Hi, another podcast recommendation from me — and couldn’t possibly recommend this one more enthusiastically. Episode #34 of the Extra-Environmentalist podcast, an interview with Morris Berman.
Had not previously heard of him, but he’s one helluva whip-smart cat. It’s a scathing yet charming critique of what he calls the “hustling life”, AKA the American Dream — and the possibilities of escaping it.
Much like Chomsky, he seems to have read every book ever published, and rattles them off, along with their authors’ arguments and lessons, at a dizzying pace. Unlike Chomsky, however, who generally gives stock answers in interviews (in his defense, he grants a tonne of interviews), Berman speaks here by the seat of his pants, so it’s almost as though he’s discovering the depth of his wisdom right at the same time as he’s sharing it. A thoroughly compelling listen!
You can head over to the page for this episode (actually about a month old now — these days, I’m as lax on podcast-listening as I am on reading), and download it from there.
But clocking in at over two hours, as it does, it may be a bit much. I’ve uploaded an edited file which includes only the interview proper, and dispels with Seth’s and Justin’s introductory and outroductory remarks, as well as their little interstitial vignettes used to break up the interview. Nothing really wrong with these, but they’re certainly not necessary.
Of course, the reason I was to-day able to catch up on some reading and some podcast-listening is that I’m still all gimped up from the kicking of the concrete block. Improved from yesterday, but not enough to go tramping around.
Did get down to the river in the morning, which was surprisingly peaceful and serene — the babbling rapids, the wonderful birdsong, the kids splashing around in the water (and shaking my hand multiple times), the ladies doing some fishing, the odd kayak floating by. Great!
But why surprising? Well, it’s this little island in the river which is primarily used for bungalows and bars. In the evenings (and on into 3:00 in the AM — no curfew in this town), it’s party central. But while the revelers are sleeping it off until Noon or so, you’ve got the place virtually to yourself.
By the way, it’s possible that the hostel at which I’m staying may be cursed! See, after I kicked the damned block, then the hostel’s proprietor — an affable Norwegian expat name of “Arne” — went out and had a motorcycle-on-motorcycle accident.
In which, he banged up his foot up pretty good — as well as scraping an elbow, and bruising a shoulder. This evening he returned back to work after a few days’ rest, and told all about it.
Seems to be recovering well, and in good spirits, etc.. Word to the wise, however: if you ever come stay at this place, mind your feet!
Awoke quite early yesterday, Friday – 5:45 in the AM – to give myself plenty of time to hoof it to the bus station for the 7:30 departure. Ended up getting delayed straight away when I went to leave and found that the hostel’s doors’d been padlocked shut.
So, madly began to search around for a back entrance, to no avail, and after some time was surprised to bump in to the staffer. Whether this was his usual time of rising, or he was thinking there might be a prowler in his midst, I know not. Anyway, he wasn’t carrying a shotgun.
It meant that I was about ten minutes behind my proposed schedule; but then made fairly exquisite time (considering carrying all my crap on my back), arriving to the depot at 7:05 in the AM. Feeling quite satisfied with the success of my labours, I casually checked my bag and sauntered off to the pisser.
But when I come out, the bus was already pulling away from the fugging station! What the Christ? I ran to catch up with it, and the conductor beckoned me aboard. But, shit, my nonchalance had almost been responsible for the sending-of along of my baggage without me. Or…had it?
We puttered down the road for about a quarter-mile, then pulled over and stopped. The driver and conductors got out and began eating chicken kebabs; while some of the passengers were just milling around. After about a half-hour’s time, another handful of riders showed up in a minivan, were boarded, and then we were off.
You really never know, in Laos, just what in Hell is gonna happen next. But you do know it’ll be some dope-ass hijinks, for sure.
The first half of the journey re-traced the second half of the inbound trip – and the driver seemed as maniacal as had the previous driver. But for some reason, my stomach didn’t quease up at all. I did hear some people retching behind me, but not really all that many.
Nevertheless, the trip seemed to take quite some time, as we made a lot of stops letting people on and off, in addition to the roadside piss-break, and the lunch break, and so on. ‘twas, however, probably the most scenic bus ride to-date.
The coach was equipped with a teevee screen…
…but it never did get turned to the “on”. I read online somewhere somebody complaining about a night-bus they’d taken; and that there’d been karaoke videos playing, and that all the locals had just stayed up all night singing karaoke rather that going to sleep. I guess this feature’s only for the night-bus, alas. I’m gonna have to get my ass onto one of them, for sure!
