Soft breezes bring the sounds and smells of the riverbank to the table. The rustling river grass and the caws of river birds are just loud enough to drown the occasional putter of passing motorbikes. Robin, a Swedish tattoo artist, and I break the solitude by comparing Vientiane to Stockholm and Washington DC.
Vientiane, pronounced Wieng Chan, translates to the Sandalwood City. There are plenty of white faces around, mostly NGO and Embassy workers and travelers...like me. I had been warned by several people in Vang Viene that Vientiane was very boring and not to waste any time there. If they thought Vang Viene was a traveler's paradise, I could waste no time in getting to Vientiane.
They were not kidding. There is really not much to do other than visit temples and markets. The markets are full of cheap Chinese goods I have become accustomed to see any any market from Turkmenistan to Japan, from Siberia to Jakarta. But, I must say, it is always a treat to find a Chinese person that runs the stall, especially when your travel buddy doesn't know you speak Mandarin. I don't know who is more surprised, the shop owner or the friend.
My big plan for Vientiane was to visit the National Museum. I always enjoy going to National museums in small countries as it shows what they want foreigners to know about their history, culture and beliefs. The museum was easy enough to find but I was greeted by closed cast iron gates with a laminate sign reading:
Apologized museum closed, Improving the exhibition room 6/8/2008 - 15/9/2008*
*The 9 (day-month-year, for my American readers) was penned into a 10. Laos philosophy: Why fix it in a month when you can take two?
That evening, I boarded an overnight sleeper bus to Pakse, which is where I am writing from now. Different from Chinese sleeper buses, each bed sleeps two people and there are two rows instead of three. The size? Imagine a twin bed with two feet removed from the bottom.
I put my things on my bed and watched in nervous horror as each passenger boarded. I crossed my fingers that none would put their belongings in my bed. Old women, old men, and younger greasier looking men kept climbing in. The only way to pass the time is with humor. I joked with myself that if an old woman took the spot, I could always say I slept with a 65 year old woman in Laos.
To my utter delight, no one bunked up with me and I had a whole two spaces to myself.
After arriving early this morning, my male pride took a particularity strong blow. Jon, a different Swedish guy (I know there are tons of them here for some reason) and I planned to rent motorbikes and visit the Boloven Plateau. After a haphazard introduction to the 4-speed, no clutch motorbikes, the hostel hesitantly agreed for me to take the bike out. After dawning a purple helmet (for further humiliation, I supposed), I tried to turn the key in the ignition, but the motorbike refused to start. After plenty of turns in both directions with both the proper key and gas key, the engine finally puttered to life. Then it puttered to a stop. Ignition after ignition it would spittle, cough then jolt to a halt.
"You'll get the hang of it," Jon reassures me. This is a sign, I think to myself and decide to return the bike and purple helmet in the exact condition and position in which it was received. Now, walking the streets, I watch as 14-year-old girls and even younger boys ride without any difficulty. The shame, the shame.
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