A week of aggravators and other annoying weirdoes

Last week had all the makings of a good week. But it was spoiled by a slew of right idiots.

My correspondence with Alain, Isa’s friend who went back to France a while back, is getting serious. By which I mean that he’s now at last laying bare the foundations of his beliefs. They are, he warned me, scientific and earth-shattering. Funny, I’ve heard that before, and somehow the earth is still whole.

His latest replies to my previous comments set out to prove a number of things once and for all. So he gave me the links to various free books, including the apparently widely-held masterpiece in everything after-life-y, by an Ozzie lawyer called Zammit.

He also pointed to amazing facts that cannot be explained other than by resorting to an explanation of the world that requires sentient beings, ETs visiting earth, successive lives for our souls and all the rest of it. One of those facts: Swift predicted in his books the existence of two moons of Mars 150 years before they were effectively discovered. Alain’s solution is that ETs knocked on his door and told him. I kid you not.

It has nothing to do with the fact that Swift was keen on science, than moons had been found for most other planets by then, or that the idea had already been expressed or hypothesised.

And of course Swift only ever made one prediction of this type in his books? No he didn’t. He made dozens and dozens of weird claims, announced surreal inventions that will probably never happen. But that Alain can’t see.

As for Zammit, the guy writes a few paragraphs in his book on the fact that sceptics like me discount what he says at the expanse of scientific thinking and empiricism. I READ his book. If that can be called science, it is only by ETs of worm-like brain power.

I don’t mind people with different beliefs. A devout English catholic friend of mine has the decency to say that there is no point talking with me about the tenets of christianity because I don’t have faith, in other words there’s things I can’t get due to my having missed the revelation boat, or thereabouts.

What I positively mind, though, is people trying to make me swallow a 6-year-old’s attempt at ‘science’ as irrefutable facts. Zammit is a joke. Each of his chapters, dealing with ‘important’ matters such as ‘materialisation’, ‘life after death’ and other ‘paranormal’ things, is done and dusted in about 10 paragraphs and as rigorous and systematic as a game of chess played by a drunken chimp.

I’m no fanatic of atheism or even materialism. I am both of those after what I’ve seen and experienced. If God or ETs show up at my flat and proceed to proving me what’s what, I’ll adapt my world view. In the meantime, I’ll rely on any scientific proof that ETs visited the earth and that my soul inhabited a giraffe’s turd or a wise dictator’s body in my previous life. As in: SCIENTIFIC. As in: Nature will peer-review the paper and publish it as credible and following the requirements of any other scientific paper worthy of genuine interest by the open-minded community.

I cannot believe how blind to what they want some people can be. How it completely distorts the bearings of rationality and objectivity.

I replied to Alain’s latest offering on Thursday, and it got me blood boiling a bit. So I headed to the tennis courts pretty high, and what I needed less than anything was an aggravating French twat pissing me off over the rules of the club. Petty matter for sure, on both sides, and not one to throw at me when I’ve been venting my intellectual frustration on my keyboard.

The bell tolls, meaning that your turn is up. Koichi and I head for the court and I say ‘hi, time for us to play’, and this guy starts arguing, saying ‘we’ve only played 45mins and we’ve been playing for an hour since we started here’. Man, you don’t want to do that, not today believe me.

Being well brought up, I decide to go back to the tables and collect the booking book where each session is clearly labelled as lasting 45mins only. When I show him the book, the moron keeps denying the evidence (another one then) and I’m about to express myself more clearly when there’s shouting coming from the other court. The foursome gesture to us that they’ve finished and we can take over.

So Koichi and I go. No idea if they stopped play to diffuse the situation or just because they were done.

So my partner and I start warming up in the service squares. And I’m pretty sure the moron on the other court has a laugh with his mate saying ‘and to do that as well!’. I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t sure, and also because the last time I had a fist fight was in 1988. And nothing good ever comes from a fight, apart from a short term release of stress. I’m also a bit wary of letting my anger out, because I have no idea what I could do. Sounds crap, but it’s true. I’m all in. Not sure I could control my anger if it came to fighting since I have so much anger and so little experience of physical confrontations.

I’m not Hulk, if that’s what you’re thinking. But an angry frog without a leash could be a handful. It has no bearing whatsoever on the outcome of such a fight. I could well get my bottom kicked and finish in hospital, having landed not even a slap.

Aaa-nyway. I could have told him to fuck off and go back to playing bally-bally with his mate. I didn’t. We kept warming up with Koichi, and as soon as we got to the baseline, the moron shut his mouth because he could tell that I could kick his tennis arse playing left-handed on one leg.

He’s probably the kind of idiot who laughs at Federer because he has a massage before a match. ‘Oh, pussy, you can’t take a tennis game hey?’. Man, how can people be so frikkin stupid? Really?

When they were done and sat down at a table to chat and drink beer, I asked to guy who runs the club to come with me and explain how things work since they didn’t believe me. He saw I was pretty wound up and refused to join me – confrontation and anger are not big on the Asian agenda. So I joined the guys at their table, the book in my hand. I was very polite and all, with just my eyes throwing atomic bombs at the twat. Then the manager joined us and he confirmed that a session was only 45mins’ long. THANK YOU! The French moron smiled with sufficient sincerity that I didn’t ram the book down his throat. He agreed that if he had been able to play longer than that before it is because he plays late and no one else follows him.

All good then. Next time I see him on court will be interesting though, because I WILL get over my aversion for physicality if he crosses my line again. Sure, it’s only a tennis session. But it’s also 24 years of idiots doing what they do best without me being frank enough with them.

The previous day, I’d stopped in a shop to get some milk and rice. This English guy is in. He grabs a few items and goes to the till. When he’s told of the price, he hands over Bahts, Thai currency, and is given Lao money back. Then he goes ‘no, I don’t want your money. Your money is crap, your money’s shit’.

Last but not blah blah, I had to deal with my US publisher, who had the cheek to specify in his termination letter (that I need to countersign) that I hadn’t fulfilled my part of the contract. I sent him a pretty clear reply as to what I thought of his Revisionism and that he could roll up his letter and stick it somewhere uncomfortable until he changed the offending paragraph and paid what he owes me.

I thought, maybe last week was the World’s Idiot Week. The WIW. All out in force and strangely most of them just for me. No small wonder I didn’t rip my clothes and tear the tennis-player apart with my green bare hands.

Sometimes I wish I was Clark Kent to smash the faces of idiots in. But first I’d be working full-time with no weekend and no holidays, and second I wouldn’t have time to write my blog. Will not do then.

So that was last week: taken over by donkeys.

I did watch a very nice Quebecian ‘comedy’ called Starbuck, about a loser who discovers that the sperm he donated 20 years ago has resulted in 533 kids, most of whom want to know his identity.

No tennis on Tuesday as Marc was in Thailand for work. Belote afterwards went so smoothly I thought ETs were dealing me all the best cards. They probably were, mind. The truth is elsewhere innit.

The weekend was much better than what had preceded it. Pétanque tournament on Saturday morning with Martin and Alex on my team. We were paranormally drawn against the only other falang team, and we lost 9-11, after being 2-7 down.

Anyway the three guys were nice. One of them plays rugby here and I’ll go back to watch the team.

After that Alex and I lunched in town, she shopped for the embassy, and we went to Martin’s for a late afternoon swim and meal. Lovely time there, with Adélie still as adorable as a cute after-life ET with telepathic powers.

Then weeks of nights shorter than usual caught up with me. I remember sitting down in our sofa at 8.30. By 8.30.24 I was fast asleep. And woke up in bed the next day at 7.30 or so.

I was starting to think that either Laos or the heat meant I didn’t need to sleep as much, against all reasonable assumption that hot climates are more tiring than colder ones. Anyway, what with belote evenings, late tennis sessions and all the rest, I’d been spending a month or two sleeping 6 hours a night or so.

This weekend showed me it was all fanciful, and I also crashed out badly on Sunday evening, a knackered zombie.

I did try to shake off the tiredness on Sunday by joining Sebastien and Ivan at badminton. Meeting had been scheduled at 10.30am at L’atmosphère, for a start at 11. I was there. Sebastien was still in bed and I got his deaf and mute gf to wake him up. He had the eyes of a man who enjoyed a bottle of three the previous night.

I let him time to pick himself up and zipped to Naked Espresso for a real ristretto. If you come to Vientiane, don’t bother with any other place for coffee, this is the only place to come, and coffee fans are lucky to have Pope, the owner, lemme tell you.

