You didn't injure your back trying to lift your elephantine website for show and tell, did you?

So, Dogster...you started on the character sketches. Interesting!
My two cents...I found the Aussies delightful, including the Dogster, I might add. First off, I could speak their language...for the most part. No matter where we go, those of us who speak some form of English as a native language probably never truly appreciate how many billions of people are willing to "give it a go" rather than expecting us to use their language.
Having had the good fortune to hit it off rather well with one of the staff on the J'man, C sent along pictures she had taken of the two of us on her cellphone with the promise that she would learn to read and write more English so we could continue to communicate. No mention of an expectation that I would learn Khmer. Thank goodness. The pronunciation and phonetic spellings might be manageable but the written characters look impossible. I think I can manage Hello and Thank You in Khmer.
I am amazed though that Dogster observed condescension toward the Cambodians among our fellow passengers. By my observations, at least 2 of the Aussies were downright inquisitive and engaged with immersing themselves in the experience of interacting. Personally,I marveled at the resiliency of the Cambodians and...TRAVEL ALERT!!!!...that is why I would especially recommend the J'man cruise from Saigon upstream rather than the reverse. Seeing the stupa built at the Killing Fields gave me a new perspective on the fragility of life and...borrowing from Central American culture, the people of the area seem to be striving to regenerate Phoenixlike. (Am I glorifying the local culture too much here, Dogster? I am still wrestling with culture shock.)
Dropping our excess of cash into this part of the world conjurs up visions of the metaphorical "pebble tossed into a still pond."
Although Dogster might be a bit self-deprecating as regards his manners at table, he truly was not the only traveler on this cruise prone to drunken musings. And..I must say...the Aussies acquitted themselves admirably when it came to imbibing. A note about Aussies...they do have the misquided impression that Americans are clueless as regards geography. I would say that might be the result of Americans having more affinity for their native hemisphere, where one must learn to distinguish Sint Martin from St. Marteen or Dominica from the Dominican Republic. Flying 20 hours across the Artic Circle and Siberia and around North Korea can really take a toll.
At this point, Dogster, I will say that I am not a "mister"...at least the last time we checked. But NED is the name we gave me when we set out on this adventure.
Forgive me. I am new at this...I should have divided this into at least three separate submissions by my count. Lee-ah-suhn-how. (Goodbye...I think.)

Marija, I honestly do not know how Dogster dislocated his back. He whimpered only a bit, returned to his lair, downed drugs as needed, and returned to the fray by dinner.
Truth be told, Dogster was a great favorite with the Cambodian children. I detect another calling when he tires of whatever it is that he does.

Thanks so much Ms. Ned for the (gratis) info. I see dogster von Trapp emerging...

Ms. Ned, it's always a pleasure to get another perspective. As you may or may not know, a number of us Fodorites are considering a cruise together, so this account is both a "dogster's tale" and a preview of possible attractions yet to come.

OMG .... Thank goodness my "journey" on the J'man is some weeks away .. I love "the reading" but not sure about "being read about" keep it coming....

LA, the picture is taken 2 years ago!

Dog - Yep there its was, clearly i was too lazy to re-read... or was it the soft subtle "grape" i was drinking that confused my thoughts? (still read him as a scouser though - so now when i re-read that bit i have Gerry and the pacemakers in the background...."you--'ll ne-ver walk a-looooone")

I love the turn this thread is taking, Ned your supporting actress role is marvellous!

Bob was seventy and an unreconstructed Aussie bloke. He was Bob and proud of it. This old dog wasn’t going to change; he knew all the old dog tricks. One of them was the cost-saving benefit of a suitcase full of duty-free gin. He and his long suffering wife did their drinking in private, down in the brewery in cabin 212. When the yard-arm was in the right position, somewhere around five, the two of them prepared to hunker down and guzzle. They needed the basics. Bob pottered up to the bar, sat and issued his directives.

‘One,’ he said to the young Cambodian barman, ‘two glasses.’

He spoke very slowly, rather like a headmaster addressing a mildly retarded pupil.

‘Two,’ he growled, ‘a bucket of ice.’

He paused, the merest beginnings of a smile creeping over his face.

‘Three,’ he said seriously and held the moment. The fine line between condescension and humor was aching to be crossed.

‘Thank you.’

The Cambodian didn’t move a muscle. Time stood still.

‘Four,’ said the barman, equally gravely. He looked Bob straight in the eye.

‘You’re welcome.’

The rest of us broke into applause.

We were sailing through a sea of junks, observing the harbor at Cai Be.

