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See You Again, Vientiane

My eyes burned from the frequently wafted urine splashed out of the filled toilet and onto the floor. My brain was spinning from the rock-concert loud pop music that blared all night and mocked me and my dead iPod. My legs and back were stiff from the bus’s just-too-short sleeper seats. My spirit was cracking from all of the people verbally complaining about the same things about which I was mentally complaining.

And so we pulled into the ­­­­­­­­­­Talat Sao Bus Station in Vientiane, Laos’s capital, around 7 a.m.

The impetus for Vientiane (pronounced ‘vee-en-tee-ehn’ by Westerners and ‘wee-ehn chan’ by Southeast Asians) was due more to inertia and hope than excitement. Luang Prabang had sucked the life out of me and the two friends I had made—one of whom saved my foot—were in transit to Vietnam. They decided to forgo the rest of their trip in Laos, since the northern city deflated them as well.

My vacation still had plenty of time left, however, and Vientiane was on my itinerary. Laos needed redemption and I was ready for a city: something that wasn’t full of the alleged quiet charm of Luang Prabang. (Another swing and a miss, Lonely Planet.) I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to do in the capital, but I knew I was going to do it.

After some recovery.

By 10 a.m., I was settled in my guesthouse—the friendly, clean, affordable, convenient, and highly recommended Mixay Guesthouse on ­­­­­­­­­Norkeokumman Road—and sitting down to comfort food: noodle soup from a street vendor and two cups coffee strong enough to cross an elephant’s eyes. My dSLR was left on my bed, right next to my burdensome and conspicuous pack, neither of which was desired for many hours. Instead, I was defined by two goals: a new book and a café. Within forty-five minutes of slurping the ends of my soup’s broth, I had bought David Mitchell’s latest, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, and was sauntering into Scandinavian Bakery.

Yes, Scandinavian Bakery—in Vientiane; in Laos; in Southeast Asia; more than 5,200 miles from Copenhagen, Denmark, the most proximate Scandinavian city to Vientiane.

Allow me a knee-jerk defense of myself.

The bakery has the cheapest coffee in city, both air-conditioning and outdoor seating, and padded chairs as opposed to the generic, stack-able, plastic lawn chairs at any Laotian café. Moreover, the place was a ten-minute walk from my guesthouse, an appreciated quality in any location for a person—me—who gets lost while walking to the bathroom. Also, any and all comforts were welcome as I tried to refuel for the rest of my vacation.

Now allow me to unjerk my knee and say, “Shove it up your ass if you think I need to defend myself” (which I do, somewhat, maybe?).

I simply wasn’t in the mood to make a silly attempt at authenticity. I went to Scandinavian Bakery, ordered in broken Laos, and kicked off my shoes.

Afterwards, I ended up Noy’s Fruit Heaven, admittedly a home-run suggestion by Lonely Planet and exactly the place to continue Thousand Autumns. I kicked back with a star-fruit shake and plowed deeper into my book. I consumed both voraciously and appreciatively.

Five hours later, I had walked to the end of a night market and sat down at a small, family-run food vendor for dinner—eating slowly, as to watch the sun slowly sink into the Mekong.

You hear that, peninsula of Luang Prabang? Street food: totally faceless places with one burner and a tiny menu that rely more on the kip than the dollar or euro. Bastard, I chide you for the participation the rest of the world has had with you.

It was here, at dinner, where I began to see and feel the difference between Laos’s capital and Luang Prabang. Vientiane was a home; all of the markers were present: street food; ever-present language barriers for foreigners; people running for exercise; a playground; more Laotians in jeans than Caucasians in tank tops. Of course, the tourist aspects are needed. Additionally, I have no illusions about being nothing if not a tourist. But tourist money, while subsidizing the opening of doors and global-socioeconomic improvement, subsequently limits and strips the very situations of the places and people it otherwise elevates. In Vientiane, life felt like it happened around and along with tourist money, not because of it.

from China, with communism

Nevertheless, the influx of foreign money—even if not necessarily tourist money—was obvious and unavoidably recognized. I could not walk for more than thirty minutes without stubbing my toe on a waist-high monument recognizing the donation of a foreign nation, from China to France.

It quickly became apparent that Laos, or at least Vientiane, relies heavily on foreign money. According to the CIA World Factbook, my go-to resource for almost everything, foreign sources donated $586 million to the Laotian government in FY09/10.

