The Border

     There were four of us in the town of Kampot. Two guys, two girls. In addition to myself, there was Max. A big slab of German. I’m pretty sure his father was a Panzer tank. He was huge. Hitler’s wet dream. He loved to cook, and loved to talk. The talking was always entertaining, as his English was good, but not perfect. His lisp was comical. His rants about food, specifically cheese, were cartoonish and hilarious.

     There was Mijke, the Dutch girl. A Dutch girl with a British accent. Manchester British. It was weird. She was a pretty girl; she looked like Nicole Kidman with dark hair. She was fun. She couldn’t get a tan to save her life.

     Then there was Aimee. French, bitchy Aimee. At first glance, she was cute. Sandy-blonde wavy hair framing a cute face and a nice smile. Athletic figure. Then her bad attitude started to show its face. Although her butt looked great in a bikini, her welcome was wearing thin.

     The morning of the border crossing, we rose early to eat in the shade of the garden of the hotel. I felt like shit, the cheap Asian whiskey from the night before was twisting my insides and stomping on my brain. At least everyone else looked as booze-fucked as me. The sun was out but it couldn’t touch us in the trees of the garden. I ate mostly-cooked eggs on toast and stirred my coffee. Max drank fresh juice and had eggs and commented on the tiny Asian portion size. He ordered a second breakfast. The girls ate fruit. Aimee bitched about the cost. $1 does seem pretty steep for a fresh fruit salad with yogurt.

After breakfast we walked through the arched, iron gate of the hotel and sat down on our packs on the side of the road in the shade of a palm tree. The pavement was broken and partly gravel. The road was empty except for two dogs digging in a pile of trash. The van was supposed to pick us up at 8 o’clock in the morning. That was on Southeast Asian time, so it could arrive anywhere between 7 and noon. That’s if it came at all.

While we sat we lit cigarettes and talked about Laotian pastries and their resemblance to footballs. We wondered if anyone found our rented bike that was stolen last week. Max was happy he was able to buy a giant block of cheese in Kampot. Aimee complained about how heavy her bag was.

A silver van turned down the street and drove past us kicking up dust and U-turned at the dead end. It was our van. As the van drove up, we all surveyed it. It was empty save for the driver. That makes just five of us in a Van for 10 people. That didn’t seem right.

     We stood up and handed the driver our paper tickets. Max opened the back and we tossed our packs in. The girls were chatting so we tossed their packs in as well. Mijke thanked us, and Aimee complained that it was already getting hot out. We asked the driver if that was the van we were taking all the way to Saigon.

     “Yeah yeah, Saigon.” He answered.

     “How many people are we to pick up?” Max asked with a grin.

     “Yeah yeah, Saigon. Seven hours.” The driver said.

     Clearly we were having a communication breakdown. That was standard for Asia. But for the time being we were being driven toward The Vietnamese city with a ton of elbow room in an air-conditioned van. It seemed too good. We drove up and down the streets of Kampot, watching life wake and stretch its legs.  We stopped at 2 more hotels, picking up a traveler at each one. A twenty-something guy from Russia, and a thirty-something guy from Holland. The Dutch guy was large. That brought our van total to 7 including the driver. We still had a lot of room. Even with the 2 European giants.

     We then pulled up to another hotel and the van doors were flung open. Our packs were pulled out and tossed in a pile on the street and we were ushered out of the van. The van pulled away. We were left standing in the dusty road with stupid looks on our faces in the morning sun. The only person standing there besides the foreigners was a man from the hotel. We all stood there confused, but no one was surprised. That is Asia; confusion is the norm. Aimee was visibly frustrated. I wondered where I could get a beer. I lit a cigarette.

“Hey guy, where did our van go?” I asked.

He informed me in broken English that they were getting a smaller vehicle for only 6 passengers. We didn’t think that was a big deal. We sat on plastic chairs in a circle around our pile of packs in the middle of the road. A white Honda Civic pulled up.

     “Your car. Saigon. Ho Chi Minh.” Said the hotel man.

     We looked at each other.

     “There is 6 of us!” Boomed Max, “Six plus driver!” His lisp made the whole statement funny. We tried to explain that we would not fit, but suddenly no one Asian spoke any English. We all laughed at the situation. Everyone except Aimee. She was about to lose it.

