The Truth about Laos - Part 2

There are times when we are overflowing with enthusiasm for life that we bite off more than we can chew and we become too overwhelmed that our world comes to a standstill. Sorry, I’m throwing riddles into the air again. Well, I have not been able to update this blog because my world had temporarily slowed down and I poured all my energy into an opportunity that came too unexpectedly but is too good to pass up. But I am not going to talk about that. I don’t want to keep you hanging in suspense so I will continue the story about Laos . . .

The Land of No Return

In the movies, we know it’s about time for dead people to cross over to the other world when a light suddenly appears on the horizon, and the dead suddenly find themselves floating towards the light to be transported to the Land of No Return. In our case, this was the light: 

A flicker of hope from the Cambodia-Laos border.

And the Land of No Return was Laos.

A Near-death Experience

While the rest of the scammed crew were sailing their way to the 4,000 Islands in Laos, seven of us—Pinky and I, Mr. Valiums 1 and 2, the Swedish girls, and Mr. Pot—were left to our fate of going on a “special trip” to Pakse aboard the “VIP” bus.

We were treading a dubious territory as the road to Pakse was so dark, you couldn’t even see your hands when you put it in front of your face. The occasional flashes of light coming from passing ten-wheelers and 4WDs were not a relief even, as we were thinking bandits would suddenly jump off the vehicles and kidnap or, worse, slaughter us. But well, there was no reason for them to do so because we were all penniless. In fact, Mr. Valium 1 had to borrow money from the tour guide to pay for his visa and from the driver, for his fare. So no, they wouldn’t think of kidnapping a bunch of ill-fated travelers, whose only possession was their passports and ratty rug sacks. Therefore, a massacre was out of the picture. Whew!

If we were to die at that time, it would be because of cold and hunger. Being the “smart” travelers that we were, we of course decided to test our cold endurance by choosing the coldest time of the year to travel to a country that borders China, which was enjoying the chill of winter. And because the climate has been messed up with this global warming phenomenon, the cool season becomes the cold season, and the cold season becomes the freezing season. So yeah, we were shivering and freezing our a***s off the whole time despite wrapping ourselves with everything that’s in our bags.

The hunger was another thing. We didn’t anticipate that it was going to be a fasting trip---no food, no water, no nothing. Thank god, Mr. Pot still had a few sticks of dope left which he desperately burned, fogging the “VIP” bus with the scent of sweet Mary Jane. And with teeth clacking, the rest of us desperately sniffed the second-hand smoke like hyenas scrambling for the last meat on a carcass. Ah, not a very good imagery, but I can’t think of a better one. The fake satiety that pot gives saved us from devouring each other. (This is the second time I’m thinking of cannibalism. Gives me the creeps.)

Bored to Death

Finally, after three hours of sniffing pot and saying the novena, we were welcomed by the same cold air, bright red lights, and fully-booked hotels---Pakse. For 30 minutes, we circled around the town to look for a suitable (read: cheap) place to stay for the night in vain, until our gurgling tummies and desolate spirits screamed at us to bite the bait of an expensive hotel at USD27 a night.

Our not-so-backpackish room.

The not-so-backpakish lobby.

Luxury at its best. Cold and hot water, a bath tub, cable TV, phone, wifi, aircon. They say, after a near-death experience one experiences a lightness, a comfort that’s almost too good to be true. Unfortunately, ours came with a price. The "lightness" had something to do with our pockets.

Really, there’s nothing I can say about Pakse, because there’s nothing to do there. And when I say nothing, I mean nada. And all you see is nothing, or an occasional sighting of monks and cars, or a handful of lost-looking tourists like us.

Hellooooo, anybody home?

 At last, some signs of life!

The dilemma of crossing the street without traffic.

The Death Sentence

We wanted to get out of Pakse fast, so the first thing we did the next morning was check out tourist agencies for the next bus to Vietnam. After all, the original plan was just to transit through Laos to get to Hanoi and see the beautiful Halong Bay.

