The Wonders of Laos

The second of three postings from my 1999 trip to Southeast Asia

CROSSING THE MEKONG

My trip across the Mekong river began innocently enough. I entered the magic land at the friendship bridge, an Australian-built towering mass of steel and concrete that connects Thailand and Laos. The border guards were fairly mellow. $30, 2 photos and a smile were all that I needed to get through the border. The first thing I noticed was the condition of the roads. Bad. Our tuk-tuk (a passenger cab mounted behind the front end of a motorcycle or truck) kept swerving to avoid the large potholes littering the so-called "paved" road. It seemed bad at the time. I had no idea that the roads in this country would rival the worst I've ever seen in all my travels.

(the story continues on the next page....)

I entered Laos with two other travelers -- Michael (a 32 year old Australian cab driver carrying a video camera) and Parla (a 31 year old from Finland who previously worked on Finland's unsuccessful bid to host the Winter Olympics). We met at the last stop in Thailand, a town called Nong Khai located on the other side of the Mekong river. Since we were all headed in the same direction, it made sense to travel together for awhile.

VIENTIANE

Vientiane, the capital of Laos, was a let down. Dusty, dirty and not particularly interesting. Even the center of the city has unpaved streets that become mud pits during severe rains. On one street we saw a partially overturned bus on a mud bank. No one else seemed to find it unusual.

There wasn't much action in Vientiane, but I managed to find things to do. Interested in understanding the psychology of a Marxist-Leninist regime, I visited the revolutionary museum and found action photos of soldiers with captions like "the people's army fights against the running dog American imperialists and their puppet government." There were lots of NGO people, world bank staff and embassy types roaming around the streets in brand new land rovers.

Parla, Michael and I set out to find some nightlife. It was difficult. The fancy hotel did have a bar and CNN, but the place was sterile and empty. Only a group of middle-aged Italian "trekkers" seemed to be staying there. So we left after one drink and were prepared to head home until something caught the corner of our eyes. A neon light. And a faint beat pounding from behind closed doors. We eagerly entered the club looking for excitement. What greeted us was bizarre. Loads of Lao and western men flanked by female Lao "hostesses" and a live band cranking out the latest popular tunes. Lao tunes, that is. We quickly surmized that it was a bar primarily for men who want company. Out of our element, we left after a drink. But the weather had a surprise for us -- torrential rains. Luckily, a tuk-tuk was available to surf the waves back to our hotel.

I travelled in Laos during the transition between rainy and dry seasons. It rained every single day of my stay in Vientiane but didn't rain even once during my 10 day stay up north. The rain in Vientiane was savage and prolonged. Intense tropical thunderstorms that seemed to only gain energy over time. Streets turned to raging rivers and all attempts to travel were stymied by sheets of pounding water from above. Once the rain started, we found ourselves with two choices. First, wait it out. Drink another beer. Hope that it simmers down. Second, run like hell to a tuk-tuk or back to the hotel before it really starts to rain. We often opted for the first option and then faced the consequences later.

I checked my email in Vientiane. In the middle of writing a message, the network went down. When I say the network, I mean that the entire gateway to the internet for all of Laos crashed. For 12 hours, there was no service. The staff at the internet store just shrugged and smiled. Nothing to do but save the message, go get another fruit shake, and try again tomorrow. Upon my return to Vientiane three weeks later I found that the price of access dropped dramatically from about $8/hour to $2.50/hour. Quite a change. I asked the staff about the drop in price. "Competition" explained one man, citing three other internet stores in town. I asked if prices had declined in other parts of Laos. He shook his head. "No competition" he said. I guess the market does work.

VANG VIENG

After a few days in Vientiane, I was ready for the next stop. Vang Vieng. A small town transformed by the power of backpacker tourism. Located on the banks of scenic river (the Nam Pak) and in the shadow of towering dramatic mountains, Vang Vieng is a rest stop for the travel weary. Guest houses are sprouting in every back alley and banana pancakes can always be found within a 50 meter radius. I stayed for four days. Long enough to explore two caves (one of which required crawling through very narrow passages), take a tour of a local Hmong village (complete with a US-financed irrigation canal -- compensation for CIA efforts to enlist Hmongs into the battle against the North Vietnamese), and float down the river for hours in an inner tube. There were plenty of banana pancakes, fruit shakes, and ice cream sandwiches. Our guest house was run by the Khampone family. The children took care of day-to-day business -- daughters Nampu (21) and Vangon (16) along with their brother Oy. My first night, I engaged Nampu in an English lesson armed with some phrase books. She looked through the list of phrases and pointed out the question of most immediate interest -- single or married? Unfortunately, the phrasebook doesn't have a word for unmarried but in a committed relationship. So I pointed at single (Pen Sod in Lao). Nampu blushed and smiled. I got a little nervous. The English lesson then moved on to other topics.

