Here And There And Almost Everywhere

I am happy to be alive, vagaries of the world when possible, responsible(-ish) when needed (as seldom as it can be done), goofy when shy, wrinkled when thoughtful.

I am filling my time with writing, sewing crotches of pants, because I can’t seem to be able to keep any pair of pants un-ripped for long, crocheting my hair, and other minor household activities.

I am smoking. Again. Just as much as ever and enjoying every cigarette of it!

I am a high school philosophy teacher engaged to be married upon my return home for the people who ask the usual, all too foreseeable ‘whereyoufroms’, ‘whatyoudos’ and ‘areyoumarrieds’ around South East Asia. And this usually attracts surprised or doubtful looks (‘You? Teacher?’) and frowns filled with reproach (‘Not married yet?’). Also, I’ve tried being Norwegian but that didn’t turn out so good (as in I’ve been spotted as a fake… the East Eastern-accented English might have given me away).

I am practicing my headstand almost daily.

I am complaining whenever I get the chance, not because I actually have so many reasons to complain, but because I think it’s one of the few womanly traits I can really master.

I am growing old(er) but I’m constantly fighting the tendency to grow up.

I am hiding. Because it’s much easier and I once decreed that through hiding people will not be able to harm me. Consequently, at some point, I started to hide from myself.

I am speaking Hinglish because this way, I get compliments from Indians for my very extensive knowledge and exquisite mastery of the English language. I use lots of ‘r’s.

I’m asking stupid questions because life is full of stupid problems.

I am usually walking with my hands in my pockets, thus giving me more to sew in the evenings, as most fabrics don’t last very long under the continuous pressure they’re exposed to.

I am drinking coffee in the evening.

I am becoming prouder by the minute of my rock solid stomach which doesn’t seem to fail me and meekly accepts whatever I feed it, whether it’s the finest foods or the most spine-chilling chows.

I am enormously happy to have been able to go skiing in Romania the first chance I got, having gone from 30 plus to below zero in a day.

I am trying.

Christmas Post

It's only a few hours 'till Christmas Eve in lovely Bangkok (it being lovely only because it's virtually empty) and, with the non-existence of any type of holiday spirit and a temperature that could boil the dripping snowy mush of your winter boots, my Christmas looks something like this:

Merry Christmas!

Thank You, Romania!

The thing about being Romanian is something of a controversy: the aw-s and oh-s I get from unsuspecting locals whenever I utter the name of my country are pleasing in their own childish way, especially when corroborated with ‘Europe?’ or, my favourite, ‘communist!’. But for this little joy, the troubles I get are mercilessly disproportionate. The latest (and probably most upsetting) episode can be dutifully used as a milepost in this Romanian’s life:

I am not really sure, I thought as I boarded the international bus from Pakse to Bangkok. It’s a VIP bus and looks quite comfortable and it’s only 30 degrees outside so they gave us blankets. I shifted around in my seat trying to find another spot so that my thigh would stop rubbing on the old Thai’s (or was he Lao?) overflowing bottom. We had been moving for about 15 minutes. I could not discover such a position. But the eternal Lao music is on and this seat is the best one I’ve had yet. I was sitting in front with the panoramic view through the front window of the bus and a piercing sunset somewhere beyond. What did I forget? Why does this feel wrong? I didn’t get a chance to change my kip to Thai baht or have a proper meal. Well, still, it’s good that I was able to sell the last of my unused cell phone credit to that not very officious looking girl at the bus ticket counter. And I bought cigarettes so I’m set to be propelled to Thailand.

Only time proved me wrong.

I always try to look inconspicuous whenever I face officials, especially since I know that Romania will, sooner or later, raise some eyebrows and that’s exactly what I did when I was standing face to face with the Thai photo camera and its attached official at the Lao-Thai border.

‘Hmm... Lomaaania...’ Speaking Thai with the other counter attendant. Walking away with my passport clutched closely to his chest.

I remember this, I thought and memories of almost being stranded into no man’s land after finishing my Cambodian epic (and the included visa) and before passing the border into Thailand clouded the thoughtless sunny summer day of my mind. But they figured it out then so they’ll eventually come to a conclusion this time around.

Only that this time around the conclusion was slightly different. A higher level official came smiling towards me:

‘Sorry ma’am no possible to go in my country. No visa for your country. No visa on arrival. Have to buy visa in Pakse...’

I admit I started sweating considerably but my concerns were not so great because I was still sure that everything would work out. 15 minutes into the conversation I obviously needed a huge towel to dry my ever-expanding perspiration and I needed a good cry, shout and yell to smash my frustrations to smithereens. No possible!

What argument can I use now? I’m really out of choices, damn it! I cursed under my breath; I called them Romanian names that kids should not learn; I tried making a sad face which usually helps but it was hopelessly ignored. What now? And what about my great plan of getting to Bangkok, get the Burmese visa and sleep in the airport? How will this work?

Not even when the Thai officer politely (and, possibly, a little too perky) escorted me to the bus to get my backpack and accompanied me back to Lao territory, smiled brightly, shook my hand and hoped we’d meet again (ha! Like that’s ever going to happen!) did I realize what my country had done to me. Or was it the shitfaced Thai laws that sabotaged me?

I’m sure that if I’d still been a non-smoker (ex smoker) I’d have lit one up right now, my inner demon viciously grinned at my inner, fragile cherub, which curled up in a ball and found a corner to pout in peace. And I lit one up. Several, actually, but that’s beyond the point.

The Lao customs people were nice enough to cancel my departure stamp but I didn’t get any money back although it seems that you have to pay them 10000 kip just to leave the country (and they complain about poverty?). Still, a nice Lao official enlightened me on the multiple choices I am given if I go back to Pakse.

