Laos

To my dear readers: This is long. 

I leave Chiang Mai a little upset after having a “confrontation” with the woman who runs the orphanage. The Asian way is to just pretend like nothing is wrong to save face. She was being rude to me (for the billionth time), and for some reason, I couldn’t handle it that day, so wiping my tears of frustration away, I took a deep breath and “confronted” her - “Malee, is something wrong?” We were in the car on the way to bus station. Dead silence. She then starts talking in Thai to another person in the car. After their conversation ends, I prepared myself to ask her again. She must have sensed it because she abruptly changed the subject. “So, Lauren, you have a boyfriend yet?” All of a sudden she’s my friend again. I guess she realized that I realized she had crossed the line, and this was her roundabout way of fixing things. She asked questions until we got to the bus station. I was glad to let the subject drop.

So I get on the bus eyeing where I’ll spend the next 11 hours of my life. I go to the bathroom, flush - and the toilet overflows onto my foot. Awesome. I climb out as it continues flooding the floor. I prepare myself for a fitful night of sleep - iPod, check; eye mask, check; Chang beer, check. The bus is one of those double decker ones, the kind that if you’re on top feels like the bus is constantly swaying and could tip over at any point. The monsoon that follows us the entire way doesn’t coax the sleep to come anytime soon. Around 6am I wake up to part of the storm dripping onto my forehead. I look around for a seat to switch to. All full. I go downstairs and happily find one empty seat. It’s drier, quieter, steadier, and warmer than on top in Narnia Ice World where I had spent the night shivering and trying to find a place to put my feet. (I cannot sleep with my feet on the ground the whole night. I’m sure there’s some perfectly good explanation for this; I just don’t know it yet.) 

I get off the bus at 7am in Udon Thani, meet a couple of British girls and decide to travel the rest of the way (3 hours) with them which includes a bus to Nong Kai, a tuk tuk to the Thai border, a bus to the Laos border (who knows why they’re not closer to each other?), and a tuk tuk into the Lao capital Vientiene. 

I quickly come to realize that the tuk tuk drivers here are real crooks with bad temperaments vaguely hidden beneath smiles. I tell our driver where the British girls need to go, and where I need to go. I even show him a map. He quotes us a price, we agree, then we wait while he gets the tuk tuk. Then we wait while he does a U-turn with us in the tuk tuk to “see if his friend wants to come.” Then we wait while he tries to recruit more passengers. I tell him we’re in a hurry: the girls have a bus to catch, and I need to get to the Thai embassy before it closes at noon. It’s now 10am. He says “we leave now” as he continues to try to recruit people. “We’ll find someone else if we can’t leave now,” we tell him. “Why are you angry at me?” He asks looking pretty angry with us. “We’re not angry, we’re in a hurry,” I explain. I feel like I’m reasoning with a child - something I’m not in the mood for after traveling for 1000 hours. “We leave in five minutes,” he says, avoiding eye contact. “Well we’re leaving now,” I say, climbing out. “Miss, ok, we leave now,” he gets frantic. I turn around, “If I get in, we’ll leave right now?” “We’re just waiting for you to get in,” he says sarcastically. I get in, and lo and behold, we wait. “Can we go now?” one of the girls asks. By this point he’s just ignoring us. A woman gets in the tuk tuk. Now he’s waving over three guys. We must have met some quota because then he gets in and starts driving but still slows at every person walking on the street to ask if they want to go the Morning Market. We squeeze someone else in, his neighbor supposedly. Then a couple gets on. Then a woman with three children. We are cramped and one of the children is practically in my lap. 

He drops everyone else off at the market even though I had asked him to drop me off first since my hostel was closer, and I was in the biggest hurry.  He tells me when it’s just the two of us, “You have to pay extra because now it’s just you.” “No, I told you where I needed to go, and you told me a price, and that’s all I’m paying.” He quotes me a price triple what we had agreed on and explains that petrol is expensive. “Give me a break.” “What?” he asks. “No,” I answer in a typical Asian way - giving a negative to a question that can’t be answered with a yes or no. “Ok, I discount for you,” “Yes, 50 baht, what we agreed on, sounds good.” I say irritated. “I give it to you for 140.” “No.” He drops me off at a pretty disgusting looking place where the dormitory rooms are $3 a night. He tries to argue about price, but I put the money in his lap, flash him a smile and thank him, “Kop jai.” He’s muttering something as I walk into the hostel. 

