Down In It

Hey you.  Are you offended by disgusto-talk?  If you are easily grossed out, you might want to skip this bad boy.  Consider yourself warned.

I'm just going to go ahead and apologize for the weak-sauce post from yesterday.  I haven't been able to write because I've been busy obsessing over the events of two Fridays ago.  Not until now have I had the courage to write what actually happened. 

The evening started benignly enough.  I rode my bike home and was cooling off on the couch when Reyna got home.  We agreed that we would swing by our friend's house to say hello before a quiet Friday evening dinner at Pendolasco.  As we sat in our friend's kitchen and drank a beer, I noticed that the beer tasted funny and I felt uncomfortably hot.  I dismissed it by telling myself that I was still hot from riding my bike home; plus I was hungry from having only a small sandwich for lunch and nothing else to eat.

Soon we adjourned to their rooftop terrace to take in the night air.  I noticed my legs felt dead as we journeyed up the five flights of stairs to their roof.  I sat in my chair for about 90 seconds when it hit.  I raced back down the stairs and destroyed our dear friends' bathroom.  This was made all the more uncomfortable as I could plainly hear their conversation above me.  I silently prayed they couldn't hear the tidal wave ushering forth from my backside.  I stood up, sweating and noticed that the level in the bowl had risen considerably.  I then tried to force down the thought that plumbing in SE Asia is not what we call "reliable" and hit the flusher.  It went down.

I returned to the terrace, but now my heart was racing and I felt the panic setting in.  I turned to Reyna and shakily said, "I think I need to go home and lie down.  I'm really not feeling well...."

"Yeah you don't look too good."  Said one of our friends.

Reyna agreed, though I felt bad for rushing us out on a Friday night.  I set a brisk pace for the journey home and just made it in time for round two.

I took a cold shower then got in bed with the air conditioner on full tilt to try and cool down.  I was feeling better after an hour, and Reyna had ordered dinner, so I ventured downstairs.  I only made halfway before I collapsed on the couch feeling awful again.  30 seconds later I raced back up the stairs and started throwing up.

Why am I telling you this?  Why is this notable?  June 8, 2012 marked the first time I had vomited in over 20 years.  I think I was in sixth grade the last time it happened.  In the intervening years I've had tens of thousands of drinks and kept every one of them inside me, at least for an appropriate amount of time.  Even excessive amounts of alcohol had only left my body through "approved" channels. 

And though those 20+ years I'd developed a persistent and growing anxiety over throwing up.  At first I was ashamed.  I lived with my secret fear for years before I finally admitted it to a girlfriend.  I was out of college when I "came out."   The anxiety kept me from doing things.  I'd get worked up over travel because I'd worry about getting sick on the plane, or cause some sort of disgusting scene.  When we moved to Vietnam, I was more scared at the thought of doing things that would make me throw up than anything else.  And yes, I realize how ridiculous and crazy that sounds.

Reyna was wonderful through the whole thing.  Her response was to wet a washcloth and put it on the back of my neck.  I think she realized the gravity of the situation and responded with her usual aplomb.  Two things came to mind: (1.) I thought about how it had been so long since I'd been sick like this that I'd had no idea how to lovingly respond to her in the times she'd been sick.  I generally resort to the hide-in-a-far-off-room-and-yell-"are-you-okay"-technique.  Hers was more effective.  The fact that she could keep it together while I made the most horrifying sound of my life was commendable. (2.) I thought, "this is what it tastes like when you puke from too many beers."  I was only about 15 years later than most to learn this fact.

I was surprised to find that I felt better after the episode.   I was on the couch sipping water and watching television while Reyna worked shortly thereafter.  Only occasionally adjourning to the bathroom to handle the other end, which was still going strong.  Soon Reyna was asleep and I contentedly watched the first match of the Euros with her breathing quietly in the background.

And then I shit my pants.

Now since we moved to Vietnam I've prided myself on two things as a man. 

