The Nam Diaries

"Are you smoking that shit so's to escape from reality?  Me, I don't need this shit.  I am reality.  There's the way it ought to be, and there's the way it is."
                                                                                  - Sgt. Barnes

Karg survived the mountains of north Vietnam with the hospitality of the Hmong people and his teenage guide Ang.  Then he came down from the cliffs and plunged into the deep waters of Ha Long Bay.  Now, along with his companion Jimmy, the bartender from Wisconsin, Karg travels south along the coastline ever closer to Saigon.  But before he reaches Ho Chi Minh City, Karg finds himself stuck in Nha Trang.  Although he is no FNG when it comes to ignoring moderation with alcohol, Karg fights a losing battle with booze on the beaches of Nha Trang and The Sailors Club.  But the worm definitely turns for Karg and sometimes feeling good's good enough.  Hit the jump to continue reading.  Free your mind and the ass will follow.

Remembering Nha Trang by Eric Karg     

I can’t remember getting here. We are at a lunch shop that is open to the street like most of the stores. Really more like stalls. The Vietnamese government only allows leases to property. One cannot own any homes. However, standard leases last a hundred years so there is plenty of time for planning. The family generally lives on the second or third floor while running a shop out front. Or, at least the fortunate ones that can afford a building do. The others will just set up between shop fronts on the sidewalk or in the gutter with piles of charcoal in neat stacks ready to go on the fire.

In this case the owner (lessor) is a Dutch man with frosted blonde hair, beautiful sandals and a personality somewhere between flamboyant art house director and body servant from Victorian England. Jimmy and I were the first of a late lunch crowd but now there is a group of twenty-something American girls. There seems to be an unspoken agreement among Americans throughout this whole trip that one does not speak to other Americans. Why this is I’m not sure. In most cases I think the other Americans feel so superior to the locals after being constantly harangued about how dumb we are, it kind of washes over onto every other tourist. Whenever we see others from the U.S.A. there is the same look of disapprobation on every face. Anyway, the not unattractive young ladies maintain a conversation as if we aren't here. This is confusing to our host. The fact that five American travelers in close proximity are not making eye contact in his perfectly maintained eatery. He remains unflappable. We, no small men, tear through our meal with the regular relish leaving nary a crumb or trail as is usual. The entire time we've been eating, over my right shoulder are a couple of partial pies that not only look good but look as if they are in the studio photo set-up for a gourmand magazine. One of the selections is a straight apple pie and the second is a cherry apple combo. Jimmy and I decide to go for the apple pie. There are only three slices left, and only four of the combination pie.

Our host walks up and says:  “I’m not sure whether you have been looking at the pie or if the pie has been gazing at you.”

Like everything this guy says, I feel just on the verge of being embarrassed. With a week and a half of gluttony spanning over eight hundred miles of the country thus far, we have reason to feel embarrassment. However, he is so welcoming it feels natural to eat three portions of the entree and then order dessert with the coffee. Two pristine apple pie slices arrive within two shakes of a Dutchman’s tail. Perfect; “First Time” good! It really is. Next time our host walks by I am ready. The girls make it to the dessert portion of their meal, the last slice of apple pie is gone and only two slices of the cherry-apple are left. One must not pass up on opportunities at greatness when they appear! I order the last two. Sven, our host gives away only the slightest surprise at my audacity by raising one eyebrow while swiftly removing the detritus we've made in our wake.

It is evening at the Duc Taj hotel. Overlooking hotels, overlooking the beach we have our after lunch cans of Tiger Beer glistening in their robe of condensation. We take a few photographs of ourselves in the hotel room and on the balcony, shirtless, holding stomachs tight with limited success and wait in the languid heat for the beer to soothe over the lunch and the afternoon stomach upset (this tummy trouble would continue to build through the trip finally almost crippling Jimmy in Saigon). As the sun falls and the evening begins we set off down the street to find some dinner. We walk south down Tran Phu Boulevard along the beach front. Traffic congestion on the roads is worse than normal; every free inch of roadway is filled with youth or entire families on the backs of industrious little motor scooters. One gets quite used to seeing this in Nam. Tonight the sidewalks are just as crowded. The yellow glow of the street lights reflecting off the faces of hundreds of revelers adds a ridiculous carnival atmosphere to the evening. On the right of us across the street, a large, columned government building (that we are assured is hosting an important international conference) is lined by a dozen black limousines. The front is festooned with large, red, vertical banners. This distraction calls the attention of both Jimmy and I. Just as I am about to make a comment on the building I feel a small hand take a large piece of my ass and squeeze. Just as I am turning to see the young lady offender and suggest that I am not some cheap piece of ass, someone throws a foil packet with the remains of what I hope is their dinner at me. Because of the groping I've just received the airborne bundle just misses my head.

