Feb. 21 Back From Nong Khiaw -- Seaweed, stones and rice with extras

Having spent two days nearly comatose in Nong Khiaw, I decided I would have to
be taken away in a white jacket, or Lao equivalent, if I stayed there another
day with nothing to do. I considered going on to Muong Ngoy but the wedding to
which I had been invited was only two days away so I decided to return to Luang
Prabang.

I asked the guesthouse owner when I should head out to the bus "station" -- a
large, dusty, open space by the river -- and he said (of course) not to worry,
the bus stops right across the street from the guesthouse at 8 a.m. So out at
7:45 I go and, sure enough, there's the bus pulling in... at 8:40. Not only is
it 40 minutes late (really, who cares) but it is packed. It had obviously
filled up by the river and there was no more room for any people; and there
were five at the stop.

Of course, "room" is quite relative when it comes to public buses in Asia. Just
to clarify, "buses" in Lao are actually "songthiaws" -- trucks with covered
backs that have two long benches down each side. There are no actual seats,
except for the dwarf-sized plastic chairs that are put down the middle of the
back, between the benches, to allow for extra seating. Though the side of the
songthiaw might say "21p," indicating a maximum of 21 people (10 on each bench
and one beside the driver), that's really only a suggestion. I believe it
actually stands for "21 people who can actually breath with little difficulty."
The real number of people who can be crammed into the back of one of these
depends mostly on the size of the individuals, the size of their bags or
backpacks, the number of live or dead animals they are trying to transport at
any given time and how strapped for cash the "conductor" (he who shoves people
onto the back of the truck) is feeling.

So, even though people were spilling over the benches and out the back of the
truck, and were squeezed so tightly together they had begun to share organs,
there was always room for one more. No doubt the conductor had some Jewish
blood in him and recalled Passover dinners at bubbe's house.

The conductor motioned the five of us to hop on and I was jammed into a space
too small for a gecko, between an old lady with red, betelnut-stained gums and
her fraternal twin, who smoked. And though it's bad enough to be so tightly
squished, the real discomfort comes from the contortions into which one's legs
and feet get forced when they are under, between and on top of the myriad
parcels that come along with the human cargo.

On this particular bus, the bags of choice contained seaweed. It was harvest
time in the north and huge mounds of the dried, multipurpose flora made their
way from the sides of the road to the floor of the truck. The seaweed is
pressed into sheets about a foot square, sprinkled with sesame seeds, dried and
packed into huge, white, nylon bags. When they get to their destination,
they'll be used for a variety of cullinary purposes, including being simply
rolled into tubes and eaten as a snack. The corner of one of these bags was
under my right foot, forcing my knee into my right ribcage. I shifted slightly
to the left to alleviate the pressure and thus forced everyone on my bench to
shift as well. It's kind of like sleeping with 10 people in a bed. When one
person rolls, everyone rolls.

Also amid the mound of bags, which included, besides seaweed, rice, potatoes,
cotton and various other plants -- as well as a partially open burlap sack that
looked like it held a dead dog -- a passenger has brought three large rocks.
Each one was about the size of a small cantaloupe, looking like it weighed a
few pounds at least, and each was tied with string. What they were used for was
anybody's guess, although I figured they had something to do with fishing or
seaweed collection or keeping dead bodies under water. I tried at one point,
using sign language, to ask the man what they were for and, from what I could
interpret from his reciprical use of sign language, they were to allow his
eldest daughter to marry a cow.

Besides the discomfort from the extra human and inanimate cargo, there was
always the matter of wind and dust whipping through the truck. As we got to
some of the ?better? roads and the truck sped up, wind whipped my face and
ears, throwing strands of suddenly razor-sharp hair tendrils into my eyes. People
covered their faces, just below their eyes, with towels, scarves and bits of
rags so eventually our truck looked like the getaway vehicle from a bank
robbery. What I wouldn?t have done for a pair of earmuffs.

After a while, stomach grumbling, I started thinking about food. The day
before, in my guesthouse, I had had some lap suk, a delicious local Lao dish of minced
meat, fried with garlic, shallots, chillies and various fresh herbs. It came
with an oversized heap of sticky rice which I was unable to finish and which
the  guesthouse owner kindly put into a plastic bag for me. I put it into a
shoulder bag and promptly forgot about it.

On the truck, I watched as other women produced a variety of Lao food,
including sticky rice, sunflower seeds, chickent parts, cucumbers and hard, unripe guavas
from baskets, bags and pockets. Recalling that I had a bag of sticky rice
myself, I proudly dug into my shoulder bag, took it out and hungrily dipped my
hand in, rollling a golf-ball sized wad between my fingers and eating as the
others watched, somewhat impressed that a farang would have such a non-western
type of snack at the ready. But I had forgotten that the rice had been in my
bag for almost a full day and, during that time, the bag had been placed on
chairs, dirty tables and floors and had hung from a hook on my bedroom wall
overnight.

After about 10 minutes of eating, I noticed the women pointing at my bag,
muttering to one another and giggling. Looking down, I saw that a colony of
ants had made a new home for itself at the bottom of the plastic bag and half
the rice had become infested. I don't know what it is about ants. Though the
plastic bag had been tightly knotted and shoved to the very bottom of a
double-lined shoulder bag, they still found their way in. Ah, if only they
could be harnessed and taughted to seek out truffles, I'd make a fine living in
the south of France.

Holding back an overwhelming impulse to spit the food out of my mouth and thus
shower everyone with partially chewed rice, I casually looked down at the lump
in my hand and, after deciding it was free from ants, popped it nonchalantly
into my mouth. I wasn't going to be the farang that freaked out at the slightest
thought of eating live, six-legged (or is it eight-legged) insects. I looked at
the women, shrugged, as if to say, "Oh, a few ants won't kill me and smiled,
rolled the bag back up, stuffed it into my shoulder bag and took one huge swig
of water. My appetite was sufficiently sated.

Next entry? something about guesthouses, I think.