Mekong Mishaps

---

The shower/toilet combination was a bit new to me. It truly defines the term wash-closet. Notice the wire on wall in the second picture? After I turned on the shower I realized that anything in the WC is destined to get completely soaked. Not wanting to drench my only roll of toilet paper, I looked for a high and dry place to hang it. In my morning slumber I inadvertently reached up to hang the TP from the wire. Standing in the pool that was now the bathroom floor I brushed the wire and received an alarming teeth chattering jolt. My whole right arm went numb for a good 5 minutes. In Southeast Asia they run somewhere around 200 volts through their cables about twice as strong as the voltage in the US. Somewhat shocked to still be alive I began cursing, what idiot is stupid enough to place an exposed live wire in the shower?!! But I guess they were thinking who’s actually stupid enough to touch it. I should have realized that my morning shock therapy was a sign of things to come, but of course, I didn’t.

After the cramped bus ride up to Kratie I was looking forward to the boat ride. Unfortunately, they’ve (and I have yet to figure out who ‘they’ are) closed down all of the boat trips on the Mekong until you get to the next town north of Kratie, Stung Treng the last town before the Laos. It seemed, with improved roads none of the Cambodians want to take the river route, they’d much rather travel with 25 friends in a mini-van. Which somewhat infuriated many of the foreigners, myself included, that were planning to travel by water. We tried commissioning our own boats and still couldn’t do it. Apparently their wasn’t a law against it just no one would do it; it was a blackhole in the core principles of economics, where supply and demand refuse to ever meet. After a quick breakfast I waited for my prearranged taxi ride to the next town up river. When the Toyota Camera finally arrived their were 7 people waiting to go…this must be the first of two taxis making the trip to Stung Treng. Wrong. Eight of us, including the driver, made the 3 hour drive over pock-marked dirt roads. The windows were locked shut because of the supposed A/C, which if it was working at all was blowing with the force of a warm whisper. I was lucky to get a window seat and unlucky to get stuck next to John, a big sweaty Irishman who felt the need to fill any silent moment with pointless blather. It was a blazing hot day, the hottest day I’ve experienced since I’ve been here and the pasty Irishman, kept making a point of apologizing for his lack of acclimatization to the tropic heat and humidity. He was right, bundled up in a hat, a scarf, a long-sleeve shirt, trousers, wool socks and hiking boots to protect his fair skin from the sun, he was soaked through before we ever got into the car. And with the locked windows and intense sun pouring through it was getting pretty gamey to say the least. I almost felt sorry for him but he kept bringing it up as if trying to make sure you couldn’t forget about it. Its bad enough to have to smell it and feel another person’s sweat run down your arm but I really could have done without having to hear a continual explanation of why it was occurring.

We finally made it to the next town and poured out of the car gasping for fresh air, heads still rattling from the ride. The next leg was by boat, finally. I was really excited to get on the water, but at this point couldn’t even remember what body of water I was getting on or where exactly I was going as long as I wasn’t in an air sealed box any more I was on it. The boat ride was supposed to take 2 hours. Key word: supposed. Everyone told me I’d learn a lot during my year of traveling, they were right I’ve learned never to trust anyone about anything especially when it involves transportation.

The 9 of us, 2 Cambodian boat drivers, John, the self declaring “I’m a crazy Irishman!” but not really so crazy as sweaty, one pleasantly unassuming German couple, 2 NYU theater students draped in some sort of wrap-around folded over pants and v-neck/mock-turtle hemp t-shirts who vehemently deny that they’re from New York City but rather from Brooklyn as if there’s a difference, but who really hail from Illinois and Texas, (Actually I concede there’s a difference. But the others just wanted to know your nationality and you answered them with a city borough. I went out of my way to express my opinion of how stupid it is for them to go out of their way to make the underlying point that they are “non-conformists” except for their blatant conformity to the homogenous cult of “counter-culture non-conformists” in the context of our situation on a canoe in the middle of the f*cking Mekong river with a group of foreigners that will probably never know what they are referring to and if they did wouldn’t care. I was more than willing to call them out on their mutual back-patting for regurgitating the generic shpeal non-conformity even under the most abstract and irrelevant of conditions.) one chain smoking Spaniard (who, despite calling everyone else by their proper name I felt inclined to continually refer to her as Spaniard! 4x louder than necessary in homage to the movie Gladiator and her being first Spaniard I’d come across on my trip, which quickly became clear was only entertaining to me), and me (feel free to plug your own description) were stranded on the Mekong River in an over-stuffed, precariously balanced canoe for 7 hours.


