Travel Musings

Foreshadowing in Everyday Life

Laos & Bangkok (accidentally) Initial Post 

I tell my mother that I'm nervous about this trip.

She points out that my travel luck to date has been better-than-average. Sooner or later, it's going to run out, she predicts.

I agree: with travel comes risks. But my rational self knows that The Universe is not tracking my Luck-To-Date and determining that I'm well overdue for a mishap or two. If anything, if I were a gambler, I'd regard my history of successful travel as a good predictor of successful future travel.

But who's really rational, when it comes right down to it?

For instance, Oliver recently suffered an eye injury worried that might have required me to cancel my trip (he recovered quickly). On top of that, a few weeks ago civilian protestors closed the Bangkok International Airport (Suvarnabhumi) for a week, leaving hundreds of thousands travelers stranded.

I would have been screwed had I scheduled my trip for slightly earlier than late December. I have six flights booked in and out of Suvarnabhumi: it's my Southeast Asia "base of operations". I fly in to it, depart on to Luang Prabang (Laos), return and continue on to Denpasar/Bali (Indonesia), return once again, and finally fly out of it back to Chicago. 

Between Oliver's health run-in and the airport shutdown, I harbor a superstitious foreboding that my unlucky vacation shoe has yet to drop: everyone knows that bad things come in threes.

Mom and I further discuss the Suvarnabhumi closure.

"There are worse places than Bangkok in which to be stranded," I proclaim.

Luang Prabang

I arrive into Bangkok at 12:30, reunite with Bagzillo (my steadfast, tweed traveling companion), and proceed to door 4, where the Novotel Suvarnabhumi shuttle awaits me. Five minutes and we're there.

At $148 a night (booked through Agoda -- the cheapest rate I could find) the Novotel is ridiculously overpriced for Thailand. But at 1:00 in the morning, after having traveled for 26 hours, I'm willing to pay for convenience. This new airport is even further away from downtown Bangkok than the old one and the Novotel is the only respectable digs within 20 miles of it.

Monday morning now. My Lao Airlines flight ($433 with taxes) into Luang Prabang is uneventful. Just the way I like my flights. I'm prepared with $35 and two passport photos and 'Zillo and I are out the door in 20 minutes.

I buy my $6 taxi ride. They take one look at me and beckon a tuk-tuk (as opposed to one of the many cushy, air-conditioned mini-vans a'lying-in-wait). That'll work just fine. The old me would have fought it, but at some point over the years, I finally learned to go with the flow. All part of the fun of travel.

So, the inevitable question: why Luang Prabang? Well, because LP is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, for one. It's difficult to go wrong sticking to that list. In short, LP is just one of those unique, wonderful destinations that the entire world is on the brink of discovering (and ruining): think Venice, Prague, or South Beach in the 80's. Charming, one-of-kind, authentic (the Laotian answer to Hoi An, only more hygienic), and everyone seems to be catching on to the fact. It's now or never.

And how do I know about LP? From articles in Traveler, Travel + Leisure, and The New York Times. 

LP Laid Out

I'm staying at Lotus Villas ($73 a night) because it's the #1 rated hotel in LP on Tripadvisor. The staff at check-in are friendly (but that's the norm in Southeast Asia) and my room is kinda cute (if I squint). I like the wood walls, and I have a balcony view, but it's so-so: I can stare straight through the open window into my *neighbor's hovel and watch their 14-inch tv. I can hear it, too. The bathroom is rough: nothing separates the showerhead from the toilet. And this mattress -- oy vey -- straight out of the Flintstones. This place'll suffice.

I exit Lotus Villas onto Kounxoa Road, not quite sure which way to go. I soon figure out that LP is a phallic-like peninsula formed by the twisting Nam Khan River flowing into the mighty Mekong. The tip faces Northeast, the scrotum spreads out Southwesterly. 

The village is really easy to navigate once I orientate myself: I need only to memorize five streets. Facing the sack of the city, there's Souvanhakhampong Road -- which turns into Ounkham Road at times -- on my right. It hugs up against the Mekong and hosts several restaurant and bars with excellent river views. Moving left is Kuonxoa Road, a residential-type street dotted with guesthouses, a stretch of which becomes the food market. Sisavangvong Road (aka Sakarine Road, aka Chao Fa Ngum Road -- it's best not to pay attention to the road names and to think of them only in terms of their relationship to the Mekong) is the Broadway of LP: plenty of open-aired restaurants and shops. Moving on, there's Kingkitsarath Road bordering the Nam Khan. This thoroughfare, slightly out-of-the-way, hosts the frowned-upon, trendier establishments. Only one main street intersects the others, running parallel to them: Settathirath Road, which extends from the Mekong to the airport and leads to the rest of Laos.

