Laos Reconsidered Or, Thanks to Anthony Bourdain, as always

Dark, brooding mysterious Laos.

Okay, if I had to name my favourite places in Asia they would be Hanoi and Ninh Binh in Vietnam, Pashupatinath in Nepal and Mandalay in Burma. Laos isn't even on there. But as S and I watched a downloaded episode of Anthony Bourdain's “No Reservations – Laos” I was flooded with memories of what a magical and haunting country it was.

I hadn't thought that much about Laos since leaving in early April until watching Bourdain's take on the place, his usual swagger and bravado replaced with the calm, quiet humbleness that the country inspires in all of us, the Western barbarians who helped place it at the bottom of the UN development scale. He visited the same places that S and I went, experienced a lot of the same amazing things and honestly I think that he felt the way that I did in a lot of ways. It was nice to watch.

Being blessed by a Buddhist nun.

The problem now is that I can't stop thinking about Laos. Taking the slow boat for 2 days up the muddy banks of the Mekong from Huay Xiao to Luang Prabang. The baffling Plain of Jars near Phonsavanh. The baci ceremony and alms-giving in Savannakhet. The memories of the cities and small hilltribe villages are swirling through my brain mixed with the mist coming off of the mountains and rolling across the rice paddies. Laos felt to me like an ancient secret – one that I do not understand.

Perhaps because Laos was the first stop for us back in Southeast Asia after five and a half oft-grueling months in tiring India and 3 days in bright shiny Bangkok we didn't really appreciate how different Laos is to the rest of it's neighbours – Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam – to all of which it is unfairly compared. The food was strange and wonderful, the Buddhism pervasive and tinged with animism, the people sweet (sometimes to their detriment) and shy, their poverty hidden – almost quiet. After India it was a delighfully easy place to travel (except for this) and I am ashamed to admit that I did not fully appreciate my month there as I looked ahead to 6 more months of Asia.

So as much as I love Northern Vietnam, as much as I want to trek the Annapurnas in Nepal and as many Indonesian islands as I am leaving unexplored – Northern Laos will be my first trip back to South Asia. There isn't much tourism there – it will be hard and dirty and difficult – but the best places always are.

The places that reach into our hearts and minds and tug (and sometimes rip) them open.

Wading into Laos.

Laos and Other Four Letter Words: The Hell Bus.

The back of our bus....

“Sean.” I said very calmly and matter-of fact “You are going to have to get me some Valium.”

*****************************************************

Si Phan Don translates to Four Thousand Islands in Lao, and is a grouping of river islands located at the very Southern point of the country where the Mekong widens into a huge channel. Several of the islands are large enough to support both a population of several thousand locals and a thriving backpacker industry. Fruit shakes are blended, “Happy” pizzas are sprinkled with herb, reggae is blasted all evening and even tubing, a Vang Vieng phenomena, is possible. All in all – not our kind of place. (Laos seems to repel educated, socially aware backpackers and attracts the hard partying yobs that only want to jump off of waterfalls and eschew all local culture. Perhaps this is because it is the least developed South East Asian country, and it feels like there is less you “must see.” Either way, this sweet place gets blasted with a lot of vomit spewed out from 22 year olds fresh off of their undergrads.)

We now faced an interesting dilemma. Our next destination was Vietnam, and even though it would be way more convenient Sean and I could not work our way South (Saigon) to North (Hanoi) as we were meeting friends in Hue (centre of Vietnam) in 3 weeks time. In a mess of poor planning, that meant that though we were now only a stone's throw from Cambodia we had to head thousands of kilometres back to the North. The only option, it seemed, was to undertake an epic two and a half day bus journey all the way to Hanoi. Now we just had to decide which route to take.

We had spent the last 2 weeks with a few friends from home, Dave and Landon, and Johann (a stray Dutchman) and they would also accompany us to Hanoi. Sean and Johann met with a nice local travel agent, and after weighing out 5 or 6 different options they settled on a VIP bus from Pakse (a town 2 hours away) to Hue. From Hue we would then take another night bus, which we would arrange when we got there. It would be 2 nights of hell, we all agreed, but better than dicking around for 4 or 5 days trying to get there on shorter duration buses. Our hopes for a “King of Bus” (a huge, double decker deluxe coach that we had passed on numerous times due to its high cost) were dashed, but the travel agent had showed us photos of the Lao VIP bus we were booking – it looked pretty good, and despite having no AC he assured us that there were fans that would be blowing all night, even when the bus stopped. Besides, he himself was heading into Pakse the next day and would be accompanying us to his office, where we would be dropped off and could leave our bags for the 4 hours between our arrival and the Hue bus's departure. It wasn't perfect, but it was the most time-effective route and we were confident that we had made the right decision.

