11/01/03: Wally’s for breakfast. Check out
of hotel, walk down by the river, write postcards over a cup of tea and a can
of Mirinda. Wally’s for dinner, taxi to the train station to
catch the overnight train to the Laotian border.
12/01/03: Arrive in Nong Khai
and cross over into Laos. Taxi to Vientiane, book into Santisouk Guesthouse, stroll about town, dinner at Xayoh Café, Samlo Pub for a couple – a quiet
night.
Temples abound in Vientiane,
yet the municipal architecture is strictly Francophile. Unlike Thailand's
pseudo-European functionalism, these buildings look like they’ve been shipped
in from Province, being as they are a hangover from French Indochina. Cafes and
restaurants willingly perpetuate this theme.
Populated
with a sparse and sombre collection of French ex-pats, various emissaries and
enterprising Laotians, one is rarely reminded that Vientiane is a
capital city. Even the Mekong looks
curiously staid, its mass shifting steadily towards the South
China Sea. The social scene is different here, the action tucked away out of
sight. The bars are welcoming enough but on leaving you’re met with a curious
stillness of the night that dissuades you from perpetrating any drunken antics
on your journey home, should you be so inclined. It could be said that Laos
attracts a different breed of traveller; you certainly don’t come across many
40-something Bristolians in Thailand looking for opium. Or maybe you did but
just didn’t know it?
I am faced with the overnight-voyage complication again.
There lies ahead a whole day to get through before we can make any inroads into
our next project, but what to do with it? Our hostel is kind enough to offer
storage for our luggage (at our own risk), so we’re a bit more mobile than we
were in Krabi. It’s a sunny day, too, so we bother about the waterfront for a
while, buy some postcards, find a café in which to write them, and then eat
heartily in preparation for the long night ahead of us.
The 12 hour overnight journey
would be a more daunting prospect were it not for the sleeper
train. In no way luxurious, I still think it is
worth the extra 200 baht it costs to sleep
horizontally. The bunks aren’t visible at first. Instead there are two chairs facing each other, one of which is separated from the
gangway by a metal ladder connecting the floor to the ceiling. When you’re
ready to sleep, the top bunk is folded down and connected to said ladder and a
curtain drawn across for privacy. Below, the two seats are manipulated to form
a second bunk, thereafter formed like the first. It’s pretty rustic gear,
although comfy enough.
Our train leaves only a
little behind schedule and starts its slow shunt away from the metropolis,
something I very much enjoyed when we last left Bangkok in this manner,
observing how the urban slowly mutates into the suburban. But the crepuscular
gloom descends at an early hour this close to the equator, obfuscating the
view. And so, too early to retire, I decide to stalk the train in search of
alternative entertainment, while my partner contents herself with a book. I am pleased to report back that our train has a rudimentary
bar on board. I ask Louise if she'd like to share in a few drinks,
but whatever she’s reading has her firmly in its thrall (or maybe she just
fancies a bit of solitude – it would be entirely understandable given the
amount of time we are currently spending together). Already relaxed from the
two Changs I had at the station, I decide to go it alone.
To the bar, then, but where
to sit? With the three English blokes sat to my right and endure one, maybe two
hours of drunken football-based talk? Or how about right there next to the
kindly looking Thai gent sat opposite the young Thai bookish guy with his head in a magazine? I opt for the latter.
Gazing from the window, I
could be almost anywhere were it not for the occasional palm tree thrown into
sharp relief by the distant shimmer of Bangkok. Scenic distractions fading
fast, it’s not long before The
Thai Gent seizes at an opportunity to brush up on his English, except his
broken command of my language demands that the bookish guy, somewhat
reluctantly, must be drafted in as our interpreter. It is tough going, what
with the background noise of the train and the sash-style windows opened wide,
because it’s too hot for them to be any other way. How long can I keep this
up? After three cans of Singha I am
satisfied that I’ve demonstrated an acceptable level of comity and begin to
contemplate my exit.
But wait, the
Thai Gent is insisting he buy me a beer. Terrible waffle as I struggle to
understand this man’s raw pronunciation. Then another! I insist I pay and he
insists I do not. Fortunately, he concurs that this drink will be our last. The bookish guy has wisely left by now and the rest of our time is spent clumsily
engaged in small talk before we finish our Singhas and retreat to our
respective bunks. It's been a lovely evening.
About seven hours later I am awoke by a strange sensation: I am cold. I can only
guess at how long I’ve been asleep, but it is light, I can sense our
destination is close, and I’m starting to feel anxious. I eviscerate
my rucksack in search of the jumper I brought along, only to find that it is slightly damp, peppered with mould, exuding a redolence to match, so I
don my anorak instead.