And why not? The country is stunningly poor. Again, just take a look at the World Factbook: the country’s GDP (or the admittedly problematic PPP (purchasing power parity)-based GDP) ranks 135 globally at $15.69 billion, based on 2010 estimates. Compare that GDP to second-ranked America ($14.66 trillion), fifth-ranked India ($4.06 trillion), and eighty-third-ranked Kenya ($66.03 billion).

Another look: Laos’s per capita income was, according to 2010 estimates, $2,500, placing it at 181st. Qatar, the world’s reportedly richest nation per capita, sits at the top with an estimated $179,000. USA’s per capita income, eleventh, is figured around $47,200. Eighty-third-ranked Botswana is about $14,000. (For consistency, India came in at 162 at $3,500 and Kenya at 197 at $1,600. Such are frightening disparities in wealth.)

In a Reuters article about a budding China-Laos/ASEAN (Association of Southeast Asian Nations) railway, the first sentence describes Laos as a “poor and landlocked Southeast Asian nation.”

According to a number of sources, though, things are on up, economically.

Returning to the nascent railway system, there are legitimate hopes that it will help to better connect Laos to other ASEAN communities and, most significantly, China. Laos’s deputy prime minister, Somsavat Lengsavad, told Reuters that he has high hopes for the railway, which is expected to open by 2014 or ’15. He sees it as part of a larger system of ventures:

“To free our country from the least developed status … our government has invested much in communication infrastructure development in order to complement both intra-ASEAN and ASEAN-China integration.”

Indeed, Laos has seen drastic economic improvement in recent years. According to Reuters, “Bilateral trade between China and Laos grew by more than half in 2009 to $751.8 million.” Remarkably, the World Factbook reports, “Economic growth [in Laos] has reduced official poverty rates from 46% in 1992 to 26% in 2010,” in part due to “high foreign investment.”

Unlike the parts of Luang Prabang that I saw, which were characterized mainly by travel agencies and restaurants—and therefore arguably geared more to accommodating foreigners than more varied purposes—the markers of Vientiane’s development were often regularly self-absorbed: parks; office complexes; less-Indochina-styled buildings; well-regulated traffic.

None of the above is to obscure that Vientiane, let alone Laos, is anything but poor. The deputy prime minister himself admitted “least developed status.” Indeed, the aforementioned monuments are constant reminders of the proliferation and influence of foreign investment and, significantly, gifts. The world outside of the major cities, of which I saw slivers from the windows of my unholy buses, did not to anything to bespeak urban existence: paved roads were often interrupted by wide dirt paths (and I traveled only between major cities—never off the very beaten path, where unexploded ordinances are still a deadly problem); collections of huts on stilts that have one site of electricity, if at all; people using buckets to bathe outdoors with a towel around their waists for privacy as traffic zips by on the road. As of 2010, an estimated three-fourths of the Laotian labor force was involved in agriculture, while those participating in industry and services was “not available,” according to the World Factbook. In the capital itself, I saw tiny shanty houses erected—or, maybe more appropriately, propped—against large corporate structures.

I decided to have one more full day in this city split between gentrified and developing-world poor, and I deemed it best to spend the bulk of it on a chauffeured tour of holy structures and other landmarks.

Much like I did in Ayutthaya, I hired a tuk-tuk to take me to a predetermined set of monuments without offering a proper, guided, descriptive tour. I loved my trip to Ayutthaya—the scenery was unreal, I started to settle into my dSLR, and I felt like I carpe diem’ed the whole place pretty well because of my chartered tuk-tuk—so making the same choice in Vientiane for 130,000 kip (about $16.30, or 502 THB) was easy.

The tour’s first stop was Pha That Luang, a massive golden stupa (the cone-looking things) within a larger religious and sovereign complex. It was erected in 1566 and, according to the 15th edition of Lonely Planet: Southeast Asia on a Shoestring, legend says sits very near the site where, as early as the the 3rd century B.C., Indian Buddhists built a different stupa to house a piece of the Buddha’s breastbone. All I know is the stupa, slightly tilted, blasts out of the otherwise flat ground and makes everything else within view seem slightly more or slightly less golden; I couldn’t decide.

Next was Patuxai, a simulacrum of the unmistakable Arc de Tripomphe in Paris, France and, amusingly, a gift from China. Laos’s version had its own charm, experienced mainly in the numerous, steep flights of stairs that led to a final, staircase that spiraled to the top of the monument and was the gateway to panoramic views of Laos’s capital, but which barely accommodated my Western body. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I left some layers of skin from my forehead on the back of one of the steps as I was descending and stood up a little too tall.