*And their view into my bathroom is unobstructed

Brief Nap

I head towards the center of town and immediately come across Ock Pop Tok, a boutique peddling textiles and weavings created in Laos, which I recognize from internet posters' recommendations. I remove my shoes (with a shudder), as is the custom here, prior to entering the shop. Which squicks me out a little: I refuse to walk barefoot in my OWN house. As my Mom likes to tell me "it's a known fact that living alone makes you weird." Maybe she's right.

The OPT wallhangings and linen appear to be of high quality, but they don't fit in with my minimalistic decor. Cute store, though.

I continue to Broadway (Sisavangvong Road), in the direction of Mount Phousi, which marks the center of town. I love how all the shops and restaurants here open up right onto the street: it's conducive to non-committal browsing of menus and wares. My fellow window-shoppers are a diverse group: Australians, Thai, Japanese, French, Germans, etc., etc. No single nationality of tourists dominates the mix. And we're all super-casual: sans make-up, hair tossed-up randomly, wrinkled skirts and pants. Dressing up in Chicago is fun but on vacation I just want to grunge-out. LP is all about the grunge.

I exchange my dollars for Lao Kip at a rate of $1 = 8,600 LAK. I've read that USDs are perfectly acceptable here, but the prices are better paying in LAK. I forfeit $200 and suddenly I'm a millionaire. Whoo-hoo!

A drowsy millionaire: I've never learned to conquer jetlag. Traveling one tiny zone to the Eastern seaboard taxes me: jaunts to Asia absolutely do me in (especially the return). I reverse my steps, stopping at Khmu Spa (Broadway) for a Khmu massage (given "thumbs up" by internet posters) for $20. It's vigorous, but pleasantly so. The shouts and laughter of the school children playing across the street provide a pleasant backdrop to the rhythmic kneading of my sorry shoulders muscles, which still suffer the effects of cross-Atlantic travel, coach class. 

Treatment over. Extreme drowsiness.

4:00: I wander blindly back to Lotus Villas, stumble up the steps to my "villa", and collapse onto my Stone Age bed. I just need 20 minutes. One short nap and I'll be good to go.

It's 3:00 a.m. Do You Know Where Your Pringles Are?

Where am I?

Who's making that god-awful noise?

What time is it?

Did I pack my Pringles?

Turns out, I'm still in LP, the pet roosters that live across the street are responsible for the god-awful noise, it's 3:00 a.m., and yes, I remembered my Pringles.

I dig into the familiar red tube. When was the last time I ate a meal? December 20? Three days have passed (give or take a few time zones) since I've consumed an actual meal.

Wide awake, I disentangle my beloved Kindle (wireless reading device) from all the other electronica I've stuffed into my bag. My God, I've become a walking Radio Shack. I've treated myself to one gadget or so per trip and I've clearly crossed some sort of threshold into techno-geekdom. I never used to be this way. I blame the internet: I can sit wrapped-up in a blanket in the comfort of my home, drink a few glasses of wine, and order-away online. The boxes show-up a week or so later, and I feel like someone sent me a present.

New toys that I've purchased specifically for this trip include:

• A pocket flashlight for navigating dark LP streets
• An alarm that I insert into the crack of my door: it emits a piercing noise if the door is opened (my Ubud, Bali accommodations, while appearing to be fabulous, also appear to be pretty remote)
• A dogwhistle. Ubud is notorious for its rogue dogs and aggressive monkeys

Lying prone, canister secure in my measly cleavage, I munch and read The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (not the most comforting tale for a woman traveling solo), get up every 15 minutes or so, peer out my window, and attempt to spot some sign of activity in the street below.

6:00. I detect a hint of daylight. I grab my windbreaker (LP is chilly in the morning) and walk the uneven streets (forgot my new pocket flashlight) to Broadway. Claiming a perch on a wall respectfully recessed from the street, near Villa Santi, one of LP's more high-end lodgings, I observe processions of mini-vans dispatching their passengers. This little neighborhood is awakening before me with two types of people: the taciturn, sincere locals who wait on plastic stools along the kerb; and the more animated tourists snapping photos of one-another, trophy-bags of rice held aloft for the camera.

We've gathered to either watch or participate in the alms-giving ceremony that occurs every morning in LP. A long line of monks from the nearby wats (temples) snakes along the streets of the city, the monks extending bowls to the kneeling villagers. The villagers dip into pots of rice they've brought, form balls of rice with their hands (yikes), and place them into the monks' bowls. A few small children run along side the monks extending their own pots, beseeching the monks for some of the rice they have collected.

