Messing About in Boats

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Messing About in Boats Sat 23/02-Sun 24/02/08

*please note, due to heavy alcohol consumption at the time of events described below, parts of this account my be vague and unclear, and may differ widely from the recollection of others.

We stumble into the Youth Hotel in the early hours of the morning. We need a room, and after a bit of messing around, we get a three bed for the boys, and a twin for Zoe and Marianne. We go straight to bed. The train journey from Sapa was not pleasant. My body is weak and tired, but last night I couldn't find the right switch to put me out.

After three hours rest I wake and get up. Outside, the sun is shining. It's the first time we've seen its happy face since we arrived in Vietnam. We can't waste anymore time - we have to go outside and re-introduce ourselves to the sensation of warmth. I wander around with Gregg and Craig, moving from street to street. Everything in Hanoi's old quarter is easy to find - the goods are all grouped together in streets, dedicated solely to selling that one type of merchandise. So, if you want shoes, you go to shoe street. You want bags, just turn the corner into bag street. Same for clothes, souvenirs, cigarettes - even watering cans. We eat, and then go shopping. I'm pretty good at bartering now, and get a pair of trainers for 220,000d less their marked price.

The evening comes around all too soon. This is our reason for coming to Hanoi - to go out, and to get wasted. I've heard all about Craig and Gregg's last weekend away - if only I'd been there, then things might have been so different. Tonight, I gonna have their back. The Magic Man will make it all alright. Kat has spent the last week in Hanoi doing volunteer work, and we meet up with her and the others back at the hotel. Everybody except Ly and Trung is out. Craig has hooked up again with Dung, who once more brings along a posse of friends. We go for dinner at a restaurant. Afterwards, the Vietnamese girls leave, and Craig is left frustrated, boom-boom free.

We move along to a bar, sitting downstairs in a circle. I'm sipping beer, on the edge of the conversation. I watch Craig and Gregg, sitting across from me. They appear to be talking about a trio situated behind me, over my right shoulder. I turn around to look, and see a tall, well-built white guy having drinks with two Vietnamese women. I'm guessing the boys are calling into question his natural ability to pick up girls such as these. I'm not the only one who draws this conclusion. One of the women calls over to them, saying "I can speak English, you want to talk to my face." They laugh it off, but I sense something is up. The girl is talking to the butch man, and I don't think he's going to be pleased about what she's saying.

Sure enough, seconds later he gets to his feet, speaking in a thick Dutch accent: "We got a problem here?" Could be, buddy. I drink the final few dregs from my beer bottle, and place it between my feet, within easy reach. The big Dutch fuck is ranting and raving, accusing Craig of calling his wife (as she turns out to be) a prostitute. Craig is understandably keen to stress this was not the case. This guy is fucking huge - with a head full of alcohol and the notion that his other half has had her character most horribly blackened, he could make quite a formidable opponent. There are four men in our group, but I cannot imagine Tick would ever participate in violence, unless his life depended on it, and the three of us who remain are all way too skinny and fragile to take a charging rhinoceros head on.

"You are all just out of the cradle, you don't have a fucking clue," continues our chunky chum. Craig is just shrugging his shoulders and smiling, repeating that he doesn't know why the lady is upset, and apologising, over and over. I don't think it's going to do any good. I'm putting myself in Dutch's position - if I was convinced my wife had been called a whore, I would almost certainly fight whoever had said it, especially if happened to be significantly smaller in stature than me. The bar staff are involved, now. They're asking Dutch to leave. He's protesting, saying it is he who has been wronged. Nevertheless, he is told he must go. He looks at Craig. "My wife took your picture. We're going to find you outside, so if you got any sense, make yourselves scarce."

Dutch paces around behind me for a bit, and my fingers are round the neck of the bottle, ready just in case he makes a lunge. It's not that I'm a violent person, or that I have any wish to crack a bottle across the head of a stranger, especially as there is a fair to good chance that the guys did do something along the lines of that which they have been accused. I've never used a weapon on any opponent before, but looking at this guy, I can imagine the damage he is capable of. If he goes for Craig, I can't just sit back and let it happen. Therefore, I am preparing myself to put a stop to Dutch in the quickest and most effective way possible, before he rips too many of my friends apart - a swift blow across the bridge of the nose, and we could make our escape whilst he chases the white lights and stars.

