Things Get Weird/BRUNEI

While in the air to Brunei, I notice my passport is running dangerously low on stamp space. Still, I fancy myself a problem-solver: There's exactly enough room for the stamp on one page, and if I can get the immigration officer to put it right there then I'll have enough blank pages for the remaining countries. Easy. I'm kind of the best at Tetris.

The immigration guy is an asshole. He glares at me offended when I dare suggest where he should place his holy mark, and instead turns to one of the last fresh pages and lays his stamp smack in the middle. Now I'm going to have to find the American embassy and get more pages put in, which I'm sure costs at least a hundred billion dollars.

I can't find the bus from the airport, so I just start walking in the direction of the city. Brunei, or rather "The Nation of Brunei, The Abode of Peace," is pretty much one big city with a tangle of jungle and oil derricks on the outskirts. I'm pretty sure I remember reading an article somewhere that said hitchhiking here is easy, and worst comes to worst I can just hail a taxi. Or walk the whole distance, and be one of those kind of guys. Luckily, I'm barely walking twenty minutes before a sedan pulls over and picks me up.

The driver is Nelson, a local Bruneian of Malay heritage. He's very friendly, as you can imagine, and has one of those soft, "kind" faces. The kind of guy who pulls over and gives disheveled white boys a ride. In the passenger seat is a young boy, either teenage or early 20s, who doesn't talk the entire time and I just assume is Nelson's son.

I tell Nelson my story, and he mentions that hitchhiking is actually not that common. I'm a lucky duck! He goes on to offer to show me what he calls the King's Mosque, which is on the way. Hey, I've got nowhere to be. Let's reverently and respectfully tear that bitch up.

It's a gorgeous mosque in a country that I am sure is full of gorgeous mosques. It's got the four tower/pillar things around it that seem pretty integral to a mosque's mosqueocity, and the inside is all a stunning white, with beautiful stained glass filling the central dome.

The attendants make me wear what looks like a judge's robes before I can see the top floor, which seems like a quirky rule. Up there, they have a prayer room covered in ornate marble and glasswork. It's the sort of thing that makes you wish you were spiritual, so you could really kick things up a notch in the ol' veneration department. They don't allow photography, so you'll have to take my word for it. Or, like, go there. I'm not the boss of you.

After seeing the mosque, Nelson drops me off at Pusat Belia, Brunei's lone hostel. Before leaving, he mentions that he owns a spa, and offers me a job as a masseuse. I of course reply that I have no idea how to give a professional massage, and he says it won't matter, that weird Bruneian guys will pay extra just to have the exotic fingers of a white person clumsily rub them down. He also mentions that if the Pusat Belia is full, I can stay at his house, which has plenty of extra bedrooms. Apparently the silent enigma in the passenger seat is currently one of his guests.

Yes, Nelson could possibly be a sexual predator, picking up helpless backpackers and having them turn out handie-jays in his spa of horrors, but I am running pretty low on funds here. No one's perfect, right? He did show me that mosque, and he's behaved very respectfully towards me this entire time. Maybe his spa is legit, and the boy in the front seat isn't his catamite toyboy. As Nelson explained, Brunei is Muslim, so it makes sense that all his clients are male, as only male masseurs are allowed to massage men. Really, I'm probably just being disrespectful by having misgivings. I would like that money. Nelson says he'll come by at 7 tonight and show me how to give a massage, then drives off leaving me with his business card. It's probably fine. Hell, I could just blow him off if the bad vibes get to be too much, or I forget.

Pusat Belia, Brunei's lone hostel, is full. They tell me it never happens, but it's a holiday and students are on a trip, which comes as small comfort since the next cheapest place around here is a $30 a night hotel. Maybe I will definitely meet Nelson. I wonder if I could give a handjob for money? You know, totally hypothetically. Just...a thought problem.

Something to think about while staring wistfully into the distance. We've all thought about it, right?

