Dogster: Looking for Jayarvarman
 

I was looking for Jayarvarman, somewhere up the Mekong.

That's if I got there alive.

‘Wake Up! Wake up, wake up, wake UP!’

The taxi driver’s eyes snapped open, rolled then sank slowly back into the closed position.

‘Wake UP!’

He snorted, waved his head from side to side, opened both eyes way too wide as if he’d seen Satan in his rear-view mirror and reached for a small brown bottle at his side. He swigged the contents in a single gulp. Chemical fumes filled the cab.

He had seen Satan. It was Dogster at 6.00 a.m. We were both hurtling along the freeway towards Bangkok’s Souvarnabhumi Airport at five hundred miles an hour and, no matter how keen he was to meet his maker, he sure wasn’t gonna take the Dog with him - not if the mongrel had his way.

One of us was en route to Vietnam; the other was on his way to certain death. Unfortunately, his certain death was likely to be mine. His eyes rolled, he turned his head to face the future and mumbled something in Thai.

‘I’m going to talk to you non-stop till we get to the airport,’ I hissed,’ I’m going to talk and sing and tell jokes and talk some more to keep you awake, I’m going to keep talking till we get to the airport and you are going to drive us there without sleeping and blah and blah and blah and WAKE UP!’

His eyes sank to half-mast again.

‘Me tired…’ he slurred.

The cab was filthy, festooned with dangling offerings to Lord Buddha, none of which were going to help this heathen Dog. Slung around the back of the front seats were laminated billboards offering sightseeing tours to the floating market, lady-boy shows, snake exhibitions and a lengthy paeon to ping-pong. Quite what ping-pong had to do with those beautiful ladies accompanying the advertisement escapes me. I guess it must be the national sport.

I adopted the Asian approach to imminent catastrophe. I knew that terrifying him would only result in some fearful loss of face, a Bangkok implosion that would propel me into oblivion even quicker.

‘Ohhh, my friend, I know, it velly early, I know,’ I crooned,’ but if you tired maybe you make a crash and we die - so we have to work together here, if you die I die…’

I strapped myself in and took out my camera. I took pictures of the driver, his I.D. plate and the number of the taxi, knowing that someone would eventually recover them from the crash-site. It was own little Black Box.

‘Velly ti…’ he said as his head dropped forward.

‘WAKE UP!’ I shrieked, forgetting my Asian manners. His mouth dropped open in the beginnings of a snore. I bashed the back of his seat. His eyes flew open and rolled alarmingly. I think that little brown bottle was kicking in.

The speedometer had not dropped below 100k since we began this conversation. The grey expressway to Lord Buddha rolled on. He seemed quite calm about our combined fate. He knew he would come back a better man. I had no such illusions - Dog would be reborn as a cockroach.

‘Wake up! Wake up! Wake UP, my friend. You are a good man,’ I said as he clambered back into consciousness, ‘you work very hard, I know, I know…

‘I working twenty hours,’ he slurred, ‘I poor man, velly busy, no sleep, twenty hours, no money, no time…’

Did I give a rat’s arse? This loon was going to kill me.

‘I have five childlen, three boy, two gerrr..’

I don’t care. Wake up!

‘Every day I working. No wife, I send boys to school, to univlesity, no money. Mafia. Taxi mafia. They take my maaaneee,..’

Quite soon, I thought, I would take his testicles and squeeze until he delivered me to the airport..

But the more we talked the safer I was. At least he was conscious. After a while I felt some sympathy for the poor guy; working twenty hours without a break, slaving hard for his family, paying off the taxi Mafia, willing to kill his passengers for a greater cause…

So I hope you won’t be too sad Mr. SOPHON SUTIN if I just put out a little word of warning to those stupid falang unwilling to go meet Lord Buddha in the mangled wreck of a taxi somewhere on the airport freeway. You’re a menace and a danger and should be put off the road.

Never get in a dirty taxi in Bangkok. If you see piles of rubble and the prospect of ping-pong - above all, if you see the mystical taxi numbers 7821, leap out at the nearest red light and save your soul. There are enough cockroaches in Buddha’s heaven. One less won’t make any difference at all.

Ahhh goody another dogster tale begins (and taxi name and number duly noted)

*

Every day a new chapter, fresh from the fetid mind of the Dog. Stay tuned. Soon, at a moment to be determined, the entire adventure will appear on my website, complete with pretty pictures - but for you, the first draft, hot from the press, warts and all...

*

Yes!

Your story reminds me of a time as a college student when I hitched a ride home from Atlanta, Georgia after my original ride broke down. When the driver started drinking and smoking pot, we asked to be let off at the next exit, which fortunately had a bus terminal. We've also experienced tired drivers on our travels, but no one tells the story as well as you do. Bravo once again for your wonderfully entertaining tale!

Firts time we went to New York, the taxi driver fell asleep, to say Muffin and i were horrified is an understatement!

Dog, you have made my day...

Hurray - more adventures!!

Will they appear on:

http://thedogster.wordpress.com/ ?

