It happened on Sunday, when Mr Diep’s, our good friend and landlord, younger sister came over to collect my clothes for washing (and I don’t want any grief from anyone for not washing my own clothes, I used to and still would if Diep didn’t insist his sister do it – and I pay her). I’d left the little book in my pants pocket by accident, was away playing football and when I came back – neatly balanced on top of a book, sat my sopping, sodden passport, ruffled like a mangy chicken, looking like something the cat dragged in, dropped in the bog and fished out again. I couldn’t inspect the damage just then so I just left it out to dry until this morning and muffled the screams in my pillow, biting my knuckles until the blood rage drained from my eyes and murder didn’t seem like the best idea since condoms. Actually, I’m pretty easy. After all, it was an honest mistake and half my fault anyways so I’m not that pissed off, just frustrated now. Bygones.
This Myanmar trip might just have incurred its first minor setback. The other problem is that the South African Consulate is up in Hanoi so it’s not just a case of heading over and asking them to take a look at it and make a diagnosis: “I’m sorry son, it’s not going to make it.” So, I think I’m going to take some pics of the worst pages and mail to it them. Hope it works.
Damn bureaucratic red tape. Whatever happened to exploring the world with a handful of coins, perhaps a pirate ship at your disposable, perhaps a peg-leg or parrot and a crew of able seaman? The world was your oyster. Pirates get more booty anyhow.