La peur.
Peur de mourir jeune.
Peur de mourir vieux.
Peur de mourir seul.
Peur de mourir pauvre.
Peur de vivre pauvre.
Peur de vivre seul.
Peur d'être jugé.
Peur de pas vivre pour de vrai.
Peur du futur.
Peur du passé.
Peur du présent.
Peur de perdre ses amis.
Peur de perdre ses rêves de vue.
Peur de la routine.
Peur du changement.
Peur des autres.
Peur des différences.
Avant, c'était les religions qui faisaient peur, pour nous garder en place. Je crois honnêtement que les créateurs de ses mythes et de ses fables avaient les meilleures intentions en tête... Après tout, il fallait bien controller la population et leur donner une raison d'être bonne.
Malheureusement, ce n'est pas tout le monde qui est bon dans le seul but d'être bon.
Alors pourquoi ne pas donner une raison à ces égoïstes, ces obsessifs, une raison d'être bon?
Une promesse. Un paradis. Allez, donnez au prochain car une fois votre vie terminée, ça vaudra la peine.
Mais si vous ne le faites pas, vous souffrerez pour l'éternité.
Tabarnak! C'est lourd.
Ensuite, les médias. En plus des sermonts d'église, les journaux, la radio, la télévision.
Faire peur à la population pour qu'elle reste bien ancrée.
Va travailler et surtout revient vite vite chez toi t'enfermer à clef, car ce monde est si dangereux.
Mais quand il pleut, tu devrais aller te gâter au centre d'achats. Tu le mérites, avec ta conduite exemplaire! Et puis, les voyoux, ça sort pas quand y mouille.
La peur de l'inconnu. La plus facile. Tout le monde en souffre. On a peur du noir, on a peur des étrangers, des autres cultures. C'est naturel on dirait.
N'apprenez pas une deuxième langue, surtout. Sinon vous allez vous promener dans le monde et découvrir d'autre cultures et ce qu'on vous a montré à la télévision, dans les films et les livres d'écoles ce serait que de l'argent gaspillé car vous réaliseriez qu'on vous a menti.
Je ne crois pas que ce gouvernement a notre meilleur destin en vue. Je ne crois pas la droite, je ne crois pas la gauche. Tout le monde a un agenda.
Par exemple, le miens: donner une petite poussée dans le dos à tout ce monde que je connais qui a l'air si misérable à l'école, au travail, sur leur sofa. Ce blog a commencé pour me pousser moi-même dans le dos et si une seule personne a finalement eu le courage de faire ce qu'elle a toujours eu envie de faire, alors je crois que c'est réussit.
L'argent, ce boulet.
C'est le meilleur outil. Esclavage du dernier siècle.
"Crisse que t'es chanceux de pouvoir décalisser quand tu veux!", je l'ai entendu souvent dans la dernière année.
J'aimerais spécifier que je ne me pense pas supérieur ou plus intelligent à cause de ma façon de penser. Si avoir une famille est ce qui te rendrait le plus heureux alors bien sur, vas-y à la vitesse maximale. Le but dans la vie, c'est d'être heureux.
On pourrait aussi dire que j'ai simplement peur d'avoir des responsabilités. Moi je pense plus que ça découle de la simplicité volontaire.
Je ne suis pas "chanceux". Cette vie est une accumulation de choix, d'obstination, et de se boucher les oreilles par entêtement.
J'ai jamais vraiment eu envi d'avoir de carrière. Je me tanne souvent de ma job très rapidement. Aucun engagement égal je peux démissionner quand je veux. Par contre, cette sécurité d'un gagne-pain régulier s'évapore du même coup.
J'ai jamais cru en l'âme soeur. De toute manière, je vire trop facilement jaloux et possessif quand je tombe en amour. Cet automne ca va faire 4 ans que je vais être célibataire et ca ne me dérange pas du tout. Oui, des fois je me sens seul, mais mon sentiment d'indépendance l'emporte.
J'ai pas d'auto, pas de maison. "C'est un bon investissement" qu'on me dit, mais ce semble être la cause #1 qui retient les gens à leur point d'origine. "Es-tu malade, j'ai bin trop d'affaires à payer! J'ai des paiements moi crisse" qu'on me lance, comme si ils essayaient de se prouver ou de m'impressionner.
Depuis quelques années que je pense mettre sur papier mes pensées de tout les jours, ma façon de penser face au monde, à mes principes.
Je n'ai pas de religion. J'en ai pas besoin. J'ai un bon coeur et je le sais, j'ai pas besoin qu'on me dise comment faire pour être bon. Mais après mon petit voyage en asie, le boudhisme a clairement fait son influence sur moi.
Tempter d'aimer personne en particulier, mais tout le monde en même temps.
Tempter de trouver un objet, y mettre un effort pour l'obtenir, et ensuite le donner.
Se débarasser du besoin matériel, du sentiment d'appartenance.
Je suis pas pauvre, ni riche. Je ne suis pas québécois, ni canadien. je ne suis pas de gauche, de droite.
On est que la personne qu'on veut être.
je sais pas où ça va m'apporter. Ça risque d'être dur, je vais peut-être perdre des amis en chemin, du respect, du comfort et de la sécurité.
Mais en ce moment, cette cage dorée qu'on nous a batît, cette frontière pour garder les autres en dehors, j'ai plus l'impression qu'elle me garde en dedans.
Un jour je vais sauter sur un train, disparaitre au bout du chemin.
Friday, 28 June 2013
Monday, 24 June 2013
Don Det Thoughts
Hello folks!
I was supposed to work today. It's sunny, it's windy, it would have been perfect, except for my stomach that feels like it just shotgunned 6 energy drinks.
In truth I just had an espresso and already my body has expressed itself twice on that regard.
These following notes were scribbled down when I came back from the scooter trip I did with the two nice Argentinas. Another hard good-bye.
Sans plus tarder:
Back to "Work"
After a few days off Don Det for a much-too-quick Bolivan Plateau motorbike loop I am back at One More Bar.
I will spare you the details but the cook quit while I was gone, taking with him his only possession: his hammock.
The 13-year old girl named Ban who had been helping out has picked up the slack and it really shows how the kids really are mature here, and how quicker they become it. At 13 I couldn't be bothered to cut the grass for 5$ and when I did, I botched it.
That was the original text. However, the 2 individuals mentioned deserve to be fully fleshed-out.
Pan, who we called "Pee-Pan", was a gay, 40-something Lao man working in the tiny kitchen of One More Bar. When it was quiet he would be sleeping in his hammock or playing games on my iPod. Sometimes I'd find random pictures he took during the day, mostly of the kids walking by.
I was not that surprised to discover that he quit, however. His frustration had started to show a few days before. I mean, he's there working hard (when it was busy) every day while I, the new guy, was holding the bar and joking around with the people I met. One night he thought I was slacking and when customers left after their meal, he immediatly went and cleaned the table, slamming the empty beer bottles on the bar in front of me when he was done.
Message understood.
We always got along though, even if we couldn't communicate very much. I was always patient when giving him the orders (he couldn't read english but would re-write my instructions in immaculate Laos and then take an extra second to make me practice pronouncing the words. Basil = Pakapow. Pah-kapow") and always invited him for drinks, to which he would always say no and rub his flat stomach.
The day I decided to leave the island for a few days was the same day Ken, Matt and Arron all left for a visa-run that got extended into a week-long drinking fest, Ken visiting his relatives that lived in the north of the country.
When Pan saw me with my bag, leaving, he just ran up to me and said "Pakse?" which is the name of the next "big" town over, north of Nagasan. I said yeah, motorbike, Pakse, Paksong, 3 nights and mimed sleeping, then held 3 fingers up.
he nodded, put a hand through his hair, then got his cellphone and called Ken.
He was pi-issed. I could not really understand what he was saying except sometimes Pakse! Pakse!
I left with a mild feeling of guilt and only saw him 3-4 times after that, riding his bike around the island or sleeping in his hammock under a cousin's house.
Ban, the 13-year old. Always with a look on her face like she is going to poison me. She started liking me after a month and we started playing rock-paper-scissors when it was quiet. She tried teaching me to count but I never memorised the words.
From what I gathered, Ban was a kid going to school on the island when the family decided that it was time for her to learn to be a woman and a good wife. Off she went to Ken's family to work in the kitchens and basically become their servant, learning with Yaun, Ken's wife.
I could always eat for free at One More Bar, and they never let me cook, so if I wanted to eat during the day they would yell Ban's name until she'd show up, give me a look of hate and cook me some fried rice. I only did it twice however, when I realised that. I felt bad about ruining her play-time.
I'd go walk around and eat at another restaurant even if that meant digging into my precious and dwindling remaining budget.
I met a lot of people that way however, so I guess it all evens out!
But yeah. In retrospect: Laos kids are hardcore.
I was supposed to work today. It's sunny, it's windy, it would have been perfect, except for my stomach that feels like it just shotgunned 6 energy drinks.
In truth I just had an espresso and already my body has expressed itself twice on that regard.
These following notes were scribbled down when I came back from the scooter trip I did with the two nice Argentinas. Another hard good-bye.
Sans plus tarder:
Back to "Work"
After a few days off Don Det for a much-too-quick Bolivan Plateau motorbike loop I am back at One More Bar.
I will spare you the details but the cook quit while I was gone, taking with him his only possession: his hammock.
The 13-year old girl named Ban who had been helping out has picked up the slack and it really shows how the kids really are mature here, and how quicker they become it. At 13 I couldn't be bothered to cut the grass for 5$ and when I did, I botched it.
That was the original text. However, the 2 individuals mentioned deserve to be fully fleshed-out.
Pan, who we called "Pee-Pan", was a gay, 40-something Lao man working in the tiny kitchen of One More Bar. When it was quiet he would be sleeping in his hammock or playing games on my iPod. Sometimes I'd find random pictures he took during the day, mostly of the kids walking by.
I was not that surprised to discover that he quit, however. His frustration had started to show a few days before. I mean, he's there working hard (when it was busy) every day while I, the new guy, was holding the bar and joking around with the people I met. One night he thought I was slacking and when customers left after their meal, he immediatly went and cleaned the table, slamming the empty beer bottles on the bar in front of me when he was done.
Message understood.
We always got along though, even if we couldn't communicate very much. I was always patient when giving him the orders (he couldn't read english but would re-write my instructions in immaculate Laos and then take an extra second to make me practice pronouncing the words. Basil = Pakapow. Pah-kapow") and always invited him for drinks, to which he would always say no and rub his flat stomach.
The day I decided to leave the island for a few days was the same day Ken, Matt and Arron all left for a visa-run that got extended into a week-long drinking fest, Ken visiting his relatives that lived in the north of the country.
When Pan saw me with my bag, leaving, he just ran up to me and said "Pakse?" which is the name of the next "big" town over, north of Nagasan. I said yeah, motorbike, Pakse, Paksong, 3 nights and mimed sleeping, then held 3 fingers up.
he nodded, put a hand through his hair, then got his cellphone and called Ken.
He was pi-issed. I could not really understand what he was saying except sometimes Pakse! Pakse!
I left with a mild feeling of guilt and only saw him 3-4 times after that, riding his bike around the island or sleeping in his hammock under a cousin's house.
Ban, the 13-year old. Always with a look on her face like she is going to poison me. She started liking me after a month and we started playing rock-paper-scissors when it was quiet. She tried teaching me to count but I never memorised the words.
From what I gathered, Ban was a kid going to school on the island when the family decided that it was time for her to learn to be a woman and a good wife. Off she went to Ken's family to work in the kitchens and basically become their servant, learning with Yaun, Ken's wife.
I could always eat for free at One More Bar, and they never let me cook, so if I wanted to eat during the day they would yell Ban's name until she'd show up, give me a look of hate and cook me some fried rice. I only did it twice however, when I realised that. I felt bad about ruining her play-time.
I'd go walk around and eat at another restaurant even if that meant digging into my precious and dwindling remaining budget.
I met a lot of people that way however, so I guess it all evens out!
But yeah. In retrospect: Laos kids are hardcore.
Wednesday, 19 June 2013
Ma barbe, cette bête
Aujourd'hui, sur un coup de tête, je me suis rasé.
En fait, hier je l'avais raccourcie un peu... Un peu trop.
Depuis ce matin que je me regardais dans le mirroir du pick-up et j'étais tout débalancé.