Went back at 11. Seb was drinking coffee and trying to put his laces through the holes of his shoes. When both tasks got done at last, we went to Ivan’s house, very close to were we live. Ivan is a belote partner with laughing eyes with whom I haven’t spoken much, but he seems nice, and besides he’s got a Honda Super Four.

He’d told me it was a Honda Four. But I know better. Or rather the internet does. Anyway, it’s an ugly awesome piece of motorbike. An 400cc inline-4 cylinder engine with its distinctive music, even at start-up. A whistle, the whistle of a cosmic shepherd, and when Seb asked him for a beer (yep) I thought I might as well find something to do for the next 15 minutes. So I begged Ivan to lend me his bike. My left foot is still fidgety due to not having gear levers to lift or lower, and I was curious to give the Honda Super Four a go.

It’s an old battered bike Ivan’s got, a good ten years’ old at least, rusty in many areas, with suspicious tyres. He got it 2 years ago for 2700 USD, a grey import that he rides without proper documents.

And I’ve seen the light, brothers, I really have!

I’d ridden inline-4s before, but none had given me so much divine pleasure as this one. Holy ETs, it was paranormal heaven. Maybe it’s because I’ve been missing geared bikes so badly. But maybe it’s just that that whistling sound turning into an acute and acuter shriek is not just music to my ear but in tune with the laws of the parallel universe where I’m Valentino Rossi and Clark Kent combined.

Holy mother of ETs, it was surreal. Even though the front end felt so heavy I thought I couldn’t turn at first. Weird, exactly like on the R6 (one of the most radical sportsbikes) I’d tried in London. I still think there’s something dodgy with the fork or the suspensions or even the alignment of the wheel, but maybe it’s just that on bikes on which the rider leans forward quite a bit, since a lot of his weight is on the front, the feel is completely different from the ones I normally ride, i-e roadsters or supermotos.

The Honda SF’s engine is lovely at tick-over, but then you twist the grip, the rpms climb and 40 virgins appear in front of you. Past 7000 rpms the power comes on and there’s a dribble-inducing kick, which keeps on going until 11.000! Ooooh yeah!

Suffice to say I almost never touched third gear, the music and power at the top of second was yummy and sufficient enough for my in-need ears and overtaking traffic.

That’s what I don’t get here: there’s some decent bikes around, but they’re ridden as if completely misunderstood. The whole point of a motorbike, in my parallel universe anyway, is to sound like it can. A lot of riders here move up the gears past 2000 rpms. 2000 rpms!!!! In other words, they never ever hit the sweet spot of their engine, and castrate its sound on top of that. It should be forbidden to ride a roadster under 5000 rpms, and any sportier bike under 7000 at least. Come on guys, get a grip!

Ivan is coming at belote this evening. I told him I’d bring a gun and leave with the bike.

The badminton went hotly. Ivan is a bit rusty but not bad – last time he played was 6 months ago. Seb is very rusty and not as good – last time he played was 18 months ago. I beat them repeatedly – last time I played was 4 years ago (I didn’t tell them…).

Yesterday I had a meeting with the manager of Monument Books, THE bookshop in Vientiane. They agreed to sell copies of my book (in French on chance), are interested in me giving talks about it or photography, wouldn’t mind a photo exhibition, and are desperate for good postcards. As the manager says, she’s tired of naked boobs of hill tribe women and monks in the street.

And this morning, at the French Institute, I met with the woman in charge of the Institute’s library. She’s also keen to include my book in her catalogue, organise a talk and even a photography exhibition. If the ETs keep working in my favour, they might even get me to translate a few things or even books.

But enough of myself, no? Alex’s been missing. Well, she’s doing fine. The team moved into its proper offices on Friday. The embassy still looks and feels a bit in-progress, but it’s definitely taking shape. Since Monday, that is, yesterday, they’re all based in it. Alex has her own office, as has the ambassador, and problems keep coming up. Computer systems don’t work, phone lines collapse, the tricks played by the guards would deserve a blog of their own, the staff comes up with its own spikiness… In short, it’s all go and Alex is trying to keep it all together by dint of good will, a silky fist in a velvety glove, and working out what the fcuk is everybody’s problem. Not to mention that weirdos have started turning up at the embassy’s door (even though it is not officially open) with the weirdest complaints, queries or stories to tell.

I love my wife, but for the life of me why she’d want to work in such a maelstrom is beyond belief. Must be ETs that told her to 5 lives ago when she was a lovely roadsign on planet Dproucatvat in Parallel Universe 567’`. Don’t you think so Alain? Ask Zammit, will ya?

This weekend is a long one, so we decided to escape, and we’re flying as far away as we can from the embassy: Luang Namtha, in the very north of Laos. High up, lost in the forest, the hills and the peace and quiet.

 

Koy kengheng, puak tyao bo yan (I’m good, don’t worry)

 

It’s been more than a week since I last posted here. As a result 2 or 3 millions of my followers wrote in asking if I was still alive. Fear not, I’m alive and well. It’s just that life is getting back into a well-oiled routine and I have been busy with preparing my ebook for publication. Soon to be released, by the way.

Not that life is getting back into a London well-oiled routine. For one there’s no climbing here. Second, I see friends daily here, which was impossible in the UK. Third, our cultural life is ten times more active here than in the UK. And I play belote… Hey I forgot, you don’t know: last Thursday, I bought a belote app, and am playing myself silly trying to improve and gain experience a lot faster than by just playing on Tuesdays. Direct consequence or my dedication or not, last night was a right dream: 3 games, 3 wins. Having lost the kings at the start, I was paired with a newly-arrived girl on a 2-month placement at the French embassy who looked shaky. After an awful start where I ‘redoubled’ (surcoinché) and lost the bet and they shot up straight to 500 (out of 1000), our opponents got to 840, and us 20. Then they got cocky, Anouk and I understood each other better, and we flew through the rest of the game, thanks in part to a big mess-up by Adrien – which attracted the ire of Coraline. Fiery girl, this Coraline…

Anyway, when she left and was replaced by Seb, Anouk and I kept playing well and won the next two games. Even though they managed to squeeze in a called capot, ‘doubled’ (coinché) by I. What can I say, I had an ace, and I don’t play belote to lie down meekly. If you lose, might as well lose with panache. Ahem.

Whatever, we won, with an uncalled capot in the last round. Oh yeah. I ended up calling 140, with 120 needed to win and my partner knackered (it was just past midnight). I would have called capot had it not been for my lone queen of clubs (but luckily Anouk had the ace). I had 5 atouts (not the 9 and ace, but they were ‘secs’) and 2 other aces.

Aaa-nyway. Not sure how many of you are belote fanatics. Still time to change that, people, there’s dozens of apps and thousands of players worldwide, it’s pretty amazing. Whatever time of day or night I connect, dozens of tables are running on my app alone.

But let’s move on. Busy week last week. Big achievement: I have managed to get Martin to play pétanque after every class. And we have decided to take part in a tournament on Saturday morning. We’ll get thrashed, given the locals’ level, but it should be fun.

Marc stood me up at tennis last Tuesday. Not pleased. Maybe because of that, I played belote until 3.30 thereafter. Not a clever move as it took me a while to recover.

On Wednesday evening, Alex, a London colleague and I went for a haircut with a famous Japanese hairdresser. Koichi had organised a workshop to promote his initiative of training victims of mines or of diseases such as polio and we wanted to support it. We thought the Japanese star would be overseeing matters, but actually he’s the one who cut our hair. I gave him free reins on mine, and he did a ‘rainbow’ cut: starting with 3mm down low, he finished on 12mm up top in increments of 3mm. Not bad at all I have to say, the problem is I’ll never be able to do that myself.

The reason why the girls were not cutting is because they started training 3 months ago and focus on the shampooing at the mo’. So they shampooed us. After the cut. And 4 times in a row. Which was nice, because it includes scalp massages as well. Only problem for me was that the seat was for locals, and my bum was sticking out, my legs having the job to support me in a rather weird and painful position.

But it was nice. We chatted with Koichi, the haircutting star (who had spent a year at Jacques Dessange in Paris 20 years ago and spoke some decent French still), and one of the shampooers, who knew some English. All lovely girls by the way. I wish them luck in the future, and will actually try to go back.

But on that evening, Koichi told me he was pulling out of our Thursday session as well. That’s three cancelled sessions in a row, and I wasn’t pleased. How dare he find people a future to the detriment of my tennis practice?! Some people have got their priorities badly wrong.