Hophrakeo was third and was pretty damn boring. The monument was next to the final stop, Wat Sisaket, so I have a feeling Hophrakeo offered some padding to a tour that would feel a little trim with only three sights. Cameras were not allowed inside, which was just as well since inside was a weird, tiny museum/repository of Buddhas tossed into a room.

As I said, the final destination was Wat Sisaket, It’s construction was completed in the beginning of the 19th century and is the city’s oldest surviving temple. This wat had a charm and warmth to which I hadn’t been accustomed with prior holy sites I’d visited: the proliferation of earth tones and burnt-red clay structures supported a reverent air without imposing immediately palpable awe. As I walked around the perimeter wall, snapping pictures of the varying, mid-sized Buddhas and tiny ones stacked in alcoves in the same walls, I gently slipped into Sisaket.

Instead of returning me to Mixay Guesthouse, I asked my tuk-tuk driver to drop me at Talat Sao, an overwhelmingly boring and bland market near a bus station named for the market. The near-mile walk back to my guesthouse, however, allowed for a leisurely exploration of the city, including a couple wrong left-turns and a glimpse of a house right off of a cover of a William Faulkner novel.

Southern Gothic? Indochinese relic?

For dinner, I ate at Taj Mahal, a wonderful Indian restaurant a couple streets away from Mixay, with a pair of guys I met at the guesthouse. The first, an affable, if not slightly forward, 39-year-old was in Laos to volunteer with children undergoing physical rehabilitation before he returned to Israel to apply for a medical license. The other, a 50-some-year-old Canadian looking for work, struck me as slightly off-kilter. He was in Southeast Asia to look for work as a carpenter, building furniture. He had already investigated jobs in Thailand and was beginning to worry a bit about job prospects.

He explained, “I’ve been in the region for about six months and just can’t find work.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Build furniture. I have a couple of spots scouted here, but I don’t know how they’ll pan out.”

I said, “Best of luck,” but thought—and tried my best not to say—“What the fucking what?”

Maybe he preferred the permanent warmth of the region to Canada’s snowy chill. Maybe he really likes the selection of woods in Southeast Asia. Maybe he’s finally tackling his list of dreams, which is topped by “itinerant carpenter.” Maybe he wants to live somewhere where Americans won’t regularly laugh at his distinctly Canadian ‘aboot’. I don’t know his past. What I do know is that I expected to meet a man who came to the region to be a carpenter as much as I expected to have a sea sprite sit on my face.

The following day was filled with filling time before my overnight bus back to Bangkok.

Originally, I wanted a train. Not only had I heard good things about the train between Vientiane and Bangkok, but buses had proved to eat, deeply, vulgar amounts of ass on this trip. However, the train was about 40% more expensive than the bus, and I wasn’t clear on my funds. Thus, I took a chance and opted for the bus.

Jackpot.

No loud music—or any music, for that matter. Comfortable seats. No puddles of piss. No smell of piss. Hell, no misplaced piss! Free dinner, vegetable fried rice, at a restaurant. Guidance with customs regulations and procedures at the border.

What more could a farang desire?

For one, the unexpected relief and glee once back on Thai soil.

In Laos, automobile traffic moves on the right side of the road; in Thailand, the left. Once the bus shifted lanes from the right to the left, I felt lighter and happier: I was back. You should have seen my smile when a lizard scurried out from behind a potted plant sitting at eye-level and surprised me while I was at a urinal.

Oh, and my feet—which garnered so much attention, from pitying tears to mocking laughs—had deflated to their regular, vein-y versions and were enjoying a healthy, uninfected scab.

Time to be back, bitches.

 
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Posted by on November 12, 2011 in Laos

 

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Like a Laotian Jesus, I Walk on Piss

I had been on the road for only an hour, but I already needed to pee. Thankfully, I had opted for an allegedly tricked-out bus, replete with toilet. Since we had to be barefoot during the trip, I entered the bathroom sans shoes—and immediately felt small puddles. I really, really had to go, so I stifled my imagination right away. “Probably just some rogue sink-water,” I told myself.

The light in the bathroom wouldn’t turn on. I could make out the silver outline of the toilet, but not enough to ensure my own pee wouldn’t mix with the, ahem, rogue sink-water. I stepped out, grabbed my cell phone with the life-saving flashlight, and re-entered the bathroom.

