Vang Viang, Part Two

I couldn't let my yesterday self get the last word in on Vang Viang. Bob Marley is still wearing out the stereosystems around town, but this morning we woke up to sunshine and fluffy white clouds decorating the karst formations across the river from our bungalow.

Although the surrounding area has scores of caves to be explored and roads to be bicycled, we, quite predictably, have done nothing. After breakfast, the owner, who speaks Lao, French, Thai, English, Russian, Hebrew (from his days as an agriculture student in Israel), and Hungarian (from his further studies in Budapest) serenaded us with Beatles covers on his acoustic guitar; this impromptu concert segued directly into lunch, during which we watched groups of naked little boys splash around the opposite bank.

After lunch we hailed a songthaew headed for the post office so we could mail some fair trade stuffed giraffes to Isaac's new niece and my nephew-to-be. School kids pedaling earnestly home streamed behind our truck, the girls shaded by frilly sun parasols, the boys shouldering floppy satchels, the novice monks in bright orange. As Isaac has been fond of repeating since we arrived in Laos, I love this country.

Vang Viang, Part One

The other day I allowed myself the pleasure of eavesdropping on a threesome of expats at a slick Vientiane cafe. A member of the trio, an American-sounding woman doubtlessly working for one of the diplomatic or NGO outfits whose money ensures stores are well stocked with wine, pate, and imported cheese, made a disparaging remark about Vang Viang. Apparently, she had heard such horrid things about the place--like girls walking through town in their bikinis, just the sort of behavior Isaac and I also like to allot self-righteous Good Tourist/Bad Tourist labels to--that she had stayed away her first four years working in Laos. When she finally did go, some of her worst fears were confirmed: the town was itchy with backpackers eating banana pancakes and abusing Skype.

At the time, I dismissed her comments as the snotty insecurity of long-term expat. Why so much hatin'? But the moment we stepped onto our cramped, rundown Korean "VIP" bus stuffed with tourists clad in T-shirts advertising Beer Chang or proclaiming that they were "same, same--but different" all my old horror of South East Asian backpackers returned. Isaac told me, in more refined language, to stop being such an intolerant bitch, but I had flashbacks of sweating it out in the back of songthaew in Koh Chang while a cheap Londoner, balking over her $2 share of the fare, asserted her right to save her money over the vocal protests of a white-haired, white-skinned lothario anxious to get his two young brown honeys back to his love shack.

This time, our fellow passengers turned out to be perfectly quiet and innocuous. Still, as we were walking through town today in search of some chocolate, something the snotty but strangely wise expat said came back to me. Friends. Oh yes, Friends. At each of the neighboring three cafes with benches-instead-of-tables we passed, curly haired twenty-somethings were leaning back on their pillows watching old episodes of Friends. Yikes.