Yesterday, Marc texted me that he would not be playing either. Four cancelled sessions in a row, and counting. Bastards. All bastards.

Luckily last week I registered us at the Rashmi’s gym, so I took my frustrations out on innocent machines. They won.

On Friday, Alex had to go to Nongkai, just over the border/Mekong, to buy stuff for the embassy’s opening week ‘festival’. That included laptops, a projector, a TV set and other bits and bobs. Her plan was to organise a film night as a homage to the apparently famed regular British embassy in Laos film night back in the 50s. The idea was to project the film onto a wall outside, and tell people to bring rugs and drinks, while food would have been provided. Martin helped her by lending her his own projector so she could make up her mind, and that was very nice of him. By this morning, she told me she pulled the plug on it as it was, strangely, making the ambassador uncomfortable. Why o why is what I ask.

Nongkai was impressive. The commercial zone around the Tesco/Lotus has got it all, or pretty much. In actual fact, the Tesco in question is zillion times better than the one in Udon, which is weird given that Udon is bigger. Anyway we won’t complain. We’ll go back there as soon as the gods let us get our car, which might be tomorrow or in 10 years’ time. Frikkin me out these administrative hurdles: Christ, we just want to spend money guys!

Motorbike-wise, I’m getting forever more frustrated. On Sunday, I was twisting Adélie’s right leg like it was a throttle, with the expected exhaust and gear-changing sounds. She liked it at first, but then everybody present started looking at me with a frozen smile on their faces. They read: ‘what IS he on?’. Well, I’m on 9 weeks without a motorbike, and it’s not good for my health. And Youtube doesn’t help: endless films of great roads, orgasmic exhaust notes, fever-inducing bikes and surreal riding. I think I’m addicted. And yes, if I had to chose I’d throw belote overboard every single minute to be able to ride, let alone on well-surfaced twisties. I ‘often’ think back to my afternoon of riding in the Vosges last May.

I’m sure I’ll get to enjoy off-roading here, but right now I just can’t see how it can beat, for me, the sheer delight of downshifting as you get into a lovely curve, leaning out of the bike, and reopening the throttle to the sound of a great engine and exhaust. That rivals just about anything I know. Question is, does it rival riding a wave? If I had to choose? Frankly, I deni ken. On reason alone, I guess I’d ride the wave, because waves are fickle whereas roads are not. But were I given the choice as a last cigarette before my execution, I’m not so sure.

On Saturday lunchtime, we tried the Lao Plaza Japanese restaurant. It was very good (the red tuna sashimi were melting like butter), and less expensive than we had expected. A nice surprise.

Then, at 4, we met her London colleague at the VIS’ football ground, where Vienstock was about to unleash its rocking powers. It was a let down. The location was great, but the music kind of petered into being at 6.45 instead of, well, 4. By that time I was drenched in sweat from playing football and volleyball with all those who cared to join me (including Alex for a while), the music was not too bad but not great, and I was restless. See, I find it very hard to sit still, especially with mosquitoes looking for food all around me, and I lobbied the girls to go.

Seb was there with his wife to sell food. Coraline arrived when we left. And the Lao Ford guys displayed a Defender and a Ranger, exactly the one we ordered and don’t have yet. Ah ah, very funny.

On Sunday, I’d offered to go on a ride with Romain, Isabelle’s youngest son (the other one is studying in India), who that week had just passed his licence. Well, more like ‘passed’. The idea had attracted her, and Romain didn’t seem too opposed to it either. So after a session at the gym with Alex, I left her and picked up the man. We rode for about an hour, after which we sat down for a drink and a chat and I told him what I thought he could improve to extend his life expectancy.

Then I picked Alex up and we headed for a lovely buffet and afternoon by the pool at Isa’s, where Martin and his family were already waiting. We played a kind of water football, Théa and I against Romain and Alex, for a while. We won.

By the time we got home in the late afternoon, Alex and I were completely exhausted.

Monday was a bit special: Kong the driver was having a ‘basi’ (party) to celebrate his new home. We drove exactly 24km outside of Vientiane, along the Mekong, and parked at his place. Gorgeous rural spot: the river in front, surrounded by fields of various crops, a few animals roaming, temple roofs showing through the canopy and across the water in Thailand. The house itself is surprisingly big, with a wooden one next door for his dad. The party consisted of many of the people we had met at his brother’s becoming-a-monk ceremony, food, a band and incredibly loud speakers. Of course our table (the whole embassy made the trip) was right in front of the speakers, and honestly Alex couldn’t hear me when I shouted.

It started out ominously then. But food came (I stuck to a very nice salad and sticky rice), line dancing Lao-style started next to us, and soon Alex, Steven (another guy from London here to help out) and I were getting jiggy with it. Steven let his hair down in a very impressive manner, Alex did very well, and I, well, I let you picture it for yourself.

It was stupidly hot there, despite the tables being arranged underneath a big big tree. And as I was driving I was completely knackered by the time I dropped everybody off at the UN – the road wasn’t the best, and concentration is a must if you’re to avoid knocking motorbikes, pedestrians and animals over.

Extreme heat, bad roads and imperative concentration: riding the bike (if/when I get it) is gonna be fun…

Yesterday, Lao Telecom had received 4G modems. As no technician was available to come test it at our flat, I took it upon myself to do their job. I was handed a modem and did the testing. It was surreally fast, like I’ve never seen before (mind you in London we had 1,3mbs, and in China probably less). I told Martin straight away, since he was keen on 4G too, and nipped to his house so he could check whether the 20 antennas Lao Telecom have here covered his area well. It did not, and he was pretty annoyed.

I rushed back to the shop and bought my modem, with Youtube motorbike film lust dripping out of my eyes.

Of course, when I connected my own 4G modem speed was down by half at least. Still better than in London, but 4G speed? No bloody chance. Pretty pissed off if you ask me, but then again I’d foreseen it and I kinda know Alex and I are doomed when it comes to decent Internet set-ups. The cybernetic gods don’t like us much. That’s fine though, I’m not mad at them. They can’t play belote or ride a bike. Still, it should improve matters considerably when it comes to Skyping. On Sunday, I could see and hear my parents fine, but they could only see me. So I was replying in writing on Facebook to their oral questions.

Job-wise, I’ve started translating my book on China in French. Tessa commissioned me to translate something for her. Martin has put me in touch with a Unicef guy who is looking for proofreaders and researchers. A Hong Kong agency who I worked for in the past called me up regarding a potential big translation for a tourism company.

And I have decided to pick up from the ashes it was in my idea of a photobook on China. While in Chongqing I’d already worked it all out, finalised about two chapters, and then shelved it. It would complement my soon-to-be-released text-based book on China very well. I just have to finish it (will take a while), and find the ebook publisher that makes photography ebook publishing easy. Smashwords doesn’t.

On that note, I’ll go back to my daily grind and leave you to yours.

Mu koy, pob kan may (see you later guys).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hells Bells and Whistles

As I was preparing my lunch salad today, a huge cloud of dust and leaves materialised outside the kitchen window. With the terrace door open on the landing, I quickly turned my head to see how bad it was there and got ready to rush and shut it. But nothing. When I looked back at the cloud, I realised what was happening: a tornado! The thick dust and angry leaves were twirling along an invisible axis, randomly travelling at incredible speeds over the wasteland by our building.

I watched in awe: it was my first. It was also just a mini one, which is why I didn’t panic. It was amazing to watch, lasted about 20 sec before it crossed the street and petered out as soon as it touched the grassy field on the other side.

Maybe it’s the way Buddha apologised for his overzealous brethren. I can’t quite remember what I did on Friday or Saturday, because of HIM:

Yea, yea, this guy. The monk. The bloody monk. I took this shot late on Friday afternoon. Ever since the early hours, he’d been chanting like there’d be no tomorrow. First I found it cute. Then 11am came, and I thought ‘you’re overdoing it there mate’. I had lunch at home and then left as I couldn’t stand it anymore.

When I came back, he was still at it, as loud and discordant as ever. I had a choice: keep wondering what the hell was going on in the flat, or go enquire. I chose the latter.

It’s weird: the closer I got to the temple, the less loud his blah-blahing became, and when I passed the gates the chanting had become as natural and fitting as a statue of Buddha.

As a result, all my frustration and mild anger dissipated, and I walked around under a spell. All was cute and golden and serene and blurry.

