Dogster: Looking for Jayarvarman
Jul 30th, 2010, 01:01 PM
#25
Not only does he attract the geriatric Anglo-Saxons, indianapearl, but suicidal taxi drivers. The rest of us manage to drive to Bangkok airport in nice, clean, air-conditioned taxis with sober drivers.... This lot of Aussies sound worse than the Caledonians at first glance, though.
Jul 30th, 2010, 01:30 PM
#26
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I can't believe you sent Thomas Peter your stories, Dogster! This guy has a sense of humor and what-the-hell attitude. Too little of that nowadays.
IP, that's because most people who are tourists in Southeast Asia ARE geriatric Anglo-Saxons. And if you aren't a GAS, then you probably don't stick out.
IP, that's because most people who are tourists in Southeast Asia ARE geriatric Anglo-Saxons. And if you aren't a GAS, then you probably don't stick out.
Jul 30th, 2010, 04:08 PM
#29
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I was partly joking, but indeed the cruise audience is mostly GAS-bags. I've experienced it myself. I haven't seen any Russians in Asia (but maybe that's just me, and my experienced is highly limited), but lots in Egypt because it's cheap. I'd say more German than Italian and French, but again, just my lonely observation.
I don't think Dog loves them, but they are fun to write abotu because they're an easy target, and besides, who can figure out what those other folks are saying?
I don't think Dog loves them, but they are fun to write abotu because they're an easy target, and besides, who can figure out what those other folks are saying?
Jul 30th, 2010, 07:36 PM
#33
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Well, I see you've all taken that bait... time to stock up on the Gin, ladies - some of you are going to be dreadfully disappointed.
It's a bit like having a Greek chorus, isn't it?
It's a bit like having a Greek chorus, isn't it?
Jul 31st, 2010, 03:00 AM
#36
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Bon voyage, Mary. I can't guarantee I'll hit your deadline tho'. Now comes the hard part... things will slow down as I mull thru the data. I'll try and get a new piece in later today.
Jul 31st, 2010, 04:32 AM
#38
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I was wrong. Completely, gloriously, <i>mercifully</i>, 100% wrong.
There were forty-four souls sailing on the Jayarvarman that cruise – and none of them were ‘81’. Forty-three sets of new eyes stared at Dogster as he stumbled through the door. They were all perfect paired, coiffed and clean - he was neither coiffed nor paired but did have impressive luggage.
Meeting point was an upstairs foyer at the Renaissance Hotel. The time was 12.30. When Dogster arrived late the full compliment of passengers were glued to him and his expensive silver suitcaes. Mr. Dogster bowed and waved gaily at the sea of curiosity and made his solitary way to a high table in the centre of the room, acutely aware that all eyes were upon him. To his great surprise, some of them were smiling.
To his even greater surprise, none of them were really, really old – in fact, some were positively youthful. Perhaps he was in the wrong place. Only old people go on cruises.
‘Jayarvarman?’
‘Yes,’ said a sweet Vietnamese woman, ‘and <i>you</i> must be Mr. Dogster!’
I was swamped with sweet Vietnamese attention. The more she attended, the sweeter she became – and of course, the more she attended, the more attention I attracted.
‘Pssssipipibitip,’ I heard, ‘psssisipip-who-isss-thisss-guy?’
Ms. Sweet Vietnam was a Jayarvarman employee. She’d read Dogster’s stories, indeed, had been part of the push to allow him on board. She was welcoming me into the fold. She was going to keep on welcoming me till I died.
‘Pssssipidipididipip,’ from the other passengers, ‘pssipidipi-VIP.’
The more she talked the more my cover was being blown. Ears yawned at nearby tables, trying to catch every sweet Vietnanglo-saxon word. Some heard it all as Ms. Sweet blabbed the lot.
‘Psssipidipi-writerrr. Psssipidipi-jour-na-leeest.’
Cover blown, invisibility abandoned, Mr. Dogster looked around the room.