‘You can go to Savannakhet, cross the border there or you can go over the Friendship Bridge in Vientiane...’ Yeah, thanks a lot, I thought while freezing an interested smile on my face. That’s the last thing I want to do; spend more time in Laos after all this.

‘Huh?’ I snapped out of my reverie.

‘Where you from? Aw, Lomaaania...’

‘That’s in Europe.’

‘Ahh, Europe!’ something fairly familiar reached his inner ear and he looked back comprehendingly.

Romanian nationality be damned!

The Day That Announced The Apocalypse or The Loop - Day One

The reason I usually travel alone is because I simply cannot sync with anyone. Every time I try to hook up with someone to travel with on some part of my travels, sooner or later, there’s going to be an elephant in the room very hard to overlook. That precise moment in time when I (and, possibly, every other person involved) am reminded that I’m simply not bred to be around people for too long, as china might break on someone’s head (I constantly end up on the throwing end of the aforementioned china): there’s truly no such feature built in the overall project.

Like I said, the moment when china is visualized and gruesome images of eyes being scratched out with the help of just some fingernails come – unwilling, mind you! – to mind is undoubtedly the time to part ways just like the waters parted by biblical figures, only never to meet again. But when such a moment unveils itself it’s usually too late to perform a clean clear cut of the umbilical cord because by then, some types of actions have been undertaken, such as engaging in a minimum three day-long road trip with rented motorcycles on less beaten tracks in the Lao countryside. That’s just a hypothetical example, but in such an unlikely case, the trigger of an irremediable situation would have to be the fact that the magical hour when the motorcycles set their wheels in motion outside the grand metropolis of Tha Khaek is 4 PM sharp. In the same hypothetical example, the better part of the day was spent (by yours truly) waiting around for the other variable of the equation to start moving and functioning properly, to pack, eat, get a bike, have a shake and, seconds before leaving, remembering that the email must be checked.

There have been other episodes in my life when my patience was ruthlessly put to the test and I was as surprised as anyone that my nerves kept their steely quality and didn’t give in. Yet the leaving at that ungodly hour of the afternoon got my blood boiling and my teeth grinding the biggest millstone in existence. It would be good to mention that the hypothetical country in which this hypothetical situation is taking place literally turns off the lights (the sun, to be exact) at 6 PM give or take a few minutes. And this makes driving and visiting the handy caves and swimming spots a little more difficult, not to mention the orientation skills and actual pinpointing the relative position of the drivers on the road and its (unseen) surroundings; which complicates the driving per se as the flat tire that stands like a deflated cherry on top of this whole absurd play only gets my blood boiling again and my Lao speaking abilities gushing like a true geyser. It stands to reason that something like this was bound to happen but it happened earlier than I ever expected and, to top it off, it happened to my bike, the one I so carefully handpicked and was absolutely sure it would stand the test. Well, it kind of did, but only for a couple of hours.

New, very important phrase learned in Lao: yang hua – flat tire! Say this with the heartbroken look you’d get when realizing that you’re forever stranded on a deserted island and your only hope is a passing raft that’s far enough for you to panic and pleadingly holler for help.

Having the flat tire fixed but the morale somewhere at underground level, this particular hypothetical situation continues with some more confused night-time driving which snowballs to other unwelcomed events, which, in turn, creates more confusion and the last remaining strands of contained irritation of not being able to find a guesthouse and relish in its services (mainly water and a place to sleep) surface aggressively. Sadly, this doesn’t help at all and only gets the drivers to retrace their steps. Twice.

Eventually, a guesthouse is found, frowns are directed all around and businesses are taken care of individually. Against all odds, I choose to go to the bar that blasts bad karaoke in all directions and stubbornly order a beer. I have some options to ponder: I could turn back to Tha Khaek, I could go to sleep (reluctantly, as I’d have to share the bed with the current enemy – the guesthouse people assumed we would need a double bed but it would have been far too complicated to even start explaining) or I could just up and go, take my stuff and disappear into the (untimely) night. Well, two of three choices involved some more dubious driving so I did what any sane person would have done: I listened to karaoke while being able to tackle the drunken Lao that insisted on talking to me and sharing my beer. Moreover, I ordered and got some meatless overpriced food from people who don’t even conceive any other language except for their beloved karaoke-singing Lao. And only after that did I retire to the comfort of my minuscule side of the bed, further appreciating its horizontal-ness.

Through Laos

‘What do you mean there’s no bus to Vieng Xai today? The Lonely Planet says there should still be one...’ I was getting fidgety but not really that surprised.

‘If no one go to Vieng Xai then sometime no bus...’ the information officer said smiling regretfully, as if the sawngthaew drivers who ripped off tourists with 150000 kip fares for the 30 kilometres from Sam Neua to Vieng Xai were under his direct command. ‘Tomorrow morning 7.30 first bus, but if you want to rent a private sawngthaew...’

‘No way, man!’ a distressed Mike shouted at his normal decibel mode.

‘No, no, thank you’, I echoed Mike. I was upset, totally outraged by the blasphemous things the Lonely Planet advised: sawngthaew to Vieng Xai leave five times daily, currently at 8 am, 10am, 11am, 2.30pm and 4pm. Why would it have so bluntly lied to us? Why would it make us spend the night in Sam Neua? What would we do with our time there? It’s not like it’s a place where there’s anything to do. And then there’s the cold... The sheer late autumn rainy dark weather that depresses Swedish people and makes them commit unthinkable deeds (in the case of Mike, it’s just talking gibberish but, then again, that’s his everyday behaviour). We relented, found the cheapest room in town and proceeded to take turns in surviving the lukewarm shower ingeniously positioned in the two-in-one bathroom and toilet so that you’d have to stand right under the open hole in the wall, through which gusts of ice-cold winds tumbled in. The hole might have once doubled as a window but now it was just an overlooked mishap with a real cold inflicting potential.

