Down and Out in Barcelona

On a rundown street in Barcelona we sit on our balcony and watch the prostitutes go by. Elderly men with walking sticks emerge from their siestas and enjoy the last of the afternoon sun. As the day cools to a tolerable temperature for the first time since morning and our sweat slows to a trickle we monitor the streetwalkers. We judge their looks and approaches and assess their chances with each passing man. The same haggard prostitutes with old clothes and smeared lipstick that we evade in the street we encourage from above. 

We have been in our small apartment in the neighborhood of Raval a week. Jobless and idle the three of us, friends from our home country, spend most afternoons on ‘prossie watch’. Shopkeepers go about their chores, the odd scooter coasts by and the shadows lengthen. Just as we are losing hope we spot a casual encounter, a few quick words and a nod of the head. We scurry to the railing and cheer with genuine excitement at our first witnessed success. We see them walk directly below us and then quickly turn into our very own building. This comes as a surprise. In the ensuing silence we slowly process this information and look at each other in stunned, mutual understanding. We live above a brothel.

We arrived in Barcelona one month ago on a trip around Europe with only the vaguest of plans. Young and idealistic, we dismissed plans as limitations and so we made none.  We believed that fortune favoured a positive attitude and our instincts were to be trusted. So we behaved accordingly, impulsively, believing that whatever happened we would be able to spin it our way.

Recently released from the shackles of studying we envisioned ourselves working our way around Europe, making enough money in each place to get to the next and just keep on going. With this notion of inevitable happiness and guaranteed luck we rolled into alluring Barcelona, thinking we would pass through in a week.

We wanted to be swept away by Barcelona and so we were. It was so spectacularly foreign; live music on every street corner while savvy pensioners danced arm-in-arm, the hustle and bustle of La Ramblas, the sticky nights drinking one euro beers from illegal Pakistani street vendors and La Boqueria market with its dynamic range of food and colour. The Gothic streets added to our romantic fascination with the city and Gaudi’s architecture bewildered us. We merrily embraced everything that we perceived to be typically Spanish; the siestas, the sangria and the street loitering.  

It was at night that we were most enamoured. Through our sangria-tinted eyes we saw the city as a playground of endless possibility. We would go out into the night possessed with the idea that whatever we do, we must do something; something fun and daring and reckless.

We desperately wanted to take advantage of this opportunity to explore the vibrancy and energy of not just the city but also our youth, this bubble in time when we were absolutely liberated of commitments or responsibilities. We were blissfully footloose and burden free. We could do anything, go anywhere and Barcelona, the ultimate host, embodied this spirit perfectly.

Our impulses told us to stay. We could see our future in Barcelona; lounging in cafes, snacking on tapas, casually acquiring Spanish and having affairs with gorgeous local woman who adored us purely for being foreign.

We thought moving to Barcelona was the ultimate expression of our newly realised freedom. It played perfectly to our ideal of living with absolute abandon, to go where we wanted to go and dealing with the consequences later. What was most important was to be true to our impulses, to never deny our desires, to never defer a dream. We were staying.

It took us two weeks before we found a place that was affordable, central and came with the perk of our own rooftop and our very own doorman. We said yes on the spot. Our doorman would turn out to be a pimp and the building a brothel. So it goes. We also found out that the street, Carrer d'en Robador, is one of Barcelona’s most notorious streets and translated as ‘Thieves’ Alley’.

That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that we were running out of money. Fast. We were jobless, had no connections, no experience and didn’t speak the language. Simple facts we had conveniently overlooked when we spontaneously decided to relocate. We half-heartedly searched for work but made no process. The days and weeks went by in a hash-induced blur. Things quickly began to look dire. As our funds dwindled we barely had money for food. I ate so little that I was constantly hungry. At night while tossing between brutal dreams and depressing reality it felt like I had rocks in my stomach. I would wake in the morning fearful of another day where we would go to bed poorer than last.