Then I saw the little man in his robe. He had a mike in his hand, a piece of paper in the other, and a mum and her two daughters kneeling in front of him. They were sat in the half-built structure mentioned in an earlier post, which had been decorated for the occasion with various shrines, fruit and hanging stuff.

I took my shoes off and joined them, at a distance. I watched them go on for a while, then left. I even surprised myself by leaning forward as I did, in a kind of uncontrolled show of respect and gratitude. If I’d known…

Reaching the monks’ living quarters, I got chatting with the dozen of robed kids who had more or less finished their ancillary chores, such as:

One of them, named Poun, corrected me: ‘we are novices’. Quite right. One becomes a monk at 21 only, and their were clearly all well below that. Another one, Keo, was a Man U fan, and we joked as well as our ignorance of each other’s language allowed.

I said ‘pob kan may’ (see you round) and looped back below the temple itself, walking along the path with the little stupas and the water tower.

At the end of it, some local kids gathered around me for a bit of exoticism.

Sadly, by the time I’d reached home again, the monk’s chanting had yet again reached stupid levels of sound and awfulness. How was that possible?!

I read more of Isa’s novel, then watched films in the evening. When I went to bed around 11.30, the monk had thankfully stopped the killing.

Until 2am, when he woke me up with a start. I wasn’t able to go back to sleep before 5, and was up again by 8. The guy wasted my night with his senseless shouting. I couldn’t believe my ears, eyes, feet and just about everything else. How can someone, first, be willing to half-chat half-sing all night long, and second do it in a mike so that no one in a few kilometre radius would be spared? I call that selfishness of the highest order.

What made it even worse, on Saturday, was to learn that our temple was the only one doing his ‘bun’ using a mike and loudspeakers. Why, oh why, mine?

Anyway I woke up in a bad mood, tired and pissed off with that shrivelled little man with the face of an angel. What he managed to do, however, was turn me against Buddhism. If I’d been good with a pencil I’d have drawn a cartoon and sent it to a Danish magazine.

Instead I slid my headphones on and listened to AC/DC’s Hells Bells all day long, while trying to focus on editing my ebook.

The website said a normally intelligent person could do the editing in 2 hours. The fast ones in 1. I’d been sweating on it for a few days already. Not sure what that says.

Alex landed at 9.05pm. I picked her up and her luggage and rode straight to the Tilapia, a posh French restaurant in the centre where I’d booked a table.

We had a nice meal in a lovely environment. It was good to see my Choup again, who overall has had a good time in Hong Kong. Actually, the food itself was nothing amazing. My starter had too many flavours for my taste, although the lamb was nice, and the black cod I had for mains was nicely cooked by the sides were nothing short of uninspiring.

I forgot to mention that I’d had breakfast at Le Banneton, and lunch at Nazim’s, an Indian on the Salana hotel’s street we’d seen many times. Given the awful welcome and the look at the restaurant itself, I had half braced myself to feel sick down the line, but that never materialised. Good points there then.

Luckily, the monk had tired of disturbing the whole creation, and we had a delightfully uneventful night. Up at 7am of course.

We hadn’t really planned anything for the day, and I suggested a short drive along the Paklay road. Without knowing why, something in me has already decided that my first ‘big’ motorbike trip will be to Xayabouli, and Paklay is the point at which the road leaves the Mekong behind and veers sharply northward. I thought it would be nice to discover that side of town, since we’d already done (very sketchily) the north and east.

We picked up the car at the UN and drove off. Soon after cutting across route 13 north, the tarmac gave way to dry mud and gravel. Yay! Oh it was fun, fun, fun. It was brilliant. Not sure why, but I love those roads. Chatting, Alex associated them with poverty. It’s funny, the two never connected in my mind. For me it’s a privilege. I’m not saying it’s a privilege for people living along those roads to breathe in the thick red dust, but somehow I still see those tracks as being those of incredibly lucky individuals. Go figure.

In any event, it was awesome: the bumps, the controlled skids, the ruts, the negative cambers, etc, oh YEAH!

At one point, we saw a fruit and veg market on the roadside. The spot was lovely, and I knew Alex was desperate for veggies, so I parked and let her do her shopping while I investigated the riverbanks. We’d just passed a big sandbank, and all the land between the ‘road’ and the Mekong were covered in cultivated fields.

Back at the market, Alex had bought this:

Tomatoes, weird beans, ‘ball’ courgettes and a few things else aside. This whole bag set her back 6.000 kip, about 40p. We know where to shop now…

Frankly, I couldn’t understand why she didn’t go for those:

I was pleased to see these larvae, because I’d been in Laos for 2 months and not seen any. I was starting to wonder where the heck I really was.

We drove on a little bit, I wasn’t ready to go back in town just yet. First I was having too much fun, and second, err, I was having too much fun.

Then suddenly I braked. There, to my right, were a number of black boulders! Holy Molly! BOULDERS!

I left Alex in the car, well up to face the silly heat that had returned since yesterday. But right now, what caused me the most concern was the sign in Lao in the field where those boulders were. I guess I’m a bit paranoid, but I haven’t forgotten UXOs, and I didn’t want to lose my legs before I could ride my motorbike here. So I stooped beneath the barbed wire rather cagily, hesitating between running across and trying to levitate to avoid triggering a mine. In the end I just walked, my heart racing a fair bit. It’s quite probable the sign only said ‘for sale’, but there you go.

When I got to the boulders, three things came to mind: that the holds were few and far between, that it was far too hot for any climbing, and that I didn’t like all the termite mounds and nests occupying every nook and cranny of the rocks. In one place, where the boulder split into a roof-section 1,5 metre above the ground, the termites had built their stuff all the way up there. Yuk.

But my brave defiance of death and insect life hadn’t been for nofin. In the distance, among the parched trees, I spotted the back of a huge cobra, ready to strike.

Back in the car I told Alex, and at the next right we headed for the hidden temple (which I now call ‘temple of the snake’ due to all the statues of reptiles found there). I know, I should have been avoiding those after the bad experience of the bloody ‘bun’, but what can I say, I’m a softie.

The track to the temple got better and better: BIG ruts, holes, narrow distance between the trees, big rocks, inclines, the works, and I was laughing all the way. Alex less, somehow.

The temple itself proved genuinely delightful. A little gem we wouldn’t have found had Tomas not taken me to Mile End Climbing Wall back in 2005. Statues and shrines, clever as they are, were hidden under or between boulders, away from the sun, in the most palpable silence. A lazy breeze cooled us ever so slightly for a minute. Buddha’s kiss I say.

A fluffy seed rested on the black rock, smiled at me and asked to have her picture taken. I complied gracefully.

It turned out the temple was only 20 mins from the tarmac of Vientiane. It had felt a lot more on the way out – mind you I did drive on the way back.

What this driving has made me realise is how messy, tricky and awesome riding anywhere in Laos is going to be. Add to that the rain, and it’ll be a right nightmare. The kind of nightmare I think I was born for. Bring it on, I say.

Which, by the looks of things, is not going to be anytime soon. The agent told me the bike was landing in Bangkok on 16th, two weeks late. Then, today, Kong said the MoFA was going to take another two weeks at least to give me the first batch of papers needed by the agent to apply for customs’ clearance. All in all, I’m not counting no chickens yet. If I have the bike by mid-April, I think I’ll have done well. A complete pain in the backside and everywhere else, but what can I do? Of course I cry every evening, but that doesn’t help.

After a late lunch at the cooking school and a long and pretty nice massage, we stopped at the plant shop for Alex to buy yet more leaves and earth and pots, and headed home.

With the sun setting, we decided to go play iPad Scrabble on the balcony. It was fine for 10 minutes, then darkness really took over and our bulbs got swamped by hundreds of flying ants. Problem is, quite a few of them confused my skin for light, and I had to retreat indoors for fear of slapping myself into madness.

I lost the game. I had low scoring letter only, and poor ones anyway. At one point I had 7 vowels. Alex had all the Zs and Ys and Ws and so on.

I’m not a sore loser. Not me.

Grr.

What I learnt this weekend is, all in all, simple: I hate temples. I love temples.

Back to square one then.

How Manu spent 6 months in a Lao jail and why I’m going down the ebook route

Alex flew to Hong Kong on Wednesday, and is returning on Saturday evening. She’s meeting with other DHMs (as in Deputy Head of Mission) to discuss DHM matters. Don’t worry, I don’t know what that means either. Mind you, Alex still doesn’t know the difference between volleyball and basketball, so we’re even.