I check in, look at the clock, and realize I’m not going to make it to the embassy today. Thank you infuriating tuk tuk driver. I go upstairs feeling almost as gross as the place I’ve just checked into. A shower is a necessity. The shower has slats in the bottom half of the door so I can see people approaching. The door locks, but it doesn’t seem sturdy. I try to shower quickly and watch the feet come and go. There’s a sink right next to the grimy shower. I see someone walk toward me and hear them use the sink, then I watch them leave. Another person comes - I watch their feet get closer, but then instead of turning to go to the sink, they start side-stepping out of sight. Ok, that’s strange, I think. I don’t hear any water coming on. I take a step over so I can check the lock again. Through a tiny crack between the door and its frame, I see an eyeball. It sees me and disappears. I watch the feet walk away into the room where I’m staying. The sound of crunching paper like someone’s eating from a potato chip bag drifts from the room. I turn the shower off, towel off, and get dressed all the while watching to see if the feet leave the room. They don’t, and as I walk back into the room I look at the only other person in the room. He’s a tall, thin Japanese man sitting on his bed folding plastic shopping bags. He doesn’t make eye contact with me. I debate whether or not I should say something to him or to the front desk. Should I leave? Should I just forget about it? After all, there will be other people in the room at night, and he’s ignoring me now. I think about what I would tell my best friend if this had happened to her. I decide to tell the front desk. 

“Sabidy, (hello), um you know how there’s a crack between the door and the door frame of the shower?” She nods. “Well, when I was taking a shower, someone was watching me,” I’m trying to talk quietly because for some reason I’m embarrassed even though I didn’t do anything. She just stares. “We don’t bother with things upstairs,” she seems bored, “we stay down here.” “Um, I don’t think you understand, the guy who’s in bed 6 was watching me take a shower, so could you ask him to leave, or should I leave?” She checks her computer, “The guy in bed 6 is a nice guy. You can leave.” “Ok. . . I’ll go get my stuff.” “I’ll refund you your money,” she calls as I walk up the stairs. Unbelievable, I think. If only I knew how truly unbelievable it was about to get. She comes upstairs with three other girls who work there. “He’s a good guy,” she says pointing at the creep. “Ok,” I say really just wanting to leave. Maybe I should jump off the balcony. “How do you know it was him?” I explain my feet watching technique, and point to the fact that he’s the only person in the room, etc. - she’s not listening. “Show me how you saw him,” she says, walking to the bathroom. She goes in the bathroom and closes the door all the way - holding it shut so it actually is completely closed. “How you see him?” she yells through the door. “Well, you have to lock the door and let it go.” She opens the door and for some strange reason looks really smug. “There is no problem with the door,” she stares at me with venom seething out of her dead eyes, “the problem is with you.” 

At this point, around 567 smart-ass remarks pop into my head. I’m on the verge of saying them; I’m shaking, and then something in my gut told me to bite my tongue and just get the hell out of there. The man has joined us. “This girl say you watch her shower.” He steps closer to me, “No,” he says, “I brushed my teeth, that’s all.” “You’re a liar,” I say, the adrenaline doing the talking for me. His lip starts quivering. His eyes are raging. “You should have talked to me about this before talking to them,” he takes another step closer, “that is very impolite of you.” “I think it’s impolite to watch someone shower. I’m not concerned with being polite - I’m concerned for my safety.” The woman steps in, “I believed you at first, but now I believe him. He’s a good man. He lives in Thailand. He’s here to get his visa,” she adds as if that speaks volumes about a person’s character. “So am I, exactly the same thing. What does that matter?” And then that voice telling me to leave these idiots to their dementedness and get out of there. I start walking away. “Get lost,” the guy says to me. I turn to say something - oh, the things I want to say! but I just shake my head and head down the stairs. The lady follows me and tells me she’ll only partially refund me because I used her disgusting shower and stale towel. “Ok, that’s fine.” “He’s a good man,” she says again. “I guess we have different definitions of good,” I said taking my $2 and walking out into the dripping heat. 

I’m already crying before the door closes. I turn down the first alley and keep walking. I feel furious, a little scared, dirty, furious again. I contemplate calling the police, realize they’ll probably do nothing, and decide instead on pizza. I call my parents as I wait for my pepperoni and pineapple pizza. We get disconnected. I feel really alone. And unsafe. I think about what my dad or my friend Will would do to that creep if they were here. Somehow, I take solace in those hypothetical situations. 

I find a hotel as far away as I can walk in the heat. 

Now I have a tuk tuk driver who will run me down on sight, some Japanese pervert who is quite possibly deranged, and one disconcertingly weird woman to avoid in this small city. My mind, inclined as it is towards the dramatic side, starts thinking of what is going to happen next. Being mugged or bit by a snake are the two options I decide are most likely to happen. They haven’t yet for the record. 

I wander around the city for five hours and finally sit down at a Belgium restaurant to enjoy a Duvel on the banks of the Mekong river - yes, the good Lord knew what I needed. As the sun sets, I walk along the water’s edge and watch the bats swoop low over the currents and ripples. I’m hungry and decide to go back to the little heaven that is a piece of Belgium. I order a salmon steak with Belgian fries and a salad. I try a hefeweissen that has raspberries and peaches added to it. A little kitty hops up on the seat next to me, so I share my fish with him or her. 

