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Salinda Resort Phu Quoc Island

Fifty Shades of Expat: The Creeper

Who is the Creeper?

 

He won’t ever marry, he’s The Creeper. Roaming, sexual, subhuman.

 

The Creeper doesn’t think of himself as a sexual predator. He’s actually pretty nice to chat to in the bar. You might catch a hint of bitterness in his allusions to “those western whores”, but then you remind yourself that it takes all kinds.

 

The thing about The Creeper is, in his mind, he’s just had a bad run. He used to have non-financial relationships with women, but has since learned his lesson. “You give them an inch, they’ll take a mile” is a phrase he’s fond of saying about the girls he watches on the webcam. The thing is, he doesn’t have quite that much to work with. But he’s making do with what he’s got, which right now is a wallet full of cash and the whole night ahead of him.

 


 

I traded my Nikes for flip flops. I went home with this girl one night. She wasn’t the one I’d come to the club with, but it was too loud in there to talk and we started playing the game where you pass a napkin around, mouth to mouth. It just happened.

 

Fast-forward to six hours later, I just wanted to get out of there. I told her I had work and needed to leave, even skipped taking a shower. I thought if I could leave quickly enough she wouldn’t notice me not asking her number.

 

We got downstairs to the ground floor of her room-by-room rental, and I couldn’t find my Nikes. I’d left them on the top stair before the door, about two metres in from the gate. Now I noticed the gaps in the metal, just big enough to pull a shoe through.

 

But we had to search, because that’s what people do when they lose something. Her landlord even helped. She asked my name. We looked a little longer, and then she gave me a decaying pair of shower flip flops to wear home.

 

 

I showed up to work drunk. Vietnamese public holidays don’t mean much to us expats, but we still like to get the time off — especially when the kids we’re supposed to be teaching are nowhere to be found. But my employer didn’t feel that way. So on this specific one, not only was I drunk when I got to the office, I continued to get drunker throughout the day.

 

Specifically encouraged not to drink by management, it seemed inevitable that we would. With four other conspirators in tow, I called a liquid lunch in session. Initially attempting a beer ‘n’ bowl, thank god we ended up at a beer club. There we quaffed litre-steins of brownish and yellow lager between lunchtime — which in Vietnam on a public holiday is exactly 11.01am — and about 3.15pm in the afternoon. For the last hour we literally played ‘alcohol chicken’, each of us buying ‘one more round’ as our inebriation was confirmed.

 

Satisfied with our four-hour schoolboy prank, a taxi was procured to take us back to the office. Creeping back in, reeking of booze and barely keeping it together, we were soon back it come 5.31pm — back-slapping the hell out of each other as we topped up our afternoon buzz.

 

I got pissed on. One of the best parts of being a guy is the ability to urinate standing up, pretty much wherever you want. And here in Vietnam, men take full advantage of this. There’s supposed to be a code, though — keep your back to traffic, no more than three “I’m finished” shakes, and so on. And definitely don’t piss on other people.

 

Sometimes it doesn’t always work out that way, though. One night as I was fumbling with the keys to our front gate, I felt a splatter of warm liquid on my head. I thought, “F***, rain at this time?” Then I look up and see my girlfriend’s father, drunk as a lord, waving his dick at me from the rooftop terrace. He was laughing his head off… guess he was proud of his aim.

 

 

I threw my flatmate's toe into the trash. True story. A housemate at the time had a serious motorcycle accident. He spent five days in hospital and everyone we knew was shook up. Luckily he recovered and the cab driver that took him out covered some costs, but the collateral damage was high — my friend had lost a toe, severed by the wheel in the collision.

 

On his repatriation, human souvenir in hand, we joked that his toe should be made into jewellery, or hidden in a bowl of pho — the ‘toe pho’. But it didn’t happen, because while walking around the house one morning, hung over and in no state to be making spring-cleaning decisions, I threw out from the fridge what I believed to be a small nugget of dirty brown stuff, and you get the rest — it wasn’t.

 

“Where the f*** is my toe?” is not a question you hear in sincerity very often, but my brain just didn’t connect.

 

When it did a few days later, the colour drained from my face. I immediately went back to the bin I’d discarded it in, and lo and behold, his tiny appendage was still there! But it had gone off, and its owner decided it was too late, and all we have now is the memory of my stupidity.

 

I was attacked by a gang of taxi drivers. This beat-up silver taxi was swerving wildly across the road, the driver talking on his cell phone and blaring his horn the way those a**holes always do. So when we pulled up the stoplight, I slapped his mirror.

 

I pulled away, and suddenly there was a roar behind me. The taxi driver was literally trying to run me over. So I turned off onto the sidewalk and stopped my bike at a furniture shop, the taxi skidding up next to me.

 

The taxi driver got out and started yelling at me. A crowd of people gathered around, taking videos with their phones. The taxi driver picked up a broken block of concrete and swung it at my head. Luckily I had my helmet on, so it only dazed me a little, but I knew I had to leave fast.

 

So I leapt on my bike and started to drive away, only for another taxi to cut me off. I swerved around it, when I saw to my horror that two MORE taxi drivers were blocking my path. They tried to pull me off my bike but my bag snapped and I got away. F*** taxi drivers, man.

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