Back in Bangkok, I go straight to my favorite guest house. Single rooms with bathroom for 190 baht. That's about $5. The food is terrible, the beds are uncomfortable, but they play movies on a big screen TV everynight and the grilled chicken stand is 50 feet away. And this is the only guest house I've ever stayed where I actually meet other people.
My bag, as usual, explodes in my room. Everything comes out. Oh, the ecstacy of having all my toiletries laid out on a nice little table.
Cherie is here taking a massage course to compliment her acupunture business. Along with some of her classmates, we stupidly head to the Nana district in search of a pool table and some good music. Along with Pat Pong, Nana is hooker central. In an empty bar, we play pool and watch the old farts across the way shake their groove thang with young ladies of the night. They all dance like my father. No offense, Dad.
Tim stands in the middle of the walkway and waits to be approached. He's looking good, looking cool, but the girls are hip to the fact that he is with farang girls. Unlike the prostitutes in Cambodia, Thai hookers are friendly to everyone. They are not threatened by white girls and will show them equal attention, just for fun.
For live music, the Bamboo Hut is recommened. Okay, so we just asked for music, not good music. The local band plays funk covers. They're not bad. At one point, a farang man gets on stage and belts out, what is apparently, a Thai favorite. Everyone in the bar sings along.
And then, the Cabaret show starts. In traditional dress, the performers lip-sync and dance. We are all arguing about which of them are women. "Oh, the one of the left is totally a girl." Later, the girl on the left does a solo piece and takes off her top. Okay, she's not a girl. Those breasts are way too perfect. All the "women" are amazingly beautiful. The lady-boys do "girl" better than girls do "girl".
The highlight of the show is a mustached man in drag. He lip-syncs and shakes his skinny little ass all the while flicking his tongue lasciviously. Local girls hand him shots and try to lift his skirt, hoping for a glimpse of his tucked-under package. Everyone is howling madly.
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The Beer Mats
All the bars in the Koa San area close at 1am. This is quite different from the situation 4 years ago, but in an effort to minimize drunken and disorderly behavior, the authorities have instigated this futile attempt to get people off the street. What now happens is that everyone heads straight to the beer mats. Along one section of a side street, tables and chairs are packed up and large bamboo mats on placed on the ground. Here you can sit and drink for an eternity. Every now and then, the police come by and shut it down. But this doesn't happen often.
It is here, on the beer mats, usually nearing the wee hours of the morning that fights break out. And, surprisingly, it's often between locals. Undoubtedly, one of the Thais will pull out a butcher knife and hold it threateningly above his head. If his opponent isn't too far intoxicated, he'll back down. Otherwise, the farang boys (Brits and Irish - as these guys are never afraid of a fight) will hold the drunkard back.
On one sweltering evening, I am sipping my big Chang with some people from my guest house. We chat with a convival Brit (is there any other kind) and later I notice him snogging a girl on the far side of the now beer soaked mat. When he returns to talk with us, I mention that his lady friend ("Oh no. That's my wife.) is out cold. "Well dude. Your WIFE is passed out in a puddle of beer. Why don't you take her home." I offer my assistance in getting her back to their guest house. Ali, a Turkish born German, who has been fetishly staring at my feet, comes along. (10 to 1 this guy's a toe sucker.) The girl is dead weight and Ali and the Brit wrap her arms around their necks while her feet drag behind her. Ali then carries her up 2 flights of stairs. We remove her beer sodden clothes and position her on her side so that if she throws up during the night she won't choke to death. When all is settled, the Brit asks if Ali and I would like to stay for a drink. Is this guy kidding? It's 5am. His wife will, no doubt, have alcohol poisoning the next day and he wants to continue drinking. We politely decline. How is it possible that you don't say at some point in the evening, "Ok, I'm really drunk. Let's go home." Nope. They just drink and drink until they're incapable of lifting the beer bottle.
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The rumor is that getting a visa for China longer than one month is almost impossible. One friend suggests I write down my itinerary and bring that to the embassy. I spend two days going through my guide book figuring out where I want to go and writing it all down.
To my shock, the Chinese Embassy is a finely tuned machine. I take a number and fill out my form. There are 50 people in front of me. Thirty minutes later and I'm up. So there are some positive thigns about Communism. (For the Myanmar visa I waited 4 hours.) I have requested a 4 month, double entry visa. The woman says ok. "Ok?" Are we having a communication problem? "Ok?" "Yes," she repeats. "Ok".
And the best part, which I'm sure sounds completely irrelevant to anyone who isn't dealing with visas every month, is that it only cost $85. That's $21.25 a month, by far the best visa deal I suspect I'll ever get.
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Finally, after almost 3 weeks in Bangkok, I'm ready to leave. I'm really ready to leave.
