Why I Love Yoga

I love yoga. I love yoga more, now that I don’t practice it a lot. I love it so much because of all the contortionist moves I have to make to get to sit on one of those nasty bus benches. At least I got a seat on the Pyay – Pakokku bus, the last one available but one of the best in the house: behind the bus driver in a bus designed for left-sided driving in a right-sided driving country (apparently, the Burmese, in a violent attack of asserting their independence switched from left-sided driving to right-sided driving practically overnight; what they forgot was to change their whole fleet of right-sided driving vehicles, which makes everything a whole lot more interesting).

To get such a bus from point A to point B on tiny, narrow, potholed little roads is an art, which requires at least 3 people: the driver per se, who is quite important but not as important as the left-view-mirror-and-overtaking man, who stands propped on the bus door’s step (left side) and shouts at other traffic participants (mostly bicycles and motorcycles) to get out of the way and tells the driver when it’s safe to overhaul big trucks (because the driver can’t see); and the man in charge of minor issues like, for instance, passengers. Some get down but most of them get on and it’s always a surprise that there still is space for them inside the bus. This third man is in charge of money and seating people and his job mostly involves shouting at passengers inside to make space for the newcomers. There are always newcomers.

So you’ve got people seated neatly on seats on either side of the bus with their bags under the seats or in their laps, tons of bags and packages on the aisle and another bunch of people on top of the things on the aisle. Imagine all this on wheels. Now imagine all this on wheels in sharp turns. And now imagine all this on wheels, in sharp turns with potholes and incoming traffic on a road that barely fits a bus and a car next to each other. Just another normal day in Burma. There are left-sided cars and right-sided cars and it’s fun to get at a bus station and laugh at the people who are not sure on which side of the bus are they supposed to get up (those ‘people’ would be me most of the times). Still, I’m not sure which lane is the fast lane: in cities it seems that the fast lane is the one on the right side, closest to the sidewalk and the slower motorcycles drive almost in the middle of the road. Outside cities the story is the other way around. Thankfully, there is not so much traffic in this country. I don’t think there are many rules either.

Back on the bus, I was seating quite uncomfortably next to a sullen Burmese woman with heavy eyelids with my knees wedged sharply in the board that divided the seating space (created for gnomes) and the driver’s area (a lounge compared to my space). She was standing next to the window, the perpetually open window (as was the door and all the other windows) because air needs to be conditioned somehow and, lacking air-con, this would have to do. Next to me on the aisle was what appeared to be sacks of something covered with a big canvas. Before we left Pyay we stayed in the parking lot bored and sweating on the bus while a man advertised (as he would later explain to me especially) some kind of medicinal good-for-everything powder-in-a-can, which people actually bought so we could go our way. I hadn’t expected the potholes and neither were my knees, which suffered greatly throughout the journey; oh, yeah, and it had been hinted to me that the journey would last about 11 hours. But I only had to contort for about 8 hours, as the Burmese woman stopped in some city and I took her place, which was not even slightly better. Still, the fact that at least to my right I had a solid non-breathing surface made the trip a lot better.

And now to the bus people, the trio I mentioned earlier, immensely valuable to the bus ride. The bus drivers: two of the three, interchangeable by no apparent pattern, betel-chewing, loud-speaking, shiny-brown Burmese, who had fun at the expanse of the entire bus by driving faster than the road would have allowed it, honking for no apparent reason, and turning on the numerous sparkling Christmas-like lights in the bus, just to keep you awake. And the third man, keeping up with the first two, sometimes jumping out of the rolling bus to buy new betel for him and the drivers, while the bus eventually stopped and waited filled with silent prayers that we would soon be on our way, so that at least there’s some breeze blowing – my silent prayers, of course.

We stopped for dinner. Everyone got off the bus and, along with the passengers from two or three other busses, shuffled hurriedly to the toilets and the restaurant. Every meal was brought incredibly fast and similarly finished: 20 minutes later we were back on the bus, bouncing towards our destination. But at the next stop some 3 hours later, the bus drivers discovered me. They were amazed by the fact that I smoke and therefore I had the honour to have a seat at the bus drivers’ table, where they got free coffee, tea, cigarettes and betel from the owners of the respective place and were delighted to share it with me. I sat with them, unable to communicate one bit, watching them as they stole glances at me while obviously commenting on some of my features. They laughed a lot. I didn’t.

