Chuk Mung Nam Moi - Pt 3

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Chuk Mung Nam Moi - Pt 3 07/02/08

Chinese New Year. To be frank, it pisses all over any other New Year. What do we do back home in the U.K? We pay over the odds to get into venues we'd normally be let in for free, spend a fortune on alcohol that doesn't even get you drunk and sing shitty songs like Auld Lang Syne. Bascially, we just make twats of ourselves. Or, if you're really sad, you sit at home and watch Claire Balding struggle to come up with new and interesting ways to describe fireworks. They go whiz, they go pop, they make pretty colours. Nobody gives a shit. Get a real job, horse.

Chinese New Year. That's the money shot. That's the big, bad boy that runs deep and hard, and can go on and on for hours until your eyes roll back into your head and you lose control of all bodily functions. Why settle for less when you can have so much more? Why have a handful when you can take the whole basket? Give it to me, baby. Plug me in and tune the fuck out. Chuk Mung Nam Moi! Chuk Muunng Nam Mooooooiiiii!


Our third night out in Yen Bai. Just a quiet one, early start tomorrow. The Three Musketeer's. Craig is up front, leading the charge, on the hunt for boom-boom. We stop by a bar for a bit and have a few beers, and some light conversation. When we've had enough of that shit, we pace the high street, casting out "Chuk Mung Nam Moi's" like bait on a fishing line. It doesn't take too long before we are reeled in. The local hospitality is imense. We love their country and their town, and they love us for loving it. We are sat down in a large group of guys, all hard at the rice wine. There's one solitary girl amongst them, but some in our group think this promising.

We do a few rounds of shots with our new friends, struggling to articulate over the language barrier. Most of them are pretty drunk, but one guy in particular is having a hard day's night. If you stuck his face next to a baboon's arse after it had served an eight hour stint as a target in a Miss Whiplash competition, and then been too tired to notice it was leaning against a radiator in an old people's home in the middle of winter, you'd have trouble telling which was the deeper shade of purple. This dude is wasted. He makes a few clumsy passes at the girl, who is clearly attached to another in the group, and then stumbles around making gibbon faces.

Suddenly, they all get up to leave, and we are instructed to follow. The other two are asking them to point us in the direction of boom-boom, and seem to be taking the nods and pointing as affirmation that this is indeed where we are heading. My instincts tell me different. This is not Saigon. There is not an abundance of single females, keen for phalang, that have so far been completely hidden from view during the liveliest social event of the year. It's not a case of if you will them, they will come. I try to explain to my eager young friends, but they listen not.

We walk off down the road, away from the hotel and towards the lake. I hang back, reluctant. I'm tired after late nights of drinking and little sleep. I see this as a fruitless adventure. Following the white rabbit will only get you into trouble, especially when you can't understand him, and he can't understand you:
"Boom-boom?" "Yes, boom-boom." "You take us to boom-boom?" "Boom-boom."
Hearing a conversation like that, surrounded and outnumbered my strange men that are aggressively leading you further and further away from your home, should arouse a little suspicion and concern.
"Great, we go get boom-boom." "BOOM-BOOM".
Ok, I guess it's just me, then.

I consider bailing and leaving the guys to their fate. I stop for a piss by a petrol station. No one sees me as I slip behind the trees. They all walk on for two hundred yards, and I watch them stealthily. Then, they stop, and I hear my name. Maybe it's my guilty conscience, maybe the pathetic, helpless whine in their voices. These are my brothers. They may be made stupid with drink and utterly deluded about where the evening is leading them, but they are still my comrades in arms, and you never leave a man behind in 'Nam. "I'm fucking coming".