Who would ever expect that a smiling tourist agent would give us the death sentence so early in the morning: “Sorry, no buses to Vietnam until a week after the Chinese New Year. They’re all fully booked.”

No way, who would believe such a crap? So we tried another one, who said the same thing in a different, more insulting version: “You are stuck in Laos.” (Or maybe that was my mind speaking.)

Panic mode. We needed a second opinion so we booked the sleeper bus to the capital, Vientiane. Maybe they would have a lifeline for us there.

We were wrong. 

The posh sleeper bus to Vientiane, with real beds and beddings. 

But it wasn’t our ticket out of Laos.

We Accept Our Fate

So we were really stuck in Laos. It was not bad, though, as we were able to see the beautiful sunsets, meet charming people, visit exotic temples, lie on the grass in the park, and eat  . . . grass. I’ll let the photos speak for themselves. 

The real deal.

The Laos people are the friendliest you'll ever meet. 

They never run out of "sabai-dees" (hellos).

Pha That Luang, the national symbol of Vientiane.

One of the temples in the area.

Another one. If you crave for temple overload, Laos is the place to be. 

We spent most of our time in the park. 

Can somebody please tell me how to go about this?

This is the food that got Pinky swearing she’ll never eat Laos food again, ever!

So that was that. We enjoyed Laos, if anybody cares to ask. But still the truth was there dangling before our eyes, like a pendulum: we were stuck in Laos. 

The Truth about Laos

Cut the Chase

The real adventure began at 5:00 a.m. in Siem Reap, Cambodia. It was starting to get quieter save for the boisterous laughter of a couple of other backpackers who boozed the night away at the sidewalk to save money on a night’s accommodation. The chill of the dawn creeping through my bones was enough to keep me alert, as I awaited Pinky’s signal to get up and go.

Five ten, she was still shaking her head. Five thirty, nothing. Five forty-five, still no sign of the bus that was supposed to pick us up from the hotel. Five fifty, I got jittery and requested the lady at the reception to call the bus company for us, who nonchalantly shrugged my request off because we didn’t book the bus from the hotel. And for the second time since I came to Siem Reap, I wanted to rip someone’s face off. She might have read what’s going through my mind or maybe I had voiced my morbid thoughts (I just can’t remember) because when I glowered at her, she right away fidgeted with the phone and with a faltering voice said, “The tuktuk will be here in five minutes.”

True to her word, the tuktuk came in exactly five minutes, the driver insisting he came on time but we were not there. It made sense because at the time he was supposed to pick us up, we were putting on invisibility cloaks, so that might have been the reason he didn’t see us. Funny these tuktuk drivers, aren’t they? And to complete the comedy, he took us on a free fifteen-minute tour of Siem Reap, chasing for the bus that was supposed to have left thirty minutes ago.

The People You Meet in Purgatory

After a few dizzying minutes, we were deposited in a bus—suspiciously parked in a deserted clearing—full of sleepy and smelly backpackers and a whole clan of mosquitoes. I took my rightful place at the back and sat next to a British guy who seemed to have developed a hatred for mozzies as he barely nodded to acknowledge me and turned to resume his massacre of the poor creatures, giggling like a girl when he would squash one and wiping the blood on the curtain and seat cover. That was, of course, before he started snoring away and conveniently used my shoulder as a pillow.

Pinky, the luckier one, sat next to an unusually generous and obviously drugged American guy who kept on offering packs and packs of Valium to the people on the bus, for free. At one point the bus had to stop at the side of a market so he could pee in front of a whole community of scandalized locals.

On the seat opposite Pinky’s sat a serious-looking Australian guy who had seen better days in the military. He was engrossed in a book about the Vietnam war, only looking up when he needed to light a stick of pot, which he also kept offering to the passengers, for free.  

In front of Mr. Pot sat a French couple who spoke very little English and smiled their way into the trip as their form of communication. Mr. French Guy, however, did a great job of pushing Mr. Valium’s mate’s head off the lap of a poor Khmer guy who had to endure most of the trip cradling the head of Mr. Valium 2.