The LP listing in Wikitravel includes some interesting (depressing) information on the commercialization of this ritual.

Stop! In the Naaame of Laos

Monks On Parade over, I hop off the wall, slap the dust off my butt, and head to the deck overlooking the Mekong at the Saffron Cafe. I order pancakes and milk (at least 120% milkfat and amazing) which I would never, ever permit myself back home (calories). But, since my last meal was probably Thanksgiving turkey, my conscience is clean. The coffee here: perfection! Even if they do charge Starbuck's prices. A cup of this stuff costs about the same as my villa for a night. And worth every Kip.

Belly full, I walk to Mount Phousi and assess the steps ascending into infinity. 138 to the office, another 190 to the top. And the hike isn't too bad. To the office, anyway. I fork over my 20,000 Kip -- only slightly winded -- and proceed to the peak. Nice view.

I follow a narrow path leading down the backside of Mount Phousi and Buddhas of all shapes, sizes, and colors greet me. My favorite is the Diana Ross Buddha, urging me to think it over.

I descend and land at the Nam Khan Road. Returning to Broadway, I follow it back towards Mount Phousi, pass the big hill, and pause at the very-cute Joma Bakery Cafe. I know a good expat haunt when I see one, and this looks like a good expat haunt. I order a Diet Coke, grab an English-version Bangkok Post off the rack, and immerse myself in it. I always find foreign journals' takes on U.S. events fascinating: I re-realize that our homegrown news is stilted and censored.

My own state of Illinois is honored with an article on our esteemed governor, Rod Blagojevich, who was recently wiretapped while selling a senate seat. Way to go, home team!

But -- even better -- another piece lauds Mr. Zaidi, the Iraqi who threw a shoe at W. Since "sharing his love" with our Soon-to-Be-Former-But-Not-Soon-Enough-to be Former-President Bush, Mr. Zaidi (labeled a folk-hero) has received two marriage proposals, gained 14,500 Facebook fans, become the subject of an Egyptian pop song, and has inspired a 65,000-member internet group with the catchy name of "I'm a Fan of the Great Hero Who Hit Bush with his Shoes in Baghdad."

Kuang Si Falls

I randomly choose a travel agency (every other storefront in LP is a travel agency) and purchase a ticket for a group trip to Kuang Si Falls. The owner of Lotus Villas told me that the Tad Sae are more impressive than the Kuang Si, but my agent informs me that only private tours are arranged to Tad Sae.

Awaiting my ride, I notice a diaper-clad toddler across the street, stumbling along the sidewalk and dragging a poor chicken on a leash behind him. Well that's not something I see every day in Chicago.        

En route I chat with a Thai woman, traveling with her French husband. I usually avoid organized tours -- they wreak havoc with my control issues --although meeting other travelers frequently compensates for the stress I endure when someone else dicates my schedule.

We arrive at 1:00 and the driver tells us to meet back at 4:00. Really?!? I'm about to protest -- three hours seems like A Long Time -- but no one else questions the time. I submit. Resentfully.

The Bear Rescue Center, a zoo-like enclosure housing Asiatic Black Bears that have been freed from poachers, lies along the trail to the falls. More often than not zoos are either boring (the animals sleep) or depressing (the beasts are too confined) but the BRC is neither: the bears are yukking it up. They roll for us, swing on tires, climb ladders, scratch their hindquarters.

I continue along the path to the top of the waterfall and check my watch: 1:30. Crap. Now what do I do for 2 1/2 hours? I return to the parking area, buy an oversized Beer Lao and some chips and retreat back to one of the human watering holes that I passed by earlier.

The Watering Hole is pretty entertaining. Groups from around the world gather here, strip down, and run amok. A friendly competition exists among the males of our species, as they attempt to one-up one another by flipping off the trees and falls. Observing The Watering Hole is not so different from observing the Bear Rescue Center.

A photo-mad pack of Thai tourists, clad in matching periwinkle tee-shirts, arrive. They take group shots in front of the watering hole, then break into smaller groups for more photos. Three middle-age Thai woman have their pictures taken on the bench we share, and they slowly inch closer to me. Suddenly, I am in their photos: they surround me. Now, they're taking turns snapping individual shots with me. And just when I think the show is over, I catch another one surreptitiously photographing me, attepting to act "natural" and shoot the trees above my head when I look her way. So. Weird. I don't know whether they're flattering or making fun of me. Karmically, I can't complain: I'm guilty of not only furtively photographing others, but displaying the audacity to post the results on my blog. Serves me right to be the victim.

 

Hours pass. Finally, FINALLY, it's time to regroup. Eleven of us arrive early, and await the twelfth as we drum our fingers, tap our toes, and sigh audibly. And we're off! Thank Dog! I possess NO tolerance for other people's schedules. Back in motion, I'm free. Free!

