The Worst Motorcycle in Laos

by Chris Tharp

  The white haired gramps asked me a question in Chinese. I shook my head. He asked again, this time louder. Again I shook my head.

  “I’m sorry… I don’t understand.”

  Army Jacket took over. He pointed my way and slurred a couple of words, attempting to clarify his buddy’s query.

  “Mei guo? Mei guo?”

  I recognized this as one of the handful of Chinese words I had picked up: American.

  “Yes, yes! Mei-guo! I’m American! I’m from USA.”

  “U-S-A?”

  “Yes.”

  “U-S-A… uhh…” he pointed to himself. “China!”

  “Yes. Me: USA. You: China.”

  Army Jacket then got very serious. He grabbed both my hands and looked hard into my eyes.

  “China! USA!” He mimed shooting and, with his mouth, made the sound of bullets firing and bombs exploding. “No! No!!” he shouted, moving his hand back and forth for emphasis.

  “No! No!” I repeated, waving my hand as well. I grabbed my grease smudged glass, gave his a clink, and along with the rest of the old boys, drank to prospect of enduring peace between our two great nations.

  *

  That night all of us from the trek, including Xing La, met up at the Mekong Café for dinner. Gregoire was as effusive as ever, all smiles, handshakes, and back-slaps:

  “Did I tell you or what? Good trek, no? I would not lie to you.”

  “It was terrific, Gregoire, just awesome.” I said.

  “Great trip, mate,” seconded Scraggs.

  “Of course it was! I would not stay in business selling the bullshit! Which reminds me: my special tonight is soup of the river turtle. Turtle, you think I am crazy, but no! The meat is so tender. You must try!”

  I passed on the special due to a fondness for the living version of the main ingredient forged in childhood, going instead with the coconut chicken, which turned out to be a great choice. We lingered over drinks after dinner and eventually busted out some cards and played many rounds of poker. Gregoire brought forth a huge jug of homemade baiju that he had just “gotten off the farm” and I helped him drink it, along with Ben and Tomas. This stuff was straight-up Chinese moonshine and by far the strongest hooch I’d had on the trip. It must have been highly flammable and dangerous to smoke around. You could smell one shot all the way across the table, and Sam almost vomited at the sight of it. We had no poker chips, so we used tea packets and some kind of small green mystery fruit purchased from a nearby stand instead. Gregoire bet huge and stupidly on every hand whether he held good cards or not, resulting in him handing all of his money over to us, which we gladly took.

  “Consider it a rebate,” remarked Steve.

  It was three in the morning when we wrapped things up. I was steaming from the baiju and the world had taken on an unreal, crystalline quality. Gregoire closed up the café and insisted on giving us a lift back to our lodgings. He puffed on a smoke and laughed to himself, weaving through the empty streets of Jinhong in his brand-new van, chaperoning his favorite new customers back to their cheap, hard beds.

  HOUSE OF ROSE

  Philippines, 2010

  The girl carefully slid the key out from its slot behind the dark wooden check-in desk. She waved a few loose strands of hair from her face and motioned for me to follow. I trudged behind, lugging my backpack and sweating. It was only nine in the morning and already hot. My mind was full of static and eyes bleary from lack of sleep.

  The girl was willowy and brown-skinned, with a protruding mouth and thick, pink lips. She wore a short denim skirt and flip-flops that slapped the stones as she sashayed down the small path toward the communal room. The back of her skirt was slightly unzipped; I caught a glimpse of her blue underwear and felt a sudden flash of heat. I took a breath and swallowed. She was tall and long-limbed, with a bushel of hair pulled into a long ponytail that slightly bounced as she walked. She stopped at the door, inserted the key, and—flashing me a huge, toothy smile—unlocked it.

  “Here is your room…”

  “Thanks,” I said, plopping my pack down onto a thin mattress of a bed in the corner.

  I did a quick scan. The room appeared to be empty. “Is there anyone else in here?”

  “No. You have it to yourself… for now.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Yes… lucky you.” She lingered in the doorway, cutting a dark, leggy figure in the blast of morning light.

  “I’m Chris. What’s your name?”

  “Mirasol, but you call me Mira.”

  “Mira.”

  “Yes.”

