Took the death plane from Heathrow, a numbing multi-stop ride, first Schipol then Sofia, which only a few of us survived, before we arrived, 2 o’clock in the morning. On each land the empty seats flopped forward, their backs pointing to the ceiling, crash position. Was that the best position to make it through?
Washington DC was the murder capital of the US. The deaths peaked in 1991 when almost 500 died that year out of a population of 606,901. Lafayette Park, next to the White House, was unsafe at night. Needle Park, a few more blocks up was also not recommended. East of 14th, forget it. So when I drove to DC from North Carolina, I was terrified of making the wrong turn.
I'm hurrying down Gerrard Street, hunched shoulders, first stop, the Loon Fung supermarket. It’s to pick up the South China Morning Post, like I do on a weekly basis. The sounds and smells are the same as Hong Kong, the scent of street market, five spice and cinnamon. Only the air is cooler, not humid, nor is the air thick with sidewalk steam, nor is it 30 degrees, nor real feel 40.
My rickshaw driver was unable to see clearly, was continually adjusting his ill fitting glasses, and with our near accidents on the traffic roundabouts, I suspected he was half blind. But every day he was there to pull me through dusty, noisy back alleys to the market for a breakfast of yellow mangoes. He was my go-to for all the sights around Saigon.
And the blossoms swung gently descending, gently suspended and gently falling through the air until they slid to a halt on the floor, each laid open and silently breathing.
They came over together, grabbing another chair for our table, and then they sat down. And she looked pleased to see me, but her friend looked at me with contempt.
She looked over her shoulder as she walked away, then she stepped through the barriers and past a security guard. And in that instant her sea green eyes caught mine and glistened under the cold neon lights.
It was Maya, a Peace Corp volunteer from Chicago who persuaded me to return to the mainland and venture inland. The others had decided on the spur of the moment to take a boat to the larger island, Roatán for the New Year's Eve party there. The weather was dark, stormy, waves crashed the pier and the boat was flimsy. At the last minute I decided against. To my knowledge there were no reports of backpackers lost out to sea the next day but I never saw them again.
The countdown had begun; music span from the speakers, people jumping up and down shouting out each number, thirty-nine, thirty-eight, thirty-seven, music beating out seconds.
See grainy, textured landscapes of roughened gorse and heather washed by an all-encompassing misty drizzle, the wind piercing my threadbare wrap dissolving the marrow of my elephant bones.
