Overland Run - Part 3

Walking out of the immigration area Max strolled across to the collection of decrepit taxis and tuktuks lined up in the car park. The same old faces sauntered across to him and inquired where he wished to go. He negotiated an hourly rate, saying that he had indeterminate business on the way to Vientiane and directed the driver east, away from the city. Five or six kilometres later, on a road he knew well having dodged every pothole on it by motorbike many times, he halted the driver next to a couple of Lao style houses and got out, giving him twenty baht and pointing to the small restaurant across the road telling him in halting Lao to eat, he would have at least an hour to kill. A small, very pretty, girl child, came out of one of the houses and let out a shriek when she saw him, turning and running back into the house. It was Per, Da’s daughter, and she would be first with the news that Max was back.  Still remembered after four years thought Max, he remembered that Per, then four and rarely seeing her mother would attack her violently if she showed any affection to someone other than her. Max had stopped Da punishing the kid saying it would only make her worse and then made sure that she was not left out of any hugs on the rare occasions they saw her. Poor little bitch he thought, passed around the family all her life while Mum worked bar to keep everybody. Da’s mother wasn’t much help, living in Thailand with an unemployed tuktuk driver, but her two sister’s were good people- Noh and Noi, both married, Noi separated. The family had tried to direct him away from Da to Noi doubting that she would be able to keep him.

Da was incapable of refusing any one with fifty US, equally incapable of seeing that fucking for money had any bearing on a relationship. Still, she had loved Max for a year, believing that he would take care of her and her family, and given the time over again he probably would have. Their year together had changed Max’s outlook on life completely, she had painstakingly shown him how to get along in Asia. Politeness was every thing and any show of anger was demeaning to everyone involved; laughter was not always to show humour, it could cover embarrassment, disappointment or grief. Max vividly remembered a video he had seen later of a Khmer Rouge executioner being interrogated by Vietnamese forces after the invasion of Cambodia, which had stopped the genocide that had been totally ignored by every other country in the region as well as the United States.  The man, possibly minutes from death himself, had confessed to numerous murders while laughing nervously and artificially through out.
Living with a woman nearly thirty five years his junior had been a first for him too. One night she had taken him to a disco that played only music that Max had assumed was techno. Deafened and disorientated by the flashing lights and thrashing beat he had seen a boy collapse on the dance floor, his first experience with the party drugs. Later the police had come, checking a few ID cards, mainly the good looking girls, and had looked at Max in silence for a long time.

He had loved her friends, all young and beautiful they would turn up at the apartment he shared with Da bearing shopping bags of food from the market and cook up huge Lao meals. Broke at the time Max had eaten anything put in front of him, whole boiled cucumbers in soup, pig’s entrails crisped on a charcoal fire and one memorable day liver and cauliflower soup. On the side they had pounded up at least half a kilo of the tiny “mouse shit” chillies; serving Max first then stirring the chilli, mixed with a little fish sauce, into the remaining soup. It had made Max’s eyes water from two metres away.
After eating they would sleep on the floor, arms around each other like lovers, a less charitable man would have suspected lesbian relationships but Max had never seen any other sign of one. He suspected they just took all of the genuine affection they could find. Then the cards would come out; Max was a reasonable card player having played serious bridge at one stage of his life and they taught him the game. It was a form of a game he had played as a child and called rummy; the Americans called a similar game gin. Most of the girls were dynamite players and Buddha help Max if he played the wrong card, allowing the girl next to him to lay down her hand in triumph.  One day Va, an older girl, who worked with Da as the cashier and manager of their bar had turned up with two nearly full quart bottles of spirits. She had been running a little river front bar on the side in what her boss called a bamboo tent, and the authorities had moved her and a dozen similar establishments on in the expectation of future development.

The word passed around rapidly and the neighbours turned up for a party, some bearing booze them selves. Not fond of the available gin or vodka, Max had gone and bought a bottle of Thai whiskey for himself, drinking it with Coke. Several hours later the place had looked like a bombsite, bodies asleep every where, only a surprisingly sober Max and a not so sober Tip left standing- or sitting, anyway. Tip was a stunning beautiful Lao girl with Chinese features, Lao people were very much a mixture of ethnic appearances, ranging from slim pale Chinese like Tip to short dark mountain people like Va. He suggested cards and her not having any money had decided to play for kisses. Win or lose Max got a kiss- starting on the cheek and moving to her bud-like lips. Just as he was about to suggest below the neck kisses, possibly progressing to below the waist, Da had woken up and goggled drunkenly at them. Years later Va had told him that Tip had been bitterly disappointed at the outcome and had schemed on how to arrange a rematch for a long time.  The girls drinking habits were surprising. Da could make a Bourbon and coke last all night and walk out leaving half the drink behind, then on other, rare, occasions get falling down drunk. Not working under the “lady drink” system where they received a percentage of the cost of the drink, they felt no obligation to accept drinks from customers which possibly prevented the slide into the alcoholism that so many Thai bargirls suffered from. Of the others only Va drank on a daily basis.

