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.
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