We met alot of travelers in Vang Vieng. Vicki and Dion, two Brits off exploring for an unlimited duration, hordes of Israelis, a canadian woman who worked as a "hostess" in a Japanese bar (entertaining lonely businessmen), and a smattering of other folks. We were a veritable horde, descending on restaurants like a parade of western culture, and fairly oblivious to others.

The first day in town, I walked down the main street with an Israeli guy. He showed me around, explained how much to pay for a freshly baked cake ($0.50), and recommended a few dishes at local restaurants. While strolling the street, a small boy (maybe 8 years old) approached us and whispered something plaintively in hushed tones. The Israeli guy said no and laughed. The boy went back to his house. "Every time I pass by he offers me coffee" said Tzachi (the Israeli) with a mystified expression. Later I walked by alone and the little boy approached me again. I listened closely and waited for the coffee offer. The boy ran up and made his pitch. But it didn't sound like coffee. Instead, he was offering to sell opium. I walked on and snickered at the thought of a black market in coffee.

LUANG PRABANG

From Vang Vieng, our throng of travelers proceeded to Luang Prabang. Known
as the spiritual capital of Laos, the city is wedged into the confluence of the Mekong and Nam Ou rivers. Filled with exquisite buddhist temples and well traversed by backpackers and tourists alike, Luang Prabang is an easy place to stay and offers all sorts of interesting attractions. Waterfalls, caves, temples, banana pancakes, coconut ice cream. It's all there.

Michael, the Australian, found himself in a panic upon discovering that his favorite Australian rules football team was in the championship match. He set out determined to find a satellite linkup to watch the game. After canvassing most of the expensive hotels, he found an Australian couple who ran a restaurant in town and could get the game on their dish. Triumphant, he left us to watch his team go down in defeat. Eating at the Australian restaurant later, I asked the proprietor about world news. It had been almost a week since my last contact with the outside world. How different could things be? The woman reported, in a vague and offhand fashion, that UN peacekeepers couldn't find anyone alive in East Timor, that there had been a major earthquake in Taiwan, that the US stock market had crashed and that the dollar was tumbling lower. I began to panic. Perhaps my absence had led to a terrible collapse. How could I remain out of contact with so much happening in the world? There was nothing to do except drink another beer and hope for the best.

THE TRIP TO THE NORTH

After Luang Prabang, I split with the main group and proceeded with a subgroup into the northern reaches of the country. It was a good decision. Vicki and Dion chose to make the journey with me to the northern city of Phongsali ("Pone-sah-lee"). We passed through smaller and smaller towns, traveled by boat (slowboat and the speedboat) up the Nam Pak river, and completed the final leg on the back of a truck sliding around narrow muddy mountain roads. One highlight was my high-profile negotiation with the speedboat driver in front of two dozen other locals and the ferrymaster. The driver wanted 300,000 kip ($40) to take us upriver. Faced with this challenge, I dug deep and thought back to my negotiation coursework at Harvard Law School. Would it help me in such a foreign land? I worked with the driver, in front of all his peers, to rationalize the price of our passage. How many people are already going? What are they paying? What is the price of a full boat? I did the math by etching numbers with a rock into the paved road. The ferrymaster offered a calculator. Numbers were entered, equations computed, and finally we came up with a reasonable number -- 55,000 kip ($7) for each of us. I offered a handshake to conclude the deal. The driver shook reluctantly then turned away abruptly and walked to his boat. All the onlookers began to laugh. I felt triumphant.

We got off the boat in a very small village called Hat Sa. It was midday and blazing hot. We moved our packs into the shade and looked for transportation to our ultimate destination. A truck was parked in the middle of a few stalls. It was empty. We waited. "Asseyez-vous" called out an old man in one shack, waving his hand and motioning for us to come over. We went into the hut, drank some Lao coffee (strong, filtered brew with condensed milk) and I finally got to put my French in some practical use. This old guy must be the only person in Laos who still speaks French. Even though all official signs are in Lao and French, I had a hard time finding people who spoke the language. Maybe it was my accent.