And we're slowing. And we're pulling over. And we're stopping. Flat tire. 

Monky Love

I sleep in until 5:00 today, read for awhile, and watch the monks pass by beneath my balcony, serene and oblivious to my presence above. I love monks. They're so photogenic. That orange isn't an easy color to pull off, but they manage it.

No tours today. Not that I dislike structure: I'm a maniac for structure. As long as it's my structure. In fact, I have the entire day planned: I intend to explore all of the penninsula's hotspots while traveling in a counter-clockwise fashion, beginning at Compass North.

I head to the head and cross a makeshift bridge over the Nam Khan. I've been told it's rebuilt ever year after the Wet Season floods demolish it. Damn lollygagging tourists! A couple lingers in the background, ruining my great monk shot. Humans are always wandering into my frame, spoiling my scene.

I cross. Nothing's doing on this side, but my new position grants me a view of five young boys playing on a sandbar with unbridled enthusiasm. Moments like these cause me to question my decision not to lug around a decent 35 mm camera with a zoom-in lens.

I retrace my steps across the bridge and walk to Wat (temple) Xieng Thong, which is regarded as the "best" wat to view in LP. And XT is nice, but I find its stoic occupants more interesting than its architecture. The monks are mere adolescents and their docile, conforming nature intrigues me. They're not very teen-like, which is too bad.

Stay at the Apsara and Avoid the Tamarind Cafe

I return to Lotus Villas, continue one block further, and stop at the Tamarind Cafe for lunch. Multiple internet posters had recommended the restaurant. And if it's on the internet, it must be true.

I order the special, per my server's suggestion, and a Beer Laos. She slides my bottle onto the table, pops the top, apologizes for it being warm, and scurries off before I can protest.

My meal plops down -- not more than two minutes have passed since I ordered it (the dish is obviously prepared in advance) -- and my server vanishes once again. Revolting. Before me lies cold slop: a cold, sloppy helping of shredded white stuff; a cold, sloppy pile of slimy green stuff; a petrified sausage sliced in two; a handful of hairy buffalo jerky slabs; and lettuce rolls stuffed with gooey, brown mystery sauces. I swig my room-temp beer, toss some bucks onto the table, and beeline it toTatum Bamboo on Broadway. I enjoyed an excellent dinner of cashew chicken (Lao-style) there last night.

I pick-up 'Zillo at Lotus Villas, drag him a few blocks down the street, and check-in at the "Funky, fun, and fabulously affordable" (as it advertises itself) Apsara along the Nam Khan. I found the Apsara on the Hip Hotels website, and booked it for for $70 a night.

And it is funky! And fun! And fabulous! The lobby/restaurant/bar decor is tastefully contemporary: jewel-toned Chinese laterns, tropical plants, and modern furniture dressed in brightly-colored silk cushions. My room is gorgeous, too: oversized windows opening up onto a view of the river, ornate pillows and luxury linens, WiFi, a mini-fridge, dark wooden moldings, and a Laos/hotel guidebook written with a sense of humor. Damnit. I should have stayed here from Day One.

Rodents, and Scorpions, and Snakes. Oh My!

I walk the Nam Khan Road towards town, pausing here and there to peek into the cool kids' places: The Hive Bar, L'Etranger for books and cakes, Kopnoi for quality products produced in Laos, and the Chillout Lounge.`

Settathirath Road takes me into the heart of town, and to the Visitors' Center, where I finally buy a decent map. The LP market unfolds to my left. I can't resist a foreign market. I always leave disgusted, but with my morbid fascination satiated.

And the LP market is no exception, what with the 50 cent snake/scorpion "wine" shots and roasted rat carcasses. I'm so grossed out.

Scurrying back to Broadway, I find comfort and refuge at Joma. I observe the owner, a middle-aged American woman, working the room, working hard. What led her to this remote outpost? How did she fund her venture? Is she turning a profit? How does she do it alone? I'm so intrigued/impressed by the expat entrepreneurs I encounter on my travels: they sure possess more cajones (ovaries?) than I. I like to think of myself as the daring sort, but truth-be-told, I've never mustered up the guts to venture beyond traditional work-for-The-Man employment.

Returning to town, I stop at the Royal Palace Museum. It's small but interesting: dramatic, red, lacquered walls to die for in the great room and displays cases stocked with gifts of diplomacy from around the world. Grouped by "socialist" and "capitalist", the offerings provide greater insight into the of culture countries that bore them (Russia, Nixon's USA, Nepal, Japan, Hungary, etc.) than into the recipient country of Laos. Unfortunately, photos are prohibited.