Brits, Swedes, Germans - I'm a Euroslut

Honestly it's been very relaxing and generally slow for me lately, but a ride on a Minsk will always generate a story worth mentioning.

The place I'm staying is owned by a lovely man named Reinhard. In fact, he does not own the place because it is illegal for foreigners to own land in Vietnam. The land is owned by a Vietnamese family that is very well off and is very good friends with Reinhard, allowing themselves to be owners only on paper. Of course, their situation could sour and the family could very easily kick the man off of the beach and into the street, investment completely obliterated. Reinhard spends the high season in Vietnam and the low season in Germany with his girlfriend and six-year-old son. He is a very diplomatic, relaxed and amiable person and we've gotten along very well.

A long, thin beach which gently curves westward over a 5 kilometer stretch sits just north of the group of bungalows where I sleep. I'll wake up around 8 in the morning, listen to my iPod for about an album or two, then gather my book and my sunscreen and walk to this beach, a few minutes away. There I have staked out a small patch of sand, two hundred meters past a small home owned by a fisherman. To clearly demarcate the patch as mine, I have assembled twenty or so opalescent scallop shells in a wide circle just big enough for me to lay in. At the top of the circle, farthest from the shorebreak at about twenty feet, I have placed a line of sea urchin skeletons pointing directly east by north east - at least I imagine it pointing in some precise direction, but really I have no idea. In the five or so days that I've visited my spot nobody has disturbed my property. I noticed that something had been dragged along the beach, it's trace being about two feet wide displacing three inches of sand, but whatever the beast of burden, it took care to carefully navigate around my space. The mystical seashell circle was apparently enough in itself, without my presence, to ward off trespassers. In the five or so days that I've occupied my land, not one person has crossed my path. In fact, besides the first day when I saw fishermen unloading their boat onto the shore some 200 meters away, I have yet to see a single soul anywhere on the entire beach.

I mentioned jokingly to Reinhard after one trip to my desolote shore that I never wanted to leave and that I would take over for him when he went to Germany. He replied in his characteristic way, "ah, but you see this is impossible. Finally, Hans is coming and he will take for me when I go. But next year, this is very different." Okay, next year then. So Reinhard started telling me about how the place worked and when I should arrive and all these details. He was serious! The second in command, a stern but sharing Vietnamese woman named Kim met me the next day and expressed her desire for more vacation time during the off-season. This was when I realized that I needed to clearly make it known that I was not a candidate for the job. But before doing that, I took time to fantisize. With room and board as part of my salary my living expenses on the island would be negligible. The best meal you can get on the island is around 5 bucks. Doing calculations for internet use, gasoline, beer, boat trips to the mainland etc, I figured that there was no way I could spend more than 500 dollars a month. That's three thousand for half the year.

Reinhard offered to take me up to the top of the island to see if we could locate a road that was rumored to have been constructed connecting two small fishing villages. As the only Minsk owners on the island, a de facto club was instantly formed. We alit with a good natured british couple named Marcus and Astrid (actually a Swede holed up in London) who were fond of playing Yatzee and calling me a cunt and a twat when I rolled the dice well. Actually I wasn't the only recipient of their red-light slang, everyone who made a funny remark got it as well. "You're a bloody cheeky old cunt aren't you mate?" We stopped at the biggest village on the north side of the island, looking for seafood, as it was Marcus' birthday. Reinhard, having lived here thirteen years knew a place. We dived into the village, creeping along its single seaside corridor covered by makeshift awnings, homemake electrical fittings and drying fish of many species. A hidden left took us out onto a spindly pier whose danger lie in the unshielded electrical line hung at ear level. At the end of the pier was a relatively large open room where three men layed in hammocks and a gaggle of children pounced on a motley assortment of decaying toys. We asked if they had a menu and the proprietess led us to the back to what we assumed was the dining room. Actually she was showing us the menu, which swam beneath us in metal cages submerged in the ocean a few feet below. We ordered crab. Two kilos for four dollars. It was delicious - the best I've ever had at least, and Marcus, a chef at a three star restaurant in London concurred. Crabs and beers later it was time for a pitstop. Do all my stories center around the toilet? Reinhard pointed to a break in the vertical wooden planks along one wall. I stepped through this doorless threshold and peered into the prettiest toilet I've ever seen. The bowl was simply a square hole cut in the floorboards. The hole offered a view of the shallow aqua sea, sandy bottom, and a host of zebra striped fish swimming around in pet-store defying schools. I think the menu was about 4 meters away.