By the way, notice the clock. All clocks on all buses in Laos (or so is my experience) at all times read 8:30 in the AM.
We stopped at a tangerines stand, and almost all of the locals de-boarded and purchased surprisingly large quantities of them. It was just seven or eight stalls of tangerine ladies – and then at the very end was a couple of Italian-mafia-looking guys, selling papayas. But they didn’t seem to be getting any business.
And then, master klutz that I am, checking into the hostel I kicked this damned concrete pillar-support. BAM!, right on the little toe. Now it’s all swelled up and purple and shit. No pain at all whilst lazing about, and only mild pain whilst walking.
But, really, the reason I stopped here in the first place is ‘cause the map shows a pretty extensive network of hiking trails nestled right in there between the river and the mountains. But I certainly daren’t doing anything of that sort to-day (Saturday). Hopefully tomorrow I’ll feel it a more sensible plan of action.
Earlier to-day I was showing it off, and this Australian girl who’s “in Physio” (which I take to mean a pre-med student, or something like), poked and prodded at it for a while. She was kinda freaking out at all the swelling, and soberly instructed me to “keep” icing. Which instruction of course presupposes that I had already been icing. Which, also of course, I had not.
But she was just getting ready to go swimming, and I wanted neither to delay nor to discombobulate her with a big grandiose oration concerning the treatment of illness and injury with nothing save rest and/or fasting and/or hydration. So I just said that, okay, I would do.
Silly doctors, thinking they’re smarter than the organism and wanting to control the swelling. What a buncha nitwits!
So, here’s the deal with Vang Vieng. It was just this teeny-tiny little village. But then the caucasoids began to notice the stunning natural beauty of the place. Which, it’s true. The mountains are hellaciously gorgeous.
They also noticed that it’s an ideal location for inner-tubing the river. And so they began to descend in droves. And so this whole big tourist infrastructure sprung up to get their money from them. Now, it’s like the Spring Break Mecca of Asia. Also, ‘cause all these crazy kids are drinking and drugging while innertubing, it’s the drowning capital of Asia. Couple hundred a year, I think, just in this tiny little place.
And of course, with the tourists came the cooking-fires, came the perma-haze.
So what was once a paradise for the villagers here has now been fucked. Hey, but at least they’re making bank over-charging tourists for drugs and alcohol (big Beerlao in Luang Prabang: 10,000 Kip; in Vang Vieng: 70,000 Kip).
Almost impossible to find any fruit in town. There’s a Morning Market a few miles north, but I thought it prudent not to walk up there this morning, what with the gimp and all. May as well have done, such was the territory covered hobbling around trying to find some morsels here in town.
What they’ve got instead is dozens of open-air restaurants serving burgers, pizza, spaghetti, steaks, and Lao food – and playing re-runs of Friends (with Lao subtitles) and Family Guy on their teevee screens (I did also see one joint playing South Park).
How did this get started? No clue. Why these two shows? Also no clue. Family Guy is probably my all-time favourite teevee show, though, so I can’t really argue with the wisdom of its inclusion. Never seen Friends, so had not known before to-day that it had employed a laugh track. What? I thought the laugh track had gone defunct in the mid-‘80s?
These three Canadian dudes staying here say Friends is pretty funny. But a German staying here, who shares my passion for Family Guy (watches it in English on the Internet, though it’s also available on teevee there, with German dubbing), doesn’t agree.
Hobbling around looking for fruit, I did manage to take in a few temples. And would you believe it? Something I’d never yet seen! Again! This time, a Black Buddha!
I’ve seen small support-Buddhas in every colour of the rainbow (often translucent); but never before a Big Temple-Assed Buddha in anything other than gold. Kickass!
One of the temples has two golden chickens as the primary temple guardians.
And one has the most feminine-looking Buddha I’ve yet come across.
Looks rather like Lisa Bonet, don’t you think? Also, an Accessorised Buddha.
Has just been to REI, from the looks of it.
Near one of the temples, a colourful little procession came rolling on by. I’m thinking it had something to do with a wedding, maybe?
Later, sitting eating a salad, a motorised procession.
Booked a tour of the Jars sites for tomorrow, which turns out to be only $20. Seems like a great deal.
After that, made the one-hour jaunt to the bus station, to purchase a ticket to Vang Vieng for Friday morning. Just turning around to leave, and the clerk exclaimed, “Hi!” Turned back around, and he offered, “Free gift for Friday,” handing me a bottle of water and a…
The latter, I gave to a fine gentleman waiting for a bus. Hey look, I’m not gonna say the gesture made his millennium, or anything like that; but he did seem to get a kick out of it.