1. I don't shun Reyna in an effort to bang Vietnamese girls
2. I don't shit my pants.*

*Seriously... Every guy I know has an I-thought-it-was-a-fart story or ten.  I enjoyed my status as the guy who can tell when he's going to fart and when the fart has company.  If it's questionable, best to do it over the proper receptacle.  Learn it, know it, live it.

Thankfully Reyna was asleep as I gingerly climbed the stairs and got into the shower after plopping onto the toilet to finish what I'd started downstairs.  We have no towel racks, so I hung my soiled shorts (I wasn't wearing underwear...sue me, it's hot here) on the edge of the tub.  While washing them I'd noted how my expurgation would have made a perfect "gruel" prop in a Holocaust film or a production of Oliver.

Embarrassed I went back to the couch.  As I was situating myself I woke Reyna up.  I didn't mention the events of the previous five minutes.  Just exchanged pleasantries as she went upstairs.  I watched the game with my shame lying quietly next to me.  Soon I was drifting off to sleep. 

Drifting off to sleep apparently triggers full body relaxation because I was jolted from my reverie by my own leaking ass.

After almost 36 years on this green earth without a pants-shitting since single digit years, I managed to do it twice in the span of a single football match.

This time when I leaped up I saw, to my horror, that I'd left a silver dollar sized spot on the couch.  Not just any couch, mind you, but the month old couch that only one week before had been almost destroyed when it rained in our living room.  The couch that had replaced the one the cats ruined when we left them home alone for a weekend.  We never could get the stink off piss off it.  This was a new and puzzling dilemma.  Which to handle first?  I decided to put my own needs before that of a piece of furniture.  I ran upstairs and took care of business, thus creating a posse of unfortunate shorts on the edge of the bath tub.  I then had to go down two floors to get cleaning supplies for the couch.  After four hours of illness, this was harder than expected.  I cleaned up as best I could while silently praying there wouldn't be a stain.  I put a towel beneath my not-to-be-trusted midsection and watched the end of the match.

When I finally decided I was done exploding, I put a towel down on my side of the bed and went to sleep.  Needless to say, Reyna was filled with questions when she awoke the next morning to find me asleep on a towel and a line of damp shorts hanging over the side of the bath tub.

I tell you this not to disgust, but in the hope that by talking about it publicly I can put my irrational phobia to rest once and for all.  I told a few people my sad tale and they thought it was hilarious*, so I figured here was as good a place as any to make my confession.  So perhaps one day I'll be able to see it as something that isn't so awful.  Something to not be feared.  Reyna said it pretty succinctly a few days later, "throwing up is part of being a human."  Very true.  I still don't know what caused it, so I can't know what to avoid in the future to keep it from happening again.  I'm pretty sure that's a good thing.

*I'm not entirely sure what this says about my friends, but whatever, they're still my friends.  Also a big step.  When you're barfing people won't automatically be disgusted by you when you aren't sick later.  Silly thought, yes, but one that I worried over.

I wrote everything up to this point last night.  Since then I've felt the urge to hurl.  So I'm not sure if this experience has broken the curse or not, but I'm choosing to believe it's a baby step. 

Highway to the Danger Zone

I rode in a car yesterday.  That isn't exactly big news for me, but for most people around here it's a rarity.  A couple months ago Reyna and I took a taxi across town to a dinner party.  Reyna remarked that it was the first time she'd ridden in a car in nearly six months.  I generally ride in a car for work every week, but it still feels weird.  When you ride in a car you find yourself thinking, "these motorbike riders are all insane."  Then you get on your motorbike and think, "what is wrong with all these asshole cars?" 

While riding in the car I tried to pay attention to the things we passed; beyond the usual bob and weave around large trucks.  One of these days I'll be quick enough to get a photo of me sitting in the car seat and touching an 18-wheeler through the window.  We passed:

• Ocean Rescue Vehicle - this wouldn't have been all that noteworthy except that it was on the street with a giant hole in the side.  There's a lot of water around here, but I didn't see a body of water for at least twenty minutes.  How did it get there?  Why was it there?

