Hunting Dogs and An Island Reward

Recently, Danielle and I had a conversation debating whether or not we’ve gotten stronger in the past month. I argued we hadn’t. She scoffed. Then I realized she was right.

In order to get on to our ferry to Phu Quoc island, we had to first roll our bikes over two rickety planks of wood onto a bright blue wooden boat which served as a sort of staging area for everyone to get ready to get onto the ferry which was docked beside it. To actually get onto this old blue boat we had to step off the planks and then squeeze through a small opening, maybe 3 ½ x 3 ½ feet and then we had to carry our bikes down an approximately 3 foot drop into the dark belly of the boat. As usual, it was a mob scene at the dock with people running in every direction, yelling things and ordering other people around. There was no time to dilly dally and without thinking I just picked up my bike and carried it down the 3 foot drop. When we started I couldn’t even move my bike to lean it against a wall without help.

Once on, we had to de-bag our bikes while many people carted things passed us through the boat, giant satchels of produce, motorcycles, huge sacks of god knows what. Before we were even done putting our bags down a man picked up my bike and passed it through another small opening to another man on another boat. I barely knew what was happening. Eventually both our bikes were secured with slimy green rope on the bow and we took off at top speed into yet another torrential storm.


The ferry was ice cold and like all public transportation in Asia a karaoke show playing at mind blowing decibels was being offered in the cabin.

We disembark to the usual crowd of men offering rides, hotels, fishing trips. It is raining. Everyone is rapidly unloading the dilapidated looking cargo. While Danielle pushes her way to the bow of the boat where our bikes are wedged between two motorcycles, I set up an assembly line on the dock which I work single handedly, putting rain covers on all of our bags.

I have taken off my glasses because it is raining so hard I can’t see out of the lenses. Now, instead of being blinded by raindrops everything is blurry. As I work all the drivers stand around me in their various pastel-colored rain ponchos like a bunch of talking, gesturing Easter eggs in my peripheral vision.

Periodically I look up to check on Danielle. I see her standing like a giant at the bow, holding my bike over her head while two little Vietnamese men push their motorcycles toward the planks. She carries off my bike and goes back for hers. There are people everywhere but no one is helping.

We pack up and roll off, rain pouring down.

Do we know where we are on the island? Do we know how to get to where we would like to go?

A woman who sells us two rain ponchos, and whose plan to rip us off in the deal is foiled by her honest son, reluctantly shows us where we are on a map. She does the old hand held out and curved slowly to the right routine, all the while shaking her head affirmatively. We determine from this that we should go straight and eventually make a right.

We head off. There are multiple, possible rights. We look at our compasses and choose one. The island is deserted. No buildings, no people. It’s pouring. We are riding steadily up hill, smiling. There is something incredibly satisfying about being in complete control of your destination while simultaneously having absolutely no control over it. We are still not sure if we are going in the right direction but who cares, the island is small.

Anyone who knows me knows that I hate rain. I hate clouds. I hate anything gloomy. The first thing I do when I enter a room is open all the curtains. I’m always trying to maximize sunlight. Being outside in relentless, burning, South Asian sun for 5, 6,7 hours a day with no shade, no escape, has changed my relationship with the sun.

I hate it. I curse it. I pray for dark rain clouds.

I’m used to standing out in a crowd, but here I am a complete freak show. My red hair makes me beautiful but my freckles make me UGLY. Shaded by umbrellas and wearing socks, gloves and scarves to shield themselves from the sun, the women here touch my skin and cluck, cluck their tongues disapprovingly, disturbed by my flagrant disregard for my pale white skin. How could I have let this happen?? If I wasn’t already freakish enough, I have taken to wearing an incredible costume in an attempt to prevent myself from looking like the wrinkled beach hag in There’s Something About Mary.

I start with 60 sun block which is also a skin whitening sun block because that is all we can find here. But just like our self tanning creams, instead of really delivering the promised effect, this whitening sun block just leaves a layer of white lotion on the skin that refuses to absorb. On top of this, I wear a long sleeve shirt (oh, the torture!) and I put an open bandana in my helmet so it hangs down, covering my neck. I also bought a lovely pair of lacey ladies gloves which I cut the fingers off of and I wear them to protect my dainty hands (which actually were blistered after the first two days in the sun). Every 40 or so minutes we stop so I can reapply sun block.

Danielle does not take sun protection as seriously as I do. She was told twice in Cambodia that she was “Same, same as Cambodian” and she kind of is now. She’s probably darker than most.

So anyway, after being repeatedly sunburned through my clothes and suffering blisters and Danielle withstanding jabs from the locals, we are done with the sun, which is another reason we were so happy while riding through Phu Quoc in the pouring rain. The rain was cool, there was no sun. Life was good. The only bad thing about the rain is that it energizes the dogs who are normally, entirely immobilized by the sun and heat.

Other than fish sauce and beautiful beaches, Phu Quoc is known for its roving packs of semi-feral hunting dogs who are so plentiful and diligent that they have apparently decimated a majority of the small, native species.

Nice.

I somehow forgot about this until I was madly pedaling up a large hill in the pouring rain wearing flip flops and a pink plastic poncho. Up ahead I see a dog shoot out of the woods after Danielle. But it was too far behind to catch her without putting in some real effort. Then it spotted me. My biggest fear unfolding right before my very eyes. I would rather be chased by a gang of Vietnamese drug lords on mopeds armed with Chinese starts and sling shots.

It was staring me down growling, moving its two front legs like a soccer player warming up. I thought I might pee in my pants. Should I turn around and race down the hill? Or should I just go for it in spite of everything working against me, the hill, my slippery flip flops, the pouring rain, my pink poncho flapping in the wind acting like a parachute. I knew I could never out pace the dog.

I screamed out “Daaaaaaaaaaannnn-yelll!“ and started pedaling faster than I ever have. All I could think about were my bare ankles, rabies, canine teeth. The dog approached, came close to my left ankle and I tore it up on my bike. I flew passed Danielle screaming and crying, turning my handle bars in every direction, my bike careening back and forth across the road while tears streamed down my face. All the while Danielle rode on peacefully at a snail’s pace looking at me with her eyebrows raised, shaking her head. I should have felt like an idiot, but I just continued on breathing fitfully and letting out small whimpers.

From that point forward Danielle took it upon herself to protect me from any dog we saw. She’d ride ahead of me and when she spotted a dog (or a potentially vicious pack of rabid wolf half breeds) she would slow her bike to a near halt right in front of them, sacrificing her safety, allowing me to hold my breath and pass at mock speed. This worked well, as I’m writing this lying on a beach towel, all my limbs in tact (and so are Danielle’s).


Phu Quoc is gorgeous and our little bungalow is right on the beach. We're tempted to just stay parked right here for the next two months.