The Sinking Princess

The Sinking Princess is a boat, purchased for 850 dollars up on the Chinese border by three men (boys? the gray area is vast), two of whom came into my bar two nights ago. The American (from Vermont, the second Vermonter to pass through LPB this season) drank Beer Lao and by the end of the night had to be roused, loudly and forcibly, from the couch upstairs he'd snuck up to pass out on. The Frenchman drank pastis and didn't get nearly so drunk, but did disappear suddenly at the end of the night, leaving his friend to stumble down toward the Mekong and the boat alone.

But before last call came and I had to throw them out, they told me the story of the boat and made me very, very jealous. The American, I think, was the instigator. He crossed into the country from China and decided he wanted to do something different, to get off the tourist path, even the relatively lightly beaten Lao tourist path. He, I think, had the boat idea originally, and ended up advertising in a bar on the border for anyone who wanted to join in the adventure. The Frenchman and the other boat captain were the first to respond.

They then had a Lao person write "I want to buy a boat" in Lao on a piece of paper, which then passed around on the banks of the Mekong. The entire town got involved, as happens here, and in a few days they had purchased an old, long, flat bottom boat of the type you see up and down the Mekong. They tied it up on the bank and came out the next morning to find it full of water. Hence the moniker.

But they bailed it out and patched it up and set off down the goddamn Mekong river with a shitty map and an unreliable compass. Why, why have I never thought of this? (Aside from the fact that I've never travelled with a spare 800 bucks...but split between three people that's less than three hundred each...there were times I could have managed that.) They said they almost missed Luang Prabang--they just saw some buildings on the side of the river and thought they'd stop. I bought them each a drink and said I wanted to take a ride--but when I went out the next day, the motor wasn't running; the Vermonter and two Lao mechanics were squatted over it, prodding. I did get to wade in the river a bit, though, so all wasn't lost.

They didn't come in last night--I suspect they're already on their way south to Pakse and then Si Phan Don, the end of Laos. They're going to sell the boat again on border. Here's hoping they don't get sucked down over that big waterfall that leads into Cambodia.

So. Who wants to buy a boat?

Lao: Het/hate: mushroom
Khao bi-uhn: rice noodle soup
teacher (I think): ni koo.

Things I have been meaning to research and write about: illegal logging, laos's debt to vietnam, laos joining the wto. Someone scold me already and make me get to work.

Soup shop and attendant.

Pak lai lai

She liked the camera.

Irregulars

David and Richard, who were not lovers, apparently, but just travel buddies, have left, having mended their brief rift over Helmut, the handsome Peruvian with a German grandfather about whom we all speculated behind his back, who David fancied, who Richard kissed in front of my bar after too much Lao Lao. Keith from Dundee, who made the grisly transition from chef to operating room attendant, is also gone, traveling with "AA Gill is away," which I traded him for David Peace's 1974. He took with him Ian the Kiwi and the 14 little handbags he bought at the night market as party favors for his daughter's 9th birthday. And last, Army Sean (but not quite), who drank Johnny Black at my elbow all night for three night; who took me to lunch without realizing that personal questions make me cry, and to whom I owe my new understanding of what an M4 and an M16 are, really, and how long an RPG takes to arm and what gnarly but not necessarily lethal injuries one might sustain should one take said unarmed but high-velocity RPG in the chest plate.

I miss them.

Luckily, left are Jill, London/Paris/Antigua (not a bad life), who is 48 but looks ten years younger and who took home a cute 30 year old Brazilian the night before last. And of course Alex, from California--or is it Chicago--who lived for six months in a cave.

Yesterday I walked across the bamboo bridge to have lunch at the shady restaurant on the other side of the Nam Khan. There's a toll to cross--2000 kip, about 20 cents--and as I paid my toll, the tollmaster's slightly inebriated friend complimented my Lao and started chatting. Then he pressed his plastic cup of Lao Lao into my hand. "Drink, drink," he said. I drank, he smiled and drank, and I walked across the rickety bridge fortified. Today, as I sat at a low wooden table on the main street, waiting for my papaya salad to be pounded into shape, the papaya salad girl's friend sat across from me, drinking Beer Lao with ice. He handed me a half-full glass, from which I sipped gratefully (it was hot today). I handed it back to him half full. "No, no," he said, pushing it back to me. I swallowed the rest. This is drinking, Lao style. I like it; I missed it.

Work update

Drinks I want to make you: Martinis (with gin; let's be serious here), mojitos (and caipirinhas and amaretto cherry sours--I like using the pestle), Negronis, any kind of whiskey.

Drinks I don't want to make you: White Russians (don't drink milk at a bar), coffee and tea (come on), anything with Malibu (grow up).