Breakdown #1:
About one hour into the trip a cloud of black smoke and banging noise erupt out of engine. The engine dies and one of the drivers lashes us to a small tree growing out of the middle of the river. The ride was pleasant while we were moving, a bit hot but a nice breeze made it enjoyable. Now standing still, we realize how thick and still the humid river air is under the blazing sun. We start pouring sweat instantly. At this point I do feel bad for the Irishman (with the luxury of some fresh air and a bit of separation) who is fully clothed in more layers than I’d wear in the dead of winter. But I’m on the other end of the spectrum thinking it was a quick boat ride I have no hat, no sunscreen, and an aggregate 6 oz of water. At the sound of repeated metal-on-metal pounding I fearfully turn around to see the boat drivers taking full blows at the engine with a ‘universal adaptor’ (one side mallet, the other side hatchet) I know enough about engines to know this is not a good sign. Many failed crank starts and a few more whacks later the engine, in nothing short of a miracle, finally turns over. Relieved by cooling breeze of momentum we make a few jokes about how much it would suck to be trapped out here and how woefully unprepared we all are.

Breakdown #2:
A cloud of white smoke erupts out of engine as it slowly sputters to silence. We drift towards the bank and lash on to a bundle of bamboo reeds growing out of the shallow water. After a couple minutes we’re all soaking with sweat. After a while of tinkering with the engine and inbetween a lot of pointing and confused expressions one of the drivers looks back to see us all staring at them like lost refugees praying to be rescued. Either realizing how badly we’re suffering in the exposed heat or not feeling comfortable under the pressure and fearing a massive revolt should he fail to get the engine running he offers to pull the boat closer to shore and let us off to seek some shade in the woods. It wasn’t until after a few minutes of seeking the perfect shade tree that we realize were aimlessly wandering in an area Cambodia world renowned for their number of undetenated landmines. Fortunately as we safely make our way back to the bank we hear the engine roar.


Breakdown #3:
Another sudden stop caused by the snapped belt linking the engine to the propeller shaft. The Irishman apparently taping into his previous life as an auto mechanic decided he was going to go back and have a look. I know a little about engines too but I also know that our drivers do this for living, probably grew up on the river and if anyone is going to fix the motor its most probably going to be them. Besides the last thing we need is everyone chipping in with their own harebrained remedies. Nearly tipping the boat on his way back to his seat John mentions that if the women gave up their bras he thought he’d be able to fashion a near proper belt. Which was volleyed with an onslaught of negative remarks regarding the poor timing of sexist jokes simultaneously from both the German and Spanish women. I knew what he was referring to but was too amused to come to his defense. Besides it’s the only distraction I could find in the cramped quarters from the Hades heat and now on-setting massive dehydration. After rummaging through the same sac for the fourth time in nearly an hour the driver finds the spare belt he thought was missing. A little more hammering of the engine, I can only guess for good luck, and off we go.

Breakdown #4:
Nothing special here, just another engine stall out that lasted ½ an hour

At this point we know whats coming and pull the floor mat up from the boat and try to lash it to the side railing with small branches and straps cut from backpacks in an attempt to create some shelter from the life-sucking sun. We are only able to fully shade 2 people at a time and take turns rotating positions. Everyone really pulled together at this point and started evenly distributing last rations of remaining sunscreen, wrapped sweets, and a single package of oreos.

And with some incentive hammering we’re back on the water.