• At least ten different places to buy a 20 foot Buddha statue.  Some of the craftsmen make Buddhas and some make gigantic Jesuses (Jesi?).  I think it would be fun to hang out and watch them carve the statues.  I always thought these things were created in studios.  Not in Vietnam.  Here they make them on the side of the highway.  I'm still waiting to see a big truck hauling an enormous Buddha.  You can bet that when I do, I'm following that truck to it's destination.  I want to know where all these statues end up.  And do the artists who create them work on commission or do they just crank out Buddha's all day, every day?  There are always at least half a dozen finished statues sitting in the weeds (or dirt) on the property.

• We passed a group of monks with machetes.  They were using them to trim the hedges beside their monestary.  I chose to view it as a passive aggressive theft deterrent system.  They may be pacifists in their flowing orange robes, but these monks can throw down if needed.  I guess hedge trimmers are hard to find around here.  This is strange since plants almost never die here.  We can't kill our house plants despite barely giving them any sun and only watering them a couple times a month.  We thought one was dead, so we put the pot outside to throw away.  By the next day a new version of the same plant started growing.  Currently it's the healthiest one we have.  One would think in a place where plants constantly threaten to overtake civilization there would be more impliments available to keep them at bay.  Nope.  Plus, how can you resist the image of a monk whacking anything with a machete?  Pure surrealist gold.

• I'm always amazed by the number of kids that play in or right next to the street.  For those of you who live in the US, picture the busiest city street in your town.  Now picture that street in major rush hour traffic.  Sometimes it's bumper to bumper going 50mph, sometimes it's creeping.  Now imagine your under eight child playing a rousing game of tag with his crew of friends less than five feet from that street.  Not only are they a yard from being crushed beneath the wheels of an 18-wheeler, but they also spend all day breathing the dust and exhaust createdby those same trucks.  There are no concrete barriers and lanes are more suggestions than clear delineations of where people should drive.  Bear in mind that when something is in a driver's way here, the driver honks his horn.  He won't slow down unless it's absolutely neccessary. 

• In the midst of all this chaos, tummy churning weaving around and mayhem, or driver wears headphones.  Ostensibly this is to drown out our annoying English banter.  Despite being one of the most aggressive drivers I've ever encountered, I overheard Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On*"  and George Michael's "Careless Whisper."  If you aren't familiar with these songs, I highly recommend following those links.  This is the preferred soundtrack for risking your life on Highway 1 in Vietnam.  I was hoping to hear "Take My Breath Away**," but I'm not sure Top Gun was big over here even though reckless motorcycle riding is heavily featured in the film.

*Also known as the Titanic theme song.  Don't act like you don't know the words!
**Bum-Bum-Bum, Bum-Bum-Bum, Bum-Bum-Bum

• A fully grown, very much alive sow on a motorbike.  It would have been better if the sow was driving, but it was in a cage.

• Apparently it's let-your-cows-graze-on-the-side-of-the-road season here in Vietnam because we passed at least a dozen herds of cattle either on or in the road.  We haven't hit one yet, but I'm pretty sure it's just a matter of time.

• A cage of puppies on the back of a motorbike.  It's almost not worth mentioning because it's so common.  We did ask our driver if they were to be sold as pets or food.  He wasn't sure.

So I guess it's important to remember that when you venture out onto the highways of Vietnam, you should be careful and keep a watchful eye out.  And always remember to wear your helmet.

Let the power of the Golden Hamster protect you.  I also Googled Kelly Smith and couldn't find anything connecting that name with the helmet industry in Vietnam.  Perhaps I should write a strongly worded letter to the email address.

(I Like) Short Songs

Many times things happen that are strange or interesting, but aren't really "post material."  So since I have nothing to do, and nothing outrageously interesting has happened in the past few days, let's visit some of those smaller events today.

