Let's Go Mad

by Rob Binkley

  Of course, I overslept the next morning and totally missed it. Scott and I stumbled down to breakfast around three in the afternoon. Afterwards we found our way back down to The Sailing Club to feed our throbbing heads with more food—this time an Australian pizza. It was the best I’d eaten in six months. In these countries you stick to what you like. Even in my blurred state of consciousness, I knew I would be back.

  Scott and I went back to our rooms to rest. I found Brian passed out on the floor; he hadn’t moved in over twelve hours. I poked him with a walking stick to make sure he hadn’t died choking on his own vomit. He yelled, “Get that pool cue out of my ass!” then started snoring again.

  Brian finally came to around ten o’clock at night and we all decided to ramble back down to The Sailing Club. I was still in the throes of the “Hahnover” and stuck around just long enough to get a few free beers from the San Miguel drinkathon they were having.

  On my way back to the hotel, I ran into a couple of missionaries who were preaching about how horrible backpackers were. They took one look at me and started in on their diatribe.

  “You’re irresponsible, all of you! If you kids get killed or kidnapped, how do you think your families would feel?”

  I responded to them as politely as I could. “Everyone from America should move here cause it’s safer!”

  The missionary wife didn’t like my line of reasoning. She started shaking with anger, so I knew I better stop talking and move along or I’d end up telling them how I really felt about their destructive impact on the world, and they definitely didn’t want to hear that.

  The next day, after twelve hours of sleep, Scott and I did Mama Hahn’s again and it was the same shenanigans. This time, Mama took us to a fishing village where we rowed little boats around the harbor while she painted our faces and my bald head. Later, we went to shore and explored the villages. The kids must have thought we were aliens with our painted faces because they all ran when they saw us.

  The next morning we jumped a bus to Dalat. It took us eight hours to get to the mountainous village but we didn’t care; the camaraderie with all the other backpackers on the bus—some we’d been traveling with since Hanoi—was great. When we arrived in town, we all went to dinner; I had grilled deer, Brian had goat, and Scotty had roasted pigeon but the pigeon was the size of a mouse. Our server told us how lucky we were, “the government just recently started allowing restaurants.”

  “No wonder,” Scotty said, picking at the bones of his tiny meal. Later we went up to an artsy hotel called Hang Nga House. It was an exotic place to have a drink with rooms inside of trees and caves—a very unique find.

  The following day, Scotty, Brian, and I jumped on a bus for Saigon—though it’s best to call it Ho Chi Minh City since the north renamed it when they took it over in 1975. We met some more girls from England on the bus and decided to get a room with them at the Le Le Hotel on Pham Ngu Lao Road in the 1st District, which is Vietnam’s version of the Khaosan Road. The place was swarming with backpackers. Our room had three beds and was nice for our low standards. Later, we all went out to the 333 Bar and smoked way too many funny cigarettes, then spent the rest of the night discussing the concept of “utopia” in our room with Scott and the girls. Does it exist? Did it ever? Could it ever again?

  “Those old chestnuts again,” Brian said when the subject was brought up for the thousandth time on the trip. No one ever had any answers other than arguing what the concept of utopia actually meant to them. It seemed to be an infinitely malleable abstraction that looked and felt different to everyone. Nevertheless, it was great late-night party conversation for stoned people who wanted to “get deep” because it always led to the concept of heaven and whether that fable exists, which always got us into some kind of rousing argument. But it was a revealing topic that I always encouraged. I mean it’s better than talking about movies or television, which is what most Americans love to yak on about.

  The next afternoon, Brian and Scott ran off with some other girls that were not our roommates, so I decided to get into the Zen mood by reading more of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Brian and I had been trying to read difficult literature on the trip, but I definitely met my match with this book. Just then I looked out of my open door and saw three girls and a guy walking by. Wanting a distraction from the book, I invited them in. It didn’t take long until I broke out the marijuana cigarettes and my wisdom nirvana moment disappeared in a cloud of laughter and smoke.

