Today I had my MRI and my follow-up consultation, which was rescheduled from next Tuesday.  The MRI was…loud.  I’ve had an MRI before, and it involved me putting on earplugs and headphones and listening to Mozart for 30 minutes.  I thought this would be somewhat similar…instead, I put on headphones, started to drift to a nap, then was jarred awake by the awful beeps and clangs that tore right through the sad excuse for noise reducers that cupped my ears. 

But no matter – the verdict was that I don’t need surgery, in the doctor’s opinion.  A hard cast for 2 weeks, followed by physical therapy, would be enough to restore full range of motion.  100% stability for my knee is, alas, a fiction – the ligaments are simply too worn at this point.  Perhaps if my kneecap strays again, reconstructive surgery will be necessary, but for the moment, exercise and safety are my closest allies.

Matt, version 3, here to stay for 2 more weeks.  I know it looks like I’m attempting a pose, but I’m actually trying to draw attention to the hard cast that now encases my leg.  Also, I’ve installed padding on my crutches, because it hurt to haul myself around by pressing my palms on hard, merciless plastic. Oh, and I’m wearing a Jet Set Zero T-shirt, but don’t let that think the shirt leads to crutches.

If you’re in Seoul and want to sign my cast, shoot me an email: Matt[at]jetsetzero.tv.  This sucker better not be bare white when they remove it in 2 weeks…

Well my Tuesday meeting with the doctor was a little anticlimactic.  More poking and prodding.  A failed attempt to drain more blood from the knee capsule (apparently the remaining blood is clotted).  Another costly cast.  A bungled attempt to x-ray it again.  An MRI scheduled for Thursday, to determine the extent of tissue damage, and a consultation next Tuesday.  So I guess I’ll have to wait for answers. 

In the meantime, I got crutches to hobble around and my new cast lets me wear a shoe.  While I am mobile, I’m unbelievably slow, especially climbing and descending stairs.  My room is 4 floors from the street; the kitchen is 2 floors from my room.  I’m also skeptical that my crutches will fully support my weight for a long time – I am a little heavier than the average Korean.

The English support was definitely better but not enough that I felt completely comfortable.  It’s starting to approach that threshold between amusement and alarm.  I know these posts are long, so here’s a dialogue version of how today went down…

(more…)

That’s weird.  I thought I was supposed to be in Tokyo… Ah well, let’s see where I am tomorrow!

Paradise or Prison?

Over a year ago, I remember reading Thurston Clarke’s book, Searching for Crusoe, about 13 of what the author determined to be the “last real islands” in the world. Since his name bore an eery resemblance to Thurston Howell, the well-to-do gadabout from “Gilligan’s Island”, I assumed he was an authority. The eleventh island he covered in the book was Phu Quoc, Vietnam, renowned for its beauty as well as the prison on it that was the former abode of VC POWs. The title of the chapter was “Frightening Islands”.

Our trip to Phu Quoc took a grueling 14 hours, despite being only 140 miles from Ho Chi Minh City. We took a taxi to a bus; the bus to another bus; that bus to the town of Rach Gía, where we took another bus to the port-town, Hon Chong, where we caught a ferry to the island. After that we took another, hour-long taxi ride to the hotel. That was Friday, 12am to 2pm.

On Saturday, there were no horns honking, or loudspeakers calling “Anyone want some cakes?” in Vietnamese. We woke to the soothing sounds of the Gulf of Thailand lapping against a porcelain beach, and the sight of a nectarine sunrise peaking through the thatched roofs of our bungalows. Except for Kevin and Bryan, our crew. They woke to the sound of the backhoe laying a septic tank next door. According to the Vietnamese government and their infinite wisdom, Phu Quoc will be the next Singapore. So instead of preserving the island’s natural beauty for tourism, they’re laying pipes and leveling ground. So we followed suit, and unleashed 400cc’s of rented motorbike fury on the jungle roads. We were lost the whole time, so we drove as fast as we could. We came across (in this order) a deserted coral-sand beach, a nest of angry hornets, dozens of dump trucks, and a big, weird dam down an empty and disused road in the jungle.

Our deserted beach on Phu Quoc.

The dam view of all of the dam jungle.

Sunday was the crowning moment of our weekend. We woke up mid-morning after a good old-fashioned (mini) beach bonfire Saturday night, and climbed into a one-hour taxi ride to the ferry dock, prepared for another 14 hours of travel. One problem: there was no ferry. Double-check the tickets. Yep, 12:30pm on Sunday, November 30th, 2008.

We took a walk to the nearest ticket-seller and found to our incredible dismay that we had been sold passes to a ferry that doesn’t exist. No ferries out, no ferries in, no buses, no helicopters, no submarines. We split up, Matt, Kevin and I refunded our ferry tickets while Brian and Bryan scrambled to the airport to find a flight out. As the last plane left the tarmac, we realized we’d been stranded. We had classes to teach, and the all-important Monday episode deadline. But, as it turns out, Phu Quoc was, and continues to be, an island prison.

The retro ticket counter.

The next day, we woke up at 5:30am skeptical of our chances, rushed via taxi to the airport and waited for standby tickets to Saigon. The first flight left at 7:30- one standby ticket- Matt left to catch an early class. The next flight, 8:30- two tickets- Brian and Bryan. Finally, after 2 days and 3 and a half hours of irritating the standby clerk, the final flight left Phu Quoc at 11:00, with me and Kevin aboard. Arriving in Saigon, we faced more disappointment, realizing that our misstep had placed us a week behind our production schedule, and episode-less for Monday.

So Thurston, I couldn’t believe before how such a lovely place could earn that chapter’s name, but now I know. I’ve come to realize that no matter how lovely a prison can be, at the end of the day, it’s still a prison.