• Friday, the morning after we nearly floated away in our flooding house, I jumped on the motorbike to ride to work.  Part of the ride occurs on Nguyen Huu Canh. a divided ten lane road.  Three lanes of cars and two lanes of bikes, each with medians in between.  It's a big road.  As I rode along I noticed a man crossing the street.  You don't see a lot of people crossing this street at rush hour.  Moreover, you only rarely see a grown, nay old, man crossing the street stark naked.  He was probably in his seventies (sorry Dad) and carelessly sauntered through the morning rush hour traffic wearing nothing but his skin.  When he reached the sidewalk, he was enfolded in a blanket by a waiting...person (relative? friend? undercover police officer? Who's to know...).  And I was left wondering if we'd accidentally slipped into an alternate universe while we bailed out our house the night before.  I actually meant to mention it in the post I wrote about the house flooding, but I guess I was traumatized because I completely forgot.
• The other day I watched a girl ride a bike.  That's not interesting.  What was interesting was that it was a girl no older than five riding an adult bicycle.  Had she been standing next to the bike, the wheels would have come up past her shoulder.  Her legs weren't long enough to reach the pedals for one entire revolution.  So she would push down, then let the pedals spin on their own until they reached her feet again -moving her feet backward and forward to meet the rising pedals on the opposite side.  She did this effortlessly.  It was amazing.  Not only could she do it without crashing the bicycle, but was riding on a small road in which we were driving.  She rides like this in traffic.
• I went with Reyna and her class to a "shopping mall" so the kids could play Laser Tag for their final end of year party.  The Maximart, which housed the Laser Tag venue, was the most depressing mall I've ever seen in my life.  Most of the items for sale appeared used, but were being sold at new prices.  Most of the merchandise was faded or dusty.  The mannequins were horribly sad looking (see previous post).  Basically the same pouty girl in different crappy wigs and clothes.  I started to take photos of them, but then realized a grown man snapping photos near an arcade transcends cultures on the creepy scale.  The highlight of the entire experience was the "shuttle ride."  A small child climbs, or is unwillingly placed by a Kodak-moment-seeking parent, into a plastic space shuttle.  The shuttle then revolves around a central axis at the speed of ketchup, while the child holds two "steering" handles.  I find that there is almost nothing in this world more fun than watching a small child be totally underwhelmed by a ride.  The silent, vacant expression really is priceless.  While there, I never saw a kid point and say "I want to go on that!" or it's Vietnamese equivalent.  Parents just foisted the ride on them, knowing they lack the verbal acumen to say things like "this sucks" or "what the fuck am I doing on this lame ride."  The whole scene was priceless.  I swore to myself that I would make a video of this pathetic ride, but decided making videos of unknown Asian kids might land me in Maximart jail -which I'm certain is a place that smells funny and has copious amounts of peeling paint.  I tried to get Reyna to do it for me, but she was busy keeping an eye on her seven crazed tween students.  I settled for owning the air hockey table instead. 
• We have started having our clothes made at a tailor in our neighborhood.  It's inexpensive, and the clothes are all custom made.  A men's shirt costs about $7 -not counting fabric (fabric is bought across town -about $2 for enough to get a shirt made).  The shop is on the left-hand corner of a T intersection.  One day I was waiting for Reyna to try on and pay for whatever she was having made.  I was sitting on the motorbike by the curb.  One of the shop workers told a little kid to do something.  The kid, about 8, turned on his heel, marched out of the shop and into the street where he was immediately mowed down by a motorbike turning left.  The motorbike stopped, made sure the kid got up, then screamed at him and rode away.  The kid shook his head and continued on his errand.  The guy that had told the kid to run the errand never noticed even though the whole episode happened less than 15 feet away.
• I had to drive across town at rush hour on a Friday to run an errand after work.  The road through D4 between D1 and D7 is narrow, and gets choked with cars and motorbikes especially during rush hour, and even more especially during rush hour on Friday.  If you didn't need your motorbike to get home, you could walk the 2km stretch faster.  You basically walk your bike the whole way.  It's so awful you can almost feel the lung cells mutating into cancer cells from the exhaust fumes.  I was walking my bike when I was passed, going the wrong way on the street, by an elderly man riding, weaving would be a more accurate description, and barefoot on a bicycle.  Why was he weaving?  He was riding slowly because of the traffic, but also because he was only holding the handlebars with one hand. In the other hand he was holding a naked baby.  It was a boy....  A week later I saw a woman riding a motorbike with two kids in her lap, one sleeping. 

