Broke

The irony of posting from work about being broke is not lost on me. This is just a short post to say that I probably won't be posting something today or tomorrow due to the fact that my pocket, wallet, bank account and fridge looks like the inside of Kurt Cobain's head - empty.

Thus, the internet connection at home was cut off. So Mom, Dad, concerned family and all those laughing at me with your full stomachs: before you start harping on about how irresponsible I am, I'll pay my rent and all those little "extras" like water, electricity and telephone bill tonight so hopefully this little finger-twiddling endeavour will be back on its feet by Wednesday. No sympathy emails please; after all - two-minute, crab flavoured noodles don't taste that bad with a little salt, pepper and Tabasco sauce...I could always chew off one of Christoff's toes while he's sleeping, speaking of which - he has a blog now - check it out.

"It'll be fine"

Ambivalence has always been an emotional weakness of mine – or strength depending on the context. I always have these rollercoaster events sequencing my consciousness, packed together in a tight-knit timespan leading me to think karma plays a large part of what orders my life. It’s like a poor fisherman who doesn’t catch anything for weeks wondering how he’ll provide for his family if it continues this way, then, as a huge storm strikes, the fish start biting by the boatful, and he has to decide whether to continue fishing, try to weather the storm and come home with enough food to feed the whole village, or whether to cut and run, to fight another day. It never rains in Saigon – it pours.

Sarah told me last year’s Tet festivities were special because supposedly it was a very lucky year that only comes around once in a blue moon (excuse the lunar pun). I think this year’s prelude to Tet is trying to even out the celestial imbalance.

Ambivalence ruled with an iron fist. Firstly, last Sunday one of my friends and co-teacher’s mother was in a horrible motorbike accident and things don’t look good. Then I met a really nice couple on Thursday who I went out with to the “Rice Throwing” restaurant (Com Nieu Sai Gon) where the waiters break clay pots of rice and toss them across the room which was great, only to have my motorbike snatched in a blink of an eye. By this time the inescapable feeling of destiny at work already started creeping up my spine.

On Saturday night, another friend and co-teacher’s grandmother died and Sarah’s brother’s plans to visit went awry only to semi-rebalance themselves later.

I found out I had to pay 14 million dong (about $850) for my motorbike and our plans for Myanmar were dealt another blow by a travel agent who mistakenly told us we don’t need to worry about visas only to find out later we only have 10 days to get one from the Myanmar Embassy in Hanoi.

This must be it, I thought, the wheel has turned on what could be considered a generally privileged and carefree year so far. But today I realised that karma always works with a plan. Energies flow in a certain direction but, as the Second Law of Thermodynamics states, cannot be destroyed so thus must be channelled somewhere and, in this case, returned.

Mr Hung and his daughter Tram from Kim’s Café were awesome with the bike fiasco, giving me until after Tet to repay them and Tram came with to the police and sorted everything out. They gave me a new bike nearly two months free hire as well. We met an awesome woman – Nhuy – who sorted out the visas in a flash and we’re getting our passports back at the end of the week (touch karma’s wooden coffee table) and I’m getting paid today. I can’t undo the terrible personal losses suffered by my friends, but I can give them words of encouragement and stand by them. What’s done can’t be undone or reversed but can be shaped into something less than terrible with the right frame of mind, which may sound offhandishly easy to say but I truly believe it.

My sister and I used to watch this show on the Carlton Food network called Jimmy’s Farm – about a successful chef from London who gave it all up to breed pigs and open his own farmstall in the English countryside. He faced incredible obstacles and challenges (not least of which being his gay rare-breed stud-pig who was more interested in shagging the bulls than the sows). When things were at their worse – the farm being on the brink of being repossessed - Jimmy would utter the immortal words in his broad London accent: “It’ll be fine.”

The Future looks bleak

A few months ago I mentioned how great it is to take the frenetic journey to work every day. Well, that feeling was shattered on Thursday evening in a heart-twrenching twist of fate that has left me hollowed, a shell, half the man I used to be, constantly wrestling with existential questions and not finding any answers. I’ve been wearing white since Thursday evening in mourning; as is the custom in Vietnam. I wander around in a stupor, an unbelieving daze, eyes glazed over, every free moment I catch myself thinking about my baby, the glint of her body in the morning, the purr she’d give me, the wonderful carefree feeling we’d share when we were together. It’s tough losing the one you love. My green Honda Future was stolen out of the ghetto in Le Thanh Ton that night. The night my baby went away. If anyone has seen my baby, tell her I love her, and everything happens with a reason. It was just not meant to be.

By the way, if I don’t post again in the next few days, you’ll be sad to know that Mr Hung from Kim’s Café, where I rented the bike, has beaten me to a horrible death with his walking stick, leaving me to have my fleshed slowly picked off my bones by the Pham Ngu Lao rat mafia. I’m off to negotiate compensation now. Wish me luck. Vaya con Dios.

Minor setback

Battle Cruiser. Boozer. Gaydar. Gay radar (which I only heard for the first time last night. Backne. Back Acne. Some words go well together and make wonderful little roll-off-the-tongue sayings. Two things, which just don’t go that well together, are “washing machine” and “passport”. Now, I’m not referring to my post before last about the metaphorical “washing machine that is my life”, but the real deal. The one that whirs and spits and splutters powder and fabric softener mixed with tangible, hot water in anti-clockwise revolutions. That one. And let me tell you, there’s no word like washport, or passwash or whatever you wanna come up with. They’re like chalk and cheese, which I’d like to write to the good folks at the Oxford Complete English Dictionary about suggesting they change it to detergent and important document.

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.