The family came out to meet Max in force, they had genuinely liked him even though he had contributed little to the family coffers. He had left before his divorce settlement and only returned briefly on a couple of occasions since, usually with a mate who was disinclined to spend time with a local family. Realising he would have to eat with them Max sent across the road for deep fried chicken’s feet and other finger food and several bottles of Beer Lao. They ate and talked, with difficulty, a mixture of Lao, Thai and English. A young niece was produced, a shy leggy fourteen year old on Max’s last visit, to assist in the conversation with her schoolgirl English. Max had found that the Lao were generally better educated than the Thais, particularly the older ones. He had known many who spoke Russian, having studied at universities in the old USSR, French from their colonial heritage, Vietnamese, the language of their new colonial masters and Lao and Thai. English was a common language in Vientiane, a left over from the Vietnam war days. Finally he broached the subject, where was Da? They were immediately evasive, discussing it amongst themselves. Da was in Thailand. Pattaya? , Bangkok? More evasion, obviously she was with someone else. He summonsed the taxi driver, giving both the sisters fifty US, he knew this was an enormous amount for them a worker was lucky to get a dollar a day here. Max accepted there wais, a wai from a Lao was worth ten from a Thai and a smile always genuine. The Lao took no shit from anyone.

Settling back in the collapsing taxi seat he directed the cab to a near riverside hotel in Vientiane. The couple of bottles of beer he had drank, served by village girls making sure that their heads were always lower than his, had whetted his appetite. Not that, he thought ruefully, it took much to whet his appetite these days.

Showering, always showering- Da had taught him that the stench of unwashed bodies was one of the more offensive things in South East Asia, then with an application of deodorant and aftershave he headed for the town. Stopping at an exchange he picked up a wad of kip, smaller than in the old days he thought when the largest note was five thousand- about fifty cents US, now they came in tens and twenties. He could have paid in Baht or even US but he liked the millionaire feeling of kip. First to the Samlo Pub, darkness was falling and he walked in and ordered a Beer Lao. The Samlo, prince among pubs, once run by the legendary Paul T Bounds who had sold it to his Cambodian manager Putt, a street kid Paul had pick up out of a garbage heap after his dying mother had carried him to Laos  from the killing fields of Phnom Penh on foot. Now Paul had disappeared somewhere in Udon, the heavy daily intake of  alcohol finally taking it’s toll, and Putt owned everything. A lesson to us all thought Max.
Putt as always was pleased to see Max, he sat where he could see the till and Max knew none of the girls. As always, the girls had work to do in the Samlo, tending bar, cleaning up, cooking, none left the bar till closing time. After that was their business.

Soon the freelancers would be in, he would know most of them, Niem of the slim body and the five children, she had moved in with Max and Da for while, he had teased her, “didn’t your Mama ever teach you that boom boom made babies?” She was the worst card player Max had ever seen and had started moving her children in one by one until one day he had thrown her out. The crunch had come when Max was watching a new neighbour move in. A Lao man of Max’s age who had lived in America for twenty years then been sent back by his company to establish a business footing. He had looked in the open door and seen an unhappy Max looking at a group of kids play cards.

“Do you know how old these children are?” he said. Max knew that none were over eight.

Max explained the situation.

“No good for you,” said the Lao man.

That misunderstanding sorted out for the meantime he introduced Max to the young lady who would be keeping him company for the duration of his stay. Plump, twenty two, pleasant faced, not very bright, Max made appreciative noises. Unfortunately Da arrived on her new motorbike, hair flying, clad in shorts and tank top, leaping from the bike blowing Max a kiss and running inside. After at least a minutes stunned silence the Lao man turned sadly away.

Still speaking English he said, “I suppose it’s all very well for those who can afford it.” Glory days.

The other girls, half Indian Pian, then sixteen and mildly retarded, Paul used to tell the punters she was the last of the Lao royal line, “one of the old Kings grand daughters” he would say. Sometime she used to fuck them under the abominable pool table up stairs. One of her regulars was a senior embassy official who turned up in suit and tie once a week. He always gave her a thousand baht note that  Paul’s Thai wife would cash for her giving her back five hundred baht in Kip. Pian always sent out for food for everybody. Glory days.

Door, who had lived in France, well educated and speaking perfect English; her Belgian ex boyfriend in a Lao jail and likely to remain there for a while. “What for?” Max had asked Paul one day. “For being a fucking arsehole” Paul had said. Max had taken her along with Da and the other girls to a hotel swimming pool one day and she had flaunted her body in front of the tourists, unashamed of what she did to live. Marijuana was her drug of choice.
Glory days.

Max raised a glass to Putt, no good buying the miserable sod a drink, he was only here so the word would get out of his arrival. He finished his drink and paid the check bin  and walked into the now dark street. As he left he heard a squeal of delight and a bowling ball shaped figure ran to him almost dragging him to the footpath with a hug. Big Deng, deputy to the Nai Barn the chief of the local government area. Chief ? Mayor, supreme court judge, militia commander and lord high executioner was more like it. A handy woman to know. She loved Max as much as everyone else did. One night, weeping bitterly after Eric, her Icelandic boyfriend, had betrayed her with two half Nigerian girls, a not uncommon blood line in Laos, she had begged Max to sleep with her. Da was out of town and Max had looked at it with an eye to future consequences.