Shame she’s gone: today is international women’s day, called ‘international mother’s day’ here. Makes sense, here as in China the raison d’être of women is clearly to bring small crying human beings into the world. And/or to be a mistress.

Which neatly brings me to the story of Manu, of belote fame. Manu has spent in the region of 23 years here, is French, and has been married to a local for donkey’s years, in the region of 20 (hard facts with Manu are a bit difficult to come by – maybe he’s gone native, or maybe when we start chatting he’s already had too much to drink).

Anyway, mixing the local tradition of taking a mistress (called ‘mia noy’ here, in other words ‘small wife’) with French womanising, Manu had been having an affair for about 15 years. His wife had been knowing it for about as long. But two years ago or so her family convinced her to report him to the police: there was money to be made there.

Now, in the West willy-sharing can land you a divorce. But in Laos extra-marital shenanigans are a proper crime, especially if you’re a falang. Result: Manu spent 6 months in prison. For the next 7 months he had to report to the local police station daily.

And he’s still to go to court for his crime! It was 6 preventive months in jail…

The first prison he was in was his village’s (a village in Vientiane is more like a borough, but still). According to him, they were 50 men in a 25 sqm cell.

After 2 or 3 months he was moved to the International jail, where another hundred or so foreigners were already warming the benches. For various reasons: drugs, murder, rape, paedophilia, and philandering of course.

There’s a number of stories going around. Seb told me of a guy he knew who used to grow weed. For about a year he went out with a local girl, then dumped her. A few days later the police turned up at his place and found 1.5kg of drug in his fridge. Cue 10 years in jail, apparently.

That’s not new. Which is why it’s hard to believe foreigners still fall for it. First of all it’s well-known that possession and/or cultivation of drugs takes you straight to Lao jails – in other words not 5-star hotels -, and second evidence of reporting by frustrated lovers and ill-meaning neighbours or colleagues abound. So why risk it, I ask you? Why be so stupid?

This brought home why, to go back to what I was talking about a few posts ago, I certainly could not and would not, first, fall in love with a local, and second sleep around. For the life of me, I can’t see how one can forfeit the comfort of his own home, the smiles of his wife, his tennis sessions, belote evenings, freedom of movement and so on just to get even a 24-hour long orgasm. Sorry, doesn’t work for me.

Oh I know a willy can have a mind of its own, but whoever decides to satiate it despite knowing what might befall him here probably deserves his punishment. You can’t complain of losing at a game when you know the rules.

But enough of sex.

I will quickly gloss over the fact that, incidently, Manu and Seb thrashed Adrien (a freshly arrived guy on placement at the French embassy) and me at belote on Tuesday. In our defence, we never had a good game, but Seb was on cloud 9.

On Tuesday, a powercut around 11am made me lose 2 solid hours of work on my ebook. For some strange reason there hadn’t been any automatic save. Bloody crap.

And it was not even two hours of glamorous editing: I had been hyperlinking the endnotes.

This soon-to-be ebook is my book on China. It was due out in print on 1st April (check amazon: Behind The Great Wall of China). But a few weeks ago the editor who I’d been working with from the beginning informed me she’d been sacked. A week later the publishing house’s big boss sends me a curt email whereby he breaks the contract they’d offered me last April.

To get to that stage, the manuscript (MS) had been sent to a reviewer, who had got back with recommendation for publication and a list of suggested amendments. The MS had gone through several editorial-marketing board meetings – which also included the big boss. In other words, by the time they offered me the contract, they had a very good idea of what my book was about, its style and so on.

I waited a few days before replying as I wanted to remain dignified. Here it is:

‘Dear Sam,

first, thank you very much for this fascinating email.

Second, let me kindly correct you on a few points:

‘Evaluating the manuscript’. This was done between November 2011 and April 2012, at the end of which Potomac Books offered me a contract. Re-evaluating, and re-re-evaluating and changing the rules is not in the said contract. As a French minister said last week about David Cameron’s plea to Brussels, ‘it’s like signing up to a football club and a year later asking to change the rules to rugby’. Dura lex, sed lex.

‘Does not meet your standards for professionalism’. I have complied with all points in our contract. The manuscript has been through two readings by a China specialist of your choice who recommended it twice for publication, on the back of which Potomac Books, your company, offered me a contract after several discussions between the senior editors and the marketing department, of which I believe you or one of your dept colleagues were a part. I didn’t put a gun to anyone’s head, YOU offered the contract which we both signed last May, May 2012.

Furthermore, there is the small matter of, I quote from your contract:
– $500 being payable within 90 days of Publisher’s receipt of this contract signed by Author, and

– $500 being payable within 90 days of Publisher’s acceptance and approval of the final manuscript and author questionnaire

These monies outstanding have not been paid to me despite several unanswered emails, and are therefore owed. Speaking of professionalism, besides the monies not having been paid yet, they are about 6 months late. Professionalism? Please Sam, do check your facts before patronising others.

‘Orphan in your list’. Your company should have worked out this pretty obvious state of affairs BEFORE offering and signing a contract with me, not 8 months later.

‘Unable to market the book’. As a matter of fact, the book is on pre-order all over the internet, with cover picture, release date etc. It’s been the case for a good two months. Additionally, I dutifully filled in my author’s questionnaire, and gave you a list of names to contact for reviewing, in addition to your own network. This all sounds an awful lot like mar-ke-ting.

‘Decision earlier in the process’. Again, the ‘process’ was done before May 2012 – a mere 9 months ago. Your re-decision on an earlier decision is, as a result, in breach of contract. The other breach of contract is the advances not having been paid out.

So, dear Sam, by all means send me the termination of contract, ALONG with the 1000 dollars legally owed.

I didn’t know what people meant when they said there were quite a few points in common between China and the USA. I don’t know about the USA as a whole, but yes, I dare say I can see the link between China and Potomac Books: arbitrary decisions, disregard for the implications of a legal contract offered by the disregarding party itself, lack of communication, intellectual ‘purges’ coming out of nowhere, and a clear stochastic approach to industry standards.

One more thing: do check the level of professionalism of your company in keeping a record of my new postal address (NOT: 5 Rodney Point), which you were told changed months ago. In case you don’t have the new one, by all means do get back to me.

Best regards,

Denis Lejeune’

I wasn’t so much sad as annoyed. I have learnt that the publishing industry is a cheating, lying and deceitful one. My French publisher (Max Milo, for information) lied to me on the number of copies sold. My Dutch publisher tried to charge me for their incompetence. And the American one (Potomac Books, for info) broke our contract.

They have it easy of course: taking them to court over any of those issues would cost me much more than I should have got anyway, so they know they can do as they please.

Good thing I don’t write to get rich.

It is probably because of such issues that agents have a place. But the age-old question rears its head again: who will monitor the monitors? If publishers can screw you on sight, it doesn’t take a lot of imagination to work out that agents can to.

Aaa-nyway.

I was going to go in publisher-hunting mode yet again. Then my friend Valo posted on his Facebook wall a link to his own ebook. And that made me think.

Ok, thing is I love books. I love the physicality of books. I prefer books. But right now the choice is between no book or ebook. Between no one reading it and some reading it.

Here are the downsides of an ebook, in my view:

– not paper.

– you have to do the marketing yourself (knowing how bad I am at that, it’s a BIG downside – guess you guys could help me, word and mouth and stuff, you know…).

– not universal: so many different formats and mediums that it won’t be available to everyone.

But there are plusses:

– the cut on sales (between 85 and 60%). Sure the price is lower, but it’s psychological, the idea of getting even 60% as opposed to 10% on a good day is satisfying.

– no trees felled – I am a tree softie.

– complete editorial freedom. Both my French and US publishers had imposed a title I didn’t like, and the latter had also designed a pretty drab book cover.

– the ebook companies are not ‘publishers’, they are ‘distributors’, which means I get to keep the rights of the book. Which means I can still find a paper publisher for it.

– speed of the process.

So watch this space: my assessment of China will soon go viral. In our flat at least.

Aaa-nyway.

That is all part of what I like to call the ‘life of books’. I’ve always find this life fascinating. Many books are interesting, but their life is often equally so, or even more. One day I might even write a book on the life of my books. How they came to be written, why, how they came to be published, or not, read or not, etc. A book’s biography can be as full of twists and turns as a person’s.

I cycled on Wednesday and yesterday. I was great fun: not too hot since the rains at the weekend, proper off-road tracks in the middle of the city, good back-wheel slides, wheezing past cars and scooters, jumping on pavements, burning lights and so on. Great fun.

