The Sweaty-Palmed Tales of a Penniless Idiot [Part III]

Ah, Bali. With its sweeping beaches, scarlet sunsets, mystical volcanoes and hospitable people, this southern island of the Indonesian archipelago is a magical place worthy of a visit or two.

Or, so I've heard.

About a month ago, I peeled myself from between the plastic of my bare mattress (alias "Torture Device") and the heat of my laptop, looked up from the Kayak website where I'd searched "Round Trip between Singapore and Bali" and thought, I could go. I should go. Alone? Alone. It'd be like a retreat ... with myself. It has everything! Haunted graveyards, ancient temples, vampire-themed Jazz Festivals ... That's it, I'm going! So with conviction, I slammed my laptop shut and left my room, eager to tell my Singa friends of my recent decision.

Every day since, I have cursed myself for that ill-fated moment. Nay, I have cursed myself for that ill-fated flight price search, and with more vehemence, cursed the Kayak website for thinking itself clever and helpful in this one specific capacity: it saves search histories.

With this in mind, I now take you to March 5th, approximately 7:07 am. I slowly cracked my eye-lids to take in the glory of the morning: sleepily, I took in the blaring sliver of sunlight shining between my vomit-colored curtains, the muggy heat of the Singapore day-time pulsing off of my cinderblock walls, the quiet beeping of my Nook reminding me to wake up for my flight, and then groggily thought, my flight. Why is the sun up. WHY is the sun up?! Ohmyshitmyflight. Go down sun! Go back where you came from! Noooooooo....

Yes, suspecting readers, I had missed my flight. The sun had risen and I had slept, past the first alarm I'd set for 3:30 am, past the second for 4:00 am, and the third/fourth/fifth for 4:25/4:26/4:27 am. I had slept through the security check, the final boarding call and, what's best, I'd even slept through the plane taking off the ground! After pacing around my room and muttering profanities at myself aloud until I was firmly awake, I went to find my friend Meg, who was supposed to catch the flight with me to Ho Chi Minh city. As it turns out, she had risen on time, messaged me desperately, attempted to break into my room, alerted security guards, and basically done everything possible to retrieve me without scaling the 6-storey building and bursting through my window. To no avail.

To short-circuit the lengthy and unfortunate account of the events that transpired over the next few hours, here is a timeline between the time that I missed my flight and the moments during which we finally landed in Vietnam, about 12 hours later (because land, *finally* we did!)

9:07 am: Wake Meg, suitcase in hand, apologize profusely [see screen shots - again, apologies for the profanities]

9:15 am: Convince self that Meg's computer doesn't accept my card because it had a "British VPN" .... (Cloud of Delirium briefly possesses brain. Cloud of Delirium sent from Satan.)

9:30 am: Return to room, purchase my flight and Meg's (though she offered to pay for hers, graciously.)

10:30 am: Squash cockroach outside of room by projecting shoe down hall. This is significant for reasons I will disclose later.

11:15 am: Leave for airport; take MRT to "save money" (later becomes laughable concept. Keep reading.)

12:00 pm: Create list titled "All of the Stupid Things I Have Done In the Past Year". Total up "Money Lost on Said Stupid Things" (including, but not limited to, getting scammed on Craigslist, three speeding tickets, 2 license plate tickets, misplaced cash, lost phone x 2, lost wallet [retrieved], lost Nook [retrieved], lost Debit Card [not retrieved, forcing me to live off of crackers and peanut butter for 2 weeks in Singapore], missing flights to Vietnam, etc). Gag at total. Write, in block letters: "THIS STREAK ENDS NOW." Underline for emphasis.

12:45 pm: Arrive at airport for 2:30 pm flight. Produce Confirmation Number to Check-in counter.

12:46 pm: Hear check-in employee say, "Ma'am, your flight to Bali is Gate C3."

12:46.30 pm: State, "No no, we are going to Ho Chi Minh."

12:47 pm: [long pause] "... no, miss, these tickets are for Bali."

12:47.33 pm: [longer pause] "...You're kidding."

12:48 pm: [pitying, confused glance from employee] "Erm, no, I'm sorry but I'm not."

12:48.30 pm: "...You're kidding."