But back on the bus, the third man (who took the seat next to mine once the Burmese lady was gone) offered me his chilled, brand new bottle of water with a straight face that said more something like ‘you need it’ than ‘it’s my pleasure to offer you this gift as a token of our nations’ friendship.’ Still, cold water seemed like a gift from heaven.

Once we got to Pakokku all three bus people were very careful to give me my backpack and ask me where I would go and what I would do. Once they got the idea more through sign language than actual speaking, they looked for a motorcycle taxi to take me at the guesthouse. But, as luck would have it, this one knew enough English to tell me that that particular guesthouse was inexistent in Pakokku and that I should better go to another one – he would take me. ‘But,’ I said, ‘it’s here, look! That’s the street name…’ And, sure enough, the bus people convinced him to stop it with the commission-hunting and take me to my guesthouse.

This only means that my waking up the whole guesthouse was only possible because of the nice bus people. And because of yoga. 

Burmese Dwellers

So we’re one week in Burma and what is there to say? Well, a lot, actually, but it’s hard to get everything neat and settled. I do have some highlights or at least a couple of eyebrow-raising facts about Burmese dwellers.

For one, I can honestly say from personal experience that Burmese crows can tell foreigners from locals and that’s not only smart but also very annoying. There might also be something called ‘being in the wrong place at the wrong time’ or, better yet, ‘being the only person in the wrong place at the wrong time’, which is to say that maybe crows don’t really have anything against foreigners. But there are a lot of locally bred crows. And, as with any respectable tourist, I had to see this Yangon (Rangoon) lake, where apart from the 6 o’clock mosquitoes, there is the 6 o’clock crow invasion into the trees around the lake. I was strolling peacefully, looking for a good place to sit down in the grass and admire the sunset but the crows were having none of it. They stalked me, droning and flapping above me and, for the sake of my clothes and my happiness I surrendered and sheepishly went looking for a treeless spot.

But really, the ones that do have a chronic dislike for foreigners are the dogs, not all, mind you, but some so the best thing to do (which I started doing right after a dog chose to yap at me and chase me away from a Buddhist monastery no less) is to avoid eye contact or, for that matter, any other type of close contact with any dogs.

I left Yangon (Rangoon) to go to Pyay, a small town on the Ayeyarwady River (tongue-twister, right?) all the while reading George Orwell’s Burmese Days. And apart from the main character’s name (Flory), what struck me was the first description from the first chapter: the enormously huge persona of the soon-to-be villain of the book, an old Burmese guy who had trouble getting up from a chair because of his, ahem, spherical form. And sure enough, as I arrived at the guesthouse, an enormously huge Burmese guy greeted me and showed me to my room on the top floor of his guesthouse, a place he reached panting and sweating and only once throughout my entire stay. And when I stepped out in search for something to eat, he stopped me and showed me what he had to offer: services as motorcycle and tour guide to the pagodas in town; services as motorcycle and tour guide to the pagodas outside of town; motorcycle rental (which is not yet done in Myanmar so it might have been a little on the close-encounter-with-the-police-and-not-liking-it side); bicycle rental; bus and minibus tickets to wherever, etc. That’s how he became the villain of my day, as he wouldn’t stop advertising every service known to man and I was really starving. The next day though, he became my personal hero, for I asked him where I could find Indian food and, possibly because it was easier than explaining, he jumped on his motorcycle (that’s an overstatement) beckoning me to get on and he promptly gave me the grand tour of the three Indian restaurants in the city.

I also had another benefactor on my way to Pyay: an elderly Burmese chap, teacher of some sort (he said English teacher but I still have trouble believing it), who sat next to me on the bus, and bought me a can of Coke (which I had to drink, for it would have been rude to refuse) and paid for our trip from the bus station to his house and my guesthouse respectively. A $2 ride which he paid all by himself and didn’t even listen to my pleas of pitching in…

