Entries Tagged 'Asia 2005' ↓
December 7th, 2005 — Asia 2005, Thailand
I’m aware that this won’t be very exciting for anybody but me (and possibly my Mum, who will work herself into a frenzy about 3rd World medical facilities) but I’ve just been to the dentist and it was WONDERFUL!
There’s something quite unnerving about letting strangers stick sharp things into your mouth and scrape around, but this time I’m glad I did. I’d been bothered for a couple of days with red gums and was becoming increasingly manic about the implications of them. As I get older I become more anxious, more of a hypochondriac. Any headache has me reaching for the guidebook’s health section to read that I have either the first signs of typhus, typhoid, Hep A, B or C, malaria, dengue, tetanus, diptheria, bilharzia, arachnophobia, yellow fever, polio or Crohn’s disease. Normally it’s nothing worse than a hangover, but it doesn’t stop me worrying.
So off I popped. Down the road from my hotel is a boutique dentist’s surgery with a very attractive receptionist. So I popped in for a check-up and came out one and a half hours later with six new fillings and a numb face.
I had always prided myself on the state of my teeth. Previous trips to the dentist over the past few years have never lasted longer than 15 minutes. I’d get a little badge that says “I was brave” and compliments on a perfect set of incisors. So perhaps I had been lulled into a false sense of security, even overconfidence, about my oral health.
It took three minutes and six sharp stabs to identify cavities I never knew I had. I suppose if you poked me in the eye with a sharp stick it would be sensitive as well, but there were definitely painful spots that contrasted with the non-painful spots either side of them.
It was unlike any dental appointment I’ve ever had (the last one was over two years ago) but I remember fillings being metallic, slimy tasting and liable to stick out like a nun at an orgy. These this time involved a little bit of paste and an ultra-violet gun. I got pricked twice by a syringe with a bent nib (a novelty in itself) and didn’t feel a thing.
To combat the red gums I had a “scaling and fluoride polishing - Full Mouth” and my molars are shining like cats’ eyes. You can’t even see the fillings. The price was the best thing - 4500 baht, 92 euros or 63 quid - and teeth 14, 15, 16, 24, 25 and 47 are good as new.
So don’t forget to floss, children, and for dental work of any gravity, head off to the airport …
December 6th, 2005 — Asia 2005, Thailand, Vietnam
I’ve wussed out. I write to you from Bangkok, where I fled two days ago after losing myself in Hanoi. I’m not alone. I’ve been exchanging emails with fellow losers and have counted two comments about arriving in (and leaving) Hanoi. April said “I really had enough of Vietnam as well, they are fucking crazy and I cannot believe I managed to get out of the place alive.” Meanwhile, Olivier wrote to me and said “Ouais ben, je viens juste d’arriver a Hanoi .. and I only want one thing .. get the hell out … as I was telling you before, I’m just totally bored of vietnam …”
Nothing wrong with Hanoi per se, it just comes at the wrong end of 2000 km overland. It’s a bit like Ho Chi Minh City, a lot colder, just as charmless. It’s got the pitfalls of a big city with very few of the benefits. There was some lovely beer. A lot of the folk were terrific. A lot of them were less terrific. I was sick of saying “no … because NO …” and paying up to 20 times face value for stuff. The food in Vietnam was some of the best I’ve ever had anywhere. A lot of places had taken both chicken and egg off the menu (I don’t know which one came off first.) Vietnamese pork is unlike any I’ve eaten anywhere else. Ditto the tea, although more than a pot can be a strong laxative. Ditto the coffee - world-beating. I bought a percolator. Unsure of what to match with the pearls I bought, I picked up a tea-set. Apparently I should have been looking for a twinset, but I don’t know what a twinset looks like.
Also had to invest in a new bag to lug around my new toys. Rather like the Buddha, perhaps the shell-embossed chopsticks and matching case will be less exciting in the cold light of day. Vietnam also had some great pith helmets, but I persuaded myself I could do without them (and am now regretting it.)
So nothing funny has happened, nothing to make you chuckle. I got detained at a bank in Hanoi for suspected fraudulent use of travellers’ cheques. The teller was convinced the signature on my passport was different to the one I was supplying. So they took photocopies of my passport, visa, plane ticket, driving license and made me sit down in a back room and write out my signature 20 times, twice for each cheque. Having taken note of where I was staying and satisfied themselves that I am me, they let me go with a cheery “please come back soon!”
I took a taxi to the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum to look at the old man’s body. The cabbie stiffed me with a rigged meter and when I got there it was shut, so I walked around the outside and then got stiffed again on the way back five minutes later. Good job I cashed the cheques, I suppose.
November 30th, 2005 — Asia 2005, Vietnam
There is a six foot, 150kg Buddha, hand-carved from local wood in the shop opposite my hotel. It has my name on it. I watched it being finished (it’s a masterpiece) and for only $750 including postage and packing, a steal. It would look serene in the corner of our appartment, casting its patronly eye over our comings and goings. In fact, Mrs K would like it so much I’ll surprise her with it, a belated Christmas present to liven up late winter.
***
Picture this …
One cold Saturday morning in February, post-holiday blues well established, drizzle of sleet out the window. The phone rings. It’s a man speaking rough, Antwerpse Flemish. Something to pick up, apparently, at the port. Bloody heavy, he says, will need a large van and possibly a crane to pick it up. Doesn’t know what it is, customs papers say wooden carving, origin Vietnam. “Matt, do you know anything about this?”
“Yes dear, thought I’d surprise you with a life-size Buddha carving from the East.”
“You fucking what??”
And so, three weeks later we have organised a crane, a van, and two men to pick it up for us. The shipping company are charging custody fees. Mrs K and I are no longer speaking. The transport costs more than the carving. I have to go to Antwerp and sit in the rain for three hours while it’s cleared through customs. The customs officials split it open to check there’s no contraband stuffed inside. They put it back together with insulation tape. Arriving back in Brussels, the Buddha’s not looking so serene in the Belgian light. Worse, there’s no hope in hell that it’s going up the stairs, so it sits in the lobby of the building for six months, being pissed on by passing cats and rats. And more than that, it taunts us, laughing at my inadequacies. The landlord evicts us for causing a permanent fire hazard. By now the story of the Buddha is famous, a “standing joke” between friends, the humour hiding their disgust at my thoughtlessness. Two months later and I am single and homeless, accompanied only by a Buddha too heavy to move. I am a target for drunks, weirdos and curious children. I catch my death on the icy city streets. Buddha looks on, laughing …
***
Considering the implications of this purchase, I run the idea by Mrs K. She replies, “$750 on a buddha????????? Please refrain from buying anything until I arrive.”
I wonder if it’s too late to cancel the order …