The next morning we started the massive journey that would take us on a boat, in a minivan and on a 15 hour bus ride. Everything started smoothly – after an hour in a severely tippy canoe we got into our minivan, and though it was packed to the rafters (Lao think nothing of cramming double the amount of passengers into a vehicle than there are seats for – sometimes more) the AC helped to take the humidity out of the relentless 40 degree heat. We edged closer to Pakse, and suddenly the van stopped and the agent hopped out. “OK, you have good journey. You go to our office now. No problems.” The driver sped off and we shrugged, assured that we were on our way.

The minivan sped through Pakse, zooming past all of the restaurants that we had hoped to spend our four hours in, and continued down the highway. Sean consulted his map. “The office must be near the bus station.” He reasoned. In Laos the government runs all of the buses, and so even the VIP and King of Bus leave from the same station as the rickety local buses, so it made sense that we were heading 8 km out of the city toward the depot. What did not make sense is that we now seemed to be turning into the public bus station. The driver, who did not speak much English, gestured. “Here. Office.”

It certainly was just the bus station. We tumbled out of the vehicle and looked around, chuckling. “Nice office, eh?” I said to Sean, handing over my voucher to the clerk behind the counter. He grunted, and passed me a bus ticket in return. A regular bus ticket. Regular Local Bus Ticket. For a 15 Hour Night Bus.

I have no problems with local buses. We normally take them everywhere – they are cheaper and a great way to meet locals and allow for a more authentic experience than swanky AC buses. But a night bus is bad enough even with full beds on the fanciest bus – but with shoddy seats and constant stopping? Unbearable.

“Ummm, excuse me?” I said to the clerk politely. “We have a VIP bus? Not local bus?”

“No. Local. Local Bus.” He gestured to the price list on the wall. I quickly did the math.

“But we paid for the VIP....” Realization clouded my narrowing eyes. My head snapped around like a pissed off Linda Blair, and seeing our minivan begin to pull away and I shouted at Sean, Dave and Johann. “Stopppp the Driverrrrrr!!!!”

Sean stepped beside the van and yanked open the passenger door. “This is a local ticket! The agent said VIP?” The driver went from 'some English' to 'no English' very quickly. Sean pulled out his mobile and demanded the travel agent's number. I dialed and as he answered I explained the situation. The man responded, “No Miss, I told your boyfriend this is local bus. Not VIP.” My face went red instantly and the pre-menstrual hormones coursing through my veins threatened to explode.

“You. Are. LYING!” I shouted at him, as Sean pried the phone from my fingers and began to speak with him.

“Yes, um.....hmmm. No, you didn't....um....WHAT? No...that's not true....you DID say it was a VIP bus...Okay, ummm....we would like the VIP bus.....YOU DID SAY IT WAS. You are LYING!!!!” After Johann took his turn with the same results I snatched the phone back.

“I am calling the tourist police, you liar. You are a dirty liar. Dishonest man! SHAME! Tourist POLICEEEEE!” And then he hung up, leaving my hands shaking and heart racing in that way that happens in a fight or flight moment. I knew very well that in situations like these there is nothing that can be done but warn other travelers – there is no ombudsman, no manager or authority you can call when you are in deepest Laos (or India, Nepal, Cambodia – you get my point.) It's not their problem. It's your problem.

After a brief caucus, we came to the conclusion that yes, we had been had, but now we needed on that VIP bus. I again marched to the counter, the surly man ignoring me until I throat-cleared and politely Excuse Me'd numerous times. “Hi! We want to pay more and take the VIP bus, please.”

He shuddered and grunted and vibrated in a way that made me realize that not only was Canadian diplomacy low on his list of priorities, after my outburst on the phone (which must have looked terribly uncouth and selfish to him, having no back story and only a rudimentary grasp of the language I was shouting in) he actually kind of hated me.

“No. No VIP bus. You have local bus.”

“Yes, I understand that I have local bus. I would like to pay more and take VIP bus.”

“No. You have local bus.”

I was now that strange traveling conundrum that every backpacker faces. Does this person understand what I want, and are they telling me the correct answer, or do they think that I am asking for something different and are now merely telling me what I already have? Which is it?!! You will find, in this situation, that no matter how much clarification you try to engage in you keep getting the same answer that you felt you needed clarification on in the first place. At some point you have to give up. Sean tried as well, and finally managed to glean the information that we dreaded – Yes, there was indeed a VIP bus but it was not until tomorrow, and No – the overpriced ticket price that we had already paid could not be used towards a new ticket. It was either squander more money on accommodation for one night in Pakse and a new ticket, or suck it up and get on the local bus – and in the spirit of the backpacker's credo we all agreed that money was more important.