Waiting for more....

How much did you tip him?

Can't wait to hear about it at our GTG!

Thanks for reading. Who knows where this will end up.

yup, m_bran, they will indeed, complete with cuts, additions and revealing photos. I'm leaving out a few bits in here that are best read with pictures. [The cheque is in the mail]

Remember, this is all first draft - I'm just making this up as I go - but sometimes the first draft has more energy than the more perfect 35th one that appears in the Dogologues. More mistakes, repetitions, spelling mistakes and embarrasing grammatic howlers, too - but while I'm on a roll, I may as well just blurt it out before Hanuman blabs it all.

So here's a bit more...

Looking for Jayarvarman.

<i>[I’m indepted to Wikipedia for the following – I had no idea who he was, either. If you want the full chapter and verse go there.] </i>

Nearly a thousand years ago Jayavarman VII was a king of the Khmer Empire in present day Siem Reap, Cambodia. Before your eyes glaze over, just let me tell you, you know more about him than you think. He built three of the four great icons in Angkor.

Jayarvarman liked to build stuff. First he focused on useful constructions; hospitals, rest houses along the roads, reservoirs and the like – then, having ingratiated himself [enslaving the population in the process] he built a pair of temples in honor of his parents; Ta Prohm for his mother and Preak Khan for his father.

You know that overgrown temple with the big, famous tree growing out of it? That’s Ta Prohm, now nicknamed the ‘Tomb Raider Temple’. Lara Croft was there. Up the road aways on the Grand Circuit is Daddy’s temple, the massive Preah Khan, one of my favorite buildings on site. That features some of those excellent trees as well. If you spent more than a day in Angkor, you’ve seen it.

Finally, he constructed his the wondrous Bayon and developed the city of Angkor Thom around it. You definitely know the Bayon – it’s the one with all the faces. Scholars think differently, but I reckon those are the very faces of Jayarvarman himself. He wasn’t a shy man.

I bet you’ve toured some of the amazing bas reliefs around the outer walls, listened to your guide drone on about the everyday life of the Khmer army and its followers. These reliefs show camp followers on the move with animals and oxcarts, hunters, women cooking, female traders selling to Chinese merchants, and celebrations of common foot-soldiers – stunning stuff. The reliefs also depict the naval battle on the great lake, the Tonle Sap, which propelled him to power.
See? You do know this guy. Be warned however, there is a minority view that the current biography of Jayavarman is imaginary and that the evidence could just as easily support the view that he was someone else.

Not unlike the river cruiser that bears his name.

Mr. Dogster and the modern day Jayarvarman have an internet history. You can read it here:

http://www.fodors.com/community/asia...ver-cruise.cfm

After that pasting, the least I could do was see for myself.

E-msil.

Heya Thomas, I hear you're up and running. I see pictures! I hope it's all going well. I think it's time I came and checked you out.

Here are three reasons why you should refuse to have me on board;
http://thedogster3.wordpress.com/20-...es-front-page/
http://thedogster.wordpress.com/death-by-azamara/
http://thedogster1.wordpress.com/3-ocean-odyssey/

If the thought of having the evil Dog on board scares you too much, then just pretend it's full up. I am the very soul of charm, despite what you might read...

E-mail

<i>Hi Dogster,
You saved our day with your report from the Pandaw on the Hoogli and made all of us laugh.. I’m still sort of concerned and worried that your next blog about the Jayavarman will be sort of discouraging for people to join a Mekong river cruise but the majority of my office colleagues are keen to hear the truth about the Jayavarman and insist to have you on board - hallelujah. Since am not managing the boat any longer, I can look at it from a distance and I’m curious too and can’t wait to read more, this time about the Jayavarman.

Cheers

Thomas Peter
Managing Director </i>

Well, I liked his spirit.

www.majesticsaigon.com.vn/

The Hotel Majestic in Saigon has just turned 85. Of course, I missed the party. Dogster arrived the morning after the night before. Celebrations had been intense, evidenced by the floral tributes and hundreds of comatose Australians sleeping in the foyer. The Australians were all sporting a bright blue adhesive dot with the number ‘81’ in large white letters stuck to their nether regions. Either this was their age or some form of identification in case one got lost.

A startled Vietnamese lady in a black cheongsam looked blankly at me as I presented myself at the reception desk.

‘Mr who?

‘Mr. Dogster…’

‘Hee hee hee..’

This is Vietnamese for ‘we have no booking for a crumpled old man by that name’.

‘Hee hee hee’ I simpered back, ‘well, while you are looking for it, I’ll just sit here in the midst of the Aussie slobbistas and join them in slumber.’

‘Hee hee hee tour gloop,’ she smiled,’ they come for runch.’

Runch had obviously been too much for them. One old gentleman lay supine, his head at an angle, gurgling and catching insects in his yawning mouth, an elderly Venus Fly Trap with dentures. Somehow aware of my penetrating gaze his upper plate slipped and he woke up choking, two watery eyes staring straight into my soul.

My God, I thought, these are my fellow passengers…