I leap out from my hiding place like an assassin, and catch up. We stagger along, turning off the main road into a residential area. Craig has been pounced on by the funky gibbon, who hangs around his neck. The red-faced loon can't walk, but he must like the Scottish, because he won't let go. Craig is trying to explain he must go to the toilet, but his attempts to get away just spur on the gibbon, and he laughs and cackles, grabbing hold even tighter. I offer my assistance, and after a few seconds of strenuous wrestling, I manage to separate them. Just in case he tries the same shit with me, I spin the gibbon round and launch him forward. He Thunderbird walks a few yards, and then collapses on his knees before his friends pull him up, and push him forward again. He has essentially become a spinning top; set him up, let him go, pick up where he lands and start again.

We turn a corner, and arrive outside a house. Everyone stops. The most enthusiastic of our guides (I'll call him Fred) points towards the door. "This is where we get boom-boom?" one of the guys ask. Same response; nods, hand shakes, smiles and laughter. The boys are convinced. I try to put them in the picture. I try to explain that we are in a sleepy town in a town province, in the middle of a sleepy residential area. They may well be boom-boom somewhere in this place, but it will not be here, tonight. What's about to happen is very simple - we have been invited by drunk Vietnamese to enter their home. They consider this an honor, and are looking forward to telling their friends all about it. We will be offered tea, maybe some form of hors d'oeuvre, and if we are lucky, we may get to drink some more alcohol.

"No, no, he said we could get boom-boom." Jesus Christ. Fred is getting a little twitchy, now. A few of his friends are trying to tempt us into entering other houses, and he wants us all to himself. He's quite an aggressive little bastard, pulling at my arms, telling me to come in. I'm really in no mood. I'd primarily like to have a smoke and then sleep. As a compromise, I'd settle for more drinking. This isn't the way I wanted the evening to turn out. Still, we can't be rude. We've invited as guests, and we shouldn't refuse. With Fred leading the way, and the funky gibbon not far behind, we enter the house.

Inside, all my predictions come true. The light dies in the eyes of the other two as they look around Fred's humble abode, and come to the realisation, at long-fucking last, that it is not the sordid den of boom-boom they had envisioned. The front room doubles as both bedroom, and living room. To the left of the door is the bed. There is at least one occupant already in it, and he is quickly joined by the gibbon, who passes out immediately. We are sat down next to the television. Fred, his eyes screwed tight shut, his face contorted into a groggy grimace, shouts something at me. I don't know how to respond, so try to make some kind of non-committal hand signal. Minutes later, he comes back with a tray of green tea.

"Are you happy now, you fucks?" Boom-boom my arse. I'm trying to force a smile as I choose from the selection of boiled sweets that have been presented to me. Hmmm. Delicious. I look at Craig and Gregg. We all are on the same page now. There are looks of resignation and mild concern etched across their faces. We are beginning to sober up. There are no women in the room. This green tea tastes like cat piss. We've gotta get out of this place. "Drink up" we all say at once. I try not to look too disgusted as I down the remainder of the tea, and then I stand up.

Big mistake. Fred goes fucking wild. He's literally holding us back, refusing to let us go. We're trying hard to explain that we must leave, that we have to be back at the hotel and up early in the morning, but he is having none of it. He tells us we must stay in his house tonight. I look over at the bed, filled already with two grown men. No fucking chance, Fred. No goddamn way. We appreciate your hospitality, we are grateful for all you have done, but no, thank you, we will not be participating in some kind of flesh fest with you and your buddies. Shit. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe there is boom-boom here, after all. Maybe we have been invited into the lions den for dinner, and on the menu, the main course is us. How do you like your steak? Oh shit. I don't want to be well done, or bloody in the middle.

We increase the intensity of our escape attempts. Fred is clinging onto us, getter more and more upset, shouting, demanding that we stay. We keep smiling, keep saying "thank you", "happy new year", throwing all of our meager Vietnamese at them, hoping to melt their hearts enough for them to release us. Fred stands between us and the exit. He reaches to the side of the door, and starts to pull a metal shutter across, totally trapping us. Panic begins to set in. I am sure, up to a point, that no harm will come to us if we stay, but still, this isn't good. Locked inside a strange house with strange men. I'm looking at the shutter. Fred is desperate to get it closed, but we're in the way. Once that bad boy is down and locked in place, we would have to resort to leaping through a window. That would really piss them off. They'd definitely take that as an insult and give pursuit.

