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.