Gypsy Thoughts

Aloha fellow tribesmen of the islands, valleys, and hinterlands,

The cyber-cafes of Saigon are something to behold my friends. I am actually sitting outdoors ensconced in the cacophany of this vibrant city known to modern day cartographers as Ho Chi Minh City. A nice blend of muted French colonial architecture and broad arboreal boulevards contrasted with a frantic populace that race about like weasels on amphetamines. Incidentally, they provide a nice tableside beer service: roughly 45 cents per large BGI, 65 centiliters of Vietnam's finest ale. The bottle proudly touts it as "The Famous Brand." If you notice a growing preponderance of typos as I continue, feel free to send your complaints to BGI or my editors.

The topic currently tickling my cortex is that of MOTIVE POWER. What drives-energizes-MOTIVates-propels us ... mechanically and personally? I'll leave the latter to future discourse. My transport thus far has been eclectic and functional (spoken like a proud OT): hydrofoil down the Mekong into the South China Sea, my beloved black slippers ("thongs" for you non-Hawaiians -- no, not the underwear type; boxers or el fresco ala Kramer), the back of a rickety Russian truck, a slim watercraft powered with a pole, an elephant in Cambodia, cyclos (a throne with pedals), a chauffeur-driven car for three days, airplanes, and the greatest invention known to man -- the motorcycle.

Driving in Saigon and Phnom Penh is a thrilling dance with the Reaper. There appears to be no discernable laws or modicum of sanity. I, of course, love it. My mother (and motherly co-workers) will be glad to know that the traffic congestion and limited power of their motorcycles greatly hampers my quest for unbridled speed. As Patrick Henry once demanded, "Give me at least 1000 cc or give me death." The girls daintily ride sidesaddle maintaining a serene elegance in their fashionable ao dais. Any of you pretty ladies willing to try that on a ZX-11? Hmmm, I retract the offer ... that would negate the wondrous tactility we drivers presently enjoy.

Soon after arriving in Vietnam I met up with a childhood friend. We made our first international foray together fifteen years ago to the Dominican Republic. Half a lifetime hence we discovered the joys of gambling, drinking, and living like sultans. "Thus began his descent," quoth the biographer. We've decided to reconnoiter every fifteen years ... I'll be spending my 90th birthday in Casablanca (hell, I'll be fortunate to hold off the winged demons until I make it home). Home. Another slippery concept. All the grifters, beggars, whores (who ride cycles and aggressively corner unwary pedestrians), and merchants open dialogue with the query: Where you from?" I tend to answer quite creatively but feel that Hawaii will always be most true. I presently colour the environs with my gaudy aloha garb. Quirky serendipity: when I met my friend downtown beneath a statue I was reading Ayn Rand's ATLAS SHRUGGED. Paul shows up carrying the same voluminous tome as a gift (he'd finished it by kerosene lamp amongst the hill tribes of northern Thailand -- cool).
Coincidences like that always delight me.

I love it here - a Scottish dude is belting out George M. Cohan tunes, some children are listening to my headset, and the cyclo drivers incessantly address me by the quaint moniker "Ong Tay" (Mr. Westerner). Oddly, the little Vietnamese girls don't like STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN but dig Sinatra. The future radiates hope. The present less so. Crossing the border from Cambodia yesterday I was - bemused? - to find that everyone included money and smokes as lubricants with their passports during immigration procedures. I abstained (remember that I'm unemployed and shun frivolous investment opportunities). E-mail charges are less than two dollars an hour; phone calls $5.90 per MINUTE !!! Pardon my exorbitant loquaciousness. The rates appeal to my newly discovered frugality.

Smile-inducing moments:

• The local denizens teasing me because I wear cheap slippers (while donned in similitude)
• Quaffing ale by sunset in Phnom Penh at the FCCC (Foreign Correspondents Club of Cambodia - my favorite bar on the planet).
• Leading a drunken rendition of The Star Spangled Banner with a dozen expats on Thanksgiving in Siem Riep,
• Surviving the god-forsaken bombed-out 'roads' of southern Cambodia.
• Admittance into the cage of a cute little Sunbear (long claws but a good kisser).
• Finding my pizza feast in honor of the Pilgrims (spiced with local 'herbs', the waiter: "Do you want your pizza happy or really happy?" Classic).
• Pretentiously sipping tea at the vaunted Grand Hotel D'Angkor (rooms $400 - $2,300 per night).
• Astounding the indigenous populace by consuming seven dishes of chicken curry.
• Confounding a Cambodian villager by buying him a beer (he was wearing a Viking cap, spoke absolutely no English).
• Selling hand-traced turkey drawings at Angkor Wat (an amused Colorado couple gave me 3,000 riel for one such masterpiece ... a cool 85 cents !!!).
• The realization that my facial and cranial hair nicely equate in length.
• Washing my clothes by stomping on them in the bathtub (inspired by an old "I Love Lucy" episode where she crushes grapes into vino).
• Showing curious locals the pictures of my friends -- taken on Halloween at REHAB (they now believe that American guys dress like jesters and the women like spider creatures or French maids).
• The simple luxury of enjoying a city in the pace and vantage afforded by a cyclo (I hear cries of, "You imperialistic bastard." Note: highly eco-sensitive and I took turns pedaling my driver around; he was justifiably cognizant of his mortality),
• and a six-hour jaunt up the river and Tonle Sap atop the roof of a high-speed ark.