I arrived in Pakokku and went straight to the guesthouse recommended by the Lonely Planet (which, only just this time, did not disappoint me). But it was 5 o’clock in the morning and I was quite sure that everyone was still asleep at the guesthouse. When I tried to explain this to the motorcycle driver that brought me from the bus station, he would not listen and started honking, so he’d be sure I wouldn’t be left stranded in the alley. Eventually, I shooed him away and decided to wait for an hour or so until somebody would get up. But my plan was terminated as the next door neighbour saw that I was waiting and came running to my help. In spite of all my objections he started yelling through the front door and in a minute everybody was up. This is how I startled a wonderful old lady (the best English speaking Burmese I’ve met so far), who keeps her guesthouse for more than 30 years now and whose whole-hearted and calm manners charmed me like they charmed the Lonely Planet fellows. Needless to say I don’t think I very much charmed her…

Before ending I just want to put things in perspective with the thing I have to deal with every day: I got at a Tea and Cold place:

‘Coffee please’. That’s how I usually do it.

And the inevitable answer: ‘One?’

‘Water please.’ That’s another thing I ask for.

‘One?’

‘Beer please.’ It’s one of the things I also order, albeit not at the Tea and Cold places.

‘One?’

…

Well, Burmese people, you are more insightful than I thought but my other personalities don’t wish to join me for drinks.

I Have Been Kicked Out

Yup, I have. Meaning that they really wanted me out of Yangon (Rangoon) – one should always write both names, just in case somebody is not confused enough.

When I checked in at the guesthouse in Yangon (Rangoon), I was indeed very happy to have found such an affordable bed in a dormitory, although I was definitely not prepared to deal with the dormitory type of people: loud and disrespectful. And also young. Very young. Yes, I’ve reached a point in life when people around me start looking way too young. Either that or I look ridiculously old compared to them…

Anyway, I had a great time in Yangon (Rangoon): I visited pagodas where the entrance would cost a local person an arm, a leg and his firstborn, the only thing being that they don’t have to pay at all; I walked around the streets during an incredible heat, the type that makes you wish you were born without sweat glands so that you don’t make a fool of yourself when you stop and, all of a sudden, a small lake appears right at your feet and you try not to look as embarrassed as you feel; I talked to Burmese people, who, if they can or cannot speak English, they’ll try communicating with you no matter what (first question: ‘Which country you from?’ – see, they’re a higher class compared to the Thai ‘Whe you flom?’ Second question: ‘What is your religion?’ – just so you know they care about your spiritual growth). To draw the line: two days well spent. But as soon as I got back to the guesthouse, I would inevitably be greeted with the same questions: ‘You don’t go?’ or ‘When you leave?’ or ‘You stay one more day? Yeah? Really? Oh, shucks…’

What does this mean? I thought to myself several times. Why do they want me gone? Do I dislike them so much? Damned if I know. So when I finally told them I was leaving, they were actually happy, although I think they were happier for them as they were for me.

And the lady with the tickets? Ah, well, she’s on the same page. I tell her I want a bus ticket on the 10^th or even 11^th and she says no. Impossible. Last available ticket: ‘day number 9.’ Crap!

Let’s get one thing straight: the people from the guesthouse were the only, err, how should I put this… irritating people around. (Them and the ticket lady, who was really nice. Only she also wanted me out of the city.) The others were (and are still) exceptionally nice and I dread the moment when I’ll be too tired to smile or talk to them. Hell, I actually spent 45 minutes talking to this guy (he shall have a whole post… or maybe just a paragraph) while standing close to some Buddha statue’s feet… standing! We didn’t sit down, we just chatted away in the temple, me hopelessly waiting to take a picture of the Buddha’s feet while there was still some light outside (didn’t happen), he seriously explaining his life story and inviting me to see his monastery… definitely a paragraph if not two!

Definitely didn't happen!

And the other guy, who accosted me while I was writing emails on the cell phone in the greatest pagoda in Myanmar (Wi-Fi generously donated by I-Cannot-Remember-The-GSM-Company-Name) and, when I answered his how-old-are-you question, he said ‘Oh, you small. Very small.’ How can you compete with that? Huh, how can you, Okinawa 2 Guesthouse people? Yeah, I’m not gonna miss you either.

Too Much Time

Yup, too much time to think things over and to be able to get to the level of paranoia one can only envy…

Because I get to Bangkok International Airport and everyone scrambles out of the plane, changing shape from contorted lemurs to actual human beings (well, the Russians – of which there are so many – stay basically the same). And I think to myself ‘man, I should get my luggage, if, that is, it arrived’. But no, they point me to the ‘Visa on Arrival’ counter. And as I slalom through the specially erected corridor of tape, I see that before me there stands a great sea of young Indians or Pakistani, all waiting to get their visas on arrival.

