Hey, if I’m westerner with a bag where’s my bag?" He just shrugged his shoulders and walked away as if the question was both stupid and irrelevant. An important lesson. Being a westerner with a bag is a state of mind.
My house is near Ho Chi Minh's Mauseleum down an alley or two. Further past my house in the heart of Ngoc Ha village lies what's left of the B 52, which crashed here in 1972 and is described as a Historical Vestige. Appropriately enough its like a crust left from a hefty sandwich. I wonder what the locals’ reaction was to any surviving pilots, who landed in the area. “Westerners with helmets and parachutes”?
Everyday one or two crafty tourists manage to find their way past my house in to the labyrinth of lanes and alleys to have a look. Perhaps that’s why my neighbours refer to my place as ‘The house of the westerners with bags’. I often meet the tourists and set them on the right path. Also, plenty of visitors have crashed here on a Southeast Asian tour. So perhaps the locals see the house as a giant manifestation of the bag itself. A kind of mothership where backpacks recharge before further peregrinations. It makes sense, sort of.
The other day I went looking for my own backpack and realised it had disappeared. Or perhaps I left it somewhere on my last laundry run. Paranoid, I pictured a delighted local showing it off to his friends as a trophy. "Behold, the Tây's ba lô!" At first I panicked. Did this mean I had been de-bagged? Had I been rendered impotent? As though someone pinched Shakespeare’s quill, Christy Moore’s guitar or Uncle Ho’s ciggies -- what's a Tây ba lô without a ba lô? Where did that leave me?
Then I realised it was exactly what I wanted. I was no longer officially a Tây ba lô. I felt liberated. I sat on Pho Ly Thai To and joked with the shoeshine boys that I am now a westerner with no bag but two trouser pockets. They seemed to appreciate the humour.
As I sat waiting outside Au Lac Café a group of five star foreigners rolled up to the Metropole Hotel and clambered out.
“Westerners," observed one of the shoe shine boys.
“Westerners with bags” I reminded him of the bags they had.
They collectively scorned me.
“They have suitcases! (Tay nay co va li co ma).”
Another lesson had been learned. You are what you carry. So as I pack my bags for a Christmas return to Dublin I realise am minus a backpack and minus a suitcase. So when I pull up to the red lights on my way to work and I hear the shy boys and giggly girls say “Tây ba lô” I shall raise my finger and correct them thus: “I am a westerner with two schoolbags, a satchel and three plastic bags.” Bit of a mouthful, but fair’s fair.
Henceforth, the world is simpler. There are backpackers, suitcasers and those fumbling in between fighting grimly to be neither of the above. Myself, ‘The westerner with a variety of bags’, included.
Copyright Connla Stokes 2002
As I saunter or drive through the streets in search of culture, or usually just coffee, sometimes I hear the locals say to each other “Look! A westerner with a bag!” ‘Tây ba lô’ in Vietnamese.
This can be translated as simply ‘Backpacker’. The term is commonly heard since backpackers are still, despite their abundance, found to be a novelty. The general attitude is that all westerners are rich. So why do they dress so shabbily?
Tây ba lô are considered odd as they are clearly cheapskates, eating nothing but spinach and drinking the grittiest beer in town, clinging to their budgets for dear life. Their dress sense, too, is considered to be ridiculous, usually Red Bull shirts and fisherman trousers, all the rage down Ko San road in Bangkok. Thus, to be called a Tây ba lô, especially if you're a local resident, is actually rather derogatory. Every time I hear a local refer to me as a Tây ba lô I wheel on my heel and show that I understand and they will scuttle away giggling: “The westerner with a bag understands Vietnamese!”
As I pulled up to the traffic lights on Dien Bien Phu street, dressed for work, with a tie, my shirt tucked in and polished shoes, I heard a young boy shout “Tây ba lô,!” I raised my eyebrows and shook my head. “Actually, I’m a working man, not a tourist," I said in Vietnamese smugly. "This is a schoolbag” I left him and everyone else in a trail of smoke. One – nil.
The very next day I was walking to the shop and a man, completely by himself, blurted to his chest, “Tây ba lô”. I turned around and said "Hey, if I’m westerner with a bag where’s my bag?" He just shrugged his shoulders and walked away as if the question was both stupid and irrelevant. An important lesson. Being a westerner with a bag is a state of mind.
My house is near Ho Chi Minh's Mauseleum down an alley or two. Further past my house in the heart of Ngoc Ha village lies what's left of the B 52, which crashed here in 1972 and is described as a Historical Vestige. Appropriately enough its like a crust left from a hefty sandwich. I wonder what the locals’ reaction was to any surviving pilots, who landed in the area. “Westerners with helmets and parachutes”?
Everyday one or two crafty tourists manage to find their way past my house in to the labyrinth of lanes and alleys to have a look. Perhaps that’s why my neighbours refer to my place as ‘The house of the westerners with bags’. I often meet the tourists and set them on the right path. Also, plenty of visitors have crashed here on a Southeast Asian tour. So perhaps the locals see the house as a giant manifestation of the bag itself. A kind of mothership where backpacks recharge before further peregrinations. It makes sense, sort of.
The other day I went looking for my own backpack and realised it had disappeared. Or perhaps I left it somewhere on my last laundry run. Paranoid, I pictured a delighted local showing it off to his friends as a trophy. "Behold, the Tây's ba lô!" At first I panicked. Did this mean I had been de-bagged? Had I been rendered impotent? As though someone pinched Shakespeare’s quill, Christy Moore’s guitar or Uncle Ho’s ciggies -- what's a Tây ba lô without a ba lô? Where did that leave me?
Then I realised it was exactly what I wanted. I was no longer officially a Tây ba lô. I felt liberated. I sat on Pho Ly Thai To and joked with the shoeshine boys that I am now a westerner with no bag but two trouser pockets. They seemed to appreciate the humour.
As I sat waiting outside Au Lac Café a group of five star foreigners rolled up to the Metropole Hotel and clambered out.
“Westerners," observed one of the shoe shine boys.
“Westerners with bags” I reminded him of the bags they had.
They collectively scorned me.
“They have suitcases! (Tay nay co va li co ma).”
Another lesson had been learned. You are what you carry. So as I pack my bags for a Christmas return to Dublin I realise am minus a backpack and minus a suitcase. So when I pull up to the red lights on my way to work and I hear the shy boys and giggly girls say “Tây ba lô” I shall raise my finger and correct them thus: “I am a westerner with two schoolbags, a satchel and three plastic bags.” Bit of a mouthful, but fair’s fair.
Henceforth, the world is simpler. There are backpackers, suitcasers and those fumbling in between fighting grimly to be neither of the above. Myself, ‘The westerner with a variety of bags’, included.
Copyright Connla Stokes 2002
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
