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Consultancy!
On the sleeper south to Saigon our compartment buddies were a canoodling
Vietnamese couple and a pair of young Scots. While the Vietnamese loved
each other up in a very teenage fashion we started chatting to the Scots
who were both nice posh boys and had just graduated in engineering from
Imperial College. Presently Jane asked the more talkative of the two
what his post-travel plans were: 'Í'm going to be a consultant!' he
boomed, quite unable to disguise quite how much this eventuality pleased
him. So Jane politely asked him what area he intended to consult in. He
furrowed his brow for a moment then said: 'Well, consultancy of course!'
his tone suggesting she had a right bloody cheek - daring to question
his ability to consult.
None of which is to suggest that consultancy is not a good (and
well-paid) career but it is difficult to express in writing quite how
pleased this chap was with himself. He was so simultaneously thrilled
and smug it was as if the chance of a job at Deliotte Consulting (who I
believe have now changed their name, doubtless providing much-needed
work for consultants who consult in brand identity) was equivalent to
winning the lottery and playing for England on the same day. Although,
come to think of it, given the current health of the global economy, he
may have had a point.
Still, they were pleasant enough and we talked for a couple of hours
during which time we learned (among other things) that a career in
consultancy was more exciting and lucrative than finding pictures of
Eminem in bed with Moby. And when we finally said goodbye to them the
following morning, we knew almost everything about them. In return, I
think they may have just about known our Christian names. And these two
were - their ardent passion for consultancy notwithstanding - pretty
much par for the course. I'm not suggesting travellers are self-obsessed
or anything - well actually I am - but these days I take an instant like
to anyone who actually deigns to ask me a question about myself. It's
very kind of them - after all, they are, to a person quite fascinating
and did you know the second you buy around the world ticket you become
9000% more interesting.... Still, back to our boy and, having met quite
a few people from late 90s wunderconsultants McKinsey, I would say the
combination of scarcely credible smugness and the ability to talk at
people for hours without drawing breath will stand him in good stead to
become the finest management consultant of his generation. Just like his
dad.
Scotch and tunnels
Compared to Hanoi, Saigon is supposed to be brash and commercial place.
But terrible traffic aside (and all Vietnamese cities have terrible
traffic - terrible enough in one instance to make Jane cry) it's not bad
at all. We spent an agreeable enough day eating peculiar things in the
market and wandering around the Reunification Palace. This probably
seemed like the most awful monstrosity ten years ago, but now that '60s
moderne' architecture is considered stylish again, it looks kind of hip.
In the evening we met up with Scott Perry's dad and he took us out for a
splendid meal and rather a lot of splendid booze.
All of which was very fine indeed. But it's worth remembering that if
you ever plan to visit the Cu-Chi tunnels - which requires a 6:30am
start - you're not really going to be at your best if you neck red wine
and cognac until 2am. Seen through the gummy gaze of truly hellish
hangover Vietnam's premier tourist attraction really isn't that much
fun. First you get a coach with the most nausea-inducing suspension
imaginable; this, coupled with the barely functioning air-con, leaves
every burp pregnant with vomitous intent. If you clear this hurdle and
make it to the tunnels then the real fun begins: yes, you get to crawl
on your hands and knees through 200m of blood-temperature tunnel. The
greasiness of the sweat you generate during such exertion really is
quite incredible. And the only thing that prevents you from voiding the
contents of your stomach is the thought that puking in a 3ft high tunnel
full of people is about as antisocial as it gets.
Holidays In Cambodia
From Ho Chi Min, the next stop on the SE Asian monkey trail is Phnom
Pen. Perhaps it's because of the 'Dead Kennedys' album of the same name,
but I've always thought that the idea of holidaying in Cambodia is
something of a bad taste joke. However, despite its recent and grisly
history, the capital is a rather charming place; there are a few good
bars and I'd even venture that the Mekong riverfront verges on the
swish.
Interestingly, Phnom Pen looks like there are loads of tourists in town
but there aren't that many - there are hundreds of aid workers and NGOs
etc. who drink in the snazzier bars, of which there are about four, thus
adding to the impression of crowding. That said, there are some
touristas and, for the most part, they split into two groups. You have
the travellers (more of which later) and you have the slightly richer,
slightly older and, you would have thought, slightly more sophisticated
set. This lot tend to hang around in the Foreign Correspondents' Club -
which is a quite chic although I suspect I was possibly the only
journalist in the place - and talk so loudly you're clearly meant to
hear their conversations. What you quickly learn is that they're just
soooo pleased with themselves. Why? Because they're in Phnom Pen and
isn't it just the coolest, grooviest, most arse-achingly hip place to
be? The thing is, you see, next year Phnom Pen will be really
mainstream, but right now, it's just that little bit crazy and special
and dangerous and don't those of us who are clever enough to be right
here, right now just love ourselves for discovering it? Honestly, anyone
would think we'd landed jobs in consultancy.
Nasty, serious bit
Anyway, Phnom Pen is, of course, best known for its gruesome history
(1975-80) which was down to Pol-Pot and his murderous henchmen. A trip
to the killing fields is obligatory and the whole thing is
extraordinarily awful. Pot's idea was to turn the whole of Cambodia into
an agricultural peasant collective, so along with the Khmer Rouge (and
in the name of equality) he killed the country's educated classes. The
site - only one of many - doesn't really look like that much, but then
mass graves rarely do. But you do notice that there are bits of cloth
and bone sticking out of the ground everywhere and there is a memorial
pagoda which contains some 7000 human skulls.
