2009 Biking Vietnam
Fat stories
As usual in southeast Asia, where the
locals are tiny, my size (now bigger than ever) brought comment and laughter.
Skinny men approaching Charl and I on the street would look me over then turn
to Charl and, with a sound of awe, draw a large circle with both hands,
beginning above their heads like a child describing the size and shape of the
earth. If their hands were busy, holding onto the handlebars of a scooter, for
example, they would puff up their cheeks and twinkle their eyes at me above
their pursed lips and bulbous faces. One man accosted me in a hotel lobby. He
was virtually moaning with pleasure as he walked around me, squeezing my upper
arms. He then proceeded to measure me. Placing his thumb at a point on my left
arm he stretched his hand as wide as possible to place his pinkie at another
point; bringing his thumb forward to meet his pinkie, he caterpillar-ed his way
around my back to my right arm. He resisted measuring my chest but stood in
front of me defining circles with his hands, looking as though he thought he
could get lost in me and never be found! Later that same evening Charl and I
went for a massage. I had two young women massaging my feet, giggling and
sniffing; Charl had one. When Charl’s masseuse was done with him she came to
join me and as I sat up on the bed she reached out with both hands and squeezed
my breasts. I was still gasping when the other two decided to follow suit…
Luckily I had had several similar experiences in Korea during my first ever cycle
trip, so was not too fazed… (Many women squeezed me subsequently – breasts, hips,
belly, arms. Not a sexual encounter, just a naïve expression of awe. I felt
quite often like a particularly juicy Xmas turkey.) The next day, at the top of
the Heaven and Earth
Pass, taking a Coke break
in a café in the clouds, I heard Charl exclaim (in Afrikaans), “What are you
doing?” He came out to join me at the bike looking somewhat bemused and
explained that the young mother who had served us, complete with toddler on
hip, had squeezed his breast – and that he now knew how I felt. He had already been
called a “happy Buddha” (the happy Buddha is the fat, grinning Buddha one sees
at times, not the skinnier southeast Asian Buddha) and was attracting attention
in his own right for a change. The boy who squeezed his boob in the city of
ghosts (above) was my favourite incident of the trip!
Here are my “fat stories” from Burma…
Southeast Asians are tiny people. I mean
tiny. As I could easily pass for a Sumo wrestler or the Michelin Man, you can
just imagine how large I am by comparison to them. Despite everyone being by
culture and inclination very polite, Asians never seem to mind commenting on
the size of westerners. Knowing this from my previous experiences in the east,
the first thing I packed for this trip was my sense of humour.
Visiting friends in Thailand one
year, I overhead their daughter, Pascale, then six, saying in response to a
comment by the cook whom I was meeting for the first time: “Yes, she’s very
fat, but she’s very nice.” Welcome to Thailand!
During the week I spent in Laos that same
year I was reminded of my size with almost every encounter. I crossed the
border and negotiated, for 50 baht, a ride into Vientiane in the back of a small truck. Every
other passenger arriving thereafter, whether local or foreign, was charged 30
baht. I mentioned this to the driver who exclaimed: “Yes, but you are very,
very fat!” Welcome to Laos!
During the hour or so I spent at Buddha
Park, I fell into
(largely incomprehensible) conversation with a shaven-headed monk in orange – a
slightly portly young fellow. Who, 30 minutes into our discussion, asked: “So –
how much do you weigh?” I mentioned that in my country it was impolite to ask
such a question of a woman. He said it was not impolite in Laos, informed me
that he weighed 69kg, and said that all his classmates thought he was “…very,
very fat.” No ways in hell was I going to reveal my weight after that! The next
day, during a long and exceedingly uncomfortable truck ride north to Vang
Vieng, a non-existent elderly woman seated beside me, could not resist
comparing my arms to her thighs by repeatedly squeezing first one then the
other and discussing her findings with her broadly-smiling friend (ouch!).
Even these gems could not compete, however,
with my all-time favourite when a man approached me on a street in India and said,
apropos nothing at all, “Hello. You are not a small man.” Right on both counts!
Traffic stories
The traffic in Vietnam is virtually indescribable.
Literally millions of scooters and bicycles vie for road space with trucks,
buses and cars – the two-wheel vehicles far outnumbering the four. There seems
to be only one rule of the road: If it’s in front of you, don’t hit it. No
matter what. So a young girl, talking on her phone, her face obscured by her
long hair, steps off the pavement directly into your path without checking for
traffic at all. Don’t hit her. So a man cycling ahead of you with 8m of
plumbing pipe over his shoulder turns off the road. Picture the pipe now
swinging across the road and into your path. See it? Don’t hit it. So a woman
transporting mattresses on the back of a scooter is overtaken by a lumbering
truck which is overtaken by a faster truck. Between the two trucks squeezes a
man transporting yellow flowers on his scooter – his body surrounded by a halo
of yellow. Picture all four coming toward you on your hired scooter, leaving
just enough space for you to ride – if your spatial skills and nerve are good
enough. See them? Don’t hit them. See the boy pulling onto Highway 1 on his
autocycle, his right hand on the throttle, his left holding a cell phone to his
right ear, his left foot lifted nonchalantly to adjust his rearview mirror?
Don’t hit him. See the family of six on the scooter? None of them wearing
helmets, the little ones wearing Father Xmas hats? Don’t hit them. Got it?
Good. We were also blown away by the innovative ways in which the Vietnamese
transport things on their autocycles. Livestock (ducks, chickens, pigs, and
once a live cow trussed and mooing her discontent), dozens of eggs, building
supplies, and my personal favourite, a hundred plastic bags half filled with
water, each containing a living, swimming goldfish!