It's a full 24 hours to the Thai/Laos border: an overnight train, and two 4 hour local buses.
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In the Thai border town of Chiang Khong, I take a 2 minute ride across the Mekong and I am in Laos again, exactly 5 months since my first entry. That's $70 in visa fees.
I have choosen this route so that I can go overland to China. Taking planes when not necessary is cheating.
It's a two day ride down the Mekong on a slow boat to Luang Prabang. As one traveler said, 'The slow boat is...slow.' Genius, huh? Travelers and locals squeeze into the boat, which is outfitted with hard, wooden benches. Beer and sodas are sold out of iceless coolers. Forget about water. Who needs water.
Here, the Mekong is much more narrow than in Cambodia. Hills rise up out of the murky waters and slabs of rock are in various states of deterioration. Sand banks act as local ports and bamboo fishing poles stick out, unmanned, from cracks in rocks, a sign of the continuous habitation along the river. I watch with disgust as the boat driver throws his plastic bags into the river. I watch with sheer outrage as travelers do the same. And then there are the local people who wash in the river with non-biodegradable soaps and shampoos. The hillsides are ravaged by slash and burns (a country wide occurance), leaving the sky in constant haze. The beauty of the country is overshadowed by it's imminent environmental devistation.
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The halfway point is a town called Pak Beng, which sort of sounds like "pack bong", all the more fitting because the guest houses ask if you'd like your change in marijuana.
At the Phone Tip Guest House, I am drinking a beer with the 3 other guests. The owner urges us to eat our meals there because she needs money to send her daughter to school. I find this an interesting sales pitch. Who doesn't need money? And if I want to go back to school, it will take more than selling a few plates of fried rice and warm beer. Patronage by guilt just doesn't work for me.
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I arrive in Luang Prabang guide book free. As sure as the sun will rise, I'm certain that there will be a plethora of guest house middle men to coax me in their direction. I go with the guy who offers to carry my pack, heavier after stocking up on supplies in Bangkok, up the hill.
I am shown a room for a whopping $7.50. I take a walk down the street in search of a better deal. I stop two western women, ask them where they're staying and how much they're paying.
"We have a very nice room for 70."
"70 dollars? 70 US dollars?"
"Yes."
"Oh, that's like The Plaza. That's 5 star."
These people are not my peers. I didn't even realize that Luang Prabang would have rooms for that much. This place is not at all what I thought. I take the $7.50
room. What with the new year festival of Songkran approaching, the town is filling up and this is probably as good as it's going to get.
Songkran, celebrated in Thailand, Laos, Cambodia (and to my utter surprise, Southern China), is a water festival. While it is supposed to start 6 days from now, kids are already lining the streets armed with hoses and buckets of water. I wrap my books and electronics in zip-lock bags to walk the 100 meters to the coffee shop.
It is at my favorite coffee shop that I overhear a conversation between an American ex-pat (I can tell he's an ex-pat because he's poorly dressed, obese and has a cellphone permanently attached to his ear.) and a German.
"Are you from Holland?"
"No, I'm German."
"Oh, I thought I heard a Dutch accent."
"Well, as long as you don't think I'm American."
And here I am, an American, sitting quietly in a cafe reading my book thinking that Germans should be the last ones to be casting negative stereotypes about. I am not my government. I know the capital of Switzerland. I know the name of the German Chancellor. We are not all the same. Some of us have passports. The arrogance and insensivitity of his response to an obvious North American is shameful. I am tempted to ask him about his views but hold back, thinking it too confrontational, too American. But more so, he's not worth the effort. While everyone has stereotypes about everyone else, Germans, like other travelers are nice people. We can say this about Brits, that about Israelis, this about Americans, that about the French, but when you meet people one-on-one, those preconceptions rarely hold true. There are good and bad people from everywhere. This is far from a revelation and I am certainly not the first person to say it. The unfortunate thing here is that we must continually remind ourselves of what is nothing more than common sense.
But those Loatians. Now they just kill me. I sit at a quaint restaurant on a street full of other quaint restaurants and upsacle boutiques complaining about the greedy, dishonest locals with some perturbed Germans, Swiss and Israelis.
"Every internet cafe has tried to overcharge me."
"A taxi charged us $20 to take us 10km."
"The bicycle rental place said that if the bike was stolen, we'd have to pay $60. Of course, she's going to pay some guy $30 to follow us and steal the bike."
"$2 for a banana shake and they don't put any banana in it."
Yes, yes, we have the choice to leave, which is exactly what the German couple is doing. But it's only in these tourist laden spots where such attitudes prevail. But it can taint your view of a country.
