Sabaidee, pi mai (hello and happy bloody new year)

So this one time I went to Laos, and it was my birthday. I went to join a waterfight, and that I did. Finding out that Dan and Kate were crossing paths there at the same time was just a little too much for me, knowing I was in Hanoi, 1 hour by jet, or 2.15 by rickety turboprop puddlejumper away, depending on your preference/luck. When I found out they were there i started looking into flights. Google Lao airlines and you won't find as much about how to fly to Laos as you will about how shitty the airline's safety record is. I wanted to know about flight prices, not crash rates.

"Sometimes a Lao Airlines flight is the only way to get where you want to go in the time you have. But given the airline's bad reputation for safety, what do you do? How bad is it really?
It's probably not as bad as you think. "

Thanks third google result. You make me feel safe inside. Anyway I made it. I landed in a place called Luang Prabang, so excited about life that I made it there before Dan or Kate. Some facts about Laos: The alphabet is unintelligible, it's Khmer, lots of squiggles, like Hindi, upside down with no line. The people are super friendly and don't push you AT ALL compared to the Viets. Sorry Viets, it's true, you guys are pushy although curious.
It costs Canadians 42 US to enter the country, and literally everyone else 35. Why?
The new year is celebrated in April, precisely when we were there, which is why we were there.

I didn't know what to do with myself, so after I sorted out a hotel which had just opened, and so was AMAZING inside, for like 18 bucks a night, which is a shitload in Laos. I went down the street and was introduced to the fruit shake. COuntless stands cut up fruit combinations and put them in a cup. You pick the one you like for about 85 cents, they blend it up with ice and coconut milk and some sugar, and bob's your uncle. Since I'm a lunch box I would walk for three minutes at a liesurely pace and then turn on my heel, go back to the stand and order another one. The first time I did this I also bought a piece of chicken, literally on a stick, and walked through the humid night sipping a fruit shake and ripping at chicken on a stick literally laughing, literally, at the fact that this all cost less than 3 bucks. I was so happy.

Needless to say the powers of coincidence will always deliver when relied upon, so I ran into Dan the next morning just walking around. That night the same happened and I snuck up on kate in a crowd of several hundred while she was obliviously ordering a fruit shake. Our crew had been assembled. The next day while the water fights were getting rolling (started with little kids and water guns, and the occasional old lady ambushing us with a cup of water, later escalated to a full out war with ambishes happening from truckfulls of people doing drivebys) we noticed many of the locals had shirts on that identified them as teams. We split up in creative camp spirit, and when we reassembled Kate and her friend Bianca had sorted out white t shirts (the brand name was PORN, Asia, go figure) and Dan and I were cutting out stencils of the canadian flag and our slogan (my dad can beat up your dad). We bought some purple spraypaint and went to work, while Bianca did the southern cross for her shirt (she's an Aussie). We created quite a spectacle, locals and tourists alike stopped to watch us and guess what we were doing, and their faces lit up as we peeled the stencils away and they understood. We donned our shirts and joined the fray. We were kind of wary that the fight was a big excuse to douse westerners with water, spray them with dye, smudge them with paint, or antique them with flower in the face, but once we got into it we realised why. All we wanted to do was nail the westerners. What follows are some accounts of epic kills.
Idiot european tourist walking bone dry through the busiest waterfight street on the river banks of the Mekong. Beer in one hand, lit cigarette in the other. Dan and Kate run in, douse him with small buckets from both directions, focused specifically on his face and his cigarette, which turned out to be a black stick of soggy ash after. I'm giggling thinking about it.