‘Wow,’ he said, just loud enough to be heard in Hanoi, ‘what a great looking bunch of passengers! I’m amazed, This is gonna be great.’
‘Psssipidipiy-ah-h-h-h,’ he heard.
Dogster’s moment in the sun was over. He was sprung.
There were forty-four souls sailing on the Jayarvarman that cruise – and none of them were ‘81’. Forty-three sets of new eyes stared at Dogster as he stumbled through the door. They were all perfect paired, coiffed and clean - he was neither coiffed nor paired but did have impressive luggage.
Meeting point was an upstairs foyer at the Renaissance Hotel. The time was 12.30. When Dogster arrived late the full compliment of passengers were glued to him and his expensive silver suitcaes. Mr. Dogster bowed and waved gaily at the sea of curiosity and made his solitary way to a high table in the centre of the room, acutely aware that all eyes were upon him. To his great surprise, some of them were smiling.
To his even greater surprise, none of them were really, really old – in fact, some were positively youthful. Perhaps he was in the wrong place. Only old people go on cruises.
‘Jayarvarman?’
‘Yes,’ said a sweet Vietnamese woman, ‘and <i>you</i> must be Mr. Dogster!’
I was swamped with sweet Vietnamese attention. The more she attended, the sweeter she became – and of course, the more she attended, the more attention I attracted.
‘Pssssipipibitip,’ I heard, ‘psssisipip-who-isss-thisss-guy?’
Ms. Sweet Vietnam was a Jayarvarman employee. She’d read Dogster’s stories, indeed, had been part of the push to allow him on board. She was welcoming me into the fold. She was going to keep on welcoming me till I died.
‘Pssssipidipididipip,’ from the other passengers, ‘pssipidipi-VIP.’
The more she talked the more my cover was being blown. Ears yawned at nearby tables, trying to catch every sweet Vietnanglo-saxon word. Some heard it all as Ms. Sweet blabbed the lot.
‘Psssipidipi-writerrr. Psssipidipi-jour-na-leeest.’
Cover blown, invisibility abandoned, Mr. Dogster looked around the room.
‘Wow,’ he said, just loud enough to be heard in Hanoi, ‘what a great looking bunch of passengers! I’m amazed, This is gonna be great.’
‘Psssipidipiy-ah-h-h-h,’ he heard.
Dogster’s moment in the sun was over. He was sprung.
Jul 31st, 2010, 04:34 AM
#39
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I <i>was</i> amazed.
Unlike most of the horror cruises I’ve been on, this one was positively ecumenical. We were all shapes and sizes, even a few different colors, we were sun-burnt and fat and short and white and tall. Some were positively tiny. I found out later that they children - seven of them aged from five to fourteen.
We were couples and two singles; we were families, old and young and in-between. We were all of humanity from five to seventy-five - mostly German and Australian, with a Yank or two, a quartet of New Zealanders and a couple of keen young Swiss to balance out the two old Vietnamese smiling kindly in the distance.
We were all going to spend seven days together on the Mekong, sailing upriver from Saigon to Siem Reap – a multi-cultural floating world.
There was only one mongrel Dog.
‘Psssipidipy-V-I-P.’
Unlike most of the horror cruises I’ve been on, this one was positively ecumenical. We were all shapes and sizes, even a few different colors, we were sun-burnt and fat and short and white and tall. Some were positively tiny. I found out later that they children - seven of them aged from five to fourteen.
We were couples and two singles; we were families, old and young and in-between. We were all of humanity from five to seventy-five - mostly German and Australian, with a Yank or two, a quartet of New Zealanders and a couple of keen young Swiss to balance out the two old Vietnamese smiling kindly in the distance.
We were all going to spend seven days together on the Mekong, sailing upriver from Saigon to Siem Reap – a multi-cultural floating world.
There was only one mongrel Dog.
‘Psssipidipy-V-I-P.’