From The Killing Fields you go S-21, a former high school where the
Khmer Rouge interrogated and tortured anyone they felt like. Most of
their interrogators were adolescent boys who the Khmer Rouge noted were
easily brainwashed and had amoral tendencies. And all this went on until
they'd killed between one and two million people. The West did nothing -
indeed the CIA was probably covertly funding the Khmer Rouge on the
grounds that they weren't commies - and then eventually commie Vietnam
invaded and put a stop to it.
Travellervana
Opposite the concrete brutality of S-21 there is an incongruously
tranquil and pleasant restaurant. Here we bumped into Afareen and
Hannah, a couple of girls we'd met in Hanoi who advised us to move
hotels to theirs. This was good advice as our hotel had all the charm of
the local dole office. So we moved up to a place called guesthouse
number 9 (next to Guesthouse no.10) on Phnom Pen's northern lake. And,
as we stepped out onto the hotel's lakeside deck the sun was setting,
people were lounging around watching DVDs and I caught a waft of
marijuana smoke - this, I thought, truly is travellervana. Oh yes
indeed. Come to exciting new countries. Meet interesting new people. And
sit on your arse in a hammock all day smoking dope, watching DVDs and
drinking fruit shakes. What was cambodia like? 'Well, I watched 'Snatch
12 times.' When I return to England I will be giving serious thought to
opening a 'Traveller-Dome' modeled on Center Parks. It will be a warm
place with an artificial beach and plenty of hammocks and easy chairs.
Marijuana and cheap, nasty local Asian beer will be freely available.
TVs and DVD players will be scattered around, all with plenty of
knowing, ironic movies that make the viewer feel rather cleverer than he
or she actually is; waitresses will wander around offering idiot comfort
food (ie. chocolate banana pancakes, etc); above all the emphasis will
be on a thought free existence....
''
Speaking of thought-free (as opposed, I suppose, to free thinking) the
first girl I started speaking to seemed nice sort, if a little stoned.
There we were, chatting away, and she was telling us about how in debt
she was - and then she said, casually, 'well, I think it'll be OK. I've
bought a load of gems in Bangkok. I reckon that'll cover it' Oh, Jesus,
you poor stupid, friggin' moron. What makes someone with no prior
knowledge of the gem market give a complete stranger hundreds of pounds?
Naturally she had paid with her credit card and, equally naturally, she
had not seen any sign of the stones yet. She wouldn't tell us how much
she'd spent but, given that she would tell us her credit card bill was
£2.5k, I'm guessing she'd spent at least $1000. But seriously, how
stupid can you be? She said she'd just done an MBA in American lit and
in the same sentence told me she was guaranteed her money back. The
worst thing is she still really, really believed the gems were going to
arrive. I did tell her several times that she'd almost certainly been
conned. Then she started defending the gem men. At that point I gave up
and decided that this might be exactly the kind life lesson someone like
this needs.
Meanwhile, around the corner there was a different and rather more
benign kind of stupidity going on. A bloke in the corner was explaining
he'd been eating hash cookies and been smoking jazz cigarettes fairly
solidly for a couple of days: 'My head' he mused, 'went some very mad
places...and people were saying really bizarre things...' Normal stoner
babble, but what got me was that he seemed really, genuinely surprised
by all this. I mean, if you're going to smoke and eat dope for 48 hours,
you really ought to expect your head to do something.
Tough, tough toys for stupid white boyz
This is the other reason people like Phnom Pen. It is one of the few
places that you can really do pretty much anything you like. As my taxi
driver said to me in between trying to sell me dope and opium and
telling me how much he'd drunk the night before: 'In Cambodia the
police, the laws they are nothing.' On the minus side, this does mean
you get to see a lot of underage locals who are mysteriously in love
with sexegenarian Germans; on the plus side, however, it means you can
buy drugs freely and cheaply and fire guns like an idiot in the hills.
So you head down to the shooting range. This is run by a rather creepy
looking guy. He says 'man' a lot and has the sort of peculiar, slightly
freaky look you get from spending too much time around automatic
weapons. The menu in the firing range reads: 'Coke $1, Sprite $1, M-16
$20, AK-47 $20, grenade $30, rocket launcher $100...' And, yes, for
another $100 you can blow up a cow with your rocket launcher. Though
apparently they always fix the sights so you miss (anyone who gets
swizzed in this way should look on their lost $100 as a fine for being a
complete c***). Anyway, the walls are adorned with pictures of pale
people - some of whom look like they love their guns in a clever ironic
way and others who just look like they really, really love big guns.
I cast my seasoned eye down the menu and, for no reason other than that
I've listened to a whole load of rap music, plumped for that gangsta
stalwart, the AK-47. A lot of people might say that spending $20 to fire
out an automatic clip (30 bullets, in case you're wondering) in a
country which has been ravaged by war is rather poor taste and a totally
butt-headed thing to do. And of course it is, but this is one of those
things you really need to discover yourself. And you discover it the
second you pick up that big, exciting automatic weapon. That instant -
well that is when you realise that you have much more in common with
Vanilla Ice than you do with Ice-T.
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