Drugged, Robbed But Not Knifed

[my $9.08 a night room at Lankham Hotel in Pakse, 5/16/23]

“Blind to all fault, destiny can be ruthless at one’s slightest distraction,” Borges writes, but what does he mean by destiny being “blind to all fault”? A lesser mind would say that destiny is blind to all virtues, since it can suddenly wound or kill even the most attentive, that is, the most virtuous and prayerful.

As scatterbrained fools, we have the hardest time mustering enough strength and discipline to perform the simplest tasks. From washing the dishes to understanding even three sentences in a row, we botch all operations. By the third one, we’ve forgotten the first two, and that’s why even Doctor Seuss is beyond our grasp. Our incompetence is tailor-made for this derailed and capsized earth, however, so chill. The markings on our roads might have been painted by chimpanzees. Attentiveness continually eludes us.

Simone Weil, “Attention, taken to its highest degree, is the same thing as prayer. It presupposes faith and love. Absolutely unmixed attention is prayer.”

Good luck with that, Simone. If Weil was alive today, she might be a mass shooter.

So the slightest distraction can bring disaster, Borges reminds us:

Blind to all fault, destiny can be ruthless at one’s slightest distraction. Dahlmann had succeeded in acquiring, on that very afternoon, an imperfect copy of Weil's edition of The Thousand and One Nights. Avid to examine this find, he did not wait for the elevator but hurried up the stairs. In the obscurity, something brushed by his forehead: a bat, a bird? On the face of the woman who opened the door to him he saw horror engraved, and the hand he wiped across his face came away red with blood. The edge of a recently painted door which someone had forgotten to close had caused this wound.

A door unexpectedly left open landed Dahlmann in the hospital, but the blow felt so casual, like a small bird brushing against his forehead. Tellingly, Dahlmann was distracted by a collection of tales told by a young woman to stave off her imminent death, with her fate entirely dependent on the whims of a self-absorbed king incapable of love or mercy. Most interestingly, Scheherazade had chosen her fate.

Eight days in the hospital felt like eight centuries, but that was only “the suburb of hell,” Dahlmann realized, then he was sent to the sanatorium:

During these days Dahlmann hated himself in minute detail: he hated his identity, his bodily necessities, his humiliation, the beard which bristled upon his face. He stoically endured the curative measures, which were painful, but when the surgeon told him he had been on the point of death from septicemia, Dahlmann dissolved in tears of self-pity for his fate. Physical wretchedness and the incessant anticipation of horrible nights had not allowed him time to think of anything so abstract as death.

Sufficiently healed, Dahlmann was finally released back into an uncertain, exciting and deadly world choked with comforting memories. Immediately, he set off for his family ranch in the South, a region he cherished but hardly knew. On the train, he opened A Thousand and One Nights but couldn’t focus. To carry it with him, though, was “kind of affirmation that his illfortune had been annulled; it was a joyous and secret defiance of the frustrated forces of evil.”

Dropped off at an unexpected stop, he considered this inconvenience a bonus adventure to be savored, so he had dinner at some general store before heading to his ranch. The only other customers were three drunken louts and a picturesque old man in a thick poncho and colt boots, squatting on the floor. Though urban and bookish, Dahlmann had fitted himself comfortably and confidently into this alien setting. It’s a common illusion, or at least wish, of travelers.

Halfway through this story, Borges casually observes that “reality favors symmetries,” then he has the shopkeeper resemble a male nurse in the sanatorium. More ominously, something suddenly brushed against Dahlmann’s face, just like that innocent door at the beginning. This turned out to be a spit ball of breadcrumb, as flicked by a lout, the one with Chinese features. Again, the unexpected intruded:

Perplexed, Dahlmann decided that nothing had happened, and he opened the volume of The Thousand and One Nights, by way of suppressing reality. After a few moments another little ball landed on his table, and now the peones laughed outright. Dahlmann said to himself that he was not frightened, but he reasoned that it would be a major blunder if he, a convalescent, were to allow himself to be dragged by strangers into some chaotic quarrel.