Walking back into town, finally got a opportunity to for the first time listen to the new Joseph Arthur album. Holy crap, Joseph! I know it’s been only a couple of years. But this is too good; you’ve been away far too long! The record can be downloaded free of charge from his website. Run, don’t walk (as they say)!
Then had time to explore the town a bit. The town, it kinda looks like Luang Namtha smells: there are big trucks all over the place, either parked or hurtling down the main drag.
Every-other shop seems other to be selling some sort of oil, or offering auto-mechanical services. Construction going on everywhere. But it doesn’t smell bad at all, and the visibility’s pretty decent.
The area is fairly breezy as well. Dusty, breezy, big trucks, hot days/cool nights, mountains everywhere, off the beaten path – kinda reminds me of Montana in a way.
It’s not a very tourist-orientated town. But it’s got its charms all the same. Just watching people going about their workaday lives is to me so utterly fascinating. One good thing about traveling alone: one can spend an entire day indulging such fascinations without pissing anybody else the crap off. Even the more so when they’re as friendly as Laotians, as delighted to be talking to a Westerner. (Seems they don’t see so many in these parts, as I was drawing quite a bit of attention just walking around some of the residential side-streets.)
This lady bade me pet the baby cow (which she’d been doing when I arrived at the scene). Was somewhat surprised that it allowed me to do so.
Of course, signs are always good for some entertainment.
The town and many of its establishments are adorned with old materiel from the U.S. bombing. Don’t really know what to make of it, but…okay.
Chatted for a while with a nutty Slovak who was giving me tips about Cambodia. I asked if he’d got the seven-day pass for Angkor Wat, and he scoffed that nobody could ever need seven days to explore the temples there. Ha ha, little does he know!
He was telling me to make sure to not miss visiting the “big lake” (Tonle Sap), as the vegetation around there is so vivid that it’s almost as beautiful as the Windows XP desktop. Swear to Buddha, that’s what he said!
He then went on a big, long, entertaining rant about, if one takes ill, to never set foot inside a Cambodian hospital, as they’ll “finish you off every time”.
Speaking of temples, guidebook says this town’s are un-interesting. Well, the guidebook can fuckoff at a time of its choosing, because, while there aren’t many of them, the temples here kick ass!
For one thing, they’re the most festive-looking temples in all of Asia (at least that I’ve seen).
For another, their Naga are shaped unlike any other I’ve seen, with the huge bends in the middle; while also being far more multi-coloured than any I’ve seen.
For yet another, one’s got a stupa garden off to the side; and another’s completely ringed by stupae. Again, this is new to me.
And in how many other towns have I seen a novice riding a tiger. Uh, approximately in zero other towns. Pretty sure I’ve not even seen a big old tiger guarding a temple before to-day.
Finally, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a temple’s shrine housed in its own separate, adjoining structure. As you can see, i’s even got a window, to view the shrine from outside.
Just goes to show: let Templemania, and not some ridiculous book, decide your viewing fate. Otherwise, you’ll miss some unique shit.
Later on, went and visited the Mines Advisory Group Information Centre. This is a great organisation working to clear all the unexploded ordnance, left over from the bombing campaign, which to this day kills and maims hundreds of people per year. Heroic work – but even at the current rate of progress, it’ll take several decades to completely decontaminate all of Laos.
Purchased a t-shirt from them – my very first souvenir of the tour. In the evenings, they screen three free documentaries dealing with the clearing work and similar issues. All covered more less the same ground, but all worth watching. One of them, Bombies, was even a PBS co-production. Might be able to find a DVD at your local library…
[Written Thursday, February The 23rd, Night]
Plain Of Jars tour, y’all! In the group were myself, a Belgian, an Irishman (living, for the last nine years, in China), a Japanesian, an Australian, a Swisswoman, and a Slovakienne; plus the guide, name of “Lian”, and the driver.
The first stop was Site 1 – the Site with the greatest number of Jars, as well as the greatest number of tourists. Also, very great rules and regulations. If you were thinking you might like to rear animals on the Plain Of Jars without permission…think again.
Have I photos of the Jars? Why, yes I have. They’ll be found in their own set at the Flickr page.
For some reason, I just love this kind of shit. The Jars are not quite so mysteriously fascinating as are the Hawaiian Petroglyphs. But they’re certainly in their own way the more impressive an accomplishment.