And because I choose not to pay $20 for a guided day hike, I spend my days sipping locally grown coffee and reading. I get out to the Kuang Si Waterfall twice, one of those places that is understandably popular. On three levels, the large pools allow for swimming and sun bathing. On the upper level, young adventure seekers scale the slanted rock face and jump into the mouth of the pounding falls.
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Each night I don long underwear and turn my fan on full-blast to drown out my neighbors, who talk and watch TV until 2am. Sound, like water, drips easily through the gaps in the wood and I am just waiting for them to start having sex, which, in 6 nights, they never do. What's wrong with them? All this talking and late night movies and no sex. AND THEY'RE FRENCH! Humm? They must be married.
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I choose to endure the water fights, sub-standard fruit shakes, and loud neighbors of Luang Prabang so that I can attend a Pesach Sedar. It's been 4 years since I've celebrated anything other than Christmas and Moon Festival and I'm thinking a night with the chevrai (friends) would ease the pang of homesickness I only get this time of year. Luang Prabang is the only place in Laos that will host a Sedar. I guess it may sound bizarre that any Asian city hosts a Sedar, but thanks to the unwavering efforts of Chabad House, there is nary a place in the world that a Jew cannot reach out to almost 6000 years of tradition, thank you very much. Amen.
I take the back streets to the new Chabad House hoping to avoid supersoaker packin' youth. Though the Sedar ticket requested that no one bring backpacks for security reasons, everyone does.
One hundred Israelis, 2 Canadians and me take our seats and wait, for what seems like 40 years, for the Sedar to begin. Ah, just like home. The air-conditioner can't cool the packed room creating a desert-like heat, albeit a tad more humid.
The Rabbi goes through the Hagaddah, mumbling quickly. Group readings are a free-for-all and I can't follow along. "Is it time to eat the bitter herbs?" "Where's the charoset?" I cringe at the off-key singing. Kosher wine, meat, and matzah have been imported. I never thought there would come a day when I craved matzah. After so many months in Asia, anything not fried is a welcome change. The matzah balls, heavy and dense, are like a Jewish version of Elfin bread. This is really going to clog me up.
During the Sedar people sneak outside for smokes.
After Sedar everyone goes for beer.
Okay, so this wasn't exactly like home. No discussion. No witty digs. No harmony. No strawberries. No logistical precision. And like my yearly vow to never again attend the Haight Street Festival, I promise myself that this will be my last Chabad Sedar.
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Early the next morning I am sitting on a public bus eating bread with some sort of sweetened filling waiting to start my journey north to Oudomxai, Luang Nam Tha and then into China. It is here that I meet a lovely man. (The use of the word "man" infers a non-romantic nature. If I had used the word "guy", romantic interest would be implied and I wouldn't be telling you about it.) Andy is a 50 year-old American who lives in Homer, Alaska. "Hey, I've been to Homer." How many people can say that! Andy is a seasoned traveler. His backpack is the size of my daypack. Of course, he doesn't have to carry bras or tampons. And even though I think I have really held back by only carrying 3 paris of shoes, Andy good-heartdly berates me for it. My excuse is simple. "I'm a girl."
Andy is the perfect example of an American Jew who is Jewish in every way except religion. In his speech: "What, are ya tryin da kill me?" In his expressions: "Oy!" In his mother: "She lives in Florida."
He says that the only Jewish girl he ever dated was in high-school and that was because "she had big tits."
Andy and I will be bus buddies for the next 5 days. We are both going into China and have planned to do it in small steps. Andy has been this route before, and while entering a new country is scary and exciting, I feel fortunate to be with someone who knows the drill.
OUDOMXAI
Five hours north of Luang Prabang is the transit town of Oudomxai. There's nothing to do here. I go in search of food and am invited to drink with a group of local 20-somethings celebrating Songkran. They are drunk and soaked and listening to Jennifer Lopez. One of them is unknowingly invading my personal space, but I stay for a small glass of beer, pass out some cigarettes and bid farewell.
Andy and I spend the evening chatting on the balcony watching the blaze on the distant hills and picking ash out of our hair.
LUANG NAM THA
It's another 5 hours to Luang Nam Tha. Here, we have a wonderful view of the bus station. Andy and I spend the evening with our guest house neighbors, Ronnie and Alijandro, sitting on the balcony and playing Ronnie's new $25 guitar. Gangs of youth roar through the one street that makes up town on their 100cc mini-motorcycles. It's Hello Kitty Hell's Angels. When a thunder storm unplugs the sky, the gang, which has congragated in front of our hotel, scatters like they were being chased by the coppers. Lightening slices up the sky over the hills to the north and the rain comes down sideways, sending us to bed.
Tomorrow, China!
Friday, April 14, 2006
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