The Worst Motorcycle in Laos

by Chris Tharp

  Neil too caught the vibe.

  “Well I’ll be fooked if I’m going to float out here with my all my scratch and purple passport just lying there for the taking. I’m not about to be done in by some local crew of scallies.”

  He at once made for the shore.

  As the trio approached Neil got out of the water and greeted them.

  “All right lads. Out for a Sunday stroll?”

  They appeared to be three teenage Khmer boys. I waded in closer and took them in.

  “Hello,” the oldest replied.

  Neil began to awkwardly engage them in a conversation.

  “How are you?”

  “I fine thank you.”

  “You boys from around here?”

  “Around… here?”

  “Yeah, are you locals?”

  “Local?”

  “Yeah. Do you hail from yon local hamlet?” he nodded toward the village.

  “Sorry… I can’t English…”

  “Sure you can. You just did. Okay. Let’s keep it simple then: Where. Are. You. From?”

  “I from Cambodia.”

  “Is that right? Never would have guessed, mate.”

  “Where… you from?” inquired one of the younger ones.

  “Well it’s funny you should ask. I’m from Liverpool. It’s in England. Ever hear of the Beatles?”

  Neil launched into an a cappella version of “Help!” which caused the boys to break into huge smiles and giggles. They seemed happy to practice some English, but my gut told me that they were after something more than a free bankside language lesson. I stood and waved to them, letting my presence be known, all the while eyeing them like a raptor. I soon noticed that the youngest of the three, positioned highest up the bank, was slowly inching toward our bags. While the others tried to engage us, this boy crept closer and closer to the goods. When I came in nearer and looked directly his way, he stopped, only to resume his slow trajectory a few seconds later. Thinking myself hip to the setup, I tramped onto the beach and up to the bags, insuring that the kid wouldn’t try to make a dash.

  Neil kept up his ambassadorship as I eyed them with utter suspicion: good cop/bad cop. The only thought pounding through my mind was this: What is their motive? Were these just bored local teenagers, curious about the two tall Westerners swimming near their village? Surely they had seen plenty of other foreigners, as the nearby temples were crawling with them… but it was possible that not too many outsiders ever made it out this far from the protective womb of the town. It took a bit of effort to get there. The longer I watched, the more I became convinced that these kids were just looking for a chance to rob us. Was this really what was going on? Or was I possessed by anxiety, amplified by a fat dose of racism? Were my thoughts just Western prejudices applied to truly friendly people? Or was I being justifiably cautious? After all, I had been the victim of theft less than two weeks before, and I wasn’t about to let it to happen twice.

  To stoke my suspicion, they weren’t moving on. The two near Neil now sat on the ground while the young one near me squatted, perhaps ready to make his move.

  Neil looked up my way: “I’m thinking that now may be a good time to leg it.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Neil walked up to me and the bags. We hastily threw on our shoes, and he put on his glasses.

  “Goodbye,” we waved.

  “Goodbye,” they replied, now standing.

  “Goodbye” I said again, as we hiked up the embankment.

  We got to our bikes and unlocked them as fast as possible. Sweat ran down my face, onto my lips, and into the corners of my mouth. Once I had just begun to remove the chain, I heard a thrashing of brush. The three boys had now also scurried up the embankment and stopped in the middle of the dirt track, blocking it, putting themselves between the village and us. They stood and faced us, not saying a word.

  The oldest boy then let out a whistle and shouted something in musical Khmer. Almost simultaneously, we heard more sticks and twigs snapping. Two young men suddenly emerged from the thicket behind us, cutting off the road in the opposite direction. Their faces were covered by black balaclavas. One held an axe, the other a machete. They shouted back to the trio, who responded in turn. Neil and I sat on our bikes and listened to a rapid conversation that neither of us could understand. I gripped the handlebars tightly and looked wide-eyed to Neil, whose own pupils were the size of dimes. We were out alone in the bush in Cambodia and surrounded by armed locals.

  We stood frozen between the two groups, straddling the bikes and eyeing each other for any kind of hint as to what to do. After a moment, the two masked guys with weapons brushed past us and joined their comrades, who then gave us a final wave, and began strolling down the road to the village. They shot us a couple of parting glances, but otherwise paid us no more mind. Neil and I watched their figures shrink as the five of them sauntered down the road, still blocking our path.