We tried to find a place to buy some stuff, mainly munchies for the next day but the concept of a general store eludes east Laos: they only have markets, morning and night ones but even the night market was, by then closing up, as it was as late as 7 PM. Damn, I thought; we’ll just have to do nothing, not even drinking a beer, as it’s way too cold to have one right now. Also, the prospect of waking up in the morning to get the earliest bus is as unappealing as taking one more shower (just out of boredom)...

6.30 AM and I was awake. Even if I had slept enough I was longing for the sweet morning slumber, especially since the new day promised the same enchanting weather as the previous one. Why do I travel in Southeast Asia when I can have this kind of weather back home, I moodily asked myself while towing my backpack down the stairs.

Conveniently, a city the size of Sam Neua (14000 people) has not one, but two bus stations so, together with two German girls and a Dutch one we shared a slightly less greedy tuc-tuc to the other bus station and, by 7 AM we were waiting for the minivan to depart. Of course, this new ‘bus’ was only supposed to leave at 8 (in spite of what the guy at the Information Office told us) so we had a whole hour to shiver mildly in the cold morning air while watching the locals heave bags and motorbikes on top of other buses, impressed by their technique of getting anything on top of the bus.

‘I think it’s bes to lent a bicycle, so it’s easieh to get flom one cave to the otheh’. Hmm, I thought; bicycle? Really? But I hate cycling, even if it’s just around the block on a downward slope. And look at the sky: what if it starts raining again? But I gave in. It surely was the best way to see the caves in which the leaders of the anti-French invasion movement Pathet Lao hid and lived for nine years, all the while being bombed by US aircrafts in their ‘Secret War’ against Vietnam, which dutifully imparted bombs and landmines, even if it was in the wrong country. So we did what the tourist officer said and rented bikes. As the only other tourists – a Thai couple – did the same, we were blessed with a guide to show us around (on his own bike) and complement the audio guide we received from the tourist office. I guess that for locals five people peacefully cycling around their houses while, apparently, intently listening to music in their oversized headphones is a normal sight and they didn’t seem distressed by it; on the contrary: completely ignoring the headphones, the concentrated faces and the impossibility of waving, holding on the handlebar and balancing the audio guide at the same time while negotiating curves and potholes, the kids insisted on ‘sabai dee’-ing us with grinning mugs happily waving their arms at us and, probably, feeling a little hurt when we didn’t respond. But we were on a mission. To see the caves in which the political head figures of Lao lived for a decade. Not completely without comfort, mind you! As soon as they felt safe (roughly nine years after the bombing started), they moved outside the caves, carrying on living there for another couple of years. The caves themselves hold little to remind us of the difficulties people had during that period but it’s still impressive to see how they managed, having to walk to the school cave or the hospital cave, mostly by night or through passage ways carved out of the sides of the mountains.

‘Okay, now that that’s over with, what’s next?’

‘Well, it’s either finding a place to sleep here or go back to Sam Neua. But did you hear what the guy at the tourist office told us?’ and, for that matter, everybody we’ve met so far: ‘There are no buses if there are not enough people who want to go back. But, if the Thai couple wants to return to Sam Neua, maybe they know something we don’t. Let’s follow them.’ And with that in mind, we shadowed the Thais from afar and, once we got to the bus station, we started exploring our options. There were, in fact, no buses back, or, better yet, no affordable buses, as the only guy around wanted even more than a night’s accommodation’s worth for taking us back. ‘No problem’, I say; ‘We can walk back and I’m sure we’ll hitch a ride at some point. People around here seem nice enough and, hopefully, they’ll take us with them’. If only there were any nice people around but, contrary to what I’d hoped, not many cars drove by. And the ones that did seemed to think we only wanted to wave at them.

‘Are you doing this right?’ Mike asked, slightly getting uncharacteristically concerned.

‘Well, I’m trying to wave them down. It used to work... at least in Europe. But, then again, I’m not sure they know the international wave of hitch-hiking. But I’m also waving like I need some help and maybe that’s why everybody seems to just wave back.’ In fact, more than one driver held up an open hand, just holding them back in the air, maybe saying hello or maybe explaining that their cars are full. ‘It’s all in the expression. So, I’ll stop trying to look un-menacing and friendly and start looking distressed. It might work better.’

‘Yeah, well, you’re a girl so I hope it works...’

And it did work, after we’d been walking for some kilometres. A small battered pick-up truck stopped and three ear-to-ear grins were directed at us. They signalled us to get in and explained they can only take us some kilometres but it was better than nothing. We got down further and started walking until an actual local bus picked us up and took us to the city. But we did get to do some light hiking to prepare for our huge plan for the next day: hiking to Hintang.

A new early wake-up call made me shiver with dread and cold. But we had a new bus to catch and, hopefully, leave the cold behind for some better weather and some sunshine. But first to find the right bus that would take us 50 kilometres away and leave us at the main road from where only 6 kilometres stood between us and an archaeological site, where huge slabs of stones were arranged by some Lao forefathers for no apparent reason, except for sacred rituals that have lost their meaning for contemporary Lao people or researchers. This is going to be a nice ride, I thought while jumping a little off my seat on the Lao roads; we’re going to get off at Hintang, pleasantly walk there and be back in time for the evening bus. I smiled, feeling really good with my plans. And then I jumped some more.

In ancient times Laos was inhabited by the Kha Yeui. Their Chief, Ba Hat, was a great giant possessing amazing powers, to whom the gods also gave three magical objects: a double-headed drum – one face struck to make enemies disappear and the other to call help from the gods; an enormous awl which pierced the stoniest ground and made water gush out; and an axe which could cut hard rock like wood.