There's not a whole lot to see or do around Bandar Seri Bagawan, Brunei's capital that I was smack dab in the middle of. There are a number of really nice mosques, a mall-flavored mall, and your usual streets full of modern but drab shops. It's clear the city has a lot of money and infrastructure, but not a lot of interest in impressing sightseers or tourists.

This is the most scenic photo of the city, sans-mosque, that I was able to get. There is one sculpture, and it is dull as hell.

My options are stay around my hostel, wasting what little funds I have in overpriced cafes, or...fuck it. I won't let my tombstone read "Here Lies Jamie, He Was Too Scared of Possibly Having to Give a Handjibber to Make Some Quick Cash and That Somehow Led to his Untimely Death." I walk over to Pusat Belia and sure enough, right at 7 there's Nelson's car. Something that never gets said enough for creepy dudes: their punctuality.

If this is some tawdry seduction attempt, he does a good job of hiding it. First, Nelson takes me to eat dinner at a Chinese restaurant his friend works at. The three of us chat and have a good time, and then Nelson covers the bill, which could go either way.

Next, he shows me some sights, but none of them match up to the mosque from earlier. There's an amusement park I can just about see over its fence, some royal palace, and then this giant sculpture installation that a member of the royal family built to symbolize his engagement.

Nelson says the diamond is real. Adorable.

Honestly, the most incredible sight I see is what gas costs in an oil state:

Trying to think in litres (sp!) is still half-witchcraft to me, but those numbers definitely don't seem as high as they should be.

Finally, he takes me to his spa. It's business time. Like for real business, because his spa is totally a legit spa. There are certificates all over the walls, and a general "kinda cheap but probably real" mise-en-scene.

It's definitely not a sex dungeon, but that could be my cultural bias talking.

Regardless of whatever happens here, at least I can rest easy knowing it's halal.

Nelson keeps hugging me, but that's probably nothing. Maybe he's just a really grateful employer. This whole halal business, dudes only allowed on dudes, it's still possible everything is totally normal to him. Like skinship in Korea, where guys are all about friendly touching and caressing. I just need to respect his culture. Nelson leads me into the massage room, and asks me to undress. I make a point to keep my underwear on, and I look for any sign of disappointment. No reaction. Alright.

There I am, face down and clad only in my skivvies, and Nelson starts to massage me. I'm not a big massage man personally, but I can tell that he's a professional, and the entire time he's giving me instructions. Where to start, which directions to go, how hard to push, important spots to hit, the whole works. It's very informative, and I found myself immensely relieved, embarrassed, and wishing I had taken notes. This could be a real skill! I just life-hacked my way into some free job training! Traveling, baby, I'm doing it right.

His hands are steadily working their way down from my shoulders to my lower back, and finally to my butt. Nelson sighs. "You will have to take this off. Is it okay?"

I know what you're thinking. I was thinking the same thing. Sometimes masseurs have gotta massage the butt. Now I don't get too many massages, but I imagine you can't do a real, proper butt massage with cloth in the way. It makes sense. With some hesitance, I drop my drawers. Now we're in flavor country.

He gives my buttocks a good working-over, but doesn't overstay his welcome and soon moves onto my legs and feet. I knew there was nothing to worry about. Just think of all that sweet cash I'm gonna be making taking advantage of weird racist Bruneians. Maybe I'll never have to go home, and instead travel the world as a wandering masseur. Back in reality, Nelson tells me to flip over. No problem.

Feeling reassured but still antsy, I repeat over and over in my mind: You will not get hard. You will not get hard. I don't care where you land on the Kinsey scale, you are not going to have an erection at this moment in time for any reasons whatsoever.

There isn't a lot to massage on the front side of your typical human, and after kneading my arms and hands a bit, Nelson arrives at my Fun Zone. The Pleasure Palace. The Vault of Secrets. And he dives right in.

His fingernails trace designs over my cock like it's the hennaed hand of a Hindu bride. He does it so matter-of-factly, and with such practiced skill, that it must still be part of the massage. It has to be, and I'm...I'm just really learning a lot about Muslim massage today.