  I approached, offering my hand, which she accepted. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, Chris. Enjoy your stay at House of Rose.”

  House of Rose sat at the end of a small side street on the very edge of Puerto Princesa, the capital of the Philippines’ Palawan Island. It was situated in a lush, palm-tree-shaded area quite far from any action in town. The place was named for the woman who ran it—a Filipina in her mid-thirties—married to a hulking, bear of a Kiwi named Andy, who had bought the property some years before. The small compound contained a collection of bungalows, a kitchen, and an open-aired restaurant and bar, along with a cheap above-ground swimming pool that was almost never occupied. The whole complex had a tattered, improvised feeling, as if one day Rose and Andy woke up and hastily decided to open their home up for visitors. That’s not to say that House of Rose lacked charm. Like the name suggests, the place was homey, informal, and relaxed. I felt comfortable straight away, perhaps because of its relative shabbiness. This decidedly unpretentious hostel was set far enough off that everyone was forced to mingle with each other. It was an island of sorts—a guesthouse adrift—where both the visitors and the staff were, in a way, captive. While this surely caused some to bristle, I knew straight away that this was the kind joint that brought out the friendliest in people, and was immediately glad I’d come.

  I napped hard through the late morning and, after lunch, made my way to the nearby beach, which was one of House of Rose’s selling points. This cove was only accessible by a mucky trail leading through a mangrove swamp. The beach itself was small, with a forlorn hut staffed by a friendly dude selling soft drinks and renting some fourth-rate snorkeling gear. Lacking any outfitting of my own, I was forced to make do with what he had available.

  Despite the sad state of the leaky mask and ill-fitting, blister-inducing flippers, the underwater scenery far exceeded my expectations, with a psychedelic array of coral and schools of skittish reef fish. This spectacle was nothing short of enchanting, so I propelled myself out of the little inlet toward the open sea, spurred on by the promise of viewing even more bizarre and chromatic sea life. I was happily dizzied, lost in this hypnotic return-to-the womb, when I suddenly came face-to-face with the undulating form of a blue-and-black-banded sea krait. Though docile, these ocean-going snakes are off-the-charts venomous. My heart thumped in my throat. And despite the fact that I was enveloped in welcoming water and surrounded by neon splendor, I was now very aware that I was swimming alone in the South China Sea, surrounded by countless creatures that I knew next to nothing about. I was far from the solid ground and felt extremely vulnerable. If anything were to happen, I’d be toast. So I turned back toward the beach and paddled my legs with fervor. Mission aborted.

  That evening I emerged from my room and joined a small group of guests in the dining area. We sipped drinks and watched Venus Williams obliterate an opponent on the flat screen above.

  “She’s got legs just like I like ‘em,” said Bud. “Feet on one end and pussy on the other!”

  He slapped my back as he howled at is his own joke. Matt and Scott, two young guys who, it turned out, were from my hometown of Olympia, Washington looked down at the table and visibly cringed. Andy, the barrel-gutted owner, sat nearby, smoking and nursing a bottle of San Miguel. He took a drag and smiled for what appeared to be the first time that day.

  “I’d make quick work outt
a that, tell you what…” Bud finished off his drink. “But I’d better be careful, cuz you know what they say: once you go black, you can never go back!”

  Bud screamed again with laughter, looking around the room for any kindred spirits. I couldn’t help but crack a smile, and neither could the curly-haired Matt, who suddenly guffawed and looked to me, as if to say, Is this guy for real? Andy shook his head, chuckling to himself, while a Dutch couple in the back picked at their meal and gazed on in disgust.

  “Hey Drew!” Bud shouted to his son, who stood behind the small wooden bar. “Give us another round of margaritas, lickety-split!”

  “Sure thing, Old Man.” Drew grabbed the bottle of Jose Cuervo, emptied it generously into the blender, and then pressed a button, filling the room with a high-pitched, industrial grinding sound. He wore his white baseball hat backwards and his shirt unbuttoned, exposing a newly purchased shark tooth necklace that dangled above his bronzed pecs and six-pack abs.

  “You mind if I take some photos?” asked Scott.

  “No problemo, bro.” He began to pour the drinks. “You sure you don’t want one?”

