Laotian Valentines

Laos. 

February, 2016

When I arrived in the airport, it was obvious that I was in the poorest country of all of my travels.  The buildings were old and in ill repair, the buses, the same.  I was quite excited to have an empty bus on my 12-hour journey to Luang Prabang, though.  So I thought.  I struck up a conversation with a fellow passenger, who seemed friendly enough until he began screaming at me to “Shut up,” and ranted about hating Americans.  In my exhaustion, I simply put my hands over my eyes and tried to breathe.  When we got to our dinner destination, I told the driver I wasn’t hungry.  A Lao girl came to me and said, “Don’t worry, he is a bad man.  He is not like Lao people.”  He was kicked off the bus, I was fed bananas and rice, and all was well.  Until I arrived in Luang Prabang.  Travelers who visited there five years ago or more will tell you it is a great place not to pre-book.  I went from guest house to guest house, and there was nothing.  It was 3:00 a.m. and finally, I paid $5.00 to sleep on the floor of a small hotel.  I was woken by many a passerby asking me if I had any vacancy, thanks to my straw mat bed being behind the front desk.  I began to make light of the situation and use my best customer service voice possible to let them know, “My apologies, sir, we are out of space at the moment.  Due to Chinese New Year, there has been an influx of tourism here.  We recommend booking.com or selecting one of the larger hotels in town.”  Mercifully, by midday, they had rooms and I met a fellow backpacker looking to share a double room.

Once I finally had a hot (!) shower in my fancy hotel room with its two twin beds, I set out for lunch.  I searched up and down for a vegetarian buffet, only to find out it is part of a night market.  Instead, I landed in a typically named southeast Asian place, called “Same Same.”  I sat across the room from another foreigner, who was also dining alone.  When he said hello to me, I invited myself to sit with him.  This is not normal behavior for me, but something I learned along the way backpacking.  Sometimes it works, and sometimes they are appalled at the invasion of space.  And sometimes, they end up talking about their yachts and cars ‘til you want to cut your wrists.  Just kidding, that’s only in Guangzhou and while English teaching.  This Texan guy ends up being completely in tune with the activist scene in the USA and abroad, and I try to remember not to use ableist, sexist, etc. language that may have worn off on me while around all the party hostels.  This is the kind of person I liked to befriend back home.  The interesting kind.  We had good talks and laughs all day, and he turned out to also be one of the most sarcastic people I had met as well.  Just so that we were clear, when I mentioned how much I have been hit on while traveling, he pulled out a pad of paper and wrote a contract that we would remain platonic.  We both signed.  I could not stop laughing that day. 

The next morning, I went out walking.  I dipped in and out of temples that I hadn’t seen with the Texan, admiring the endless gold scrolling, buddhas old and new, and the aura of sacred peace that each one departed.  At the end of the road of temples, I found myself face to face with the Mekong River, surrounded by wild poinsettia bushes taller than Christmas trees.  I had no idea they could grow in the tropics, let alone become so big!  I was by myself, enjoying my own magical company.  I rounded the peninsula to return to my hostel, finding vista after vista of riverside farmsteads, rolling green rice paddies on hilltop terraces, and small, bamboo homes dotting the other side of the water.  On my side, colorful, old, French colonial homes sat, decorated only by red wrought iron gates and beds of orange, white, and pink flowers.   What a gorgeous day.  Finally, I came upon one, last temple.  I removed my shoes, entered the main room, sat down, and pondered how thankful I was to be alive that day.  To have moved past my old absurdities and found the newest blessings that awaited me.  I had seen too much dogma to believe in any deity residing within the temples, but I did feel this peace sweep over me, as it so loves to do when one is grateful.  I sat with that feeling, my knees and head to the floor, losing track of the time as I meditated.  This is what is to be alive. 

I continued to be kind to myself, something I realize now as unselfish and wonderful to do.  I left the temple in bliss and decided to get a massage.  Not the pain-is-gain Chinese style, but a relaxing, oil massage.  I went home and napped as long as I pleased.  I awoke and decided I wanted to be around people again.  I wandered into a bar, called “Utopia,” with a group of American and Canadian tourists who were much younger than me; they compelled me to appreciate once more, that I can enjoy the company of any generation, as each has its own interesting qualities and quirks.  The next day, we took motorbikes to the famed waterfalls of Luang Prabang, Kuang Si.  The water looked like it must have had chlorine, it was so translucent and clean.  But the trees and rock jutting out of it belied its natural origins.  It now was the second most beautiful waterfall I have seen in the world, apart from some in the highlands of Antigua, Guatemala.  Swimming was impossible, given the cold temperatures, but we managed to take a quick dip for photos.  After the falls, we headed to a small butterfly retreat down the road.  Empty of tourists, the orchids and butterflies there proved the perfect ending to a beautiful day.    