Ba Hat felt himself no less strong than the Luang Prabang Kingdom thanks to these marvellous instruments, so he decided the Kha Yeui were no longer subjects of the King, who soon declared war. But the victory went to Ba Hat. Later, believing the enemy king intended to return, Ba Hat called on the help of the gods. The chief of the gods descended in person and on seeing no enemies anywhere, he flew into a rage and seized back the magical drum.

Ba Hat still had the two other tools given him by the gods. With the magical axe, he set his people out to cut blocks of stone along Nam Peun, and bear them to the top of San Ang ridge to build the new city of Kong Phanh. This aroused the King of Luang Prabang’s fears and he decided upon a ruse to keep that city from ever being founded. He succeeded in marrying his son to Ba Hat’s daughter. Misplacing their confidence in the Prince, the Kha Yeui were induced to lay the magical awl and axe onto a white-hot brazier. The two instruments immediately lost all magic power.

So the Kha Yeui had to abandon their project and they just left the stones where they had been raised up along the crest. These later on became the menhir fields of San Kong Panh and the neighbouring countryside.

That’s what greeted us at the small site, where some stone slabs erectly stood around some other round, tabletop-like stones with mysterious, unknown uses. I was heaving groans of happiness after ‘pleasantly walking’ what seemed like 60 kilometres but which, I’m sure, was less than the six promised. Still, my back was damp and aching. Fortunately, the way back would be easier on my back (‘pleasantly walking’ downwards) but what will my knees think? Uf, there’s never an easy way to travel...

In all fairness, it took us about two hours to walk the whole six kilometres on a dusty dirt road, more upwards than otherwise and, having to carry the backpack all the way, I seriously started to list all the stuff I had with me: do I really need all my panties with me? Could I get rid of some? What about soap... do I really need a whole bar of it...? Fortunately, despite the red colour of my face nicely assorted to my beloved pants, and the overall sweatiness of my person, this quest was also fulfilled and we got back to the main road in time to wait around for another bus (a minivan this time) to take us to Phonsavan. And this was the part that consolidated my faith in the amount of luck I carry around, as the minivan – the only one leaving for Phonsavan that day – had exactly two seats available. And so we proudly filled them and smoothly rode to Phonsavan. 

How To Miss A Bus In Laos. More Than Once

Laos is not your typical active dynamic country so, other than gazing at mountains, rivers and some fantastic scenery, there’s not much to do. Well, if you’re into straining yourself beyond reason and subjecting yourself to some muddy mountain trekking in the hazy, foggy, chilly morning and the most atrocious heat of midday (greatly enhanced by the lush vegetation engulfing every sizzling atom of oxygen like a Lao soup simmering the overcooked grains of rice), then you’ve got something to do (or look forward to stop doing). Needless to say you’d have to be borderline insane or a masochist to do so. But if you’ve had one too many Beerlaos by noon, you’ll spare yourself such ‘treats’ and do the more sensible thing of shuffling on the only street in Nong Khiaw from one overpriced restaurant to the next in search of comfy mattresses or hammocks to be used as home base for the next beer and the cheapest meals available.

The Luang Prabang bus to Sam Neua via Nong Khiaw is your immediate goal as you eagerly want to spend some 10 to 14 hours getting to the east, but even the buses are ‘laid back’, ‘sleepy’ and ‘relaxed’ (as the Lonely Planet people describe everything in this country) so there’s virtually no fixed schedule. There’s a rumour going around that the bus should pass through Nong Khiaw sometime around 9 or 10 PM and, if you’re fit and watchful enough, you just raise your hand and it will stop in front of your guesthouse but, under no circumstances will it stop at the bus station. Hurray for the guesthouse people, which make good business with tourists that just hang around their place and, to chase away the boredom, will do the only thing they can, this being consuming tourist-priced goods. The guesthouse people will be nice enough to wait for the bus with you, mainly because they can’t go to sleep while you’re just sitting there and because the Swedish dude who’s waiting with you (hey, Mike!) and who’s ‘naturally loud’ (his words) has successfully gotten himself enormously drunk on lao lao (and, eventually, passed out on the mattresses in the guesthouse’s sitting area/restaurant).

Basic math:

• estimated time of bus arrival: 9 – 10 PM;
• expected time of bus arrival (from personal experience): estimated time + 2 hours = 11 PM – 12 AM;
• probable time of giving up waiting (mostly because the guesthouse people retired under their mosquito nets preparing for sleep, Mike started snoring like an neglected punctured car muffler, and some of your own toes have gone numb from the cold): expected time + 1 or 2 hours = 1 AM.

You retire to a bamboo-thatched room like a retreating dog, tail low between his legs, only to make another attempt the next day. Upon greeting the guesthouse guy the next morning, he’ll tell you that a mere 20 minutes after you’ve gone to sleep the bus tumbled down the road through the city and this little piece of news only adds wood to the fire of humiliation burning inside. Still, you must try again, this time with the bus scheduled at noon, so you post yourself, Mike and the bags on tiny bamboo chairs in front of the guesthouse and fail to acknowledge the passing ‘bus’ (which, coincidentally, is just around 30 minutes late) because you normally picture a bus as being this big square container on many wheels which can hold up to 50 people (or, in the case of Laos, using the small plastic chairs neatly arranged on the aisle so that any kind of movement is considerably diminished, at least 10 more). The last thing you’d expect is what looks like a private minivan smoothly driving by with a short honk and not even a glance back: that's the VIP bus around these parts!