Occupying the front seats were three Spanish youngsters, two guys and a girl, who slept the whole trip away. And two Swedish girls clad in all black and wore gaudy eye make-up, who kept to themselves and never stopped munching on something.

On the wheel was a sane-looking honking-happy driver who insisted we speak to him in English because he’s Malaysian, and who, despite desperate requests from the passengers, refused to turn the air-conditioning on until one could see steam coming out of our bodies.

If you’ve never been to a purgatory of some sort, get into a bus like we had. You never know if it takes you to heaven or to hell until you reach your pit stop.

A taste of purgatory. Don't let looks deceive you.

Is It Heaven Yet?

Three hours into the trip, the English-speaking Malaysian driver ordered us to vacate our seats and get off the bus as he was busy hauling out our backpacks and dropping them on the dirt road.

“Going to Laos, get on the van. Cambodia only, catch the bus.”

We didn’t have time to protest (as we were promised a big and beautiful VIP bus when we booked the trip) because we were busy cramming ourselves, all 14 backpackers, into a mini-van, stepping on the backpacks and someone’s foot. When we were all in, stuffed like sardines, three Cambodians (two males and a female) who didn’t speak a single word of English, joined us on the excruciating journey to God knows where.

The second leg of the journey began in stunned silence until the vehicle started to reek of marijuana and people suddenly turned into a giggling and chattering bunch. At that point, we still didn’t know where we were or where they were taking us. But with the cloud of pot smoke hovering over us, it didn’t matter. We were starting to enjoy the ride.

Mr. Valium had to pee again, so the van screeched to a halt in a secluded place near the river which blew fresh air that brought us back into our senses. And we started complaining again.

Second pee stop.

The view from the pee stop.

As the effects of pot wore off, people started to scream for food, which took the driver about an hour to decipher. And just at the moment we decided to turn into cannibals, he finally took the cue and stopped at a restaurant in the middle of nowhere. Who knows what they served there? I could have eaten snake stew, but didn’t care. It was better than chewing my tongue off.

The view was so appetizing I couldn't stop stuffing food into my mouth.

Shall We Cross Over?

At the end of the long stretch of dusty road was the Cambodia-Laos border. Or so we thought. Our “VIP” bus, as they call it, took us to Strung Treng town, where we waited for almost an hour for something to happen. There were lots of phone calls made, some arguments between the tour operators. Then we were pushed into the minivan again, and off we went—to the border that looked like a residential compound. Apparently, it was not yet the border; the driver took us to his house for a reason that’s still a mystery to us until now. For a second I thought they were going to slaughter us and make us into Laos sausages to be smuggled into the border. Then we wouldn’t need passports and cross the border with ease.

Anyway, we finally got to the border. Did all the immigration procedures. Paid USD2 on the Cambodian side and another USD2 on the Laos side—the first time we ever paid fees on the border.

Just as we thought the nightmare was over and we’re finally in heaven, we were in for another surprise in the form of another “VIP” bus:

We paid USD36 for this. Do you think we've been scammed?

As much as it hurts to admit it, we obviously fell victims to a scam. And all we could do was laugh at our misfortune. To top it off, the “tour guide” had the guts to present us two options since it was getting dark (we were still going to Pakse, about 3 hours from the border): to spend the night in a town near the border or pay extra for a private bus to take us to Pakse. I told him we’d stay if they pay for our hotel, which gained nods of approval from the other passengers. But then they didn’t say a thing when the driver finally insisted we pay USD5 more for a special trip (as spending the night in that eerie town was out of the question). So we allowed ourselves to get ripped off. I stopped struggling. 


I choose my battles, especially if I’m the only one fighting it.

To be continued . . .

The Road to Grandeur Is Not Straight

Free Concert, Anyone?

