Snapshot of the Road
You keep handing your handwritten ticket to people who can only point and utter one word responses. The answer to every question is yes. Are we taking a tuk-tuk? Yes. Are we taking a minivan? Yes. Are we going to Luang Prabang or Pakse? Yes. Your six o'clock bus leaves at 8:30. You spend 10.5 hours on a bus that rattles like a helicopter trying to land on a moving train. You feel like a sardine. You sleep for three separate hours. You arrive and are herded off the bus. You've stopped asking questions. Someone reads your ticket and points to another bus. You spend another 6 hours in transit via bus and ferry. You hop on the island at noon. Its 110 degrees.
It's 110 degrees and 80% humidity, and you need some place to stay. You wander down a narrow dirt road with dusty establishments on either side. The same lettering jumps out of every sign: sunset or sunrise. Toasted morning, turn left. Sweltering afternoon, turn right. You stumble left with sweat pouring out of everywhere. A bicycle passes you.
You drag yourself a half kilometer down the baking road. You vow to enter the first bar you see. You find yourself in a bar named Street View owned by a middle-aged Australian named Darren. Darren's been here for 15 years because Darren doesn't like to buy health insurance. Darren shows you a huge scorpion that he found in his compost pile.
One cool drink later, you're sitting on the porch of a tin-roofed sweatbox, complete with all the island's luxuries: indoor toilet, working fan, and $5/night mattresses. You watch Lao people boat up and down the steaming river. Little boys catch fish from a canoe during their school lunch break.
You've been to the Middle East in summer, but you've never been this hot before. Nothing stops the sweat. Not swinging in a hammock, not lying on your bed under the fan, not taking a lukewarm shower. You give up. Where was that place advertising aircon? There had to be one. You stumble back up the road like a drunkard. You find yourself in a small neighborhood of actual buildings and walk right into the fanciest looking one.
Nobody is here. There doesn't even appear to be staff. You sort of shout "Saibadee" to see if you can rouse anyone. A well-dressed Lao woman tells you the price for a room and you grimace at the sixfold increase from your bungalow. (Still less than a Motel 6). It has aircon. You ask to see the room anyway. It looks out on the northern most point of the island: a panoramic view of gleaming river. The sun floats on the horizon. You tell her you'll be back shortly with your bags.
The two mile round trip seems pleasantly shorter this time. Still hot. You feel a little sheepish about telling that British girl why you're leaving so soon. It's worth it. The key is in the door when you arrive. "You can use the pool," the woman tells you. There's a pool?! Definitely worth it. More like a hot tub you find out later. At least it's wet. You attend an impromptu pool party, celebrating the birthday of a drunk Dutch girl. You decline the free shots of a stomach-turning mystery drink. You win a free-for-all chicken fight. You stay in the pool until dark. You don't sweat for the first time in 48 hours. You sleep like royalty.
In the morning, you take breakfast on an empty veranda, walk around an empty courtyard, and write some creative nonsense over looking the Mekong. Nothing around you seems to move. Not the air, the river, even some of the people. Everything takes longer here. Motor boats meander by. One person steers, one person bails out the boat. The sun sets. Heat lightening streaks the sky. You watch from the porch. The wind picks up but it doesn't rain. The heat lingers.