I get out my passport, a picture and while waiting I fill in an application form. And that’s three things out of 7 on the list. Because I now see that there are 7 steps to follow and another two are ‘patiently wait in line’ and ‘give documents to officer’. But there’s one step which gives me the willies: ‘attach flight ticket out of Thailand’. Hmm, this one I don’t have. And so I wait. And while waiting (a lot!) I increasingly think about that damned ticket. What if they don’t give me the visa because I have no ticket out of the country? What if they make me go back? Back to where? How will I get my luggage that made it safe and sound inside Thailand…?

Tough 20 minutes, I tell you. And then I get in front of the officer, who, at an obvious advanced age, with trembling hands but mesmerising smile, takes the papers I have and starts leafing through them.

‘Yes’, he says. ‘Whele is ticke?’

‘What ticket?’ I ask, looking as docile as a new-born lamb.

‘Ticke flom Bangkok to Lomania.’

‘Well, no have ticke. I no go Lomania. I go Burma. I only come Bangkok for Burma visa.’

‘Need ticke. No possible Bangkok withou ticke…’

And so it goes on for at least 10 minutes throughout which he simply smiles his hypnotising smile and I go through a myriad of emotions from pleading to flirting to looking desperate. And then, just like he only wanted to fool around with my mental sanity, he smiles elfishly and scribbles something on my application and then tells me to wait at the next counter. So, together with the 60 or so Indians, I wait. And again have more than enough time to think about what that little written blob from my application actually means and how will the next officer react when he sees me and what if he asks me again about my outgoing ticket…? Suffice is to say that not even the Chinese drop could be as much of a torture for me as that was.

Of course, after the next 30-40 minutes or so I get to the next counter, where a nice young Thai lady warmly welcomes me in Thailand.

After I thought all the mental games are over, I have to go to the Myanmar Embassy to go through almost the same process. But. 

First of all, I arrive quite late and there’s literally a heap of people who are waiting for exactly the same thing but who've already filled in their applications. Secondly, I’m not really sure what I have to do. Apparently, I have to have my passport ready, two photos and a filled-in application form for the visa. But the form drives me nuts. And then the paranoia kicks in. Colour of hair, colour of eyes, height, skin complexion… But only after this does the real fun start. Religion? Wow, what should I say? Should I be completely honest and tell them I’m orthodox? They might look at me funny and maybe they’ll refuse my application. Maybe there are not so many Christian orthodox people applying… damn! I’ll only be Christian. As I turn the application form around, I remain agog about the following questions: current job title; describe your attributions; previous job title; describe your attributions. I’ve heard that jobs like journalist and writer are not very well seen but I think I can impress them if I write something along the lines of PR Officer. But as I fill in the job description, I realize it’s not that far from the attributions of, say, a journalist. But my time is running out and I can’t get another form. So I give my documents at some counter, they again scribble something on them and give them back to me along with a number. When my number will be called, I will be able to give the documents (and money) for a visa. And I wait. And I see people that have been turned around and didn’t get to leave their documents, which to me it means that they have been refused.

Long story short, I have two hours to sweat blood and think about what the refusal for the visa looks like. Do they write in big red letters on your passport ‘NO VISA!’ or can you try again in a couple of days? Do they shout at you and show you off at the other people, saying ‘See? This is what you’re not supposed to do…’? When I finally get to the counter, the nice lady asks me when I want to get my visa and I say 3 days later. ‘Then please give me 810 baht.’ And that’s it. My hands still trembling, I look at her and don’t even realize that she slips me a piece of paper that could be a receipt and waves me off. I only see what’s written on the paper when I get back home:

Lovely, isn’t it? Romania is giving them 810 baht and nothing more. Damn this waiting time and damn their mind games!!!

It's Aliiive!

Yeah well, just like Frankenstein's monster (although, as i recall, Frankenstein had no internet... or blog), it's alive and i'm back. To stress you with my wrong-doings which might even do some right once in a while.