La passion n'y était plus.
Alors je l'ai rasée.
Tuée.
Cette barbe que j'entretenais depuis le 5 novembre 2012, qui m'a suivi dans 4 pays de l'asie. Cette barbe qui a méritée d'inombrables commentaires d'humains des 2 sexes.
Cette barbe qui mangeait autant de beurre de pinottes que moi.
Cette barbe qui me donnait du caractère à la tonne. Un air de marin. Un air de pirate. Un air de gars, un vrai.
Cette barbe qui me démarquait de la masse.
Cette barbe, cette masse.
Mon père vient juste de me dire ''C'est comme si t'avais eu un déguisement''.
J'ai même pas gardé la moustache. S'aurait été une insulte.
Top moment de ma barbe:
Assis sur un ti banc en plastique devant mon auberge de jeunesse, à Bangkok, durant leur nouvel an. J'ai un fusil à eau (et une barbe) et j'arrose qui bon me semble dans leur face. Un couple dans la trentaine se tenant par la main, venant du moyen-orient, ceux que leur barbe fait partit de leur religion, passent devant moi. Je ne les arrose pas, ils étaient bien habillés. L'homme me regarde en passant, je lui sourit. Après 2 mètres, il s'arrête, comme si soudainement il était inspiré. Il se tourne et me pointe en disant à sa femme: "Mielleuse (Honey), regarde, c'est une barbe comme ça que je veux!" Il s'approche de moi pour mieux la regarder. On jase barbe. Une moto s'arrête derrière lui. Un conducteur adulte, 2 enfants en arrière de lui, armés de fusils à eau. Le devoir m'appelle.
Je l'aimais, ma pilosité faciale. Secrètement je l'appellais ma barbe d'écrivain. Entre 2 lignes je la flattais d'un air penseur.
J'ai des sueurs froides en écrivant ce texte. C'est plus dur. Pour vrai.
Un jour tu vas revenir, je le sais, je le sens.
En fait, hier je l'avais raccourcie un peu... Un peu trop.
Depuis ce matin que je me regardais dans le mirroir du pick-up et j'étais tout débalancé.
La passion n'y était plus.
Alors je l'ai rasée.
Tuée.
Cette barbe que j'entretenais depuis le 5 novembre 2012, qui m'a suivi dans 4 pays de l'asie. Cette barbe qui a méritée d'inombrables commentaires d'humains des 2 sexes.
Cette barbe qui mangeait autant de beurre de pinottes que moi.
Cette barbe qui me donnait du caractère à la tonne. Un air de marin. Un air de pirate. Un air de gars, un vrai.
Cette barbe qui me démarquait de la masse.
Cette barbe, cette masse.
Mon père vient juste de me dire ''C'est comme si t'avais eu un déguisement''.
J'ai même pas gardé la moustache. S'aurait été une insulte.
Top moment de ma barbe:
Assis sur un ti banc en plastique devant mon auberge de jeunesse, à Bangkok, durant leur nouvel an. J'ai un fusil à eau (et une barbe) et j'arrose qui bon me semble dans leur face. Un couple dans la trentaine se tenant par la main, venant du moyen-orient, ceux que leur barbe fait partit de leur religion, passent devant moi. Je ne les arrose pas, ils étaient bien habillés. L'homme me regarde en passant, je lui sourit. Après 2 mètres, il s'arrête, comme si soudainement il était inspiré. Il se tourne et me pointe en disant à sa femme: "Mielleuse (Honey), regarde, c'est une barbe comme ça que je veux!" Il s'approche de moi pour mieux la regarder. On jase barbe. Une moto s'arrête derrière lui. Un conducteur adulte, 2 enfants en arrière de lui, armés de fusils à eau. Le devoir m'appelle.
Je l'aimais, ma pilosité faciale. Secrètement je l'appellais ma barbe d'écrivain. Entre 2 lignes je la flattais d'un air penseur.
J'ai des sueurs froides en écrivant ce texte. C'est plus dur. Pour vrai.
Un jour tu vas revenir, je le sais, je le sens.
Le jour en question. C'est de la farine, pervers!
Merci Mélanie de corriger mes fautes ;)
Thursday, 13 June 2013
More Don Det Pondering
Hellooooo.
Landscaping has really been kicking my ass.
Also, when it rains, I don't want to trek to Twigs, the little coffee place where I write most of my stuff, so the blog gets updated less often.
I'm doing an effort (really just killing time while Skyrim downloads) to have at least one update this week.
This last entry was written after 2 awesome weeks with an awesome girl and my moods were not very bright. Saying good-bye is not my thing.
Back to Atheists
The new energy displayed by atheists online has really become hypocritical. You spend so much time and effort to debate something you deny the existence of, to convince a believer that his faith his foolish... you become a fucking missionary of your non-faith.
You're doing what you blame them for: impose your beliefs onto someone else's.
By giving so much attention to the inexistence of God, you make him real.
You are just like the religious zealots that you claim to hate.
You don't believe in God?
Just don't talk about it, then.
Landscaping has really been kicking my ass.
Also, when it rains, I don't want to trek to Twigs, the little coffee place where I write most of my stuff, so the blog gets updated less often.
I'm doing an effort (really just killing time while Skyrim downloads) to have at least one update this week.
This last entry was written after 2 awesome weeks with an awesome girl and my moods were not very bright. Saying good-bye is not my thing.
Back to Atheists
The new energy displayed by atheists online has really become hypocritical. You spend so much time and effort to debate something you deny the existence of, to convince a believer that his faith his foolish... you become a fucking missionary of your non-faith.
You're doing what you blame them for: impose your beliefs onto someone else's.
By giving so much attention to the inexistence of God, you make him real.
You are just like the religious zealots that you claim to hate.
You don't believe in God?
Just don't talk about it, then.
Sunday, 9 June 2013
Thinking on paper
Oh boy. Here’s a pretty personal text. I didn’t want to put
it in at first but I think it’s those that really count. I’m letting off steam.
I’m calibrating my own moral compass as I said when I first started
writing this blog 9 months ago.
A little background story for these following lines: I was still on
Don Det, on my last month. I was starting to think about the fact that my money
was running out, my health was not doing so good, I was starting to miss home.
I had been hanging out with this woman for the last 2 weeks and we both had an
amazing time and I was starting to think again about relationships – something
I mentally blocked for the last 3 years.
Due to a difference in cultures we had 2 pretty big
arguments in the last few days we were together and it really pissed me off. I
mean, if I can’t even stand sharing my time/life with someone else for such a
short amount of time – with such little constraints as we normally have – what
chance do I have to settle down with someone permanently back home?
Not that it keeps me up at night, but I already know I would
be lonely if I ended up with no girl by my side, no children running around, no
family later in my life.
So. Here goes a text I wrote when I was angry at said woman,
trying to cool down (both emotionally and physically) under the shade of a tin
roof in Laos. It starts rough but you almost see my mind fighting itself,
trying to fight the negativism with bullet-proof positivity.
At one point I’m literally talking to myself.
What’s the fucking point?
What is the point of being nice to everyone, let alone just
one person?
You try your best to make that one woman feel special, to
make her see how unique she is to you.
You can spend minutes, days, years doing this but eventually
a collection of events will make you two hate each other. To me, it seems
inevitable.
I don’t believe in soul mates or life-long love so why do I
even bother with relationships? I could just be fucking around. Seems simpler.
Maybe because when you share your life with someone it feels
like you are building something… “Look what we made together!”
And when everything is going smooth, you’re on a fucking
cloud.
So, I ask again, what’s the point of being nice if it all
comes crashing down anyways.
It comes down to that day-by-day mentality I guess. When I
wake up before her to bring her a fruit salad and a coconut shake it’s all
about the smile she gives me and the way her eyes look at me.
The rest of the world doesn’t matter.
I’ve had a few years of being not-so-nice. Not being an asshole,
just being less of a nice guy. It felt simpler.
When you’re doing favors for someone else or try to surprise
them with a gift or take that little two minutes to send her a compliment by
text, you’re using of your own time – your most prized possession – to make her
time better.
These are the foundations of your construct.
When something happens between the two of you and the whole
structure is shaking, it’s these foundations that save the day.
So, again, what’s the fucking point when you have “Everything
good has an end” mentality?
Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe I get off on making people happy.
It makes me happy to see you smile.
Or maybe there’s no point to it besides why not?
I’m as far as anyone can be from being religious –even
atheists get on my nerves lately – but “Do not do to others what you wish would
not be done to you” sounds like a good mentality. I want to take it farther
though and say “treat others how you wish you would be treated”. Pretty much
how I’ve been trying to live my life since as far as I can think back.
A little backtracking to the construct. As I re-read these
last lines, the best way that I could picture this said construct was a
sandcastle built by two people trying to withstand the waves. It is possible
but when high tide comes and goes and nothing is left…
Do you rebuild? Do you quit? Do you start over, maybe with a
different partner? Farther from the sea? Sure it’s easier – safer even – but it
lacks the excitement, danger, chance that you may lose it all.
If your castle will be smothered in a ruinous pile of mud in
a few hours, why build at all?
Because it’s fun.
And sometimes you have cool pictures afterwards.
Sunday, 2 June 2013
Sandy and A Little Break
Don Det: The Lost Chronicles Double Header
Sandy
Sandy is a female dog the color of sand who is currently pregnant with what looks like 6 or 7 puppies. She's huge.
She smiles.
You call her name and she actually smiles. She lowers her ears horizontally and squints her eyes manga-style, and her tail wags so hard her whole body swings from side to side.
In the morning we get on our little boat to go to Nagasan (the mainland) where the market is. Sandy always willingly comes along. She hopes on the boat and sits at the front, sniffing the air.
Only, we don't take her back. She makes her own way to Don Det. Sometimes it takes a day, sometimes a few hours. Sometimes she's all happy, sometimes she's dead tired and covered in mud.
I really want to write a children's book about her adventures.
With dimensional travelling and left-wing propaganda.
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Sandy
Sandy is a female dog the color of sand who is currently pregnant with what looks like 6 or 7 puppies. She's huge.
She smiles.
You call her name and she actually smiles. She lowers her ears horizontally and squints her eyes manga-style, and her tail wags so hard her whole body swings from side to side.
In the morning we get on our little boat to go to Nagasan (the mainland) where the market is. Sandy always willingly comes along. She hopes on the boat and sits at the front, sniffing the air.
Only, we don't take her back. She makes her own way to Don Det. Sometimes it takes a day, sometimes a few hours. Sometimes she's all happy, sometimes she's dead tired and covered in mud.
I really want to write a children's book about her adventures.
With dimensional travelling and left-wing propaganda.
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Awesome Picture by Anthony Toussaint
A Little Break
I've been fortunate enough to meet two really cool Argentinas (Florencia and Melissa) while "working" at One More Bar and after 10 days of hangouts they invited me to join them on their Bolivan Plateau motorbike tour (a little area in southern Laos sprinkled with waterfalls. You rent a motorbike and do a loop of the villages in 2-3 days and it's awesome).
This required us to stay one night in Pakse, a little town north of my new lieu de residence, Don Det.
I'm telling you this detail because as I arrived there I had to cross a street during very very light traffic and I literally froze. There was one car driving very slowly on the street and I waited until it was completely gone before I stepped on the pavement.
It then occurred to me that I did not have to do watch for cars for a month and a half. In fact I can count on my hands the number of times I've seen a car in the last six weeks.
I was then assaulted by thoughts of me having a mental breakdown in the middle of downtown Montréal a week after I came back (for the record, it did not happen, but then again, I've avoided downtown so far).
The next day we reached Paksong and it was so cold, we had to stop and buy warmer clothes. Florencia was always speeding ahead on her little scooter so we lost her but me and Melissa thought we should stop for the night and wait for her to realise we were not following her any more.
We stopped at a little store installed in the front room of someone's house, what would pass as a thrift store back home. The owner was trying to sell me a girl's hoodie. I was outside trying it on outside when the group of 6 young Laos men drinking on the terasse next door stared laughing at me really hard. I started laughing too and went back inside when I realised it was not for my sex.
I instead bough an army jacket I found lying under a pile of pyjama pants. The dudes showed their approval for it by laughing again while shooting me the thumbs up and then invited me over for a glass of Beerlao. I drank a few down with them as Melissa was finishing her shopping. I pretended to leave but instead I went to get Melissa and bought a bottle of beer sneakily.
