It became clear that
occupancy limits didn’t exist in Lao and neither did the concept
of personal space. Every time I thought it was absolutely impossible
to squeeze any more people on the bus, a new group would arrive
and meld into the sweating mass of bodies. Some people reluctantly
took their place on the floor in the aisle and others were forced
to stand huddled together near the semi-open door. Finally the bus
conductor looked satisfied that there was no more room. He glanced
over his handiwork with a proud smile, turned to the driver and
nodded his head firmly. Apparently it was time to go. With all his
skill in cramming passengers into the bus, I was disappointed that
he failed to see the opportunities the roof had to offer. We might
as well have strapped people to it, as safety standards seemed to
be non-existent. Once the bus was loaded to the ultimate-maximum
and deadly capacity, we were on our way promptly at 1:00 pm.
The trip to Vang Vieng was a 3 1/2-hour rocket ride
through curvy mountain passes. Heads of the passengers bobbed together
in unison with each sway of the bus. Being so tightly packed together
– leg to leg, shoulder to sweaty shoulder – forced everyone
to move together like molded Jell-O on a roller coaster. Most of
the time, it felt as if the bus was actually hovering above the
surface of the road as we swerved along its undulating path. There
were plenty of plastic shopping bags tied to the handrails of the
bus for those unlucky passengers with motion sickness, of which
there were many – and many of them locals. The bags eventually
ended up on the side of the road after they’d been filled
and casually tossed from the window.
Halfway through the trip, the driver pulled to the
side of the highway near a deserted hillside. I wasn’t quite
sure what was happening until I noticed women disembark from the
bus, hoist their sarongs up and squat in the scrubby brush to relieve
themselves. Apparently we had arrived at a rest stop. I was grateful
for the break. It awoke the man sitting beside me who fell asleep
shortly after we’d pulled out of Vientianne and was using
me as a pillow. I was forced to sit in an awkward position and the
pressure from the dead weight of his body forced every perceptible
muscle in my body to stiffen. Regardless of the discomfort, I didn’t
dare leave my seat unoccupied at the rest stop for fear of losing
it. But my worries were unfounded; passengers boarded the bus and
took their respective seats in a surprisingly pleasant and orderly
fashion. Even the angry guy who had to sit in the aisle, subject
to errant barf bags and knees in his ear, seemed resigned to his
place on the floor. After the brief respite, a few blasts of the
horn signaled that it was time to finish business and we were swiftly
on our way again.
Hmong villages, rice paddy fields, rolling hills,
jungle forests, razor-sharp mountain peaks. The view from the window
was spectacular. It was hard to believe that such a beautiful country
could be so deprived. A diminutive player in the communist wars
that besieged SE Asia from the 1950s – 70s, Lao is still recovering
from the wreckage. Closed off to the rest of the world until the
late 1990s, Lao opened its borders to collect on the tourist dollar
in order to salvage its decimated economy. Today, corrupt government
officials lavishly spend International Aid on themselves while most
of the population lives in poverty; bribery is a necessary and accepted
business practice; opium is big business; illegal logging and slash-and-burn
agriculture endanger the forests that cover two-thirds of the country.
Despite how that list of facts may sound, Lao is an
awesome place to visit. The rugged landscape is great for mountain
bikers; sheer walls of rock draw a healthy rock-climbing crowd;
river kayaking and tubing provide entertainment for the more relaxed;
and explorers can spend entire afternoons in caves that adorn the
jagged limestone outcroppings. It is easy to fall in love with the
magical land of Lao. Many travelers have told me that now is the
time to visit, while the country is still “pristine”.
They worry about what will become of Lao, when tourists come in
the numbers that have a tendency to change the places they go. From
my perspective, Lao looked far from becoming Westernized and worn.
The rest of our trip was uneventful, save for one
small child with stomach problems. Commotion near the front of the
bus brought the vehicle to an abrupt halt in front of a traditional
stilt house in a small village. A father whisked his sick son out
of the bus so the child could go to the bathroom, naturally, on
the side of the road – or more specifically, underneath the
house. Apparently the child had a bad case of diarrhea. I found
humor in the fact that the boy relieved himself adjacent to a pile
of manure from the family’s water buffalo. At first I’d
thought it rude to go to the bathroom directly underneath somebody’s
home but upon seeing this, I realized that of all places one could
do so, Lao was it. After several more stops such as this, the father
eventually stopped putting the boy’s pants back on. For a
large portion of the journey, this little boy rode bare-bottom (with
nervous neighbors on each side).
Our bus adventure came to an end as we pulled into
Vang Vieng’s bus station, an old airstrip from the war days.
Traveling there was not the most comfortable thing, but at least
it had character. As our competition, the other backpackers, scurried
off the bus in search of accommodation, I stood in the openness
of the airstrip and savored the breeze against my skin. And then
the race was on to get the best guesthouse. I used to think that
the most rugged roads and insufficient vehicles lead to the most
unforgettable places, but I’ve learned that sometimes, the
memories are all from getting there.
Page 2 of 2
Back to
Page One > |