‘Now we sto’ here an’ go to de blick fac’ry,’ John Son announced delightedly.

What blind Vietnamese deity determined that tourists want to go to the Cai Be blick factory? The making of blicks is of supreme disinterest to me, either at home or anywhere else. As a matter of fact, given the opportunity to witness the thrill of blick making I would actively walk in the opposite direction. No, I rie. I’d lun.

‘Blick fac’ry,’ I said, delightedly. ‘Wow!’

Mr. Chris and his gorgeous lady wife were sitting close by. In one of his few recorded utterances he rolled his eyes, took a breath and hissed in that relentless monotone:

‘Did we come all this way to see a bloody brick factory?’

He looked at his wife with all the loathing he could muster, which was considerable.

She ignored him. She’d had lots of practice.

The group groaned and clambered off the boat.

‘O.K.’, Bob sighed, ‘show us the bloody blicks…’

What sightless Indo-Chinese god decided we wanted to see how palm-fronds are woven into roofs?

‘The pa’ flon grow on da tlee,’ John Son said. ‘Plitty ladeeze sit here and dly.’

What on earth was he talking about? One of the plittee ladeeze looked up and smiled. Click! went the shutters of one thousand cameras, recording the latest of their exactly similar pictures of authentic Vietnamese life. Children surrounded the group. They crawled from cracks in the ceiling, they emerged from holes in the floor, one even appeared from under a pile of palmflons with an expression of absolute innocence pinned to his face.

Click! went the shutters of one thousand cameras, recording the latest of their exactly similar pictures of authentic Vietnamese life.

‘Ma-a-a-aneee,’ said the urchin, holding out one grubby paw.

Someone gave him a candy. He looked at it with loathing. He was about to give it back when the group meandered off on their carefully selected ‘walk’ along the riverbank. One hundred yards later they were herded back into the boat, given a cold towel and a plate of fluit.’

‘What is this shit?’ said Mr. Chris.

‘Now we have a bi-i-ig surplise,’ shouted John Son.

What next? A tour of the concrete factory?

As the boat sailed away the plitty ladeeze dropped their palmflons and returned to the television. One rolled her eyes.

‘Stupi’ bruudy toulists,’ she said.

What gargolic monster decreed that every tourist to Cai Be would have to suffer the fascinating history of Vietnamese popcorn, from birth to a disgusting death by stir-fry? Why did he think the metamorphosis of sugar and grease into caramel candy is worth a trip half-way around the world? Just what is it about this airless tourist-trap, these hideous junk souvenirs, the raging cauldrons of candy, the sweating slaves made to stir gunk into candy that is such a must-see?

I’ve been to the bloody place four times. It was crap the first time – it’s still crap now.

The ‘gift’ shop features bottles of urine transformed into wine by the insertion of a dead scorpion. Quite how they got these huge scorpions into the bottles remains a mystery. I think they put them in there as babies then piss on them at regular intervals. The resultant nightmare is reputed to give the foolish tippler increased sexual prowess.

‘You should buy some of this, Bob,’ said his wife.

For once in his life Bob didn’t have an answer.

‘Bugger off, you stupid fart,’ Bob said to Dogster over lunch that day, ‘you’re talking absolute rubbish.’

I laughed. Whether I was or wasn’t, was not the question. I was being put to the sword to see how I’d react. This was Bob’s shtick, his persona. He liked to stir. Only an Australian can really understand his act. If you passed Bob’s baptism by fire you were his friend for life.

He was a gruff, kindly fella with a heart as big as Australia, a man who didn’t suffer fools, a man who loved a stoush. He challenged on introduction, cut and parried, laughed and took the piss out of anyone he felt needed it. He was my favorite Australian on board. If he was prone to the occasional gaffe, I forgave him, if he was prone to extreme political incorrectness - that only made me like him more. He was an emirate professor in something odd, a community leader, a recipient of Australian honors, bluff and brilliant, Bob was the original grumpy old man.

The Dog and the Bob united over the forced tourist meal-break, half way through the Cai Be guided tour. We were to endure the forced Vietnamese meal.

<i>Lunch will await you at Le Longanier, a superb Indochinese villa located in a lush tropical garden by the river, surrounded by fruit orchards. </i>

Mercifully I had Bob and his wife for company. We were joined by two of the four Americans on board. It was a fascinating conversation, peppered by Bob’s oaths.

‘What’s this crap?’ he said loudly, waving a forkful of bland tourist food.

‘Stop swearing,’ his wife hissed.

‘I’m in the pooh now,’ he laughed and swore some more, mostly at Dogster.