  “Fookin’ hell,” Neil gasped.

  What had begun as heightened paranoia had now bloomed into near panic. My mouth was cotton-dry; sweat stung my eyes and I could feel my heart thrash in my chest. Despite this specter of fear, it appeared that the danger had now passed. We had two choices: avoid them by attempting a several-hour ride around the whole lake in punishing heat (with no water), or head back their way and through the village, hoping for the best.

  “We’ll have to ride through them,” I said.

  “Go on then,” Neil said, lurching forward on his bike.

  So we pedaled toward the pack, hoping that they’d let us pass unmolested. And that they did. As we approached, they parted without a hassle, giving us friendly waves and even more goodbyes. We returned the courtesy and then hauled ass back toward town.

  On our way back out toward the highway, we saw other Khmers on the dirt road. Several of them also carried axes and machetes and covered their faces. It then occurred to us that these were no thieves, but field workers returning to the village to take refuge from the deep afternoon heat. They were clearing brush. The scarves covering their faces protected them against the brush and dust; the machetes and hatchets were being used as tools, not weapons.

  “They could have done us in if they wanted,” laughed Neil over a beer back at the guesthouse. “We were at their total mercy.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And shitein’ it at that.”

  “Yup,” I admitted, shaking my head and sipping from the cold bottle of lager.

  Neil did the same and then shot me a look.

  “You know, you’re not so bad for a Yank.”

  “Wow. Thanks for the backhanded compliment. Let me return the praise: You’re decent enough… for a Scouser.”

  “You got that right, la’. Don’t mess about with the lads from the ‘Pool.”

  “Those kids should have been worried about you jacking them. That reminds me: I need to check my stuff before I leave. I want to make sure that nothing’s walked away, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

  “Good policy, mate. You wouldn’t be the first dozey backpacker I’ve ‘ad off.”

  “You sketchy motherfucker…” I took another swig. “Hey, here’s one for you, Neil: What do you call a Scouser in a white track suit?”

  He hesitated a moment, raised his ginger eyebrows, and replied, “The bride.”

  I laughed immediately, causing streams of carbonated beer to shoot up into my sinuses and turn my chuckles into snorts.

  “Jog on, nob-end,” he said, making a jerk-off motion with his hand. “I’ve only heard that one seventeen thousand times before.”

  “Well, you can’t blame me for trying,” I said, recovering my breath.

  “Like fook I can’t.” He took another swig. “Anyway, look me up if you ever get over to the ‘Pool. I’ll show you all the boss spots.”

  “I just may take you up on that offer, duuude,” I drew out for effect. “But first I gotta get out of Cambodia.”

  “Well there’s a bus to the Thai borde
r from here every morning. It’s a rough ride over a poxy road, but it’ll get ya there. I’m thinkin’ of catching it tomorrow. Care to join me, la’?”

  “Screw that,” I said, finishing off the bottle of Angkor. “This time I’m flying.”

  BIG IN JAPAN

  Japan, 2006

  Tokyo is just one of those cities. It burns in the imagination. It’s a beacon of hi-tech possibility, the embodiment of a fantastic future built up in an ancient, enigmatic land. I’d heard firsthand reports raving about what a mind-blast the place could be. I’d seen it in the movies. I’d read about its multi-layered contradictions and straight-up weirdness. Despite the fact that I’d been essentially living next door for over two years, I’d managed to resist Tokyo’s charms, but enough was enough: it was time to finally sneak over and see what all the fuss was about.

  My timing was great. Skerik’s Syncopated Taint Septet just happened to be in town. This group of Seattle-based musicians is headed up by my old friend and legendary tenor saxophone player, Skerik. The septet is made of up five horn players, a drummer, and a Hammond B-3 organist (my real-life distant cousin, Joe Doria, coincidentally). They play what can most accurately be described as “punk trance jazz”: deeply layered, heady music delivered with plenty of volume and attitude. They’re both technically tricky and groove-oriented, yet manage to never lose themselves in jammy masturbation. Their sound is much like Tokyo itself: cool, complex, and humming with vitality. The members of the septet are nothing short of top-notch musicians, and I leapt at the chance to join them for a couple days during their brief tour of Japan. This was my chance to see some old faces, soak up some deep tunes, and delve into one of the most iconic and mysterious metropolises on the planet.

