I found myself wedged into a tiny, sticky space that would be my seat for the next four hours. I was headed by bus to Vang Vieng, a countryside road stop in Lao where most travelers take a break on their way farther north to the city of Luang Prabang. Having to curtail the length of our stay in Lao, Vang Vieng became our final destination. I was celebrating my 30th birthday with a five-week trip in SE Asia and not traveling by a strict itinerary, we spent a few extra days in Thailand. We’d only left ourselves four days to explore the “Land of a Million Elephants”. Perhaps due to our brief stay, or more likely because of our means of transport, the most memorable experiences of the trip are from simply getting there.

The world’s largest collection of the world’s oldest cars can be found in this small country. Auto taxis are mere skeletons of cars, stripped down to the barest essentials, with just enough parts left to sit and go. Most of the drivers appear to be just as old, making for a nail-biting journey from the Friendship Bridge, located on the border of Thailand and Lao, to the bus depot in Vientianne. We inadvertently found ourselves the oldest car, operated by the oldest driver, for the 15-minute ride. With each little bump on the highway’s surface, the taxi would shake madly, rattling the wire that stitched the car’s frame together in some places, and loosening the duct tape that held it together in others. As our ancient driver danced with the loose steering, narrowly missing the slow rickshaw traffic in front of us, I grit my teeth and looked out the window. It was good to have scenery to distract me from staring in fear at our driver’s shaky hands and milky white cataracts.

A smattering of palm trees, billboards, and sparse, flat land. The view was not what I’d imagined. We’d just come from Nong Khai, a sleepy town along the Mekong in Thailand. We became accustomed to lush vegetation, the lazy passage of the river’s brown water, narrow, lightly traveled streets, a magical atmosphere. It all seemed to vanish when our visas were stamped at the border crossing.

I was jerked out of my reverie with the thumping, hollow sound of bad breaks. Our driver was pumping frantically at the brake petal to avoid crashing into a much nicer, newer car in the parking lot of the bus station. We missed the car by an inch as we careened into a spot between two other nicer, newer cars (where were these vehicles when we needed one?). Getting out of the car was difficult. The exposed metal doors of the car’s interior lacked handles. I had to be let out, like an animal from a cage, by the driver from outside of the vehicle.

We arrived one hour before departure of the day’s last bus to Vang Vieng. Walking around, dazed by the bustling activity of the dusty station, I felt an overwhelming sensation of culture shock. I’d been dropped into a chaotic mass of ancient busses, locals traveling with farm animals, aggressive touts hawking water and baguettes, backpackers trudging about in confusion, and dubious looking groups of men and beggars loitering in the sidelines. I circled a heaving crowd that surrounded what appeared to be the ticket counter several times before throwing my hands up in despair.

“You go to Vang Vieng?” hollered a man who was standing languidly next to one of the more modern looking busses in the lot – many of them were converted Russian military trucks or beat up pick-ups. He wore a blue uniform, donned dark sunglasses, and looked equally legitimate and suspicious at the same time. I was grateful to be saved from the chaotic masses that stood before myself and the ticket counter, but felt a little hesitant to hand my backpack over to the eager stranger. He confirmed that his bus was headed north to Vang Vieng, tossed our backpacks into the luggage well, and told us to board and pay the fare later, the equivalence of 30¢.

Over time, the bus filled up. I had been wondering why we were all waiting in the stifling hot bus instead of outside of it. There were small fans mounted to the ceiling that must have been put there to tease and torture us. There was no power to turn them on. The air was thick and still and just breathing it became a chore. My skin was adhered to the vinyl seating and sweat trickled down my brow. But I followed the way of the locals and soon understood why we were all curiously sitting in a crowded, hot bus. It seemed that if a person were willing to pay for the ride, a seat would be made available to him… regardless of the actual number of seats on the bus.

The conductor had a keen eye for spotting a place to fit the unfortunates who arrived after most of the seats had been taken. He put children on the laps of their parents to make space for several more adults and squeezed passengers into the tiniest crevices of space between others. He made instant seating appear by pulling a seat cushion halfway off, making a spot for two accommodate a group of three or four. I tried to look as big as possible in a vain effort to reserve a little extra breathing space for myself. But the wry conductor saw past my antics and placed a nice Japanese couple between me and the neighbor I’d been smashed against for the last half hour.

Page 1 of 2

Next >