When I returned with a woman and a bottle of beer they all started laughing and cheering and suddenly we had 6 new friends.
Genuine laughter ensued despite the language barrier.
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Wednesday, 29 May 2013
Single women traveling, Beerlao, Random Conversations
Don Det, The Lost Chronicles
It's pretty cool to work in a bar, let alone a bar in a communist country on an island standing in the middle of the Mekong.
We only serve one kind of beer: Beerlao. I am also only aware of 3 types of beer from Laos, so it's not like you're missing out. The other two are Dark Beerlao, and Namkhong Beer.
This lack of alcoholic diversity is offset by the fact that the bar is situated in the middle of the fucking Mekong, close to the Cambodian border.
Don Det is the place to go if you want to relax from all the moving around that comes with travelling (local buses, VIP buses, city buses, trains, skytrains, taxis, tuk-tuks, the list goes on) and for some of you, the hard drugs abuse. Consequently, I meet a lot of people who stay for a week instead of a day.
No drugs besides natural marijuana on Don Det. A curfew at 11pm makes sure the night doesn't last for ever everywhere on the island, so if you're not sleeping close to the beach, chances are you'll have a quiet day and a good night of sleep.
Since most of the people that stop by are back-packers (older or calmer travellers go to Don Khon instead), these individuals are also quite different from each other and my evenings are usually entertaining.
From a successful 33-year old Argentinian businesswoman in a mid-life crisis exploring life and the world, to a heroin addict running from the Cambodian police, to a traumatized German dude confused about what to do with his friend who is turning skyzo in front of his eyes because of drugs from Cambodia, to a Swedish drinking-machine (people petrol!) obsessed with tubing, to a sexy Dominican stuck in a love triangle, to a 50-year old Breton man enjoying his beer with a broad smile every night at 8pm, to a Japanese woman with the cleanest dreads I have ever seen who has watched every single anime ever who ended up staying on the island for 4 months...
That was just in one week.
I miss you all, you lunatics, goofballs, misfits and soldiers of awesomeness...
It's pretty cool to work in a bar, let alone a bar in a communist country on an island standing in the middle of the Mekong.
We only serve one kind of beer: Beerlao. I am also only aware of 3 types of beer from Laos, so it's not like you're missing out. The other two are Dark Beerlao, and Namkhong Beer.
This lack of alcoholic diversity is offset by the fact that the bar is situated in the middle of the fucking Mekong, close to the Cambodian border.
Don Det is the place to go if you want to relax from all the moving around that comes with travelling (local buses, VIP buses, city buses, trains, skytrains, taxis, tuk-tuks, the list goes on) and for some of you, the hard drugs abuse. Consequently, I meet a lot of people who stay for a week instead of a day.
No drugs besides natural marijuana on Don Det. A curfew at 11pm makes sure the night doesn't last for ever everywhere on the island, so if you're not sleeping close to the beach, chances are you'll have a quiet day and a good night of sleep.
Since most of the people that stop by are back-packers (older or calmer travellers go to Don Khon instead), these individuals are also quite different from each other and my evenings are usually entertaining.
From a successful 33-year old Argentinian businesswoman in a mid-life crisis exploring life and the world, to a heroin addict running from the Cambodian police, to a traumatized German dude confused about what to do with his friend who is turning skyzo in front of his eyes because of drugs from Cambodia, to a Swedish drinking-machine (people petrol!) obsessed with tubing, to a sexy Dominican stuck in a love triangle, to a 50-year old Breton man enjoying his beer with a broad smile every night at 8pm, to a Japanese woman with the cleanest dreads I have ever seen who has watched every single anime ever who ended up staying on the island for 4 months...
That was just in one week.
I miss you all, you lunatics, goofballs, misfits and soldiers of awesomeness...
.
Sunday, 26 May 2013
Don Det: The Lost Chronicles continues...
"I ordered steaaaaaaamed rice, not sticky"
The waiter nods and walks away. End of discussion.
The logic behind this: I was out of steam rice, you're still getting rice, yes? What's the problem? Just eat.
I love that. This waiter would get stabbed in Montréal.
This happened every week in our bar and is a reality in Laos restaurants. You might not always get the food you ordered. You won't get a warning. Sometimes, they totally ran out of food but you won't know unless you ask a waiter after about 2 hours of waiting.
I have identified two factors that influence this "eat this instead" outcome.
First: the Laos people don't prepare food for the future, don't over-stock. At the market they buy what they think they will need for the day. When they run out of food, no problems, let's just close the business for the night!
Second: Losing face. This is pretty much the worst thing that can happen in a person's day. It brings terrible shame upon a person and to avoid this they will ignore a problem (you will NOT get food until you order something else), find a debatable solution without asking you (let's bring him chicken instead of fish. Same same) or simply go bat-shit crazy, forcing you to back down (I have heard of the cook coming out of the kitchen with a broken bottle in his hand, ready for a fight). And so, instead of the waiter coming back to tell you they don't have what you ordered (seen as "we fucked up" from the waiter's point of view) they will just bring you something else or more accurately, nothing at all.
This has led me to witness a broad spectrum of emotions displayed by foreigners.
Stuff like:
It's not what I ordered but I'm hungry, fuck it. This usually ends with no further problems until it's time to adjust the bill. You see, the cook will usually replace the item with something easier (thus cheaper) to make but you will still be charged the previous meal's price since there was no communication between the cook and the waiter.
It's not that I ordered and I'm going to complain about it. Ah, 'murica. This usually ends with either the waiter simply walking away mid-sentence, or the waiter listening to everything you have to say with a composed face and then just walk away. Your table will probably not be served until it's time for you to leave.
It's not what I ordered. I WANT WHAT I ORDERED! Vive la France! This usually ends with the foreigner walking out in frustration or an argument that will go nowhere for an extensive period of time. Sometimes the foreigner will ask for a discount and he will never get it. I was faced with this situation once, as the barman and liaison between waiter and cook. The client would simply NOT accept that we did not have any pizza dough left and demanded that we make him one. I simply told him that he should go look for a pizza elsewhere.
It's not what I ordered and it's hilarious. This is my favourite one, usually happens when a young happy couple is the subject in question.
I love this attitude. What? Why are you complaining? There really are worst things in life, don't you think? Besides, you are white and rich, so fuck you.
To be more realistic the real reason is probably that Laos was poooooor for a very long time and it probably influenced the way they react to problems with a "Next Best Thing" attitude.
Another example of the "Next Best Thing" mentality:
One night I was cleaning the bar after closing time and found a Laos business card lying on a table. I picked it up and read the person's name and contact information simply hand-written with a blue pen on a white background.
Out of curiosity I flipped it to discover on the other side a genuine business card printed, complete with graphics and colours.
A big X marked across it with a blue pen.
I couldn't help but laugh.
"No, the information you want is on the other side! Don't bother with this"
The waiter nods and walks away. End of discussion.
The logic behind this: I was out of steam rice, you're still getting rice, yes? What's the problem? Just eat.
I love that. This waiter would get stabbed in Montréal.
This happened every week in our bar and is a reality in Laos restaurants. You might not always get the food you ordered. You won't get a warning. Sometimes, they totally ran out of food but you won't know unless you ask a waiter after about 2 hours of waiting.
I have identified two factors that influence this "eat this instead" outcome.
First: the Laos people don't prepare food for the future, don't over-stock. At the market they buy what they think they will need for the day. When they run out of food, no problems, let's just close the business for the night!
Second: Losing face. This is pretty much the worst thing that can happen in a person's day. It brings terrible shame upon a person and to avoid this they will ignore a problem (you will NOT get food until you order something else), find a debatable solution without asking you (let's bring him chicken instead of fish. Same same) or simply go bat-shit crazy, forcing you to back down (I have heard of the cook coming out of the kitchen with a broken bottle in his hand, ready for a fight). And so, instead of the waiter coming back to tell you they don't have what you ordered (seen as "we fucked up" from the waiter's point of view) they will just bring you something else or more accurately, nothing at all.
This has led me to witness a broad spectrum of emotions displayed by foreigners.
Stuff like:
It's not what I ordered but I'm hungry, fuck it. This usually ends with no further problems until it's time to adjust the bill. You see, the cook will usually replace the item with something easier (thus cheaper) to make but you will still be charged the previous meal's price since there was no communication between the cook and the waiter.
It's not that I ordered and I'm going to complain about it. Ah, 'murica. This usually ends with either the waiter simply walking away mid-sentence, or the waiter listening to everything you have to say with a composed face and then just walk away. Your table will probably not be served until it's time for you to leave.
It's not what I ordered. I WANT WHAT I ORDERED! Vive la France! This usually ends with the foreigner walking out in frustration or an argument that will go nowhere for an extensive period of time. Sometimes the foreigner will ask for a discount and he will never get it. I was faced with this situation once, as the barman and liaison between waiter and cook. The client would simply NOT accept that we did not have any pizza dough left and demanded that we make him one. I simply told him that he should go look for a pizza elsewhere.
It's not what I ordered and it's hilarious. This is my favourite one, usually happens when a young happy couple is the subject in question.
I love this attitude. What? Why are you complaining? There really are worst things in life, don't you think? Besides, you are white and rich, so fuck you.
To be more realistic the real reason is probably that Laos was poooooor for a very long time and it probably influenced the way they react to problems with a "Next Best Thing" attitude.
Another example of the "Next Best Thing" mentality:
One night I was cleaning the bar after closing time and found a Laos business card lying on a table. I picked it up and read the person's name and contact information simply hand-written with a blue pen on a white background.
Out of curiosity I flipped it to discover on the other side a genuine business card printed, complete with graphics and colours.
A big X marked across it with a blue pen.
I couldn't help but laugh.
"No, the information you want is on the other side! Don't bother with this"
Friday, 24 May 2013
Don Det: The Lost Chronicles
I have had a very lazy week. It's been raining every day it seems, and as a landscaper it means instead of feeling gloomy, I get to stay home in pyjamas and do what I please.
For those of you who are asking, it means looking at different visa types for asian countries (Japan!), pictures of cat on the internet (catbeards!), write this very line you are reading at the moment (4th wall!), work on other little projects (Mountain City!), read comics (Chroniques de Jerusalem, Calvin & Hobbes, Naruto!), and play video games (Civ 5, Fallout NV, Minecraft) or just sit around and de-construct my own mentality.
A healthy mix of productivity and entertainment.
When I first started writing Bière de Route I wanted to post a new text every week. Then during travels - as it was also my own personal journal - I started posting almost every day. I wanted to keep this up when I renewed my activity last week, but I don't have that much to say, and not that much of an exciting life at home, so I will go back to once or twice a week.
Enough details, here's part II of Don Det: The Lost Chronicles
"The Mystery That is Soulith"
Soulith at first glance: a Laos man in his fifties with skin darker than bronze, still fit, wearing nothing but old football shorts.
If he likes your face he'll take you by the hand, asian-squat in the middle of the road, and start to tell you your fortune by drawing signs in the sand and making himself understood with hand gestures. I've had mine done three times now and watched countless other fortunes being told.
Soulith, as I would later learn, is deaf.
The theme is always similar, and through drawings and hand gestures he makes you understand what he sees. I can summarise easily: don't worry about the past, you'll make good money soon. Don't travel during year X because the plane you are on will crash (usually the same year you or your girlfriend is pregnant). You'll get married in year Y. Sometimes he tells you the year you will die, but that wasn't very popular so he didn't do it often.
After a month on the island he has taken a liking to me and me to him. He's especially fond of my beard. If he sees me speaking with a girl he will mime taking my beard and putting it on his on face, then shoot us two thumbs up and start laughing.
Over my stay I was lucky enough to meet two beautiful and laid-back argentinas and Soulith approved of both of them. He would see me walking around with her, come by, check to see if her arms are strong and shoot me two thumbs up. And start laughing. Then he would point at his wrist where a watch should be and spread his hand open. "5 o'clock. Meet me at 5 o'clock" it meant.
I'd usually share a beer with him and then get a massage.
I also knew he approved of the ladies because he would show up at One More Bar while I was "working", sit down with us and start his antics: he'd point at her with the left hand, me with the right, then bring his two index fingers together side-by-side and gesture kissing on the cheeks with the his eyes closed. Then he would start laughing.