I won't lie to you. It doesn't feel un-great. Regardless, my hetero leanings win out, and I remain as flaccid as Elton John watching a sex tape of Gloria Steinem. Heaven be praised. no difficult soul-searching and huge life decisions for me today! Nelson, on the other hand, is not so content.

"I know you are not gay," he says, looking me in the eye, "But I am." Oh no. "Would you like me to continue?"

Let's all take a moment and recognize: COULD'VE BEEN WORSE. What that in mind, I still need to keep things upbeat and friendly between attempted-handjober and handjobee. Hell, I know for a fact my dick looks great in this humidity, and in some respects old Nelson here is just another victim to its splendor. I didn't mention this earlier for narrative reasons, but Brunei doesn't really have public transportation, on account of everyone having a car 'cause oil state. I don't have a phone either, with which one could call a taxi service. Basically if I stormed out into the night, I'd be kind of fucked. Meaning, ultimately, I need this guy to give me a ride home.

I need to be Zenmaster Flash here. Do I want him to continue, he asked? "No, I'm okay." Your move, amigo. Hope it's friendly and boundary-respecting.

There's a lot of disappointment in those gay Bruneian eyes. Nelson's a stand-up weirdo though, and he drives me back to the hostel. Let me tell you about long, awkward car rides. You don't know shit about long, awkward car rides. That isn't to say we didn't have some interesting conversation, though. I'm curious about what it's like to be gay in an entirely Muslim country, and Nelson informs me there are plenty of gay Bruneians. "They hang out in cafes," he says. "You can smell them." Shine on, you creepy diamond.

I'm also curious about the pricing/ what I'm giving up by not being a halal sex worker. He says if I truly was still interested, I could get up to the princely sum of...50 dollars an hour. That doesn't even sound like a good deal for a person who isn't as white as a Fleet Foxes concert in a snow storm! My alabaster handjobs are worth more than your peanuts. Good day, sir.

After Nelson has dropped me off back in town, I get coffee at a nearby cafe and check the internet. I had previously sent out some feelers on Couchsurfing for a place to stay in Brunei, with no response. As it turns out, one of those hosts, a Zimbabwean expat named Prosper, replied and had been waiting for me all night. I send a message back that I'll meet him tomorrow. Have I got a great excuse for why I got held up!

And it wasn't because I went late-night mosque-sighting! (Sorry, but I have to break up these walls of text somehow. It's also the only way I can get people to look at my vacation photos. Sucker.)

I spend one uneventful night in the spartan (yet pricey) KH Soon Resthouse, where once again ordering a room for myself yields two beds, as an unending reminder of my own loneliness.

At least I get to keep up with a lot more TV shows.

But that's why I'm on Couchsurfing. Today, I'm meeting a local Bruneian named Chan who's going to show me the jungle on the edge of town, and hopefully nothing else besides that. He finds me at the Yayasan mall, which is mainly notable for their horrifying mannequins.

Chan turns out to be a lovely, heavy-set guy with a passion for introducing people to Brunei. He drives me in his car over to what I come to learn is actually a rainforest. Geographically, Brunei is located on the island of Borneo, the largest island in Asia, which it also shares with Indonesia and Malaysia. I bet they get up to some wacky sitcom hijinks! Borneo is also home to the Borneo rainforest, one of the oldest in the world.

The Borneo rainforest also happens to be the world's sole habitat of the proboscis monkey, which Chan says we'll find today if we're lucky. It's a monkey that has a ridiculously large nose to the point of obscenity. It's really something, and if you're ever in Brunei, you'll see its dumb face featured on a lot of marketing for cafes and such.

Alright, enough tension. It's not like the monkeys are making a play for my junk or anything. We see some in the trees, because sometimes things are nice and the rainforest will share its treasures with you. Chan and I celebrate our enjoyable time with some refreshing coconut water.

By "see," I mean we spot some vague shapes in the foliage that might possibly be in the monkey family.