“No boom boom, just to hold,” she had howled.

Sorry darling: one more let down.

Eric was dead she said, killed in the act of demolishing his car, two bottles of Thai whiskey a day had finally caught up. Stan was dead, the Pommy mechanic whom Paul had paid to bash his Thai wife after she had attacked him with a meat cleaver. His Lao wife had stolen all he had and done a runner, unable to find work he had killed himself. The thought of going back to England and begging for a pension after thirty years was too much.

One night, drunk, he had let a lady boy suck him off and next day the whole town knew. The delighted Lao girls, led by Big Deng, had tormented him for weeks. Vientiane was like a small country town for Farangs.

Charlie was dead, minor surgery gone wrong in Phnom Penh, Phin his Lao wife had lost the plot and waited in Nong Kai for Max to return, convinced that Da had stolen him from her the first night he had arrived in Vientiane. Fucking hell, thought Max, glad he hadn’t lingered in Nong Kai, if you put all this in a book the publishers would laugh you out of town. But that was Laos.

Promising Deng he would return he headed down the quiet street to Khop Chai Der the popular back packer restaurant that served cheap draught beer and over priced food. They specialised in See Dam, the table barbeque shaped like a metal Mexican’s hat. Sitting on a charcoal fire with the rim full of stock you grilled meat on the black top, See Dam meant black in Lao and Thai, and braised cabbage like vegetables in the stock. Some of the idiots spent more on food in a night there than they had in the previous week.

Seeing no familiar faces he didn’t linger, not one of his favourite watering holes he had gone there on occasions when he felt like playing the old Asia hand to impress the tourists. As he left a tuktuk driver called out to him “you were the boy friend of Da?” Max nodded agreement. Now the word would be out for sure.  He headed for the Mekong, a street away, he needed a good dose of it, the glimpse he got from the friendship bridge hadn’t been anywhere near enough, he wanted to sit and drink and watch the lights of the Thai towns on the other side play on the water. It was a shadow of the river he had first known, sand bars black in the moonlight, he remembered when dozens of dragon boats had staged a regatta, each propelled by fifty paddlers. If Max could get ten minutes alone in an American ICBM site he would cheerfully nuke the Chinese dams upstream that were slowly strangling it. Settling at a street front café, he ordered beer and eyed a small figure who scuffled through the dirt towards him. Filthy, with legs twisted at grotesque angles from polio, it was Noi the crippled boy-man who had a begging round in the city. Most of the Vientiane beggars were street kids or mentally retarded and they all gave Noi a wide berth. Max had given him a five thousand kip note most days and Noi had kept the other beggars away when he had drank and eaten with Da at the riverfront restaurants.

Intelligent and shrewd he had been to Europe also, taken by Eddie the imprisoned Belgian, where doctors had looked at his legs and shrugged. The disease had run it’s course and the paralysed legs were beyond salvation.

Noi hadn’t made the most of his opportunities, fond of drugs he had settled for begging. Max didn’t doubt that put in the poor little bugger’s situation that most people would have turned to drugs too. One day he had seen him in a pristine white shirt, incongruous against the other rags and the matted filth of his hair. To Max’s amused inquiry Noi had loftily informed him that he was on his way to school. He reached out a small strong hand in supplication, “Max, I need fifty thousand kip for my books.”  Laughing, Max had given him ten thousand- twice the usually daily score. Most of the expats despised Noi, they had all given him money for a fresh start and he had blown it. Even Paul had finally got sick of him but Max was not judgemental, very much a pragmatist he believed in the right ofeveryone to change the circumstances of their rebirth.

One night when Da was in Thailand, he had knocked on Max’s door. He was clean, his shining hair neatly combed. He scrambled onto a chair and accepted tea. It was a nice place he said, plenty of room, how about if he moved in with Max? Max averted his eyes, fine by him he said but Da wouldn’t stand for it, didn’t want anyone else living there. Sorry.

Another friend who had expected too much of Max.

Noi, a common name in the Tai group of languages- meaning small and therefore often unoriginally given to children of both sexes, said he hadn’t seen Da but would keep an eye open. Times were hard he said, the standard of tourists had risen and the police kept moving him on. His three wheel cart was in the repair shop, he needed twenty thousand kip to get it out. His clothes were rags but fifty thousand would get him out of the shit all round. Max handed it over to the astounded Noi who obviously bitterly regretted not asking for more. He looked at Max again, there were other changes besides the weight and the extra years. Sometimes being tall and complete wasn’t everything. He waved and moved off towards a group of tourists, scooping up a little more dirt and rubbing it into his hair.

Da pulled up on the red Honda Dream. “Hello,” she said, “Remember me?”

© Julian. All rights reserved by the author.