For the moment, it doesn't come to anything. Dutch and his two female friends step out of the saloon, and gunslingers rest their itchy trigger fingers. We all let out a collective sigh of relief. Things were getting tense. I ask what actually was said. Essentially, Gregg suggested that Dutch might be a sex tourist. So, basically, they did call his wife a whore. Oh well. She couldn't have known that - I was closer and didn't hear what was said. She clearly has a sex-worker complex - an irrational paranoia that has probably surfaced in every bar the couple have ever drunk in. It was just pure coincidence that this time her suspicions were on the money.

We creep out of the bar cautiously, half-expecting Dutch to come balling around the corner, fury in his eyes and fat legs. There's no sign, though, so we make our way to Funky Monkey. I'm getting a sense of De-ja-vu. People, eager to get onto the dance floor - me, still sober, struggling to work out how and why. Me, walking to the bar, ordering tequila. Me; ordering another. I have three, and go find the others. They're all dancing with a Vietnamese couple. I join in, and the woman, named Candy, hands me a glass, filling it with a healthy shot of JD from the bottle they have next to the dance floor.

Things are getting hazy. I'm been drinking a lot of whiskey, a drink I'd normally never touch. I hate everything about it - the taste, the smell, the bad things it does to my brain. Shortly before midnight, the music stops, and we're asked to move on. Apparently Funky Monkey shuts at twelve. We're told that the police will enter and bust some heads if we are allowed to carry on. Fucking fascists. Let them try and stop me having fun. I follow everyone outside. Candy's husband has a car, and a few of us get in, whilst everyone else follows on the back of moto taxis. We drive to a club on the waterfront, named Solace. Craig and Gregg have been here before, on their previous weekend away, when Gregg stole a French perverts' mobile phone. He had his own style - now, we have his own phone. Fucker.

The car is parked, and we get out. Solace is actually situated on a boat and in order to get onto it, you have to cross a narrow wooden jetty. Once on, you step through the entrance, and the bar is directly in front of you. To the left are tables and seats and to the right, the dance floor. I drink a few beers, and head right. I'm slowly getting to that point where I'm beginning to loose all self awareness, a rare condition for me. Normally, I can force my consciousness to poke its head through the alcohol smog, and shed a little light on what it is I'm doing, and who I'm doing it with. I can exercise enough self control to ward myself away from potentially dangerous or embarrassing situations.

Once in a blue moon, I will drink myself beyond that point. The last time it happened was a few years ago, on my birthday. I was supposed to be going out for a couple of quiet drinks, as I had to work the next day. Somehow, I ended up a mess, crawling home with no memory of how I got back or where I'd been. I awoke the next morning to the sound of my mobile phone ringing, and work calling me for the eighth time. My bed was covered in vomit. My head was enduring unbelievable pain. I was sick for the rest of the day. Could this be where I am headed now? Time, as always, will have the answer.

Near me on the dance floor, Gregg and Craig have found a couple of Asian girls, and are locked in passionate embrace. I walk outside, to the toilet. Somehow, I end up walking past it, towards the rows of boats that are moored by the river bank. I climb onto one, and from there, cross to another. This isn't the vessel for me, though, so I board a third. Much better. I walk around the deck, inspecting, making sure everything is ship shape. I gaze out to sea. The ocean sings to me from far away. I hear you, my love. Still your beating heart; quiet the crow in your nest. I'll sail these seas, and seek you out, and then we will be together once more.

I look around. There is still a little part of me that knows the right thing to do. In my condition, drunk as I am, I'm vulnerable to hazards, such as falling, that normally would pose no problem. Therefore, I must take precautions. I pick up one of the life jackets that are strapped to the sides of the boat, and strap it on. Much better. I can now move freely, safe in the knowledge that should I fall, I will bob, head above water, to a location of safety. I stay for a while, admiring the nautical view. I take a couple of pictures on my phone. Then, I decide to go back to the club. I'm still wearing my life jacket, and am looking forward to seeing everyone's faces as I proudly show it off. As I round the corner, and return to the point where I alighted, my plans become unstuck. Somehow, I have been spotted by land-lubbers. Two of them, security from the club, I think, are standing sternly by the boat. They don't say anything, but their faces tell the tale - they're not angry with me, only sorely disappointed. I am forced to dismount, and leave the life jacket behind.

