Graveyards, Toy Soldiers,Violation and the Psychopath

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Graveyards, Toy Soldiers,Violation and the Psychopath

Thurs 28/02 - 29/02/08

Craig wakes us up the next morning, bright and early. We have decided to go trekking up the hill I saw yesterday, in search of the temple, and some relief from the boredom of Cat Ba. We walk down the high street and around the lake. The main drag of Cat Ba is sandwiched between the sea and a row of steep, rocky hill tops, one of which we are now about to ascend. We look for a way up. We're in a poorer part of town, set apart from all the hotels and tourist traps. We pick our way through the houses and narrow streets. There's no clear pathway, so we cut through a couple of back gardens, and walk through the trees close to the edge of the rock outcrop.

All around us, dogs start to bark. We're not on anyone's property as far as we can tell, but close enough to houses to set off a chorus of canine alarms. The point we're aiming for is high, away to our right. From street level, it looks like a small, red and yellow temple. In order to get somewhere close to it, we have to walk through and around a graveyard. We try to do this as respectfully as possible, sticking to the edges, trying not to step on anyone's death bed. I'm a little edgy, half expecting a mob of villagers to come from out of the trees, wielding torches, furious that we've trespassed on their lands and over their ancestors.

We make it to the top, and pause to look back at how far we've come. To our right, far in the distance, we can see a man, sitting on the cliff top. He waves in our direction, and beckons us to come toward him. We're unsure if he's warning us of some impending danger, or just telling us the best spot for a good view. We wave back, and push on towards the temple.

We have to cross some fairly treacherous ground and make our own path, but we're quick-witted and nimble-footed, so it's no problem for troops like us. We climb up a ridge, and then part of the way down on the other side of the hill. We need to circumvent a steep peak, and follow the path around to the right, avoiding mean-looking goats, which scatter, bleating like little bitches as we march upon them.

We round the bend, and then we've made it. It turns out the temple isn't a temple after all; it's another grave, only much larger and more impressive than those around it. We're a little disappointed - we'd hoped to be welcomed we monks, shown in and treated like honoured guests. We hoped to be the first white men to endeavour on such a climb, and be entered into monk folklore. Still, no matter. The hike was worth it. The views were great, and we've got our mojo back. No choice but to push on, down the other side of the hill, into the valley of things unknown.

This is, literally, a very different side of Cat Ba. We feel as though we're not really supposed to be here, and the looks we get from some of the villagers as we creep along their streets add to the sensation. Outside of almost every house is at least one mean, fierce looking dog. After my experience in India, where I was almost set upon by one rotten, diseased mutt, I'm pretty wary of dogs. These fuckers are a lot bigger than the chewed up, mangy Indian types - more like wolves or huskies. As we approach their patch, they make big with the noise, and try to show a little muscle. I cower unashamedly behind the others, hoping that if one lashes out, I'll have the time it takes for them to rip Craig or Gregg's throat out to make my cowardly escape.

We continue down the narrow pathway, and come out on a main road, lined with shops and cafes. We head right. On the other side of the road, a group of young girls, all dressed in military uniforms wave and shout at us. We walk on, but immediately regret not stopping to talk with them. Morally, we made the correct decision, but in Vietnam morals come in thin slices, and easily melt on the tongue.

As we climb the hill, we see a small crowd standing next to a fence, looking through. We go over to check out whatever their watching. Behind the fence, in a small stadium, some sort of military parade is going on. Troops march around in a square, one platoon at a time. It all looks very solemn and staid until the very last group marches past. These guys are clearly the fuck-up brigade - scruffy, undisciplined, an embarrassment for their superiors and the whole platoon. As they pass us, they wave and strike poses. Several of them point their guns straight at us, and we laugh, and hope they're not loaded.

We move on and follow the road which takes us back around to the waterfront. A local man stops to chat with us, and we tell him about our hike. He speaks excellent English, and tells us we should climb up another hill to see the monument to Ho Chi Minh that sits at the top. We thank him, and pencil that in for tomorrow.

Another night draws in. Craig and Gregg decide they're going to go for a massage at a place we've passed a few times in the high street. In looks fairly reputable, and I leave them there and go for a few drinks with Kat and Marianne in a bar full of Vietnamese. We get called over to a table and invited to sit by a group of guys. None of them can really speak any English, and so just talk amongst themselves, and occasionally point at one of the girls and laugh. I don't like this lot. We've been sat down a good few minutes, and they haven't offered us any rice wine. No fucking manners, not like in Yen Bai. I guess here, the locals are used to pale faces. We're no big deal here, just plain paper, passing in the wind.

The three of us are struggling, low on energy and motivation. I make a call to Craig. He's drunk, and deeply unhappy at the outcome of their massage. You see, in Asia, there are two types of massage; one, that eases tension, relieving all your aches and pains, and leaving you revitalised and full of energy; and another, which eases tensions of a different variety, and relieves you of the contents of your balls. The boys wanted option number one; the administrators within the parlour felt option number two more appropriate, thereby setting up a tricky conflict of interests.