Doe-eyed guy and his girlfriend walking down the main parade with BIG backpack on back and small in front, clearly haven't found a hostel yet. Guy is walking through shitstorm of a water fight but has his face buried in a Lonely Planet. Serious? If only the book was up to date enough it would have said "Duck". Kate runs in with bucket, guy is oblivious till the last second. Drenched: priceless.
Big white american dad walking down the main strip with family, kind of strutting. I borrow rice cooker pot from local and casually walk to opposite curb so I'm facing Kate because this joke is just between us. With rice pot concealed I walk directly across his path, without looking at him, looking at kate the whole time and my arm flies up like a catapult. I cannot describe the sound only to say that the moment I heard it I recognized it as the sound of every molecule from that bucket hitting him directly in the face. I keep walking without breaking stride or facial expression while I secretly enjoy the peals of laughter coming from his wife and daughter. Once I get to the other curb I look back and they're still dying, even the guy is laughing.
Our favourite move was to take the big black bucket (this was a hit with locals) and when someone splashed us, catch the splash in the bucket and then just gently go up to them and pour it down their neck.
[Look at that last shot I yoinked from Dan's facebook. It's Kate and Bianca. I love it because even during the picture you can see that little brown hand reaching in to spread flour all over their faces. Thanks Lao people for being such kind hosts. ]
I could go on forever, but suffice it to say there was two days of this before we headed to the most insane town I've ever seen, Vang Vieng, for my birthday. At this point we busted out the big black bucket, which it seemed like a good idea to bring on the 7 hour van ride, and we filled it with ice. Then we poured in 4 bottles of locally brewed moonshine (Lao Lao: yikes), 5 redbull (asian redbull: yikes) and some sprite or something, who cares. We put in 7 straws and gave people sips everywhere we went, but it didn't help. They made me drink these two mammoth Beerlao before hand, and fastforward to a dark drunken alley somewhere in VangVieng later that night and there I was, wondering why my friends forsook me. Turns out it was me that left them to go puke, but I barely remember that. I did puke after I beat them home though, which happened because they were out looking for me. Then I barfed again when I woke up, which has NEVER HAPPENED. Thanks Lao Lao, thanks 40 degree heat. The next day was the perfect day to watch three medical evacs from a river flanked by giant rickety bamboo structures holding way too many dancing drunks, and swings like 50 feet high launching people into a shallow river. Trance music and rude remarks written on people's chests and back in permanent marker set the scene for this debauchery, which made me forget I was hungover, because it was too loud for hangovers and too hot for religion.
VangVieng made Hanoi feel like a safe little cottage town. It's nice to be back here. Yesterday I started teaching english, but who cares about that?

Xin Chào

No there is no picture because the internet here is smoke signals. Sorry. I've been in Hanoi for five days and it feels like five years, because the density of everything is so high. The density of people, places, smells and events is the most striking, I'd say. I have a job I will start in a week teaching English here, but before that I'm going to Laos to meet Dan Naiman and Kate Riley because they're going to be in a giant water fight for the Laotian/Thai new year, and they need back up. So unless anyone is willing to step in it looks like I'm going to have to go. Anyone? No? Alright pass me my waterbaloons I'm outta here.

Things happen to you in Asia. They just happen. You don't have to do anything except stand there metabolizing for them to happen to you. I was walking around a lake near the old quarter where I'm staying, and a bunch of things happened, and then the next day I had a job in my future and a small dog in my stomach. Let's Tarantino it backwards and find out why.

After I landed the money started to leak out of my wallet, before I even set foot on the tarmac. Luckily here it's really a slow steady dribble, since most things are fairly inexpensive. After sorting myself out a cell phone (if you want to call me in vietnam dial +84 for the country code and then 01258640506. you may also have to include 4 for the city code for Hanoi, but who knows) I walked outside with my new map, not yet opened. I was instructed by my guide book and by the friendly people behind a desk not to take the city bus if I had big bags, which I do (everything I own for a year). Quote Frommer's guide: "Big luggage is an albatross in Viet Nam." I stood outside waiting for the mini bus, whatever the fuck that is, and after a lot of hassling and turning down crazy motorcycle drivers who think that a 65 and a 35 litre pack and two people is normal on a motorbike in the clusterfuck of hanoi traffic, the city bus driver pulled up. Very little english is spoken in Viet Nam, so charades is the name of the game. First it was the driver's turn to act out "where do you want to go?" I did the universal gesture for "Old Quarter of Hanoi" and he did the universal gesture for "no problem, I wasn't watching anyway, ps you suck at charades, get in my bus with all your bags, it'll be hilarious." I was holding all my packs because I didn't want to leave them on the pavement behind me just in case, but the map was still on the sidewalk, unopened. I got on the bus, nervously sat down as the lead in a play of absurdity, with the other actors as the audience, and as I realised I had no map I looked out the window to at least make a mental note of where exactly I'd left it. $2 american, and it was gone faster than I could blink, no sign of it, and it probably got sold for twice as much, which is a lot of money here. Off to a great start.

