25 March -1 April 2008

It's getting absolutely nowhere

After easy, lovely and beautiful Thailand, you could say it only gets less.
And indeed it does.
Despite this knowledge we have high expectations of Laos after hearing other travellers' stories, but it doesn't help.
Laos is nothing; just as hot as Thailand but with worse drivers. Nothing tickles our discovery urge during our first week in the country.
It starts right at the border where we furtively expect to be welcomed by a hospitable host, who appraises his country and already starts thanking us for visiting his country.
Nothing of the kind happens.
Peter approaches the two closed, tiny and dark windows at belly height with the sign: 'Immigration'. Normally I am the one who handles all the paperwork at the borders, with Peter staying in the background, far away from all bureaucratic hassles. But this time I decided it was his turn.
And Peter doesn't like it.
It's the same chaos we've encountered at most African or Asian borders. No explanation of the procedure, nobody speaks English, every non-white tries to sneak before him, there are no forms to be seen and everyone seems to be running around. The charms of an old-fashioned border post.
After an hour we're through with the paper-hassle, and with a beautiful new stamp in our passports proudly cycle to the nearby capital.

For one reason or another we are tired. Not physically, but mentally. We can't manage to look around enthusiastically, wave friendly or shout 'sabaidie' to the local people, something we usually do. We don't get further than a dull 'hello!' Even the Beer Lao brewery we pass doesn't bring a smile to Peter's face. I feel passive and more reserved than usual.
Vientiane doesn't cheer us up either. Every cheap guesthouse is fully booked, temperature has risen to 38 degrees, cycling and walking gets harder by the minute.
Sigh.
After one-and-a-half hour of struggling we've only got one option left: a hotel that's far too expensive. Twenty dollars for a posh prison cell without windows.
In the evening a discussion with Peter ends in a fight. I can't even remember what it was about. Probably nothing.

On the second and third day it doesn't get any better. We're both tired, lazy and have no lust for anything. We move to a cheaper guesthouse when there's a room available. Although the room has a window, the view of the corrugated roof behind us - which is being redone with a lot of noise - isn't really improving the way we feel.
For an hour Peter is happy, when he finds some real cheese in a far too expensive shop aiming at foreigners. But then the depression is back full throttle, it feels like we're wading through quick sand, getting sucked down further and further.

After four working days and a weekend we receive our three-month China visa without any problems, despite the 'Free Tibet' stories on our website. The Chinese fortunately didn't do their homework properly.
We ought to be happy and satisfied now, but instead we have another quarrel, caused by a strange communication problem. We just don't understand each other at this moment.

Next day I cycle on my own to the sculpture park with Buddha's and Hindu statues twenty-five kilometres away. Peter works out at the local gym and eats a pricy but freshly made salad. You got to do something... Nothing helps.

Peter is sitting on the toilet. Somewhere, deep down in his belly strange things happen that can't bear daylight. From left to right a cramp shudders through his intestines and there's no way to sit relaxed. An enormous amount of air escapes his painful body, enough to fill a balloon to sail around Laos for three hours. After the farth there's a light nauseous feeling, the smell of bad eggs and weak legs. Giardia. Must have been yesterday's salad. We are not in Thailand any more. Here, salad is no good. In the first days Laos sets its boundaries.

When one of us is sick, our journey around the world is a nuisance. During the last days it wasn't much fun anyway, now nothing's left of it. But we cannot say we'd rather be at home, because we are at home.

Trying to be sensible I go around a lot. I visit temples, the museum and the Patuxai, a concrete gate resembling the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. The building has been put together in the year 1962 with cement paid for by the United States of America, actually donated for building a new runway at the Vientiane airport. Hence the nickname: 'The Vertical Runway'.
The Laos people know damned well that the concrete gargantuous monster actually is terribly ugly. They have put an inscription on an inner wall, stating: "From a closer distance it appears even less impressive, like a monster of concrete."

The first of April we peddle out of the capital. The tinidazol medicine, curing the giardia, slowly starts to work, but Peter's legs are still unaware of this.
In the middle of our first break an army of red termite ants chases us away, right from the only shaded place in the surroundings.
Like in Cambodia and Thailand men and boys are fishing in an orthodox manner: carrying big nets they half nakedly walk into pools, make a couple of weird movements and then catch some tiny fish.
We pass a Hmong village; the tribal people build huts from woven bamboo, the women wear traditional black garments, decorated with broad, colourfully embroidered stripes.
After a refreshing rain shower we go off the road at the junction at kilometre mark 65. According to our information a couple of kilometres further, amidst the jungle, one can admire some ancient Buddha statues, carved out of rocks.

We're almost sure that these old stones will change our low mood. We cycle next to a desolate, dilapidated resort, where an elderly lady, dressed in a torn robe, stops us. After asking her for directions to the Buddhas her eyes start shimmering and she takes something out of her fifty-years-old handbag.
A small ticket book.
The kind for general use everyone can buy anywhere. She tears off a ticket and shows it to us. It says 20,000 kip. That's the amount of money she is trying to take from us. It's only one and a half euro, but this is a free tourist attraction, for everybody. Also for foreigners.
She betrays herself not only by her objectionable appearance: the old handbag, the frayed robe, the self stamped booklet and the insecure look full of kip-expectations, but especially by just selling one ticket for two persons.
Two persons, that's two tickets. Everywhere in the world.
Very simple.
Normally Peter loves discussing with con-artists, but not today. While I'm still arguing with her he rides away.
On his way to the Buddhas.
On the way to enlightenment from this pool of tears.