12:48.30 pm: [employee wonders about sanity of girl in front of him] "Again, no ...."

12:50 pm: Go weak at knees, shake fists at Fortuna (that vengeful wench) and/or my own brain, laugh sadly and say, "Okay..."

12:50 pm: [simultaneously] Cloud of Delirium lifts. Realization of mistake (see below).

1:30 pm: Purchase THIRD FLIGHT of the day to Vietnam.

2:00 pm: Drown sorrows in the most bitter-sweetly delicious fajita burger ever tasted from the Singaporean airport equivalent of Chili's.

7:00 pm: Board plane to Vietnam.

9:00 pm: Arrive in Ho Chi Minh City.

For those who are confused at the 12:50 pm "realization of mistake" point, that was when I comprehended that at 9:30 am, when I'd bought flights to "Ho Chi Minh", I'd actually bought flights to Bali. But how, you ask? Because, as I mentioned earlier, Kayak saves search histories. My doomed decision to check those prices 2 days earlier had dreadful consequences: in my befuddled state post-sleeping-through-the-flight, I had returned to my room and pressed "purchase", without noticing that I had never actually searched "flights to Ho Chi Minh." I bought plane tickets ... to the WRONG COUNTRY.

Are you speechless at the stupidity yet? I was. I finally understood how Andy could punch a hole in the Office wall. This was my "Is this chicken or is this fish", my very own "i love the smell of his 'colon'", an almost worse version of "Bae caught me sleepin'": The Bali Folly.

And so, feeling very much as though I could give 'Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day' a run for his money, I inhaled, and prepared (I thought) for Adventure Vietnam.

***

On our first day in Ho Chi Minh, we went to the War Remnants Museum, a very clearly anti-American collection of government propaganda, global journalism and photo documentation of the awfulness that was the Vietnam War. Americans are portrayed as the "aggressors", the "evil batch of Devils that invaded villages mercilessly and killed helpless civilians." (This was a direct quote from a video shown at the Cu Chi Tunnels, pictured below). While I have long been aware that American history is presented as exactly that, American, the evident disdain for my country and its involvement in Vietnamese history took me aback. While walking around the museum, I felt like I did when my friend Cat told me she had learned very little about colonialism in her British secondary school. She told me she'd hardly ever been taught where the British had been, who they had conquered, or how they had conquered. The Vietnamese images and captions were similarly unsettling. Disconcerting. Inciting. Like reading a Tim O'Brien book while watching film reels of a laughing American soldier gunning down a line of children. On the one hand, there's Truth, and the other, Skew, but where and how does one draw the line? It's like cramming "ahhmaybebutI'mnotsosure" into "Fact", spelling out "Fa-hhmaybebutI'mnotsosure-ct" by the end of it. Uncertainty meets conviction and the result is a mud puddle of discomfort in your stomach, a word that can't be pronounced and means too many things at once.

The Cu Chi Tunnels were equally as disturbing.

We spent the afternoon crawling through an underground tunnel system constructed in Cu Chi, Vietnam, a rural village about 30 km outside of Ho Chi Minh. We also engaged with the various types of steel traps created by Viet Cong soldiers throughout the brutal months (years) of guerilla warfare in the 1960s and 70s. Our guide (above, left) took an unnerving amount of pleasure in describing the various functions of the traps that were hidden all across the jungle floor, traps that severed legs, ensnared torsos, and pitted men against their own hunger in confined compartments underground. The sole purpose was to unhinge, injure, and destroy the Americans at all costs; actually walking through the site gave the details I'd read in textbooks and historical fiction novels an air of tangibility, and nothing transforms history into reality quite like that.

The next day, we bussed to Mui Ne, a beach-town slightly north of Ho Chi Minh that is renowned for its White and Red Sand Dunes. We booked a tour around the area, traveling from the "Fairy Stream" (see 'photos') to a fishing village over-look to, finally, the white dunes.