Right now i'm in Bangkok waiting for my Myanmar visa and i'm staying at this old guesthouse close to Kao San Road, the main tourist area in Bangkok (for anyone who's interested it's the Original Central Guesthouse, 61st Tanao Road, really close to the New Central Guesthouse). And i can't resist not showing everyone what my hosts are doing. So please watch (and conceivably like) this video they've created with their cats. Just a heads-up: there's not just one such video. If you check out the uploader's profile, you'll find some more...

Enjoy!

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This looks like a good day for driving yet another 100 km. Let’s see if Mike is going to be able to get himself together and if this freaky junction village has another joint to have some coffee ‘cause I could sure use some with all this food I’ve been not having lately. And then, maybe even find the right way to go on...

Hey, it only took us an hour to actually get started but at least I had some coffee and now I’m ready to go! And look at the other white people on bikes, which can only mean that we’re on the path to salvation, or, at least to the next stop. Oh, how I wish to get Mike to move faster and maybe stretch it a little bit and drive up to Tham Kong Lo today so that we’ll have less to drive tomorrow... Now that would be a nice thing: for once, I wouldn’t have to wake up this early and just take my time. Well, all in due time. For now, let’s drive!

Hmm, it appears that this rocky dirt road is not that bad and I can almost drive normally. Cool. Wait a minute! Did I put some sunscreen on? Although it doesn’t matter much because I’ll be orange anyway, although it will be from the dust and not the sun. This is what ‘safety first’ means, not that silly helmet that Mike always insists on tying tight around his head. And, if you think about it, driving with no shirt on, as he does – men and their tans! – is far more dangerous than driving with the helmet untied, as I do. Well, at least my skin won’t peel like that of a moulting gecko and like it once did. But I don’t want to remember that. It could make an interesting blog post but there definitely has to pass more time until I can actually think about that.

And look at that! So this is the ‘environmental disaster zone created by the recent flooding of the Nam Theun 2 dam’ that the prick of a guidebook was talking about. It really looks amazing. I guess I have enough time to stop and take some pictures until Mike gets here. And even if he does stop, I’ll catch up with him soon.

What the hell is wrong with the bike? Something’s definitely off but I don’t understand what. Could it be this gravely road we’re driving on? Damn! I should stop and check the bike because not being able to take curves is not my style. Oh, yeah, cool: another flat tire! How come everything’s going wrong for me these days?! Well, at least Mike is here, not that he can be of any help but at least I can shout at someone. Bad self-joke, I know... Anyway, let’s see how we can go about this: there’s nothing here, except this ‘environmental disaster zone created by the recent flooding of the Nam Theun 2 dam’ so trying to fix the tire here is totally out of the question. Which only leaves me with driving like this ‘till we get to some village or someone that can help. Let’s see now... oops, too fast. This piece of Chinese metal doesn’t want to do what I say any more. Slower... Okay, it looks like I’m getting the hang of it and I can think about some people who could actually appreciate my skills. Even I’m impressed by this. And I actually imagined something like this a lot, only getting the flat tire while driving really fast and on some blacktop back in Romania. Well, this will have to do. But why in the name of unnamed higher forces did this have to happen here: there are so many ups and downs and hairpin bends and I could have had so much more fun with a bike that’s properly equipped and with enough atmospheres in its tires...

This looks like it could be one of those villages made for people displaced by the flooding that the guidebook was describing. Well, this is my chance. How was that again? Yang hua, right? Flat tire. But I’m sure I’m not the first... and they actually have a proper workshop! Oh, how could I have imagined it would be that easy?! Of course they’re out for lunch. And of course we’ll have to wait, who knows how long... At least he’s a fast one. And nice enough to line the tire with another piece of rubber so that the tube will be protected from further mishaps. Yeah, man, I know, you don’t have to explain... I know the tire is bad but hopefully you did your job well and I’ll stop having bad luck from now on.

Well, look at that! We’ll have to ‘datour’ from the dirt road onto some dirt road... now this is a change. But the scenery is something I’d love seeing every day; granted, not with the bike’s seat imprinted on my butt and I really have to stop thinking about it for a while, maybe the pain will go away. How did I do this driving-a-motorcycle for so long without ever thinking about the pain of countless of hours of sitting down? Maybe bigger bikes have bigger seats or something. Let’s get back to what’s important: which Disney soundtrack was I singing now? Oh, if only Mona were here, she could recite all the lyrics I forgot... oh, well. Caaaaan you feel the love toniiiight...