To the bar for coffee, it's
the only sane thing to do: mental space to sit alone and ponder the three Thai
guys drinking Samsong Whiskey for breakfast – neat, no ice. Which sets me up
nicely for the bizarre transition into Laos:
Get
minibus from train station to border, not more than a mile away.
Signed
out by the Thai border authority and pay 10 baht for the privilege.
Pay
another 10 baht for a bus across the Thai-Laos Friendship Bridge, over the
Mekong River.
Leave
bus barely 2 minutes later and fill out form that requires the same details
that are on the visa I am about to give Laotian gentleman sat in booth.
Hand
him form, visa and passport, and pay 30 baht this time.
Presented
with ticket acknowledging completion of this charade to then give to Laotian
man or woman (you have a choice!) sat about 10 yards beyond Laotian man in
booth.
Now
pay 200 baht, which you just know is too much, to some goon calling you
'mister' who takes you to a hotel in Vientiane that you hadn't even previously
contemplated going to and end up having to pay an extra 50 baht for him to take
you to the hotel that you had.
I am not convinced by Santisouk
Guesthouse: an unspectacular build, something about it pleads neglect. The
bedroom, with its furniture cobbled together in a multitude of styles, is
room-locked, which creates an illusion of foreboding. The bathroom does have a window but the peeling
ceiling is so cavernous that it strikes me as only mildly less disturbing than
the bedroom. A huge metal water tank – the stuff of nightmares anywhere in the
world – leers over proceedings and makes a mockery of the shower itself, which
is hand held and lacking in pressure. The whole vibe is rather unsettling,
but it’s cheap and, according to the map, centrally located.
For a capital city, Vientiane is strangely calm. There are some exquisitely charming houses about
town, with verandas and drooping trees sealed off behind wrought iron gates. Shops are conspicuous because of the sheer lack of
them, and traffic couldn’t be further from one’s mind. Even the French Embassy
lies hopelessly vacant, as if its occupants had been evacuated at short notice,
never to return. (I was to later discover that the reason for the proposed
French residency’s dereliction is that an elevator was never incorporated into
the design, rendering it ‘unusable’.) If I didn’t know better I would assume
that we had arrived somewhere along the same delineation as Prachuap Khiri Kahn
– a provincial hub doing its best to mind its own business.
Perhaps this isn’t such a bad
thing? The beggars and hawkers are marginally more persistent than their Thai
counterparts, the waiters more formal in dress and the food more westernised, but
there’s not a 7-Eleven in sight, let alone a McDonalds or a Tesco Lotus, and at
first glance the cafes and bars appear to be more than equal to their Thai
counterparts. There is a kitsch edge about some of these places: traces of a
faded glamour that were hard to come by south of the border. Where a bar in
Thailand might throw up a picture of Bob Marley, some sports memorabilia and
the obligatory portrait of The King (often as a young man), here we have
random, faded black-and-white photographs of who-knows-who, indoor pot-plants
and antique furniture. (There are similarities between the two as well: bamboo,
lanterns, monochrome paint jobs, exposed brickwork and the like.) Laos must be
at least 10 years behind its southern neighbour but might be all the
better for it.
13/01/03: Mediterranean Deli
for breakfast. Check emails in bookshop/internet café. Drink at Khop Chai Deu
Food Garden, Colombo for an Indian, Khop Chai Deu for drinks – early night.
14/01/03: Miss breakfast at
Xayoh Café and go to Scandinavian Bakery instead. Do a tour
of the temples, dinner at Xayoh, drink at Cave de Chateaux and Samlo pub. Meet
S (Mk. 3) from Bristol and Al and L; go ‘clubbing’ at Future – very drunk.
At 16000 kip to the pound,
cashing your traveller’s cheques is an amusing process in the Laos People's
Democratic Republic. Converting $100 makes you, literally, a millionaire, and
with 5000 kip the most common denomination, you're lumbered with a wedge of
notes about 3 inches thick. It goes quicker than you would think but that’s not
to say Laos is expensive. On the contrary, at 7000 kip the pleasantly palatable Beer Lao makes Thailand's Beer
Chang seem as reasonably priced as premium French lager. Tiger
Lao whisky, meanwhile, equates to about 40p a bottle.
Last night I had steak for dinner at Xayoh Café, on the corner
of Nokeo Koummane and Samsenthai roads beside the Laos National Cultural Hall. Xayoh Café is painted red and manages to deliver a sophistication
of sorts, although you should take into account the kind of places I have
become accustomed to on this trip where plastic furniture and random crockery
are the norm. This morning I went to the Mediterranean Deli for breakfast, which
wasn’t at all bad. I can’t say what else I’ve really done with the day, other
than cower in the shower, check my emails, buy a few tatty postcards from a
scruffy bookshop, walk around town a bit before stopping for a drink in Khop
Chai Deu. But so far I’m enjoying the food in Laos, and even more so when we go
for a curry at Colombo in the evening.
