Transit Inn: December 2009

It's not often that I finished reading a book and decided that I want to own a copy myself. Wena Poon's stories and her writing have a sparkle that charms and makes you smile a subtle relish smile that betrays delight.

My friends once remarked that they can't read short stories because they feel somewhat shortchanged or unsatisfied at the end, as compared to reading a novel which has a full, unfolding plot that requires time to ingest.

To that thought, Irene has a sound and genuine response: 'You can't read a short story like you do a novel.' She should know better, for she teaches literature.

"Edward marvelled again at the random connectivity of life, the enormous consequences of tiny blips of electronic mail pulsing, faster than the speed of light, through the wide world. For the past few weeks he had felt, intermittently, the terror of the void. And yet the void had sent him back something: her smell, her flesh. Out of eternity he had redeemed an hour; out of the unknown he had experienced a sudden consummation in which for a few seconds the universe contracted into the smallest possible ball of anguished joy, before expanding again and petering out into nonthingness. The void, consequently, became a little less terrifying. Even as he thought so, he found it impossible to tell her. He had already decided, earlier in the evening, that she had picked him up at random, that he was being used, perhaps even objectified. But now he didn’t mind. He smiled in the darkness. “You know what you are? You are a sex tourist.”"

"“Oh, God.” Buried in her words was a footnote about his love life. But she always stopped right there. She had a light touch with her boys. She believed that if she did not edit their existence, they would grow up sensible."

-The Proper Care of Foxes, Wena Poon

Exactly a year ago, I was busy preparing to set off the next day for what would be a trip of a lifetime of sorts. The trip, as it turned out, had all the ingredients of a miserable journey: biting cold, shriveled souls, incessant rain, ‘liquid shoes’ that do not dry, and overnight stays at rather decrepit lodges.

But this turned out to be a trip that I deeply relished and which I now recall with great fondness. Together with 22 other companions, we cycled and bused down from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City over some 9 days. Though we had expected Hanoi to be cold, we did not in our wildest dreams foresee that we would end up pedaling our bicycles in an unforgiving rain from start to end. It was as if the December sun over Vietnam was playing a cruel joke on us: it had hidden behind an ocean of conspiratorial clouds only to re-emerge in its full glory on the tenth day when we had completed our bicycling journey. Talk about perfect timing, was it mocking us or had it come out to congratulate us on surviving our wet ordeal? Perhaps it wanted to show us its benevolence and hint of our good blessings, for the scorching heat reminded us that the sun may be mightier and more fearful than the rain.

Rain, Rain and More Rain

When we started cycling down from the north, the cold winds and rain proved to be a formidable combination. It wasn't long before the rain started drumming relentlessly down in torrents. Our windbreaker was of little use against the ferocious droplets. With some improvisation, many of us resorted to using primitive raincoats to shield our shivering bodies from the onslaught of the rain. One cycling mate - a mother of three grown-up children and wife to a doctor - even turned the ubiquitous NTUC plastic bag into a headwear. Others cut out plastic bags of all sorts to cover various parts of their bodies in a bid to keep them dry. We ended up looking like a motley gang of fanciful riders cycling through towns, past verdant landscapes and along the major highway that runs from north to south.

The rain was but just one aspect of the amazing ride, although it was the singularly most significant. Virtually every other memorable detail was spawned out of the rain and its consequences. Some days we would start our ride in the rain, which is a rather sad situation. (Imagine getting soaked when the day's journey has barely begun.) But we adapted, and as quickly as we lamented the callous weather, we soon got used to being wet and cycling around like Jedi knights in clumsy raincoats. The rain aside, we had to contend with treacherous potholed roads and blasting air horns from speeding vehicles. The latter had an especially unsettling effect on us cyclists who were perched on the edge of the road. The number of punctures was recorded, as were the mileages and breaks that we took.

Tales after dark

The nights were always enjoyable, if only because we were finally out of our depressingly wet clothes. No more wet socks and soaking shoes - until the following day, that is. Stories were exchanged over dinner and beer, while gossips about other cyclists - who rode ahead of the pack, who blew the whistle at every turn - were openly shared. Laughing at each other and our common miseries helped to bond the group.