Jul 31st, 2010, 04:35 AM
#40
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A gigantic peal of thunder heralded our arrival downstairs. We all clambered into two impressively large buses and set off to My Tho in the pouring rain. The Mekong was just an hour and a half down the road. I scored the bus with the tour guide – one Mr. Son. His first name was John.
John-son.
Get it? Hee hee hee.
Mr. Son was fresh-faced, newly-married and tremendously enthusiastic. He would entertain us till the Cambodian border with tales of Vietnam delivered in an accent so impenetrable he may as well have been talking about Poland for all most of us knew. The sixteen Germans and two Swiss were baffled before he began and weeping tears of dazed confusion by the time he finished – and this was just the bus ride. He had a little peak of hair that headed for China on the top of his head and a brilliant set of teeth. John-son looked exactly like Astro Boy.
http://discover-indo.tierranet.com/japanart005a.htm
<i>‘In Vi-nam we li’ ka-ra-oke. Bitty Spee’. Ellybo’ li’ Britty Spee. The ga’ment pay da manee to da peepor then’ey go ka-ra-oke, sin’ Britty Spee…’</i>
Then he began to sing ‘Besame Mucho’. I have no idea why.
<i>Vinamee langua verry difficult,’ he continued, ‘thirty-si’ letters, every one not like you. Every lett’ diffelen’. Eeevree soun’ diffelen’, not li’ you. We say ‘Ma, ma’ or ‘Ma ma’ or ‘Mmaa mmaa’ or ma ma or Ma Ma and all diffelen…
‘Ma ma’ mean ‘ma ma’, li’ ma ma. Ma Ma mean ‘show me you bosom’, mma mma mean give me money, ‘ma ma’ mean ‘you house is on fi’’, Ma Mar mean ‘your bum is velly big…’</i>
Perhaps I have this wrong. All around me the lights were going out. German heads slumped on German chests, Aussies slumbered peacefully, blissfully unaware of anything. He could see he was losing his captive audience. Astro Boy decided to sing us all to sleep.
<i>‘Bee-samee.. be-sa-me mooch..o…’ </i>
John-son.
Get it? Hee hee hee.
Mr. Son was fresh-faced, newly-married and tremendously enthusiastic. He would entertain us till the Cambodian border with tales of Vietnam delivered in an accent so impenetrable he may as well have been talking about Poland for all most of us knew. The sixteen Germans and two Swiss were baffled before he began and weeping tears of dazed confusion by the time he finished – and this was just the bus ride. He had a little peak of hair that headed for China on the top of his head and a brilliant set of teeth. John-son looked exactly like Astro Boy.
http://discover-indo.tierranet.com/japanart005a.htm
<i>‘In Vi-nam we li’ ka-ra-oke. Bitty Spee’. Ellybo’ li’ Britty Spee. The ga’ment pay da manee to da peepor then’ey go ka-ra-oke, sin’ Britty Spee…’</i>
Then he began to sing ‘Besame Mucho’. I have no idea why.
<i>Vinamee langua verry difficult,’ he continued, ‘thirty-si’ letters, every one not like you. Every lett’ diffelen’. Eeevree soun’ diffelen’, not li’ you. We say ‘Ma, ma’ or ‘Ma ma’ or ‘Mmaa mmaa’ or ma ma or Ma Ma and all diffelen…
‘Ma ma’ mean ‘ma ma’, li’ ma ma. Ma Ma mean ‘show me you bosom’, mma mma mean give me money, ‘ma ma’ mean ‘you house is on fi’’, Ma Mar mean ‘your bum is velly big…’</i>
Perhaps I have this wrong. All around me the lights were going out. German heads slumped on German chests, Aussies slumbered peacefully, blissfully unaware of anything. He could see he was losing his captive audience. Astro Boy decided to sing us all to sleep.
<i>‘Bee-samee.. be-sa-me mooch..o…’ </i>