  “That’s fine. I’ll stick to Coke”

  Drew slipped on a pair of shades, grabbed two margaritas and struck his best pose. Scott clicked away. Party on, bro.

  “That’s mah boy!” Bud nodded in pride.

  Unlike his son, Bud had elected to go totally shirt-free, wearing just calf-length board shorts and flip-flops. He was around sixty years old and ridiculously tanned, with close-cropped grey hair and a small, sinewy frame adorned with a couple of jailhouse tattoos. Bud bounced around House of Rose like a lightning ball, striking up a conversation with anyone in the vicinity, burning with the vitality and energy of a man half his age. He was from Texas and spoke in a harsh twang at volumes only found on the North American continent. Despite his obvious brashness, Bud was an expert charmer, and usually managed to elicit smiles out of even the most reserved visitors at House of Rose.

  What Bud exactly did back in America was a mystery, though he was now retired—“on disability,” he claimed. It was difficult to discern exactly how he could be held back, physically, at least. The guy was a firecracker. He was now collecting a monthly check back home and living it up in tropical Asia, where he spent his days and nights drinking and whoring. He was proudest of the latter, talking up his sexual exploits with nary a whiff of shame.

  “Last night me and Drew got us some whores,” he announced.

  Scott raised his eyebrows.

  “Oh, really?” Matt egged him on.

  “Sure as shit,” he replied, nodding seriously and making eye contact with all three of us. He then yelled back to his son, “Ain’t that right, Drew?”

  “What’s that, dad?”

  “Last night we both got us some whores!”

  Drew beamed a horsey smile and gave a thumbs-up.

  “Get this…” He lit a smoke and continued. “Mine was a skinny lil’ thang… felt like I could crack her pelvis straight in two. His was short and fat, with a big ol’ ass and a pair of tits like a couple of bags of milk.”

  “You know I like me some booty, Dad,” Drew confirmed, delivering fresh margaritas.

  “Ain’t nothing wrong with a little cushion for the pushin’. But I prefer my meat close to the bone!” Bud grinned, exposing a set of teeth missing several key members.

  “Now get this.” Bud stood up. “I was drillin’ into mine like a rabbit in heat…”

  He demonstrated his best pelvic thrust.

  “…and then I looked over at mah son, just a couple feet away, and he was doin’ the same. I turned to him and gave him a hi-five, right then and there!”

  He recreated the moment, reaching into the air with his hand, which was met by Drew’s in one triumphant slap.

  “Screw fishin’ or workin’ on cars! Bangin’ whores side-by-side—now THAT’s some real father-son bondin’!”

  Bud cackled and grabbed his son around the shoulder in a half embrace. Drew looked on stupidly, chuckling under his breath. I took a sip of my newly concocted drink.

  Bud took a breath and reflected, nearly choking up: “There ain’t many fathers who have a relationship like that with their son.”

  “You’re a… lucky man.” Scott managed.

  “How’s that margarita?” Drew inquired.

  “It’s terrific. Damned good,” I said, telling the truth.

  “Right on, bro! Did I tell you I know how to make ‘em or what?”

  “You weren’t wrong there.”

  “Hell no, bro!”

  He offered up his hand for a “bro shake.” I clumsily obliged, attempting to follow his lead through the complicated, multi-step ritual that ended with us both pantomiming the smoking of a joint. He finished it all up with a fist bump with Matt and Scott.

  Our little crew was soon joined by two more members of Bud’s entourage: his daughter Brenda and her husband Chuck. They were also residents of the Lone Star State, and along with Drew, had flown out to the Philippines to visit the old man in his retirement haven. Brenda later confided that this is the only way they could visit their father, since he would be arrested if “he ever set foot on American soil again.” She had straight red hair, wore round glasses, and only drank cola (“Don’t drink anymore since quitting crack,” she said), while her big-bellied husband guzzled beer and explained why this trip was such a momentous occasion.

  “I swore I’d never leave America again. I’m dead serious.”

  “Why not?” asked Matt.

  “Y’all ever heard of Hurricane Hugo?”

  “Sure, I remember,” I said.