  The next morning we drove to the famous Mekong Delta where we took two boat rides. We saw floating markets, swimming snakes, and met lots of amazing rustic river people. We spent the night in one of the riverfront villages where we learned how to make straw hats and rice wine. Brian enjoyed the rice wine making while I made a straw hat to cover my head.

  When we arrived back in Saigon Ho Chi Minh City from our three-day journey, we went for a nice dinner at a place called the Sinh Café. I was starving and ordered grilled squid, which they brought out and let me grill at the table myself. I’m not an expert chef with the little clay grill, so I must have undercooked it because I got a hellacious case of food poisoning.

  I was on my back or on the toilet for the next two days, unable to eat or drink anything. Food poisoning is like drowning in your own defecation; it is the third concentric circle of hell. I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy.

  I really thought I was going to die and, to make matters worse, Brian comes home and tells me he saw Monica, my Norwegian girlfriend from Malaysia, out on the town. “God, I would love to see her.” I moaned in between dry heaves.

  “You can’t see her—look at you. You’re an unholy mess.” Brian the Zen bastard handed me a towel and laughed at my sad state of affairs.

  “Never grill your own squid in Saigon …Ugh,” I growled. “Don’t tell Monica I’m here … I’m wretched.” I made Brian promise not to tell her that I couldn’t sit up without soiling myself. I went to bed thinking about her smile; she was so much fun.

  Two days later, I had lost three pounds and was weak but finally on the mend. I had spent so much time sleeping that I was awake when Brian tomcatted in at dawn (again). He took one look at me and said, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like a POW?” then he laughed like a hyena.

  “I see you’ve been having a grand old time with my Norway girls.”

  “When the cat’s away …”

  “I want to punch you in the face right now.” I opened my eyes and saw him standing over my bed gloating.

  “Don’t worry, I covered for you. I told Monica you were wallowing in your own excrement,” he said with an evil laugh.

  I sat up. “You’re no Buddhist; you’re an asshole! I need food!”

  I had to get up. I had to get out. I was literally sick of this wonderful country.

  At noon, we checked out and went to the bus station; it was time to say goodbye to Saigon and Scotty, who loved coins. He was going back home and we were on our way to Cambodia. I gave him my expensive dong coin to add to his collection.

  “You’ll appreciate this more than me,” I said and gave the big lug a hug. Scotty looked touched. We promised to look him up the next time we were in England, but we knew we’d never see him again. Such is life on the road.

  After Scotty’s bus left for the airport, our supposed bus to Cambodia ended up dropping Brian and I off at some weird intersection that had no border crossing. We were so confused that we had to talk some moped riders into taking us the rest of the way to Moc Bai, the border between Cambodia and Vietnam.

  Moc Bai turned out to be a remote speck in the middle of the jungle. We were the only people within a mile of the border post, which was just a tiny shack. Inside, we found a border guard sitting behind a desk. We stood in front of him with smiles on our faces for about ten minutes in complete silence.

  The guard wouldn’t even look at us, even though we were the only ones in his office. So we just stood there trying to get his attention, wh
ich became a comedy routine. Brian would make funny faces at him, but this border guard was a master at his craft.

  Eventually, we walked to a corner to confer, which was only four feet away from the guy. Brian leaned into me and whispered, “I think this guy wants a little palm grease.”

  “What?”

  “Grease the wheels, dude.”

  “Huh?”

  “The border guard wants a kickback to let us in.”

  “I’m not giving him a bribe. You do it.”

  “Why me?”

  “Why me??”

  “You’ve got more money.”

  “So, what is this, New Orleans? I’m not in the mood.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “Let’s call his bluff,” I said. So we walked back up and just stared at him. He still wouldn’t look at us; he just sat there, eating what appeared to be barbecued grasshoppers and writing in a notebook. I’m pretty sure he was just pretending to be working. Brian kept saying “ahem” loudly, but the guy didn’t feel like letting us in. Everyone in Saigon had told us not to cross the border here—we never asked why. Now we knew.