Once illuminated, all chances of the rogue-sink-water explanation were pissed away: the toilet was filled to the brim with urine (hopefully only urine, since the sign on the door declared, “Please, no Excrement”) that was splashing around as the bus driver took mad, vertigo-inducing turns around unpaved switchbacks.

I had had enough. Fuck you; fuck you; fuck you, Luang Prabang.

I was finally leaving Luang Prabang, northern Laos’s most major city. I was on a bus that left at 8:30 p.m. and was headed south to Vientiane, the country’s capital. For the preceding five days, I had tried to make the most of my vacation and enjoy a city that, at best, earned my fleeting lukewarm reception. I tried my best to enjoy Luang Prabang, but the city was persistently frustrating. Using the money I had saved by staying at a cheap guesthouse, I decided to live large and buy tickets to a sleeper bus—which was equipped with near-bed-like chairs, dinner, and a bathroom (crucial since an onset of diarrhea)—for an extra 30,000 kip, or 120 baht. If nothing else, my overnight trip to Vientiane would be nice.Psych.

But let’s get to the bus first. It begins with a journey that, like most others here, involves an overnight something to somewhere.

Pai was painful to leave: good food; good relaxation; good sights. Alas, I knew I should go: I was on vacation and carpe diem, etc. At 8 p.m. on Monday, October 10, I boarded a minivan for the seven-hour trip to the border town, Chiang Khong, Thailand, and a trip across the Mekong River into Laos. The ride was fine—I listened to music, watched True Romance on my iPod, and stole interrupted bouts of sleep—but my left foot decided to swell. It now matched my right, which grew, I presume, when it was sprained after my second motorbike accident.

The minivan ticket included a three-hour nap, which I gobbled, at a guesthouse in Chiang Khong. Once across the river and visa nonsense aside, I grabbed a baguette sandwich—one of the more delightful remainders from Laos’s days as a French colony—and debated how to make the long trip to Luang Prabang: overnight bus or three days and two nights on a slowboat? Everyone with whom I became friends on the van was doing the slowboat, which, I read, is a popular option for people traveling south. But I wanted to get to Luang Prabang quickly and, for various reasons, the boat seemed much less desirable: time; money; comfort.

Looking at Laos

And so began the shittiness that quietly followed me around Laos.

Crossing the Mekong

Once in Laos and across customs, I bought a ticket for a VIP bus—which are differentiated from local buses by the presence of A/C, more comfortable seats, chance food, and a chance bathroom—and was ready to finally arrive in Luang Prabang. Once at the bus station, all passengers were informed that the VIP bus had broken down and we would be taking a local bus—information we received well after our tuk-tuk driver gathered our bus tickets and exchanged them at the window. Fine. Whatever. No biggie.

For the next thirteen hours, I sat on a cramped bus with a new mother asleep on my right arm as the bus raced around corners and challenged its dying transmission on dirt hills. The driver was an aggressive motherfucker. More pressing, however, was the status of my feet: I now had cankles and the wound on my left food was regularly oozing.

I arrived in Luang Prabang around 6 a.m. on Wednesday, October 12.

My first time in a commie-pinko country

Adjusting to the currency involved a steep learning curve. Laos uses the kip—but businesses and vendors also regularly accept baht and dollars, despite government directives—which has suffered such tremendous inflation that paying for things typically involves five digits. Budget rooms are typically 50,000 – 60,000 kip, sandwiches and coffee linger around 10,000 kip each, renting a bicycle for a day is 20,000 kip, and six doses of 400mg ibuprofen is 8,000 kip. Prices, compared to the dollar, are comparable to those in Thailand, but spending in thousands took some mental adjustment.

Luckily, I found a slightly grungy but super cheap guesthouse in a nice, central location: Paphai Guesthouse, which was in between the central road, Sisavangvong, and close to Kingkitsarat, the road that skirts the Nam Khan River—and began strolling.

The overwhelming majority of my time in Luang Prabang was spent on the peninsula, which juts into the meeting place of the Nam Khan and Mekong rivers. The third main road, Khem Khong, follows the Mekong. In hindsight, this limit contributed to my total lack of warmth towards Luang Prabang.