So, if all the surroundings look like this, than that’s how I probably look like. Hmm, a small price to pay! And it seems that the dirt road is finally over and we’re not that late right now. It’s bound to be smooth sailing from now on!

Wow, now this is what I call driving! This road totally rocks! And the curves and the ups and downs... this is really exciting! I love it. And with this new skill I’ve discovered, everything’s more fun. Let’s see: this thing, I mean the motorcycle, has no clutch so if you press and hold the pedal, it actually doubles as a clutch or a neutral point and this means I can cut the engine and I can drive downhill without using gas. I only have to remember not to raise my foot from the pedal. And this thing flies 60 downhill! Should I wait for Mike or go these next 20 km on my own? This one’s a no-brainer: onwards!

This is what I call ingenuity: giving a new meaning to useless things, like, in this case, bombs. And these Lao people, who turned the bombs into boats... now that’s really something. Kind of sad, though but totally remarkable!

Aaaand here you have your sunset of the day! But it’s so cool to see it from this nice view point, meaning that all that driving uphill finally paid for something! And the whole valley looks cool, especially with this light. This is just about 10 km from the village. And, supposedly, the next 50 kilometres to Tham Kong Lo are really good. If only Mike would be willing to drive them today. I just have to wait for the perfect time to skilfully place the question (as if that’s going to do it) but at least I have to try... Okay, back in the saddle...

It appears that my knees almost stopped shaking so this is a good time to recap: I did have a whole side of a hill to overhaul that crawling bus and driving uphill behind him not only gave me another good reason for cancer from exhaust fumes but took forever. And then, on the down side, I bit the bullet and gave a try at passing him. True, the fact that I was experimenting with my no-engine method was not such a big help because it put me right in front of that SUV that was grumbling uphill exactly at the time that I got to the middle of the bus. Yes, the bus did hit the brakes, as did the SUV, but I had no power to arrow past the bus and with these brakes, there’s no way I could have slowed enough to get back behind the bus. So this is how I ended up on the grass on the other side of the road. And the grass was green, thank heavens! Well, at least all drivers smiled at me when I tried to gesture an apology (ha! The perks of being non-Lao). Note to self in CAPS LOCK: OVERTAKING REEKING BUSSES CANNOT BE DONE WITHOUT A WORKING ENGINE. Although I’m still pretty proud to use the Lao way.

Wow, the diversity: I’m really overwhelmed by the choices of food around here! What should I choose? Fried noodles with vegetables or fried rice with vegetables? Or I could go for the fried noodles... But there’s also that fried rice... With these many choices, we should have went on and driven the last 50 km but Mike was too exhausted. At least the room is nice and I didn’t hear any rats around the place as I had in other places (yeah, those ones playing or hunting or whatever above the room could have been awarded with the Most Original Place to Spot Rats award). And how can they imagine we’ll pay almost double for that room with a hot shower? News flash: this country doesn’t really need hot water save for a couple of months a year and, although right now you couldn’t say it’s actually hot in the mornings and evenings but this is totally bearable.

Well, all in all, this was a pretty good day. Except for the flat tire; and the aching butt; and the soul shaking overhaul of the crappy bus; and this sticky dirt that under no circumstances wants to get out from under my fingernails!

The Loop - Day Two part II

Save for the battered behind, the frozen fingers, the numb legs and the general dusty orange tint from the dirt not settled on the dirt road, driving a motorbike in the Lao countryside is a joy. Provided you don’t end up driving into the sunset when, as if on a special outer-sensorial queue, all the creatures of the night come to life. Especially the insects; tiny beings that don’t live to see another day swarm all over the place, especially towards something; especially towards the light; especially towards your light.

I was driving peacefully, going about 25 km/h trying to avoid crashing because of the trenches left by tractors in the moist ground, when I started thinking about finding ways to avoid the attack of the insects directed at me. Well, like I said before, the creatures were flying toward the light but I suspect most of them had a really bad aim, so they ended up bombarding my face instead. You see, I was so concentrated on getting somewhere, preferably intact, that I didn’t really register the sunset and its aftermath. The previous day I didn’t have as many problems with insects but this being truly the countryside, the number of insects increased dramatically. Also, I should have seen ‘the environmental disaster zone created by the recent flooding of the Nam Theun 2 dam’ on one side of the road, as my guidebook confidently instructed, but that also leaves a gap in my memory. There shouldn’t have been a long way to the next village and the obligatory guesthouse so I pushed on, deciding to leave Mike to tackle his own insects (although, at the impressive speed of 5 km/h, not even insects could have hit him too hard). And, as I reached the village and for the squashed bugs stuck in my eyes, night was peacefully wrapping around the freakishly quiet village.