One legend says they were used as whiskey-drinking cups for giants; another says they were used as funeral urns. Whatever it was, they’re freaky as Hell.
They’re big!
They’re neat!
They’re numerous!
I only saw one with a lid atop it; although there were also a few lids on the ground.
You’ve gotta stay on the marked paths, or chances are you’ll get blown sky-high.
About 40% of the Jars have sustained damage; of these, about 50% were damaged by the U.S. bombing. Yeah, there are all these stupid fucking bomb-craters pock-marking the sites.
While the group was having lunch, I took to reading the informational signs at the lunch area. While I was doing so, Lian chatted with me a while. Eventually he asked where I was from, and when I told him, he responded, “Ah! So you know that you are responsible for the bombing?”
I began to blush, of course, and to apologise profusely. He said that all was forgiven, that it was in the past. But god fucking dammit, what an awful feeling. (And of course, it’s not all in the past, as people are still to this day being blown up by the god damned mess we left behind.)
He asked if the American government had told the truth, to the American people, about the secret war upon Laos. I explained that, no, the American government always and only ever lies. Not only about Laos – but about everything.
On the way to Site 2, we stopped at a village and watched a lady making Whiskeylao. Apparently it’s about a seven-week process, with only two ingredients: rice and yeast.
She had some finished product to share around. As James had done back in Luang Prabang, Lian, to prove its mettle, poured some in an overturned lid and lit it on fire. As he was the guide, he explained, he was required to drink first. He poured the shot down, and then began to share.
The Japanesian – against Lian’s urging him to “bottoms-up” — put just a little bit in his palm, and lapped it up. His reaction tells a tale.
The Irishman and the Belgian, who both seemed to know their ways around a shot of whiskey, agreed that it was pretty good.
On to Site 2, which was completely devoid of tourists, excepting ourselves. The Jars at this site are far fewer in number, but also a little bit larger. Actually quite liked this Site, as there’s a lot of vegetation with which the Jars may interact; and the plentiful shade makes for more pleasurable Jar-viewing.
On the way to Site 3, we stopped to see a Russian tank the side of the road. To the Laotians, it’s about the coolest thing ever.
Site 3 is similar to Site 2, but also has a great mountain/valley backdrop. At this site, Lian (ever the joker) spoke to one of the Jars, “Jars, what are your mysteries? When will you tell us the secret?” Here he is, waiting for the Jar to answer.
Here’s a shot I particularly like.
I asked the Australian if he’d be so kind as to take my picture sitting inside this damaged Jar, which request he was happy to oblige.
But then, the Japanesian took my camera from him, and told me to stand up and have my picture taken. Fucking brilliant!
A nice shot of some Jars and the surrounding area. Site 3, I think, was my favourite of the three.
The road back was dusty and bumpy, just as it had been on the way out. But for some reason, it seemed to take much longer to get back to paved road than it’d taken to get up to the Sites. At long last, however, we did so, then got back into town – and there the Jars still are. Bombed and battered, but beautiful and mysterious yet these 3,000 years after their construction.
Back in town, there was some kind of volleyball tournament going on. If I understood correctly what one of the locals was telling me, the teams were comprised of fathers vs. sons. The PA announcer was pretty excitable at times.
The announcer and other officials were having a great, sitting in their little shack, drinking their Beerlao, and listening to their Lao Pop music.
In the evening, went to the screening of the feature-length documentary mentioned the other day, The Most Secret Place On Earth. Unlike the documentaries of yesterday, which dealt with the aftermath of the war, this one was concerning the war itself. Pretty engrossing and sobering picture, if you ever get a chance to see it.
Arose early to walk down to the bus station. Like to do so (I mean walking to the bus with all my shit on my back, not arising early) when feasible, as it’s often the only exercise I’ll get during the day. After the fortnight, James was sad to see me leaving. Said that when he got to work tonight, he’d be looking around, asking, “Where’s Edward?”
The bus journey from Luang Prabang to Phonsavanh can be summed up thus: twistiest/windiest…mountain road…ever. Oof. The eight hours on the bus felt more like eight hours in a washing machine.
Y’all know how much I love driving like a madman through the twisty-turny mountain passes. Well, our driver for to-day loves it every bit as much – and in a bus, rather that a Geo Metro. And the mountain roads are quite narrow, to boot. Let’s just say that his ding ding (or, more accurately stated, his honk honk) got plenty of work work.