Problem is, cycling makes my left knee hurt. The same happens when rollerblading. I guess it’s because when I cycle my leg is not straight enough. And when I rollerblade the braking gets it. So back on the scooter today. Might have to keep the cycling to short bursts, or maybe make an appointment with a physio to try and sort things out.

On Wednesday evening, I had intended to organise a game of belote at home with the Bros and Derek. But the Bros played truant, and Derek and I ended up playing snooker behind L’atmosphère. It’s funny, standard snooker here is played with 7 red balls. I asked for the real deal, and they gave us 11… It was Derek’s first go, and he found it hard going. Having said that, the cloth was pants. At least half of our combined points were acquired through the other’s mistakes. Twice I potted long browns AND the cue ball. Grr.

You pay by the game, not time. And the upgraded version we played set us back 5.000 kip. About 40p!!!!!!

After that, I took Derek to L’atmosphère where I intended to teach him the rules of belote. We ended up playing belote de comptoir with Seb. You’re only 3 players and the rules are quite different, although the basics aren’t, so my Canadian friend was able to decide he liked belote. He will hopefully come this Tuesday for the real deal.

We finished around midnight, and I wasn’t surprised to not see him in the classroom on Thursday morning. Them younguns… To be honest, I had decided not to set my alarm clock either. But the problem here is I can never wake up later than 7am. It’s weird. I think it’s due to the barking next door.

So I went to the French Institute (10mins late), and was the only student for 15 mins until Isa showed up. As a result we had a very instructive class for once. We got to learn AND use want plus nouns or verbs and to (as in ‘I want a glass of sulphuric acid’ or ‘dear god, I want to win at belote’ or ‘I want you to lose at belote for :$&é§!’s sake’).

Isa later sent me her latest novel, which I have started reading and am enjoying. I don’t often say that about novels, unless they are detective stories.

In the afternoon, I paid a visit to Tessa, the woman, wife, mother and photographer and a few other things who lives below us. I’d already taken a look at her website. My slow connection didn’t allow me to view her pictures much, but her CV and list of publications are impressive. She’s had exhibitions in various countries, is represented in the UK and US, and has different photography books published.

It was nice talking to her. Her and her husband Ian are from up north (in the UK, not here, silly!). We talked shop, and she explained the obstacle course she has to constantly go through to get anything done: commissions, grants, exhibitions, books. I can easily relate to that. And that is what is also making me look at e-publishing with much more open-mindness than in the past.

In my view, all that simply isn’t worth the hassle (in my own little case I mean). One’s ego isn’t worth months of researching publishers, sending synopses and extracts and chapters and MS, editing and re-editing, signing soon-to-be-broken contracts, deflated sales figures and so on. One’s ego can take low sales figures because the guy behind the ego can’t sell himself to save his life.

Yeah, ebooking looks increasingly tempting.

I left her flat with five of her books under my arm, which I have devoured. Although we do focus on very similar things and could be described as ‘street photographers’, we belong to two completely different schools of thought on the matter. Why? Because of our gear. She uses a digital Hasselblad (a recent move from her film ‘Blad), I a D700, or even a Pen 3. Rolf, Yunna and a few others will know what that means.

It means she travels with a huge lump of a camera AND a tripod. Personally, it is my idea of photographic hell. Not that the images produced aren’t up to the job: they are wonderful – it’s medium format photog, so IQ is out of this world. It’s just that, for my own usage, I conceive of photography as a mobile, ever-changing, fast-moving and angular activity. I sold my tripod long ago, and I’m only keeping a monopod in case someone I know needs a walking stick.

Besides, more and more, I take intentionally blurry pix. And I love my fish-eye lens. Afaik, there’s no FE lens for MF cameras, and what’s the point of 60MP sensors for blur, I ask you?

Anyway it’s great to have met her. I’m hoping to learn a lot from Tessa, she’s got over 20 years experience as a freelance photog, and she also seems a nice lady, which doesn’t harm innit.

Her son Noah plays tennis. If that isn’t a sign that he’ll go great things on a court, I don’t know what is.

Tennis with Koichi was very nice, as usual. But since we only had one slot (45mins!), we rushed things a bit and never really got finely tuned – you know us, performance engines and all. Ah well, at least now I’m universally known there as Federer. I’m now trying to get Koichi to be known as Nishikori (currently the best Japanese player).

Did I tell you he worked for a Japanese NGO trying to help victims of exploded ordnance? Next week, as part of training some of those victims to become hairdressers, he has invited a famous Japanese hairdresser over for a week. He said I and whoever else can book an appointment to be guinea pigs for his protégés. So I’ll have a different face next week. For better or worse, only time will tell.

After more editing the ebook and reading Isa’s novel, I watched Hors la loi last night, a great French film on the FLN, i-e the armed group that fought to make Algeria independent in the 50s and 60s in France. I guess it isn’t random that it came out at the time of, or just after, the Arab spring. There’s a deep political message in there, and I loved the way the film is sandwiched between, at the start, images of the liberation of France in 45 (France was on the right side of the struggle – if you forget collaborators of course), and the independence of Algeria in 62 (France was on the wrong side).

The way this particular dialectic (pardon me French) is depicted is very clever, and very true. There’s a lot we can be ashamed of. Not many people are angels (apart from Alex of course), but it just confirms that I’d rather be on the side of the oppressed than the oppressors. The weak always have morality on their side. I guess the problem is that remaining eternally oppressed (and thus moral) is painful. But it’s like communicating vessels: when the oppression reaches a tipping point, the oppressed become oppressors and vice versa. Damn. Bloody dilemmas.

Speaking of Alex, I’m planning a surprise romantic dinner for her return at 9pm on Saturday. But shush, don’t tell her. I hope she’s having a good time in HK.

Morning glory

I could have detailed how badly we lost at belote yesterday and how I missed the Man U game, but I’ll shut up and give you just a pictorial portrait of a Vientiane morning from the top-floor of our apartment.

How about that for a to-the-point post?

Back in the groove

Laos v Mongolia was a-okay. Decent enough stadium, decent enough pitch. Awful heat though, with not a whiff of wind. It ended a 1-1 draw, when Laos should have run away with it.

 

Alex and Martin had joined. Which was nice, but then they proceeded to talk shop for about 90 mins + half-time. Alex can’t switch off, and Martin wants to switch on, so it was blah-blah-blah.

Ah well, at least there was a football game of sorts going on, and the crowd was a cool mix of Man U fans, spidermen and wide-eyed people.

 

On the way back into town Martin gave a lift to two German tourists. The guy had made it his thing to watch a football game in every country he visited.

We parked by Nam Phu and had dinner at Le Provencal. I had deer, which tasted eerily like beef. Might have been horse meat though, the way foodstuff is going. Alex had so-so salmon and Martin some other meat. Maybe horse meat too.

Due to my zap, I was woken up around 3am by a very annoyed stomach. That’s when I discovered that the Buddhist monks have a bongo jam in the middle of the night.

A massive surprise awaited us on Sunday: it was cool! From 38 degrees the day before, and a good 32 still when I went back to bed at 4am, it was 23. How LOVELY! There was also a light drizzle, overlooked by a grey sky.

So we opened all the windows to let the cool air in, and the result was instantaneous. As a result, we had our first AC-free breakfast.

Due to the ‘bad’ weather, the beach party got cancelled early on, and we stayed in most of the day. Alex prepared a lovely Mediterranean lunch (and an equally good lentil soup in the evening). When we finally braved the elements, it was to go see Tat Luang, the Buddhist site emblematic of Vientiane. It was actually very nice, in particular the monastery to the right of it.

Then we did some shopping at Pimphone, in town, and the rain started again. Our favoured massage place was booked up, and in the end we tried a parlour near our flat that we’d spotted before as it’s called God massage.

I chose the sports massage, which was slightly unusual but nice nonetheless. The only problem with it was that I needed to be naked with only a towel wrapped around my waist. I normally have no problem with that whatsoever, but then the masseur kept going up and down my thigh, all the while skimming my thinggy. So I move it to the other side. But the pig-headed organ kept rolling back to its initial position, and somehow I forgot to enjoy the actual massage.

Question is: in these circumstances, is it better that the masseur is a guy or a girl? I haven’t reached a satisfying conclusion yet. As it was, mine was the former.

Anyway, when he had thankfully finished dealing with my thighs, I quite enjoyed what he did to my back and arms.

