Slow Beginnings.

April 20th, 2013

I arrived in Huay Xai Laos, having nervously drifted across the Mekong on a slab of a ferry from Chaing Khong, Thailand. This was to be my first of many border crossings with a personal vehicle. Having been to 40-odd countries over the course of 6 or so years of nearly continuous travel, I had crossed my fair share of borders. This time, the familiar routine had been broken.   

The ferry dropped me a few kilometers away from immigration. The moment I arrived, I was a free man in Huay Xai, Laos. I could have ridden away without passing through customs or immigration if I pleased. Had I done so, I would certainly have trouble exiting the county. I would probably be thrown in jail if caught. I did not even consider doing such a thing, but I found the unfamiliarity disquieting. There were no signs telling me were to go, no obvious queues to wait in, nobody around to guide me.  

Exiting the ferry terminal, I decided to go looking for immigration.

Driving into town, I saw a group of travellers on large motorbikes having lunch. Gathered around a sumptuous feat were several Asian men dressed in gear similar to mine. Parked in the vicinity were several new BMW motorcycles, similar in size to mine, but newer, shinier, and fancier. 

I came to a stop and introduced myself the as the new guy. “So, what am I supposed to do? I haven’t a clue. I’m new.” I said. 

They explained that I should go to customs and officially bring the bike into the country. Then I’d have to buy insurance. Then I’d have to go to immigration, and officially bring myself into the country. It all seemed doable.

We talked briefly about our trips. They were all from Singapore and looked to me like they were in their mid to late thirties. Being that they were Asian, they might have been as old as sixty. I never could tell. Everything in their world looked orderly and top notch. They had ordered magnificent food. Their riding gear was clean, and looked to have numerous functions. Their bikes were “the best money could buy”. In the around-the-world motorcycle community, newer BMW’s are legendarily expensive and problematic. They are the preferred bikes of those who can afford them.

I’ve noticed that a lot of people who do adventure sports love gear. They love problems too, but they rarely say so directly. Only people who do “bouldering” say they love problems. That’s what they call particularly fun sections of a boulder climb: problems. They really like a good problem.  

I didn’t have much to say to my helpful Asian friends. It was my first day. I told them of my vague plans and proposed route. I told them how little I know about repairing motorcycles; how little I knew about motorcycles in general. I thought about my bike. It was too heavy, and seemed so big. I missed my scooter from Myanmar. My gear was making me sweat profusely. The things I bought were causing me problems. I do not like problems.

They were astonished when I revealed that I was travelling alone. 

“Oh, I love to travel alone” I said.

“You’re a hero” said one of the ageless Asian men. That was nice of him. He could have called me a lot of other things, and he would have been right.

I started up my mammoth motorcycle and went to the customs house. It was back at the ferry terminal. It was around two in the afternoon, and they were closed for lunch. Things are so relaxed in Laos. It’s one of the things I enjoy most about the county. It didn’t bother me that they were closed. I was hungry.

I went to a nearby restaurant and said hello to the lone patron. It was a ponytailed Frenchmen with jet black hair and a scruffy black beard. He was smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer. I attempted to order some food for the prodigious menu. The kitchen was closed. I was elated. I quickly ordered a frosty Beer Lao and joined the Frenchman.

I was still a bit frazzled by mental and physical exhaustion. I had left Chaing Mai that morning at 5:30 am on little sleep. I was running on caffeine and cortisol. I seldom drink alcohol during the day. I seldom drink alcohol at all these days. This is a recent development. I used to be a heavy drinker, but temperance seems to have settled in over the past year or two.

Exhausted as I was, I was happy to be back in Laos, a land where nobody is in a rush and nothing is urgent. A frosty beer on an empty stomach sounded sublime, and very Lao. The beer would likely commit me to spend a night in the riverside border town, and that was fine by me. The Lao PDR, or Peoples Democratic Republic, is often jokingly referred to as Lao, Please Don’t Rush. People were never in a hurry. I needed a taste of such wisdom right then. I needed inoculation from the dis-ease of stress and worry caused by erroneous ideas of urgency. Stress and worry were problems I could do without.  

The beer was ice cold with optimal fizz. I drank it straight from the sweaty brown bottle. I could feel the coldness all the way to my stomach. I took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. I imagined ice in my veins as the next gulp slid down. Pure ecstasy. The alcohol hit me as instantly as I expected, and all my muscles relaxed. For me, the first beer is always the best. However, no longer leads me to want another, a hard won accomplishment. I brought myself further into relaxation through various breathing and mindfulness techniques. Soon, the alcohol would cloud my mind, but no matter, I was in Laos!

After a minute or so I opened my eyes and resumed normal breathing. It was a real homecoming for me. Laos was one of the first countries I ever visited, and remained the favorite country I’d ever been to. Remembrances of a laid back country with friendly people made me immensely happy to be back.

“Stressed?” the Frenchman asked with a furrowed brow as he leaned back in his chair and took a deep drag of his cigarette.

“Not anymore” I said, with a dramatic grin. “I’m in Laos.”

We quaked with belly laughter. He folded back inward from a stretch and coughed out smoke with each undulation. 

Silenced, we drank in the ambiance. We sat on a covered balcony overlooking the Mekong. Peering down one bank, we saw the town spilling out on the Lotion side. Across to the river was Thailand, a completely different world as far as we were concerned.

Sepia tones dominated. The decking and tables were wooden. The river was mud brown. The foliage was dry and russet. Smoke from slash and burn agriculture hung in the air and muted all colors. Even the sky was tinted amber.  

We languidly exchanged the typical travellers stories. It was a familiar dance. Travellers seem to have similar life philosophies, which has become one of the things I like least about travel. I’d like to be exposed to different life philosophies. I think I’ve finally reached a stage where I can actually handle it.

It’s hard enough to develop a comprehensive philosophy of life. It’s harder still to keep from projecting that philosophy on others. Viewing people objectively and not judging them is part of my comprehensive philosophy of life. With so many like-minded travellers around, it’s tough to practice non-judgment. Then again, not judging people at any level is one of the hardest things to do. With all the different cultures I will be navigating, I’m sure I’ll have ample opportunity to practice non-judgment.   

When the customs house open up, I check the bike it. There were some minor complications, but nothing crazy. They seemed to indicate that I didn’t have to purchase insurance, which was a plus. I drove to the immigration office, where the land passengers from Thailand were taken to. I had forgotten to stamp out of Thailand, and had to take a small passenger ferry across the river again. I was struggling to channel the essence of Lao. “Please, don’t rush” I told myself. I left the motorcycle with the graciously watchful ferrymen, and was back within 20 minutes. I had my Lao visa shortly thereafter.

I checked into a riverside guesthouse. The room was very clean. I was not. I was dirty, exhausted, but peaceful. I took a cold shower and put on clean close. My body pulsed with relaxation. I grabbed dinner with the Frenchmen and some other travellers. I was quiet, and could only parrot statements of universal appeal to those who travel. “Oh yes, it can be so cheap. Oh my, why don’t more people do it. My longest bus ride was thhhiiiiiiisss long. Wow. Etc.” It was blissfully easy. I was euphoric. I was happy to be in Laos, the land where people don’t rush and nothing is urgent.

“I rode buses for 72 hours to see the Rolling Stones in Buenos Aires”

James Westfall winner of “The Longest Bus Ride for the Best Reason” award.*

*All those who rode in the bus named ‘FURTHER’ are exempt from consideration… Because who can compete with that…