Pretty sure I’ve never in my life contracted motion sickness; but on this day, even my heretofore immune stomach turned over a time or two.
The scenery, of course, was aces.
We stopped for lunch at the crossroads town of Phou Khoun. The menu for the restaurant in front of which the bus dropped us off:
Here’s the view from the town.
And here’s the view of the restaurant across the street from the restaurant in front of which the bus dropped us off.
After lunch, the real fireworks began. I’d been riding alone ‘til then, but we picked up some more travelers in town; including a nice-seeming local gentleman with whom I shared the second half of the ride.
It had already been twistiest/windiest…mountain road…ever. But somehow it now became twistier/windier still. My stomach was in a state of permanent quease. By that point, I’d not eaten for about twenty hours, so there wasn’t anything up for me to chuck. Otherwise, I fear I might well have.
My companion wasn’t so lucky. He spent the entire time bent over, chundering into plastic bags and tossing them out the window. Girl in front of me the same – only she was also hocking loogies and attempting to spit them out the window. But of course, they right-angled and headed back toward me splatting on the side of the bus rather too near my person.
I let cry a, “Hey!” and later a, “God damn it!” She looked at me quizzically each time; but she just would not comprehend the physics of the matter (nor, certainly, the English language), and so I resorted to fashioning a shield out of the curtain.
And it worked!
They weren’t the only two, neither. Seemed like about half the riders were heaving it up. Why will not they learn: eat your Chicken Food after riding the mountain bus, not before?
While stopped in a small town to let somebody off, noticed that these three girls – while very cute – weren’t waving the bus.
So I took it upon myself to wave to them first, which got the ball rolling and how. Their little brother even ran over to join them, performing this odd-looking wave with the outside of his hand facing the bus.
Arrived in Phonsavanh too late to look around much, but did note one interesting concept. The Fresh Market stays open after dark, so the vendors use candles to illuminate their stalls.
Appears that a guided tour of the Plain Of Jars won’t cost as much as I’d feared – $25 for an eight-hour tour (including price of admission to the Jars sites), plus an evening screening of The Most Secret Place On Earth, a great-looking documentary concerning the U.S. bombing campaign.
One possible backfire: this operator’s tours look so interesting, I may end up taking more than one of them! There’s even one on which you can hike a part of the Ho Chi Minh trail.
[And Now For Something Completely Different]
How if we tie up some loose ends?
First, a few recommendations.
“Confessions Of A Recovering Environmentalist”, by Paul Kingsnorth. Excellent essay in which he discusses childhood revelations which led him into the Environmental movement, and laments its current state.
Maybe even better, a complementary podcast with Kingsnorth and two other authors, discussing the essay, its implications, and prospects for the future.
Another audio file, Episode #297 of the C-Realm Podcast, in which Jon Rappaport calls bullshit on the medical industry; and Andrew Napolitano blows a gasket over the political status quo.
And this, a great new video from Josh Ritter. Josh driving a motor-car with a bull elk as passenger in a construction-paper stop-motion animation video? Count me in!
Next, some more videos from yours truly, which I’ve not until now had time to upload. First, from way back in Udomxai, what I believe to have been a karaoke party down in the valley. After that, two more kids’ boules clips.
Finally, thought maybe the Kuang Si and Pak Ou informational signs would be an interesting accompaniment to the stories and pictures. So, here we go. (Won’t be offended if you don’t, having not been there, find it very interesting.)
Nitzan loves the falls possibly even more than do I myself. He was off this morning to make his second visit. I considered joining him; but instead wished him godspeed, and set about to find a bicycle.
I thought it’d be easy as pie to just grab one from the guest house. But the staffer, when I told him of my plan to ride to the cave, said it’d not be a good idea. Their bikes, he related, would do fine on the paved portion; but after covering the dirt portion (which comprises about a third of the total distance), I’d need to put the bike in, like, a burlap sack, and bring it back to town in a Tuk-Tuk.
So, I found a place in town that had pretty sturdy-looking bikes.
The rental officer agreed that the bike could get me there and back; but was skeptical that I’d be able to pedal that distance (about forty-five miles for the round-trip). I said that I thought I could manage it, and so, he asked me for my passport.
Oops. It was back in the guest-house locker. Crap. Was walking away, considering whether I wanted to hoof it all the way to the guest house and back, and remembered that I’d a copy of my passport on my person. With that, and my driving licence, the rental officer agreed to rent me the bike.
Everything seemed to be proceeding smoothly, ‘til I got a look at the fine print.