It was not supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be easy and fun. We thought we were untouchable and, at the peaks of our most euphoric nights, even invincible. We slowly realized, however, that we were staring down the barrel of destitution. No one was going to reach out and save us. We needed to do something, anything.

With the last of our money we invested in a mojito venture. The plan was to offer mojitos to late –night revelers in the street. The idea was simple but we didn’t realize just how enticing the mojitos in our backpacks would be. Our nights started with us having one mojito each to build ‘salesman confidence’. One of us would reach for another and so, not to be outdone, we would all reach for another. It did not matter that this was our last chance and our last pennies. What mattered was that we stayed true to the spirit of our journey. We were strangely, stupidly, proud of our impetuousness. Our impulses still ruled and we ended up getting blind drunk somehow forgetting our morbid circumstances, overindulging probably because of our morbid circumstances.

We blew it, in a rather extravagant manner. Suddenly that blasé travelling attitude had backfired. Our tryst with Barcelona was over, our options were up. We had nowhere left to turn but make a sheepish exit from the city and move on to other more reliable cities in Europe.

Years later I still feel a tinge of disappointment from the Spanish dream that turned into a quixotic fiasco. Despite the experience I continue to want to have faith in that instinctive zeal of shooting from the hip, making quick decisions and riding your luck.

We had aimed for a Spanish Shangri-La of endless parties, wild romances and transcendent bliss and fallen short. That blind faith in traveler’s luck may have been misplaced or unwarranted but I do not regret it. We may have lived over a brothel in ‘Thieves’ Alley’ and experienced the despondency of mild poverty but we at least tried. There is no “what if” for that because the three of us know what happens when you give yourself completely over to chance, to trust in traveler’s providence. On those inspiring first nights in the city, ignoring our sensibilities to chase a whimsical dream, we said yes. We have no lingering doubts. We know how it turns out and I suppose that was the whole point. Now we know.

Wedding crashing in the central highlands of Vietnam

‘What have you been doing?’ I ask my guide, after he arrives an hour late to go for dinner.

‘Drinking’ is his short, slurred answer. With a challenging stare he dares me to comment. He’s at it again, I think to myself. I merely nod and suggest we go and get something to eat.   

We are in a small tribal village in the central highlands of Vietnam, on the third day of a four-day motorcycle trip. Ahn has been doing these tours for twelve years and is a caring and good guide. He initially worked for the popular Easy Rider Company but for the last three years he has been doing it privately for better pay and more freedom.  I ride on the back of his bike and take in the scenery of coffee plantations, rising mountains, lakes, rice fields and tiny villages on winding lanes. He knows the roads and villages expertly. We stop frequently to take in the view or for Ahn to tell me more about the daily practices of the villagers. We pull over whenever I see something interesting, like a bass farm, a ranger hut, a tribal meeting hut or a Buddhist cemetery. Ahn knows what I want to see or do without me needing to say so. I love it all; the days run smoothly, the riding is exhilarating and scenery exquisite. The only criticism is that every night he gets blind drunk. Today he started drinking at four pm. While I explored the village, Ahn aimed for oblivion with rice wine. It is now eight and I am hungry and tired and sore from the day’s riding. I want to eat and go to bed.

He walks off quickly. I run to catch up and ask Ahn where we are going. I feel like a child. Irritable and irritated, I cannot help but get cranky when I’m hungry. I quickly sense, however, that Ahn has shred the compassion he normally displays during the day and his drinking has replaced my interests as his top priority. 

The first place we go to is shut as it is getting late in the village. We move on and hear a ruckus coming from a hut to our right. It is far from the road but the din is strong and promises the type of scene Ahn is precisely looking for. It is a long hut on stilts made from bamboo and wood. We climb a ladder fashioned from a log and stand at the entrance. Inside are only men, about forty of them. On the edges of the room the guys sit on benches drinking brown rice wine from glass Coca-Cola bottles. In the middle of the room are five very large ceramic jugs of rice wine that the men are sitting around on benches drinking from through bamboo and plastic straws. They are chatting and barely notice our appearance at the doorway apart from one villager, who welcomes us.