  We waited around for an hour, then told the guy to piss off (with our body language) and left defeated. Outside, I looked around and got an idea. “Let’s just cut through the jungle into Cambodia. How will they ever know?”

  “That’s the best idea you’ve had all day.” Brian was game. “But if we get caught I’m telling our captors it was your idea.”

  We pretended to walk back down the road then we veered right and tromped about a half mile through the jungle toward Cambodia. We had no idea what we were doing.

  Eventually we came upon a dirt road.

  “Are we even in Cambodia?” Brian looked at the sun, which was of no use since it was a cloudy day and he was terrible with directions.

  “I have no idea … We’re lost.”

  We started walking down the road until we saw an old four-door car from the 1970s coming our way. “Let’s hitch into town!” I held out my thumb, and so did Brian. The car approached. Brian started to get cold feet.

  “What if this guy is going into Vietnam?”

  “Then we’ll just walk the other way. Relax. We’re being Beat here!”

  “Look what happened to the Beats,” Brian said.

  We kept our thumbs out and magically the car stopped in front of us. The guy behind the wheel just stared at us. “You going to Phnom Pehn?” I asked, hoping the guy would at least understand our destination. I got a closer look. He was a small and extremely sweaty Asian dude with a handrolled cigarette burning down between his lips. I looked at Brian. “Is he Vietnamese or Cambodian?”

  “I have no idea,” Brian said then he leaned into the passenger side window and held out some money. “We’ll pay!”

  Those were the magic words. The guy motioned for us to get in the back seat.

  On our way into Phnom Pehn, our driver finally piped up, and in English, which surprised us. He asked if he could pick up two other guys on the way. We said “sure” so he stopped at a gas station where we saw two Asian guys waiting for him. Our driver hopped out to talk to the guys; Brian and I scooted over to let them sit beside us.

  We heard the trunk pop; we looked back and noticed the two guys were getting in the trunk. When the driver got back in the car, I asked him, “We aren’t going to jail if they get caught, are we?”

  “We’re no Cambodian coyotes, sir,” Brian said.

  The driver just laughed and put the pedal to the metal.

  We sped through the countryside, still unsure what country we were in. All I knew was it was extremely rural and had lots of potholes. After some driving, we came to a checkpoint. Were we still in Vietnam?

  “Dude.” I pointed to the checkpoint sign. Brian nodded. We were headed to the right country. We proceeded to enter Cambodia by running the gauntlet through, not one, but ten roadblocks, sweating bullets the whole way.

  One of the border guards approached our car. Brian whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Our passports aren’t stamped and we have some random dudes in the trunk.”

  “Cool as a cucumber,” I said through a plastered on smile. “And deny everything.”

  The border guard took one look inside our car, noticed we were Americans and kept walking. They started hassling the Cambodians in the cars around us instead.

  “Do they think they’re leftover Khmer Rouge?”

  We watched in amazement while the border guards let us go, again and again, through ten checkpoints. Every time we made eye contact with one of them, all we got were smiles.

  “There’s that smile again.” Brian nudged me. “They’re beautiful aren’t they?”

  All the smiling border guards never asked to see our passports and never checked our trunk. They just waved us in. I looked at Brian. “No kickbacks here.”

  Brian had a perma-grin plastered on his face. He said, “I was thinking, we should to go Nepal after India. I want to see the holy land.”

  “All those quiet Buddhist nights in the hotel room have turned you into a hippie, haven’t they?” Brian just kept smiling with his eyes closed. He seemed truly content in the moment and in his own skin.

  After the guards let us into Cambodia, it was a beautiful scenic ride to Phnom Penh, the capital city. Rice paddies flew past us in neverending succession, all the while Brian kept smiling. I said, “You’ve got sunbeams shooting out of your mouth. Your smile is giving me a contact high. Pretty soon you’ll be farting flowers.”