When the shopkeeper tried to defuse the situation, Dahlmann finally got enraged, for someone had witnessed his humiliation. When the Chinese absurdly challenged him to a knife fight, his fate was not yet sealed, for he had no knife, then this happened:

From a corner of the room, the old ecstatic gaucho—in whom Dahlmann saw a summary and cipher of the South (his South)—threw him a naked dagger, which landed at his feet. It was as if the South had resolved that Dahlmann should accept the duel.

Expecting bloody action, that quaint gaucho became “ecstatic.” We are entertained, buoyed or even redeemed by others’ misfortunes.

With the rash of random attacks occurring all over the US, I thought of “The South” by Borges, here so beautifully translated by Anthony Kerrigan. (The Andrew Hurley version, as commissioned by María Kodama, is a graceless disaster. Kodama married Borges just months before his death. A spit ball against his forehead, Kodama has killed Borges in English.)

Dahlmann didn’t do anything to deserve his descent into two layers of hell, then, finally, death. Of course, he could have saved himself at the end by refusing to pick up the dagger, except everything conspired against it. The real South, Dahlmann’s dignity if not vanity, destiny’s momentum and the story’s sick logic demanded that he, a feeble man just released from hell, must fight some drunken asshole over nothing. Suddenly cast into this delicious role, for us, not for him, Dahlmann couldn’t beg off.

Though I had been thinking about “The South” for at least a week, with the intention of discussing it in an article, everything came together just two days ago, with wicked fate rounding out my narrative. The stars sure know how to laugh.

Like Dahlmann, I was distracted, but unlike him, I didn’t end up in a hospital, much less knifed by some drunk. I was merely dispossessed and lying on the sidewalk, for how long, I still don’t know. Coming to, I was actually relieved to discover my phone lying near me. I even had more than enough money to get home.

That day, I managed to finish a new article, so was somewhat elated, but not overly so. Over the decades, I’ve learnt to tame, if not castrate, my crowing instinct. After a nap, I left Lankham Hotel to get a $1.98 bowl of phở or 57 cent paté bánh mì. By 8PM or so, I should have been in bed to read the news, then sleep.

Seeing a foreigner walking in the same direction, I tried to overtake him, but he also hurried his steps. Walking alongside me, he said, “It’s hot.”

“It was even worse last week, but the monsoon has started.”

“It has?”

“Yes, it started maybe five days ago. How long have you been here?”

“I just arrived, today.”

Though he looked Indian, I asked to make sure, “Where are you from?”

“Turkey.”

“I’ve been there! I love Turkey. Istanbul is so beautiful. A magnificent city!”

Conversing, he kept walking with me, so I pointed out Dok Mai Lao Trattoria Italiana, then said that people on this and that street were mostly Vietnamese. When we reached a Vietnamese temple, he said that, as a Muslim, he shouldn’t enter, but I replied, “It’s OK. We can just look at the outside. It’s not much, but still interesting.”

He was still in character, but many Indians are also Muslim. Wanting to show him around some more, I delayed my dinner, then he suggested we get a beer somewhere. Sure, I said, then steered him towards Coffee Saigon. Seeing busy food stands in the other direction, he suggested, “Let’s go this way.”

“OK. There is a place to drink down that way, but it’s empty right now.”

At L’ancien café, he opened up. In his 50’s, he had a wife and a mistress, for whom he had bought a house and car. He met her when she was just 20, and they had been together five years. When he took her to Saudi Arabia, his brother-in-law caught them sitting together at Istanbul’s airport, with their arms touching, but he somehow managed to lie his way out. When seen together by a friend of his wife, he said the mistress was an employee. He had rehearsed these stories well.

At least twice, he stumbled, for when I asked how old his daughter was, he said, “About 16.” Weirder, he appeared to not recognize Erdogan when I mentioned his president. Maybe I mispronounced the name, I thought.

