Eventually however, a whole troupe of Laotians turn up with kids in tow, and the driver switches from Family Guy to some karaoke video. We groan collectively -- you have no idea how irritating and generic karaoke can be until you watch it continuously, on loop, neverendingly, on every single bus trip.
The sleeper bus, for all its perks, has double beds instead of single ones. I am curtly told to share a bed with the Nigerian man -- though I tell him I am in no uncertain terms unwilling to jump into bed with a strange man, and slip into the same bunk as Hazel. This is the first time in my life I'm specifically happy about a friend's gender.
For the next few hours Hazel and I talk about spirituality, conservation, morality, and about ourselves. I find I have a deep respect for this woman -- she's very honest, strong, charitable, warm, compassionate, and outspoken. Meeting her is definitely one of the key moments of my trip.
At some point we nod off, and awake a few hours later to the sight of the Vientiane bus terminal. I suppose Hazel and I are lucky we're slight -- most of the other boys didn't get much sleep in the tiny bunks.
We stumble out into daylight, and quite unceremoniously, go separate ways in 5 minutes.
I hang around the terminal, waiting for a Dutch boy named Keskyn, whom I met back in Pakse. He's travelling roughly the same route as me and we figured we may as well accompany each other some of the way. His bus pulls in half an hour after mine, and together with a French couple (guy is extremely good-looking and stylish; I do not dare meet the eyes of the girl), set about hunting for a guesthouse.
Later we rent bicycles and head to a Scandinavian bakery for breakfast. Everything smells really good, and it's a good reprieve from the usual coconut/ginger stench that hangs around the streets and eateries of Lao. I get down a bit of food, but then get so nauseous that I head back to my room after an hour.
Before that however, we manage to see Putaxay, the Laotian version of the Arc de Triomphe.
It is small, uninspiring, adorned with fairy lights, and surrounded by vendors and beggars. I take an obligatory photo of it, as does Keskyn, and get back on the road immediately.The next stop is That Luang, a buddhist temple some distance away from Putaxay. From far, the stupa looks like it is covered with gold leaf. The grounds look huge, and there is a mini traffic jam leading up to it.
Up close however, the gold leaf reveals itself to be mere paint; the interior is sparse, with little signs of maintenance; rooms and stairways are locked, leaving visitors able to walk around the main corridor only; the circumference is puny. I don't feel unpacking my camera is worth the effort.
We leave after 10 minutes, feeling robbed.
Literally, there is nothing else in Vientiane worth seeing. A couple of moss-covered stone structures here and there, mostly at small road junctions or round-abouts. It is the most boring stop of the trip -- the French couple were smart, choosing to stay in Vientiane for only 4 hours, before catching the noontime bus to Vang Vieng.
Back at the guesthouse, I make a few calls back home to inquire about a plane ticket back to Singapore. I have already lost quite a bit of weight, and decide I don't want to risk getting seriously ill in the wilderness of northern Lao. No one can help me book a ticket because it's less than 24 hours to the flight out, so I get back on my bicycle and head out for the airport. It takes almost all of my money -- I even have to excuse myself to empty my bra -- to get the plane tickets.
On the way back I detour a bit -- quite daringly, in my opinion, because I don't have a map, having given it to Keskyn. To my great surprise and pride I do okay, finding my way around quite adeptly, never needing to ask for directions.
Vientiane is small.
I even bump into Sunny, the Nigerian man. He spots me from across the road and calls to me with such a great yell of joy that I immediately feel ashamed for the way I treated him yesterday. Sunny's checked into a 50,000kip/night guesthouse along the Mekong River, and is on his way to an African bar for lunch. He invites me along, but I'm on a mission -- to find Talat Sao, the morning market. (I do find it, but as usual there's nothing worth saying about it.)
The next morning, I take my last tuktuk ride. For the first time in 4 days I'm actually hungry (must have been running purely on adrenalin the past few days), but now I daren't even try to eat. Throwing up can be quite a nuisance.
My flight's an Air Asia one, and I'm headed first to Kuala Lumpur where I'll get on another to Singapore.
The flight is insane for two reasons:
First, the pilot keeps walking out of the cockpit, on occasion leaving the door open for an extended period of time. It seems to me a huge security risk.
Second, we hit violent patches of turbulence, at one point dropping through the air for a few seconds. People around me are moaning, praying, vomiting, and crying -- I suppose the prospect of a crash must be on everyone's minds. In the row opposite a woman nurses her baby calmly, and for some reason as I take in the scene around me, I feel almost like I'm in the documentary Air Crash Investigation.
Make no mistake -- I certainly am entertaining the idea of a crash. By nature I am a bit paranoid, and in fact I don't need turbulence for that thought to enter my mind. But when you're alone and have no one to turn to, and when you're strapped in your seat with absolutely nothing you can do, well, I guess you get resigned. You also kind of believe in your own immortality when you're young. I find I do anyway. I simply take a few deep breaths, drum my fingers and observe the people beside me.
After about half an hour of dips and dives, the pilot announces that we're detouring to Johor instead. Landing is apparently impossible given the weather.
2 hours after the stipulated arrival time at KL, we land at Johor. The door is opened for passengers who want to get out and kiss the ground, but other than that no one is allowed to leave the plane.
A Singaporean girl begs to be allowed to disembark -- which makes sense, given that Singapore is that much closer to Johor, and that we may not make our connecting flight back at KL -- but the air crew is adamant: we are flying back to Kuala Lumpur.
On the way back, everyone is silent. The laughing and joking that was present in the early part of the previous journey is starkly absent. I get the feeling a collective breath is held as we pass over KL airspace; thankfully we land without any trouble this time.
The detour means, however, that instead of the 4 hours I have between connecting flights, I now have 45 minutes. A mad dash through the immigration, baggage pick-up, check-in, and immigration (again) counters ensues. I make the flight with 10 minutes to spare.
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