We bade adios to the brits and drove to the fishing village where the road was supposed to be. Depending on your definition of a road, we either found it or we didn't. If your view is a grand western one like ours which involves clear demarcation, a lack of deep beach sand and perhaps some indication of previous traffic, then you, like us, would have turned around. Reinhard thought that maybe the road was being constructed from the other side, so we took the long way to the next villiage. The roads here are dirt. Red, rocky hard-packed dirt roads surrounded by either dense jungle or sparsely vegitated beach. There is rarely any other travellers on these northern roads as most supplies are delivered via boat. Reinhard mentioned that Phu Quoc's proximity to Cambodia made it a major illegal trafficking hub and that some villagers get nervous when strangers come around taking photos.

The second village was more difficult to locate as the road which approaches it dematerializes about two kilometers hence. From there it turns to sand. We made an innocent turn into an army base but were quickly shooed away by a teenager with a wife-beater and an AK-47. Our motorcycles burned as the wheels spun in the sand and we tried all sorts of stuntman tricks to maintain our momentum. Two kilometers in first gear, using my legs as supports, and often jumping off entirely to push and rev simultaneously, really took the piss out of me. So it was with much relief that we finally reached the second, roadless village. The rumored road was apparently just that.

We quickly walked through the village which consisted of two rows of one- or two-room wooden shacks. One row actually sat in the sea, waves breaking on it's stilted foundation. The second row faced it directly and was a bit less modest, usually maintaining a separate back room. A crowd of children began to follow us, shouting "hello" and "what your name" and "number one" again and again, each time with a slight acknowledgement from us. We stopped at a small restaurant-ish looking place and ordered two cokes. Every small chair in the place was pushed towards our miniature table giving our party a number of about 12. Have I mentioned that at the non-foreigner places the chairs are all little? Like the size you'd see at a grade school. Once I got used to them I found that I much preferred them over big ass chairs - they put you into a semi-squatting position with your knees above table height. I think this makes eating and talking more intimate feeling. Somehow being closer to the ground seems better for conversation - perhaps all that elevation in the west invokes our instinctive fear of heights continually enervating us. One man gave Reinhard his baby to hold while he lit his cigarette. The same man kept offering the woman who worked there to us, and I don't know if it was another unsolicited marriage proposal or if we had unwittingly found the local brothel. The crowd continued to grow and I think if we would have been there an hour we would have attracted the whole village. A month into Vietnam I'm used to getting attention, but this was getting out of hand. Worried about getting home before dark, Reinhard suggested we leave. We paid, marched back through town, located our bikes (behind some old woman's house, blocking her laundry line - sorry!) and tried to find the way we came.

We became lost in the maze of sand paths behind the village for about twenty minutes. Eventually, purely by luck, we found the school house we had passed upon entering and set to follow the powerlines back to the road. This is where Reinhard's chain snapped, clogging the rear wheel and bringing him to an impressive skidding halt between a small farm house and the sandy soccer field. The contents of the school spilled out, surrounding us and our bikes. As we deliberated the on-the-spot fixibility of the declawed Minsk, the kids' preteen energy charged into a white hot melee of questions. "What is your name?" "Where are you from?" "Nice to meet you?" Impossibly trying to address the squirming mass, I answered in Vietnamese to think-tank-like understanding. As a group they would decipher my incorrect tones, gradually building a concensus of what I was trying to say. Once they got it they'd burst out in laughter, repeating whay I said, exactly as I said it, undoubtedly delighting at phrases like "My pants are monkey butt" rather than the intended "My name is Mundo." God only knows what Mundo means in Vietnamese. I'm not surrounded scores of super stoked kids very often so I relish the opportunity. Kids are funny and smart and fun and cool.

The Minsk was declared dead and Reinhard began walking out of the sand. I scrambled roughly in the same direction, trying to keep my bike afloat, drifting more to the sand's will than mine. We reunited at the road. While I was waiting, a little kid was tossing a red ball to himself, about 15 meters away. I motioned for him to throw it my way, initiating a game of catch. He hesitated, then threw the ball with all his might. It sailed my way and I ran forward to catch it. When it hit my hands it exploded - a former tomato filled completely with several giant segmented larvae. Ewww! I dropped it, rubbing my slimy green hands in the dirt to get the stink off. The kid was laughing his ass off and his mother was kindly waving a prom queen elbow-wrist-elbow behind him.

With Reinhard on the back, we drove the hour back to the resort, cursed our bad luck and tapped the necks of two Tigers: Cheers Ed. Cheers Reinhard.