Back inside, it's chaos. I don't know whether I'm coming or going, and before I get time to work it out, we're going. Kat, Marianne and I leave with Candy and Doug (I can't remember his real name, sorry). Doug is also very drunk, but is nevertheless happy to drive. Apparently, the couple are taking us to a restaurant. As we cruise along, I hang my head and shoulders out of the window, shouting at passers by; "Chuk Mung Nam Moi, motherfuckers!" Candy is a little concerned about me, but the girls assure her I'm fine.

The street flies by, and colours blend and blur. I'm sure Doug overtakes a police car, with me still hanging out of his window, making conversation with the evening air. We arrive at a traditional Vietnamese restaurant - no tourists here. We sit on the floor around a table and the couple order food for us. As I try to sit down, I lose my balance, and topple backwards like a helpless insect. The food comes, as does a 500ml bottle of Hanoi vodka. Around 30%!,(MISSING) this stuff tastes vile, far worse than the rice wine. Doug wants me to down a few shots with him - before I know it, the bottle is empty, and another is ordered.

I'm looking around at strange faces, their features hidden in the thick fog that drifts through the room. Am I still in Sapa? Is that ringing in my ears another waterfall? I don't wanna buy that flute, buddy, take it away. Where is everyone? All the people in here look so unfamiliar. I can feel their eyes crawling all over me. Hey - hey, buddy! What's your fucking problem? I'm throwing my head back and spraying the room with machine gun fire - English obscenities, hurled left, right, up and down. They can't speak my language. These foreign devils have no idea what it is I'm saying. I love your country, man. Chuk Mung Nam-fucking Moi!

Noddles. I can see noodles. I move my hands and fingers, and try to maneuver them up, into my mouth. So, I'm eating food, then. At least that gives me some clue as to what's going on. "Mot, hai, ba, zo!" Fuck. That'll be another shot of Vodka, downed in one. Doug, you bastard, what have you done to me? I'm clearly in no condition, yet you keep forcing the stuff down my gullet. You sonofabitch. Where's you sense of team play? Don't you know the locals are all out to get me? Can't you see the violence bubbling in their eyes? I need to go to the toilet, Doug. Point me in the right direction, and watch me dance.

Stairs. Balls. I hadn't accounted for that. Somebody is helping me, one of the waiters, I think. Cheers. Chunk Mung Nam Moi. Now I'm back on my feet, I think I'll head back to the table, have a few more of those noodles. Tell Doug I'm ready for some more of that lovely Hanoi Vodka. Down in one, 100%!!(MISSING) Everything seems to be in black and white. I'm tuning out and going grey. I look over to my right. Another empty. Nice work, Doug. We showed them. We get up, step through the crowd, quiet, stealthy, careful not to disturb the evening equilibrium, avoiding the gnashing teeth of dogs, straining heavy on tight chains. Damn, I cut it fine there, Doug. Did you see the looks they were giving me? Can they really understand what it is I'm saying? Do they really know what "cunt" means? I doubt it. I'll say it again, just to be sure. No, Doug, I was right. They're just smiling, now. They think I'm okay. The ice has been broken.

Back in the car. Back on the road, posse rolling, head hanging, bobbing, nodding; what's up, what's your name, what's the story? Wish them all a happy happy new year. Play it cool. Speak their lingo, and they will forgive all the rest. Doug is a maniac, hitting the throttle, making the road groan as we fire along. The Youth Hotel pops out of the sky. We stop, get out. Home, home. Bye bye to Candy and Doug, somehow find the inside. Kat and Marianne can't get into their room, so welcome, come on in. Roll a joint. Not sure if I can smoke it, but better safe than sorry. No time for taking off clothes. Sleep is in a hurry tonight, so best not to keep her waiting.

Shit, I wish I was back on my boat, sailing out into the wild seas, drinking tequila, smiling at the fishes. My dreams are all wearing life jackets - no nightmares tonight, folks, we're playing it safe, curled up in balls, heading off for long islands. The whole ocean follows - they all know it, understand the solid truth of the situation; there's nothing . . . absolutely nothing . . half so much worth doing as simply messing around in boats.

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Comments

[Tinny]

If only
You actually remembered that night...... Pat - you are awesome. A drinking machine. Last night I had 5 pints and 5 shooters. Today I have a hangover like I drank 50 pints. I can't drink anymore. No one goes out on Thursday nights anymore. Maybe I will come and find you? A real man who can learn me about drinking once more, someone that can define the art of drinking shots and still party on. I remain broken and confused.