On the bed next to me, separated only by a curtain, Alex was being given her usual choice: lao massage, by a girl. She doesn’t like a massage by a man. I normally prefer a massage by a woman.

Hers was a lot more sedate than mine, in many ways, but the highlight, she explained later, was when she saw her masseur, who had a cold, surrepticiously use the curtain as a hanky.

Monday was the first day since being in Laos when I was able to have lunch at home. I made my usual student pasta, mixed it with the thickened lentil soup, and revelled in it. Funny how the simple fact of home-eating puts the pieces of the puzzle that is life abroad back into place.

Before that, I had worked in Nomad and been to the Australian clinic to get my spots checked out. The doctor was off sick but a nurse was going to see me. I had just enough time to go to the loo. Where I stayed longer than I meant to, because the bloody lock jammed up and I got stuck.

Toilets, if you don’t know, are one of my favourite places on earth. But not when I can’t get out. Which is ridiculous when you think about it, but as soon as I realised I was stuck inside, all my claustrophobic nightmares and demons and trolls resurfaced in an instant.

Two minutes later, thankfully, I was out alive and just a tad hyper on adrenaline. The face that was smiling at me was the nurse’s, an American lady who speaks very good Lao and is also learning Mandarin (speaking AND writing!), even though she doesn’t wish to go live in China. How very very weird, but hey.

The first thing she told me as I exited my toilet hell was that normally, only the Lao get stuck in it.  I didn’t know quite how to take the remark, but decided it probably meant my Lao lessons were having a positive impact after all: yea man, I get stuck in loos just like a local, yeehaa!

I worked at home all afternoon. Oudalee came in at some point with her carpenter, and we discussed the terrace bar.

Today, Alex and I left together on our bikes. The weather is still lovely, not nearly as hot as last week. We tried to follow the canal but got bogged pretty quickly so retreated to the road.

The lesson was as per usual, messy and long-winded. But finally, we learnt something useful: kin hua kan. Which translates as ‘eat laugh head’. Another way of saying it is: tyao kin hua koy, which means ‘you’re eating my head’. Applies to situations when someone tries to rip you off. For EXAMPLE, a tuktuk driver.

The teacher was adamant these sentences should never be used to their faces as it’s rude. But then again she’s one of those people who live on a different planet to the rest of us, old school and so polite an aristocratic dinner dictionary would be embarrassed just to talk to them for fear of sounding out of place.

I’ve tried both sentences twice already on waiters – in a friendly way I hasten to say. They laughed. As is my deep conviction, swear words for learners are the best way to make contact: it breaks a barrier, connects people, and shows you’re here to mix.

The petanque, once again, was expeditive. 11-0 in the second game. Derek was on fire. I’ve told the Bros what I think: they complain about the quality of the pitch too much (sure, pretty bad) and it affects their play – vicious circle, self-fulfilling prophecy and all that. Guys, keep complaining though, I like it eh eh.

By the way, Alex and I woke up at 3.30 last night, and the Buddhist jammers were still at it.

Finally, I’ve managed to sell three copies of my book on chance: Isa, Martin and Patrick. I don’t even think they spotted the knife below their throat.

A shortie for a change

Yeah yeah yeah, I know, I like words and writing. So here’s a short post for the easily bored.

Lunch with the UK embassy at Lao kitchen yesterday. All good. But in the afternoon all hell broke loose at the office and Alex was in a bit of a mess last night. We had a drink on La Signature’s patio to get her back on track, then headed straight for massage.

She had what she described as a ‘great facial’. Soothing and relaxing and all.

This morning, while the temperature was still just about bearable, we scooted it to Anda for a Spanish breakfast. Luvly. Chatted with Regina, the owner, who seems a very nice woman.

By the way, did you know there is no voice messaging in Laos?

Did some food shopping for lunchtime homemade pizzas at Pimphone. Had a chat in Jules’ Classic, the neighbouring motorbike rental shop, about their coffee roasting machine and where their beans are from and where they sell and so on.

I said the best espresso I know so far is at Naked Espresso and he told me to try the Benoni one since they use his beans. I did so to be pleasant, then went back to tell him it was nowhere near as good. Made a friend. Nah. We had a laugh about it, in fact it’s not exactly his business, it’s his in-law or something.

Still short of veggies, we headed for the market by the bus station. It’s a maze, a maze held in a shanty town bathed in incredible heat already. In fact, locals reckon these really high temperatures at this time of year are unheard-of.

We walked and walked through the twists and turns and cave-like corridors and tarpaulin covered alleyways, and finally found some veggie stalls. Strange enough, veggies are hard to come by in Vientiane. You find lots of fruit, but veggies are few and far between.

Peniang? Koy bo hu. (why? I don’t know). Eh eh.

The veggie stalls were just after the fish ones. There were huge swarms of buzzing flies all around, and I thought I won’t buy fish intestines and out-of-water clams in a rush.

Then, looping back towards the scooter, I stumbled across a massive hard-roofed expanse. The first half was selling all and sundry. The second, animal offal. Twenty or thirty large tables covered with the stuff, and the sellers sat atop the tables, among the awful offal.

Getting within 5 metres of the first row, the smell very nearly made me puke my Spanish breakfast and I had to retreat to the relative safety of the dirty-stream-and-fish-smelling area. Wimp, I know.

But now I’ll shut up. Have a nice weekend. Ours comprises Laos v Mongolia in the 2014 AFC Challenge Cup qualifiers at 7pm tonight at the National Stadium, a beach party tomorrow afternoon and a garden one at the German ambassador’s in the evening.

Ole I say!

Survival of the what?

First things first: mosquitoes love a helmet. They organise board meetings and charity concerts in mine everytime I happen to have to leave it on the scooter – that is, everytime I’m not home.

Mind you, as long as it’s not scorpions or deadly geckos I should be allright. I only mention deadly geckos because the Bros told me they exist, luckily not in Laos. That was a nasty revelation as I love geckos. But hey, it’s not their fault if they’re deadly. So I still love them.

On the subject, we’ve got a few in the apartment, including a newly-born that is about as long as my pinkie and five times thinner.

Second things first: when I woke up yesterday, I had spots all over my hands and forearms. By the evening they had spread to my legs, back and upper arms. Again, lovely pix of that to come later. Watch that space.

Not sure what it is, but it might be related to heat and sweat. I remember having something similar in China, intermittently, although I never followed it up at the time. In general it’s slightly itchy, but on my hands it makes them feel incredibly dry and therefore a bit painful everytime the skin stretches a little or touches something – like a tennis raquette grip for instance.

I’ve been meaning to register with the Australian clinic for some time – something we have to do as diplomats. So I’ll do that today and hope to see a doctor who can look at the spots and tell me if something can be done about them.

Third things first: Alex has got lots of ideas for the embassy, as well as lots of problems with staff. One member is biiiiiiiiiip, another is biiiiiiip in some respects (I was advised by a person in authority to not say nofin about these matters, even namelessly). Human management. My mum always said it’s the trickiest part of any job. My sister found out two years ago how true. It’s Alex’s time now.

Fourth things first: I’m still alive.

Fifth things first: Lao soda water is good.

Sixth things first: Alex cycled to work this morning for the first time. I can’t vouch for her hair when she gets to the UN office.

Ok, with all that out of the way, I can now report on my hit with Steffi Graff. Well, it was great fun. We played from 8.30 until about 9.30. When I woke up the sun was lazying behind a slither of cloud and I was hopeful it would stay there until after we’d played. Of course it didn’t. So it was silly hot. Not just hot from the tropical stuffinness, but also from the sun’s kiss. She didn’t seem to mind: she’s a German who was born on Mars so her skin is nuclear-resistant.

We were a match. With the following proviso: she hadn’t touched a raquette since July, and was playing with my 20-year-old Pro Kennex with a grip too big for her and incredibly slippery. When I asked her for a true assessment of how she had played, she said ‘about 30% of what I can do’.

So that settled it, even though the few times I let rip an attacking forehand or backhand by the sidelines she didn’t reach. But she might just have been sandbagging it.

You could see she was good, as in very good. Great technique, great foot movement (these two go hand in hand), great fluency. She hit lots of balls out due to rustiness and the alien raquette. But once or twice she sliced the nastiest backhand millimetres from the baseline, backhand side, fizzying and hard, and that is the single most damaging shot you can throw at me. The ball is fast, picks up speed at it bounces and remains stupidly low. A nightmare. When she’s in full flow she could just play that shot and beat me 0 and 0. Not entertaining for anyone, but if you wanna win you know what to do.