We find an open space in the corner and sit down on the floor. The man who greeted us brings over two bottles of the murky rice wine. The three of us cheers and drink, I smile widely to feign appreciation. I ask Ahn if we are eating here. Yes, but we will eat later. When will we eat? He is annoyed by my questions. He talks with the man and then turns to me. This is a wedding and I should feel lucky to experience the culture, he tells me. People pay thousands of Dong for such a unique experience. This is a wedding? I don’t believe it. It does not look like a celebration. The people’s clothes are third-hand and in tatters, except one man in a black and gold collared shirt who Ahn explains is the groom. The bride is in the kitchen with the other women cooking.  This sways me and I try to explain that I am happy to be here, just hungry. He says that I need to go to the army and then asks if I would be happier with my friends at a full moon party. He tells me to not get angry and drink more. All of this is garbled and spat out. I take a deep breathe, consider his questions and then I realize the root of my discomfort. It is the atmosphere of the room. I look around slowly again and notice the side glances and muted conversations. I realise that we are not welcome. I feel like we are intruding and Ahn in his intoxicated state is oblivious.

 ‘The villagers are an ethnic minority in Vietnam with a different culture and language to the rest of the people and are suspicious of outsiders’ Ahn explained earlier. ‘When the first tourists arrived the village people would run away frightened.’ Now they look on questioningly, apprehensively. This is the complete opposite to the rest of rural Vietnam who are extremely friendly and happy and a ride through any town is always full of waving and shouting and laughing from the locals. It is one of the charms of the trip.

Now Ahn is talking to the one man who has welcomed us. Ahn is motioning to me and seems to be asking for food. The man disappears and returns with a bowl of rice and fruit and sauce. As he crosses the hut every head turns and watches the food. A salivating silence descends upon the room. I immediately realise the mistake. Judging by the looks these men seem just as hungry as I am. As the food is placed in front of us I look up to see every face sad with envy, some of the drunker ones are incensed. Every man in the room is looking at me and the food in a forlorn way. One older man at the main table shouts something to me that shatters the silence. I ask Ahn what he says and Ahn says he doesn’t know, he doesn’t speak their language. ‘Eat’ he tells me. Now I am getting angry.

‘No Ahn, I am not going to eat, everyone is staring. I am really uncomfortable. We are not welcome here.’ He dismisses my remark with a sigh. I am not sure what to do. Slowly the men return their focus to the conversations and drinking. Others display their outrage by shooting over cruel glances in between sips of their rice wine. Ahn dishes up and gives it to me. I am so hungry I decide that all I can do is eat. After one small bowl my head immediately feels clearer. I have another bowl.  Ahn doesn’t touch his. I ask him why and he tells me he’s eaten already. Of course, I think. I am too exasperated to argue with him now. I want to eat and leave.

I eat more and my strength returns. The scathing glares have simmered down to fleeting disgruntled looks. I start to perceive the villagers differently. They do not appear to be as malicious as I initially discerned, they are merely skeptical of outsiders especially on such an auspicious occasion. I suppose we deserve to be treated as the intruders that we are. I drink the rice wine slowly, against my will and decide to watch. I cast my eyes over to the hammering that has persisted since we arrived. Two men are tenderizing some meat in the opposite corner. Ahn explains that it is dog meat and the feast for the night. The men are of all ages, the youngest are teenagers smoking hurriedly, sitting on the floor on the outskirts of conversations. The mood is not festive but rather sedate. I mention this to Ahn who now explains it is a wedding as well as a harvest party. The family had a bad coffee harvest this year so the village had a prayer ceremony earlier and are now having a feast in hope of a better harvest next season. The drunkest and loudest of young men comes over to talk to Ahn. The young villager appears menacing. One of the men cracks a comment to Ahn and his friends laugh furtively in support. I realize that it is not just me who is unwelcome.