In the guide book we're using for Nha Trang it states that no tourists should walk the beach at night because of the gangs of thieves that run the territory here. How the author can tell the difference between gangs and regular citizens I don't know. As we pass across the parade ground adjacent to the government building we are mobbed by a group young men talking loudly at us in an accusatory manner. From the center of the group a torso of a man wiggles in our direction. I acquired a little bit of Vietnamese in the first week of the tour, that is to say, I can communicate what my most basic needs are to the locals. But if the locals are off and running at the mouth there isn't a chance I can decipher. This fellow is different. He's pissed he has no arms or legs and he is going to let the Americans know about it. Thanks to my legs, and my constantly thickening skin my discomfort with the situation is easily taken care of by pushing through the group and moving on almost without breaking stride. Just beyond this detour is a cobbled path framed by a dark wood gateway bathed in inviting golden light. The sign reads The Sailors Club, embossed in brass and surrounded in a halo of menus. We duck left into the compound.

Once inside the courtyard the entire complexion of the night seems to soften and slow. Potted palms and ferns rest on the cool stone walkway above richly stained wood pedestals. You can feel the cool relaxation moving up through your sandals. Several steps further in and we are greeted by a white jacketed host who leads us to a table. The amount of silverware and accoutrement on the table makes Jimmy a little pensive. After a week of gorging ourselves on multi-course dinners for two American dollars apiece, the Sailors Clubs prices are astonishing. The compound consists of four restaurants, one in each corner of the open air center. To the east there is a raised, dais covered dance floor with a bar that oversees the gently declining beach as it slopes into the South China Sea a mere thirty yards away. The beach itself is interspersed with broad torches, palm umbrella stands and recliners, all patrolled by guards.

"Scallops in a white wine reduction on linguini. We’re eating here." I bark.

I order us two limoncellos as an aperitif and excuse myself for the men’s room. This is my first experience with a men’s room where they watch you piss and then help you wash up and offer cologne. I demur as the man sent as the attendant, draws my attention to the ornately hand written words on the wall: On February 18th there is a Full-Moon party to last all night. I try to remember what the date is and if we will be in town. The attendant assures me we can attend as the full moon is this very night. Back at the table I confer with Jim, sharing the information I've just gathered. After our outrageous dinner we are escorted over to the bar. We order drinks as I sit next to an English man who turns out to be the Chef at one of the restaurants ( not the one we had ordered from). Once we get to serious drinking I ask if he has heard of Gordon Ramsey, the now quite famous British Chef.

“Total asshole” he surmises.

"There's the way it ought to be, and there's the way it is"

Now, as the full moon ascends to its zenith, I find myself fading in and out of consciousness. It appears we are in a group of about eight German women talking six to the dozen with us. Jimmy is (of course) leading the conversation as if an official ambassador. I have no idea what is going on and I look to my surroundings to get a better grip on things. Two tremendous beach fires have been built, the flames of which are reaching at least ten feet into the air. In between, a Chinese dragon team is thrashing about under the green dragon costume to the beating of drums and careening symbols. What the fuck? It's scary to come to under these conditions. Despite the incredible reflection of the moon on the purple-black water behind me, and the huge fires in front of me, underneath our communal Tiki Hut I can discern nothing clearly. I find a large gin and tonic in my hand and wonder for a minute how long ago I switched from drinking beer. Judging by the size of the glass, the servers at our little party have already discovered that if they keep bringing me rock glasses they will not have any time to serve the other customers; I have a work-a-day size jar. It was the smell of the comforting gin that first called attention to it. Shit, one of the German women is speaking to me. It's almost time for me to respond. I quickly lift the jar to my lips and pour. Although my mind and heart are at one with this decision to drink, I also want to appear attentive to conversation and relaxed in my new found setting. No one has notified my mouth or throat. The gin slides dutifully down my throat, interrupting my breathing and setting in motion all the muscles involved with immediate projectile vomiting. Spinning to my right, away from the woman speaking to me, I bend and vomit into the sparkling sand at my feet. I feel instantly more aware and refreshed as I casually kick sand over my waste. I turn back to the woman who has paused for a moment.

"Did you just throw up?" she shouts over the drums as the dragon moves menacingly closer.

"Why yes." I reply, feeling quite buoyed from the jettison of extra weight. She turns away in disgust.