  The airport bus cruised down the highway and then twisted through the sardine can that is the city. Neat wooden homes gave way to buildings that often had only inches between them. The city’s planners utilized every bit of available space. The streets crawled with shiny silver and white Toyotas, Hondas, and Subarus; compact toy-like minivans; buses; and sleek, vintage-style motorbikes. Packs of briefcase-toting salarymen ambled along the sidewalks in long grey overcoats, and young people pedaled fixed-gear bicycles in the afternoon sun that sliced down through the canopy of high-rises. The city was alive and jamming, yet impossibly orderly. So Japanese.

  The bus eventually deposited me in front of the hotel housing the band, the Curelian Tower—a 44-story behemoth in both size and price, located in the city’s hip Shibuya district. The massive, dark structure looked like a malevolent star cruiser. I expected it if to blast off for Alpha Centauri at any time. The $400-a-night rooms were well out of my budget, so after touching base with Skerik, I set out on my own to try and find a place to stay that wouldn’t require me to surrender the entire contents of my bank account, a pound of flesh, or my left nut.

  *

  Shibuya was Tokyo as I had always envisioned it: pink and white pulsing neon signs; throngs of young, insanely fashionable people sporting furry boots, leopard-print pants, incandescent tights, leather coats and miniskirts, giant sunglasses, as well as the full spectrum of brightly dyed hair; shoebox sushi joints packed in next to pachinko parlors; used record stores that radiated cool; ridiculous, syrupy pop music piped in from all directions over speakers on the street; wide intersections with diagonal crosswalks and rivers of walkers; shops composed entirely of Hello Kitty swag. Shibuya had it all, I thought. Well, almost all. It had everything, except for what I needed right then: a hotel. Shibuya, it seemed, was the place to see and be seen, but not to sleep. Lacking a guidebook and having done zero research before leaving, I wandered the throbbing sidewalks searching for the word HOTEL. Given the amount of Technicolor signage on display, this was a vertigo-inducing exercise. I took in nearly two hours of clothing stores, curry shops, phone outlets, chic bars, and cafes staffed entirely by young women in maid outfits, but not one hotel. With the exception of the extravagantly priced Curelian, there seemed to be no lodgings at all.

  After stopping for a perfectly poured Guinness at the most authentic Irish pub I’ve visited outside the Emerald Isle, I came upon what seemed to be my salvation: a whole city of hotels. Love motels, to be precise. I exhaled a sigh of relief, and, carrying my small pack, trudged over to the twinkling cluster of neon accommodations.

  “Room? Room?”

  “Hai, room. Yes.” The old man behind the desk nodded. I gathered that we had probably reached the limit of his English.

  I pointed to the placard on the wall. It advertised two rates: one for three hours, and another labeled Stay. I took the latter to be the full, all-night rate. “Stay?” I asked, pointing to the selection. “No! No stay! No stay!” He shook his head and waved me right off in a manner that can only be described as distinctly Korean.

  “But it says ‘Stay’,” I whined. “Right there! See?”

  This happened at each place I approached. Stoic refusal. Not one proprietor would rent me a room for the night. It was early Friday evening, and it seemed that they were all determined to cash in on the deluge of short-termers sure to arrive later for their weekend trysts.

  Demoralized and out of luck, I hissed and gritted my teeth, knowing that I’d have to take my search elsewhere. The refrain “Remember Pearl Harbor!” echoed in my skull as I stomped down the sidewalk. No, I was not proud of my jingoistic impulses, but it just so happened to be the 7th of December and the infamous attack loomed large in my mind, amplified by the unwelcoming surroundings.

  After three hours, I was spent. I was overwhelmed by blinking lights and giggling schoolgirls and songs about happy sunshine candy when I stumbled upon it—what I had actually wanted all along: SHIBUYA CAPSULE LAND.

  Manna from heaven: a fabled capsule hotel.