We waited for the truck to leave for hours. Everyone we spoke with suggested a different departure time. But there was no activity at all. The sun continued to hurl its deadly rays upon us. We hunted for shade. Then, all of the sudden, 20 people piled into the back of this truck and the engine started. Sacks of rice and other goods were thrown in along with the people. We hoped for the best. The road to Phongsali was awful. Steep, muddy and deeply rutted. The truck slipped and slided around treacherous blind corners abutting steep drops that would mean certain death in the event of an unexpected twist. We were violently thrown around in the back and at times the truck almost stalled in the mud. I closed my eyes and prayed for deliverance. Two hours later, we arrived safely at our destination.

PHONGSALI

Phonsgali is at an altitude of 1400 meters which means that the views are spectacular and it gets cold at night. There is electricity only between the hours of 6-10 pm. After 10, the whole city goes completely dark and the magnificent stars rule. Needless to say, locals are early risers and there isn't any nightlife after the electricity ends. During the 6-10 o’clock window, however, the main street is fairly lively. Several houses in the city center become cinemas and charge admission for locals to enter and watch Thai or Chinese television or videos on a small screen. A few vendors sell food by the entrance. It was a fascinating scene.

Since it's close to the border with China, many of the products in local shops are of Chinese origin. Our hotel had a sign in Chinese and English and the owners watched news and dramas every night on Chinese television via their own satellite dish perched proudly atop the roof.

Not many travelers make it to this place. A few. But not enough to make the locals accustomed to seeing a western face. Little children would always stop and stare as I walked by. Every once in a while a child would run away with a look of sheer terror on their face. I was a giant walking specimen of western culture on display for everyone to see.

I wanted more. We were in hill tribe country and therefore in close proximity to indigenous peoples dressed in colorful garb living subsistence lifestyles in small mountain villages. I needed to see such a village that had not already been overrun by tourists. My chance was at hand. A local guy who bakes bread from 6-10pm every night in his electric oven had a friend who could lead such a trek. I was intrigued. My travelling companions, however, were less enthusiastic at the prospect of a strenuous hike and overnight in a tribal village. I tried to persuade them to come along, all to no avail. So I decided to go alone. Just me and the guide. It would be an adventure. Hopefully not a foolish one. I negotiated a price ($25 for the two days -- a bit steep with noone to else to share the cost, but he threw in a few loaves of bread for good measure) and packed a small daypack.

THE TREK

The trek begins 15 minutes early. I show up at the appointed spot and meet my guide, Mr. Aku. Since he can't speak any English, the introduction is brief. We set off out of the city down a dirt road. It is a cloudy, misty day. Good for hiking. Not too hot. Aku leads me down this road for about an hour and then suddenly turns down an unmarked path. The muddy trail descends rapidly. I keep an eye out for leeches. Within a few minutes several are stuck to the outside of my boots attempting to crawl up towards my warm flesh. I pick them off with leaves and continue down the trail. Aku wears only rubber flip-flops. Every few minutes he reaches down and picks leeches out from in-between his toes. It doesn't seem to bother him.

We soon reach a plateau. The views are overpowering. Aku points towards a set of mountains in the distance and says "Akha village". I have no idea where we are going. After another two hours we cross a river and stop for awhile to submerge our bodies in the cool water. I am sweating profusely at this point, my clothes soaked and my throat parched. I open the first of three bottles of drinking water and sate my thirst. Aku tells me there are only two hours left. This makes me hopeful that the end is near. I am sadly mistaken. The rest of the hike is all uphill on a steep, winding trail. Aku sometimes stops and hits nearby undergrowth with a stick. I think he is scaring away snakes. It's hard to tell.

I am worried about water. Will it be available in the village? Can I trust it? As I open the second bottle, it becomes clear that I will have no choice. At one point, I am so thirsty that I motion to a passing stream and ask Aku if it is "nam deum" (drinking water). He nods. I then fill an empty bottle with the water and drink some. We are high in the mountains, so I figure that sources of contamination are few. Of course I could be completely wrong. Aku sees me gulping down the water and takes the bottle away from me, pointing upwards and saying "Akha village". Apparently, the water isn't really that safe. So he takes the questionable water and we continue. Aku still has not had even one drink of water the whole day and doesn't seem like he's broken a sweat.

