Day 93 - Dong Hoi
Is hair of the dog a universal concept? (certain stricter Muslim countries aside). If so there may be something in it. Nevertheless I declined the café owner's kind offer of a beer and a toke on his enormous pipe (arf) and settled for a black coffee instead. A coffee served neither hot nor cold and the fact that the right word for this temperature escapes me shows the effects of my escapades over the past two nights. It was but a bitter drop in the black ocean of my fatigue. Anticipating an even worse day than yesterday I wearily swung my leg over the bike. After a few kilometres of riding that felt like nails on a chalkboard, if my brain was the chalkboard and the nails were nails, I pulled over to the side of the road. There was only one thing for it, I needed the help of a patron saint. Now you'd think that Saint Christopher would be the obvious choice, his specialism being travellers and all. But I felt a bit hypocritical calling on the help of a holy man whose entire belief system I rejected. Instead I looked to a secular saint, St. Taylor of Swift, who looks after the broken-hearted. The first time this relationship had hit the rocks I'd put Adele on repeat. It seemed proper and what a sobbing shambles that turned out to be. Taylor's poppy, up-and-at-'em songs were the mood I needed right now. I howled tunelessly into the wind as the bike picked up speed again and as far as my hangover went I managed to \*cough* shake it off. Lunchtime approached and I looked for a town or village to stop in. Spying one of reasonable enough size I pulled off the highway. The road in passed under an arch on which were emblazoned the words 'Merry Christmas'. Odd for June, odd for Vietnam, very odd for Vietnam in June. It was the midday heat and no-one was on the narrow streets that snaked between the houses except mad dogs and Englishmen. Strange too were these houses as each was adorned with an identical image of of the Virgin Mary and sprog, about 10cm tall. Could God be revealing himself to me after my earlier choice of Salome over John? What he could have but chose not to reveal to me was anywhere to eat lunch here. Defeated by forces I didn't understand I turned around and left the strange Christian enclave. I stopped again at a windswept town clinging to some crossroads a few kilometres further. Articulated lorries shuddered through the crossroads and a brown dust seemed to hang constantly in the air. Food seemed absent here too so after a swift orange juice I was back on the road. Salvation finally came about 30 minutes later. So maybe God had noted my pilgrimage to his little village. Or not. Sheep seem to eb a recurring theme in Christianity. the congregation as a a 'flock', 'lamb of God' etc.. Maybe because they are unthinking animals easily coerced into doing the same things as each other but that's by-the-by. Goats are not thought as highly of. They are imbued with sin in the form of scapegoats and the goat-Satan connection is oft-repeated. So perhaps the goat-themed restaurant I found myself in was a punishment after all. The menu was was indecipherable but the picture of a goat on the restaurant sign and the carcass of a goat on a spit on the way in strongly suggested what their speciality was.
In an instant I had five people crowded round helping me with my order. Some were staff, some were just hanging around the place, there were no other patrons. Since none of them spoke English the 'help' was of the unhelpful sort. What I chose turned out to be a plate of fatty strips of goat with unidentifiable green leaves of an aniseed flavour. To complement this flavour sensation there were dry crackers and dip whose flavour could most closely be likened to vomit. My entourage smiled as I chewed. And chewed. And chewed. Rubber bands of fat twanged in my mouth as the fragments of meat clinging to them were broken down. I managed a mouthful out of hunger and a mouthful out of politeness and then I was done. At least no-one could ask me if anything was wrong with it. To think some poor goat (possibly the one on the way in) died for this abomination of a dish made me sad. It stood in such blinding contrast to every other meal that I'd had on this trip that my mind boggled at the conception of it. It was like something drawn from the futurist cookbook and concocted as a slap in the face for bourgeoisie pasta-eating indolence. A light dusting of broken glass would have really brought the dish to life though and perhaps a petroleum jus too. Three months of travel had habituated me to irregular and restrained food intake and I felt hardier and leaner. The clothes I came with were starting to billow a little. I was enjoying the physical and emotional distance from the person I'd tried to leave behind when I came here. By the time I got to Dong Hoi the aniseed-vomit tang had gone and to my immeasurable delight I found a quiet bar for a beer and inimitable monkey nuts. 
There was a girl at the next table who looked over once or twice but I was too tired for conversation and so resolved to kill everyone in the place if she started one. But she didn't. In likelihood she was simply amazed at my appearance. Clothes a touch frayed and with skin that colour that can't decide if it's dirty or tanned. I had the air of alfresco living about me. A whiff of the hobo. But really, and what I alone knew, was that this was the patina of the road. It was hard mile after hard mile without falling (often) or complaining (much). At the end of day three I was almost a third of the way through this improbable, idiotic journey and that...that was something.
Is hair of the dog a universal concept? (certain stricter Muslim countries aside). If so there may be something in it. Nevertheless I declined the café owner's kind offer of a beer and a toke on his enormous pipe (arf) and settled for a black coffee instead. A coffee served neither hot nor cold and the fact that the right word for this temperature escapes me shows the effects of my escapades over the past two nights. It was but a bitter drop in the black ocean of my fatigue. Anticipating an even worse day than yesterday I wearily swung my leg over the bike. After a few kilometres of riding that felt like nails on a chalkboard, if my brain was the chalkboard and the nails were nails, I pulled over to the side of the road. There was only one thing for it, I needed the help of a patron saint. Now you'd think that Saint Christopher would be the obvious choice, his specialism being travellers and all. But I felt a bit hypocritical calling on the help of a holy man whose entire belief system I rejected. Instead I looked to a secular saint, St. Taylor of Swift, who looks after the broken-hearted. The first time this relationship had hit the rocks I'd put Adele on repeat. It seemed proper and what a sobbing shambles that turned out to be. Taylor's poppy, up-and-at-'em songs were the mood I needed right now. I howled tunelessly into the wind as the bike picked up speed again and as far as my hangover went I managed to \*cough* shake it off. Lunchtime approached and I looked for a town or village to stop in. Spying one of reasonable enough size I pulled off the highway. The road in passed under an arch on which were emblazoned the words 'Merry Christmas'. Odd for June, odd for Vietnam, very odd for Vietnam in June. It was the midday heat and no-one was on the narrow streets that snaked between the houses except mad dogs and Englishmen. Strange too were these houses as each was adorned with an identical image of of the Virgin Mary and sprog, about 10cm tall. Could God be revealing himself to me after my earlier choice of Salome over John? What he could have but chose not to reveal to me was anywhere to eat lunch here. Defeated by forces I didn't understand I turned around and left the strange Christian enclave. I stopped again at a windswept town clinging to some crossroads a few kilometres further. Articulated lorries shuddered through the crossroads and a brown dust seemed to hang constantly in the air. Food seemed absent here too so after a swift orange juice I was back on the road. Salvation finally came about 30 minutes later. So maybe God had noted my pilgrimage to his little village. Or not. Sheep seem to eb a recurring theme in Christianity. the congregation as a a 'flock', 'lamb of God' etc.. Maybe because they are unthinking animals easily coerced into doing the same things as each other but that's by-the-by. Goats are not thought as highly of. They are imbued with sin in the form of scapegoats and the goat-Satan connection is oft-repeated. So perhaps the goat-themed restaurant I found myself in was a punishment after all. The menu was was indecipherable but the picture of a goat on the restaurant sign and the carcass of a goat on a spit on the way in strongly suggested what their speciality was.
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