The most salient feature of each night, however, was a decidedly uninspiring task: laundry. Impractical as it may seem, most of us would wash our wet and dirty jerseys, shorts and socks at night and hope they would dry the next morning. This was not always a futile endeavour: there were strong winds on some nights, while the air-conditioning in our rooms served as a powerful drying agent. Still, the rain often poured on throughout the night, and the chilling December air was saturated with droplets. Consequently, our clothes were often incompletely dry the next day.

For that matter too, we were extremely grateful for the invention of the hairdryer. In our desperate hour of need, we had turned to it for quick remedy, and it rarely failed us. Our clothes would dry considerably after we blow hot air at full blast over them. Because the hairdryers were typically old models of the sort I've never seen before, this had meant a certain level of perseverance on our end to achieve some results. On more than one occasion I had unwittingly burnt my clothes.

In misery we unite

Misery and suffering is a peculiar condition of human beings. When experienced alone, it is depressing and spirit-breaking. But when it is a shared experience, it seems to be more bearable and can even be turned into a rallying point of sorts to uplift spirits.

This partly explains why despite being in a wretched state for most part of the trip, I was going from one high to another, cheered on by the hilarity and ridiculous circumstances produced by our situation. Amongst our motley group were a lecturer, a designer, a lawyer, a Japanese who flew in from Japan to join us, engineering technicians, and a property agent. The oldest member was a sprightly 71-year-old who's as fit as a bull and loves his beer.

As with all things in life, a sense of humour helps put things in perspective and gives people strength. There was plenty of humour supplied throughout our adventure. Once I came to terms with the perpetual state of deluge, I was able to enjoy the cold rain: cycling in tandem with the beating droplets, hearing the splish-splash of groundwater, listening to my own thoughts while enjoying beautiful sights that passed us by. When you are completely soaked, you don't worry about getting any more wet.

Cycling & the beauty of impermanence

The other reason why I am fond of the our Vietnam adventure is this: nine days of cycling, in spite of harsh conditions and a modest mileage, bore 9 days of joy and never before tasted sense of freedom.

It is hard to describe the immense sense of liberation felt while journeying in a foreign land on your two-wheeler. You feel a sense of infinite happiness as worldly concerns are cast aside while you wholeheartedly embrace cycling. Waking up each day up to the prospect of another day of cycling was a joy. Every spin that your wheel makes leads you further and brings you new scenery: ubiquitous padi fields, school children on humble bicycles, small unremarkable towns, amongst others. The ceaseless rain did cloud the experience as one had to keep focusing on the road ahead instead of freely enjoying the landscape and scenery. Yet I would wager that it had the effect of heightening the experience of cycling.

At times when I was not battling the shivering cold, I endeavoured to be conscious of 'living the moment': breathe in the cold air, admire the constant changing of scenery, feel the cool breeze caress my face, take in every moment of what I was going through. I was trying to retain as many transient moments as I could, knowing that the impermanence of life's experiences would no sooner become misty memory than you had lived through them. Perhaps I was wrong, for now I could still recall many moments of the trip and the elation that I felt.

A relished experience

It's been a year since the trip. I am writing this only now because I have always wanted to but could not find the time. After we returned from Vietnam, I used up most of my energy working on a ride report and producing a DVD slideshow of the photos (drawn from the collection of as many as half of the group) together with K. It was our contribution to the final chapter of the group's adventure. But this laborious enterprise sapped both our energies deeply. After the completion, we could not bear to look at the photographs or talk about the trip due to a severe bout of 'Vietnam fatigue'.

One year on however, over a wet Christmas in Singapore, I finally found time to write about this 'trip of a lifetime of sorts'. During this trip I suffered a bloodied toe not because of heroic cycling but because I knocked into a slab of concrete while walking towards an eatery to eat Vietnamese Pho. At the end of the trip, I discarded my pair of incorrigibly soaked shoes in Vietnam, lost a costly cycling tool-set as well as much precious weight. It is cliched to say this, but I took away much more, including a wonderful memory of cycling in Vietnam, as well as the opportunity to pen this happy piece.

At the old quarters of Hanoi where we put up for the first night

Our 'test ride' on the first day. Our bicycles were boxed and flown to Vietnam, and we had to assemble our bikes before setting off. There was light rain, and this was possibly the driest of all the days we spent on the road.