Nam Ngum River

The first stage of the road follows the narrow Nam Ngum River, and crosses it at every opportunity. Bridges sat well above the washed out road and more than once we had to shore up the tires to mount a bridge. With 230 kilometers to go, I soon realized that it would take forever. It did, and no one cared. Least of all the driver. These young boys in their dark blue outfits and military caps are the buccaneers of this highway, every youngster's idol. And they knew it. My first driver was slim, with soft but well defined features and flashing eyes. At the next checkpoint, he jumped out to buy some of the dreaded orange chicken on a stick. Now, as we jolted along, he ate with one hand, drove with the other, and joked with his fellows in the back. With his eyes on the chicken, he steered us too fast into a tight turn, then jerked the wheel and sent me careening off the road, blowing out a front tire. This set the other boys wild with laughter, and they taunted and poked the driver as they surveyed the damage.

So this was how it was going to be. Still, I got a brief moment to stretch and relieve myself while they changed the tire. Already my kidneys had taken quite a beating. The job done, I squeezed back into the truck, braced for the next leg of the journey. We stopped again at a small village a few kilometers up the road, where they had equipment to repair the ruptured tire. There was another delay, but it would soon be to my advantage. A few hours later, we drove into a mudhole in the middle of the road and sank in up to the axles. We all piled out and, ankle deep in the rich brown ooze, tried pushing the truck while my frenetic driver spun the wheels until one of the rear tires exploded. By this time our little catastrophe had somehow become humorous. I lolled about the disaster area, grinning to my fellow castaways. But it was all my young drivers could muster to keep from falling over in the mud in convulsions of laughter.

Sitting by the river, watching the hills, I waited for help. From whom or where no one knew, but help would come - eventually. Worries are foreign and useless to the Laotians. They just push on, always smiling affably and shrugging their shoulders. Making the pilgrimage with me, (besides my three hysterical drivers), were the Frenchman, two German college students, an Englishman, a portly Indian merchant, and four Laotians, including two small boys out on their own. Along the way, however, we took on and left off a large assortment of gun-toting young soldiers, country farmers, and hill tribes people. They filled the truck and the rear bumper most of the way, hanging out in the rain and mud.

One old Meo tribesman kept me in awe by rolling and smoking a continuous stream of marijuana cigarettes during his several hours on board. While the rest of me suffered through my ordeal, he showed no effects of either the discomfort or the drug. A road grader eventually came to our rescue and pushed us through the mud hole and out to relatively solid ground. We changed the tire, and the trek continued. After a few more hours, we rolled into Vang Vieng, the only real town along the road. Here I roamed the small marketplace in search of lunch. I never knew just how long I was staying, so I kept a close eye on the truck as I picked up some food for the road - pomelos and fresh French bread filled with sweetened condensed milk. My Indian comrade found several friends to visit with in the nearby shops. Twice I left without him, only to circle the town and return to the market. He apparently knew just when the truck was really leaving, for he ran and jumped in as we pulled out for the last time.