With jaw dropping awe you stare at one of the guesthouse people, who, by now, has run into the street only to see the rear end of the minivan cruising away and who now tells you your chance of leaving Nong Khiaw that day has effectively slipped between your un-waving fingers. You take a minute to count to 10, to 20, to 5633, but the anger is somehow not withdrawing, in spite of Mike’s reassuring ‘that’s travelling for you’s. You resign yourself – better yet, you stubbornly refuse – to doing nothing this whole new sunny day and you pledge to the world that you’ll get the next bus with whatever costs, if it means throwing yourself in front of it or just sleeping on the asphalt so that the bus cannot avoid stopping! You then restart your usual routine of migrating from one restaurant to the other, Mike and the beloved laptop in toll and you cheer yourself up with some Indian cuisine, giving up your ongoing quest of trying to figure out how some south Indian people ended up in that godforsaken place, just going through the motions of another hard day of fierce travelling.

By 9 PM you’ve plopped yourself in front of the guesthouse again, beer-less, sober and determined to not spend another night in Nong Khiaw ever again! And, sometime around 11.30 PM your persistence, hysterical sudden jerks out of the chair at the tiniest sound of anything remotely similar to a bus passing, and incessant waving finally pay off and the bus comes to a shrieking stop next to you. The guesthouse person who’s kept a vigilant eye on you and on the road shovels your stuff unto the bus, probably feeling relieved and released from the menacing new night of having to deal with you. And, while you make yourself as comfortable as possible on the crammed bus, you think: third time’s always a charm!

How To Ditch Indian Cops

One of the Indian musts is to run away from the cops. And there are several ways you can succeed in this adventurous endeavor, one of them by being a westerner. Policemen in India resemble policemen anywhere in the world, which means they usually have a nose for good and/or bad business. And, being a westerner, the only good business for policemen is leaving them be; or imprisoning them for using illegal substances. In the case of the former, foreigners can basically do whatever their hearts desire and blatantly get away with it.

The Indians, however, have a harder time with the cops, which – again – like in most (underdeveloped) countries around the world, will require some off the record incentives to let some things slide. As you might have guessed, Indians have something resembling a phobia when it comes to wearing helmets on motorcycles, because it’s simply not part of the local practice; the only time Indians might wear something on their heads is either when being Sikh, or when they are cold – yes, the first thing they will try to warm up and keep warm is their heads. Well, the helmet issue only concerns the drivers (passengers are spared the painful task or safety measure of wearing a helmet) and it only becomes a problem when the police seem more inclined to get some more money on the side of the normal payroll and start stopping and questioning motorbike riders about their – obviously inexistent – helmets.

Riding (helmetless, of course) on the back of an Indian-driven motorcycle, I was only partly aware of this whole situation and I had really abandoned myself to being taken somewhere in Bikaner on a locally-driven motorbike (my newest friend, a 25 year-old Muslim Indian, Salim, had taken it upon himself to show me the beauties of the old town havelis, while faintly hoping that I would start some form of textile export business somewhere – anywhere - in Europe and he’d get in on the deal). Once we started driving on the overly crowded narrow alleys through the old town, I got to enjoy the charming houses and the local animals (obviously, during any ride longer than 100 meters or 10 minutes, you’ll have to avoid at least three dogs, five animal-originated droppings and, if you’re lucky, only two holy cows), but, once on the main roads, things got Indianly hectic: cars, rickshaws and motorcycles (not to mention bicycles and pedestrians) were all engaged into their latest fights for urban jungle survival, coming and going in every (and any) direction, blissfully oblivious of any other traffic partakers.

Being a good passenger, I didn’t move a lot, even if I only had the pleasure of seeing Salim’s back exclusively. But, the second he tensed, I realized something was not even Indianlly all right and I noticed two (presumably holy) young bulls picking a fight right when we passed them. Salim accelerated in an instant and easily skidded through the chaos of frightened people and tumbling rows of scooters, just like falling domino tiles; an impressive scene enhanced by the yelling, panicking crowds and the powerless gestures and screams unfolded on a 50 meter area, but it was best to be far away from the spectacle.

Driving on, Salim tried his best to make me forget about the incident and was intently talking (although only partially understood), when, all of a sudden, he changed to Hindi and violently jerked the bike sideways as if avoiding a roadblock. Seconds later, the bloated face of a screaming policeman entered my vision but disappeared just as fast in the sea of motorbikes and cars: we’d just escaped the long – seemingly sluggish – arm of the law; we ditched some cops and we (well, mostly Salim, the driver) didn’t seem too concerned or remorseful about it. He then proceeded to explain how the cops saw him not wearing a helmet, called on him to stop to be identified and fined respectively, but he loudly stated that he’s with a Westerner, and so, took it upon himself to excuse himself for the unlawful deed and playfully drive on. And it worked: no sign of policemen in sight, we carried on to our proposed destination, him feeling proud and, possibly, relieved, to be with a westerner, me feeling lucky for being one and not having to be frisked (even though I was paranoid the whole day afterwards and constantly looked over my shoulder expecting to find some angry, hell-bent policemen advancing towards me). Then again, this is The Indian Way!

Why I Will Never Have Clean Clothes Again

or Why I Think Lao People Are Too Relaxed.

Fearing that I’ll not have enough time to visit everything there is to see in Laos (this being a very common globetrotter’s disease), I never have time enough to spend in one place. And, not having enough time to spend in one place, I never have enough clean clothes around. I’d actually wash them or, at least give them to be washed (machine washed, nonetheless), but, as I usually leave the next day, there simply wouldn’t be enough time for the clothes to dry.

But I finally found the place where I could have some clothes washed: Phongsali, right before going on the tribal trek. I was going to come back to the same guesthouse two days later, so I figured, if they can keep my backpack for two days, they can surely toss some clothes in the washing machine. Leaving in a hurry at 7 AM, I hastily gave them the backpack and a crumpled bag full of dirty clothes, feeling satisfied, even a little proud of formulating such a brilliant scheme.