When we finally arrive in the village, I am completely exhausted. I stumble around and take in the scene. A simple collection of bamboo houses with thatched roofs perched on the side of a mountain. It's a spectacular view of lush green peaks and valleys off into the distance. As we walk through the village, people stop in their tracks to stare. Small children look up from their chores, gape at me, then quickly turn and run away. Some begin to cry. Aku explains (or so I gather) that they are afraid because of my size. It's true. Compared to the locals, I am a giant wearing strange synthetic clothing with totally unrecognizable features. I could be hostile and dangerous. I am an object of suspicion and fascination. How strange.

Aku leads me to a house. We enter through an outside door frame and I take care not to step on a large female pig nursing 8 piglets. The pigs are in an outer hallway of the house. Inside a second door is the interior. It is dark. Very dark. I can hardly see anything and trip almost immediately. This is odd because outside the sun still shines very brightly. Aku motions for me to sit down. He engages the residents in what appears to be small talk. Is it a negotiation? Are we asking permission to stay for the night? Aku stops talking and reaches for a large bamboo waterpipe. He takes a cigarette out of his bag, tears off the filter and places it in the bowl of the pipe. He proceeds to smoke the pipe at a furious pace. He continues for five minutes and then passes the pipe to a house resident who takes it up with a vengeance. I pull out some tobacco purchased at the local market and offer it to the house resident as a gift. He takes the packages, opens one, and loads the tobacco into the pipe without saying a word. He continues to smoke frantically.

I watch with interest. By this time, a small group of children have gathered inside the house and stare at me. Some scamper into the next room when I return their gaze. Others stand their ground and seem mesmerized. I smile broadly. They smile back. The situation is very weird.

The house is very simple. Dirt floor. A partial wall divides the main structure into two rooms. Cooking occurs in one room. Sleeping and hanging out in the other. Bamboo platforms are used for sleeping. A pile of stones serves as the stove. There are fires burning in each room and the air is filled with fragrant smoke. Everyone is coughing. Their coughs sound wet and thick. I remember reading about the huge health hazards posed by cooking with indoor wood fires. Even the children hack away periodically. It is a tragedy. There is nothing I can do.

Aku explains to me (using gestures), over the course of the next day, that these people are his relatives. The family includes a mother, several daughters and sons, and four or five grandchildren. The daughters, perhaps 20 years old, all walk around with their breasts partially exposed and wear traditional clothing. I am told later that women with small children expose their breasts as a sign that they are nursing. I am embarrassed to look. The women are all wearing dark indigo dresses, large earrings that descend to their breasts, and headdresses that contain flashy coins, buttons and other color decorations. The men wear t-shirts and tattered pants. One man in the house wears a t-shirt with the picture of an eagle on the front and the words "hard rock" emblazoned on his chest. I point to the words and read them out loud. He looks mystified and gives no hint of recognizing the phrase.

Aku walks me around the village. More people stop and stare. Girls form in groups and station themselves around corners of houses so that they can watch me and then quickly retreat when I glance in their direction. Other children, mostly boys, stand in the center of the village and play a game with hand-held tops. One boy winds a string around his wooden top, releases it onto the ground, and then the other boys throw their tops in an attempt to knock over the first one and leave theirs spinning. I watch for awhile and then motion to one boy that I would like to try. He gives me his top. I wind it up and throw it. It lands upside down and the whole crowd explodes with laughter. I laugh too. It's pretty funny. I try again and it lands rightside up. This time the children just smile.

It is nearing sundown and people are busy preparing dinner. The women, that is. Men just stand around and seem to be loafing. At one point, a bird swoops down and flies over the middle of the village. All the people stop and gaze on it for a moment, then call out to others. I assume that they, like me, are entranced with the bird's beauty. I am wrong. The assembled group begins to run around excitedly and starts hurling objects at the bird. They see it as food and are excited about killing it. The bird is not clued into their intent. It continues to sail around the village. Children and adults throw rocks and sticks at the bird, which zigs and zags without being touched. People are now yelling and creating a ruckus. Mothers are cheering on their sons. A boy with a slingshot keeps firing away but missing. I am rooting for the bird. After awhile, it leaves unscathed and the villagers go back to their business.

Dinner consists of eggplant with basil, some bitter greens, a stew with small river crabs and plenty of rice. I eat with the men, including Aku, while the women sit out of view. The food is alright, and I know that my every move is being watched so I make sure to eat everything. When I am full, I put the bowl down and rub my stomach. The mother reappears and motions at me. It is the universal symbol to eat more. I cannot say no. I keep eating until uncomfortably stuffed. She looks pleased.