We must escape now. I don't want to spent the night in a dungeon with the gibbon and Fred. The rest of the guys are all okay, but I think there is something wrong with those two. I think they're some kind of sick double act, like Zed and the Gimp from Pulp Fiction. Look what you did, boys. Look what happens when you go looking for love in all the wrong places. Get out, or get boom-boomed. Simple choice. I give it one final effort, and then I push my way past Fred and out in the open air. Take a deep breath. Freedom.

Still, he doesn't give up. We take small steps back, still smiling, still saying all the right things. We are telling them we have an early start tomorrow. "7am" someone says. "Fuck that, it's 6am" I shout. Yes, yes, 6am, we really can't impose, we simply must get back to the hotel and get some sleep. Eventually, the message gets through. Eventually, Fred seems placated. We all hug and shake hands, and then we are away down the street, remembering to turn and wave, and to check that no one is following behind. I can taste the relief in my mouth. It tastes a lot better than some of the things I'd imagined might end up in there. The guys apologise, tell me I was right. Yes indeed. Listen to the Magic Man*.

We're back in the high street. We walk a few paces, and a couple of motorbikes pass us. The boys immediately start shouting "Cin cao." I put my metaphorical head in my hands as the bikes pull over to the side of the road. When, oh when, will you ever learn? I just wanna go home and enjoy a smoke and a few hours in bed. There are two guys on two bikes. They are both tanked. The conversation is almost identical to last time. "Boom-boom?" "Boom-boom?" "Boom-boom." "Boom, boom!"

These guys have no fucking clue what boom-boom is, they just like the fact that repeating it makes the boys happy. I echo my advise, but they are sure that this time things will be different. Then, one of the guys, I'll call him Gordon, hands us a phone. "Speak to my sister." That's great. Now they don't need anymore convincing. His sister turns out to speak excellent English, and invites us back to their house, even after Gregg tells her that she "sounds wet". I begin to walk away, telling the guys I'm heading home, wishing them a good night. I've almost escaped, when one of the bikes rounds the corner and demands I get on. The other is not far behind, and I'm all but lifted onto the back of one. For fucks sake. I just want to have a smoke.

We drive off at top speed, and back down another winding side road. Gordon welcomes us to his house. His friend, Judd, a lunatic drunk driver, follows us inside. We meet the sister, Dung (Zoong) and then, the mother. They live in a big, expensive house, and are clearly an affluent, middle-class family. Dung is a university student in Hanoi. Her brother, as far as I tell, is just a lovable drunk. We get served beers, and a wide selection of nuts and snacks. All very civilised. All very different to Fred's place. There is no rape paranoia here. Still, I was right again. No boom-boom. Not tonight. Dung is a classy girl, she plays the long game. Craig is not a very classy guy, but he's prepared to wait, and they swap numbers. After about an hour, we say goodbye to Dung and mother, and get back on the bikes. I end up with Judd.

We're all laughing about the evening as we race along the high street. I point Judd in the direction of our hotel, and despite me telling him to just go straight, he slows down at every junction and waits for instruction. We are in sight of the hotel. I can taste the weed that waits inside. "Stop just here, please". The bike does not slow. "Please, just here is good". Nothing. Judd turns around, points up ahead, past the hotel. "We go for breakfast over there." It's 2.30am. These fucks wanna go get breakfast. "Stop the fucking bike right now."

They stop. We get off. We have to go through the whole process of avoiding offense again, explaining why it is that we don't want to go and eat, that it's not them; it's us. We're just not ready for that kind of commitment. We embrace. We say our goodbyes. We go home. A quiet night in a quiet town. Not during Chinese New Year. Not while there's rice wine. Not whilst we have a boom-boom addict in our midst. Fuck quiet nights. Chuk Mung Nam Moi.

















*For some reason, this became my nickname in Vietnam.

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