Coming back, dirty, stinking and sweaty, I was looking forward to a nice pack of clean-smelling, neatly folded, fresh clothes. Alas, my excitement was short-lived, as they gave me the backpack and the same crumpled bag full of dirty clothes. Almost in tears, I looked questioningly and confused at the landlady, an elderly woman who dubbed as the spokesperson of the family, as her daughters don’t know the slightest bit of English, only with the help of lots of hands and fingers, and she menacingly shot angry glances at her daughters; a couple of hurried words and all the family shrugged and then started laughing. They forgot. And just handed me (I should emphasize a person in agony) the bag full of dirty clothes. No time to try and wash them myself and they just got damper and soggier, still looking sorrowful in their smelly bag.

The next day I headed for the first Lao boat ride, a five hour trip that would take me to Muang Ngoi, a little village on the Nam Ou river, getting me closer to the southern part of Northern Laos. The boat itself was small and wobbly, making all the passengers cram together in threes on tiny benches, having all the luggage packed high on top of each other at one end, and filling the other end with a sturdily secured motorbike with the driver on top. That’s the way we rode down the river, up to the point where most of the Lao passengers got off in a minuscule village by the side of the river, leaving all the Westerners to joyfully splurge on the benches. I chose a place in the back leaning on the heap of backpacks, finally being able to unwind and indulge in my beers (the ones that I bought especially to fully enjoy the river trip) and successfully ignoring the engine’s roar close to my ears. As fate (or some cruel joke) would have it, it started raining heavily, adding to the regular splashes of water from the rapids on the river an ingrate, merciless amount of water, which, obviously, reached the backpacks. Mine was more fortunate than others, as it was on the top of the heap, right under the protective rag and the Lao boatman (the one in the back, that is) leaning on it searching for some kind of shelter from the rain. But some other backpacks were dangerously close to the water that had accumulated on the bottom of the boat, so the owners could but pray that their stuff was waterproof. We had to let the side flaps down, seeing only ourselves and the blue sides of the nylon sheet that protected the interior of the boat. And that was the bigger part of our trip. By the time we got to Muang Ngoi, we were pretty depressed, mostly wet and very hungry. So I camped into the first guesthouse that met my eyes, had lunch and, as the weather was not in my favor, I abandoned my plan to wash clothes and fell into a restless sleep until the evening, when I was woken by the small, chewy noises that were way too close to my bed. I somehow managed to gather enough courage to look under the bed, where, next to drained plastic bottles and some forgotten empty boxes, I found a hole partly covered by a ceramic tile. The peanuts I had bought from the local market were dangerously close to the exposed part of the hole, so I had to share my peanuts with some newly made rodent friends. Turning my full attention to the laptop, I soon found out that Muang Ngoi only has electricity until around 7 PM, making my efforts of entertaining myself with any type of electrically charged gadgets useless. I had an early night, preparing for the second day of boat riding early in the morning.

Well, ‘early’ turned out to be whenever they gather enough people to fill a boat, so eight people, mostly the same westerner formation that had set out from Phongsali to Muang Ngoi, got on another small boat that at least had slightly better benches, set on each side of the boat. And off we went; into the sunny, optimistic day that was unfolding itself all around us. I thoroughly regretted that I had not gotten myself some more beer cans, as the set was perfect for some laid back, light alcohol and, while we were stranded on the small bank full of water buffaloes, would have made everything look brighter. Yes, I did say ‘stranded’. Meaning, after some four hours of smooth riding on a muddy brown river into a beautiful luminous day, our boat broke apart and down. No explanation, no sign of life, nothing. The boatman tried the Romanian method of fixing anything, mainly with a large hammer and some cusswords, but even that proved useless. So we were vigorously evacuated from the boat on the riverbank, right into a herd of grazing and bathing water buffaloes, which overtly resented our invasion and scurried gloomily away. We waited for the boatman to smash the boat’s engine some more and, after an hour or so, he gave up, gave in and gave a first bashful sign of help: he made a rescue phone call. In the next 15 minutes a new shiny boat arrived and took us to safety and, incidentally, to our destination, a mere 15 minutes away. But this new boat was definitely the VIP boat, having bus seats neatly pinned to the floor, exactly for the eight shipwrecked people that we were.

Having found a guesthouse in Nong Khiaw, I tried again to have my clothes washed, this time knowing that there will be enough time to get them back clean and dry. And again, my dreams of perfect clothes was shattered when the next day, carelessly walking by the guesthouse, I notice the fence in front being burdened and weighed down by my clothes; my red-flecked clothes. Wait a minute… Why do all my clothes have red spots on them? And keep in mind that most of my clothes should have been white (well, mostly whitish and off-white or even light-brown, and I had been advised to get rid of the ex-white stained clothes long before – thanks, Mona), but now, they were mostly polka-dotted. It wasn’t very difficult to uncover this mystery, because right next to my worn-out blouses, proudly sunbathing, were my red pants, the ones I specifically asked to be washed separately – I knew, from personal experience, that their color comes out incessantly. Again, looking pitifully, I confronted the guesthouse people: and, yet again, they merely stared at the stained clothes, shrugged and started laughing.

‘Relaxed’ is a far too light a word for the Lao people, which are, mostly careless and sloppy when it comes to foreign people’s need, namely clean, unstained clothes. Which I will never have again!

How To Spend Your Money In Laos

When in Laos do as the tourists do and spend. On everything. Not really much but on everything. Especially if you want to put yourself through a reasonable amount of trouble and as much pain as available.

