I’ve decided to fly to Luang Prabang, the ancient Laotian capital, for the weekend. I’ve tried booking several hotels on line and continue to get “sorry, we can’t complete your reservation” messages. I purchase my airplane ticket anyway. The worst that can happen is I’ll have to find a place when I get there. It’s a tourist destination; I’m bound to find a place.
I’ve chosen to eat like the locals do. It wasn’t really intentional. I was walking along the riverfront and the young boy thrust a menu into my hands. I realized I was hungry. I order shrimp fried rice and a beer. He points to makeshift stairs leading down to the river. I navigate them carefully, making my way to the low wooden platform next to the river. I slip off my shoes, walk across the platform, and sit cross legged at the low table. I look around. I am the only non-Laotian. I pull out my book and begin to read.
He brings me a glass with five large ice cubes and a BeerLao. I study the glass. I notice there is a small ant crawling around the inside edge. I gently try to nudge it out and instead it slips and falls to the bottom, drowning in a tiny puddle of melted ice. I notice that it joins six other ants with a similar fate. I ponder. Do I pour the ice cubes out and wipe the inside of the glass, getting rid of the ants? I put my hand around the large bottle of BeerLao. It’s not cold. It would definitely be better over ice. I could hold the glass in my warm hands, melting a bit more of the ice, creating more liquid which I could then pour from the glass, hoping the ants poured out as well. I swish the liquid around. It seems like the ants are staying at the bottom of the glass. I could just pour the beer and drink it. The ants really are small, would I really notice them if I drank them? I opt for this last option. I pour the beer and an inch or so of head forms. And to my amazement, the ants float to the top of the foam. I can’t believe my good fortune. I carefully dab each one with my finger and wipe it on a napkin. And then proceed to enjoy a chilled, ant-free, refreshing BeerLao along the Mekong River.
I’m sitting on the wooden deck of the restaurant Mekong Deck. I’m the only person eating alone – this is definitely a date spot. I look scross the Mekong River to Thailand. I notice a couple – he, English; she, Thai. They’re talking over dinner. She’s picking at her food, moving it around on her plate, listening to him speak. He rises to use the restroom. As soon as he is out of sight, she attacks the food with a vengeance, eating directly from the serving dishes, stuffing several pieces of meat into her mouth at once. I want to caution her – girlfriend, slow down! You’re going to choke! As on cue, she stops eating as he walks back from the bathroom, swallows, and smiles at him serenely.
This invention intrigues me. In principle, I think it shouldn’t. But it does. Each time a staff member pulls it out to use it, I feel a guilty pleasure watching them.
It’s a plastic contraption, a replica of a tennis racket. In the center of the racket is a star. The most brilliant thing is that when you turn it on, and wave it through the air, it zaps mosquitoes. Zap! Zap! Zap! You can hear the crackling throughout the building.
I feel bad for liking it so much. I remind myself that killing is bad. That we should have compassion for all creatures. And yet, it fascinates me. I love watching the staff focus on where the mosquitoes are, then gently wave the electric tennis racket through the air. If it catches a mosquito just right, there’s even a spark. It may be one of the most bizarre inventions I’ve ever seen. I’m captivated.
I am now slightly paranoid of catching malaria. After drying off from my somewhat shower, I spray myself with Off! Before leaving for work in the morning, I re-spray. I bring my forest green can to work with me. In between meetings, I walk out to the porch and spray myself. The staff members joke, “Is that your new perfume?” Yes, it is.
I sit on the edge of the pool, dangling my feet. A swim would be lovely. A wonderful way to relax after a long day at work. But it’s nighttime and the water is cold. I argue with myself. Just jump in. You won’t even notice how cold it is once you start swimming. I could go back to my room and curl up in bed and read. A swim would feel great. Stretch your arms, get your blood pumping. I don’t have any hot water, I’ll be freezing when I come out. I finally jump in and come up shivering. I quickly start swimming laps. After a few, I’m warm. I’m glad I’ve taken the plunge. After swimming for a while, I flip onto my back. I float, staring up at the night sky and the stars that are twinkling above. The air is heavy with the scent of gardenias. I’m completely relaxed and completely happy.
