Day 7, Don Det

On day 7, I hop aboard a little minivan that will bring me and a bunch of other travellers to the Lao-Cambodia border. There are 4 Chinese nationals who I assume are a family, but later find out are government officials here on holiday; 3 Aussie boys who have been on the road for several months; and a Laotian policewoman who works for an NGO.

One of the Aussie boys is in an irritable mood because a Cambodian vendor earlier renegaded on a bargain over some bottled water. When he boards the minivan and realises there are more people than seats, he calls out to the driver, "Hey mate, there aren't any seatbelts back here!" I try to hide a laugh under my breath but he hears it, and from then on the ice is broken.

Besides being overloaded, the air-conditioning is also broken, and before we even pull out of the tiny town all of us are suffocating. The driver -- who initially told us to bear with it -- now decides to stop at a mechanic for some help. Nothing can be done however, and so a second minivan is dispatched to pick us up. We are now an hour and a half behind schedule -- and are still in Stung Treng.

Eventually we reach the border, a wide road with respective customs separated by 100metres of tarmac. The Cambodian custom officials want a bribe, but stupidly stamp our passports before asking for it, and the Aussie boys raise enough of an outrage that the officers hand them over dumbly.

The Laotians however, hold our passports hostage and lock themselves in little room. A stand-off ensues.

We first try to bargain with the officials, offering USD$2 for a group of 7 (a group of British travellers have joined us; the Chinese nationals are still stuck at the Cambodian side, trying to make a visa arrangement) instead of USD$2 per person. The officials of course, will have none of it, and jab violently at a sign that says Working hours: Monday to Friday, 10a.m. to 4p.m. Everything else overtime. It's Saturday today.

Up till now it's the Aussie boys who have been handling the anti-corruption tactics, but they're not making any headway and it's my turn to try my luck.

I step up to the glass panel.

The official looks up at me smarmily and points at the sign.

"I have to pay?" I feign ignorance.

He nods. "2 dollars."

"Why?" Failing to get my way I am at least going to make him sound stupid.

"Overtime."

"Doesn't your company pay you? Maybe you should talk to someone about that." The people behind me laugh, and that infuriates the official enough that he slams the glass window shut.

Okay -- that definitely did not go according to plan.

We sit aimlessly outside the cabin for an hour. The Aussie boys spew vulgarities, try to sneak into the room (someone inside yanks the door shut violently), and try on the leather shoes left at the door. Occasionally one of us wanders up to the glass window and attempts to persuade, but all efforts are in vain.

Suddenly the Chinese nationals trot up to the cabin, all looking as pleased as can be. "We got our visas for USD$2 each," they said gleefully in Chinese.

The Aussies and Brits are shocked. They paid USD$40 each for theirs at their respective embassies.

The Chinese nationals' joy is shortlived however -- the Laotian officials refuse to let them through, saying that the visas are invalid. Neither side understands the other's language, and I am dragged into their skirmish as an underqualified translator.

I spend a good hour running back and forth between the Cambodian and Laotian offices, relaying each side's messages, while the Chinese nationals stand in a huddle looking confused, the Aussies and Brits look on in faint curiosity, and the officials in nothing more than self-interest. The Cambodians and Laotians refuse to talk to each other, citing political reasons as an excuse, and are perfectly content to wait in the shade while I jog the 100metres there and back, and there and back, and there and back.

Eventually, with the help of the Laotian policewoman and some well-placed bribes, the Chinese nationals get their passports stamped and officially enter Lao. I am much too tired to continue the stand-off, and cough up the US$2 to get my own passport back.

(Note that in that hour and a half we are there, the officials must have stamped at least 60 passports at a rate of USD$2 each.)

As the official slides my passport back across the counter, he winks and wets his lips. "No hard feelings?" he says with an oily smile. "Can I shake your hand?"

We finally get to Ban Nakasang, where a boat is waiting to take us to Don Det. There, I bid farewell to the lovely Laotian policewoman and the Chinese nationals (who collectively give me a bottle of mineral water by way of thanks), and climb into the longboat with the Aussie boys. It is a rickety old boat that has seats caked with mud. We are not given lifejackets.

"So what do you aim to be in future?" one of the boys asked.

"Rich man's wife?" I answer (if you know me, you know that is my standard response).

Everyone laughs, but just then an identically rickety longboat zooms past us, and everyone on it has a lifejacket on. We all agree that my rich husband is probably on that VIP boat.

At Don Det it becomes apparent that I'm sort of part of the group. We all check into a guesthouse called Mr. Mo's that overlooks the river -- not that it's particularly scenic, being the brownest, muddiest body of water I've ever seen.

My room too, is a sordid Lilliputian one -- the wall facing the river is constructed of wooden bars; the floor's planks do not fit neatly, with gaps you have to be careful not to drop things into; the bed has no pillows or sheets. The bed is also pushed into a corner of the room, leaving a foot of space on each of the two remaining sides. There is nothing else I can complain about because, literally, there is nothing else in the room.

Still, I am game for the experience and rather sadistically think it may be fun, so I dump my bag in a corner and head down for some cycling with the boys.

We decide to cycle to Li Phee Falls on Don Khon, an island linked to Don Det by a bridge. Unfortunately the country roads are so rocky and bumpy -- I have no idea how some people can make it look a complete breeze to cycle down one of them -- that after I become airborne off of a large rock and throw up from a combination of doxycycline and motion sickness, I wave the boys off and return to my room.

This is my second day without food, and having just thrown up for the third time in 2 days, I feel utterly miserable. I even curl up on my bed and shed a few tears.

(At this point, I have to say I am so grateful to Michelle, Ser Kheng and my family, for going all out to help me in spite of the distance. They helped me check flight details for the journey back to Singapore, and kept my spirits up as I ranted over the phone. Even if they were busy, they made time for me. In times of crisis (I consider it a crisis anyway) you find out who your real friends are, and I can truly say I owe so much to these wonderful people.)

My brain kicks in before too much of the self-pitying takes place. I've always considered myself to be mentally strong, and that little lapse leaves me feeling ashamed and angry. Even if I'm not in the best physical state, I'll be damned if I sit around and mope.

I pick up my rucksack and set out on foot for the waterfalls -- no more cycling for me.

The route takes me along some of the most scenic landscapes I've seen since the start of my trip. Unfortunately, I have a crappy camera.







The Laotians are also a heck of a lot more genuine than the Cambodians, with everyone greeting you and striking up conversation as you pass.

Random Laotian who asked me to take a photo of him

It is definitely one of the more relaxing walks I've ever been on, though it does take me an impressive 3 and a half hours to get back to my guesthouse. Also, the Li Phee Falls is in no uncertain terms, not worth the effort to get there.

For a waterfall that is allegedly the largest in South East Asia, it is decidedly unimpressive.

I take an obligatory photo to show that I have indeed been there, chat a little with a Frenchman with a DSLR, then quickly turn back. It's a long walk I have ahead of me, and I'm rushing to beat the sunset -- there is no electricity on the island, and I don't want to traverse the countryside in the dark for fear of falling into the river. Or, for that matter, stepping on lurking cowpats.

Sunset over padi fields

When I do reach my room, I'm mud-splattered and a thunderstorm has just started. The bathroom is some distance away down an uncovered dirt road, so I hop into bed muddy and prepare myself for a very cold night.