Rambling in the Concrete Jungle

In the centre a lake, the green of mutants and radiation, the colour they make sweets to make the kid's eyes wide. Don't drink it kids, it'll surely kill you. The path around the edge of the lake appears to be some sort of open air insane asylum. Five people stand in a rough collective, each dancing to the beat of their own drum. One small old guy in a cheap suit beats himself in the back with little fists. The others do general arm swings, hip twists and the occasional arm raised sun salute. Running past, others do the same at speed, spasmodic jerking, busy in conversation with their equally unstable companions. A father and young son play badminton with energy and cheer. A pair of old women reluctantly sharing their patch do nowt to hide their disgust at such vigour, "...and at this early hour too." One guy balances himself plank-like on the back of the bench, the silly man thinks he's a see saw. A head down, arm waving, mutterer passes me by. Mutter mumble mutter, he says. Around this athletics track of loonys, the road, a one way swirl of motorbike mayhem. Crossing pedestrians disappear into it like one's shins in a stream.

The motorbikes are everywhere in Hanoi, and about half the drivers are wearing bandanas across their mouths, a citywide game of cops and robbers, "You're It!" x 1,000,000.

A few streets away is the metalwork street, welding and clanging, hammering and grinding, and my favourite, the camera flash of acetylyne torches, brighter than white in the dusk.

People are not so helpful here, I suspect most of my polite enquiries are answered with a local version of "Ask me bollix."

Don't mention the war.

Waiter: All things considered the American War was really about preventing post-colonial Vietnam becoming colonial Vietnam all over again.
Me: IN MY COUNTRY IT'S CALLED THE VI - ET - NAM WAR. YOU PEOPLE ARE CALLED GOOKS.
Waiter: Perhaps you should leave.
Me: CHARLIE DON'T SURF.


I go on a jungle trek to escape it all. (I wonder how anyone could fight a war in this undergrowth.) The walkway is a depressing concrete most of the way, leading past a cave to a thousand year old tree. I go deep into the cave and switch off my torch, and the darkness is total. Any good horror director knows that fear is mostly based on what you cannot see as then your imagination does his job for him. I guess I'm still a little afraid of the dark.

I leave the silence of the cave to raucous calls nearby. I am overjoyed to think it might be the local gibbons, of which there are only 60 left in the world, but alas it is only a bunch of local schoolchildren. They pass through like a brushfire, their laughter and singing leaving huge swathes of jungle empty of any living creature. I curse them and race ahead to the old tree. Its big and looks pretty old, I suppose. They catch me up and ask me to take a picture of their 30 strong group on the tree. They all make the V for victory sign at me as I take the photo, damn those pesky kids.

It is beautiful though, the hazy fingers of light breaking through the canopy, leaving sunlight puddles on the jungle floor.

Later I am the only one staying in the basic guesthouse in the centre of the forest. I help the waitress with her english. She points at products and I try and help her learn the words, particularly the pronunciation. I roll out the words like dough, stretching them, repeating them until I forget what they're supposed to sound like. She repeats after me earnestly but her words sound like those of a drunk. Together we try and mould the sounds back into something recognisable as english.

Me: Peanuts.
Her: Penis.
Me: PeaNuts.
Her: PeNis.
Me: Pea Nuts
Her: Pea Niss
Me: Better.

After a while she goes to bed and I am left alone with the resident litter of puppies, four of them wrestling in the v of my open legs. I am playing a symphony of puppies. I am the Pied Piper of Puppies. They are full of snap and fight, and a couple will occasionally break away from the general tumult in mini-whirlwinds of fluff before realising their own absence and leaping back into the fray. Its all fun and games until a particularly sharp canine goes through the denim of my crotch and nearly slices me goods open like an unwatched rucksack. Game Over. They look disgruntled and one takes comfort in trying to get it on with another. A bit early for that, I say and laugh, before I realise I am completely alone, in a jungle. Sure who needs friends, when you have puppies.


(I do. For friendship and maybe more, email me on mrloverlover@ilovescouting.com )