Could this really be true – 30,000 Kip to replace the ding ding?? Sometimes, I just can’t help wonder what the fuck this world is coming to. All the same, I signed on the dotted line, and was off.
And do you believe it? Riding an inter-city route in shorts, t-shirt, no shoes, no helmet, no glasses (normally only worn while driving). I would never even dream of trying a stunt like that in the States (nor even Thailand, by a long shot). But in Laos, you just go with the flow.
The motorists, even the truckers, are very good about not running down the cyclists and the pedestrians. Anyways, a few kilometres North of town, the traffic became very negligible. The riding was quite good. Somewhat hilly, but not too much. The weather had cooperated immensely by bringing some clouds, so it was not overly hot/sunny.
Was happy to’ve reached the turn-off, as the “Hobo Map” describes the next section as, “Serene cycling on good dirt road, with some shade, and views of the Mekong.”
“Serene”, I’ll definitely give ‘em. But, dustier than fuck-all; so even though there wasn’t a tonne of traffic, what traffic there was kicked up a tonne of dirt. Luckily, I’d purchased a dust-mask yesterday morning, so this was manageable. And after a few kilometres, the road became hard-packed, and the dust was much less.
Wouldn’t exactly call the road “good”, however; “quite bumpy and rocky” would be my description. Also, very hilly. It’ll be good for me in the end, but my legs will be sore tomorrow! The views of the Mekong, while spectacular, were only few and far between. However, the mountains and trees made up for that with their always reliable awesomeness.
After the dirt road, I was kinda thinking, “You know, maybe I oughta get a Tuk-Tuk for the return trip.” Lo and behold, I’m riding up to the village sited across from the caves, and there’re four or five Tuk-Tuk drivers gathered around. “Sir, you take Tuk-Tuk back?”
“Maybe! How much?”
They wanted 50,000; I wanted to pay 20,000. We got to haggling – one driver offered 40,000 — and finally I just said, “Whatever, I want to see the cave first!” Yes, yes, of course, they assured me. But, come back in an hour, and grab a Tuk-Tuk.
“Maybe, but I’m paying 20,000.” They just laughed and laughed.
Walking through the village to the boat landing, noticed both a captive monkey and a captive owl. Damn, that was depressing.
The caves (an upper and a lower) are a repository for unwanted Buddhas, Isn’t every Buddha beautiful? Isn’t every Buddha loved? Well…I guess not. The place is fucking surreal, man. Who ever got the bright idea to just start chucking all these Buddhas in the damned cave? Don’t know — but I’m glad they did.
Nobody loves the Buddhas!
So many unloved Buddhas!
In a side-passage of the Lower Cave, there’s this killer Naga with its neck broken and turned ‘round backward, and wearing a scarf.
Most of the visitors arrive by slow-boat from Luang Prabang – about a one-hour journey each way. Don’t know the fare; presumably not cheap. So they just drive right up to the cave, the tourists get out and look around, and when everybody’s done, they drive right back to the city. Well, on the roof of one of the boats…
Weird. Taking the stairway to the upper cave, I realised that the bike-ride had turned my legs to mush. Needed to stop and rest a good two or three times. Did arrive, however; and the Upper Cave’s even trippier that the lower. Some of the figures are just outright freaky.
While some of them are just damned weird.
Plus, unlike the Lower Cave, the Upper is very dark. A Frenchman, not seeing that I’d brought my own small one, offered to let me borrow his “torch” (AKA flashlight) as I was entering and he leaving. Just wanted to point out the fact, as though I’ve been slagging them for their nasty, ugly smoking the Europeans really are very friendly.
I like these figures for the strange shapes and placements of the hands.
So, it was back down to the boat landing, to catch the return trip to the village. The captain’s first-mate was a take-no-shit badass.
…but a good worker as well.
I think he’s got a future in the hospitality industry, as his welcome-aboard hand-gesture is so good it oughta be used in training films! Kid’s a fighter and a lover.
When we got to the other side, I thanked the Captain, and reached into my pocket to get the 10,000 Kip to pay the fare. Meanwhile, he’d written his proposed 30,000 Kip fare on his hand. Utterly shocked and disgusted, I kept repeating (in my best are-you-kidding-me? voice), “Come on…come on…come on.” Finally, the First Mate began repeating it as well (don’t think he spoke English either; but rather just liked the sound of the phrase) — which, I had to admit, was pretty funny.
It took a good five minutes’ haggling to jew him down to 20,000. But as I was leaving, I gave him a two-ton glare, and proclaimed, “This is not good!” Not that he understood it; but I said it anyhow.