Ignoring my interest in Turkey’s political and economic situations, he mentioned his recent shopping in Malaysia, where he bought $300 bottles of perfume for loved ones. In Pakse, he was paying $30 a night. When I said he could pay just $10 at Lankham, he asked if each room had a safe.

“No, but you can leave it at the reception.”

“I don’t trust anyone with my money,” he said.

“Neither do I, actually,” I laughed. “That’s why I always keep my money with me.”

Bingo! Dude knew he’d found his prey.

Still lightheaded and exhausted from having finished a piece, I was now delighted at having met such an intriguing character. Already, I had a new article.

I suspected nothing. Plus, I had nothing to fear. To rob me, he would have had to overwhelm me. There was zero chance of that.

Courteous, he poured beer into my glass. Not so cool, his calling the teen waitress, “Pretty girl.” Worse, he grabbed her hand when she delivered the bill.

“Don’t do that,” I said. “That’s not cool.”

“I know what I’m doing. She smiled. She liked it!”

He insisted on paying over my objection, then said we should go to a much more exciting bar, Yes99. On the way from the airport, a tuk-tuk driver had pointed it out.

“I’m here to have a good time. I need to see girls! You must come with me! I have money!”

More material for my story, I thought. This was my lucky day.

On Google Maps, I found out Yes99 was 1.5 mile away. I didn’t catch that it was in the opposite direction from the airport, so my new “Turkish” friend couldn’t have seen it on his way in. Pakse is not my city.

As we walked around in the dark trying to find a tuk-tuk, he stopped a schoolgirl in uniform to ask about this bar. She couldn’t have been more than 13. Alarmed, I watched as he stood too close to her.

“Let’s go, man! She doesn’t know where it is, and it’s not even in this neighborhood!”

As if irresistibly drawn to her body, he refused to move, so I shouted, “She can’t even understand you, man! Let’s get out of here!”

Dragging him away, I said, “You’re going to get arrested, man. She’s, like, 13!”

“I know what I’m doing. You just talk to them, and if they talk to you, you can say, ‘Let’s go for a drink.’”

“She can’t drink! She’s 13! You’re going to get arrested.” Putting my arm around him, I said, “You’re too fuckin’ crazy, man. I’m going to stay with you to make sure you don’t get arrested tonight. You don’t want to be in a Lao jail, man. In a club, you can talk to the bargirls.”

So protective of this maniac, I even made sure he wasn’t overcharged by the tuk-tuk driver. Finally, we arrived at Yes99, but it was just a brightly lit restaurant, with long tables and few customers. No problem, he said, then he led me to a nearby joint that was much livelier. For a guy just arrived, he sure knew the neighborhood.

The second place had no English name, so let’s call it Sucker. There were many attractive women, but at least half were with boyfriends. One table had a middle-aged man wearing an expensive gold watch dancing ecstatically with a much younger woman with an impressive cleavage.

“Look, they’re not touching,” I said to my “Turkish” friend, to gently remind him to not let his hands go wild.

Ordering hot and sour fish stew and plenty of beer, he kept urging me to eat and drink. “Empty your glass!”

Being there enlarged my understanding of Pakse, so I was grateful, “Thanks to you, man, I’ve discovered this street, and I thought Pakse was such a quiet city!” I laughed.

“After this, we can go to another place.”

“No, man, I’m very tired. I must go soon. You stay here and have a good time. I’m getting out of here soon.”

“Stay, my friend! I asked these two women to sit with us. They will come over soon.”

“No, really, I’m very tired. I had a long day. It’s way past my bedtime.”

In retrospect, everything becomes clear, but if you were me, you might have been taken in, too. By temperament, though, I’m more open, thus more vulnerable and foolish, than most people. I find nearly everyone and situation delightful.