That night, the North Americans introduced me to friends from Norway, France, and Germany.  These girls turned out to be my rock for Vang Vieng, especially the Norwegian.  We shared many cathartic moments of being single, traveling, passions for human rights, and the meaning of life.  You know, light topics.  The next day, I needed more time in solitude.  I walked the temples at the top of the mountain in the middle of the city, which local legend holds has been moved there by the gods from Sri Lanka.  I was hoping to see the sunrise over the city as I sat there in the cold that morning, but instead, I was cloaked in an eerie morning fog that blanketed the entire mountain and its monuments.  After watching the fog, I moved into the temple for meditation.  And, admittedly, because there, I would not look so odd in a child’s yoga pose to keep my ass from freezing off my bones.  It was a peaceful, silent meditation.  I walked around, feeling content in my mind, and came across a male traveler doing yoga at the top of the mountain.  We nodded to each other in appreciation of the silence and energy of that moment.  I continued back down, to be greeted by English-speaking monks.  Are they hitting on me?  I thought to myself.  Naw, monks don’t hit on girls.  It felt off, so I left with the excuse that I had to get myself a bike for the day.

Why did I need a bike? A doctor helped me in the USA, free of charge, with the caveat that I was to find a way to pay it forward in Asia.  Guiltily, I felt that in China, most of my interactions were with privileged folks and my forays into the local nonprofit scene seemed to result in cultural conflicts and dissension.  And so, I found myself on a bicycle, riding into farms and country villages with bags of toothpaste, brushes, shampoo, soap, school supplies, and baby formula, just to cover all of my karmic bases.  I felt free.  Riding on tracks cut into the grass only by thin motorbikes, I suddenly became aware of snakes, and began to turn back to the main road.  On my way, I crossed two men with very large guns.  I did not know I could peddle that fast through muddy tracks.  My overly competitive male friends would have been proud.  My quick exit led me to a garbage dump.  Having visited one in Matamoros, Mexico, I knew this did not mean the end of civilization.  I found on either side of the road leading into it, houses composed of salvaged cardboard boxes, sheet metal, and plastic bottles.  Within one house, I saw four generations living off the proceeds of picked through recyclables.  The youngest, around ten months old, already had signs of malnutrition in his bulging eyes, thin arms, and tiny, swelled belly.  I wanted to do much more than give them formula and cooking oil.  This type of poverty simply should not exist.  They were very happy in with my awkward exchange of gifts.  I know those materials may seem overly pragmatic as gifts, but I have seen in previous journeys how food comes before all the other needs, and a little of these preventative health and education tools can go a long way.  I rode back, past a hotel called “Le Chalet”, with its huge walls covered in broken glass at the top.  Peeking through the gates, I could see luxury cars and infinity pools.  Is it bad for these to exist?  Perhaps not.  But at the expense of the others? 

Being the emo hippie that I was, I thought I was ready for a nice drink and a happy dance once I arrived in Vang Vieng.  However, the bike ride and my legs told me otherwise.  I had a nice, long night of sleep.  We awoke that morning around 8:30, ready to go tubing on the famed backpacker’s river where one can drink and stare up at the beautiful Lao mountains surrounding the quiet waters.  We arrived at the caves, where our friends had planned to tube.  It was freezing cold in the water, which was unexpected, given how hot it was that day.  Milena, my friend from Argentina, and I decided to stay outside and sunbathe instead.  It was a perfectly relaxing morning.  We spent the afternoon lunching and learning to ride motorbikes, another fear conquered.  Getting on the bike, I remembered the words of a friend in Thailand, “Just don’t hit the gas and the brake at the same time.”  I was too afraid to screw up with him watching, it was too intimidating.  And so it was that my first time was with my friends Michael and Milena watching, imparting their words of encouragement as I tried to “stay vertical” (not in the Christian university sense, but literally, this time).  I gently pulled out of the parking space and onto the road, never realizing how much power only a little gas will give the bike.  Slowly, but upright, I continued down the road to the gravel airstrip in the center of town.  We rode around on the gravel for nearly 30 minutes.  I was scared, but I did it anyways.  Like many of my stories this year, I ended up falling and hurting myself at the very last moment.  However, also in tune with my stories this year, I learned: you get back up, check the damage, do what you have to do to take care of yourself, and move on.  Life always asks more of you, and that day was no exception.  No one else could drive the bike back, which meant getting back on, despite the angst, and bringing it home. 