At night, Aku takes me around to other huts in the village. We stay only for a short time in each one, long enough for me to observe the typical activities of the villagers. Most are lying around, having just eaten dinner. Some are nestled in corners smoking opium or tobacco. Others are making clothing or working on other projects. At each one, the children line up and stare at me. I can see eyes peering through cracks in the walls. I pretend not to notice.

The stars are brilliant. I can see the milky way galaxy and thousands of stars that aren't normally visible in places with electricity. It is amazing. We go back to the first house and go to sleep. Before sleeping, I remove my contact lenses to a standing room only crowd. They are amazed by this trick. I roll the lense in my hand to show it to them. It's not clear whether they understand its purpose. Other toys brought along are similarly fascinating, like my maglite flashlight with an alterable beam, my swiss army knife and my indiglo(tm) timex watch. Even my synthetic moisture-wicking shirt attracts attention.

I am lying on a rug surrounded by five or six others. One boy has his foot in my face. Aku rolls over in the middle of the night and places his head on my shoulder. I am prepared for this lack of personal space and cope with it. My sleep is deep and restful.

The next day is more of the same. Staring and observing. I manage to persuade a few of the boys to slap my hand. They do and then run away. It's as much as they can take. Aku and I leave to trek back. I wave goodbye and the villagers go back to their daily routine. I am nothing more than a temporary diversion from normal life.

The hike back is long and hard. I am exhausted upon returning to Phonsgali and happy to take a shower. Even if the bathroom is dirty and the water is cold. It doesn't matter. I have survived the trek.

THE RETURN TO CIVILIZATION

I hoped to leave the next day on the journey back to Vientiane. I had four days before needing to be in the capital, so it seemed like the timing wouldn't be a problem. But I woke up in the morning woozy and faint. Something was definitely wrong. The floor swayed ever so slowly. The outdoor lighting was too bright. I needed to be close to a bathroom. No travelling today. The rest of the day was a haze of sleep and minimal consciousness. Probably due to something I had eaten the night before.

I felt better the next morning and brought my pack down to the "bus station" at 7:00am. It was a small shack near the market with a sign and a ticket seller. I bought the ticket ($4 -- foreigners price) for the ride and waited to leave. An hour later, nothing had happened. Then the ticket seller walked up to me and waved her hands. She took my ticket, gave me back the money, and closed the door. No bus today. Since not enough people had shown up, the bus would stay parked. Welcome to traveling in Laos.

The bus did leave the next day. It was a brutal 9+ hour ride over half-destroyed dirt and paved roads. It wasn't really a bus but rather a Chinese truck with thinly padded planks lining the back compartment. The back was mostly filled with bags of rice, a few chickens and other stuff. I was lucky that there were only 10-15 passengers for most of the ride. Not being cramped was a luxury. But the road was so bad that I had to hold onto a steel rail suspended overhead for most of the trip to avoid being thrown around the compartment. At the same time, I kept my head low to avoid smashing it into the steel rail. It was a wild ride. My butt was very sore by the end.

The next day I found a bus going all the way back to Vientiane. A real bus with actual seats. I felt very lucky. The relative comfort allowed me to finish "The Monkey Wrench Gang" by Edward Abbey. A good motivational book for my radical environmental spirit. But unlike the characters in Abbey's book, I didn't feel like blowing up any bridges or destroying roads. Instead, I was praying for good roads, reliable machines and a safe journey. The trip mostly consisted of winding mountainous roads with spectacular views and blind corners. The driver would honk before taking each corner in the hopes that any oncoming traffic would hear the noise and take cover. I stopped paying attention after awhile since it only served to make me extremely nervous. This nervousness was compounded by the driver's failure to use the headlights until it was completely pitch black outside. Perhaps he thought it saved gasoline. We got a flat tire midway through the trip. Two boys worked with the driver to replace the wheel and we got on our way within 30 minutes. No problem. The entire journey took 16 hours before terminating in Vientiane at 12:30 in the morning. I checked into my hotel, waking the night guard, and collapsed.

Vientiane seemed like a cultural mecca after my time in the north. I could get cold drinks, a massage, and even pizza. It all felt very decadent.