He'd follow up by slipping a pretend ring on the appropriate finger, point at me again with a cheeky smile and shoot two thumbs up. He would then direct their attention towards my beard and tattoos - and his lack of both. One night he had me draw on his arm with a pen as he sat very still looking proud as fuck until I was done (I tried to draw a bull skull but red ink on his ultra-dark skin barely showed, wasn't very nice, but he was still happy).
Through mimes and drawings I also learned that in 2009 he was at a party on another island (maybe a temple party on Don Son, those are crazy) but drank too much Lao-Lao and somehow cracked his skull open, and that is how he became deaf.
I was also told by another local that Soulith drinks a bottle of Lao-Lao a day.
One day he was walking around with a big brown envelope. He stopped at One More Bar and showed me a laminated letter of praises he received from a Thaï bridge-building company that hired him in the past.
When I inquired about the letter he rubbed his thumb and index together (the money sign) and mimed accumulating a great pile of it by putting his two hands together horizontally and separating them slowly. Then he started laughing.
A lot of locals thought he was a lunatic and an a little special, wouldn't take his money or let him in their restaurant. I was always very sad when I saw this but thought to myself "There must be a reason". It is very rare that a Laos person is blocked entrance to another's house as in Laos culture, every one is supposed to be welcome anywhere, anytime. Ken later informed me that it is because he is too much like a farang, a foreigner. It is okay for us to behave like we do, but not for him. The way he suggests to people that they marry is considered rude in their culture. He has forgotten his roots.
Over my 3-month stay I learned a good deal about him, more than most people I would like to brag. He was apparently a kick-boxer in the Philippines in his younger days. There is the business of building bridges, and his art of massages that I will cover in a later text... He must have been extensively trained (some say by monks) as there is no one else on the island (or that I've met so far) that does his type of massage.
For those of you who are asking, it means looking at different visa types for asian countries (Japan!), pictures of cat on the internet (catbeards!), write this very line you are reading at the moment (4th wall!), work on other little projects (Mountain City!), read comics (Chroniques de Jerusalem, Calvin & Hobbes, Naruto!), and play video games (Civ 5, Fallout NV, Minecraft) or just sit around and de-construct my own mentality.
A healthy mix of productivity and entertainment.
When I first started writing Bière de Route I wanted to post a new text every week. Then during travels - as it was also my own personal journal - I started posting almost every day. I wanted to keep this up when I renewed my activity last week, but I don't have that much to say, and not that much of an exciting life at home, so I will go back to once or twice a week.
Enough details, here's part II of Don Det: The Lost Chronicles
"The Mystery That is Soulith"
Soulith at first glance: a Laos man in his fifties with skin darker than bronze, still fit, wearing nothing but old football shorts.
If he likes your face he'll take you by the hand, asian-squat in the middle of the road, and start to tell you your fortune by drawing signs in the sand and making himself understood with hand gestures. I've had mine done three times now and watched countless other fortunes being told.
Soulith, as I would later learn, is deaf.
The theme is always similar, and through drawings and hand gestures he makes you understand what he sees. I can summarise easily: don't worry about the past, you'll make good money soon. Don't travel during year X because the plane you are on will crash (usually the same year you or your girlfriend is pregnant). You'll get married in year Y. Sometimes he tells you the year you will die, but that wasn't very popular so he didn't do it often.
After a month on the island he has taken a liking to me and me to him. He's especially fond of my beard. If he sees me speaking with a girl he will mime taking my beard and putting it on his on face, then shoot us two thumbs up and start laughing.
Over my stay I was lucky enough to meet two beautiful and laid-back argentinas and Soulith approved of both of them. He would see me walking around with her, come by, check to see if her arms are strong and shoot me two thumbs up. And start laughing. Then he would point at his wrist where a watch should be and spread his hand open. "5 o'clock. Meet me at 5 o'clock" it meant.
I'd usually share a beer with him and then get a massage.
I also knew he approved of the ladies because he would show up at One More Bar while I was "working", sit down with us and start his antics: he'd point at her with the left hand, me with the right, then bring his two index fingers together side-by-side and gesture kissing on the cheeks with the his eyes closed. Then he would start laughing.
He'd follow up by slipping a pretend ring on the appropriate finger, point at me again with a cheeky smile and shoot two thumbs up. He would then direct their attention towards my beard and tattoos - and his lack of both. One night he had me draw on his arm with a pen as he sat very still looking proud as fuck until I was done (I tried to draw a bull skull but red ink on his ultra-dark skin barely showed, wasn't very nice, but he was still happy).
Through mimes and drawings I also learned that in 2009 he was at a party on another island (maybe a temple party on Don Son, those are crazy) but drank too much Lao-Lao and somehow cracked his skull open, and that is how he became deaf.
I was also told by another local that Soulith drinks a bottle of Lao-Lao a day.
One day he was walking around with a big brown envelope. He stopped at One More Bar and showed me a laminated letter of praises he received from a Thaï bridge-building company that hired him in the past.
When I inquired about the letter he rubbed his thumb and index together (the money sign) and mimed accumulating a great pile of it by putting his two hands together horizontally and separating them slowly. Then he started laughing.
A lot of locals thought he was a lunatic and an a little special, wouldn't take his money or let him in their restaurant. I was always very sad when I saw this but thought to myself "There must be a reason". It is very rare that a Laos person is blocked entrance to another's house as in Laos culture, every one is supposed to be welcome anywhere, anytime. Ken later informed me that it is because he is too much like a farang, a foreigner. It is okay for us to behave like we do, but not for him. The way he suggests to people that they marry is considered rude in their culture. He has forgotten his roots.
Over my 3-month stay I learned a good deal about him, more than most people I would like to brag. He was apparently a kick-boxer in the Philippines in his younger days. There is the business of building bridges, and his art of massages that I will cover in a later text... He must have been extensively trained (some say by monks) as there is no one else on the island (or that I've met so far) that does his type of massage.
The legendary man and his shorts
Tuesday, 21 May 2013
Don Det - The Lost Chronicles
Wow... Feels like it was a lifetime ago for some reason... But it was not even 2 months ago that I was taking a small wooden boat packed full of backpackers, the heart full of melancholy, leaving my little paradise island towards Nagasan, where I would catch a ''VIP'' bus for about 20 hours, all the way to Bangkok, in company of Constantine, a German dude that was chilling with us at One More Bar.
Today I found my little notebook of scribbles from my stay on Don Det. As promised (if you read my stuff written in french), time to shed some light on my 3 months-stay in the 4000 islands region, province of Champasak.
The first notes were written after I read a few pages of a book written by a Buddhist monk, over one of many hungover breakfasts with a new acquaintance. It was her book, and I was digesting in a hammock conveniently set up between two tables right in the restaurant over-looking the Mekong river, a nice breeze helping us ignore the imposing hot temperature of the country. She was checking up on her messages using the Laos-speed Wi-Fi.
It made me want to write again. So, after about a month of absence, later that day I dug out a pen and a notebook from the pile of my limited possessions lying on the floor of my bamboo bungalow, and set out to write - with a Beerlao, music in my ears, sitting on the floor mats of One More Bar.
Here is the text, with some corrections and add-ons (When I handwrite, I become impatient since I'm too slow and I often skip words or whole sentences)
When you see these *** it means the end of the text from that day.
''Today is Sunday''
Not that different days of the week make a marginal difference in my daily life here on Don Det, but on Sundays I make poutine.
So, on Sundays I rent a bike and pedal over to King Kong Bar on one of the two roads following the river (sunrise side), where I order two liters of gravy that I will come pick up with Ken and his scooterbike before sunset. We put the gravy in a juice jug and I hop on the back of the seat, making sure not to spill any as Ken negotiates the tiny sand road back to One More Bar.
My fucking chain kept on coming undone. By the fourth time I was swearing. On the fifth, as I was putting it back on impatiently, muttering to myself. I hear ''Bo Pa Nyan''. I look up and see a Laos man missing an arm, smiling at me.
There really are worst things in life than a skipping bike chain.
I gave the man an apologetic smile, gave him the joined hands salute as I said ''Sabaïdee!'', and left.
I was still infuriated by the eleventh time the chain came undone. This, however, gave me cause to ponder. Why should I let this minimal complication unnerve me? After all, I still had both my arms. All of my limbs were present and intact, in fact.
I tried to find good things to retain from this experience and found one: it took me seconds now to put the chain back on. By the 13th time I was in all respect, an expert. By the 14th time I was a zen master.
On the 16th time it all came crashing down on me as I fought the temptation to throw the bike in the adjacent river. I looked for something positive again and found rejoice in anger instead. Motivated, I used the excess energy to pedal faster.
I can't remember if I was wearing my Yoda shirt.
Certain emotions are addictive.
Love.
Hate.
Anger.
Sadness.
Wonder.
***
Hahahaha! I was obviously influenced by that Buddhist book I read over breakfast that day.
The following page is covered with chaotic pen markings, the art of Baringa. (Read my previous post about having to take care of her randomly). I kept it because it helps me remember what my days were like. She was probably dumped on my lap and grabbed the pen instantly, started imitating me and drew on the notebook as I laughed.
Well my friends, this is all I will be writing today as well. I like to keep the posts short, because I tend to lose my train of thoughts (if you haven't noticed), I am lazy, and am working on something else as well.
Sabaïdee = Good day/Hi
Bo Pa Nyan = No worries (kinda)
Today I found my little notebook of scribbles from my stay on Don Det. As promised (if you read my stuff written in french), time to shed some light on my 3 months-stay in the 4000 islands region, province of Champasak.
The first notes were written after I read a few pages of a book written by a Buddhist monk, over one of many hungover breakfasts with a new acquaintance. It was her book, and I was digesting in a hammock conveniently set up between two tables right in the restaurant over-looking the Mekong river, a nice breeze helping us ignore the imposing hot temperature of the country. She was checking up on her messages using the Laos-speed Wi-Fi.
It made me want to write again. So, after about a month of absence, later that day I dug out a pen and a notebook from the pile of my limited possessions lying on the floor of my bamboo bungalow, and set out to write - with a Beerlao, music in my ears, sitting on the floor mats of One More Bar.
Here is the text, with some corrections and add-ons (When I handwrite, I become impatient since I'm too slow and I often skip words or whole sentences)
When you see these *** it means the end of the text from that day.
''Today is Sunday''
Not that different days of the week make a marginal difference in my daily life here on Don Det, but on Sundays I make poutine.
So, on Sundays I rent a bike and pedal over to King Kong Bar on one of the two roads following the river (sunrise side), where I order two liters of gravy that I will come pick up with Ken and his scooterbike before sunset. We put the gravy in a juice jug and I hop on the back of the seat, making sure not to spill any as Ken negotiates the tiny sand road back to One More Bar.
My fucking chain kept on coming undone. By the fourth time I was swearing. On the fifth, as I was putting it back on impatiently, muttering to myself. I hear ''Bo Pa Nyan''. I look up and see a Laos man missing an arm, smiling at me.
There really are worst things in life than a skipping bike chain.
I gave the man an apologetic smile, gave him the joined hands salute as I said ''Sabaïdee!'', and left.
I was still infuriated by the eleventh time the chain came undone. This, however, gave me cause to ponder. Why should I let this minimal complication unnerve me? After all, I still had both my arms. All of my limbs were present and intact, in fact.
I tried to find good things to retain from this experience and found one: it took me seconds now to put the chain back on. By the 13th time I was in all respect, an expert. By the 14th time I was a zen master.
On the 16th time it all came crashing down on me as I fought the temptation to throw the bike in the adjacent river. I looked for something positive again and found rejoice in anger instead. Motivated, I used the excess energy to pedal faster.
I can't remember if I was wearing my Yoda shirt.
Certain emotions are addictive.
Love.
Hate.
Anger.
Sadness.
Wonder.
***
Hahahaha! I was obviously influenced by that Buddhist book I read over breakfast that day.
The following page is covered with chaotic pen markings, the art of Baringa. (Read my previous post about having to take care of her randomly). I kept it because it helps me remember what my days were like. She was probably dumped on my lap and grabbed the pen instantly, started imitating me and drew on the notebook as I laughed.
Well my friends, this is all I will be writing today as well. I like to keep the posts short, because I tend to lose my train of thoughts (if you haven't noticed), I am lazy, and am working on something else as well.