First, take a bus (and pay a fair amount for it). Specifically, try the bus from Luang Prabang to Phongsali, which, when said it takes about 12 hours, it’s actually something more like 15 or even 16. But no worries, as you’ll spend a fair amount of time waiting at the bus station in their ‘reception room’, which mostly consists in a couple of benches under a rooftop but with a black-and-yellow TV screen, which everybody watches intently as there’s an important kickboxing match being broadcast. The irregular shouts and cheers will arouse you from any reverie and you’ll eventually have to join in rather than try to ignore them. And then you’ll start to notice that your bus is late; not half an hour, not one hour, not even two hours but some two and a half hours.

Then and only then can you join the happy crowds on the bus, but the first thing you’ll notice will be the beer crates on the aisle as well as the discarded empty beer cans tossed on the floor. Also, you’ll probably not be able to miss the wooden planks over which you’ll have to climb to get to your seat (people can move, even in Laos, you know). Well, at least you get two uncomfortable seats for the price of one and you can somehow cram your backpack on the floor and try to use it as a pillow at some point (right around the time when you’ll start to run out of ideas on how to get some sleep on the rattling bus). And the happy sots on the bus with you will make your life a lot easier once they start singing along the good-quality highest volume Lao music, which, incidentally, will also contain the great international O-zone hit, the same one that you so much love. Or they’ll be sitting right next to you on a plastic chair on the aisle. Truth be told, you’ll probably fall asleep praying to whatever greater force of the Universe you believe in that nobody will steal your handbag, which, although is loosely tied around your wrist, would easily be stolen by a patient citizen who’ll just wait for you to fall asleep, as you’d probably not notice anything having a very fruitful training in ‘Sleeping Wherever You Can’ in India.

By the time you suppose you should get to your destination (delay included) start looking around at names of villages although you’ll not understand a word and, even if you do, you’ll not be able to find them on the map. And at every stop you’ll just wait around (like all other passengers) for the bus people – who are at least three – to get the bags and sacks off the bus for the people who get off. A mere four hours later someone will tell you that you’ve arrived in Phongsali, even though the actual city (accused – maybe not quite wrongfully – of being just a string of villages) is another 3 km away. And then you’ll pay for the sawngthaew, the local taxi which will eventually bring you to the city.

Then pay for the motorbike you only want to rent for half a day (and not even that much – more like three hours), with which you plan to see the 400-year old tea plantation in a nearby village. Apart from the fact that that you are still confused about which side you’re supposed to drive on (India has had a definite impact on you and the Lao people don’t seem to care too much), you’re not even sure which way the shifting gear works (well, mostly it doesn’t work at all, as the bike is as crappy as hell, and, having a semi-automatic clutch, it doesn’t really matter). By the time you’ve driven the first 4 km on the main road and have to get through the next 10 or so to get to the village, you realize you’ve shot yourself in the foot, as there’s actually no road whatsoever, only an orange trail through villages and jungle (so to speak), that can or cannot take you where you want to go. Also, even if it is the right way, you’ll end up as orange as the earth, as the puddles are the most part of the road. Because you’ve said that you’ll not let yourself get discouraged by the people who will try to turn you around (and there's a lot of that kind of people, mind you!), you’ll persist in your quest and you’ll get a strong déjà vu with other Southeast Asian countries. Having your sneakers and the better part of your pants the same appearance and consistency as the surrounding ground, you’ll give up halfway (7 km to go) and pretend the tea plantations you’ve already seen are evocative enough. You will spare yourself the agony of climbing an excruciatingly steep 400 steps to the local stupa and, keeping your fingers crossed (as much as possible while driving a 100 ccm semi-functional bike), and you’ll drive up there and take in the sight of Phongsali by sunset. Driving down, though, you will remember the good-old days of your adventurous camel ride because of the pain in your nether parts, which cannot be compared to anything else.

This was what I was deja-vu-ing: Cambodian roads

The next day spend your money (a huge part of it) booking a trekking tour to the nearby Akha villages, ethnic tribal people where you can supposedly see the simple, old-style type of life while trekking through the Lao jungle. But, once you start your tour, all alone with your guide (this being the reason why the tour is a sheer robbery) you learn that part of your ‘trek’ is on the main trail that links the Akha Oma village to the main road. Only it’s a lot longer and harder (and quite ridiculous for the locals) to do it by foot rather than by motorbike (and the roads are not even as bad as the ones you’ve been riding before). In the first Akha village you’ll be greeted by the village chief, who’ll utterly ignore you in favor of his grandson, whom he’ll hold and cuddle and carry around tied to his back. You’ll visit the school, which closely resembles a stable, only smaller, where all the kids in the village supposedly learn, to whatever age you cannot be sure.

Some will smile at you but most will just run away, slyly laughing behind your back and speaking any other language except for the ones you know. Small kids and bigger kids will avoid you by tens of meters and some might even start crying at the mere sight of you but that’s nothing compared to the dogs, who’ll use their sixth sense (or, maybe just their normal senses) to spot you as a falang (a Westerner) and who’ll start barking and growling the minute you’re set foot inside their territory. You’ll then have lunch at the convenient hour of 11.30 and, after a shot of lao lao, the local rice spirit, easily compared to, if not stronger than your native moonshine, you’ll start the actual trek part of your tour, climbing high on the path through the damp, lush jungle on the path ‘reserved’ for tourists (apparently, locals are not that stupid as to climb mountains; they prefer engine-powered transportation on roads that do link all the villages).