For a backpacker on a very tight budget, the only means by which one can marvel at the magnificence of Angkor Wat is to endure a six-hour long ride from Phnom Penh (or from anywhere else in Cambodia) to Siem Reap aboard a moving one-instrument, one-rhythm, one-tone orchestra courtesy of a Cambodian public bus with its ever-honking-happy driver. When he sees a cow crossing the road miles ahead, he honks. When he sees, a vendor peacefully selling fruit on the sidewalk, he honks. When he sees the outline of a motorcycle coming from the opposite direction, he honks. When he senses a chicken crossing his path, he honks. When he sees nothing on the road, he honks! When one seems to have finally fallen asleep after a sleepless night chasing mosquitoes in the hotel room, he honks! WHAT’S WITH THE GODDAMN HONKING!

The only respite to the honking torture was a thirty-minute lunch break in a bus terminal restaurant whose only English-speaking staff knew two words—“yes” and “dollar”—and with the alertness of a military trainee came to the table with the bill just as Pinky and I swallowed our last morsel of rice. And with a silly grin on her face said, “Yes, dollar?” And then we’re back to the honking.

Never Trust a Smiling Face

At the Siem Reap terminal, the honking finally ended to be replaced by the constant buzzing of tuktuk drivers who were either trying to rip us off or really rip us off. As we have booked our hotel two days before and as we received confirmation of our reservation and our pick-up at the bus terminal, Pinky and I stood there inhaling dust and fumes waiting for nothing. It was a blessing though that a smiling guy from the bus operator offered to drop confused-looking tourists to the center of the town—quite conveniently in front of a hotel operated by the same company. How about that? When Pinky and I said we already booked a hotel (and showed them the name), the “guide” told us—with a big smile on his face— that it’s a bit far and politely offered to take us there. How can one resist such an offer? Four dollars poorer later, we were standing in front of the hotel we booked—Jasmine Guest House (avoid if you can).

When we finally managed to drag our bags to the reception on the second floor, the grumpy-looking guy at the counter asked if we had a reservation. Since we weren’t able to print the confirmation, I took the time and effort to show it to him on my laptop, which took ages to open, and which made him look even grumpier. He then flicked at some papers on the counter and said they didn’t receive the booking. At that point, I was ready to rip his grumpy face off, when he offered to give us two single rooms instead of the twin room we initially booked—of course, for a few dollars more—saying twin rooms were fully booked. For lack of other options, we agreed. Before he gave us our keys, he shoved a notebook on the table and ordered us to fill out a form with our names, nationality, passport number, and occupation—to which I wrote “editor” since I would have to explain “physiotherapist.” His face beamed upon seeing the “E” word, which turned Grumpy into Smiley. Guess who’s afraid of a bad review? You wait and see, Grumpy.

Soothing Siem Reap

A walk to the city center—a short walk as we came to know—did the trick of clearing my mind which was about to burst with annoyance and frustration. Siem Reap turned out to be a quaint town with charming people (save for Grumpy and the ones who tried to rip us off). Its tree-lined streets are pretty clean, and the air fresh. There’s a quiet park along the river where you can enjoy the sunset when you’re done watching a group of oldies practising tai chi. In fact, I had pictured myself living there. I’ll rent a nice little apartment and a bicycle. I’ll buy cheap furniture from the local market and fix myself a cozy place in town. I’ll learn the language and their ways and maybe eat the local delicacy.

Maybe not.

Amazing Angkor Wat




About 5.5 kilometers from Siem Reap lies a poem that no words can truly capture. So I’m not going to waste my words.

The camera doesn’t even do justice to the sheer beauty and magnificence of Angkor Wat, but it would be selfish of us not to share some of the photos we took. Behold, one of the wonders of the world!

Angkor Wat, the world’s largest religious building and the only one dedicated to both Hinduism and Buddhism, was built in 1912 by King Suryavarman II as his state temple and capital city. It is now the national symbol of Cambodia.

Trivia:

A protest broke out when a Thai celebrity claimed Angkor Wat belong to Thailand.

Jacklyn Kennedy came all the way to Cambodia to “fulfill her life-long dream of seeing Angkor Wat.”