Sabaïdee = Good day/Hi
Bo Pa Nyan = No worries (kinda)
My writing spot. From the glass of water I can deduce that it was probably in the last month as I was struggling to stay hydrated
Sunday, 19 May 2013
Babies... Babies Everywhere
I always knew I wanted kids.
I think back to when I was 16 years old and I already knew I'd want a kid one day.
(I'm not going to be a dad, relax).
On Don Det, I sometimes had to take care of Baringa, Ken's 2 year old daughter (she turned two 4 days before my birthday, Manny ((more on him in the future)) baked a cake for her and all the neighbours' kids came to eat it with her and play and run around and it was a blast).
I would often just be sitting on a mat, listening to music, reading, writing or just drinking beer with a new acquaintance when Mea, the family nanny, would shoot me a full Lao sentence with a grin, dump the kid on my lap, and leave the place, making sure to spit out a mouthful of red bark chew-juice on the ground.
I'd have to - and be happy to - drop everything I was doing and actively watch this little thing who liked to put everything in her mouth and climb the low tables to stand on her feet and look at people walking by, only to let go of her hold with no warning and come dangerously close to cave in her fragile skull on a table corner.
I'd get a few looks from travellers too... Who's this white dude with a mohawk, beard, tattoos but no shirt, is that his daughter?
''Is this your bar?'' Is what I heard every week.
''No, I just hang out here and try to help. It's Mr. Ken's bar and your stay on Don Det just got more awesome because you now know him. Ken! They like your bar!"
"Thank you!" Would say Ken, and promptly return to his tiny kitchen to make another delicious pizza.
Losing my train of thoughts here. Kids and babies.
As I extended my stay on Don Det and went less and less on the social media monster (because of shitty connections not because of lack of interest, I'm totally addicted to this shit) I got less and less news from people back home. Then, one day for me which was one night for you I decided to actually pay for a good connection at the local internet shop and try to get news on everyone.
All I got was broken-up couples and even two divorces. It made me feel sad for my friends, I wished I could be having a talk over a pint with them, help them try to figure it out or change their mind.
In a more selfish tone, it didn't really make me look forward to go back home.
In the last 3 years I've tried a few times to date girls and women I felt were worth the shot, to no avail (mostly my fault). On the island, it was easy. A drunken night of farang debauchery, people coming and going, visas ending, the trip must go on.
It was never a break-up, just a good-bye, thanks for the good times.
Back to the kids, again.
On my way back home I stopped in Bangkok for a week. I didn't want to miss the New Year and Water Festival.- The guest house where I was staying had good computers for cheap so when a married couple back home- friends of mine - offered to Skype I accepted and finally got some good news.
Earth's population was about to increase by 1.
I was happy for them and wished them all the stuff you wish new parents. On a more selfish note I was happy to finally hear some positive stuff from home and having something to look forward to.
Most every day on Don Det I'd try to catch Noua (who was always running everywhere), or tickle Soun (who now wants to be called Yukee), or tease her sister (who would try to sneak up on me and tickle me), or help San with his english homework, or go swim with Pea's younger brother and sister. I was always surrounded by children and their youthful energy and laughter.
Working with me at One More Bar was an american guy named Alex. The day he left, he told me ''I'm leaving this place to go somewhere with no babies and no kids. The best part of my day is when I go play in the water with them. Take care of this place''
I now know what he meant.
Still, I'm older than him, so respectively my group of friends is older than his. I've been back for a month and 4 days now and I've seen 4 miniature humans under 4 years old. To clumsily quote my friend Phil C - new dad - when you have a kid, you stay young. Just being around them seems to give me a little jolt, put some spring back in my steps.
I know I'm better around them now - toddlers and younglings - and I'm not scared to handle them anymore.
For some reason I think it's one of the best things this trip has tought me.
***
All of the Lao names are spelled to emulate how we would pronounce them, I don't know the actual spelling (except for Ken - heh)
Farang means foreigner in all the countries I've visited in asia.
For the record, I still want to have a kid one day, I just don't think I can provide enough comfort and security for one at the moment.
I think back to when I was 16 years old and I already knew I'd want a kid one day.
(I'm not going to be a dad, relax).
On Don Det, I sometimes had to take care of Baringa, Ken's 2 year old daughter (she turned two 4 days before my birthday, Manny ((more on him in the future)) baked a cake for her and all the neighbours' kids came to eat it with her and play and run around and it was a blast).
I would often just be sitting on a mat, listening to music, reading, writing or just drinking beer with a new acquaintance when Mea, the family nanny, would shoot me a full Lao sentence with a grin, dump the kid on my lap, and leave the place, making sure to spit out a mouthful of red bark chew-juice on the ground.
I'd have to - and be happy to - drop everything I was doing and actively watch this little thing who liked to put everything in her mouth and climb the low tables to stand on her feet and look at people walking by, only to let go of her hold with no warning and come dangerously close to cave in her fragile skull on a table corner.
I'd get a few looks from travellers too... Who's this white dude with a mohawk, beard, tattoos but no shirt, is that his daughter?
''Is this your bar?'' Is what I heard every week.
''No, I just hang out here and try to help. It's Mr. Ken's bar and your stay on Don Det just got more awesome because you now know him. Ken! They like your bar!"
"Thank you!" Would say Ken, and promptly return to his tiny kitchen to make another delicious pizza.
Losing my train of thoughts here. Kids and babies.
As I extended my stay on Don Det and went less and less on the social media monster (because of shitty connections not because of lack of interest, I'm totally addicted to this shit) I got less and less news from people back home. Then, one day for me which was one night for you I decided to actually pay for a good connection at the local internet shop and try to get news on everyone.
All I got was broken-up couples and even two divorces. It made me feel sad for my friends, I wished I could be having a talk over a pint with them, help them try to figure it out or change their mind.
In a more selfish tone, it didn't really make me look forward to go back home.
In the last 3 years I've tried a few times to date girls and women I felt were worth the shot, to no avail (mostly my fault). On the island, it was easy. A drunken night of farang debauchery, people coming and going, visas ending, the trip must go on.
It was never a break-up, just a good-bye, thanks for the good times.
Back to the kids, again.
On my way back home I stopped in Bangkok for a week. I didn't want to miss the New Year and Water Festival.- The guest house where I was staying had good computers for cheap so when a married couple back home- friends of mine - offered to Skype I accepted and finally got some good news.
Earth's population was about to increase by 1.
I was happy for them and wished them all the stuff you wish new parents. On a more selfish note I was happy to finally hear some positive stuff from home and having something to look forward to.
Most every day on Don Det I'd try to catch Noua (who was always running everywhere), or tickle Soun (who now wants to be called Yukee), or tease her sister (who would try to sneak up on me and tickle me), or help San with his english homework, or go swim with Pea's younger brother and sister. I was always surrounded by children and their youthful energy and laughter.
Working with me at One More Bar was an american guy named Alex. The day he left, he told me ''I'm leaving this place to go somewhere with no babies and no kids. The best part of my day is when I go play in the water with them. Take care of this place''
I now know what he meant.
Still, I'm older than him, so respectively my group of friends is older than his. I've been back for a month and 4 days now and I've seen 4 miniature humans under 4 years old. To clumsily quote my friend Phil C - new dad - when you have a kid, you stay young. Just being around them seems to give me a little jolt, put some spring back in my steps.
I know I'm better around them now - toddlers and younglings - and I'm not scared to handle them anymore.
For some reason I think it's one of the best things this trip has tought me.
***
All of the Lao names are spelled to emulate how we would pronounce them, I don't know the actual spelling (except for Ken - heh)
Farang means foreigner in all the countries I've visited in asia.
For the record, I still want to have a kid one day, I just don't think I can provide enough comfort and security for one at the moment.
Still... this little face.
Baringa
Wednesday, 15 May 2013
Le retour
Je suis conscient que dans mon pti pays virtuel (dans la blogosphère, get it?) il y a un gros trou d'environ 3 mois, la totalité de mon séjour à Don Det, mon deuxième chez-moi, facilement le plus beau moment de ma vie.
J'ai écris quelques pages dans un petit cahier d'écolier sur place, je l'ai trouvé mais je me garde une journée spécialement motivé pour l'ouvrir, le relire, et vous décrire ça en détails ici.
J'attend aussi que le blues du retour se dissipe complètement.
Faut dire que, revenir contre son gré car pu de blé et problèmes de santé, c'est ordinaire.
Je m'étais dit toujours concentrer mon blog sur le positif (au moment du premier texte j'étais sur le bord d'un gouffre) pour m'aider moi-même et parce que c'est plus sympa à lire, donc on va pas explorer ce dit gouffre, d'acc?
Je suis à la recherche de nouvelle musique sur bandcamp et sur youtube, et je trouve beaucoup de choses complètement différentes de ce que j'aime à l'habitude.
Mais, fidèle à mon punk, je dois plugger un de mes amis.
J'ai rencontré Tim, un allemand, en ''travaillant'' au One More Bar, on a bu et jasé ensemble et comme j'offrais une pizza gratuite à qui voulait bien nous jouer quelques chansons, lui et son amie nous ont fait une petite démonstration de leur talents (covers de chansons pop à la guitare acoustique et quelques unes de ses propres pièces, stai super nice).
Il est dans un groupe punk qui s'appelle les Stumbling Pins et ils ont tout plein de stock sur youtube, alors si c'est votre truc (ou même si ce l'est pas), prenez 3:52 pour regarde ceci.
C'est le dude en rouge.
Ou faites-le pas, chui pas là pour vous dire quoi faire.
Bonne soirée, les Walking Deads et Labatt 50 m'attendent.
Oubliez pas de vous foutre de ce que le monde pensent de vous.
J'ai écris quelques pages dans un petit cahier d'écolier sur place, je l'ai trouvé mais je me garde une journée spécialement motivé pour l'ouvrir, le relire, et vous décrire ça en détails ici.
J'attend aussi que le blues du retour se dissipe complètement.
Faut dire que, revenir contre son gré car pu de blé et problèmes de santé, c'est ordinaire.
Je m'étais dit toujours concentrer mon blog sur le positif (au moment du premier texte j'étais sur le bord d'un gouffre) pour m'aider moi-même et parce que c'est plus sympa à lire, donc on va pas explorer ce dit gouffre, d'acc?
Je suis à la recherche de nouvelle musique sur bandcamp et sur youtube, et je trouve beaucoup de choses complètement différentes de ce que j'aime à l'habitude.
Mais, fidèle à mon punk, je dois plugger un de mes amis.
J'ai rencontré Tim, un allemand, en ''travaillant'' au One More Bar, on a bu et jasé ensemble et comme j'offrais une pizza gratuite à qui voulait bien nous jouer quelques chansons, lui et son amie nous ont fait une petite démonstration de leur talents (covers de chansons pop à la guitare acoustique et quelques unes de ses propres pièces, stai super nice).
Il est dans un groupe punk qui s'appelle les Stumbling Pins et ils ont tout plein de stock sur youtube, alors si c'est votre truc (ou même si ce l'est pas), prenez 3:52 pour regarde ceci.
C'est le dude en rouge.
Ou faites-le pas, chui pas là pour vous dire quoi faire.
Bonne soirée, les Walking Deads et Labatt 50 m'attendent.
Oubliez pas de vous foutre de ce que le monde pensent de vous.
Tuesday, 14 May 2013
Coucou
Bon!
Eh bien, je m'emmerde.
Et j'écris vraiment pas assez pour en faire un métier.
Et y'a énormément de blogs qui deviennent des sites internets qui deviennent des livres, alors pourquoi pas continuer avec une formule qui fonctionnait si bien?
Bière de Route. Un blog. Une mentalité.
On se calme.
Je dois aussi avouer que je suis en train de dévorer les bandes dessinées de Guy Delisle et je suis un peu jaloux de son style de dessin, et qu'il ai déjà réalisé mon projet de rêve (voyager+écrire+dessiner). Je me trouve soundainement motivé de recommencer à écrire et même dessiner. Avec mon nouvel emploi comme paysagiste en plus, j'ai un peu trop de temps pour réfléchir et mon cerveau trotte d'un sujet à l'autre (son gazon est bin cours pourquoi faut le couper? Je me demande ce que fait Caro live. J'espère que Ken va bien. Crisse que je m'ennui du Laos. Je me demande ce que ça sonne les jams de Matt et Matt?)
