Old story: We could have gone any number of ways

Another unfinished story from last summer's trip to Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia. This story is about the journey from Vietnam into Laos. Again, I lost the motivation to wrap it up.

We could have gone any number of ways. Well, actually we had just two choices. One was a 24 hour sleeper bus taken south from Hanoi, down the same route we had just come up. And then we’d cut over and up into Laos. $40 for the entire trip, accommodation included. Or was it 29 hours? It varied depending on the travel agent you asked, as did the price, which was expected. The problem with this choice is that we would be traversing over ground that had already been traversed and I hated doing that. And once in Laos, we’d be going to the north first and then heading south, once again we’d be stepping on ground that had already been stepped on. But it was an easy option. Buy a ticket in the guest house, wait for the bus and follow the sheep in front of you…

The other option was to take the road less traveled and go west. Go west young man! Head in a general westward direction towards Dien Bien Phu and cross into northern Laos and then down to Luang Prabang. The travel agents we asked said it was impossible and that we had to go south first and then cut over. It was the one and only option. I don’t actually remember them saying it was impossible, but it was implied as such and they clearly wanted us to buy a ticket from them.  Of course.

The four of us decided on the second option. It was more adventurous to figure it out on our own and more intriguing to be able to see a part of Laos that we wouldn’t otherwise see. We headed out from the hotel at about 11:30am and took a taxi to the local bus station. The driver was perhaps the most annoying Vietnamese person I’ve ever met. He spoke at a volume suitable for elderly folks lacking hearing aids and he spoke excessively. He also couldn’t drive and wasn’t good at keeping his eyes on the road – nearly veering into the center divider on more than one occasion. But we wouldn't have been harmed at such a ridiculously slow rate of speed. He didn’t seem comfortable above 25 kph. In any case, he did get us to the bus station and fortunately for us, it was departing sooner rather than later.

There was only one bus, a sleeper to the town of Son La and we knew we’d have to bed down there since we’d gotten a relatively late start. And the bus, despite being the most comfortable and cleanest sleeper I’d ever seen, was not the best mode of transportation for an afternoon journey. So painful for me to see such sights from a reclined position and viewed through tinted windows. And no wind in my face and ability to stop anywhere along the way to absorb what I wanted to take in. It was clear quickly that a motorbike journey was the only way to really see these parts. Next time I swore.

My heart raced as we swept through the countryside and the limestone karsts climbing high around the bright green rice fields. I feel it up here, higher in the mountains and around a different, more interesting kind of people. Bright orange corn, in addition to rice, appeared to be cultivated nearly everywhere. And they were in the midst of processing it as well, right on the side of the road. Massive piles of the orange stuff laid next to massive piles of unkernaled cobs.

Corn, as seen from the bus.

I lied in the back of the bus on the upper bunk, five beds lying side by side. It was just me on the far right and a H’mong lady wearing her traditional dress on the far left. Love the traditional dress. Love it. She was coughing up something nasty so it was probably best she was over there. A young kid eventually joined us in the middle and then a short inconsiderate middle-aged man squeezed in who thought we all might like to listen to his music. Eventually I fell asleep, for some reason I always sleep better on the move than in the comfort of my own bed.

We stopped once for meal and bathroom break. We were the only foreigners and the food was actually good and not overpriced. I like being on the road less traveled! The bathrooms, on the other hand, were still filthy and nothing special, but as expected. Sugarcane juice accompanied by a silver platter of steamed rice, mustard greens and some fried eggs. I love rice! I hadn’t eaten that variety of greens in a long time and despite being slightly bitter, they were a refreshing change from the norm.

After arriving in Son La, near the center, we took a taxi down the road to the Trade Union Hotel and somehow managed to negotiate the room price from 500 to 250 thousand, but no free breakfast. 

Considering I don’t usually eat breakfast and that it was only 30,000 to purchase separately, it seemed pretty good to me. We checked in and then wandered down the road to fill our bellies and see what was going on. Not much as expected. Back near the hotel we sat down with some locals and the cute girl from our hotel’s reception to partake in some banana rice wine. It seems to me, that rice wine in general, is never very good despite the various ways of producing it and making it sound more appealing.