As I was walking up the bank to the village, I began to feel guilty for my little outburst. I had ended up paying double the usual cross-Mekong fare, true. But, the extra 10,000 Kip amounted to…$1.25. Really going to get all upset over that?
Besides, with most of the tourists arriving by slow-boat, the ferry Captains don’t appear to be doing a very roaring trade – certainly I was his only passenger for each crossing (and I was there right in the middle of the day, on a weekend). And which he’d damaged the craft on the way over, trying to squeeze into too tight a spot, and getting part of the railiing broken-in between two other boats.
But I was too lazy to go back and apologise.
As I’d made very good time on the out-bound leg, and as I was quite tired enough already, I decided to just take it slowly on the way back, and enjoy the scenery. (The Tuk-Tuk drivers had all departed, so this wasn’t even an option, as it turned out.)
Laos is so bad-assed. Even this podunk little bridge out in the middle of nowhere offers up such heart-stopping beauty.
On the other side, a sunken vessel.
Happened to pass by a bumpin’ party. Not sure if this goes on every Sunday; or if it may have been a weddiing or similar. In case you’re thinking that it doesn’t sound very “bumpin’”: the music was much louder in person.
On the way back into town, I turned off to re-visit the villages I’d enjoyed earlier in the week. There weren’t as many people out-and-about as there had been then; but those that were were of course inordinately friendly and delightful.
In real life, this mountain o’ corn is as orange as orange gets. Huhn, never seen a mountain o’ orange corn before. In fact, don’t think I’ve ever even heard of a mountain o’ orange corn before.
Almost to the end of the village area and back into town, along come the Good Humor Man.
I myself declined his offer to purchase an ice cream; but I did see one little girl running down a hill, arms flailing madly, to get her some. It’s not easy to resist the Good Humor Man’s wiles!
Couldn’t wait to turn the bike in and have them check to make sure my ding ding wasn’t broken. But…they never even gave it a second thought! Oh, well.
Got some watermelon, and arrived to the river just in time to see the water and sun playing this fascinating pattern upon the sides of some of the boats.
Back at the hostel, the night-time staffer (name of “James”) was in rare form. This guy just cracks me the fuck up. Always refers to me as “Edward!”. That’s what it says in my passport, and thus on the big board; so it makes sense. But it’s still funnier than Hell.
The best is when he busts meself and others for not fastening our lockers up tight. I could be standing twenty feet away, brushing my teeth, and…pointing to the scene of the crime, “Edward! Very bad!”
There’s an outdoor bar here, and he spins the tunes and serves the drinks ‘til 10:00 in the PM, when he sprays the common area for mosquitoes (“for me and for you”), and hits the sack right there on a long table in the common area. The other night, he had to kind of bring the hammer down on two dudes who were placing their Beerlaos on the table – noting that that was his bed, and he didn’t want it to get sticky; apologising profusely all the while, and pleading with me to confirm that Beerlao shouldn’t be placed upon his bed.
Couple nights ago, he was playing some really great Lao Rock and/or Roll. When I told him how much I was loving it, he threw it all down onto a thumb drive, and let me copy it. No MP3 tags, so I’ve only the file-names to help me figure out tracking information:
He plays English-language tunes, too. Each night he seems to get fixated in a different English-language song, which he ends up playing five, six, seven, or more times throughout the night. Week or so ago, it was a rap song whose chorus goes:
I’ve got hoes (I’ve got hoes)
In different Area Codes (Area Codes)
Best of my recollection, the lyrics are to do with, basically, the convenience of having hoes in different area codes. But it’s the backing vocals on that chorus that really slay me. Nary a day goes by without me walking down the street and spontaneously belting out those two lines over and over again (including the backing vocals!).
One time last week, there had been some sort of problem with one of the other guests, and James called up one of his co-workers (I think it was), and absolutely reamed him a new one (all in Lao). Myself and the aggrieved guest were both laughing our asses off; and when he’d finished with the reaming, he triumphantly declared, “That’s right. I say something!”
Could go on an on about this guy.
Tonight, he served a newly-arrived Frenchman, name of “Eric”, some Whiskeylao, and demonstrated its potency by pouring some in a little cup and lighting it on fire.
Then, after the Frenchman had drunk a few shots, he (James) showed him the bottle. The Frenchman was freaking out, trying to figure out what was in there, and had to hold it up to the light – but still didn’t know.