Here, we rented an ATV and took off, riding recklessly over the sand hills and defying grafity with the traction of our vehicle. We kept at this joyously for at least 10 minutes, riding as far from the base as we could. Until, of course, the traction decided to drop its latter half, become just 'tr' -- a grating tr-tr-tr-tr-tr as the engine of the machine ground against unmoving wheels. As it turns out, the chain had fallen off. Naturally. I tried to re-attach the chain, but it was useless, and so, begrudgingly, Meg and I began the trek back to rental site. My hands and face were covered in oil, and while this picture (below) looks 'cool', it is actually a photo of me storming into the distance while our frail machine sits, deserted, on a hill. (Curse you Fortuna!)

That night, Meg and I decided to get a few drinks in a "Chill Bar" (the name inspired the same sentiment I get when I hear people exclaim, 'I'm just a chill person, like, really unphased by most things.' Cue: This person is crazy). The bar lived up to its name though -- I even had to put on a sweater! Ha! In reality, it was fairly average, with wooden bar stools, arm chairs, pool tables, and of course, a roof. Note to reader: I said 'and of, course, a roof.' This bar had a roof. A roof, I tell you. A roof! [Read on].

While casually listening to the ever-so-unique cover of 'Ho Hey', I felt something land on my head. "Meg," I stated softly, as if I'd just spotted a scope aimed between my eyes. "Did something just ... is there something ... I think ..." Suddenly, Meg looked up and spat out her drink. Between sputters she gasp-laughed, "Did a bird just POOP on your head?!"

Yes, reader, it had. A bird that NEITHER of us had seen, nor heard, nor detected in the moments afterward had somehow managed to deposit its waste in the narrow crevice between the roof and the tree growing out of the ground to which it was attached. The hole itself was, perhaps, 3 inches wide, and the trajectory of the fecal matter had to be astoundingly accurate to hit my scalp from that angle. And yet, it managed. A bulls-eye! At this point, I accepted reality for what it was: instance after instance of pathetic-fallacy-meets-misfortune. I cannot shake the image of the Grecian gods on Mount Olympus, roarously slapping their knees and spilling their wine as Mercury shouts, 'Guys, watch this part! She thought the missed flight, Bali tickets, and broken ATV was bad -- wait till a bird poops on her head, inside!" (At this point, Bacchus hiccups and falls off his stool. To be fair, he was drunk before the rompous began).

Also, I must reference Russell Peters' joke about the gods and Asians as the model for this (^) vision. Worth a watch, if you have time and/or are miserable and need a genuine laugh. And furthermore, my cousin Nelson's insistance that a sitcom about Greek gods in the modern day would be 'a downright hoot'!

To comedy!

The next day, we bussed into Da Lat. Our primary concern for this small mountainous town was "canyoning", an excursion in which guides take travelers into the jungle, attach them to ropes, and push, essentially. We body surfed down rapids, floated down currents, jumped off cliffs, and rappelled down waterfalls, all in the midst of the Vietnamese forest. And what would be a day without some calamity for the Meg-n'-me duo? Trick question: It wouldn't!

Toward the end of the day, as we were headed to the last obstacle in the outdoor course, Meg had me hold back with her while she adjusted her jellies. [ww-werr-ewr-ww <-- the sound of a record scratching // REEEE-wind!] Did you say 'jellies'?!?, you ask. Yes, indeed I did

! My friend Meg (who is, by most accounts, normal) owns adult jellies. And wears them. For those who are unsure, this is an image of the shoes most females of the 90s owned when they were 5. Meg's are white, but they are very real, and what is also real is that she decided to wear them trekking in Vietnam.

Yes, those.

So while Meg repositioned her rubber shoes, the rest of the canyoning team ventured ahead. I kept them in sight until they rounded a bend, but figured, its only one trail to follow, we'll catch up.

WRONG.

Instead, we wound up wandering in the Vietnamese jungle, wearing helmets and life jackets and sopping wet as the unwelcome heat of anxiety crept up our necks. For nearly the 5th time in a few short months, I wondered, what happens if we get stuck out here? I don't know how to light a fire ... can you eat tree bark? Are these ant bites fatal? After about 30 minutes, we were both so panicked, all we could do was laugh. So we laughed, and then cried from laughing, and then peed ourselves a little (a lot) (sry mom, I know you'll hate that. But who are we kidding? She's not allowed to read this one. She still doesn't know about the Bali tickets!). Finally, as we sat with our legs in the stream and planned our new lives as forest hermits, our guide panted around the corner, exclaiming "FINALLY!" The poor man was probably more worried than we were, envisioning headlines of, "TWO WHITE FEMALES LOST IN FOREST, TWO RUBBER SHOES BELONGING TO LIFE SIZE BARBIE ONLY REMAINS FOUND." However, find us we did, and after jumping the last cliff, the entire crew of canyoners headed back to our hostel, giddy from the day but weary from the exertion.