“Excuse me?” I asked the gruff man who was again ignoring us, “which bus will we be taking?” As we waited for him to painstakingly fill out a form to acknowledge me I scanned the bus lot. The buses looked...OK, actually. They seemed quite new and even a bit shiny and clean. My mood lifted.

“Ugh. Ahhhgh, mumble...those ones. There.” He grunted and pointed to the one corner of the lot that my eyes had somehow managed to miss – a seedy, decrepit part of the station in which 2 buses sat, and while both were rusting hulks one was much better than the other. It, however, was boldly emblazoned with a sign that read “Da Nang” - a city 200 km from Hue. I was relieved – this must be our bus – it must stop in Hue on its way further down the coast to Da Nang.

“Da Nang bus?” I asked the Mumble Man as I pointed to the bus in question.

“Snurffle. Ha! No. Mmmmrumble. HUE bus.” And he in turn pointed to the bus I was most afraid of.

**************************************

The 5 of us trudged over to the bus. And what a bus it was.

It was one of the oldest vehicles I have ever seen, with peeling paint and bubbly corroded pockets so large I could place my hand inside. From the outside the windows appeared smeary and tinted, each only opening a maximum of 1 foot. As my eyes dared to creep upwards, I noticed the rice sacks. Tied to the top of the already precarious vehicle were at least one hundred 50 lb rice sacks, rigged haphazardly with a spiderweb of rope. A procession of coverall suited men worked busily, cramming every nook and cranny of the luggage hold with a bizarre array of goods – including more rice sacks. Lao buses make most of their profit from cargo transportation – a practice that is not actually legal but completely standard nonetheless. Conductors and drivers hire workers to load and unload, and make a relatively high profit from the fee that they charge people. It is not uncommon to have to share your space with a motorbike, a sloppy drum of fish sauce and a lone bleating goat tethered to the top of the bus.

Crammed in the back with someone's motorcycle on a different bus.

I dizzily climbed the stairs into the belly of the beast, a rank musty smell filling my nostrils and an incredulous expression on my spoiled Westerner's face. It was....putrid. The vinyl seats were stiff and crusty with age, the railings and handles were all flaking with rust. The windows, which had appeared tinted from the outside, were actually darkened with a coat of greasy spatter, and the aisle was littered with debris. There were goods loaded into the space where the entire last 5 rows had been torn out to leave space for an epic amount of rice bags and boxes. I backtracked and stormed off of the bus.

Poor little goat.

Mumble man was now joined by Cackling Lady. I am not sure to what degree she understood my mix of English, French and pidgin Lao, but she punctuated each pause in her answers with a cackle as if I was asking the stupidest questions on the planet.

“Please can we take the Da Nang bus? It goes through Hue?” I pleaded.

“Hrmm, No. Not Go.....” he said, right as she said, “Yes, yes – why not, hawhhee haaa ha.” She nodded vehemently and led us to the nicer bus. Mumble Man followed. The boys began to try to clarify – to ensure that we wouldn't wake up in Da Nang – or even further South.

“So we take this bus to Hue?” Johann asked, pointing to the better option. Cackling Lady laughed and said “Sure!” while everyone, Lao and Western alike, stood around looking awkward and confused. We paused for a moment to regroup - Landon looked near tears, Dave seemed in shock and Sean's face was worried.

“Fuuuuck!” I moaned, “this is terrible. I wouldn't care if I had paid for a local bus – if I was prepared for this. I hate feeling cheated! And does this laughing lady get what we mean? Should we take this Da Nang bus?” The question remained unanswered, because at that moment the Mumble Man announced– by grunting and gesturing and shooing us - that we would be taking the janky bus to Hue.

“Hey!” Sean said, “she said that we....” he looked around to find the Cackling Lady – who was now nowhere to be seen. We knew then that this was really going to happen, and we might as well get used to it.

“Sean.” I said very calm and matter-of fact “You are going to have to get me some Valium.”

***************************************

Sitting in Pakse, we ordered surprisingly good New York style pizzas, cheesy pastas and big icy fruit slushes – topped off by the requisite Beer Lao for the boys. Sean had emerged successful in his search for the required tablets – and Landon asked me “So, how much Valium do you take for something like this?” I shrugged.

“I have no idea” I answered honestly – the only prescription sedative I had ever taken was Atavan, an anti-anxiety drug that I use when I have to get a needle (Yes, the tattooed girl is afraid of syringes. Leeme alone about it.) “It's what people take on TV. I think 1 or 2?” She shuddered.

“I don't know – I worry about being really out of it and groggy.”

“Me too – but I am willing to deal with it – I am a soup of estrogen and progesterone rage right now and I will not sleep – or even be able to prevent myself from verbally abusing people – unless something synthetically forces me to relax.”