Simply stated, I didn’t like Luang Prabang because it didn’t feel like anyone lived there, but rather sold stuff to foreigners there. There was a disproportionate number of tourists to Laotians and the are of the city that I saw was disturbingly homogenous: French veneers that harkened back to Laos’s colonial days, pricey cafés, travel agencies, ritzy guesthouses, and shops full of stunning pewter wares that lost their luster when I saw the same goods outside of a convenience store. Indeed, the entire area appeared to function like a colonial veneer: pretty on the exterior, but too shallow to be scratched with any satisfaction.

Once, while in JoMa Bakery—a place that, in all fairness, thankfully makes no pretensions about being anything other than a Western-style transplant in Laos—I heard Bon Iver’s new album.

And then there was the time I helped carry two guys who weren’t breathing into a tuk-tuk.

Here’s a passage from an e-mail I wrote in the wake of the event:

“. . . I thought I carried two dead bodies two nights ago.I met up with a group of people I met at customs and there were two new guys. Around 2:30 a.m., they bought a gram of, what they believed to be, coke off of a tuk-tuk driver (all of whom deal). Around 3 a.m., they both go white and limp within 10mins of each other at a restaurant. The second guy mumbled, “–told us coke, but this isn’t like coke, man. I think was heroin?” So they both snorted half a G of heroin, possibly. If nothing else, it was the shittiest coke ever. Both turned ghost white and their lips went purple. Both were either not breathing and without a pulse or had the most minor of traces. I ended up helping carry both of them to a tuk-tuk bound for the hospital. Laos health care sucks for anything serious–you know, like an OD–so I doubted things worked out well for them.

“The next morning I was on my way to the hospital for some antibiotics for my foot and saw the group who went to the hospital coming out. It honestly took me 5 seconds before I believed it was them because I would have bet they died. The group told me both of the dudes’ hearts stopped a pair of times and they had to do CPR. They told me the hospital was shit–even showed me pics–and advised me not to go in. They said the nurses did shit and a doctor didn’t show up for 90 minutes after they arrived.”

This event, by the way, happened on my first night in Luang Prabang.

Fucking ridiculous.

How my feet looked for most of my time in Luang Prabang.

This excerpt brings me to another misfortune: my goddamn feet. Both were swollen and one was an open wound on the verge of festering. Additionally, my right shin was swollen from the second motorbike accident and repeatedly kicking the hell out of things at Rose Gym. As a result, I stayed away from the area’s beautiful waterfalls for fear of further infecting my foot, trekking for fear of exacerbating my injuries, and massages because my legs couldn’t stand a rigorous and violent Oriental-style massage.

I felt consistently thwarted in Luang Prabang. For one, the situation with my legs made even walking for long periods of time difficult. I wasn’t even able to do personal work to kill time because the 5,500-THB netbook I bought specifically for traveling broke sometime during my journey from Pai to Laos.

There wasn’t even a good selection of street food. I wandered and strolled—explored and meandered—and there was jack shit along the peninsula, just my grilled-banana lady, people with disgusting-looking fruit, a concentrated 100-yard-stretch of sandwich and coffee vendors, and fruit shakes. No fried rice, rare noodles, and little grilled meat (which isn’t on my menu, anyway). There were also plenty of tasty crèpe carts, but redundancy is not the spice of life.

But even when I attempted to maximize Luang Prabang and escape my hole of loathing and self-pity, the city laughed at me. Simple noodle places were hard to find, as the two I found were jammed in alleys between European-style restaurants. My first day there, I found a place to volunteer with little kids and teach English literacy. I picked up a brochure, but the map on it sucked so much that re-finding the place proved too difficult. Two different locals—a tuk-tuk driver and a cop—gave me two different sets of directions. For two days, I walked for forty-five minutes to attempt to find the place, but with no success either day.

I really did try to take advantage of Luang Prabang.

Not all was shit, though. I did eventually fall into a progressively comfortable routine. I read a lot at a beautiful, comfortable, and reasonably priced café near the end of the peninsula. I ate ungodly amounts of food, including delicious tofu sandwiches on warm baguettes and fruit shakes. And, every night at 7 p.m., I watched a movie in the upstairs lounge at L’Etranger Books & Tea; my line-up included Bad Teacher, Midnight in Paris, Slumdog Millionaire, and Hangover 2. I also took some awesome photos, if you’ll pardon some bragging, and was lucky enough to have my camera with me during the coincidental Bun Awk Phansa festival, which marked the end of the rainy season.