And so, we've arrived at my favorite anecdote from the trip, a scene I thought would only ever occur in the movies. I call it: 'Mr. Peace Doesn't Get His Money//Post-Karaoke.' or, more appropriately 'Pay Me, Bitch.'

In Da Lat, by the recommendation of friends in Singapore, Meg and I stayed at Mr. Peace's Backpackers Hostel, owned and run by a small flamboyant man named Mr. Peace, his wife, and his two year old child.

Facebook does not offer nearly enough photos of this character, which is bizarre because his house is plastered with them. Selfies of Mr. Peace with backpackers, his baby, him alone, him in front of motorcars -- the list continues -- are pasted on the stairs, the counters, the shelves, and the walls. The man had a profundity for calling everyone 'bitch' in every circumstance, and frequently offered a 'no, f*** you!' with enough sass to make Jai'me King look saintly.

(That is him, in the shades). Part of me still wonders if he is a cyborg, because somehow, despite the heat and humidity of Vietnamese days, he always wore a sheep-skin jacket and skinny jeans. Yet he never sweated. He never even perspired, nor glistened. It was madness!

One evidently infamous aspect of the Da Lat night-life is 'karaoke with Mr. Peace'. For those who are unaware (like I was), 'karaoke' is Viet-slang/innuendo for 'brothel', so the very fact that this aspect is well-known and 'suggested' is a bit odd in itself. The experience, to be sure, was every bit as bizarre as it suggested.

A group of about 20 backpackers from the hostel all followed sheep-skin clad Mr. Peace across the street into a shabby looking disco-tech, mounted the stairs, and entered a 'private room' where 4 giant television screens were turned to display the lyrics scrolling across the surface. Immediately, a disco ball emerged from the ceiling, and as everyone took seats on the sofas around the perifory of the room, Mr. Peace grabbed a microphone and took his stance in direct view of all of us. He popped one hip, let the lights dim, and then launched into a very emotional, very high-pitched rendition of 'My Heart Will Go On.' As he circled his pelvis and flipped his hair, all the while wrenching our hearts (and ear drums) to the tunings of Celine Dion, employees from the brothel--erm, I mean disco-tech--walked in with platters of cheese, grapes, mango, and pringles for the group to share.

27 minutes later, Mr. Peace had finished, Ke$ha (Ke-dollarsign-ha) was blaring through the speakers, and 20+ white people (ages 21-24) were standing on elevated platforms, dancing poorly and singing loudly to the greatest melody of our time, Tik Tok. It was Ron Swanson's worst nightmare, a literal enacment of what people around the world think white people do in their spare time. And while horrifying yet weirdly engrossing, I admittedly joined. It belonged, wholeheartedly, to the compilation of The Whitest Things That Have Ever Happened. And it took place in Vietnam.

After a bit longer of this, a few of us decided to return to the hostel and turn in for the night. Just as I was drifting into a *peaceful* sleep (notably Peace-less, if you will), the door slammed open and the light flicked on.

[enter Mr. Peace, alone.]

"Where's my money?" I heard, drowsily, coming from the floor (I was on a top bunk).

"Whaa--?" we all offered, confused.

"My money. Where is it?"

As I was sitting up at this point, I watched Mr. Peace (still in fur) snap his fingers, and around the corner into the room walked two of the largest boys staying in the hostel at the time. They both stood a bit awkwardly, shoving their hands into their pockets as they flanked the tiny man in front of them.

"Andre, who did I tell you to fin"--he stopped and looked down--"are you wearing SHOES?!" [Sidenote: it was obligatory to take shoes off downstairs in Mr. Peace's hostel.]