**************************************

Back to the station at 5pm, we clambered onto the bus, which was now in a much more dire state, filled with even more cargo. We sat down in our seats and Dave's promptly collapsed, the arm and back cushion completely detaching. At the same moment, we noticed that the entire floor under each seat was covered with metal pails filled with clay. These clay pots would be un-moulded and used as mini-barbecues (the only stove top most people use in SE Asia) but right now they were forcing our knees up around our chests. Unceremoniously I lifted 2 from beneath my feet and stacked them in the aisle, returning for Sean's. Dave, Landon and Johann followed – this was crazy. It is one thing to get a crummy bus with no AC, no fans (and certainly none that would be running all night like the Scam Agent had promised) and broken seats that don't recline, but to be asked – nay, expected to sit all night like an asshole with your ankles in your ears while all of Lao's clay pot supply occupies the spot you paid for...well. You can imagine. A worker, still busy loading boxes, bales and sacks into the back, picked the pots back up and began moving them right back under my feet.

Dave and his broken seat.

“NO.” I said loudly in a flat voice. He looked at me for a long moment and saw I was not faltering. I offered no more pleading, no explanation – just held his gaze with my feet planted on the ground. He hesitated, and began to move the pots to another section. A small victory as people streamed by, loading up firewood, bundles of sticks and plastic bag after plastic bag. It was like they had a hoarding problem. I kept expecting to see bundles of newspapers and shoe boxes filled with receipts and coupons – we were practically a stack of old Chatelaine back issues from this being my Grandmother's house. The smell of rotting vinyl and upholstery, of sweat, dirt and dust became cloying – so thick in the air we could taste it.

Clay pots under the seats. See how they're all wedged in there?

Soon 2 British guys got on, showed the conductor their ticket and were escorted to the back and told, “No have seat. You sit here.”

“But we paid for seats....um. Can we have seats?” The blank stare they received was answer enough. Remember – it's your problem, not their problem. The 2 blokes spent the entire night balanced on rice sacks (see the top of this page), which sounds like it may have been more comfortable – until you consider that all of the stuff that had been loaded on the bus, had to come off. All night long.

The hoary old bus wheezed to a start just as the sun was setting, and I took that as my cue to take 2 Valium. Turing left out of the station, the whole thing teetered and swayed and slowed down to a crawl.

“We're going to break down or crash at some point.” Sean said calmly. I nodded. Lao country music was now being played at top volume, but even over the din and through my earplugs I could hear cellophane crinkling. It would stop for a moment, start quietly and then break out into a full - 'where is the cat - he has a Safeway bag and is shredding it somewhere in the house' - level of noise. Sean, sitting on the aisle, without the benefit of the small amount of breeze that fluttered in through the window when we got up to our maximum speed of 25km, gagged beside me.

“Oh Fuck.” He said. By this point I was disoriented and just wanted to sleep.

“What?” I asked. I heard Landon gasp behind me.

“She....oh god, gross...she, this lady across the aisle from me has this big cooler and inside, wrapped in plastic are all of these snakes. Ackk. Can't you smell it?”

I could hear Landon, in a small voice. “She has rotting snakes.” My blindfold remained firmly in place.

Every 5 to 10 minutes we stopped to either pick up more goods or drop them off, and ladies selling cockroaches, crickets and chicken on sticks swarmed the bus, banging the windows with their skewered fare and each time jolting me out of the beginnings of sleep. At one stop, for an entire15 minutes, crates of water guns (for the upcoming Water Festival – Songkran) were loaded up, only to be dropped off one hour later. Huge boxes of Red Bull came aboard, along with wriggling bags of geckos and more wood. The music was blaring until at some point around 11pm, in an uncharacteristic act of confrontation, Sean approached the driver, asked politely to turn down the music and when he was ignored, turned it down himself (the sound system was an ancient home stereo rigged up in the luggage rack.) An hour later, as the music crept up in volume once again, Dave went up and did the same. Rude? Culturally Insensitive? Yes and yeah. But we were so tired and sad and frustrated that it was sickeningly satisfying.

Landon gives up.

Landon tapped my shoulder. “Can I have a Valium too please?” I handed her one and took another myself.

**********************************************

All throughout the middle of the night the bus stopped and started, Rotting Snake Lady crinkled and uncrinkled and ran off the bus hourly to sell (or bury?) her wares, lights blazed on and off and chattering and music intermittently flared up until at 3am we reached the Vietnamese border. Which did not open until 7am. Needless to say, no fans cooled us and though I was asleep I remember dreams of intense heat as we waited in a stagnant tin can for morning.