I could write a whole entry on the bus ride. How I was about to call my old Aussie housemate, Mark, but then the wailing Viet ballads (presumably of love and loss) were the only thing blaring on the bus louder than the explosive horn which would get honked 2 feet behind riders on old rusty/wooden bike. I could write about how the first question I was asked was where I was from, followed closely by whether or not I was married. One girl had the nerve to talk to me because she thought here English was good enough, and everyone else within 2 metres was crowded around listening, interjecting in rapid Tieng Viet with questions I should be asked. After 30 minutes the guy collecting the tickets, who was not doing his job because leaning over my head listening to us was more interesteing, finally worked up the nerve to start petting my armhair, apparently unselfconsciously once he got going. He pet and felt and rubbed it between his fingers, and just shook his head in amazement, as if he was feeling the finest merino wool. The bus stopped somewhere in Hanoi that I still don't know to this day, and we all got off. Nowhere near the old quarter. That's when the onslaught of taxi drivers and motorcycle drivers began. As they realised I wasn't going to bite they became more bold, reaching in for a nipple pinch, or a verification that there wasn't just air in my underwear. I bargained pathetically for a ride to the old quarter, having had a hold of their currency for less than an hour and not knowing the going rate at all, before exiting the crowd of motorbikers and picking a nice quiet cabbie watching from the sidelines who (most importantly) was not visibly drunk. He took me to the place I reside in now.

The next day I was walking around the lake, and in 3 k I talked to five people, the fifth of which I befriended. Xuan and I have a strange relationship. He sells postcards around the lake like many of the poor kids around here, but unlike them he's not a swindler. We've talked about as much of life as two people who share less than a hundred words of vocabulary can. I know his life story, I know how much it costs him to try go to english school, I know how much he pays for his postcards and how much he sometimes sells them for, I know how he views westerners, and I know how his crooked postcard/drug selling friends work around the lake as well. We have an understanding that our friendship is genuine, but has an undertone of business transactions, where in exchange for modest sums and free meals, he teaches me vietnamese, drives me wherever the hell I need to go in Hanoi to find work, and proudly shows me the city. I've never had a friend quite like Xuan, and the paying part feels a little uncomfortable at times, but I never feel like I'm getting ripped off, and in the end it was when Xuan was driving the bike that he noticed a banner entirely in Vietnamese which I never could have read, advertising for kids to come learn english. We found the school, and I found a job, and possibly an apartment, and what seems in the early stages to be a cool boss. Strange how life works around here. Just stand around looking around and something will happen to you. Xuan takes me to all the secret hovels where only the locals eat. 4 floors up staircases that are more like ladders up to rooms that fit 3 tables where only a 5'5" person could standup straight, where strange unidentifiable wonders are served and you can eat a feast for two for about ten dollars. Things I didn't expect to see in Vietnam include: French bread ?(really good) everywhere - vietnam was occupied by the french. Also, the hammer and sickle. Even though the russians weren't that nice near the end there, the flag and the symbol is EVERYWHERE. It's definitely communism. Low calorie, world tolerated communism at that. The cops instead of enforcing the midnight curfew come into the bars, the bars turn the tunes down, and then back up when the cops leave and the night goes on. That doesn't mean being out after midnight is a good idea though, it's not. There are some scams going on here which I will save for another entry.