Chan drops me off at the embassy, where I go through the most numerous and thorough security checks of my life for the privilege of paying $82 for new passport pages. The knowledge of a truly sweet zombie defense spot doesn't make me feel a lot better about that.

Prosper meets me at DeRoyalle cafe, where I've just been watching episodes of Luther on my netbook and drinking unremarkable and overpriced coffee. He takes me back to his house, which is a nice suburban 2-story that he receives (in addition to his car) as part of his job in network administration. Like many other people here I've met, including Nelson and Chan, he gives me a spiel about how great the jobs are here, and how much they pay and all the amenities they provide, but I'm just not sure if a dry country is for me.

Normally an expat can only bring two bottles of liquor and a case of beer into the country per month, but Prosper has a black market guy who keeps him well-stocked. Before long, the party train is pulling into good-times station. I'm introduced to Prosper's Polish girlfriend, Kate, and we sit down to eat a dinner he's cooked and drink wine. The food is delicious, and we start listening to music and talking about our jobs, our travels, and Brunei. Nelson comes up, and Prosper gets steaming mad. He wants details, and weirdly, I don't want to give them. I really was asking for it, in a way. I was playing Gay Chicken with a man who was actually gay. Or maybe I just have more empathy after my breakthrough experience. Mushrooms, ladies and gentlemen.

In the morning, I find another Couchsurfing request waiting for me, but this one is just an invitation to grab some food. After I pick up my passport from the embassy, I return to Yayasan to meet Puspita, an Indonesian flight attendant who uses Couchsurfing to kill time and meet people between flights. She's from Jakarta, and recommends I go. Alrighty. She also pays for dinner, which is just such a class move, especially because your boy is a stone cold poor person. Puspita has a car, but since she's a girl and can't get her cooties all over the nice Muslim steering wheel, she's got her own driver to go with, who has a really tough time trying to find Prosper's. We say our pleasant goodbyes, respecting the nonsexual purity of our internet meeting, and then I get drunk again with Prosper on honey whiskey. He plays a bunch of Zimbabwean music and gets nostalgic, which I find sweet and also educational. I play him a bunch of white boy backpack rap, which he seems to enjoy in return. They always do.

On account of Bandar having next-to-nothing of interest for an international rogue like myself, I find myself the next day hanging out yet again in a Coffee Bean while Prosper and Kate see X-Men: First Class.

I also hit up a McDonald's, where I find them trying to out-America America. The MEGA Mac would make a bald eagle weep tears of pride.

Prosper mentions something that does manage to tickle this scalawag's ears: according to him, there is in fact a club in town, but only expats are allowed entrance. It's the only place in town that one can procure booze, save for getting traditional liquor from the indigenous natives, which seems like a whole to-do.

Unfortunately, Prosper doesn't get any of my Skype calls, so he's unable to pick me up, and I have to take a van home. You can call it a private taxi if you want, but for my $15 it's a freaking van. No club tonight, and tomorrow I fly out. Whomp whomp.

Prosper, stand-up guy that he is, even drives me to the airport. He says: "If you're ever in Zimbabwe, let me know and even if I'm not there, I'll have my friends take care of you. They'll show you the best time of your life." Hot damn, now I just need to get to Zimbabwe!That's the one regularly used in jokes to refer to how close it is to everything, right?

I stop in KL for a layover before enjoying a longer, overnight layover in Bali. My destination this time: the newest country in the world, East Timor. I have done literally zero research into this mysterious nation other than to confirm that it is indeed a Southeast Asian country, and therefore I must see it.

Bali is a cinch this time. I immediately tell off the touts who try to carry my bags, and find some guys to share a cab with to Kuta. There, I'm able to get a bike taxi to Poppies Lane, where I find a cheap $10 hostel and schedule the driver for a pick-up to the airport tomorrow. Once he leaves, I wander around looking for food, liquor, and wifi.

Instead I found my spiritual awakening. Buy my book, please.