Sean gently brushed me awake at 6:45, when it was time to go through and get stamped into Vietnam. I was surprised to see that I had acquired a new stamp while I was sleeping. “I took your passport and stamped you out of Laos.” Sean said. I blinked at him.

“So, you took my passport and they stamped it – even though they didn't see me? I could have been killed and left in Laos? How do they know?” I asked, groggy and yes – calm.

“Well....” he paused think, “I'm pretty sure that as long as their paperwork says you left, you aren't their problem anymore.”

“Hmm. It's my problem. I see a theme here.”

As we chatted, the driver stood, saw Sean, Landon and I still on the bus and shouted “YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU!!!” gesturing wildly to the Laos border checkpoint that we had already been through. We smiled and nodded and pointed to our passports.

“Yep Thanks! We got it!” This did little to quell the litany of “You's” spewing from his mouth.

We gazed at him in disbelief as we walked by.

Once we were through the Vietnamese border it was 7:30 am, and we thought that we would be in Hue by 8am as promised, or maybe 8:30. Wrong. Each time we approached a government checkpoint (in Communist countries this is often) chaos ensued. Just before the first one, the bus pulled over and all of the Red Bull (and there was a lot) was re-arranged and hidden in a compartment. At the next, we stopped for a moment to let a man off - he went running into the forest, and 5 minutes up the road as he came running back out of the forest and re-boarded the bus. Soon after that we stopped for forty five minutes while the crew unloaded all of the clay pots and rice sacks. Once we finally got going again it was really no better - the sleek, modern AC buses of Vietnam whizzed by us as we chugged along at the good 30 Km we had been doing all night and it was noon before our smelly, dirty and now near empty bus pulled into Hue.

It pulled over abruptly and stopped on a busy street. “YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU!” The driver shouted at the 5 of us, and at the 2 bruised Brits in the back. He gestured that we should get off here - in the middle of nowhere with no orientation and no idea where we were.

“No Thanks man, just the bus station.” The Brits called out. The bus didn't move. Other people at the front also gestured wildly that we should get off.

“This might be the tourist area – I have no idea?” I said. I had been to Hue before, but I did not recognize this area at all.

“I'd rather go to the bus station or a landmark.” Johann said, and we all agreed. “Bus station please?” We said to the driver.

And he said......”YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU!” and began instructing his workers to unload our packs onto the sidewalk, alongside of all of the Red Bull. Now we were all angry.

“Wait!” I shouted. “Hey!” He refused to look at me. I inhaled, shuddering with anger that the situation had helped build and that the Valium had not tamped., and pointed my finger. “Hey! YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU!” He stopped on a dime, glowering at me. I watched as his fists balled and a little wittle bitsy thundercloud formed over his head. “You can't just leave us in the middle of nowhere where you just happen to be making a delivery!” But, of course, he could. It was.....all together now! Our problem.

We stood on the sidewalk and Sean raised his middle finger at the driver - one bird well deserved. We walked for a short time and completely by fluke managed to hit a small backpacker area with a few cafes, guesthouses and travel agencies. We sat down at a cafe, it's walls covered in traveler's graffiti, to enjoy our first Vietnamese meal of pho, gazing at one another like shell shocked survivors of a nasty battle. Which, in a way, we were.

Laos had been the easiest country to travel in – full of genuinely sweet people, beautiful scenery and fun activities. And then we met all of the country's assholes in one day – like fate suddenly decided that we had recently had it too easy and our quota of 'bad shit that happens to travelers' hadn't been met, so Here's This Bus!

After eating and sorting out our next night bus to Hanoi (which was, by comparison, a fucking Sheraton on wheels with individual pod beds and hardwood floors) I grabbed a Sharpie from the waitress, scanned the walls for an empty spot and grabbed a chair to stand on. High in the back of The Atlas Cafe in Hue, on the back wall above the door to the washroom, it now says:

“4 Canucks and a Dutchman survived the Hell Bus – Si Phan Don to Hue 2009.”

Baci Ceremony

Just past dusk after a four hour trek from Savannakhet, five of us sat in the large dining/living room of a traditional Lao teak house. Surrounding us, slowly murmuring protection prayers, were the villagers of Ban That. We all leaned in to gently lay hand on the tiered silver platter laden with fruits, money, eggs and intricately braided bracelets as the dozen Lao adults and their children swayed in incantation. Those whose hands could not reach the offering simply touched the body of someone who could, and we all pulsed together while they blessed us, the visitors. Though the next morning we were to be awake at 5am to give alms of sweets and our clumsily made balls of sticky rice to the Theravada monks on their daily procession, tonight we abandoned Buddha's teachings and focused on Phi. The traditional, millenia old animism has nothing to do with Buddhism – it even contradicts and should offend it – but somehow in Laos they mix like liquids swirling down a drain.