Also I ate dog, and I felt emotionally much more ill after than physically. I'm sorry dogs, really I am. But now when people say "do you like dogs" I can say yes wholeheartedly, whether they mean as lifelong companions or as dinner, either way, I'm easy.

I'll leave you with a quote from my old Viet-Canadian housemate, Timmy, warning me about scams around Vietnam. This one's a classic.

***
hope you're doing well, don't let those dirty viets push you around. also, there's a new thing going on where 2 chicks will drive around, and at a stop light, one will get off and punch you off your bike, and accuse you of sleeping w/ her husband and that you got him to buy you that bike, then the 3rd sleeper will come and steal you bike. make sure that doesn't happen to you, and in general, pick pockets. they'll rip shit out of your hands if you're in traffic. dirty fuckin' viets.
***

I'm gone as

What a flurry of activity. After a lot of hitchhiking and a lot of driving of shitty pink rental cars, I'm in Christchurch, poised to leave this little rock in the sea. I barely know what to write because I have so much to write. I hitchhiked to queenstown to get a stupid pink car that uses very little gas after selling the white lightning to a toothless maori sheepshearing lady (no joke). I was late getting home the night I was supposed to sell it, so Ange, my flatmate had her over for some coffee to kill time, and while they were shooting the shit, Susan (the buyer) asked "So where's Marcus going next?" Ange told her I was going to Vietnam, and her reply was "But isn't there a war going on there?". Once again, no joke.
This second shot is the Kiwi trucker who gave me a ride to Queenstown. There were 3 characters involved in that process. We had a lot of conversations really, about everything from Maori history to how humans are not involved in global warning. Don't judge, we have those idiots in Canada too. Also, as a sidenote I'm sure if I asked the trucker about it he'd say " 'reckon we cocked it up all by ourselves mate." This is him checking his map while driving about 80. Also the whole cab smelled like deer, cause that's what he was hauling before he picked me up.
After I picked up my pink bubble car, which is called a Toyota Vitz (which means joke in German - again, no joke) I headed back to Te Anau where I lived for one last hurrah. After a long haul up to christchurch, here I am. Funny how things work out. One day I decided I was going for a hike on the coast, about an hour and a half away. On the way out I picked up a hitchiker from Belgium. Tom and I got along so well that I decided to forget the hike and drive him all the way to Invercargill, where we had a couple of pints. I dropped him off and looped back for home for an afternoon of driving. On the way I saw a dejected looking american dude sitting by the roadside, who I again picked up. Taylor and I got along so well we went out for beers after I dropped him off at a backpacker's in Te Anau. The next day a girl named Helen, who met Taylor here and keeps running into him, coincidentally was in the same dorm as him. Helen was on my kayak tour the day after that, and knew who I was because she talked to Taylor about how he got to Te Anau. We became friends also and that night we all three went out for beers. Here I am 5 days later, in christchurch, over 400 k's away. I was walking to my backpackers here, and I look across the street and there is Taylor. He's staying at the same place, and we're both leaving the country in a couple of days. We agree to go out for drinks. 4 hours later I'm in my room getting dressed, and in walks Taylor. Why wouldn't we be in the same room in a huge city with like over twenty hostels in it? Well, okay universe, you only have to yell so loud, I hear you, I will go have drinks with Taylor.

On the 6th (your 5th) I am getting on a plane to Oz. When I get off that plane I will get another one to Malaysia. When I get off that one I will go into Kuala Lumpur for a day, and after that I will get on another plane which will land in Hanoi. When I get there I hope to see Dan Naiman.

Let's see how this goes.

The last shot there is of a hike I was on the other day. CC, the other guide at my company made friends with a girl from Barrie (of course) and we did a hike up to this saddle. I was shocked to see into a place called Milford sound, which I thought I might never see again. That's the ocean in the background, and if you look close you can see it to the horizon too. In that direction is antarctica.

Bye New Zealand, it's been real.
Good on ya mate.