THE FRISBEE

At the last minute before leaving the States, I got a frisbee for travelling. 175 grams of aerodynamically shaped plastic. The disc made its first appearance in Vang Vieng. Dion, Vicki and myself walked down to a local schoolyard and started tossing the frisbee near the entrance. At first, a few children came over to stare. Then a few more. Within ten minutes, a large crowd of children in their school uniforms had gathered to observe our antics. One finally motioned for us to come inside the schoolyard. We walked inside. We started throwing to the children but only a few would dare to touch the frisbee. But within minutes all hesitation disappeared and chaos reigned. Throngs of children circled us begging for the frisbee. We threw to each other and purposely let it drop a few times. The kids dove for the disc and took great pleasure at throwing it in the air. Not in any particular direction. So the crowds increased and we began to feel like it was time to leave. There must have been over 100 children clamoring to play. Too many for a fun and safe game. So we took the frisbee and walked back to our hotel. For the rest of our stay in Vang Vieng, children would walk past me and gesture for the frisbee. It seemed to have made quite an impression.

We took the frisbee out again in other places with similar results. Kids loved it. I made sure that girls got to throw and watched each time as the children went from shy and reserved to full participants in the fun. We were all smiling and laughing so much that my face began to hurt. It has proved to be a great way to interact with children and even involve some adults.

THE CHILDREN

The best part of traveling in Laos was the children. Big broad smiles and friendly faces were the norm. Sometimes when I would walk past a group of children, they would start waving and yelling out excitedly. When passing by in a bus, a group of sleepy kids would see my face and immediately jump up and scream. The most common refrain was "sabadee hello ok" shouted as both a statement and question. "Sabadee" is a typical Lao greeting. I would repeat "sabadee ok" as the proper response. Some would come close to touch me while others kept a respectful distance. A few even dared to give me a high-five.

Children have a variety of interesting games to keep themselves amused. One involves using one sandal as a projectile and throwing it at a pile of money placed about 10 meters away. Any money dislodged from the pile by the shoe belongs to the thrower. They usually placed 100 kip notes in the pile (worth around 1 cent). Another common amusement consisted of running alongside old tires while pushing them with sticks to keep them upright. I took a turn at times while the children watched with great interest.

Playing with children was so enjoyable that I would often spend great parts of a day simply seeking them out. Unlike in the US, children are not discouraged from playing with strange adults. The parents sometimes look on and smile. Everyone was happy.

MASSAGE

It was in Luang Prabang that I also had my first taste of asian massage. An old college friend of mine met up (by arrangement)with us at the guesthouse we had taken over. She suggested a sauna and massage. I readily agreed.

At the local red cross they run an herbal sauna every night. I sat in the sauna, sweat and steam covering every pore, wondering why people in tropical climates enjoy relaxing in even hotter places. Woozy with heat overload, I stumbled back onto the porch where people sat drinking tea. It felt refreshingly cool. I was relaxed. The heat no longer bothered me. I understood the magic. Then the massage. One hour of pounding, kneading and oiling. It felt good. Afterwards, I was left in an altered state. Somewhere between sleep and a post-exercise endorphin high. There was no need for me to speak (a first) and I was free to simply observe. Even in this strange dreamlike state, I did manage to talk with some other travelers, two Germans who had just traveled from Europe via the Trans-Siberian railroad and then down through China. They passed along tips about finding the local black market currency exchange.

The second massage was also good. But my masseuse seemed to take a heightened interest in me. He remarked on my "beautiful smile" while massaging my buttocks. I started talking about my girlfriend. I'm not sure that he understood. The third massage ended with the massage girls asking me if I was married.

Thus began my relationship with massage. I've had a few more since the first. With the average price at around $2.50 for an hour, it's easy to justify the experience. Upon returning to the states, I'll have to work on teaching Linda the requisite skills.

MOVING ON

I completed my adventure to Lao with a flight to Hanoi. Arriving in Hanoi, the differences were stark and instantly apparent. Travelling in Vietnam is a far cry from the sedate pace of Laos. But more on Vietnam in my next travelogue.

Click here for the entire story...

A Day in the Life

The first of three postings from my 1999 trip to Southeast Asia

Today was a good day.

It began when I awoke early. It was around 6am. Too early. There was no reason to be up at this time. I went back to sleep until 8am. As I slowly roused from sleep, a strange sound became audible. After a minute, it was clearly distinguishable as the sound of a military commander giving orders to his troops. The hotel must be under attack. I got nervous. My door was locked, but it would be no defense against marauding soldiers hell-bent on finding tourists loaded with cash.