  “Deal with it,” he said in his kindest voice. His smile was infectious; I started smiling too. Brian said he was “in the middle of some kind of spiritual metamorphosis.” He said he’d “been having private epiphanies” without me.

  We cruised through the Cambodian countryside with the windows down. I felt truly Beat for the first time on the trip. When I began our journey, I thought experience was going to be the key to happiness, but maybe it was a state of nirvana I was looking for. Basking in Brian’s newfound state of Zen, it felt like I was getting enlightened by proxy—by simply smiling.

  Brian pointed out the window. “I learned it from watching them.” I looked out the window and saw two women picking rice turn to smile at us right as we zoomed by.

  “Whoa,” I said. “On cue.”

  Maybe we had found heaven after all.

  The moment we arrived in Phnom Penh, we ran out to eat and exchange our currency. The Cambodian capital was beautiful at sunset; it looked and felt like a big, rundown city and we loved it. That evening, we checked into the Capital Hotel, then went back out to see the town, being careful not to cause too much trouble since everyone we met kept saying this place was dangerous.

  But we found no danger, only kindness and those smiles everywhere.

  The Cambodian women had some of the most beautiful faces in Asia. We saw them selling baguettes everywhere, like in Vietnam. Crickets were also for sale all over the place (to eat, not keep as pets like in Japan, where they’re sacred), but I haven’t tried one yet and probably never will just in case they are sacred little creatures.

  Brian agreed. “Eating one of those is bad karma.”

  When we got back to our hotel, we were exhausted but happy. Maybe we were finally having the personal renaissance I had been searching for? I didn’t care if Brian was touched by it first. I could feel it, too, and it was better than any drug you could find on earth.

  Is this what true happiness feels like?

  Of course, as is life, my state of nirvana could not last forever.

  Traveling to a bunch of countries can have weird side effects: like not knowing what the money is called, having five different currencies in your pocket, and being unaware of what’s illegal (like in Singapore)—though I don’t think much is illegal in Cambodia.

  But one of the stranger side effects is “location amnesia.” It started happening our first night in Cambodia when I woke in the middle of the night and had no idea what country I was in. “Dude, wh
ere are we??” I was in a cold sweat.

  Brian sat up in bed, mumbled, “You are a lotus flower in the garden of the Buddha,” then flopped back down snoring. Brian reminded me we were becoming Buddhist, but that didn’t help. I was scared and confused; where the hell am I?? I got up and threw some water on my face and still had no idea where in the world I was, so I spent the next hour counting off the countries we had visited, starting from home until I got it right.

  I went back to sleep happy again.

  The next morning we were refreshed and ready to check out something amazing. We took a five-hour boat trip to Angkor Wat, one of the seven man-made wonders on earth. It’s famous for being the largest religious monument in the world. It was first designed as a Hindu temple complex back in the twelfth century where people worshipped Vishnu, but the place went Buddhist at some point since its creation eight hundred years ago. We had to check it out.

  We traveled up a huge river system on a fifty-foot boat to our destination at Siem Reap, where a hotel owner near the ruins greeted us. He came all the way out to the boat in hopes of getting our business, yelling, “Three-dollar night, both of you!” We jumped at the offer.

  After we checked in, we rented two mopeds (and drivers) and took off to see the amazing monuments. We were tempted to rent a Cambodian military helicopter for fifty dollars, but we kept to our fiscal restraint.

  Riding around on mopeds with our drivers zipping in and out of ancient ruins was incredible. The Angkor Wat temple was otherworldly, like some pharaoh spent ten lifetimes building it. We learned Buddhist monks had been caring for it since the 1400s, and it showed. It’s an architectural masterpiece.

  Brian was as serious as I’d seen him since the last time he had to appear in court. “The profile of this building looks like a lotus bud, and look—some of these passages were designed to fit elephants.”

  One of our moped guides told us Angkor Wat was a stone replica of the universe and “an earthly model of the cosmic world.” While we walked around the “universe,” the guide pointed to the central tower, which he said symbolizes Meru, the mythical mountain that’s located at the center of the universe.