Thanks for continuing! How I wish the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune didn't chain me to this computer where I cling to every diversionary word you offer...

The silk-weaving village.

Everybody goes there. Pandaw began going to the bloody silk-weaving village years ago. Now each week five boats go to the same silk-weaving village. That’s about 3 - 400 people a week. I’ve been there four times. You’d think it’s the only silk-weaving village on the Mekong – but it’s not. It’s the preferred silk-weaving village - which opens up the difficult question of who preferred it.

Follow the money.

The village has become a living tourist attraction. There’s a school, a rather nice Buddhist temple, a few looms cranking out the goods and some suitably picturesque poverty staring you in the face. The sink-weaving village gives Perfect Tourism.

Click go the cameras - click! Click! Click!

The ship disgorged the passengers. They wobbled unsteadily up the path to be greeted by a chorus line of women and children. Everybody is set to work. Mum sits behind a pile of cloth while the kids adopt a tourist as they arrive. If the child fails to sell they drop away to be replaced by another one - there’s no pushing in. Obviously the system is well worked out. Everybody gets an urchin.

Each urchin carries a pile of scarves. Hardly a tourist doesn’t buy. The kids are too cute, too poor, too persuasive. They’ll break your rich man’s heart.

My personal urchin was John. His tiny voice followed me around for an hour.

‘Hello, what’s your name?’

‘Mr. Dogster…’

‘Where you come from?’

‘Australia,’

‘Gidday mate,’ he said. Then he smiled.

He was a very practiced little urchin.

‘I John,’ he said, his little row of rotting teeth splayed out in a winning smile, ‘you buy?’

‘That’s not your real name, John.’

‘You buy?’

‘What’s your real name?’

‘John my English name. Real name too hard for tourists,’ He told me what it was. He was right.

‘You buy?’

‘How old are you, John?’

He held up six fingers.

‘You are one, two, three, four, five… six, John.’

‘I can count to ten,’

‘Show me,’

‘Wan, doo, free, fo’, fi’, si’, seveneightni’ – ten!’

‘Do you go to school?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why aren’t you in school now?’

‘Afternoon school. I go afternoon school.’

His English was actually very good.

‘Come, I show you…’

He led me over to five classrooms in a row, all filled with children. All the open windows were filled with passengers looking in as the teachers valiantly tried to continue their work. One class sang a jolly song. Click go the cameras, click! Click! Click!

‘You buy?’

‘No, John,’

‘You buy?’

‘No, John.’

‘Please you buy?’

His little eyes filled with tears. He was breaking my hardened heart. Little John knew it. He tried to cry some more.

‘John, you aren’t crying..’

‘Yes, I am. I sad.’

‘No, you’re not, John. You are pretending crying.’

He broke out into a broad smile.

‘Yes,’ he said. I pretending.’

‘How is your business today, John,’

‘No good. You don’t buy.’

‘Where is your Mummy?’

He pointed to a youthful harridan standing guard over a pile of cloth.

‘My Mummy,’

‘Hello Mummy’

She snarled at her boy then changed channels.

‘You buy?’ she said. She wasn’t nearly as cute as little John.

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘Do you make this in this village?’

‘Yes,' she replied, 'my family make everything,’

‘They must be very busy,’ I said.

This same tourist crap is sold in every shop from Hanoi to Siem Reap, from Saigon to Luang Prabang. It’s mass-produced in China, shipped in and sold at vastly inflated prices to good-hearted fools. First time in this village I bought some too. So did everybody else. We’ve been falling for that line for a decade.

A long way further down the road there’s a man driving round in a Black Mercedes. He imports the scarves, the bedspreads, the tablecloths from China, rents them cheap to the villagers, the villagers train their children to be the cutest of cute salesmen, train them to attach themselves to tourists, train them to weep and cry and laugh, whatever the situation demands. After a season the kids are experts at their trade.

The season runs for forty-two weeks a year. Each week five river-cruises - that’s about 15,000 tourists a year – a captive clientele, every one of whom thinks their unique, home-made souvenir will make a difference.

Follow the money.

The man in the black Mercedes is a very powerful man.

‘You buy? Two dollars.’

‘No John.’

‘O.K. One dollar,’

‘No John.’

‘<i>Please</i> mister…’

This time the tears looked genuine.

He’ll get a thumping from Mum when he gets home.

If you'd already been to these tourist traps three times, why were you going back?

So I could write this story for you, thursday.

Alas, it's stops like these that make me not interested in this cruise. When you aren't captive on a boat, you can choose which villages to visit. I try to detour around the usual stops.