"Well, yea," answered Andre, "because you told me to get up and follow you to be your 'muscle' ... so I ... kept them o--."

"WHAT have I told you about shoes in here?!" cut in Mr. Peace. "Fucking useless. Go. Go!" At that, he waved a manicured hand at the two boys, who looked at eachother, puzzled, and left the room.

He turned back to us and placed a hand on his hip.

"I want my money. You drank my beers and I want my money."

"But Mr. Peace, I had one! And I was going to pay you tomorrow!" answered a girl on the bunk below me.

"No, fuck that bitch, you pay me now. Gimme." Thrusting out one hand and beckoning for the bills to meet his palm, he used the other to adjust his hair. Shakily, she handed him 30,000 Dong (the equivalent of $1.39 USD). "Don't pull this sh** again," he spat, and at that, he sauntered out of the room, firmly shutting the door behind him.

And so, in the end, Mr. Peace got his money, but not without pulling a very Mr. Chow-like stint in a mid-sized backpackers hostel with the hippie equivalent of Crabbe and Doyle as his lankies. I honestly thought that the whole episode might have been a dream, but Meg affirmed that it had, in fact, occurred, and Andre had, in fact, been wearing shoes. The idiot!

***

Our Vietnam trip ended fairly uneventfully (shocking, isn't it?). Otherwise, I've spent my time in Singapore ever since. I haven't traveled, because a) I have no money, and b) I wanted to actually see the country in which I'm living. I've been biking on a small island called Pulau Ubin, gone to the Night Safari at the zoo, spent evenings at comedy clubs and jazz bars and trivia nights, visited the Gardens by the Bay (numerous times), (see 'photos'), trekked through Chinese graveyards in the woods, checked out local parks, and, in general, I've spent time a lot of time with friends. One of my favorite nights was for my friend Emma's birthday, where we took a boat out into the harbor and watched the sun set over the city. Manufactured lights meeting nature's lights --however cheesy that comparison may sound-- is actually a sight to behold. The skyline and the ocean pit geometry against fluidity, and somehow, neither contender overwhelms.

Sadly, tonight marked my last in Singapore. I actually had a fair amount of school work in the past month (again, shocking), but as of this morning, I have taken my last exam, turned in all of my assignments, and packed up my room. Well, almost.

Tomorrow, at 1:15 pm, I will take my first bus in my 24-day loop between Malaysia, Laos and Northern Vietnam (which we missed when we went the first time). My plans are pretty loose (so, look out for the Tales of a Penniless Idiot Part C! -- that is, 100), but I'm quite excited.

I'm not going to wrap this up with some sappy, conclusive statement on what I've learned, how I've changed, who I've become [because a) puke, and b) I haven't processed as far yet], but I'm sure once I write about my final trip, I'll have more insights to provide, should you want them. (I can almost hear the resounding 'YES!' from here!)

Instead, I'll provide images of some of my favorite places and things and people from Singapore in March/April.

Bishan Park/ Ang Mo Kio Park

Page comes to visit!

Flowers from the Flower Dome, Gardens by the Bay

Bukit Brown Chinese Cemetery

Emma's Birthday >.<

Garden's By The Bay -- SuperTree Grove

Gardens By The Bay (seeing a theme here) with Rachel

Octopus Final Night. (so sad)

Also, here are some pictures of my art project, which I finally, finally finished (100+ hours later). It's a rendering of a 'door guardian' from Buddhist temple Wat Sampa Siw (and as 'wat' means temple, I basically just said Buddhist temple temple ... but anyway); I am still looking for a name. Meg says the hands terrify her because they remind her of the lady who works in the food stall and, incidentally, has an extra thumb. (It's true, I've seen it. A thumb-numdrum!) Anyway, I'm rather proud of it. (he, he).

Alright, readers, I must bid you adieu. (Are you there, Audience? It's me, Lizzie). I must finish packing and cramming 3 weeks worth of clothes into one backpack. I'm left wondering what expanded since I've been here, as none of my items fit into the suitcases they came in. Time to put my wardrobe on a diet, or should I say, dye-it, eh!

And with that awful pun, I'm off!

Too-da-lee-doo, to Singapore too!