Getting a short pour: people who like to spout facts about the percentage of Americans with passports; people who like say things like "Any American who leaves the country is a good one;" people who assume I try to pass for Canadian when traveling--thuggish, almost psychotically friendly couple from the Isle of Mann, I'm looking at you.

Getting a little extra: Russians, Scots, Welshmen, Kiwis, fellow Americans, posh Londoners and their 18-year-old-boyfriends (Richard and David, I adore you. Don't ever leave.)

If you don't like Tom Waits: go home. The music isn't going to change.

Yes, I'll let you play your ipod, briefly, but I'm only going to pretend to like it.

Aussies: I love you, really. But this isn't Bondi Beach. Put your shirts on.

I'd recommend a shot of this.

Gangsters and gay bars

The bar has become the favorite of a gang of Russians in town for some kind of business. The shady type, I hope. They like to show up at ten thirty or so, order strange cocktail combinations, smoke cigars, and disappear after one drink. The ringleader is Sergei (of course), who has a belly and a beard and a low voice and jokes constantly and is, to all appearances, a jolly, fun-loving Ruskie on holiday. He insists on calling me Rachel (Rah-chelle); he lost a bet with his wife on what my correct name was, but he's sticking to his guns. I'm pretty sure his wife's name is Natasha. She's taller than him, thin and beautiful and also very friendly.

There are two schools of thought about the maybe-gangsters. One side says they're just nice, cheerful gangsters whose thug days are behind them, but who have definitely bashed a kneecap or two. The other thinks their generally friendly affect and the presence of the wives means they're just nice Russian businessmen. I'm on the fence. Last night, one of them tried to pay for his ten dollar tab with a hundred dollar bill. It took some explaning to get him to understand that I didn't have ninety dollars in change. His friend, also wanting to pay, learned that his tab was the equivalent of five bucks and smacked a ten on the bar and walked away. There was something about the sound of the slap, the idea of pushing money around, that gave his receding back some kind of glow. Had there been a crowd, I bet it would have parted for him.

I realize I'm talking about tens and hundreds here--small change, relatively. But this is Laos. It's all small change. Leaving a ten on a five dollar tab is something to gossip about. The biggest tab I've rung up at this place--which isn't one of the cheaper bars in town, mind you--was 74 dollars. But that was for two Aussies who had several drinks each and at one point bought Negronis for everyone in the place.

In other news, I've discovered that Luang Prabang has a gay bar--the Blue Ice bar. I went last night with a pretty-ish male friend. I was, predictably, snubbed in favor of his charms. It was something of a relief to be ignored again. I associate Asia with being kind of invisible, at least as an object of desire. But at the bar, of course, I'm percieved as a font of not only alcohol, but local wisdom. I'd forgotten what it's like back here. It's very confusing, being flirted with. When I can even tell it's happening. Which is rare. I mean, people just like to talk, right? Right?

Rules of the road

There doesn't seem to be a hierarchy of vehicles here. In contrast to Taiwan, where size determines right of way and everyone bows to the primacy of the kamikaze blue trucks, everything on the road, wheeled or not, is treated as though it has a right to be there. In theory, this is a beautiful demonstration of equality and patience: dogs slowly amble in front of cars, motorbikes crawl politely around pushcarts propelled by ancients, everyone brakes at intersections to see what everyone else might be doing. In practice, the experience of biking up a hill while a van creeps along behind me, unwilling to do me the dishonor of trying to pass without giving me a three foot berth, is just wildly annoying and embarrassing. I have managed to hold myself to mutters only and not gesture frantically, swerving, they they should just fucking pass me already, PASS GODDAMN IT.

I mentioned this nice systemless system to Lisa last night, who generally concurred and told me that in the case of an accident on the road, the bigger vehicle is always held to be at fault. And while I understand how this is, technically, unfair, as a rule I quite like the idea of the big guys bearing more responsibility.

I realize I've been writing nothing but glowing things about this country for weeks. It's early days and the rose colored glasses are firmly in place and I do not apologize for it. Hand to heart, I write about exploitation and poverty and narrow-mindedness and frustration and manipulation soon. As soon as I, like, find it.

Some go both ways

I rode past this yesterday. I know what it points to, so I understood the message without really reading it--but after riding a few feet past it, I realized something was wrong and turned around to double check. It is a beauty, eh?

It says, of course, "The way up to Phousi stupa."

Pronounced "poosy." Half the businesses in town are named after this hill and this stupa. It's a joy to watch Westerners try to figure out how to pronounce any of them without saying a naughty word. Me, I still get a kick out of saying pussy all day.