“Would you like to join us for dinner?” I turn around where a couple of guys sit. I debate what to do thinking of the series of unfortunate events that’s happened so far. This is either a chance to add to them, or to try to improve upon the day. “We’re just eating,” he says. “Ok.” And so I meet David, the 40-year-old Australian who will ask me to marry him by the end of the night, and Oliver, the 28-year-old Belgian who explains that it’s “his pleasure” to continue letting me sample all that Belgium has to offer. Come to find out, he’s a tennis teacher and lives about 15 minutes from me in Chiang Mai. David recruits another lonely diner - Mel, the 68-year-old retired music professor who has been teaching English for the last 18 years in 18 different countries. He moved to Laos three days previous. Mel is awesome. He was a music and humanities (literature and religion) major from Stanford. “We’re probably reading or have read the same books!” he tells me. He’s tall, wears round glasses, a black beret, and rides a bicycle. He got a gig playing piano at the second nicest hotel in town Monday-Friday in exchange for free use of their pool. He’s one of those rare older people who takes the time to listen to younger people talk. We decide to find a place with a piano. Surprisingly, we do - a lovely French restaurant. He plays Chopin, Mozart, and the Beetles. He turns down a request for The Bumblebee saying he hasn’t played that since 1967. Mel takes his leave, and David, Oliver, and I go to a rooftop bar that overlooks the Mekong. White, orange, blue and red lights shine in wavy streaks on the blackness of the water. Oliver tells me in his French accent, “please don’t ask for a cigarette, just have one whenever you want.” We spend the rest of the night talking, drinking Beerlao (their dark lager is delectable), and being hypnotized by the lights’ play on the inky ribbon of the river. David suggests that I forget about the visa process and come to Vang Vieng with him. Not only do I really want to do this, but it also seems like the logical choice. From somewhere deep within, I find the strength to stay the visa path. : )

My tuk tuk driver takes me to the wrong hotel after I’d showed him on a freaking map where to go, and then tries to charge me extra for taking me to the right one. “Sorry my friend, your mistake,” I tell him. My room almost feels cold when I get in, and there are no creepy men in the bed next to mine. Sleep comes easy.

The next morning, Thursday, I go to the Embassy. Oliver is there as well as my friend from church, Rochell. The embassy informs me that they won’t put the visa on either one of my last two pages because visas “don’t go there.” Last time I checked, visas go wherever you put them. Oliver comes to the American Embassy with me - it’s conveniently right next to his hotel which I decide to check into (it’s cheaper and closer to the waterfront). The embassy tells me to come back at 1 pm because that’s the only time they can add pages to my passport. I explain that I absolutely have to get it done now because the Thai embassy closes at noon. If I don’t get my passport back to them before noon, I’ll have to take it on Friday and won’t be able to pick it up until Monday which means my bus ticket that I’ve already bought is worthless and that I’ll miss another day of school. “I’m sorry miss, I’m obliged to tell you that you have to wait. It can only be done after one. And it costs $82.” “What?! It’s free in Thailand!” I’m flabbergasted. “It used to be free here too, but it changed 3 days ago. Sorry miss.” 

I go back to the Thai embassy to beg them to put it on one of my last two pages. A guy bumps into me, asks me a few questions, then asks for my number so we can hang out tonight. “Um, no, I’m busy right now.” The woman at the embassy answers my question before I ask it. “Mai dai (I can’t),”  she says, not willing to budge. 

Back to the hotel. It’s time for me to eat some traditional Lao food. I order larp moo - meat salad with pork. It’s ok at first - fresh basil and mint, green onions, pork, and something white that I can’t identify. Halfway through, I see a big piece of the white stuff. It has hair on it. Not human hair - pig hair. Ughhh, it’s the skin! I can’t finish my meal and  go sit outside the embassy to wait for one when the people can magically insert some extra pages. The security guards are good-natured and keep me entertained until the doors open. They even call the bus station for me to see if I can switch my ticket, but we keep getting disconnected. 

I can pay the astronomical fee in kip or dollars. I go to a bank and change all of my Thai baht into kip. I go back to the embassy and the woman tells me the price. It comes to over $100 when I convert the kip to dollars in my head. Their exchange rate she explains, for paying in kip instead of dollars. I go back to the bank and ask them to change the kip they just gave me into dollars. They can’t. They don’t buy kip. A woman who works at the embassy who I’d seen earlier has dollars! She offers to trade money. I go back to the embassy. Who should be there but Mel wearing the same clothes he was wearing yesterday I think. We talk about the bureaucracy of these stupid embassies. Later, I see him riding his bike in the town center. I swear I see the same people multiple times per day in this tiny town which just contributes to this I’m stuck in the twilight zone feeling. 

Tomorrow I go back to the Embassy with my thicker, more valuable passport. Wish me luck.