There are a few food-stuffs I’ve started to covet of late: tomato
soup; certain cheeses; salt and vinegar crisps, or any crisp that isn’t either
tomato, cheese, red-pepper or onion flavoured, or a combination thereof; roast
dinners; curry. Pizza has been of an acceptable standard, however, and
getting hold of good meat-based dishes has not been a problem. The American
Breakfast has the fry-up covered, although I’m crying out for some decent bacon
and bona-fide baked beans. The fruit is great, especially the pineapple, and I
like the vegetables commonly found in the Thai curries (peppers, mushrooms,
green beans, the shallots in massaman curry, etc.). But if there is one thing
I’m missing above all else, it is agreeable BREAD.
The next day I am in for a delightful surprise. Intent on taking
breakfast back at Xayoh Café, only to find it closed, we chance upon
the Scandinavian Bakery (on Phangkam Road, opposite the failed French Embassy),
a café that negotiates the obstacle of a foreign tongue by providing forms on
which you ticks boxes against whatever filling you fancy in whichever bread-based
receptacle is preferred. I have cheese, ham, lettuce, red onion and mayonnaise
in a baguette, with both fresh orange juice and coffee to drink, and it is the
best breakfast I could possibly imagine having right now.
Buoyed by our success, we go about the business of cashing in a few
of our traveller’s cheques, a form or monetary exchange apparently suited to
travelling but one that I was starting to think unnecessary. I have been
protectively carrying around $500 worth of these damned things for two months, and
it is pleasing to get shot of a few. Thai Baht will suffice in Vientiane, a
more substantial unit of currency than the Laotian equivalent – Kip, in which we have been receiving our
small change – but when we move north and exhaust our supply of baht we will be
obliged to start trading in the national tender. It takes a while to make the
transaction before afternoon closing, but I’m glad when we do; it’s always a
nice feeling to have pockets stuffed with the local cabbage. Next we take an
independent tour of Vientiane’s temples, which are legion, and then return to Xayoh for tea.
Despite the drinking I subjected myself to on the train, they were
very small cans of beer I was imbibing – no bigger than a regular can of fizzy
pop – and so I’ve not really been intoxicated since that first full day spent
back in Bangkok, six days ago now. I had an attempt at inebriation
the night just passed, but Louise experienced a melt-down of the
digestive system in Khop Chai Deu, prompting us to flee. In any case, after our heavy
curry I could well have been fighting a losing battle.
There are no such constraints tonight – my partner’s constitution
permitting – and we decide to make a night of it before departing for Vang
Vieng tomorrow. We start off in Cave de Chateaux, a restaurant that does not
begrudge those who wish to do nothing more than drink, and it’s a corker. Then back to Samlo Pub, where we sank a few beers on our
exhausted first night here. It is a defining moment. Initially we strike up a
conversation with S (Mk. 3), a bloke in his forties from Bristol who has come
to Laos in search of opium. He in turn introduces us to Al and L, a young
English lad from ‘up-north’ and a female New Yorker respectively. Al came to
Thailand on a protracted holiday and spent most of his time on the islands
partying, but he had a few days to spare once his
co-conspirators left and decided to head north alone. L, on the other hand,
had been hanging around Nong Khai – the town just across the border – teaching
Thai English students, but is travelling, essentially. I’m not sure where or
how they met but they seem to be firm friends.
Samlo Pub is actually a bit of a dive; it models itself on the
British pub, which means the football’s on. Because of this we are invited to
join our new found company in Future, possibly Vientiane’s only real club of
note. This doesn’t excite me as much as you might think. We have decided to
leave the capital tomorrow and have to be up and out at a reasonable hour. Furthermore,
I’m not enjoying the booze as much as I had anticipated – it could be all this
meat-based western fare I’ve been stuffing down my throat.
We tag along regardless, probably because Al & L are also leaving for Vang
Vieng tomorrow and I suspect their company will have its benefits.
We last two hours, at most, before deciding to call it quits and
hailing some homemade take on the tuk-tuk to get us back to our hotel. Tuk-tuk’s
come in all shapes and sizes, and often the poorer the environment the more
rudimentary the construction and more resourceful the design – as was proved
here with what was basically a motorbike with a metal frame, two wheels, a few
planks and some tarpaulin hooked up behind it.