Three months ago Ahn was at home while his wife was at the market when he read a text message on his wife’s phone. It was from his wife’s online lover. The shock discovery threw him into a wild fury that he took out on the small household he shares with seventeen family members. If it were not for their two young daughters they would be divorced. He confessed this to me the previous night over our second bottle of rice wine. The betrayal has thrown his life into a horrible meltdown. He drinks too much now, ‘to make me feel better’. He falls into drunken depressions and burns his arms with cigarettes. His world, it seems, is crashing around him and the drinking makes it all go blurry, less harsh and less real. His confession explained his long silences in the day and his occasional delay in answering questions, as if he wasn’t there.

An hour later the dog has been cooked and is brought out. Bowls of the cooked meat are handed out to different groups of men scattered around the room. Ahn and I are left alone once the food comes and we have a bowl to ourselves. The pieces of meat are small and spiced with chili. After watching the villagers eating and then prodded by Ahn I tentatively put one piece in my mouth and slowly start chewing. I gnaw at it for a long time extracting the meat from the small bones and rubbery tendons and muscles. I pick at the small pieces and try to savour the taste. Each morsel has a small bone and some chewy bit with it. I remember my pets and the sound of the mallet an hour earlier and with relief I give up.   

I want to slip away but realize that would be a mistake and extremely rude. I have a long sip of the ubiquitous rice wine and consider the night. My first night in Vietnam, sitting at a bar in the backpacker district in Ho Chi Minh City I proclaimed to a traveling palm reader that I wanted a unique experience in Vietnam. I wanted to escape the pretty picture presented to the bucket-drinking backpackers and see the country truly for what it is. I wanted the raw, uncensored Vietnam. Now, it seems, I was getting what I wanted and I immediately had second thoughts. The allure of this motorbike trip was to see the “real” Vietnam. I had a guide with a real problem and found myself in a unique experience that I proclaimed to be so desperately after. The romantic allure of off-the-beaten path travel is different to the reality. At the same time, a guided tour through a well-heeled part of Vietnam can barely be described as off-the-beaten-path. Two weeks into my seven-month journey through Asia and I was already second-guessing myself. Maybe I would be happier at a full moon party?

 I finish my drink. By now the room is emptying. Only the serious drinkers remain. I tell Ahn I would like to leave. ‘No’ he tells me, ‘we first have to speak to the owner’. The owner eventually comes over with a bottle of clear rice wine and starts pouring shots for us. We have one and he immediately pours another, and another. It seems we are going to finish this bottle. We get drunk on the wine and I feel better, less anxious.  Ahn offers the owner some money and is condemned by the drunken men who have decided to stare at us blatantly now. Their conversation seems to have run dry. I go out to piss and as I am returning Ahn comes out and says we should go now. We argue slightly on the way home but quickly fall asleep once there. 

The next day I am left with a hangover and a persistent question of how I should have managed that situation better, and more concerning, if I really do want to persist with this line of travel. The trip is a guided tour and still I feel apprehensive. As the rice fields and mountains slip by and we get further from the village I cheer up. Further from the questions that last night posed and closer to Nha trang where I will be able to return to familiar comforts, similar people and indulging in those buckets.

The video ad for our Aussie van Bruce

This is our van Bruce. He had it all; a double bed, surfboards, a portable DVD player, a disco ball, all the small extras a backpacker could wish for and a no frills engine. After travelling and living in our van Bruce for five months up the east coast of Australia we needed to sell him before we left the country. We only had two weeks in Melbourne to sell him and we were slightly worried we might not be able to do so in time. To avoid this we created a little video that we attached to our Gumtree ad that we hoped would add to Bruce’s attraction. It worked like a dream; we sold the van immediately and for a profit. This is that video.