You’ll soon notice that the jungle wildlife, just like the Lao people, lacks ambition and there are no animals bigger than the ‘mouse’ – that’s what the guide will tell you squirrels are: lots of joyful, colorful butterflies, tiny birds, spiders and your occasional lizard, nothing bigger than a loaf of bread, village pigs, chicken and dogs not included; mosquitoes and all imaginable insects will be attracted by the uniform, shiny film of sweat you sport on your face, which will soon (but rather definitive) turn into a never-ending gushing fountain, regardless of your trekking direction – up or down. The main reason why you just have to love (or hate) this country is because there’s more climbing down than climbing up and, some 4 hours after you left the first village, you’ll enter a second one, the one that you only have to visit, having to go another hundred meters or so to get to the last Akha village where you’ll spend the night. You’ll be the main attraction for about 15 minutes – just as long as everybody tries to sell you ‘locally made’ string bracelets and laugh at your lobster-red color and your dreadlocks – and then you’ll be discarded just like a banana skin. You’ll eagerly accept this, because your biggest desire is taking a shower and changing your clammy clothes. But as soon as you have one last hillside to climb to get to your hill tribe home a heavy steady rain will start falling from the sky, combining your sweaty protective layer with some fresh rainwater. Drenched and tired as you may be, you eventually get to the house and wearily watch the rainfall from the porch. You will get a short break though, just enough time to run to the bathroom and indoor shower (right next to the local showering/washing faucet-in-the-ground in the middle of the village, where everybody takes their rather public showers and washes clothes) and back before the rain comes pouring again.

You’ll get dinner and some lao lao, at least one shot for each leg – as the host explains through sign language – and then you’ll be tantalized to several more shots, which you politely try to refuse.

Still, there is a treat: an Akha massage for your aching, backpack carrying body that’s available at your request. You think: what the hell?! Sure, why not? You’ve spent a lot of money on aches and pains of various types, so why not try (buy) something soothing? So you get the local mute woman, who’ll gladly give you a massage, so you go lie down on your mattress on the floor. She’ll heftily knead your limbs and body a whole 45 minutes and you’ll actually unwind greatly, although the massage basically consists in her powerfully clamping all your muscles and leaving some bruises at that. You’ll be surprised to see that you don’t have to pay for something pleasant and relaxing… well, at least not pay extra, which, at that particular time will seem very agreeable. Still, you’ll have to circumvent some more lao lao drinking, which, by now, has completely absorbed your host and your guide, so you’ll have to excuse yourself on the basis of being very tired and sleepy and, all in all, too relaxed (because of the wonderful massage) to be able to do anything other than lay in bed.

The next morning you’ll wake up around 6 AM to the chorus of clucking chicken and grunting pigs and have breakfast: some leftover potatoes from last night’s dinner and some fresh salad made mostly out of unidentified plants, everything containing a fair amount of chilli. Of course, the lao lao is ever present and you can’t get around it but you’ll probably stop drinking it sooner than your guide, who, by the time you have to leave (right after breakfast and the tasteless tea), will be thoroughly imbibed in the traditional moonshine. The gods will want you to have perfect weather, so the sun will shine stronger than you’ve ever experienced in Laos and, once you get to the little shack in the dried up rice fields, you’ll retreat under the pillars of the little house and watch your guide falling to an inebriated sleep. Not long after he’ll get up and tell you he’ll prepare lunch out of some freshly gathered plants and leaves and will ask you what else you’d like to have for lunch. Being totally full from the breakfast two hours prior and having no clue as to what is possible to eat off the Lao ground, you’ll lift your shoulders and shrug in surprise and blankness but then you’ll remember the flowers you’ve seen on your trek, which your guide told you were edible (although he also said that those spiders as big as your palm were eatable as well) and you’ll ask for a healthy flower meal. You’ll go pick up the fallen flowers from a nearby tree and, after you’ve gathered enough, you’ll go back to prepare your picnic.

On a burning bamboo stick fire your guide and your host (who came prepared with some pots and a machete and the mandatory lao lao plus tiny glasses) will cook the plants to a boiling soup and will grill the flowers which they’ve previously filled with a mixture of mashed-up flowers, ginger and chilli. They’ll prepare the table on cut and washed banana leaves and make chopsticks out of green bamboo shoots, filling the glasses with lao lao and mixing another set of plants into a fresh salad. Top it all with a bamboo jug of sticky rice and you’re off.

You’ll eat just a little, favoring the salad soup, because everything has incredible amounts of chilli anyway but mostly because the fresh salad is not to your taste and the flowers are, if anything other than fleshy, bitter. But you’ll play along and convincingly attest to the deliciousness of everything.

As all the gathering, cooking and eating kept you busy until around 12, you’ll soon start your trek of the day, on the same type of orange dirt road (more like mud road because of last night’s storm) and prepare for a short two hour walk to the main road. From there another two kilometers will get you to Buen Neua, a village 41 km away from Phongsali from where you’re supposed to take the bus back. You’ll remember the guy at the booking office saying that the first day of the tour will cover the moderately difficult part of the trek while the second day will be an easy trekking day. Alas, the atrocious march you’ll have to go through during the second day will never – on your list – make an ‘easy’ trek day: walking in the purest, shiniest sun on a winding road after you’ve had some lao lao, all before noon is anything but easy. You’ll pray to unknown evil forces – mainly because those would have your soul, which you’re convincingly willing to give – that this part of the trek is over sooner and you don’t have to fight the forces of nature (mainly earth and sun) any more. To top it all off, your guide will be in such a state of drowsiness from way too many shots of lao lao that he’ll request several breaks along the way and every time you’ll resume, it will be more and more difficult to get your soaking wet backpack on and start marching again.

The glorious end of all this will be the penetrating sound of a bus horn, which will mean that the main road is close by and you’ll almost kiss the asphalt once you reach it. Still, the matter of catching the bus will still be a tricky one because you’ll do anything in your power to avoid the last walking kilometers. The guide will come to your rescue as he’ll call a friend from nearby Boun Neua who’ll drive his motorbike to where you’ll be waiting and graciously cede his bike so that your guide can drive you to the bus station and only afterwards return to get him (and yes, those two kilometers will be measured in Lao distance!)