Apparently, though in separate rooms, both experienced the same scenario; a quick going over on the back, then flipped onto the front and groped by their mature, bomber jacket-wearing attendees. Craig's gently patted his cock whilst he told her "no, no", and commented that he had a "Dep chai penis" (handsome penis). Gregg's, meanwhile, was considerate enough to place a towel across his stomach in preparation for her act of molestation. Craig tells me he had to put up a lot of stern resistance, and eventually, she let him be.

As I speak to them, the two are now recovering, shaken, in the karaoke bar up the road. I tell them we'll be along shortly. I wonder if, in Vietnamese or British law, what they have just be subjected to constitutes actual rape. The thought, quite wrongly, makes me laugh a lot. I also wonder exactly what they were expecting; a pair of young white guys walking into a massage parlour in the early evening, a little drunk. How could they not be in search of boom-boom? Why would anyone think they were actually only after a genuine, professional rub down? Still, you live and learn. I just hope Trung knows the number of a good counsellor, just in case the experience has had too deep an affect.

I tell the girls what happened, and they also laugh out loud. We leave the bar and go to meet them. On the way, we have to stop in the Flightless Bird to use the toilet. Inside, we get talking to two Americans, a big black guy called Slo and his white buddy. The white dude is talking about suicide, philosophising that it's actually a brave and noble thing if you actually choose to take your own life. I talk to him awhile, and he seems okay. They tell us they are going to a party at the Bayview Hotel, and ask if we want to come. I tell them we'll buy some beers, and I'll go get our weed, and then we'll see them there.

Slo perks up at the mention of weed. He asks if I like rock climbing, telling me they run a business, taking tourists out for climbs. He seems to be implying that if I bring our weed, he'll do a special deal. We leave. The girls go to buy alcohol, and I go find Craig and Gregg. They're sitting at a table in the karaoke bar, with an old, drunk guy, named Martin. They seem keen to leave immediately, and as we walk out, tell me that Martin is a fucking psycho. Apparently, he is an ex-marine sniper. He told them he is the richest man on the island, and spouted a lot of passive-aggressive bullshit. Not the kind of comforting chat you need after a violation massage.

We meet the girls, and head down the road to the hotel. The party is on the 4th floor, in a big living room. At the far end is a row of sofas, occupied by a group of Russians, playing charades in front of a big widescreen TV. In the middle of the room there's a pool table, and then a kitchen table and chairs next to the door, where I sit and skin up.

After a bit, Trung and two of the guys who work at our hotel turn up. Craig is playing pool, and Gregg is drunkenly taking the piss out of the suicidal American, who he calls Connecticut, because he's from Connecticut. Then, things begin to take a turn for the worse. First, the two Kiwi boys from last night walk in. The bigger of the two sits down, and hands out gin, which I accept. Then, the old man from the karaoke, Martin, enters the room. He sits down right next to me, and fixes me with glassy eyes.

"Is that weed?" he asks. I tell him that it is. He smiles. "I haven't seen any weed for three months."

It turns out, this is actually Martin's hotel we are partying in, co-owned with his Vietnamese fiancé. I sit, drinking beer and gins, rolling joints, and listening to Martin's drunken spiel. Although clearly a psychopath, I actually find I quite like him. He tells me he served as a sniper in Ireland, Bosnia and the Falklands, amongst others. He's obviously seen a fair bit of action, as his weather beaten features attest. I'd like to ask him more, but I'm weary of what dark suppressed memories I might uncork. I don't want to induce flashbacks, or a violent psychotic episode.

Martin seems to like me, and I can tell that as long as I keep passing the joints his way, he will do me no harm. However, I've dealt with his kind before - unpredictable, bio-polar nut jobs that can swing this way and then that - say the wrong word or give the wrong answer and you can unleash a whirling dervish, a vengeful shaitan of righteous anger. I can imagine sitting, helpless, as he dances around the room, cutting throats and snapping necks, crazed with an unquenchable blood lust. He'll spare me till the weed runs out, then chop me up and chew on my bones. So, I must keep my wits about me, and keep him passive and tender, like a child.

The night wears on. Martin continues to be appeased, but I can tell he doesn't like Craig or Gregg. I can't tell exactly why. Maybe he feels they're not paying him enough attention or respect. Maybe, he doesn't like the Scottish. Maybe Gregg's ginger hair reminds him of Ireland. I look over at Gregg, sitting opposite at the table with Big Kiwi, drinking shots of neat gin. Gregg is a fine drinker for one so young, but looking at his face, I start to wonder if he's nearing his limit. He's certainly talking the talk, baiting the Kiwi, inviting more alcohol.

A few minutes pass. Gregg has definitely taken a turn for the worse. He's sitting across from me, eyes glazed over, mouth open, a thin trickle of drool spooling from his lips. I ask him if he is okay. He tells me he is. I suggest he may want to go to the toilet to throw up. He says this isn't necessary. I point out the drool. He shrugs it off. I turn away, and watch the rest of the room. Then, I see Gregg hurrying to his feet and heading for the door, hands cupped under his mouth. I hear the splatter of vomit hitting the tiled floor, and I look nervously to my left at Martin.