• Recently we took a trip to Nha Trang.  One of the best parts of going to Nha Trang is they have a brewery right on the beach that serves beer other than light lagers.  The bar is called Lousiane, and though the food is only so-so, the beer is surprisingly good.  It's the kind of place that makes you wonder why there aren't more places like it in, you know, cities.  Lousiane also features a swimming pool.  So while the adults hang at tables and get tanked, the kiddies can swim in the pool.  Win-Win.  One afternoon while we were enjoying a frost beverage, we watched a man carry his young son to the pool for a swim.  I suppose swimming hadn't been on the original "to do" list for the day, because this father chose to take the plunge wearing boxer briefs.  Now, I don't know how many times you've seen wet boxer briefs, but they tend toward "clingy" once they come into contact with water.  In the US, he wouldn't have made it to within a hundred yards of a pool wearing only underwear.  But in Vietnam?  Swim away!  We then got to watch him parade his kid around the restaurant while waiting for his drippy undeez to dry.  We were subjected to a tour of every fold and crevice.

• And finally when you visit the domestic departures area in the HCM airport, be sure and pick up a three pack gift of "wellness drinks."  Made with authentic ginseng, seahorse and gecko....yum.  As the Vietnamese say, "It good for health."  Makes a great gift for everyone on your holiday shopping list!  Quantities are limited, so order now.  Make sure you avoid the small children playing badmiton in the terminal.  One smack in the leg with a racquet and you won't look nearly as great in your new swimsuit.

It's officially rainy season at my house as I endured my first full soaking while driving home from the ferry terminal yesterday evening.  When I woke up this morning, twelve hours after I peeled off my wet clothes, everything was still wet.  I've always felt there are various levels of wet.  Swimming being the wettest you can be.  Followed by having rain pour on you while you're dressed.  Showering barely even registers on the scale.   I think we can all agree on that.  After living in the desert for four years, worrying about getting wet every time you walk outside takes some getting used to, even after a  year.

...And the Thunder Rolls

You know, just when you think you've got living in Asia all figured out....
Last night both Reyna and I had to work late.  I got home at about 8:00 and Reyna arrived shortly after, having made a trip to the grocery store.  Typical Thursday evening of eating dinner, cleaning out perpetually stinky cat boxes* and chatting/bitching about work and jerky cats was playing out.  Underneath a background score of thunder from an approaching storm played.

*Our cats have turned into assholes in the last year.  I don't mean that as a euphemism either.  All they do is eat and shit, which stinks up the house.  We've tried everything to corral the stink, but have not yet found a remedy.  The second the box is cleaned out, one of them goes and uses it.  Last night it took less than 45 seconds.

Around 9:30 we had assumed our couch positions, Reyna writing a spelling test on her computer at the base of the L, and me reading a book on the vertical.  The rain had started; a typical monsoon style downpour that we generally ignore*. 

*When we first moved out of the desert, I'd never seen rain as hard as here.  It rains so hard you can't see more than ten feet in front of you.  Plus, since most roofs here are metal, it's loud.  Our house is no different, but, like we say, there's really very little you can't get used to with enough exposure.

Then a drop hit my leg.

You see our house is tall.  Five floors in total.  If you sit on the couch on the second floor (Level 1 for you Asians that start with G instead of 1) you can look up through the hole made by the stairs and see the roof of the house.  Not the ceiling to a little insulated attic, the actual corrugated tin/fiberglass that protects us from the elements.  This allows sunlight to come into the house in the daytime and is typical of houses built in this style.