Alors, me revoilà au travail (entre guillemets). Lazy folks don't do extraordinary things, disait Hugo Ste-Cath dans une toune.
Et puis boum! Un blanc...
Je réfléchis à mes débuts, il y a de ça environ 10 mois. J'avais reçu beaucoup de bon commentaires venant d'amis, mais quand je retourne lire mes premiers textes je trouve ça beaucoup trop personnel. Je crois que c'est ce que les gens aimaient car c'était très honnête et je voulais faire réfléchir mon pti monde à leur vie (car beaucoup de mes amis ont pas l'air trop trop surs de leur direction) mais en fin de compte je suis pas enchanté à l'idée de vendre mes pensées les plus profondes et j'aime pas les prêcheurs alors j'essaye de pas trop dire ma vrai façon de penser face à notre société et ce qu'on est forcé de sacrifier afin d'y faire partie.
Oups, c'est sorti tout seul!
Ensuite est venu le voyage et je m'étais donné comme mission de pousser mon niveau d'écriture. Les lecteurs avaient l'air d'aimer les descriptions des lieux et les petits moments anodins que je décrivais. Je lisais la série Game of Thrones en même temps et je crois que c'est reflêté dans mes textes en anglais.
En ce moment, comme je disais, Guy Delisle, et je crois voir son influence dans ces mots plus haut. Pas grave!
Ce que j'aimais faire aussi et que je compte continuer, c'est décrire mon entourage au moment ou j'écris (je trouve pas le bouton pour faire l'accent grave sur le O)
Live, je suis assis le dos droit sur le sofa de mes parents (pousser des tondeuses toute la journée ça fesse) devant leur télé HD en écoutant le match #1 des séries Pingouins-Sénateurs (j'aime bien regarder les gardiens de but travailler). Je déguste une Labatt 50 laissée ici par mon ami Jonathan et mon acouphène me chicane d'avoir écouté de la musique trop fort dans mes écouteurs pour enterrer le bruit des machines.
Bon. Je commence à me perdre dans mes pensées, et ça commence à être long, donc je vous quitte.
Avant de partir, voici quelques petites tâches que je me donne afin de redonner un peu de vie à ce blog:
Trouver quelqu'un qui voudrait bien corriger mes fautes d'ortographes.
Rajouter plus de détails à certains textes déjà écrits.
Ajouter plus de stock (séjour à Don Det)
Commencer à dessiner des croquis, chercher à mettre sur papier le style de dessin que je cherche (très simple et cartoon car je suis paresseux)
Et finalement, tout traduire (ce qui prendra du temps car au risque de me répéter, je suis paresseux)
Moi j'aime ça partager la musique. Étant donné que j'ai mentionné Les Saintes-Catherines plus tôt, voici une belle ptite toune de ce groupe dont les paroles ont l'effet de me faire réfléchir.
The Sainte-Catherines - Confessions of a Revolutionary Bourgeois Part III
Bonne nuit! Moi je vais m'écraser dans mon lit avec une deuxième 50 et les comics Walking Dead.
Eh bien, je m'emmerde.
Et j'écris vraiment pas assez pour en faire un métier.
Et y'a énormément de blogs qui deviennent des sites internets qui deviennent des livres, alors pourquoi pas continuer avec une formule qui fonctionnait si bien?
Bière de Route. Un blog. Une mentalité.
On se calme.
Je dois aussi avouer que je suis en train de dévorer les bandes dessinées de Guy Delisle et je suis un peu jaloux de son style de dessin, et qu'il ai déjà réalisé mon projet de rêve (voyager+écrire+dessiner). Je me trouve soundainement motivé de recommencer à écrire et même dessiner. Avec mon nouvel emploi comme paysagiste en plus, j'ai un peu trop de temps pour réfléchir et mon cerveau trotte d'un sujet à l'autre (son gazon est bin cours pourquoi faut le couper? Je me demande ce que fait Caro live. J'espère que Ken va bien. Crisse que je m'ennui du Laos. Je me demande ce que ça sonne les jams de Matt et Matt?)
Alors, me revoilà au travail (entre guillemets). Lazy folks don't do extraordinary things, disait Hugo Ste-Cath dans une toune.
Et puis boum! Un blanc...
Je réfléchis à mes débuts, il y a de ça environ 10 mois. J'avais reçu beaucoup de bon commentaires venant d'amis, mais quand je retourne lire mes premiers textes je trouve ça beaucoup trop personnel. Je crois que c'est ce que les gens aimaient car c'était très honnête et je voulais faire réfléchir mon pti monde à leur vie (car beaucoup de mes amis ont pas l'air trop trop surs de leur direction) mais en fin de compte je suis pas enchanté à l'idée de vendre mes pensées les plus profondes et j'aime pas les prêcheurs alors j'essaye de pas trop dire ma vrai façon de penser face à notre société et ce qu'on est forcé de sacrifier afin d'y faire partie.
Oups, c'est sorti tout seul!
Ensuite est venu le voyage et je m'étais donné comme mission de pousser mon niveau d'écriture. Les lecteurs avaient l'air d'aimer les descriptions des lieux et les petits moments anodins que je décrivais. Je lisais la série Game of Thrones en même temps et je crois que c'est reflêté dans mes textes en anglais.
En ce moment, comme je disais, Guy Delisle, et je crois voir son influence dans ces mots plus haut. Pas grave!
Ce que j'aimais faire aussi et que je compte continuer, c'est décrire mon entourage au moment ou j'écris (je trouve pas le bouton pour faire l'accent grave sur le O)
Live, je suis assis le dos droit sur le sofa de mes parents (pousser des tondeuses toute la journée ça fesse) devant leur télé HD en écoutant le match #1 des séries Pingouins-Sénateurs (j'aime bien regarder les gardiens de but travailler). Je déguste une Labatt 50 laissée ici par mon ami Jonathan et mon acouphène me chicane d'avoir écouté de la musique trop fort dans mes écouteurs pour enterrer le bruit des machines.
Bon. Je commence à me perdre dans mes pensées, et ça commence à être long, donc je vous quitte.
Avant de partir, voici quelques petites tâches que je me donne afin de redonner un peu de vie à ce blog:
Trouver quelqu'un qui voudrait bien corriger mes fautes d'ortographes.
Rajouter plus de détails à certains textes déjà écrits.
Ajouter plus de stock (séjour à Don Det)
Commencer à dessiner des croquis, chercher à mettre sur papier le style de dessin que je cherche (très simple et cartoon car je suis paresseux)
Et finalement, tout traduire (ce qui prendra du temps car au risque de me répéter, je suis paresseux)
Moi j'aime ça partager la musique. Étant donné que j'ai mentionné Les Saintes-Catherines plus tôt, voici une belle ptite toune de ce groupe dont les paroles ont l'effet de me faire réfléchir.
The Sainte-Catherines - Confessions of a Revolutionary Bourgeois Part III
Bonne nuit! Moi je vais m'écraser dans mon lit avec une deuxième 50 et les comics Walking Dead.
Monday, 25 February 2013
Laos et un au-revoir
For those if you still checking in and wondering why I stopped writing, here goes.
As early as the 2nd grade, my french teachers were telling me that I should consider becoming a writer.
I've always been very very lazy at it but it's been part of my life since those highschool nights where I'd be grounded in my room, writing lyrics about Aryane, skateboarding, and anachy.
My mind has been constantly motivated since on Don Det, and two days ago I started working at a little dream/life-project I've had in mind for a while now.
So, do not despair. This is a long-term project, but you and me, it's not over. You'll get to glimpse into my psyche like the telepathic pervert that you are faster than you know.
Only, I've always wanted to write and publish a book (comic book, photography, novel) and the blog was meant to motivate me and help find my writing style - to get me started.
Anthony's mom told me that I write with my guts, which I think describes it very well.
Now that I am somewhat comfortable pouring my bowels on paper I intend to document my life on Don Det, my reactions to events that transpire here - western style of living versus eastern - and how can I elevate my consciousness.
If my plans work, I should be here for 2 years on and off. If everything goes as planned (it never does) there will be a book self-released by Étienne Bureau-Brousseau in 3 years, and I want every dedicated reader/friend of Une Bière de Route to get a free copy.
Until then,
Étienne
Live slow
As early as the 2nd grade, my french teachers were telling me that I should consider becoming a writer.
I've always been very very lazy at it but it's been part of my life since those highschool nights where I'd be grounded in my room, writing lyrics about Aryane, skateboarding, and anachy.
My mind has been constantly motivated since on Don Det, and two days ago I started working at a little dream/life-project I've had in mind for a while now.
So, do not despair. This is a long-term project, but you and me, it's not over. You'll get to glimpse into my psyche like the telepathic pervert that you are faster than you know.
Only, I've always wanted to write and publish a book (comic book, photography, novel) and the blog was meant to motivate me and help find my writing style - to get me started.
Anthony's mom told me that I write with my guts, which I think describes it very well.
Now that I am somewhat comfortable pouring my bowels on paper I intend to document my life on Don Det, my reactions to events that transpire here - western style of living versus eastern - and how can I elevate my consciousness.
If my plans work, I should be here for 2 years on and off. If everything goes as planned (it never does) there will be a book self-released by Étienne Bureau-Brousseau in 3 years, and I want every dedicated reader/friend of Une Bière de Route to get a free copy.
Until then,
Étienne
Live slow
Friday, 15 February 2013
Encore plus de belles gens
Arno, le français le plus cool que j'ai rencontré. Il vient de Stratsbourg, pro du canöe, la meilleure attitude au monde. On s'est tappé une belle soirée québécoise, Cowboys Fringants et Colocs avec la poutine.
Il y avait aussi toute sa troupe, une vrai légion française de détraqués relax qui se la déchirent chaque soir.
Cédric aurait dut être là. Il aurait aimé le Beru qu'on s'est tappé sur l'île.
Il y avait aussi toute sa troupe, une vrai légion française de détraqués relax qui se la déchirent chaque soir.
Cédric aurait dut être là. Il aurait aimé le Beru qu'on s'est tappé sur l'île.
Laos, Don Det, l'amour de ma vie, et plus encore
Hey there you, yes you, beautiful.
I know I haven't been around much lately, but you see, I found a place I can call home for a while, and I've just been busy taking it all in.
The sun.
The locals.
The friends.
The Beerlao.
The Lion King whiskey.
The love.
Not sure I can recap everything but hey, let's try.
I left Kratie, its dolphin, and Ben & Jen to catch a shitty shitty bus going on a shitty shitty road for a few shitty shitty hours. I was hungover though, so I slept most of the way, which is ridiculous when you've seen the roads.
I arrived in Laos at around 10, and at 11 I was on Don Det. Mind you, I only arrived there because it was the only Laos destination sold in my guesthouse and I was too lazy to go look around. So, total chance.
Within an hour I was floating on a tube in the Mekong river with 10 strangers, and another hour later I had a spliff as long as my forearm in my mouth, about to rape that Sunday Roast with proper gravy smeared all over it.
I was feeling right at home.
The first thing you see when you arrive in Don Det is a tiny beach with some litter from the party of the night before, and a huge water buffalo cooling down in the river. If it's really hot, only his nose sticks out of the water. Then you start the trekk under a blazing sun with 15 kgs of crap on your back to find a nice guesthouse. Mine was on the sunrise side, with a hammock to chill, and a toilet about 20 seconds away, outside... Which would prove dangerous in a few days.
When you are woken up by a need to horizontal-shit your organs out of you, that walk is incredibly painful and nightmarish.
The second day I was just walking around on sunset side and stumbled upon a place called One More Bar. Made entirely of wood, it has a Feng Shui feel to it, and the red red sun sets perfectly in the middle of two posts. I had to stop and watch. And eat. And drink. And meet people.
After 3 nights in Don Det, 2 of which were spent at One More Bar, I was talking to myself about should I stay or should I go. Panya, a cambodian girl working there, said that I should stay because I'm fun, and asked the owner, Mr. Ken, if I could work here.
His answer was: Why not?
I have only heard Mr. Ken say no 3 times. One of these times was when we were invited to a Laos wedding and Alex asked if he could go in his old ran-down swimming shorts.