Phi are the 32 friendly spirits that belong to each person's body - like a soul. The spirits like to go off wandering, sometimes because they are scared away by loud noises or bad energy, but mostly just because they are curious and like to play in the forest. People leave treats hanging in trees for their Phi when they are not needed. The Baci ceremony calls all of the Phi back to your body so that you can embark on a journey as a whole person, safely protected by all of your brother spirits.



As the Village Elder called our Phi from the forest, the elderly women approached us one by one and nimbly tied multicoloured string bracelets to our wrists, chanting under their breath as they did so. A small girl watched intently, and then with guidance from her grandma took her turn affixing the bands on Landon and I (she was too shy to touch the boys.) It is her soft, unsure touch that I remember most vividly.



We were presented with a dish containing a candy, a hard boiled egg and a banana, as well as a shot of Lao Lao (fermented rice liquor) to purify our body. Once the foods were eaten and the liquor swallowed the Baci was complete, and jovial sentences spoken in a broken Lao/English/French patois were exchanged. A huge feast of vegetables and fish was laid out in front of us, but no matter how much we ate we could not put a dent in the food - chattering women appeared every few moments to ply us with another ball of rice or scoop of long beans.

Musical instruments appeared, and the open windows slowly filled with local children who had scaled the small fence around the house to catch a glimpse of the five strange farang draped in ceremonial silk scarves, singing and laughing, finishing a final bite or two of sticky rice and picking fish from the bones. Fearing it was rude to offer the staring kids the families food, I waited until everyone in the house was occupied to hold out some candy bars. But it was too late – the children scrambled away when I looked toward them.



Despite the early hour, the entire village started winding down. Five am comes early, and so after a few more folk songs and a rousing off key rendition of “O Canada” we too retired to our gender segregated beds.



We drifted to sleep, filled to the brim with food, rice whiskey, Beer Lao and most importantly - our 32 reunited Phi, fresh from the forest.

(If you want to book this exact trek, or something a little more difficult (up hills, with bikes) just contact the amazingly friendly people at the Savannakhet Tourist Office. For more info about responsible tourism in Laos click here)

Bombs, Drugs and History

The Vietnam War and all of it brutality and ugliness continues today – in the landlocked country of Laos. I do not mean the effects of the war continue: this is not about a damaged national psyche, and I am not even referring to a mounting death toll caused by environmental or chemical hazards – the country that was the scene of the most clandestine of all of the Asian/American conflicts literally has bombs exploding daily. This is still a live battle ground, but in a very different way than you'd expect.

Laos is an achingly pretty place. Mist shrouded mountains descend into the brown rivers of the Mekong and the Nam Ou, bamboo thatches spring up on the edges of electric green rice paddies and haunting karst rock formations jut out of the land. Though it seems paternalistic and cliche to say, the people are kind, funny and deeply spiritual, almost esoteric – as a famous French saying goes “The Vietnamese plant the rice, the Cambodians watch it grow, and the Lao listen to it grow.” In the week or so we have been here the locals have been almost embarrassingly nice to us – even though we have predominantly been in backpacker enclaves along the “Banana Pancake Trail” (the cities in Asia most visited by Westerners in their 20's, and that serve comfort foods like granola and pizza, dotted with internet cafes and bars serving buckets of booze – Kathmandu, Ko Samui, Siem Reap etc.) For Lao people, this form of tourism, or any tourism for that matter, is a new sight to see – the county's borders were closed to foreigners until 1995. At that time, the restrictive form of communism that had been in power for 20 years was relaxed, and now Lao people are experiencing a third wave of colonialism that will perhaps be more insidious that the first two.

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The French strolled in over one hundred years ago and claimed Laos in the same way that they did Vietnam and Cambodia, first splitting the 3 countries into 5 pieces and then lumping them together into a region called French Indochina. But unlike its two companion states, Laos didn't get much out of the deal – highly inaccessible to the French, the journey by river from Saigon (the seat of the French government) to Luang Prabang took longer than Saigon to France by steamship. Laos gained little from the French other than the superfluous “S” tacked onto the end of its name – no railways, no grand boulevards or basic infrastructure – they just took what they wanted (opium and coffee) with little benefit to the people. While this is arguably a better deal (most Vietnamese and Cambodians would have preferred less French meddling) it did ensure that Laos would remain less developed, as they were not even permitted to use their own resources for their advancement – the resources belonged to the French.