I find that single-handed backhand players always have problems with this kind of shots. A guy who is about my level, called Roger Federer, started losing out to Nadal when the Spaniard got the range of his top-spinned balls to Fed’s backhand side right. There’s just no way to play that back one-handed well enough to avoid a killer shot soon after. Thing is, with top-spin you can at least make an attempt at half-volleying, but with sliced shots the room for error is so marginal on the half-volley (for top-spin players like me – a flat player would be better off) that it’s ridiculously difficult.

Anyway it was great fun, it really was. If I happen to visit Dortmund one day, we agreed we’d have another go.

After a celebratory picture, we parted ways and I headed for the French Institute. I was only 90 minutes late for class. So I had a long cooling drink, stretched on the lawn, and walked in the classroom for the last 15 minutes.

It was funny: all the mates were sweating and complaining about the oppressive heat. I thought it was deliciously cool. Conclusion: before class in the tropics, one should always play tennis in full sun.

Anyway you’re in the tropics guys, get on with the heat. Christ’s sake.

Overall, I found that 15mins of Lao were a bit long, but I survived that too.

Petanque was short but sweet. With Patrick still down in the dumps with his lergy and Derek on fire, we thrashed the Bros 2-0. 11-1 in the first. Oh yea. It won’t last I’m sure, but while it does I’ll make the most of it. Eh eh.

Before leaving, Isa gave us all the business card of a Spanish restaurant, coincidently one block away from the tennis place. I headed back there for lunch. It’s a sort of JV with a hotel and doesn’t serve dinner, it’s also only outdoors under trelices, but it’s got a lovely mellow vibe, food was yummy (I had gazpacho, paella and tortilla – due to the powercut in the morning I hadn’t been able to cook my usual pasta).

The other patrons were all French, including a large table of diplomats. Not sure if they half-snobbed me or half-recognised me when I walked in, but at any rate it was the usual feeling: I’m not tempted to get to know them. To my shame, I’m starting to develop a dislike for some of my fellow countrymen, especially officialdom.

I have had two bad experiences at the French Institute. First, this woman who I am directed to has got the door of her office wide open. It’s 11am. She’s on the phone to a friend or family member, chatting away. I walk in, stay near the door, then start looking at the posters on the wall, trying to subtly make my presence known and intimate she may want to do her job. After a minute or so she goes ‘can you leave, I’m on the phone?’ (or ‘can you leave, I’m on the phone!!!’).

She’s a public servant, at public serving hours, chatting about babies or whatever with a mate, her door is wide open, she lets me hope for a minute that she might deign try to help then she tells me to fuck off?

Bloody French diplomats. That idiot might better not talk to me in the future. As it happened, the idiot told the Lao secretary across the landing, by phone, that I could come in to pick up the petanque sets when she was done and the secretary kindly told me. I walked in, the idiot apologised (for what I don’t know – being a rude civil servant twat trying to promote France to the world?), I didn’t look at her or say anything, I picked up the sets and left.

Maybe she apologised because after her hush-hush I’d gone fuming to the secretary and she had told her of my complaints? Anyway now the sets are safely without the grasp of the idiot and I only deal with Noy, the secretary.

That was the first instance.

The second was when I spotted a BMW 650 X-country in the parking lot. When I was looking into what model to buy for Laos, I had looked at that motorbike, so I wanted to talk to the owner. It turned out to belong to a colleague of the idiot. I asked the secretary. One of the doors of her office was open, and I could see the guy in the next room. I kind of guessed it was him. He heard me ask to see him but didn’t move a finger, as if he was deciding the future of the world on his computer.

It was all done properly: Noy told me to wait on the landing while she called the guy. Who after a few minutes deigned come out and meet me. From the off I knew he didn’t want to talk to a tramp. I asked a few questions that he half-answered, cageyly. Man, I’m a fellow biker, why can’t you bloody chillax and talk for 2 minutes? What’s the hang-up you stuck-up Froggy?

All in all, I seem to more and more fall in with the foreign view of France as a country of arrogant, selfish, stiff and insufferably over-mannered people.

That is why L’Atmosphere is so vital for me, to keep showing me the other, delightful side of my country. To show me I still have something in common with my roots. The informal, peasant, working class, lower-class side of France, that’s the one that could sell, and well, my country to the world. The problem is the job is left to – from my experience so far – a bunch of over-dressed and upper-lipped dinosaurs stuck 200 years ago.

The world has MOVED ON, you sabotaging big-headed little princesses!

Aaa-nyway.

This attitude might have something to do with my tramp disguise. In fact, not a disguise at all, it’s just that I like being a tramp. By which I mean shorts, a tee, messy beard and Crocs. No tie, leather shoes and finely researched ponytail. It’s the tropics, I don’t have an office job, and I’m not going to wear inadequate clothes just to impress on others that I’m Mister This or That with This or That diploma and that I’m married to Miss British Embassy Yessir and that We Belong to the Same Rarefied World Dear. Fuck that, as someone I know may say.

For those who don’t know, I have a great fondness for not fitting in. Because I naturally like it first, and second because it’s a great sieve. It’s child’s play to work out the people who you can’t possibly get on with when you wear your difference on your sleeves.

The idiots who put emphasis on visible status, appearances and ‘things proper’ flash like a cityscape at night under artillery fire when you show up as a tramp. It’s the Denis stress test I guess.

My ex-gf made her flame known when she had chicken pox. She said this fantastic thing: ‘I’m coming onto you now, with my face spotted up, because then you know I’m at my worst and things can only get better.’ That won me over. What an awesome pick-up line! Wouldn’t work with everybody for sure, but I guess she’d sussed me out just fine.

But aaa-nyway.

After lunch, I made for home, where I was hoping to rest until the evening and my second tennis session of the day in 40 degrees heat.

And of course I decided to get our bicycles in working order. And of course it was more complicated than it should have been. All in all, I spent about an hour on these two delinquants. And lost a few more litres of water doing so. Pumping the tires up, straightening the handlebars up after they’d been boxed up, fixing the messed up brakes and so on. Oudalee’s mum was laughing all the way. Can’t blame her.

The shower after all that was oh oh so good. Each pore of my body opened up and swallowed big gulps of water. My skin became a mix of red spots and blossoming flowers. How’s that for poetry?

I met Alex, Tom the guy from London who’s leaving today actually and Richard (my Bangkok embassy tennis partner) at La Signature, the lovely French restaurant that is part of the Ansara hotel. We had a drink and a meal (shrimp salad with aniseed sauce and agrumes for me), and I left them there to meet up with Koichi on the court after an hour or so.

In fact, that meal was another vindication of my stress test. Richard and Tom both said they’ve been propositioned a lot in Bangkok, in bars and restaurants and hotels, when by themselves. Richard said how it never happened to him in Mexico City, where he spent his previous 3-year posting.

It’s never happened to me. Why? Because I’m a tramp. They go to bars and restaurants and hotels in their work clothes – trousers, shirt, varnished shoes, sometimes jacket and tie. What these clothes shout is crystal clear: ‘I have a well-paid job’. It’s honey to bears, jam to pigs, tennis court to me – a magnet.

Tramps supposedly don’t have money, so no magneting anyone. As I said: sieve. When someone approaches a tramp, it’s not because they want something from you. It might be because they’re off their head. But at any rate it’s not because you smell of something they could get off you.

Yay to tramps.

Tennis with Koichi wasn’t as bad as I had anticipated. My stretching in the French Institute’s garden had done a good job. I wasn’t on top form but ok, and we had a good hit for 45 long minutes, after which we had to give way to a pair of French guys.

It was great fun to play at night there, because most of the tables in front of the courts are occupied with middle-aged people who have just played and are eating and drinking Beer Lao while chatting and watching you. There’s a great vibe.

Two or three kids also kept walking past the court where we played and calling me out with a big grin with the name I use to book the courts: Federer.

The name would be even funnier if I was the best player there. But actually that place is full of awesome Lao players. It is called the ‘National stadium’ after all, and what I think that means is that all the best players of the country train there. No wonder they are so good. Their technique is scary, they hit the ball incredibly hard. I’m just still to see them run proper, because they never seem to give it their all. Don’t know why.

In the grand scheme of world tennis, they are nowhere, that’s clear, but for little me it’s a lot more than good enough.

I got home at 9.15, just after Alex, and we spent a quiet evening after another orgasmic shower.

By the way, it IS a figure of speech.