The rest of my time here becomes a blur, a fast-paced action scene of friends, partying, bike rides, swimming, beers, flirting, guitar by the fire, hangovers, hammock chilling, and eating.
I have met so many great people, many of which I will never get to meet again. It's very hard to say good-bye sometimes.
Ben and Jen came and stayed for 10 days (thanks for the mohawk Jen).
Anthony and Catherine also came by and got stuck (thanks for the beard cut Cat).
Alex was an american that had been there for 3 months and showed Ken how to make pizza in the wood-fire oven. He was really nice and took good care of the dog Sandy (also called Wormy).
Jesse was a Sasktachewan dude who loved to dance and hug people, and folk music. We really got along.
Kiren and Becca were fucking hilarious.
Shane was an irish man with a great singing voice, him and his friend played songs all night and we all had a jolly ol' time.
Elisa, as sweet as anyone can be, redeemed the vision I had of australians.
Mathew and Arron, two english men with good hearts and bottomless stomachs.
Ken, who treats me like a brother.
Last but not least, Mariela.
It's hard to describe the mood of the island. The locals are fucking great and start drinking at 8. All the tourists that come here are the ones seeking a little bit of rest from all the partying and moving around. It makes for a very chilled out place.
I have a theory, that there is a miniature black hole under the island, that is why everyone gets sucked in. Also, the gravity is intensified, and so that's why it's hard to stay vertical for so long.
Let's try to give you an example of my typical day.
I wake up at 7am and get in the boat with Ken, and we go to the market to buy the food we need for the night.
I eat Fuh (noodle soup) with the locals and joke about my beard and hair and tattoos.
Sandy (the dog) comes with us but doesn't leave with us. She makes her own way back.
I usually then go eat a snack and chill at the bar with the friends I made the night before.
We shoot the shit until around noon and then we go eat.
Depending on the motivation, we grab bikes, go over to Don Khon where I know a nice swimming place and a rock where we can jump from.
Back at sunset, time to start working, which consists of waitering for very relax people while I drink beer and dance around with my friends, and we make even more friends.
Usually ends with drinking games.
If I'm not too tired I head out to the beach where we lay in the sand and chat to acoustic guitar.
Sometimes I have to take care of Balinga, Ken's daughter. Sometimes I play with Soun, a 4-year old girl with the prettiest smile I've ever seen - it's ridiculous. Sometimes I try to catch a 10-year old girl who's always running everywhere. Sometimes we organise a little beach party, get in the boat with beers and tubes and go over to the sandy island (with Sandy) and pole-vault over tubes with a bamboo branch. Sometimes I just do nothing.
Like, nothing.
I just like, lay there, under a fan.
Ken has offered to help me with local paperwork if I ever want to build a house or open a business, and I have been thinking about very hard every day. In fact I can't nap in the day anymore, because I think too much.
I also think about Mariela a little bit too much.
And if you're asking yourself, the poutine is fucking great.
Meah, the old nanny that takes care of Balinga while she chews red bark, makes homemade fries. I cut big squares of New-Zealand cheddar while Pan cooks chicken. The gravy, I bought during the day from King Kong bar, held by englishmen. Ken drives me on his scooterbike and I hold the juice jug carefully while we make our way through the island.
It's time to go. The sun is setting, there's a karaoke party next door, and I'm hungry. I also offered free pizza to a guy I knew in Pai that can play guitar. There's a Leandre here, a quebecois from St-Jerome with a fucking great moustache and he's been downing shotguns of beercans since 11 am.
I love you all and miss you. I might come back to Montreal for a summer job and sort out a few paperworks, see if I can live in Laos for a year or two...
Peace
I know I haven't been around much lately, but you see, I found a place I can call home for a while, and I've just been busy taking it all in.
The sun.
The locals.
The friends.
The Beerlao.
The Lion King whiskey.
The love.
Not sure I can recap everything but hey, let's try.
I left Kratie, its dolphin, and Ben & Jen to catch a shitty shitty bus going on a shitty shitty road for a few shitty shitty hours. I was hungover though, so I slept most of the way, which is ridiculous when you've seen the roads.
I arrived in Laos at around 10, and at 11 I was on Don Det. Mind you, I only arrived there because it was the only Laos destination sold in my guesthouse and I was too lazy to go look around. So, total chance.
Within an hour I was floating on a tube in the Mekong river with 10 strangers, and another hour later I had a spliff as long as my forearm in my mouth, about to rape that Sunday Roast with proper gravy smeared all over it.
I was feeling right at home.
The first thing you see when you arrive in Don Det is a tiny beach with some litter from the party of the night before, and a huge water buffalo cooling down in the river. If it's really hot, only his nose sticks out of the water. Then you start the trekk under a blazing sun with 15 kgs of crap on your back to find a nice guesthouse. Mine was on the sunrise side, with a hammock to chill, and a toilet about 20 seconds away, outside... Which would prove dangerous in a few days.
When you are woken up by a need to horizontal-shit your organs out of you, that walk is incredibly painful and nightmarish.
The second day I was just walking around on sunset side and stumbled upon a place called One More Bar. Made entirely of wood, it has a Feng Shui feel to it, and the red red sun sets perfectly in the middle of two posts. I had to stop and watch. And eat. And drink. And meet people.
After 3 nights in Don Det, 2 of which were spent at One More Bar, I was talking to myself about should I stay or should I go. Panya, a cambodian girl working there, said that I should stay because I'm fun, and asked the owner, Mr. Ken, if I could work here.
His answer was: Why not?
I have only heard Mr. Ken say no 3 times. One of these times was when we were invited to a Laos wedding and Alex asked if he could go in his old ran-down swimming shorts.
The rest of my time here becomes a blur, a fast-paced action scene of friends, partying, bike rides, swimming, beers, flirting, guitar by the fire, hangovers, hammock chilling, and eating.
I have met so many great people, many of which I will never get to meet again. It's very hard to say good-bye sometimes.
Ben and Jen came and stayed for 10 days (thanks for the mohawk Jen).
Anthony and Catherine also came by and got stuck (thanks for the beard cut Cat).
Alex was an american that had been there for 3 months and showed Ken how to make pizza in the wood-fire oven. He was really nice and took good care of the dog Sandy (also called Wormy).
Jesse was a Sasktachewan dude who loved to dance and hug people, and folk music. We really got along.
Kiren and Becca were fucking hilarious.
Shane was an irish man with a great singing voice, him and his friend played songs all night and we all had a jolly ol' time.
Elisa, as sweet as anyone can be, redeemed the vision I had of australians.
Mathew and Arron, two english men with good hearts and bottomless stomachs.
Ken, who treats me like a brother.
Last but not least, Mariela.
It's hard to describe the mood of the island. The locals are fucking great and start drinking at 8. All the tourists that come here are the ones seeking a little bit of rest from all the partying and moving around. It makes for a very chilled out place.
I have a theory, that there is a miniature black hole under the island, that is why everyone gets sucked in. Also, the gravity is intensified, and so that's why it's hard to stay vertical for so long.
Let's try to give you an example of my typical day.
I wake up at 7am and get in the boat with Ken, and we go to the market to buy the food we need for the night.
I eat Fuh (noodle soup) with the locals and joke about my beard and hair and tattoos.
Sandy (the dog) comes with us but doesn't leave with us. She makes her own way back.
I usually then go eat a snack and chill at the bar with the friends I made the night before.
We shoot the shit until around noon and then we go eat.
Depending on the motivation, we grab bikes, go over to Don Khon where I know a nice swimming place and a rock where we can jump from.
Back at sunset, time to start working, which consists of waitering for very relax people while I drink beer and dance around with my friends, and we make even more friends.
Usually ends with drinking games.
If I'm not too tired I head out to the beach where we lay in the sand and chat to acoustic guitar.
Sometimes I have to take care of Balinga, Ken's daughter. Sometimes I play with Soun, a 4-year old girl with the prettiest smile I've ever seen - it's ridiculous. Sometimes I try to catch a 10-year old girl who's always running everywhere. Sometimes we organise a little beach party, get in the boat with beers and tubes and go over to the sandy island (with Sandy) and pole-vault over tubes with a bamboo branch. Sometimes I just do nothing.
Like, nothing.
I just like, lay there, under a fan.
Ken has offered to help me with local paperwork if I ever want to build a house or open a business, and I have been thinking about very hard every day. In fact I can't nap in the day anymore, because I think too much.
I also think about Mariela a little bit too much.
And if you're asking yourself, the poutine is fucking great.
Meah, the old nanny that takes care of Balinga while she chews red bark, makes homemade fries. I cut big squares of New-Zealand cheddar while Pan cooks chicken. The gravy, I bought during the day from King Kong bar, held by englishmen. Ken drives me on his scooterbike and I hold the juice jug carefully while we make our way through the island.
It's time to go. The sun is setting, there's a karaoke party next door, and I'm hungry. I also offered free pizza to a guy I knew in Pai that can play guitar. There's a Leandre here, a quebecois from St-Jerome with a fucking great moustache and he's been downing shotguns of beercans since 11 am.
I love you all and miss you. I might come back to Montreal for a summer job and sort out a few paperworks, see if I can live in Laos for a year or two...
Peace
Tuesday, 22 January 2013
Sihanoukville, Koh Trang, Kratie
Sihanoukville was a city that seemed better planned than most. Big streets and new clinics... But still the sides of the streets were filled with litter, stray dogs, and paranoid chicken.
There were also a lot more travelers compared to the places I had been that last week, young dudes and dudettes in tank tops and tattoos. You'd think I would identify with that crowd, but usually it means party-hardy times and a lack of respect for the locals...
We were just in Sihanoukville to jump to Koh Trang but we missed our boat due to some weird receptionist.
"Can we book a boat to the island? And a room?"
"Yes no problem. I take care."
*Makes phone call*
"Ok, is confirmed"
30 minutes later, after some iPod gaming and when I came out of my bubble:
"Ok so when is the boat?"
"Is now"
"Ok is someone coming to pick us up?"
"No"
"Is it at that pier down the street?"
"No is 20 minutes away in car. You miss today"
"Oooookay"
There is literally no use calling him out on that and sometimes locals seem to expect you to do half the work and I keep forgetting that. And so we had to spend a night in this city.
We had trouble finding a room under 10$ so we decided to get a dorm bed for 2.50$ at Utopia. Walking through the courtyard opens onto an outdoors pool with a fountain in the middle and a huge bar, and a couple of chilling areas.
The dorms were 8 matresses next to one another with absolutely no space between them - I literally woke up with a stranger's face inches from mine the next morning.
Upon closer inspection of Utopia it was clear we were in sinner's haven, aka a shithole. The pool water was murky, 97% of the men were swaggering around shirtless with a douchebag aura, a DJ booth overlooked the dance floor, and there were flyers for a wet t-shirt contest on the walls.
We spent the night downing 50-cents beers to be drunk enough to fall sleep despite the music, and laughing at the dudes trying to get the attention of the girls with dripping wet white shirts clinging to their breasts while some ineffective party promoter kept screaming "whoooooo's ready to paaaartaaaaay" every 10 seconds.
At some point a local man came up to me and started a discussion with me by writing notes on his cellphone. After a few minutes he showed me: "Wanna come to beach? Party. Nice lady boom boom. Room for one." I didn't feel like getting mugged so I declined.
Needless to say I had a pretty shitty sleep too.
The boat ride to Koh Tran the next day was really nice in comparison. Quiet waters and a sturdy ship made sure of that. There was a second floor with a tent ceiling for shading, with some couches thrown around. We read and shot the shit for a couple of hours until we arrived on the island.
Right upon arrival we knew that the reputation of a chillout place was not true anymore, and after speaking with a man in his 60s who has been traveling for years I learned that in the last year alone the bars, restaurants and guesthouses went from under 10 to above 20.
The cheapest room we found had the 3 of us share a bed and me getting in arguments with the owners over money and pillows. The bars and guesthouses were playing music until 3am - total disrespect to the locals - but apart from that the seafood was delicious, the view was extraordinary and all the dogs were super friendly. Also saw a teenager with a Canadiens hat.
We ended up staying 3 nights and left for Kratie on a smaller boat who was rocking to waves and the sun beating down on my face. I found myself thinking about the time I almost applied to that school in Rimouski where they form you into being a captain.