And then we all know what happened in Vietnam. The French, fighting off the Northern “Viet Minh” (communist guerrilla soldiers threatening the more Catholic and Frenchified South with a socialist revolution, led by Ho Chi Minh and backed by the Soviet Union) were bitterly humiliated at Dien Bien Phu (wiki that one for a laugh) and left Vietnam in a hurry. The Americans – terrified that the spread of communism in South East Asia would mean a domino affect throughout all of Asia (which is ultimately kind of did) rushed in – and if you don't know the rest of that story, I don't have the space to tell you.

But Laos – sweet, pretty Laos was actually the bloodiest victim and they don't even get mentioned in the name of the war. Facing their own smaller and quieter communist revolution, this country was used as a supply route for the Ho Chi Minh Trail, and was increasingly a battleground between the Viet Cong and the US (sneaky guerrilla soldiers don't respect borders, and drew the US in and out of Laos like cats and mice.) Laos claims the dubious honour of the most heavily bombed country per capita in the history of the fucking planet – the equivalent of one planeload of bombs every eight minutes was dropped on this country for NINE FUCKING YEARS. It was razed – left black and smoking and flat - in a highly classified secret war. An American reporter at the time who was accidentally flown over Laos on the way to Thailand described it as a 'moonscape', and then was forbidden from reporting about it. No one in America knew this was happening, and after the war was over in 1974, Laos was left to try to pick up the pieces without much help, and with a newly crowned communist leader more interested in his own pockets than the plight of his poorest countrymen.

So now Laos is the poorest country in Southeast Asia by far, with World Health Organization statistics on par with Sub Saharan Africa. It is not an obvious poverty like India or even Burma, but the people in villages away from the tourists are sick, illiterate and hungry. If we get sick here, the closest hospital that we can go to for serious treatment as Westerners is in THAILAND. This poverty makes the bombs keep exploding. This poverty shreds skin and breaks bones.

You often hear about UXO's (unexploded ordinance – leftover bombs) and land mines killing children because they are mistaken for toys and wee hands can't resist picking them up when they are unearthed. I knew that education work by NGOs was focused on this problem, and I assumed that the impoverished toyless children must be momentarily overcome with excitement when they saw a shiny object and then BOOM! I thought when I first saw a small rounded 'bombi' in photos that kids must think it was a neat looking ball. I thought it must be rare and completely shocking when a child was injured.

In Laos, people are so poor that children search out and dig up unexploded bombs to sell as scrap metal.

This is not a hard thing to do. An estimated third of all bombs dropped on this country did not explode on contact. Rice paddies, villages, farms, country roads are all FULL of UXOs – most deep beneath the surface. But farmers accidentally unearth them, heavy water buffalo step on the surface and their weight causes detonations and children and adults alike collect them eagerly to sell to unscrupulous scrap metal dealers despite an official ban. Hundreds of people die each year and many more injured in a country where disability may mean you and your family go hungry. This is what I mean – this war continues every day in a real and tangible way.

Sean and I got off of the beaten backpacker track in Central Northern Laos, and headed to a town called Phonsavanh, home to one of the world's greatest unexplained mysteries – The Plain of Jars. Literally thousands of monolithic stone jars cover great swaths of land and no one has been able to proved definitively what these 2500 year old jars were used for. The scenery from Luang Prabang through the mountains was stunning, but occasionally disturbing. Small villages were inhabited by traditionally costumed hill tribe women selling fruits and embroidery – and their husbands who had semi-automatic weapons strapped to their backs.

So, it turns out I came to Phonsavanh to see the ancient jars, but left with much more of an education about UXOs than prehistory. The city hosts a MAG (Mine Awareness Group) museum, where we watched a documentary and saw pieces of UXO and bombs up close for the first time. It wasn't the last time – our guesthouse was decorated liberally with bomb casings, ammo and shrapnel, even a barbecue fashioned from a hollowed out 500 lb bomb. There is a Hmong (a Laos hill tribe) village where all of the houses are constructed of bombs – even the school bell is a UXO. Bomb craters are everywhere – most filled in and used a fish ponds, and trench lines are still clearly visible in fields. During our walk around the Jars we had to carefully follow a demarcated path – red on one side, and white on the other – stay on the white side or boom. Never had I been so aware of my footprints.

So this should be enough to terrify anyone into steering far away from any metal found buried in the ground – and indeed some villages are crippled by poverty when it becomes too dangerous on a regular basis to farm the surrounding fields. But danger begins to seem relative when your family has no food for supper and a Vietnamese trader will pay you 2000 kip (35 cents CAD) for a kilogram of metal. A 500 lb bomb can be enough to feed a family for THREE MONTHS – no wonder people are reluctant or refuse outright to call MAG or the government to report artillery found in the rice paddy – they want the chance to take it apart themselves and earn a lot of extra money. Children gather around, are curious about the process and are then shown by example that bombs are really nothing to be afraid of. MAG does entire presentations for local kids and pleads with them to never ever touch a bombi, the children nod excitedly and swear that they never will – only to innocently present the MAG workers with bombis (and worse) minutes later. With millions of pounds of explosives still planted shallowly beneath the surface of Laos the problem can only get worse.