Breakdown #5:
This was the big one. The new and last remaining belt breaks. We weren’t really sure how bad of a situation we were in until we saw the drivers desperatly waving rags at a boat that was passing on the far bank. Immediately we joined in with shouts and awkward flailing near capsizing the boat. The other boat seemed to slow down then continued up river without stopping. The drivers released us from our tie and we drift down to a small beach. We jump out of the boat as the drivers continue to play with the engine and attempt to fashion a belt out of the 2 shredded pieces.

Up the bank from the beach was a small rural one room farm house on stilts. Here’s a few chickens in a woven pen, a pig tied to a tree, a couple mangy growling dogs and one woman and her small child. She came out smiling/laughing realizing the predicament of the invading sweating white people. But were so cooked we needed some shade and wandered under the tree next to her house. I was the first off the boat making me the first to see the woman as well. I smiled and slowly bowed placing my palms together over my heart as I approached and said thank you in Khmer. She seemed to thoroughly enjoy when I next stepped on a nest of fire ants in bare feet. I failed to find the humor.

The others followed behind up the bank. The Irishman and NYU students started making huge theatrical gesticulations in an attempt to communicate. They offered her and the little boy an oreo, but making sure to show them how to eat it so that they would know that it was food. We spent about an hour alternating between running down to the beach to wave at a boat that could care less and watching the three guys show the woman and her child how shinny their new water bottle was or doing some random uncoordinated dance performance. I couldn’t take it anymore and wandered down to the boat just in time to see the driver discover an entire bag of properly fitting belts hidden in the bow of the bulge.

As the boat got underway John and the theater students were saying how wonderful and nice the sweet simple woman was; clearly impressed with their own ability to interact with the native. It was so naively condescending it was nauseating. This wasn’t a National Geographic Discovery of some lost isolated tribe of the Amazon, mistaking your white face for heavenly spirits and praising the magical power of strange layered cookie. It was just the home of a poor rural farmer who speaks a different language. There’s probably a town they use to trade/sell food an hour down the road that sells, slimjims and DVDs. She stared at us as we stood outside of her house for 45 minutes, she didn’t attempt to put our head on spit but she wasn’t offering to slaughter all her livestock to provide us with sustenance either. My point is it definitely wasn’t logn enough to comment on her moral fiber, however definitely long enough to help solidify my impressions of fellow travel partners.

I also found that a complete lack of food and water combined with heat exhaustion creates hair trigger irritability.

Breakdown #6:
Jokingly we’d devised a plan for how to decide who to eat first, but it was a bit frightening how the serious the undertones of our little joke became. Inspired by the show Survivor; we’d vote people off. The boat drivers were unanimously the first to go. First of all they had failed to bring extra belts (or know where they were) so were largely to blame for our predicament and they couldn’t speak english so I was confident that their alliance totaled 2 at best. Also it gave us the element surprise when the time came. After, that it got a bit more complicated. I openly nominated the Irishman, and it really had nothing to do with my previous contempt. I may have been experiencing the onset of hallucinations from heat stroke by this point but he was actually looking tasty, all pink and fleshy, simmering in juices… John wasn’t really that fond of my suggestion and I became quite suspicious that he began secretly planning a counter alliance.

Right around this time of peak paranoia 4 monks in saffron robes motored past us 3 of which were wearing Aviator sunglasses. They looked over but didn’t stop. Everyone just sort of stared back at them as they passed but didn’t say a word. I couldn’t help thinking it was the first sign of good luck I’d seen all day. It just seemed so surreal. But since most of my intuitions had been completely off since I’d left my apartment 2 days ago I decided not to mention it out loud for fear of jinxing us. Shortly thereafter the engine started again and we slowly made the last stretch to the border without a hitch. We had a laugh later as we rode on the roof of the mini-bus to our last launching point realizing that we’d all had a similar feeling about the Top Gun styled monks but decided to keep it to ourselves. Dire situations seem to make even the biggest skeptics ragingly superstitious.

After a short ride from the boarder station we made it to the last portion of the trip. Despite almost capsizing as we loaded the even smaller and narrower boat to shuttle us across to the island of Don Det, we had a beautiful ride in the middle of the Mekong under a nearly full moon.

---