Once it was determined the one girl amongst the table of approximately ten guys was married, there was no longer any incentive to stay out any longer. We headed back up the narrow road to the hotel and visited the intriguing massage place that seemed to be hidden behind the hotel. There was an older woman and two unattractive girls poorly informed in the art of seduction, but interesting nonetheless to take in that moment and see some older gentlemen appear in time with other relatively unattractive girls who had just finished the massage and whatever else was negotiated. We then went to bed. True story.

Our bus to Dien Bien Phu the following morning arrived at 8:30am. It was perfect, actually on time if not a couple minutes early, and picked us up from the hotel. We boarded the small minibus and had upright window seats, which were as perfect for enjoying the scenery as could be from such a mode of transportation. Maybe this is where we saw all the corn, I can’t remember. The driver was skilled at getting us there as quickly as possible without being overly aggressive and having us fear for our lives as so many bus drivers in Vietnam are so capable of doing.

I love this scene, working in the rice fields.

We arrived in pretty decent time, right at noon, perfect for a quick lunch before we continued on the next leg of the journey – to the border. Again, sugarcane juice was the beverage of choice washing down a mountain of steamed rice and lightly fried tofu and fresh tomato sauce. Our only option was to take a taxi to the border as we had already missed the one morning bus that made that trip. And they wouldn’t negotiate. It was 500 thousand dong or approximately $25. For four people, it wasn’t bad, but we still knew it was overpriced. Not wanting to stay the night and wait for the cheaper bus, we went ahead and endured the driver shaking his head and smacking his tongue in dismay every time the car bottomed out in a pothole or splashed dirty water onto the windshield. So heavy! he cried. I’ll have to get a carwash, he moaned. So annoying.

Eventually we got there. The meter read 384 thousand dong and one of the guys said ok, 400 thousand is all he’s getting and the other guys sort of agreed without agreeing. 100 each. I hate this sort of situation. We should have paid him 500 even if he didn’t deserve it because there was some sort of verbal agreement in place. He wouldn’t have gone for 500 and we would have had to wait til the morning for probably near the same price. However, I wasn’t going to get stuck paying 200 out of sympathy for the guy. The driver chest bumped me out of anger and frustration when he realized he wasn't getting what he wanted and I was his last hope to recoup the negotiated fare. I felt a little shame, but it dissipated when the border guards laughed at him and did nothing as if to say C’mon man, you got enough.

Exiting Vietnam was relatively easy as we were the only ones and didn’t have to wait, however the guards still managed to over-inspect our passports and seemingly tried to give grief where no grief needed to be given. Just stamp the fucking thing. I could feel the tension rising as the one English speaking guard explained how the Lao border checkpoint was 7 kilometers away and we could hire a car if we wanted and he could arrange that. Yes, of course he could. Dick. He reeked of corruption.

We had no other choice as my friends were loaded down with luggage. Perhaps three bags each. I had my rolly bag and a light backpack and would have just thought of it as exercise, but I accepted fate that day. We got to the border faster and didn’t break a sweat and were only out another $5 each. The joke was definitely on us. And it was only 6 kilometers, but not enough to make a difference.

The visa to Lao for a United States citizen was $35. The overtime processing fee was $1, the sticker fee was $1 and there was other service fee for $1. The last fee couldn’t be explained and all of them were typical, especially of your off-the-beaten-track border crossing. Just another way to finagle a few extra bucks from every relatively rich backpacker with no other option than to do what? Refuse to pay and get denied entry all for a buck? I know I know, it’s not the dollar, it’s a matter of principle.

There was no accommodation at the checkpoint as we were told so we had to make a decision. We decided to have a beer. It was 10,000 kip after being told they were 7,000 kip. Again, of course. And then we decided to walk 3 kilometers down the mountain to the next village where we hoped we could then hitch a ride to the some other village and get a proper place to sleep as opposed to sleeping on the floor of the restaurant at the checkpoint shivering and lathered in mosquito repellent, but at least knowing a bus would be there in the morning to take us down the mountain and further into Laos.

Luck was on our side. First of all, the 3 kilometer trek was all downhill and the surrounding jungle was beautiful. And upon arrival, we met two Vietnamese mechanics, one of whom spoke English and agreed to take us to the town of [i can't remember] for a price, of course, after he finished repairing the Komatsu he was working on. $20 for 30 kilometers on windy, bumpy wet roads in the dark seemed reasonable after paying the same for 6 kilometers of relatively smooth gravel road in no man’s land.

Waiting for the mechanic to finish repairs.

Eventually we found a guest house...