How do you think I managed to write Postcards from the End of America on almost no money? Since I had to meet people immediately, I was often found drinking and laughing with locals within an hour or two after I had stumbled off the bus. Portland, Wolf Point, Williston, Columbus, Youngstown and Steelton, etc. In Jackson, I had to wander past many torched homes and abandoned buildings before I could find a bar. In Gary, I couldn’t find anything open. Michael Jackson’s hometown looked bombed. In foreign places, I’ve done the same, even where I couldn’t speak the language. In Leipzig, Prague, Budapest and Kiev, etc.

Oh shit, I’m crowing a bit, so have entered hell. Let me tuk-tuk my way out.

Even when young, I could be very absent minded. Around age 30 and earning little as a housepainter, I made a very rare shopping trip to buy two pairs of jeans. Stopping somewhere for a cheesesteak, I forgot my brand new, unworn jeans on a chair.

There are so many fools in fiction and non-fiction. Among my favorites is Flannery O’ Connor’s Hulga, a bloated and ugly 32-year-old virgin with a wooden leg and too much attitude, for she has gotten a PhD in philosophy. Meeting a goofy, seemingly artless bible salesman with a tear-jerking history, she fell in love for the first time, only to have him run off with her wooden leg, laughing, as a souvenir. Seeing where it joined her body turned him on. He didn’t even care to make love to her.

After leaving Sucker, I remember almost nothing. As said, I was happy to have enough cash to get home but, get this, the guy had robbed me of around $2,200!

With scrapes on my knees, I realized I had been pushed forward, but not too hard, or I would be sporting bruises and scars on my face. My belongings, he had searched through, or he wouldn’t have found my dollars, plus some kips, kept in a small, discreet pocket inside my bag.

He wasn’t interested in my Canon 80D or Sony a6000. Though expensive, they’re old. My phone, normally kept inside my pant pocket, he left on the ground.

Only someone who knew I was severely incapacitated could have robbed me that way, so it wasn’t a Lao or Vietnamese on the street. At least he didn’t step on my head, to make sure I was out.

Though still groggy the next day, I recounted my misadventure to another guest at Lankham. A 66-year-old Irishman who’s been coming to Laos for 20 years, he certainly knows Pakse better than I do.

Many Indians pass through Pakse on their way to Cambodia, he informed me. No tourists, they’re hoping to reach North America by ship via Cambodia. Likely scammed themselves, they believe that to enter at least Mexico, they must have many visa stamps in their passport. From there, they can enter the USA with the rest.

At least one Pakse hotel turns away all Indians. They only want to get inside to prey on other guests, the manager believes.

In Marseilles in 2017, I met a very young Vietnamese illegal immigrant who had just been robbed by two Arabs. No problem, he said, “What I lost, I can make back in a week.” Unlike his more timid compatriots, he was roaming all over, whenever he could get time off from his construction job.

What I lost was about six weeks of earnings from SubStack subscriptions and PayPal donations. What I gained, though, was this tale. Without this incident, my musing on Borges’ “The South” would not be so pungent. Though costly, it’s worth it, I believe, even if the joke is entirely on me. Vanity shouldn’t get in the way of accuracy.

I’ll be fooled again, I’m sure, but hopefully not in the same way. Meanwhile, I still have food and drinks, and the writing is still flowing, so all is well.

I have spoken often about the safe streets of Southeast Asia, but the outsider appearing suddenly to rob, scam, rape or steal is a universal type dating way back. When the eating gets harder, he’ll appear all over.

Before being kicked out of Vietnam in November, I complained to poet Nguyen Quoc Chanh, my closest friend, “I’m not looking forward to this. I’m so tired.”

“But you’ve traveled so much. You’re used to it.”

“Yes and no. I do enjoy running around, but it is stressful, because everything is different everywhere. You don’t know what’s going to happen from one moment to the next.”

I shouldn’t have bitched, for drifting around has certainly nourished my writing. It’s my role. I’ll keep going until something brushes against my forehead, but hopefully, not tonight. I’m still in heaven.

[Pakse, 5/17/23]

[Pakse, 5/17/23]

[Pakse, 5/17/23]