I take a break to grab some things from my room, and upon exiting I meet a group of Koreans staying in the room adjacent. Instead of eating dinner, I spend the night with them drinking beer, soju, and beer mixed with soju in a delightful concoction known as somek. Because I am smart and thrifty, and by now you should know this about me. I'm gonna crush East Timor.

"Good Price For You"/HO CHI MINH CITY

Though my MP3 player now stubbornly refused to turn on after its quick dip in toilet water, and my fancy new shoes were an expensive thing of the past, I was determined to remain upbeat.  During my layover I eat some shark fin dumplings, and their political incorrectness gave me strength.

Although for all my tongue knew, I just paid for some extra-pricey shrimp and unease.

With Australia down, this trip was still only just beginning (fucking hell...).  I was picked up at the airport in Ho Chi Minh City by a representative from the guesthouse my friend Sarah and I would be staying at, and then told my room wouldn't be ready for another 3 hours.  It was 9am now, and Sarah wouldn't arrive until around midnight, so I had maybe a little bit of time to myself.  But what do in Saigon, in Ho Chi Minh City?

Well, first check Wikipedia to make sure they're the same place.  Next, eat some fucking pho.

I had read about a place called Pho 2000, which proudly advertises being "For The President", on account of Bill Clinton eating there once years and years ago.  Instead of going inside, I somehow found myself herded next to a wall outside and sitting in a plastic chair in the street, a wrinkled secondhand menu forced into my hands.  Maybe it wasn't for the president, but the pho I received on the street was just fine nonetheless.  In fact, the noodle soup tasted even better considering the whole meal and a beer cost less than two dollars.  Finally, it was back to third-world prices and much-needed savings on my part.

As most guesthouses here will, my guesthouse had given me a map with all the big tourist sites marked on it.  In one big circuit, I made a run at the People's Committee Hall:

And the City Opera House:

Neither of which I could actually go inside or anything, but I'll be darned if it wasn't some pretty architecture.  I also stopped by the famous Ben Thanh Market to pick up a bag of rice; I had read an article about fixing a wet MP3 player, and apparently leaving it in a bag of rice will suck out the moisture and with any luck restore it to working order.  It turns out, there are quite a few resources online for people who've dropped stuff in toilets.  The real trick turned out to be searching a notoriously huge and crowded market for plain rice, and then explaining to the confused non-English speaking women at the stall that I only wanted just enough to cover an iPod.

There was a weird satisfaction that came from actually going to one of these giant markets with something specific in mind to buy, and then doing so with only minimal fuss.  I was even buying rice, one of the most basic foodstuffs there is!  I was in tune with the culture, in touch with the common man.  I felt almost an honorary Vietnamese person, right up until I put the rice in a ziploc bag with my busted 200 dollar piece of First-World Luxury.

After I'd had my fill of the tourist game, I headed back to my now-ready room and rested up till evening.  Most of the backpacker action is around the street Pham Ngu Lao, and that's exactly where I was headed.  I wandered the surrounding streets for food as night came, when a Frenchman in his late 20s approached me.  I hadn't seen him behind me, but he seemed to be going in my direction.

"Where are you from?" he asked, following backpacker protocol.  "America...Seattle," I replied, and asked where he was from.  France, it turns out.

We converse a little more, about how long I've been in Vietnam (a day), how I'm liking it (not bad), when he asks "Where are you staying?"  Even if I wanted to keep it a secret, I couldn't pronounce the name of our guesthouse, and gestured in the general direction.

"Can we go to your place?"

Dammit.  If he's a backpacker, it was a kind I haven't heard of before.  I start walking a little faster, all of a sudden real intent on finding that place to eat, and away from French gigolos.

"I think you are...very handsome," he says to me, keeping up with my pace and ruining all my childhood memories of Pepé Le Pew.  "Thanks, uh, man," I stammer, eyes wildly searching for some avenue of escape.  I wish I had gone to etiquette school, and learned the polite and elegant way of handling the situation.  As it was, I blurted out "OhIhavetomeetsomeonegottagobye" and ran into the crowds of Pham Ngu Lao, somehow both embarrassed for myself, and for my gay prostitute.