I looked out my window into the courtyard behind the hotel. A team of uniformed soldiers stood motionless in a line as their commander barked out commands. They turned left. They turned right. They assumed a relaxed position. They got tense and rigid. They did not appear to be on the verge of attacking the hotel. I decided to proceed with my business as if nothing was wrong. It was the correct decision.

(the story continues on the next page....)

A short time later, armed with my small daypack (containing all the essentials for a day trip) and a bag filled with silk and cotton fabrics, I left the hotel and walked out onto the streets of Khorat. Khorat is a mid-sized city in the northeast of Thailand. There is nothing that particularly distinguishes the city and few travelers stop here. Which is why I decided to spend a few days in this place. It turned out to be a good call. I've gotten stares, smiles, laughs and curious looks from all sorts of people. My visit fortuitously coincided with a two-day silk festival complete with elaborate dance performances in full traditional dress. In two days of walking around this city, I had seen just two other Western faces. A far cry from the backpacker ghetto in Bangkok. English is not widely spoken here. I've had to rely on a combination of hand signals, mispronounced words from the phrasebook, intuition and a smile.

My first stop of the day was the post office. I found it without too much trouble (thanks to the English sign on the outside -- "Post Office") and proceeded inside to the main area. They had a box for me to use and the clerk showed me how to wrap the package with string. He did not speak English. We used hand gestures and had surprisingly little trouble communicating. It wasn't hard to figure out that I was trying to send a package. It was the Post Office after all. Then he quoted me a price of 2600 Baht (~$70) to send the 4 kg package. I almost croaked. "Thamadaa.." I cried, reading the word for "surface" from my phrasebook. "Thamadaa" he repeated, as if to verify that this was the surface price. It seemed far too expensive, particularly given that the fabrics themselves were worth about that much combined. "Cheaper, slower" I begged. The clerk next to him was listening. "Boat?" he asked. "Yes, boat" I replied. The price was now 950 Baht (~$25). Better. "2 to 3 months" he said. I said "ok". The package went out 'by boat'. I was relieved. The first task of the day was done.

I then walked to an intersection where I was told that it is possible to get a bus going in the direction of Phanom Rung. Phanom Rung is an ancient temple built by the Khmers in the 12th century. A fellow traveler who I'd met in the last hotel told me not to miss it. Since he lived in Porter Square, graduated from Cambridge Rindge and Latin High School, and knew Matt Damon, I figured that his advice was sound. So I had gone to the bus station yesterday to get the right bus number -- The 274 to Surin. No problem. On the way to the intersection, I stopped at a school gate. There was a formal event taking place. A school marching band performed, replete in uniforms that would make any American baton twirler proud. The two lead children held a banner that read "Nakhon Ratchasima Primary School Melodious Band" in English. Strange. They played small mouth accordions by blowing into the end of a flute-like device and manipulating the piano keys with their fingers while marching in formation. I joined in the applause at the end of a rousing song. It was bizarre.

I proceeded to the intersection. A bus approached. All the writing on the front was in Thai script. No latin numbers. I got a little nervous, since I can't read Thai. It looks like Sanscrit. So I walked up to the guy at the door and said, in my best Thai accent, "Surin?" (making sure that my 'r' sounded like an 'L'). He nodded. I got in the bus, hoping that I hadn't said something nonsensical to which he could give no reply other than a nod. It was an ordinary bus. No air conditioning. Five seats to a row. An older Thai woman in the third row motioned for me to sit next to her. I did. The Thai buses have a driver and a conductor who issues tickets. While the bus is en route, the conductor traverses the length of the bus and takes payment from new arrivals. "Ban Ta Ko" I said when he approached. This was the name of the stop for Phanom Rung. He gave me a ticket and scribbled '40' on the back. I paid the 40 Baht ($1) and he continued down the bus. At the next major stop, four or five vendors boarded the bus and walked down the center aisle selling their wares -- whole barbequed chickens (with the beaks still on), drinks, fruits, sausages with cucumber, and some unidentifiable foods. I opted for drinking water (about $0.12 for a liter) and cut sections of what appeared to be a jumbo grapefruit ($0.25). The fruit was somewhat flavorless and very tough. A packet of sugar was included with the fruit. I didn't use it.

The woman next to me said a few things that I couldn't understand. I responded with a smile. She repeated the incomprehensible phrase. I surmized that she was asking about my destination. "Ban Ta Ko" I offered. She smiled back. "Nang Rong" she said, pointing to herself. I knew that Nang Rong was just before my stop and was happy because her departure would be a sign that it was almost time for me to get off.