Within seconds it was raining in our living room nearly as hard as it was raining outside.  Water poured in as we rushed to move our three-week-old couch away from the deluge.  For a moment we stared at each other in disbelief.  I ran downstairs and grabbed Reyna's poncho, which we spread across the floor to protect the flimsy-as-hell wood veneer flooring in that room -the only room in the house without tile I'm sad to report).  We ripped the bags out of the trashcans on the first three floors of the house and tried to catch the water.  But it was like using a teacup to stop Niagara Falls.

I carefully, but quickly, raced up the stairs to survey the problem. There was a river of water running down the stairs making them slick like ice.  I slip-slided to the top floor, which was now about two inches deep with rain water, running down the stairs and falling into the rest of the house.  Every floor was wet.  The final load of laundry, the whites, I didn't get to on Sunday lay sodden on the floor in the middle of the chaos.

I raced back down the stairs and found Reyna with four trashcans filled with water and more than an inch on the floor across the entire living room.  I nearly laughed when I saw that she was using a tiny mop to sop up the water that was missing the buckets.  I continued down the stairs and out of the house to get our landlord neighbors before everything in the house was destroyed.

Everyone was in bed.  I did something I'd never do, and rang the doorbell even though their front door was closed.  Their daughter got up and I yelled, "our house is flooding! Help!"  She gave me a confused look.  "COME HELP US!" I shouted.  By then her father, who is our fix-it guy, who wears only boxers about 80% of the time, appeared putting his shirt on.  Together we made our way back to the house.

He took one look at the water coming into the living room and said " OH SHIT!"  This is from a guy who's English is marginal at best.  It was that bad.  We both ran up the stairs.  I tried to suppress visions of this 70+ year old man slipping on the stairs and breaking a hip, giving us a medical emergency to deal with in addition to our plumbing emergency.  When we got to the top floor he was moaning as if a family member had just died.  He rushed outside to the balcony that holds our water tank.  It was still pouring rain outside, and the water was still coming in as I tried to block it with a bath mat.  It was a desperate situation.  Ngo came back in and said in broken English that the drain had been blocked with debris, which had caused the balcony to flood and water to come in under the door, down the stairs and into our living room.  He had managed to unblock the drain and it was now working properly.

The source of the problem fixed, we began working to slow the flow of water down the stairs.  Using a towel and a broom, we managed to slow, and then stop the rainstorm in the living room.  In the middle of the action, I stopped to put the clothes, which had been sloshing around on the floor into the washer.  It feels pretty stupid to put already soaked clothes in the washer while standing in your flooding house during a violent rainstorm.  I thought, "I don't want my clothes to be in that water, I want it in this water."  These are the bizarre times in which we live.

I then went downstairs and spent the next hour helping Reyna and the neighbor's daughter mop up the water in the living room.  In the end, we filled ten 15L trashcans with water from the living room alone.  Incredibly none of our property was destroyed, although the jury is still out on the veneer flooring, which may have water under it.  We managed to limit the water on the couch by splitting it up and moving the pieces to opposite corners of the room.  Once the emergency had passed, we removed the slipcovers and hung them on various railings, along with Reyna's poncho, to dry.  Computers and other iDevices were all shuttled away moments after the flood began and were all in proper working order this morning.

By the time we fell into bed at midnight, we were chuckling about it.  Neither of us had ever experienced anything like it before.  We discussed that as bad as it was, it could have been so much worse.  It could have rained directly on the couch, a computer, or iPad.  The power could have gone out.  We could have been shocked by the 37 appliances we own.  It could have happened while we were not home.  That's the one that really made us shudder.  This morning, after we reassembled the couch and moved it back to it's normal spot, it was like nothing had happened.  It was almost hard to believe that just 7 hours earlier we'd been walking around with water threatening to rise to our ankles in the same room.

Of course, in the midst of the disaster, I paused for 25 seconds to record a video.  It's a little dark and I apologize for that.  But, hey, The Light That Never Goes Out does make a cameo appearance.  Yep, it's still going strong.