I did not actually have someone to meet.  I lied to a hooker.

Lying low, I settled at a kebab stand in an alleyway and had a doner kebab for a dollar, the same which would have cost me $8.50 just a day ago.  Bright side, and all that.  With still some time before I meet Sarah, I have some passport photos made by a couple of kids, to make up for yet another item I forgot to pack and would soon be needing for all these tourist visas.  Instead of shooting me against a white screen, they photograph me against a wall and then go to all the trouble of cropping the picture and setting it against a digital white background.  Maybe white sheets go for a premium around here.

Midnight hits, so I buy a couple beers for the room and meet Sarah.  She's just flown in from Korea, and in no mood to go out, so we split the beers and call it a night.  The bag holding the beers turns out to be such low quality that it stains the bedsheets pink.  No, not the smoothest first night ever in a new country.

The next day we find out that we can't get another night at the guesthouse, so they move us to a place almost directly across the street, owned by a family member.  In a unique twist, we're both given t-shirts sporting the establishment's name, the Tam Anh Guesthouse.  We are then told that these shirts are not machine washable, and must be washed by hand and then sun-dried.

With unexpected free t-shirt comes great responsibility.

The elderly lady running the place is easily the most maternal woman I have ever met.  She insists upon Sarah and I holding hands in her presence, and sternly lectures us on the importance of keeping our money safe.  We are also made to hand our passports over to her for safekeeping (and even more surprising than me actually doing it was the fact that I actually got the passport back when we later checked out).

Down the street we eat breakfast in a small shop with the same menu you'll find anywhere in Southeast Asia: American Breakfast, British Breakfast, French Breakfast, and then pages upon pages of a la carte items, most of which any one place probably doesn't have the ingredients for.  For some reason the French Breakfast here has hashbrowns while the American does not, which honestly riles my nationalist pride.  After a cup of delicious Vietnamese coffee, we jump straight into the tourist trail, heading first for the Reunification Palace.

And run into a coconut vendor, with the decidedly groundbreaking business strategy of making me hold his baskets.

The Palace is mostly unexciting except for the cramped and slightly creepy basement where military planning was carried out, and next we look around the Saigon Notre-Dame Basilica.  If you globetrot for awhile, you'll see plenty of Notre-Dame cathedral around the world.  So, if you never make it to Paris, Vietnam's got you covered.

Outside, the heat is becoming oppressive, and we stop for drinks.  There are vendors all around the cathedral (and indeed, everywhere else) hawking water and overpriced soda cans, and for some reason I keep thinking someone is calling my name.  Sarah goes to buy a water, and then with a surprised look points to a couple sitting on some of the plastic chairs in the middle of the courtyard.

"Jamie!" they yell out, beckoning me over.  I had no clue who they were, but they clearly knew me.  "It's Alex and Sarah!  From CDI training, remember?"

It took me a moment but I did remember, and was even more impressed that they did.  CDI was the teaching academy in Korea I had worked at, where Sarah (whom I was traveling with) also worked.  Before I started, I was sent to Seoul for training with about half a dozen other prospective teachers, including Alex and Sarah in front of me now.  That was almost a year and a half ago, though.  Somehow, I'd made an impression.

So we chatted for awhile, all four of us teachers for the same Korean company, swapping the usual horror stories and regrets.  They had been staying in Saigon for quite some time, and planned to keep traveling throughout the year.  I asked them how they managed to fund that.  "Well, we don't drink anymore."  That would do it, but who would want to?  Maybe that explains their terrifying abilities of recall.

When it gets dark Sarah and I head to the night market, which only served to confirm my belief that Asian night markets are all straight awful if you have nothing in mind to buy.  They're fun and exciting the first couple of times maybe, but certainly not an attraction one needs to see more than that, unless you enjoy the exhaustion of eight hyperactive vendors shouting and grabbing you at every moment.