A valuable lesson: that which you dread is often that which makes you love your life.  It’s like forcing yourself to run, you hate starting.  Forcing yourself to keep going, not stopping, until the end, you feel moments of utter hatred.  You hate getting out of bed.  You never were a runner.  But you decided not to think, just to do it, as a matter of compulsion.  And each of your days becomes more beautiful, energetic, and reflective as a result.  Writing, after this trip, has been the same.  I don’t think that I want to.  I think I’d rather sleep my lunches away, not do this thing that costs me time and makes me work.  Yet writing is never work once it starts.  I feel more pride in the beauty that I create after conquering that fear, that anxiety over stolen time, than I do in my so-called real job.  It lifts me up.  I just do it, I don’t think.  Just write your beautiful piece.  Just keep pushing past your fears and hang-ups.  Just do. 

I made it back alive for dinner, just doing the driving.  Not thinking, at least about my apprehension (I did try to look at the roads and my location relative to them).  I accompanied Michael, a Brit who had just started a 4-month backpacking journey.  We drank Korean whiskey and tonics while talking.  The conversation was okay.  We went back to the hostel and were joined by Thomas, a German who shared a room with us.  The three of us set out for Sakura, where they have free whiskey from 8:00-9:00 p.m. every night.  Naturally, it attracted a large crowd.  We started by the campfires in the back of the bar, talking with people from Poland, Ecuador, and Russia.  After some drinks, it was time to dance.  The quiet German (pictured above at 10:04 a.m. the day prior) turned out to be quite the dancer, so the two of us took the stage and joined all the Koreans in Gangnam Style.  They were so excitable!  It was amazing fun, but eventually, I needed a rest and jumped off the stage (which actually was a collection of five heavy wooden tables).  As I landed, I ran into Jade, a girl whom I met in Thailand and had gone cliff jumping with.  We danced for a while and I returned to my friends.  When the bar closed at the early hour of midnight, we headed to a place called Jungle Bar.  There, I waited outside with the realization I hadn’t brought enough cash for the cover charge.  Some polite Danes adopted me and paid my way in.  My Thai friend and I made our way around the dance floor, talking and enjoying the perfect vibe of that night.  I turned around to dance with someone else and then everything changed.  I met eyes with one of the most beautifully faced, chocolaty eyed, caramel complected, gorgeous Latin men that I’ve ever seen.  My sister’s words echoed in my ears, Forget him, men will never be a problem for you.  How prescient… 

The next day, we were all pretty spent and did not want to try the real tubing.  Instead, Milena and I headed for the viewing point at the top of a mountain adjacent to the city.  We crossed a long, rickety bamboo bridge that was the equivalent to wearing drunk goggles while walking a tightrope.  With our arms to the sides like penguins, we made it across after what seemed like ages.  We were greeted by about 50 cows and their young calves, who greeted us like happy family dogs whose owners had just returned.  Feeding them grass and allowing them to lick us with their cat-like tongues, we reveled at the scene before us.  The friendliest animals on earth, surrounded by some of the most beautiful mountains and quiet rivers we had ever beheld.  It could not get any better, until some hilarious Frenchmen decided to join us.  Constantly laughing and carrying on in Spanish, we all reached the midpoint between the mountaintop and the ground below.  At that point, we were to hand climb, without ropes or gear, the remainder of the mountain.  I was terrified.  Milena reminded me, “Pero ayer te manejabas en moto, hoy puedes hacer eso!”  I gritted my teeth, ditched my gear trailside, and moved on.  When we finally reached the top, there were jagged rocks one could climb to hold onto the Lao flag.  I thought, no way, I have done enough.  But with a bit of peer pressure and encouragement, I did even that.  For a person who is profoundly afraid of heights, at that point, I had jumped cliffs, ridden a motorbike, and free climbed a dangerous mountain, within the space of one week.  Who am I?  I thought.  I am normally shy.  I am normally fearful.  I am on a new page.  This is my new book.  I get to write it however I like.  

Any residual anxiety soon faded as we descended from the mountain onto a comfortable raft restaurant where we sipped gin and tonics, watching the sun go down over each stately peak of the Vang Vieng mountains.  Later, we sipped more and danced more.  We carried each other through it.  Milena and I left the next morning for the capital, Vientiane, out of which each of us had a flight the following day.  Every plan we made- the bomb museum, the temple, the best sites, seemed to be impossible to achieve as dusk set in.   Exhausted, we found ourselves in a Mexican restaurant, eating quesadillas and burritos.  The comfort of that food after a long, challenging, and beautiful journey made the trip perfect.  We attempted Shopping While Bloated (SWB- a true condition, I swear), and remorse filled us almost as quickly as the heavy food had.  We waddled back and forth with our full bellies to the guest house, crashing onto the beds for 2 hours of napping.

And so it was that my trip came to an end.  Perfectly, full of food, full of lessons, full of a newfound grace to extend to myself and others.  You do deserve this.  You deserve the world, darling, and all the beauty it beholds.  Embrace it.  

©  Amanda Whitmore.  Shareable with author's written permission.