Mosquitoes swarm in a thick black cloud. I stare with disbelief. I didn’t think this was mosquito season. And the website said there was no malaria risk in Vientiane. I equated that to no mosquitoes. Wrong, wrong, wrong. With each one that comes near me, I wonder what the symptoms of malaria are and how quickly I might recognize them.
It’s a grey, drizzly, damp, morning in Vientiane. What happened to the high of 82/low of 78 that weather.com promised? Local time: 10:32 am. The king size bed is beckoning to me, “Come, come, come, just lay down for a minute…” As much as I want to abide, I know that to have any chance at all of staving off jet lag, I must stay awake until evening.
I make my way to the reception desk. As they see me approach, the two men start laughing. Yes, I already have a reputation, and I haven’t been in the country for a day yet. I smile, greet them with Sabai Dee! and ask what there is to see. They show me a map and circle the temples. I thank them and start to walk away. The one who fixed my shower asks for my key. Oh, yes. I always forget to leave my room key. I smile, hand it to him and he offers, “Because you might lose.” I simply smile.
I walk through almost deserted streets. There’s little traffic and even fewer pedestrians. I follow signs to one temple after another. I eventually end up at Pha That Luang, considered to be the landmark of Laos. As I’m about to enter the gates, a tiny, elderly Laotian woman rushes up to me and grabs my hand. She pulls me into another group of elderly women. I realize we’re posing for a picture. I smile and put my arm around her. The top of her head reaches my chest. I feel like a giant. The photographer snaps the picture and I hear lots of giggles and Khap Dais (thank yous). I make my way into the compound surrounding the massive stupa. The drizzle is heavier now, almost a mist. I pull my hood up over my hair.
I watch the faithful paying respects to Buddha, kneeling, bowing, placing garlands of brilliant orange marigolds on the altar. I continue walking. The stupa has three levels. I mount the stairs to the first. A young Laotian couple come behind me. When I turn to the side, the man offers a forceful, “HI!” I smile and say Hi, Sabai Dee. “Hey, lady, are you here alone?” I’m startled by his question. He doesn’t look dangerous. His wife/girlfriend smiles at me. How in the world would he have learned that phrase? “Yes,” I smile. “Good,” he replies and walks off.
The rest of the afternoon unwinds, I wander, I watch, I get my bearings in this city that will be my home for the next two weeks.
I ask the desk clerk and his friend if there is an ATM nearby. “ATM?” he queries. “Yes, for the money.” “ATM closed. Today Sunday.” “Closed? Not always open?” “No, bank close. ATM close. Go to morning market to change money.” “ATM not open all the time?” “Yes, all the time, but give you Laos money. Kip.” “What do I have to use to buy things? Dollar or Kip?” They look at me like I’m crazy. “Kip.” To myself I think, so then why wouldn’t I want to use the ATM? I smile and thank them.
I’ve been in transit for more than 30 hours. As soon as I check in and unpack my bags, I make way for the shower. Shower. Depends on your definition, but it could be considered such. There is a water source. And a hose attached, with a nozzle. It’ll work.
I turn on what I think is the hot water. Cold water sprays from the nozzle. I turn the other knob. More cold water. I try every combination of the two knobs, still getting cold water. Cold water it is. I hop in the tub and straighten the hose. Hm. The hose reaches to my belly button. I’m tall, but I’m not that tall. So I squat, shivering, trying to rinse 30 hours of travel from my body. I wash my hair and soap up, braving one more frigid rinse. I turn the knobs to turn off the water. Nothing happens. That’s odd. I try again. Still nothing, the chilled water is spraying at me with full force. I feel waves of anxiety creeping up behind me. No. I can do this. I turned the water on, I can turn it off.
Except I can’t. After turning each knob as far left, and as far right as I can, the water is still spraying. Oh, geez. I quickly towel off, throw on clothes, and call the front desk. Did I mention the lack of English skills among the staff? What is the simplest way to convey my situation? The desk clerk answers. “Shower. Water not stop. Lots of water. Help!” He is in my room in seconds. He goes to the shower, turns, turns, turns each knob, and the water slowly stops spraying out. I stand there, feeling like an idiot. “You turn both all way off. Okay?” I thank him, feeling quite incompetent.
LoriLoo 