‘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.
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