Or maybe you really need a dozen cheap watches, counterfeit jeans, and a live shark.  I'm not one to judge.

For dinner, we go to a hybrid Italian/Mexican/Cappuccino restaurant that damn sure knew their customer base.  While we eat, a book selling woman walks in.  Every night, there's always a few locals wandering around the backpacker hotspots with giant stacks of books to sell, all bootleg xeroxed copies of Lonely Planet guides and Alex Garland's The Beach.  I make the huge mistake of showing some interest in the woman's copy of Southeast Asia on a Shoestring, which leads to 10 minutes of her pleading with me: "Please buy!  I give you good price!  You buy book!  Just one book!  I sell one book, I go home and be with my children!  I want to be with my family!  But I need money!"  My heartless and continued refusal causes her to stand outside the restaurant for the next half hour, glaring at me while we finish our meal.

I could justify myself by saying I didn't have the disposable income to throw at a book I ultimately didn't need to, and indeed went against my personal no-planning approach to travel, but then I went and spent the rest of the night getting furiously drunk with Sarah out on the town.  It seemed that for all Alex and Sarah weren't drinking, we were going to make up for it.  The first stop was perhaps the most famous club in Saigon, Apocalypse Now.  It has a fearsome reputation, and its namesake is indeed preoccupied with themes of darkness and the evil in men's hearts, but I sensed little of that now.  Sure, it was crowded, there was a lot of grinding on dimly-lit dance floors amid scads of policemen and bouncers, and drinks were priced higher than anywhere else, but for the most part it was just a sad hangout for older foreign businessmen and their prostitutes.  Not quite the Vietnamese hive of scum and villainy I was expecting (and hoping for).

Not a single shootout with the police in sight.

We return to our side of town, and bar hop around Pham Ngu Lao.  At a place called Go2Bar I start in on trying the local whiskey, as people with sandwich boards covered in cigarette packs walk by trying to get our attention.  After waving them off, I wonder aloud to Sarah how easy it would be to buy some weed in the city.  Just as I've said that, one old woman comes running back to us, with her cigarette board flapping in front of her.  "Marijuana!  You want marijuana!  Good price for you!"  I decline, but mental fucking note.  Not so easy is ordering a whiskey neat, and after much deliberation between the waiters I am brought the tiniest shot glass I've ever seen, filled with an amount of alcohol I would have to describe as "cute".

You could use this as the thimble in Monopoly.  Also, greatest game of Monopoly ever.

We move on to another joint by the name of Allez Boo, a sister establishment to Go2Bar, and when I order rum I'm given a slightly larger glass, but the same precious amount of booze.  By now it's around 2 am, and the street kids are coming out in droves.  Sarah becomes especially concerned for a little girl who couldn't have been older than seven, and was out on the street selling roses.  By her logic, Sarah figures if she buys the entire lot from the girl, she'll be able to go home and be with her family and study and sleep and whatever it is these children do when they're not being forced to sell flowers to white people.  A sensitive and gracious move on her part, though more than expected by the street kids.  Not 10 minutes later, the same girl is back, with a new batch of flowers.

You'll never see a more ruthless little face.

Meanwhile, I get into a drunken argument with a nine year-old, who then steals Sarah's roses from the table.  Time to move on.

Our last stop of the night is Crazy Buffalo, where we get a hookah and I finally write off Vietnamese whiskey and rum forever.  It's getting to about 3 am and starting to wind down, and the bored workers decide to congregate around Sarah, to her sudden consternation.  While one girl moves behind Sarah and starts braiding her hair, another 3 workers flank her sides and coo over her hair, jewelry, clothes, skin, and yet another guy comes off the street to pressure her into trading necklaces with him.

Pictured: Rape, for the introverted.

My last memory of the night was stumbling into the bathroom, and discovering this:

I was pissing on a television.  Or rather, their urinal was a TV.  Everything was going to be alright.  Me and Vietnam were going to get along just fine.