Unfortunately, I missed the part of the ceremony, after the parade, when participants cast their elaborate boats into the Mekong. The event was reportedly beautiful.

Luckily, I also met some friends along the way, including a pair of similarly-aged ladies—one from Scotland; the other from Australia—who had been bouncing around Southeast Asia for the past several months. We met each other at customs at Huay Xai, resulting in my twenty-four-hour nickname, Customs Guy. I met up with them most days, touring a wat, eating food, trying to catch the culmination of Bun Awk Phansa, drinking adult beverages, and general bull-shitting.

The couple from England-via-Slovenia, who I met in Pai, made some guest appearances in the city as well.

She saved my foot

The Scot is also, probably, single-handedly responsible for saving my foot. After making me terribly nervous our first night in Luang Prabang—“Barry, are you serious? That’s an open wound! And you have cankles! That’s not good. Do you want to keep your foot?”—she researched antibiotics with me and gave me Doxycycline to help kill the developing infection. High five, Scot.

Not luckily, they were having troubles of their own. The pair, along with a couple others, accompanied the two guys to the hospital and participated in the thirty minutes of CPR. After leaving the hospital, they were understandably shaken by the complete lack of reported health care in Laos, alleging the nurses were incompetent, the doctor didn’t show up for ninety minutes, and the building itself was dirty and minimally stocked. Moreover, the two got their laundry ruined—resulting in an argument with a stubborn laundry woman—and one sliced open her toe her last day in the city.

Beginning the climb

On the day of the laundry mishap, we were determined to turn our fortunes and explore some of the more cultural aspects of Luang Prabang. Consequently, we made a trip up Phu Si Hill and explored the hilltop wat complex, which also offered us a stunning view of the city. It was at the top of Phu Si Hill that I realized the actual size—grand, much grander than the tiny old city to which I limited myself—of Luang Prabang.

We definitely had fun, but the three of us also definitely did not love Luang Prabang. Thankfully, they’re coming to Bangkok for a week at the beginning of November, so maybe we can make up for our shittier experiences.

A view of Luang Prabang from Wat Phu Si

Oddly enough, by my last two days in Luang Prabang, I began to slightly and regularly appreciate the place. My café was a gift from heaven, the Indian food was good, and there were cool people about, like the German guy I met who had spent the last six months cycling—and busing where he needed—from Mongolia to Laos. The midnight curfew—which can be mocked with a trip to the bowling alley—was a drag, but it did make for cool interactions at the guesthouse, like the one I had with the cyclist.

He had no idea when he’d be done with his trip.

Stay away from colorful fonts, religion.

Personally, I got a lot of benefit from a solo trip to Xieng Thong, a wat at sleepy tip of the peninsula. The temple was only an extra ten- to fifteen-minute-walk from my choice café, but I didn’t make it down there until my final stretch of days. Ugly-as-hell sign aside, I’m just happy I spent the extra time and energy to get down there—and with my camera.

There was also the astounding, delectable, expansive, inexpensive, and varied half city-block of vegetarian mess-plate vendors. The city’s nightly market, the Hmong Night Market, was comprised of mostly the same shit: beautiful textiles, charming art, Beerlao t-shirts, and pewter wares. Needless to say, it became boring after the second day of perusal. However, down a small road off of the Hmong Night Market was a deep line of tables displaying mounds of freshly cooked vegetarian food. The price was 10,000 kip—about forty baht, or $1.30—per plate, and it was heaped with all six items I indicated from the vendor’s line-up. That, along with my Beerlao Dark, was an ideal final dinner in Luang Prabang.

Incomparable in Southeast Asia

Although I was getting into a rhythm, I knew I had exhausted Luang Prabang as much as I could. I had accepted the part of the city for what it was—a tourist town—and was afforded some peace of mind. However, a tourist town can be squeezed only so much before going dry.

It was Monday, October 17, and time to leave for Vientiane.

But before then, a walk through a sloshing puddle of piss and—did I mention?—Thai/Laotian pop music blasted through bus speakers, and felt reverberated in the walls, from 10 p.m. until 6 a.m.

Sleeper bus? My fucking scrotum it was.

I’d go back to Luang Prabang, but after I see everything else in the world.

At least I got to play with my camera. I also decided that Luang Prabang rarely looked better in color.

Gettin' out

I knew there was a reason I packed only my dad’s Minolta 50mm f/1.7 lens.

 
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Posted by on November 6, 2011 in Laos, Misadventure

 

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