As we plied the roads towards my destination, I glanced at the family sitting across from me. A middle-aged woman was holding one small boy while another sat beside her. The small boy was figeting and seemed very distracted. The mother said something to him, then reached into her bag and pulled out a plastic baggie. I watched out of the corner of my eye as she lifted the baggie to the child's groin, pulled aside the leg of his shorts, and held it as he peed. When he was finished, she tied the bag and put it away for safekeeping.

I had no need to worry about getting off at the right time. The conductor gave me a sign at the right place (after about 1-1/2 hours) and I exited the bus onto a desolate stretch of rural road. A boy immediately approached and said "where are you going now?" This phrase is the single most common english expression known to Thais. I have had this phrase shouted at me several times a day since my arrival. Mostly by taxi drivers. "To Phanom Rung" I said. He offered a motorcycle taxi to the ruins. I had planned to take a motorcycle and was prepared. He offered to take me to two sites and then return for 250 Baht ($7). I knew that the going price was 200 Baht and counteroffered. He countered again with 230 Baht. I told him that other travelers told me that they had paid 200. He smiled, looked a little defeated, and then said ok. I hopped on the back of a motorcyle with a driver and headed towards the ruins. The bike was sized in-between a moped and full motorcycle. I was sitting behind the driver and hoping for a safe ride. He had a helmet. No one offered me one. We travelled through farmland for about 15 minutes. The wind whipped through my hair and body, helping to evaporate the sweat that built up on my body during the bus ride. I tried to remember which way to lean at the turns. Into the turn, or away from it? I settled on leaning into the turn, hoping that my lack of familiarity with motorcycles wouldn't lead to a bad situation. We arrived at the site without incident. ""I wait for you here" he said. I pointed to my stomach and the food stalls to indicate that lunch was first on the agenda. He nodded.

Lunch was delicious. I ordered "stir fried vegetables" which interestingly also came with chicken. The sauce was light, a bit sweet and very savory. The rice was perfect.. I then made my way to the ruins. They were very impressive. A large stone temple complex with carved reliefs and a center spire covered with engravings and portraits of various gods. Very cool. It was also very hot and humid. I had to stay in the shade for comfort. There were a number of other tourists at the temple, almost exclusively Thais after a group of French people had left.. As I walked around the complex, a woman approached me and asked something in Thai. I gave a blank look. She gestured. I figured out that she wanted to take a photograph of me with her family. I obliged. Then the onslaught began. Practically every female Thai in sight waited their turn for a photograph with me. They smiled and giggled while family members and friends looked on approvingly. Jokes were made, possibly at my expense, and everyone began to laugh. I just stood there and smiled. After about 15 photographs with various women, one man walked by, said something to me in Thai, and then repeated a word in English. "Husband". I laughed myself and smiled at all the Thais. It was clearly meant to be in good fun.

At the next temple, I ran into a group of young Thai women. Again, the same drill. Photos with the group and then with each one individually. I felt bold and put my arms around their shoulders when the photos were taken. They seemed to find this acceptable. Then one started up a conversation while the others looked on. It was brief and limited, but we established some basic facts about ourselves and then said goodbye. As I left, the group of girls began to roar with laughter at the very fact that the conversation had occurred. I laughed too. Why not.

At the foot of one temple, I started talking to two guys. One was Japanese, the other Thai. The Japanese guy worked for the United Nations Development Program in Laos as a video producer. He was spending the weekend in Thailand. The two offered me a ride back to my hotel in Khorat. I sized them up for a minute and debated internally. Is the offer legit, I wondered. The Thai guy joked that they might try to kidnap me if I came from a rich family. That sealed it. They were definitely not engaging in a scam. I accepted the offer. We rode back to Khorat in a comfortable air-conditioned Suzuki land cruiser. Apollo, the Thai guy, talked to me about many aspects of Thai culture -- the beloved King, why movies are censored, rifts between older and younger Thais, his problems with the French tourists, and why McDonalds is a good thing for the world. Yoshi, the Japanese guy, chimed in on occasion but mostly kept quiet. After two hours, we passed through Khorat and they dropped me at a corner and kept going towards their destination, a city several hours to the west. I walked back to my hotel and took a cold shower.

Tomorrow I head to another temple, then on to Nong Khai, a town on the banks of the Mekong River. The gateway to Laos.

Every day is an adventure.

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