Finally, James told him: “Centipedes…and vitt-amins.” I can’t, personally, vouch for the vitamins. But, yes, it’s true: Each Whiskeylao comes with a centipede in the bottle.
“What the fuck?” broke in a newly-arrived guest from L.A. (also name of “Eric”), “Centipede and vitamins???” Ah, the magic of Luang Prabang!
The Frenchman was performing a bunch of magic tricks, one of which involved a handful of playing cards each featuring pictures of apples, along with one featuring a picture of a caterpillar (name of “Gigi”). After doing some hocus-pocus on the cards, the Frenchman revealed each of the apples to now be eaten apples, and threw the “Gigi” card face down on the table.
The astonished James asked if he could look at the last card. The Frenchman permitted it; and when revealed, it had now become a butterfly. “What the fuck! Where is Gigi?!?!” cried James. It was a pretty good trick, all right.
Later, he told me he had something to show me, and brought down an, er, anatomical bottle-opener. Wanted me to take a picture, as I’d done with the Whiskeylao fire. I told him I wanted him in the picture too; he refused, but as he was busy setting up the shot, I was able to steal one of him.
Laos is the best!
Nitzan, the Israeli, has also been cracking me up pretty good. His English vocabulary is oddly incomplete (knows “square”, but not “triangle”, for example; and would have called an outlet an “electricity hole”); but the words that matter he’s got down pat.
Eric the Angeleno, also a fascinating chap, has been in Asia for six months’ time, three of them in Nepal. Another vote for Nepal. He, as the Brasilians are planning to do, had hiked up to the Everest base camp; as well as the Annapurna Circuit.
I was looking at some of his pictures, and, gawd damn, I think I need to go there. He says the best times to go are March and September. So, perhaps the latter. Apparently, you can get very good cold-weather gear at very reasonable prices in Kathmandu. The big question will be, fresh fruit? May have to subsist on cooked rice for a few weeks!
Anyways, I was asking him about the Nepal visa situation; which it turns out is not bad at all (he’d paid $100 for the ninety days). He noted that in China, Americans can pay $160 for a one-day visa…but that the price for a one-year visa is the same $160.
Upon hearing this, Nitzan kind of went berserk. “What are they, fucking idiots?”
“That’s just the way they do it.”
“But, who makes a one-day visa?? A fucking retard???
And thus began an hilarious tirade. As you can see, I was well and truly entertained all night long.
[Written Monday, February The 20th, Afternoon]
Hoofed it down to the Southern Bus Terminal to purchase my ticket for Phonsavanh. Very sad to leave Luang Prabang, but also very stoked to see the Plain Of Jars. (Although, it looks as though my pocketbook won’t be very stoked when all is said and done.)
There are watermelons for sale everywhere in the city. But, the quality’s pretty hit-and-miss. Except from this one major vendor at Phosi Market, whose fruits are quite consistently good.
The southern depot is near to the market, so I made a stop by there and got me some lunch, which was schlepped back up to the river. Between the depot and the market: Motorcycle Repairman, but how?
And why is this dude so happy? Because I’m taking his photo, of course!
Ditto these ladies.
Passed a strange scene during the schlep. Two caucasian ladies riding bicycles, each with a young local boy occupying the pillion. And what do you think the four of them were singing?
[…] big disgrace
Waving your banner all over the place
I think the ladies may have been the boys’ English tutors, or something? So strange!
After lunching, stopped by Utopia, which is kinda the hottest place in town. I had never been. It’s pretty cool.
Back early to the hostel, James brought his laptop in to-day, for me to give him a bunch of music, returning his favour of last week.
Also, he brought the bottle-opener back out for another photo-op. Here’re he and Nitzan arranging yet another photo-op.
He also took a picture of me with my face down there and a big shit-eating grin upon it. I dunno, maybe it’ll be in the Internet somewhere…
And my project for the afternoon is to learn how to sew. Popped the button on one of my two pair of shorts yesterday returning from the cave relieving myself at the side of the road. I have a little travel sewing kit; which I’ve only ever used it to dig slivers out of the soles of my feet with its big needle.
Slivers in the soles are fucking murder. Well, not murder really; but the tiniest, tiniest, tiniest little speck of crap, if buried within the sole, causes just enough pain with each footstep to annoy the living fuck out of you. So, if you don’t wanna be annoyed, you’ve got to do whatever it takes to find the damned sliver.
Which I’ve only needed to do once so far in Asia. But now, I’m going to try to learn how to sew this button back on.