His eyes are snake-like, glassy and sharp. "He better clear that up," he murmurs quietly. I nod, assuring him my friends with deal with the situation. Craig and the others have already followed Gregg out of the room, and have begun to wipe up his mess. I will not be moving from my spot. I have no desire to acquaint myself any closer with the contents of Gregg's stomach, and anyway, someone needs to stay put and keep an eye on Martin. Who knows what damage he could do, roaming free, off the leash. Big Kiwi is laughing, proud of himself.

After several minutes in the bathroom, Gregg is escorted home by Craig. Martin remains simmering - calm and steady, finger on the trigger, waiting patiently. As long as Gregg doesn't pop up in his sights again, I think we'll be okay. Things are winding down. Most of the Russians have left, as have the Americans, Trung, and his friends. The big Kiwi has also departed. I'm informed by his buddy he smoked too much of my weed, and couldn't handle more. I think back to earlier, when the big fuck was telling me how much great shit he smokes back at home, and I smile; that's for fucking up my friend, you big pussy.

I depart with Kat and Marianne, and walk back to the hotel. Craig is up in our room - he's put Gregg to bed downstairs with Trung, and will sleep up here tonight. That's fine with me. Let Trung coordinate any further movements from Gregg's guts.



Friday, the 29th. Our last full day on Cat Ba. Tomorrow, we return to Hanoi, and our programme is finished. I tentatively arranged to go rock climbing with Slo and Connecticut today, but I'm not really in the mood. I get a text from Kat saying she and Marianne are up for it, so I say I'll go. However, when I meet Marianne, she is less than enthusiastic, and when I find out it will cost $42, that makes up our minds. I'd thought we were going to get some cut price deal, but $42 is a piss take. I phone Craig and find out where he and Gregg are. They've hired moto's, and are just down the road in a cafe. I walk out into the street, and hire a bike of my own. I'm a little nervous at first, having almost killed a dog the first time I rode a bike back in Goa. However, this time I set off without any problems.

I meet the others down the road. Craig tells me to come and look at Gregg's bike. Gregg has never ridden a motorbike before, and it seems he had similar problems to myself. Craig describes how he got onto the bike, and started it up. He hits the throttle, and speeds off across the road, heading straight towards the central reservation. Gregg turns, and looks back at Craig, a pleading, anxious look in his eye - he has no control, and knows what is coming. The bike crashes into the bushes and Gregg flies off it, into the dirt. For a moment, Craig is worried - it looks like a bad crash. Then, Gregg gets up, and Craig joins the collection of Vietnamese by the roadside in hysterical laughter. The bike seems to have been pretty fucked up for the collision - there are scratches to the paintwork, and the chasse over the handle bars is loose and shaky. Gregg has been left with a limp.

My biggest regret of the trip so far - missing Gregg's moto accident. Nevertheless, I hear the story recited so many times, it feels as though I was there. As we drive off in search of Ho Chi Min, I can't stop laughing as I imagine the look on Gregg's face the moment before he flies off his bike. We drive around back to the other side of the hills, and park the bikes. Gregg gets off his, and then watches, motionless, as it topless sideways and smashes into the pavement. He looks up ruefully, and picks it back up. We piss ourselves laughing, as do several locals who watched it happen.

We walk up a short flight of steep steps to the top of the hill, and to the monument that commemorates the day Ho Chi Minh visited the island in 1959. It's a strange object, a bit like a cross between a totem pole and a windmill. We spend a few minutes taking pictures, and return to our bikes. We ride along in the sunshine, and I keep turning, to keep an eye on Gregg. There's a fearful look in his eye, and he seems to be holding on dearly with stern concentration. We stop at a beach for a quick drink, and then continue winding along the roads. Gregg is in front as we approach the bottom of a hill, and a steep bend to the right. A group of school children are walking past as he attempts to turn, and although I can't see his face, I can read the panic in his body language as he does all he can to avoid mowing them down. He succeeds, and we let out a sigh of relief.

We cruise along, taking in the valleys and the fields. Cat Ba has saved its best weather for our last day - a glorious send off on a carpet of sunshine and blue skies. I fucking love my moto. The roads are clear, the views amazing, and the wind rushes over you as you open up the throttle on the straights and give it all she's got. Even Gregg is into it now, having built up his confidence. We drive around most of the island, heading for home as the sun begins to set and the temperature drops. We get back in the early evening. We endure a brief drama as the moto owner tries to overcharge Gregg for the damage to his bike. Trung, as usual, comes to the rescue.

Our plan for the last night is to get very, very stoned. Craig makes a device called a rocket, and we sit in our room and smoke what's left of our weed. I feel pretty fucked pretty quickly, and can see the others are feeling the same. When I get into bed, my mind won't keep still. It buzzes like a fly, and sleep does not come easy. Over in the other bed, it sounds as though Gregg is having a fit. He tosses and turns violently, obviously having similar troubles.

So, we leave Cat Ba behind; another man down in 'Nam. Four more nights in Hanoi, and then my tour is over. I'll ship off overseas; wounded, battered, honourably discharged and distilled at 40% proof. If I can just stay out of Charlie's sight for four more days. Stay low, stay alert, and stay focused. Stay sober if you can, and always, always, stay on your bike.

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