Kratie was really laid-back, we got to see the rare Mekong dolphins on a short boat trip and eat fried rice on hutts and hammocks built right over some rapids. I tried to go for a swim but the current was too strong and the floor full of jagged rocks.
I found a restaurant that was offering poutine so I asked mine to be made custom, with extra cheese and hot-dog saucages. I offered that they put it on the menu and name it Montréal Poutine.
Cambodia proved both easier and harder to travel than Thaïland. Most of the times that some ill luck or a bill too expensive happened it was my own fault and could have been avoided. The locals were nice but less inclined to chat, especially since way less of them could talk english compared to the Philippines and Thaïland. The foreign investors were more interested in opening party places rather than coffee shops or the like.
I am still glad I spent a month here, just wish I moved around a little bit more. I was looking for a chilling and exotic spot in the south-east but found it in the north-east at the end of my visa.
There were also a lot more travelers compared to the places I had been that last week, young dudes and dudettes in tank tops and tattoos. You'd think I would identify with that crowd, but usually it means party-hardy times and a lack of respect for the locals...
We were just in Sihanoukville to jump to Koh Trang but we missed our boat due to some weird receptionist.
"Can we book a boat to the island? And a room?"
"Yes no problem. I take care."
*Makes phone call*
"Ok, is confirmed"
30 minutes later, after some iPod gaming and when I came out of my bubble:
"Ok so when is the boat?"
"Is now"
"Ok is someone coming to pick us up?"
"No"
"Is it at that pier down the street?"
"No is 20 minutes away in car. You miss today"
"Oooookay"
There is literally no use calling him out on that and sometimes locals seem to expect you to do half the work and I keep forgetting that. And so we had to spend a night in this city.
We had trouble finding a room under 10$ so we decided to get a dorm bed for 2.50$ at Utopia. Walking through the courtyard opens onto an outdoors pool with a fountain in the middle and a huge bar, and a couple of chilling areas.
The dorms were 8 matresses next to one another with absolutely no space between them - I literally woke up with a stranger's face inches from mine the next morning.
Upon closer inspection of Utopia it was clear we were in sinner's haven, aka a shithole. The pool water was murky, 97% of the men were swaggering around shirtless with a douchebag aura, a DJ booth overlooked the dance floor, and there were flyers for a wet t-shirt contest on the walls.
We spent the night downing 50-cents beers to be drunk enough to fall sleep despite the music, and laughing at the dudes trying to get the attention of the girls with dripping wet white shirts clinging to their breasts while some ineffective party promoter kept screaming "whoooooo's ready to paaaartaaaaay" every 10 seconds.
At some point a local man came up to me and started a discussion with me by writing notes on his cellphone. After a few minutes he showed me: "Wanna come to beach? Party. Nice lady boom boom. Room for one." I didn't feel like getting mugged so I declined.
Needless to say I had a pretty shitty sleep too.
The boat ride to Koh Tran the next day was really nice in comparison. Quiet waters and a sturdy ship made sure of that. There was a second floor with a tent ceiling for shading, with some couches thrown around. We read and shot the shit for a couple of hours until we arrived on the island.
Right upon arrival we knew that the reputation of a chillout place was not true anymore, and after speaking with a man in his 60s who has been traveling for years I learned that in the last year alone the bars, restaurants and guesthouses went from under 10 to above 20.
The cheapest room we found had the 3 of us share a bed and me getting in arguments with the owners over money and pillows. The bars and guesthouses were playing music until 3am - total disrespect to the locals - but apart from that the seafood was delicious, the view was extraordinary and all the dogs were super friendly. Also saw a teenager with a Canadiens hat.
We ended up staying 3 nights and left for Kratie on a smaller boat who was rocking to waves and the sun beating down on my face. I found myself thinking about the time I almost applied to that school in Rimouski where they form you into being a captain.
Kratie was really laid-back, we got to see the rare Mekong dolphins on a short boat trip and eat fried rice on hutts and hammocks built right over some rapids. I tried to go for a swim but the current was too strong and the floor full of jagged rocks.
I found a restaurant that was offering poutine so I asked mine to be made custom, with extra cheese and hot-dog saucages. I offered that they put it on the menu and name it Montréal Poutine.
Cambodia proved both easier and harder to travel than Thaïland. Most of the times that some ill luck or a bill too expensive happened it was my own fault and could have been avoided. The locals were nice but less inclined to chat, especially since way less of them could talk english compared to the Philippines and Thaïland. The foreign investors were more interested in opening party places rather than coffee shops or the like.
I am still glad I spent a month here, just wish I moved around a little bit more. I was looking for a chilling and exotic spot in the south-east but found it in the north-east at the end of my visa.
Saturday, 19 January 2013
Bye-bye Cambodge
Assis aux abords du Mekong je vis le coucher de soleil. Une petite barque motorisée voyage les eaux tranquilles pendant que de jeunes Khmer parlent au cellulaire assis sur leur scooters. Alors que j'observe de petits oiseaux faire des vols acrobatiques sur un fond de ciel orangé je suis soudainement envahis par de petits enfants qui rigolent sans arrêt. Ils commencent à taquiner leur chien patient pour me faire rire, et quand il a un instant de répis il vient me sentir et me demande de l'aider des yeux.
Les dernières lueurs du soleil se dissipent et j'attend les chauve-souris. Demain matin je quitte le Laos et manque la première partie des Canadiens.
Bonne nuit/journée.
Les dernières lueurs du soleil se dissipent et j'attend les chauve-souris. Demain matin je quitte le Laos et manque la première partie des Canadiens.
Bonne nuit/journée.
Thursday, 17 January 2013
Wednesday, 16 January 2013
Kampot, la suite
I think Jen hadn't even hit the floor that Ben and I were beside her. We saw that she was mostly ok - she wasn't going very fast. Blood stains were already on her shirt though, from a small gash on her chin about 2 inches across.
She was mostly laughing about it and complaining faintly about the pain. Through the light of our smartphones we inspected the gash and saw that it was dirty.
"Is it bad?" Asked Ben.
"I've seen much worst" I answered, thinking about the injuries i've seen on my dare-devil and/or drunken friends or myself. "Look, it's like manta ray mouth!"
"It's not funny you geeks!" Complainded Jen.
"Ok, I'll check the scooter, see if we can drive it back, I'll clean you up with my first-aid kit. Did you hit your head?"
"No, I don't think so"
"You have two mouths now!" Exclaimed Ben.
"Three" I added.
"You two are assholes! Can we go?"
After a quick inspection, I saw that the left brake was not working anymore and the front wheel was a little shaky. Thankfully the guesthouse was only a minute away. We crammed on the scooter, Jen in the middle so that Ben could hold her.
Back in the room we cleaned up her Cambodian souvenir as best we could and realised that it was a pretty deep cut... Jem changed in clean clothes while we looked for a hospital or a clinic on the city map. Thankfully it was along a road we were used to.
We packed books and beers in case this would take long. I put my headlamp on since Ben's motorbike lamp wasn't working, and drove to the clinic.
It is at around 2am that Ben rang the bell, installed next to a door made of sliding metal bars, same ones we see protecting stores. A drowzy nurse walked slowly towards us and opened the doors a few feet. Jenny half explained and half mimed her accident and showed her the gash.
"Oooonh" was all the nurse said, which seemed to mean "poor girl..." And opened the door large enough for her and Ben to walk in. They put her on a stretcher, Ben walking next to her, and I opened a beer while looking at the stars outside.
Abiut fifteen minutes and $30 later she re-emmerged, cleaned up, sowed up, chin-strap and all. We got back on the scooter and went to bed. I told Jenny she shouldn't sleep in case she got a concution - she did seem a little slow to answer, bu that could have been the beer and the late hour of the night.
The next morning Ben and Jen decided to stay a day longer in Kampot to let her rest, and offered to pay my share of the room. "It's not fair for you to pay because of me" she explained.
We had a very quiet day, eating and reading. We returned the scooters expecting a hefty ransom having heard the horror stories of Koh Pagnam, but Ben walked away with an $8 dollar bill.
We did go to a french pastry store we stumbled upon a few days back. A huge man in his sixties with a great round belly, giant forearms, and a mouth that barely opened when he talked greeted us, tellin us this place had the best pie he ever tasted.
Next time you see me, ask me to immitate him. Ben and I decided that he was a Tolkien dwarf in real life.
He asked us where we came from. When I said Canada he smiled and said Quebec right away, and I showed him my Canadiens belt buckle to confirm.
"Ooooh the Habs! Loved them when I was a boy. Had a lot of their stuff. They were unstopable back when all the frenchmen played for them. Rocket Richard and Big Bill and Boom Boom Geoffrion and Jack Plante. They won the cup 5 times in a row they did, more than once I believe. Yes. This place here, opened by the cook's parents. They came from China 60 years ago. Some frenchman from France showed them how to cook. The pie here, best I ever had, just like home. You cannot leave without eating it"
He was from Saskatchewan, and seemed to be sitting at a table of the little restaurant every single hour of the day, talking with someone.
The day after that we got on a bus that took us to Sihanoukville, the next chapter of my Cambodian journey.
She was mostly laughing about it and complaining faintly about the pain. Through the light of our smartphones we inspected the gash and saw that it was dirty.
"Is it bad?" Asked Ben.
"I've seen much worst" I answered, thinking about the injuries i've seen on my dare-devil and/or drunken friends or myself. "Look, it's like manta ray mouth!"
"It's not funny you geeks!" Complainded Jen.
"Ok, I'll check the scooter, see if we can drive it back, I'll clean you up with my first-aid kit. Did you hit your head?"
"No, I don't think so"
"You have two mouths now!" Exclaimed Ben.
"Three" I added.
"You two are assholes! Can we go?"
After a quick inspection, I saw that the left brake was not working anymore and the front wheel was a little shaky. Thankfully the guesthouse was only a minute away. We crammed on the scooter, Jen in the middle so that Ben could hold her.
Back in the room we cleaned up her Cambodian souvenir as best we could and realised that it was a pretty deep cut... Jem changed in clean clothes while we looked for a hospital or a clinic on the city map. Thankfully it was along a road we were used to.
We packed books and beers in case this would take long. I put my headlamp on since Ben's motorbike lamp wasn't working, and drove to the clinic.
It is at around 2am that Ben rang the bell, installed next to a door made of sliding metal bars, same ones we see protecting stores. A drowzy nurse walked slowly towards us and opened the doors a few feet. Jenny half explained and half mimed her accident and showed her the gash.
"Oooonh" was all the nurse said, which seemed to mean "poor girl..." And opened the door large enough for her and Ben to walk in. They put her on a stretcher, Ben walking next to her, and I opened a beer while looking at the stars outside.
Abiut fifteen minutes and $30 later she re-emmerged, cleaned up, sowed up, chin-strap and all. We got back on the scooter and went to bed. I told Jenny she shouldn't sleep in case she got a concution - she did seem a little slow to answer, bu that could have been the beer and the late hour of the night.
The next morning Ben and Jen decided to stay a day longer in Kampot to let her rest, and offered to pay my share of the room. "It's not fair for you to pay because of me" she explained.
We had a very quiet day, eating and reading. We returned the scooters expecting a hefty ransom having heard the horror stories of Koh Pagnam, but Ben walked away with an $8 dollar bill.
We did go to a french pastry store we stumbled upon a few days back. A huge man in his sixties with a great round belly, giant forearms, and a mouth that barely opened when he talked greeted us, tellin us this place had the best pie he ever tasted.
Next time you see me, ask me to immitate him. Ben and I decided that he was a Tolkien dwarf in real life.
He asked us where we came from. When I said Canada he smiled and said Quebec right away, and I showed him my Canadiens belt buckle to confirm.
"Ooooh the Habs! Loved them when I was a boy. Had a lot of their stuff. They were unstopable back when all the frenchmen played for them. Rocket Richard and Big Bill and Boom Boom Geoffrion and Jack Plante. They won the cup 5 times in a row they did, more than once I believe. Yes. This place here, opened by the cook's parents. They came from China 60 years ago. Some frenchman from France showed them how to cook. The pie here, best I ever had, just like home. You cannot leave without eating it"
He was from Saskatchewan, and seemed to be sitting at a table of the little restaurant every single hour of the day, talking with someone.
The day after that we got on a bus that took us to Sihanoukville, the next chapter of my Cambodian journey.
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