Sigh... gone.

Why does my head hurt? The sun is glaring at me like the face of some deranged prison guard. I squint, forcing my eyelids open by the smallest fraction. A bolt of searing, white hot plasma smashes into my retinas forcing my eyelids to clamp shut again. The Horror.... The Hooooorrrrrrorrrrr...... ugh.

Where am I? Certainly not the hotel room. And certainly not the backpacker's enclave in Pham Ngu Lao. I’m slumped in a doorway of an auto parts shop, wedged between rough asphalt, grimy concrete and steel mesh. It smells like diesel. Diesel and burnt steel. The letters above the doorway look familiar, but form unfamiliar words. I look around. Seems to be a light industry zoning. But just exactly where, I have no clue.

I look around for a recognisable landmark. Nothing.
This has gotta be in another suburb.
By the abgle of the sun, I'd guess it was 8am.

How did I get here?

I plunder my memory. Nothing.
How can I get OUT of here?

I wobble to my feet. A stab of pain at the base of my skull drops me to my knees. I stumble across the pavement. A surge of nausea from the sudden blood rush sends me heaving and retching towards the support of a rusting power pole.

The panic takes fully five minutes to begin. I realise I’m hopelessly lost and completely rudderless. I instintively reach for my back pocket. Nothing.

Patting myself down I realise that every pocket has been ransacked and contents removed. A quick survey of my person reveals that I'm either stark naked or I've suffered the recent bereavement of:
• wallet
• all remaining cash
• money cards
• driver's licence
• sundry identity cards
• phone number of this very cute girl
• my memory
• my dignity, and quite possibly,
• my virginity

At least I still have my kidneys.

The last available memory was midnight, or shortly thereafter. The last port of call: The Sahara, just a few doors down from my hotel. It was crowded and noisey and crawling with pimps, hookers, touts, drunkards, pool hustlers, merchant marines, American vets, foreign correspondents, honorary consuls, colourful racing identities, lapsed methodists and other bottom-feeding pond life. The culprit could have been anyone there that night:
• The greasy-haired pimp lurking in the shadows at the back of the bar, nicotine stained fingers clutching a small cellophane pack of white powder
• A siren with an inviting cleavage but with hard eyes and narrow lips, beckoning, smouldering with commercial allure.
• The affable tourist guide with the sweaty armpits who kept looking nervously over his shoulder
• The puffy-eyed cyclo perched outside, signalling to an unseen accomplice whenever a tourist walked into the bar.

I'll never know. It all stops dead there. And resumes here seven hours later. Now.

My immediate conclusion was that I had drunk myself into a stupor, leaving myself at the mercy of this rabble of cuthroats and felonious opportunists. Still in control. I had been taking it easy on lite beer for much of the evening. And this doesn’t feel like a hangover. I feel toxic, nauseous, light-headed. Any attempts at upright and forward momentum accompanied by sickening swoons and spins.

The signs said District 13. I need to get to District 1. Mothers pull their children from my increasingly erratic path. Old men chuckle and mutter in bewilderment. I gesticulate wildly, turning my pockets inside out and pouting with maximum pathos. And it certainly was pathetic. Lurch from pillar to post, pocket linings akimbo, I make a mad-eyed plea for “Quan Mot” (District1) to anyone who'll glance my way.

After seeing me bumble and tumble down the street, my Samaritan rides up alongside. "No money, no problem." he says, showing me to the back of his scooter. Gad, what luck! His name is Wing. His English matches my remedial Vietnamese. But he did understand my toneless "Quan Mot". And with that, we're off and away towards District One.

We cross highways and canals, up backstreets and down main avenues. For a long time I recgonise nothing. After half hour, I see my first landmark, the American War Crimes Museum. We're close now. Five minutes and we're right outside my hotel.

Thanking him profusely, I go in and meekly request my room key.
I drag my weak and aching body up the four flights to my room. Broke, spent, sick and shaken, anticipating the numerous rounds of anxious and mentally debilitating encounters with the local constabulary ahead of me.

But home. Sort of.

I collapse on the bed. The ceiling fan chops at the humid air like a machete. It's hot. Sweat. Blink. Exhale. Watch the fan. Slowly spinning, spining...

Saigon... Shit... I'm still only in Saigon.

Every time, I think I'm gonna wake up back on the pavement.
Every minute I stay in this hotel room, I get weaker.
And every minute Cyclo-man squats on his trishaw, he gets stronger.
Each time I look around, the walls move in a little tighter.

Comments

[Harls]

TRO'I O'I...... NOTHING LIKE LIVING ON THE EDGE TO GET THOSE JUICES FLOWING AND KNOWING YOU ARE WELL AND TRULY ALIVE, AS ALIVE AS YOU HAVE EVER BEEN.

Guffaw....... guffaw my apologies that I am not quiet as empathetic (or maybe more so) than my fellow posters, my imagination runs wild. Sorry Dude, but welcome to Saigon as described by name by nature Sigh..Gone. A wonderous city both enchantingly depraved and wicked, yet at times severely depressing in the countless yet ingenious ways of taking money off a green Kha’ch du lich. Once you have done the math and worked out that you are in one of the twenty poorest nations on earth yet still manage to spend or lose more money each day than any other place you have been, do you realise that the motto for Vietnam is to rape and pillage before they do unto you. Not an entirely charitable or noble notion and quiet shocking for the average naïve Euro or American backpacker on a 5 day lonely planet jaunt. All very cosy from the side walk cafe as they sit drinking ca-phe tutting and whispering their objections before finally walking away in disgust at the discraceful behaviour of those less righteous. However any one who spends any time in the dingier side of Vietnam learns this lesson, it is just a matter of how quickly. A little late now for wise advice but after any such misadventure the tonic is a stroll to the Saigon Café and a chat and a beer with the king of the expats Sandy the Aussie ex Vietnam vet who has lived there for the last twenty years. He has you feeling better in no time and feeling considerably less silly as he regales half a life time of continuos rip offs, starting with passports and motos right down to the pound of butter, and pee and ham soup stolen from his fridge.
On the bright side it is not as though you do not have any experience in waking up on the road kerb in a strange place in a foreign land with little or no memory of the previous twelve hours. How does the saying go? If it does not kill you it will only make you stronger. Besides you can replace almost every thing lost except maybe your virginity but last time I looked that was looking shaky any way.
Keep those extra ordinary and entertaining tales coming Hombre, you have me clutching my sides in laughter and cringing as I travel wistfully with you from the side line in an envious and completely entertained state.
Thanks for giving me moments of escape from, (by comparison to your escapades) the dreary existence of a life somewhat to comfortable with the highlight of the week DIY projects on any given weekend.

[May]

That's terrible John! Many commiserations, I hope you're recovering and getting ready to take on the world again soon. Hi to your hat too.

[Cindy]

Lambers, so sorry this happened to you! I hope you are now restored to your normal vibracity and vivacity. Please forgive me for sounding like an elderly relative, but do hope you will turn that Predatory Shite detector dial up a little higher especially it you are still heading for South America.Mind you, you will probably look so raggedy by then that you may be altogether safe. How are the Blundstones?
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