Instead of taking a van with an extra couple seats, we were being crammed into a miniature sedan. They stuffed our packs into the back with no hope of it closing. They lashed the hatch with rope and we all piled into the car. The suspension bottomed out. The driver had his driver’s seat, and Aimee and Mijke shared the other single seat in the front. Aimee was losing her shit, screaming at the driver in French and English, drifting between both languages at random not making a lot of sense. She was like a child losing their toy. The driver didn’t speak a word of English, or French, but he could clearly tell she was a brat. We pretended we didn’t know her.

     The backseat was no picnic either. Four guys, two of who were walrus sized. We were uncomfortable, but for $6, you can’t complain really. We laughed about it. Aimee did not think it was funny.    

     We drove for a half hour to Kep, in order to drop off the large Dutch fellow and pick up another passenger. We stopped at a restaurant with a few people eating at bamboo tables under umbrellas. We opened the doors and exploded out of the car onto the broken pavement.  

     “We’ll lose the big guy and probably gain a bigger, sweatier guy.,” said Mijke. Aimee said something angry in French. I wanted to smack her.

     I looked over at the restaurant and caught a glimpse of a beautiful brown-haired girl standing at the bar drinking a coffee, with a red pack at her feet. She wore a white tank top and a long pale-green skirt. Her skirt swayed in the tropical breeze highlighting her perfect curves. Great boobs. Bulletproof ass. I wondered if that was our new passenger. But I thought there was no way God, or Karma, or whatever was going to let me exchange a fat, sweaty Dutchman for this brown-eyed goddess. The world is not that kind.

     The driver approached her and asked, “Saigon? Ho Chi Minh?”

     The girl looked confused.

     “Yes,” she said, “but there are so many of us for that car.” Her voice was soft and bubbly like a mix between a whisper and a laugh.

     “Yeah yeah, Saigon. Ho Chi Minh.” He repeated.

     We explained to her that reasoning was useless, as he spoke no English at all, but Saigon was where we all were hoping to get to, despite getting no confirmation that was our actual destination. She shrugged, smiled, and gave him her pack. We all squished back into the Honda, but instead of being crushed between massive Max and Tantor, the clammy Dutchman, I was against the door with a lovely girl in my lap. She was American. Her name was Katie. Her smile was sweet. Her laugh was adorable.

After going through the standard, where-are-you-from, what-do-you-do questions in the car, we learned she was a Doctor from Texas, who just studied a month of traditional medicine in China. She was making her way through Cambodia into Vietnam to fly home. Well isn’t that nice.

     We drove for about 20 minutes before we reached a Cambodian construction zone. A construction zone that consisted of random piles of gravel dumped all over the road with machines working all over. There was barely a lane to drive on, but we were sharing it with dump trucks, construction workers, cars, and motorcycles. No one had the right-of-way, but everyone was going first. Arguments between drivers were frequent. The traffic delay didn’t bother me much, we made jokes about construction in Cambodia, and Katie had an honest laugh.  We made our way in the crammed Honda until we reached the border between Cambodia and Vietnam. Thankfully that was as far as we had to take that clown car.

     We shuffled through customs, got the necessary stamps by uniformed men, and they raised the red bar to allow us to cross.

On the other side was our ride. It was a typical Vietnamese bargain-bus. Old and busted, but cheap and entertaining. Full of locals, and the occasional dead animal. The driver approached us and took our tickets. He spoke a little bit of English and explained that we would only be on this bus for 2 hours until we got to Ha Tien. Then we would switch vehicles. We assumed that meant this local bus was as good as it was going to get.

     Our packs were tossed on the roof and we piled on the bus with the locals. At first there were a few empty seats. But as the journey went on, we picked up more and more locals. It was getting more and more crowded. It was entertaining watching Max attempt to fit in a seat meant for an Asian. His knees were next to the ears of the passenger in front of him. When he shifted in his seat he upset four people and cursed in German. I sat in one of the four seats in the back. Katie on one side, and Mijke on the other. Aimee was on the other side of Mijke, complaining about our packs being on the roof. Once we settled into the journey, a few books and iPods came out. I peaked at Katie’s iPod; The Black Keys. I thought to myself; she’s beautiful, successful, and has good taste in music. I figured she was probably a lesbian or something.