  “Well I was on vacation in the Dominican Republic in ‘89 when it made landfall. It was pure hell, I tell ya. I was holed up in my hotel room for three days without runnin’ water or electricity. I thought I was gonna die. Never thought I’d be so glad to get home. When I finally got back to Houston the first thing I did was kiss the ground and swear that I’d never leave the USA again.”

  “Sounds pretty intense,” said Matt. “Hey Chris, you ready to order? I’m starving.”

  “Yeah, all that snorkeling today worked up my appetite.”

  “Let me ask y’all something,” continued Chuck, in the manner of a Christian who is about to thickly lay on the Jesus pitch.

  “Shoot away,” I offered.

  His tone was heartland earnest. “Have you boys tried the Chicken Cordon Bleu?”

  I had made the mistake of ordering this gut bomb back on Luzon and felt like I might die from intestinal blockage for hours afterwards. It seems to be everywhere I turned in the Philippines—some uncelebrated national dish.

  “You mean here?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. Right here.”

  “Uh, no,” I replied. “I just got in this morning.”

  “Well, y’all listen to me good.” He looked deep into my eyes. “Do yourself a favor and try it. Try the Cordon Bleu. Best thing on the menu—actually to hell with the menu—this here is the best damned Cordon Bleu I ever had! Ain’t that right Brenda?”

  “Mmm-hmmm. It’s soooooo good… You really should try it.”

  “Chicken Cordon Bleu. I’ve had it the last three nights in a row. I don’t even bother orderin’ anything else on anymore. Mm-mm, Cordon Bleu.”

  While not morbidly obese, Chuck was well overweight and looked like he could benefit from a few less meals of breaded chicken breast, deep-fried and stuffed with cheese and ham… but that didn’t stop him from requesting it once again when Mira came over to take our order.

  “Y’all gonna get it, too?” Chuck stared us down.

  “Sure… uh… why not?” Matt obliged.

  “How could I ignore such a recommendation?” said Scott, closing up the menu.

  “And you, Chris?” Mira asked, cocking her head and smiling. Her hair was now let down and cascaded over her shoulders. She wore the same denim skirt as in the morning, but had since changed into a pink uniform polo shirt that read, Hous
e of Rose.

  Chuck interjected: “I got three words for you, Chris: Cor. Don. Bleu.”

  “Actually… I think I’ll go with the grilled barracuda instead.” I pointed to the menu entry to be absolutely clear. Mira’s English was decent, but not expansive. Chuck looked deflated.

  “Oh, man, you’re missin’ out I tell ya.” He shook his head and looked to Brenda for concurrence. “What can I say? I tried.”

  “Maybe next time,” I said, watching Mira’s long legs saunter back into the kitchen.

  Kiwi Andy caught me mid-ogle: “You like her?”

  “Uh…. what?”

  “You fancy Mira?”

  I offered a shrug, palms upturned.

  “I give her one day off a week, just to give the others a chance.”

  “Will you look at that,” Bud muttered, still enraptured by Venus’s moves on the TV. “Mmmm-mmm-mmm… I would eat the corn out of her shit.”

  Our meals soon arrived, and we dug in appropriately. Scott and Matt took down their Cordon Bleu gut bombs while I happily ate my slab of grilled fish. From the pained look on their faces afterwards, I knew I had chosen wisely. After all, I’d need more room for beer.

  The Philippines is a one-beer nation and San Miguel is the brand. It’s a very drinkable pilsner, especially when served up ice-cold. The company’s signage is omnipresent throughout the country. Wherever there are people, you are reminded which beer rules the land. And the best part is the price: it’s rarely more than a dollar a bottle, often cheaper. The result is a constant river of drink for the beer-inclined traveler.

  With this in mind, you can imagine how we passed the rest of the night. We stayed in the restaurant/bar, shot pool, and drank bottle after bottle of San Miguel. Bud continued to both charm and horrify as he held court; but in the end, the seven of us were bound together through shared nationality and the camaraderie of drinking. This group of otherwise disparate Americans formed a temporary red state/blue state coalition for our stay at the House of Rose, yet in the back of my mind I craved escape. As we guzzled San Miguel and shared stories of both home and our respective adventures abroad, I kept stealing glances at Mira as she fetched bottles and cleared the tables. I was transfixed by her dark, gazelle-like form, and couldn’t help but thinking what she planned to do on her one day off.