Along came Mike 15 minutes later commanding to find the first guesthouse and stop fooling around with this driving-through-the-night-on-a-crappy-road stuff and just relax. The only problem was that we couldn’t find a guesthouse and not even an open shop, not to mention somebody who would understand what we wanted and who could have assisted us. Thus I had to use my language skills yet again and I trespassed some properties in search for someone. Kids and women, I decided, would be of no help because neither are any good at giving directions so I spotted some elderly men chatting around a fire who weren’t very impressed by us, mostly because they had difficulty seeing us through the get black unlit night. But, as soon as I put on my help face, they promptly started explaining something in the tones on ‘faaaar away’. Wait! What?! To my great joy and happiness, the village we were looking for was being pointed in the direction where we came from with the indication of something along the lines of ‘30-40 km’. Apparently, we took the wrong road at the aforementioned junction and so, ended up further inside the unseen Lao countryside. Off the beaten track, to put it mildly, eh?!

Mike bluntly refused to turn back but he soon realized that there was no other solution other than asking some chicken to move over and make room for us in their chicken coop. So I offered to drive just in front of him so that he could see where he should be driving. I’ll spare you the excruciating details of driving 5 km/h under an amazing sky full of stars (of which Mike didn’t see any because he was too concentrated on cementing his eyeballs on my rear tire) and doing everything humanely possible so as not to get bored to tears by the voyage, from standing up on the bike, singing every imaginable Disney movie soundtrack and smoking while trying to drive without hands (at one point I even decided I could light up while driving but gave up on that particular project). Two hours later we were back in the junction village and were checking in at a very respectable hotel where it sounded like they were having a marriage party (of course, the karaoke people propped the bar, as always) so we set out in search of some food; on foot, of course because neither of us wanted to get their lower parts back on any bike seats sooner than necessary. And there was some food indeed: the only open place we found was serving only barbecued meat and didn’t even have any rice for that matter.

‘This is how one becomes an alcoholic’ I reasoned while ordering another beer and watching Mike sharing a nice barbecue dinner with the local dogs. With our bellies full (some of us with food, while others with nausea-causing beverages), we went back to the hotel where we planned to crash the party plundering everything until I would find something to quench the thirst of my recently swallowed beers. Simple: I would go out and smoke a cigarette and incidentally stroll towards the area where people were singing before and now just cheerfully chatting away and, surely they will not be able to restrain their curiosity and would invite me over. And sure enough, it was exactly what happened. So I sailed right in the scene where the only English speaking person out of a group of about a dozen Lao, was a nice young Lao lady, who asked me the usual while handing me – surprise! – a beer. They sat me down on the mats and in a matter of seconds I became the focus point of the entire gathering.

‘And your darling not coming?’ This took me by surprise.

‘Who? Oh, Mike... well, yes, he’s coming only he’s taking a shower right now.’ To which everybody laughed as if I’d made the joke of the day. So they made me go and get Mike and then proceeded in keeping us well hydrated with beer after beer, cheerfully shutting out any possibility of me desperately needing some food. However, by this time, I was in no mood for food any more.

‘Oh, this is not marriage?’ I asked obviously confused by the reason of their happy gathering on a Tuesday.

‘No. It only because we had football match with other city.’

‘Very nice!’ I said thinking of a lot of people that I am sure would have been really impressed by this.

‘... but we lost,’ the nice girl told me equally happy. ‘So now we drink because our team so bad that not possible to beat the other team never.’ She then translated this and my joke of the day was short-lived and this new über-joke took the cake.

You might wonder how I escaped this joyous celebration without having to be dragged back to bed by someone slightly less inebriated than me. But I outfoxed them and, with the excuse of going to the bathroom, I left Mike in the loving hands of one very, very happy group of Lao people and sneaked in the room without a second thought.

Thus, day two ended with me barely hitting the bed and already cruising on the dreamland motorcycle.