     We stopped an hour into the journey at what seemed like the middle of nowhere. There was a small shack selling drinks and snacks. No one got off the bus, but if we were stopped I wanted off. I asked Katie if she wanted to attempt to climb out the window. She laughed and said she didn’t want to show her ass to the bus, but it was ok if I wanted to try. I reached my upper half out the window and grabbed hold of the roof rack, pulled my legs out and dropped to the ground. I bought 2 beers and 2 packs of what I think were crackers. Max awkwardly stumbled off the bus, followed by Mijke. I handed Max a beer and we lit cigarettes and sat in the shade.  The driver then shouted something in Vietnamese and we climbed back on the bus. I took my place next to the American beauty. I offered her a bag of Asian crackers, she smiled and took them. We both agreed they tasted like shit, but it was food. After 10 minutes on the road, the heavy rains hit. Our bags on the roof were exposed. The bus stopped and the driver tarped the roof, but it was too late, and Aimee was losing her godamn mind. No one else was too worried that their dirty laundry was damp. Aimee was coming unglued. 

     After another lazy hour in a humid bus we stopped at a bus station in Ha Tien. The bus station was a partly paved lot with a few tour companies occupying space. A few modern vans around and a few junky old busses, but basically deserted. We spilled off the crowded bus as they dumped our soggy packs from the roof. There was a pay toilet across the parking lot. Everyone needed to pee. We peed. Max and I bought beers and we lit cigarettes. We walked around stretching our legs. Everyone went through their bags to see what got wet. Only Aimee complained.

     We sat on plastic chairs. We wondered what kind of vehicle they had in store for us. Then our chariot rolled up. It was a brand new Mercedes-Benz van. Leather seats, air-conditioned, and only 6 passengers for 12 seats. We wondered what the catch was. We tossed our packs in the back, and the doors actually closed.

     “So we will drive in this for probably a half hour and then get stuffed into a Honda.” laughed Mijke. Aimee complained in French about a situation that hadn’t even happened yet. I wanted to smack her. At least her butt looked good.

     I climbed into the very back. Katie joined me. We had a large bench seat between the two of us. We took off our flip-flops stretched out across the seat, our backs to the windows. If I was going to be spending the next 7 hours in a van, at least I was sharing it with a beautiful girl. They played Vietnamese karaoke on the drop down TV, repeating the same song over and over, until we could all sing the words. Aimee and Mijke were 2 seats up, and Max was in front of Katie and myself. I was curious about Katie. She was the epitome of lovely. She smiled a lot, and spoke sweetly. Even without looking at her, it sounded as though she were smiling. We talked about the madness that is China. She was a vegetarian. She liked sports. She liked beer. She liked the odd doobie. She had a brother. She was half Mexican. She amazed me.

     As the miles rolled on, our stretched out positions were growing uncomfortable. I invited Katie to lie down on the seat. She did. Her wavy brown hair spilled across the seat. A short piece of hair fell in her face and she swept it behind her ear. She looked up at me and smiled. The van was making stops and taking on locals. After a couple stops, Katie no longer had the seat space to stretch out. We squished together in the back next to 2 Vietnamese men who clearly liked her busty American chest. I sat between them and her. I put my arm around her shoulders and she put her head on my chest. We watched a film on my iPod. I took a moment to absorb the irony that I was watching a film about the Vietnam War while in Vietnam with a beautiful American girl in my arms. Suddenly life kicked a lot of ass.

     We drove in the dark for 2 hours and the van pulled into a parking lot. Directly in front of the van was a large building with 3 walls. The roof was very high like a warehouse, and the lighting bright like a hospital. Inside there were hundreds of tables to eat at, and several stands selling food. There were only about five people eating in the sea of tables, but there were over 20 staff in blue shirts running around. Our driver made the motion to eat. I ordered rice and something from an old woman, she said it was chicken. After picking out the chicken’s feet, the rest was good. Max ordered the same and wondered if he could find cheese anywhere. Mijke drank a bottle of water and smoked a cigarette. Aimee bitched that we were still not in Ho Chi Minh City. Katie sat down with rice and hopefully only vegetables. I bought two beers and offered one to Katie. She thanked me and opened it. She finished hers before I did mine.

     We arrived in Saigon at midnight and took a cab from the bus to the city center. The road was still busy even though it was late. We stood turning circles on the spot wondering which way to go. I asked Katie if she would like to share a room.

     “Won’t your friends want to share with you?” she asked.

     “They’ll be fine. Plus, Max snores.” I said.

     She smiled sweetly and took my hand and we walked to a hotel. We decided to spring for the fancy room. $21 in Canadian funds. Split two ways. Air-conditioned, high thread count linens, beer in the fridge, and a giant window behind fancy curtains. Easily the nicest room I had used in 3 months on the road.