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Tourism is one industry that is thriving, and that seems like an answer to at least some of the poverty in Laos. After the tsunami in 2004 devastated a lot of Southern Thailand's beaches, Laos became the next party stop on the map, with towns like Vang Vieng transforming into a Mekong river playground packed full of pizzerias, bars showing Friends 24/7 and bikinied girls puking in the gutters after a long day of tubing and 'happy shakes'. And while this behaviour is filling some local pockets with the profits from overpriced bags of Lay's potato chips imported from Thailand, it also is deeply offensive to the traditional social mores of this country. While horrified Lao people look on, young Westerners engage in behaviour that runs the gamut from mildly distasteful all the way to willfully ignorant, pretending that this is in fact Southern Thailand and not conservative Laos. Frankly, I don't think that most of them would care even if a Lao person pointed this out.

Luang Prabang is a good example of this new colonialism. While Vang Vieng has been created as an intentional stop on the party circuit, beautiful, historical Luang Prabang is an ancient capital city with over 60 temples and monastery, and is a UNESCO world heritage site. Its location halfway between the most common backpacker border crossing in the North and Vang Vieng has made it a requisite stop on the circuit, yet most of the people we met there were not interested in seeing the beautiful Wats and the great museum or Royal Palace. Despite signs everywhere reminding people that this is not Vang Vieng and to please be respectful, partiers rage on all night, heading to illegal afterhours and river parties. The penalty doled out to a local caught dealing drugs is death, and the production and consumption of opium is destroying small villages, sapping more and more people of their motivation and hanging the heavy weight of addiction around their necks. Yet spoiled backpackers laze around smoking opium, oblivious to the exploitative and one sided nature of encouraging the drug trade in a poor country where hope is in short supply yet poppies are everywhere. We get to go home and leave the problems behind, like we always do.

This is a relentless 24 hour tourism, because as these backpackers stumble to bed, eager Japanese and Western tourists are just getting up to watch the procession of monks receiving morning alms. Again, despite posters and literature pleading people to stand back quietly and allow the locals to give alms in peace, Sean witnessed people shoving flashing cameras in monk's faces, trying to get the perfect shot in the pre-dawn light. People jostled and pushed and shoved as if this was a parade and not a solemn religious ceremony, and made a mockery of the ritual by trying to simultaneously offer food and take photos, ignoring the signs posted everywhere asking people not to do so. Sean came back to bed in a state of disgust.

This is all in a deeply spiritual and meaningful city for Lao people, people who would probably like to tell us to “Fuck Off,” go home and leave their country alone for once, but who need our precious American dollars to buy food for their families. Like the decision to take apart dangerous live bombs, the decision to deal drugs to tourists or the 'decision' to do anything that is made under the duress of crippling poverty, this is structured choice. That is to say, there is not really any real choice involved.

While we all play a part in this, it is the Americans who irritate me the most. Many are here as part of package tour groups (though it is a ridiculously easy country to travel in) and pronounce the country “Louse” or “Lay- oss” - if they even know that much. I witnessed a girl talking on the phone to her mother and drawling “Um, I dunno what city I'm in. L-U something? It doesn't really matter....” They, like all people, LOVE Laos for its easygoing and sweet nature, but it hasn't really cottoned for them that the reason this country is as poor as it is is BECAUSE OF THEM. They don't leave the tourist ghettos to go see the real damage that they caused, the limbless children and endless bomb craters, the spoiled farmland and drunk old men. They're all about the party, man. They stay on the party circuit and sit and smoke opium with drug dealers desperate to sell to them to support their own habits, eat manufactured tourist food in video cafes and then claim to have seen the 'real Laos' and have communed with locals. All the while, I can't help but see images of the war everywhere, the war that they desperately pretend did not happen here - if they even know about it at all.

Almost adding insult to injury is how genuinely nice Lao people are – they do not judge us as Westerners even though they have every right to. They do not all make the connection between our bulging fists of dollars and the erosion of Lao culture, between the poverty that drives them to risk explosion and death and our extreme wealth. If they too believe America, not MAG or Laos, should be paying to disarm all of these UXOs then they do not mention it to us. But it is true – the United States should have been held accountable by the World Court and forced to foot the entire bill long ago. Lao people were not combatants in the war – Laos was a sovereign nation attacked immorally and illegally and they are still attacked daily – by poverty and the bombs it helps unearth.