  Capsule hotels are a uniquely Japanese phenomenon, though I’m of the opinion that the rest of the world would do well to adopt them. They’re a cheap and practical way to lodge travelers, especially in big cities where space is at a premium. They are actual hotels, but instead of individual rooms, each customer is housed in a 1 x 1 x 2 meter capsule. Sure, they’re a bit claustrophobic and approach nowhere near Western standards of privacy, but if you just need a clean and comfortable place to sleep, they do the trick. Inside the capsule is a bed with a pillow, sheets, and blanket; a small television, radio, and headphones; a reading light; a fan; and a pull-down screen that seals the whole thing off. They are stacked two high (with little ladders heading up to the top tier) and are most often all white, giving the structures the look of a late-’60s science-fiction film set.

  Shibuya Capsule Land contained about twenty-five to a room; the hotel occupied several floors of the building, and like most in the country, was available only to men. In addition to the capsule itself, I was given a key and a locker where I could stash my bag and clothes. Inside the locker was a set of cotton shorts and a shirt that would act as my pajamas, along with a thin robe. On another floor were showers and a full sauna, along with sit-down cleaning stations much like those found at any Korean public bath. All for less than forty bucks US—a steal in central Tokyo. Pleased with my luck, I showered, changed clothes, and headed off to meet the band.

  The gig was in a club attached to the Curelian Hotel, which probably explained why the band was being put up in such posh rooms. I doubt the promoter was paying for such digs out of pocket. After all, this was a relatively obscure psychedelic jazz horn combo, not the Rolling Stones.

  As I walked into the club, I was greeted by Joe Doria, the organist, who was getting a cocktail at the bar near the entrance.

  “Holy shit. Am I seeing what I’m seeing?”

  “Cousin Joe. I have come for The Taint!”

  Skerik’s voice was next: “The Tharp has arrived, burrowing into the cybernetic bowels of the Curelian Homeworld!”

  He stepped down from the stage (already bathed in subdued, moody lights) and locked eyes with me. His always seemed to be forcing themselves from their sockets, eager black orbs
just ripping with energy. That, combined with his thin, angular build, gave him the look of a birdlike reptile—the last of the winged dinosaurs.

  “Are you ready to get down with the muthafuckin’ Taint? This rendezvous in Tokyo is happening for a reason, brutha.”

  He looked the same as always: cropped hair; dark T-shirt and jeans; red sneakers; and a long, wispy, Satanic-looking soul patch. The guy never seemed to age. I’d known him for fifteen years and he didn’t look any older than the first day we met.

  I stood chatting with Skerik, Joe, and baritone saxophonist Craig Flory as the crowd filtered in. This wasn’t some polite jazz crowd in sports jackets and ties, but rather a group of very casually dressed young people. Much of the audience seemed to be under the age of thirty. Many had long, matted locks and scraggly facial hair. Their clothes were baggy and loose, composed of earth tones.

  I turned to Skerik. “I had no idea you guys were so big with Japanese hippies.”

  “Yeah man,” he confirmed, eyes afire. “They can’t get enough of us.”

  The musicians soon took the stage and picked up their instruments. For a couple of minutes they blew some notes in one final warm-up, and then silence. Applause and cheers let loose from the crowd as the seven musicians stood nearly frozen, waiting for Skerik’s lead. The music started quietly, slowly, with just one horn, then two, then three. It took time building up, growing into a swirling crescendo of woodwinds and brass. Before long, the organ gurgled and buzzed and then screamed; the drums rumbled, popped, and crashed, locking into a hypnotic cadence which entranced everyone in the room. They swayed and moved in unison to the rich, ethereal sounds pulsing in the air.

  I stood there, sipping a Heineken and closing my eyes, soaking up the septet full and proper. I had seen these guys many times some years back. I had even taken the stage with them on occasion at the behest of Skerik as the character “Cranberry,” a British drug casualty who’d seize the mike and launch into incoherent, MDMA-fueled diatribes. So I had a history with this band and had always thought they were great, but this took things to a different level. Though they were playing jazz, it didn’t feel like jazz. It was jazz that rocked, jazz without the wank, jazz played from the nuts, with wicked, expertly crafted arrangements. Add a Hammond B-3 that sliced into your flesh, and you had some very potent stuff.