     We spent the next 4 days fucking and exploring Ho Chi Mhin City. We saw sights, and wandered aimlessly. We dove into the Asian chaos. We broke flip-flops taking chances crossing the street. We got lost and drank good coffee.

     On our last day we changed hotel rooms because the hotel was overbooked, but the new room was no different than the last. Crisp white sheets, cool climate, a big window behind fancy curtains. We tossed our packs in the new room and went exploring. We walked through the busy streets, enjoying each other’s company. 

As the sun set on the evening before Katie was to leave, we strolled slowly along a busy Saigon street. I spotted a place to get my hair cut. I told Katie my unkempt hair was bugging me, and I’d like to get it cut. She squeezed my hand and said she’d get her nails done.

     We walked into the salon and were immediately mobbed by 12 hands and half a dozen conversations.

     “Hellooo!! Sir, haircut!? Shave!? Beautiful lady! Wax!? Massage!?”

     Katie’s eyes closed as she laughed at our celebrity status. They loved her waves of brown hair. They wanted to shave my beard. They pulled us inside before we had a chance to say no.

As the ladies of the salon painted Katie’s nails, a tallish, skinny boy cut my curls off. Some staff gathered around my chair to point and laugh at the bended clumps of hair on the floor. After a decent haircut, I was then approached by a young girl who asked through hand gestures and a couple English words if I wanted a facial massage. I was fairly confident none of the gestures or words she used meant “happy ending”, so I nodded and agreed. I was then lead into a different room. I was not entirely sure what I agreed to, and as I left Katie had a big smile and wide eyes that said ‘I’m pretty sure you just signed up for an inappropriate blowjob.’ I was then urged to lay face up on a massage table. A towel was placed across my crotch. I wondered if facial massages resulted in a lot of boners. And seriously, if you want to hide my erection, don’t drape a cloth over it. That’s what we call pitching a tent.

To start, the young lady proceeded to pour warm water on my face and soap up her hands. She began gently massaging my forehead, jaw, and chin. It was very pleasant. I let out a deep breath and relaxed. And that’s when she brought the thunder. She slapped my cheeks and pounded on my forehead. She pulled on my jaw and squeezed my nose. She dropped fists on my face. She was beating the shit out of me. My response was mix of laughter and yelps of agony. Soap filled cries. I was voluntarily getting my face pummeled by a 90-pound Asian teenager. In between hammer-fists to the skull, I could hear Katie in the next room laughing at me. I was glad someone was enjoying this massage.

We left the salon with my hair short, my face numb, and Katie’s nails painted red. This was our last night together. Neither of us mentioned it.

We stopped at a small restaurant and we each ordered a beer. We sat beside each other at a table that faced the street, watching people go by. Katie hooked her foot around my leg and grabbed my hand. She kissed me and smiled that sweet smile. It was our last night together. We both knew it. Neither of us said it.

She was to leave the hotel at 4 o’clock in the morning for the airport.

We spent the night in our hotel room laughing. We drank beer and smoked joints. There was a baseball game on TV. We had sex and didn’t watch it. She fell asleep on my chest.

I awoke to the shower running. Just as I sat up in bed, the water stopped. Katie walked out of the bathroom with a towel around her fun parts, combing her long hair. She smiled but didn’t say anything. She kneeled on the bed and kissed me.

“You’re leaving.” I said.

“Yes.”

“Any chance you’ll stay longer?”

“I can’t.”

“I know.”

She kissed me and walked back into the bathroom. She came out wearing the pale-green skirt and white tank top. She looked at me with a half-smile and sadness in her coffee-coloured eyes. My heart ached. Her bag was packed. I stood up into a pair of shorts and pulled my blue t-shirt over my head. I walked over to her and she sank into my arms. My arms wrapped around her five times. I didn’t want to let her go. Our hearts were in line. She said it was time to go, and the cab would be waiting. We kissed like two people who would never see each other again. She smiled that sweet smile on her way down the stairs. I shut the door and sat on the end of the bed, my head in my hands. I lit a cigarette. Her shape still lingered in the sheets. I thought about sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come for me. I sat staring at the floor with the cigarette in my lips, my elbows resting on my knees. Smoke curled in front of my face toward the ceiling. I stood up, went to the window and flung the curtains open wide. Behind them was only a brick wall. There was no window.