The chapter in which I run a little and begin to love Laos

The above title is a bit of a plagiarism, not in content but in style. The style would be called "Sufjan."

After much discussion about timetables, our budget, our time-budget, our willingness to spend dozens of hours in buses, and so on, Vanya and I decided to fly from Cambodia to Laos. The flight -- from Siem Reap to Pakse (Laos) to Vientiane (Laos) -- was on Lao Airlines and painless. If you care to visit laoairlines.com, you will be looking at our aircraft. Nope, not a triple-7, folks, we flew as the Soviets did. Which is to say that it was not a stylish aircraft, but utilitarian. It also leads me to wonder who, exactly, is repairing these things. Soviet ex-pats? Didn't the USSR go out of business?

Vientiane is the quietest capital city I have ever set foot in. Hardly any motos, few cars, nobody asking us to buy anything. There are a decent amount of tuk-tuks, though, the ubiquitous southeast Asian taxi: 50 cc motorbikes with varying contraptions on the back to hold between one and ten people. The style of tuk-tuk differs in each country; if you were to drop me blind-folded into a tuk-tuk, I would know where I was. When Vanya and I take them around town there are usually two of us in the tuk-tuks, and when Laotians take them they are packed with humanity.

Like us, everyone else we met enjoyed Vientiane, but there is not a whole to do in the city. Vientiane is, without a doubt, a three-day city. By state mandate, everything is closed my 11:30, and that includes the doors to our hotel. In some ways I suppose this is kind of nice, and it is not often that we stay out later than that, anyway. Unlike western Europe, there is no bustling hostel scene in southeast Asia to speak of. It was a nice capital city, though. And I will always remember Vientiane distinctly, because it was there that Vanya and I had our first run with... The Hash House Harriers (the italics should imply importance).

I am not sure how to describe the Hash House Harriers. Part of this you will understand later, but I also wonder if more people know about this group than I thought, that I am just a newbie and think that nobody knows about them. But I don't think so. At times I am a serious runner, and I had never heard of them.

Hash House Harriers is a group that describes itself as "beer-drinkers with a running problem." This could describe a lot of runners; it also describes Vanya and me. It is a popular activity with the ex-pat (ex-patriot) community in southeast Asia, and the group generally runs once a week. Vanya and I had tried unsuccessfully to meet up with the Hash House Harrier chapters in Hanoi, Saigon, and Phnom Penh, failing each time for a variety of reasons. Anyway, from what Vanya and I understood it was a group that went running together and then drank together afterwards in a bar or pub. We were right about this, but not very right about this.

Much about the group is cloaked in affected secrecy, and Vanya and I were loaded up with the other 60 or so "Hashers" into tuk-tuks and taken to an unknown destination. The destination, it turned out, was America. Or at least sovereign, American territory. We were all dropped off at a neo-colonial mansion with an immaculate pool, all inside of a security-gate with guards. This mansion that has something to do with the U.S. department of state. We heard conflicting explanations as to who, exactly, lives there -- the U.S. Ambassador, a guy from the U.S. navy, groups doing MIA research and exploration in Laos -- but we never actually found this out. But the grounds were grand and they were American... grand enough to make me start thinking about where our federal withholding taxes end up. Apparently some of them are in Laos. (Actually, I am just kidding when I say "our" tax dollars. They aren't my tax dollars, they're yours! Mine come back in the mail. While the advantages are few, there actually are advantages to making hardly any money at all -- you cannot find a lower tax bracket than mine).

It was now 5 P.M. and off we went. Sort of. Vanya and I quickly found out that this was very different from "running" -- it is more like running/treasure hunting in a large group. The running course is pre-set by someone called the "hare," but no one in the group of runners actually knows where the course goes. You can imagine the confusion at the beginning, everyone running different directions trying to find the trail. The course is ascertained by finding interspersed chalk-signs made on the ground by the "hare;" the running trail is a series of "clues" made on the ground that runners must follow. There are a variety of symbols -- I won't go into them here -- but part of the fun is intentionally misleading the entire group to a dead end, only to have to turn around and double back. People whoop and holler when they have found the right path, and away we go. If you are confused, it is not because you are stupid, but because it is confusing.

Doing this sort of activity would be odd enough through a public park in the U.S., but it is very, very strange to do this in the suburbs of Vientiane, Laos. The course took us through a rice field that had recently been cleared and was muddy enough to bog down the entire group. It felt like trespassing -- it really felt like trespassing -- but then again, isn't the Laos P.D.R. communist? Wouldn't that also make the fields... mine? At one point we ran past some cows that were tethered to stakes in the ground, scaring them badly enough that they pulled the stakes out and took off running. Goodbye cows!

I should digress a bit and explain the demographic of the group. It was a motley crew. Almost all of these "Hashers" were age 50+ and have decent bellies. Which is to say most of them are not too serious about running, but quite a few surprised me. A disproportionate amount were English, but there were a few other Americans and quite a few Australians. All of the Hash House Harriers -- literally all of them -- have "Hashing" names that never vary from sexual innuendo or double entendre. An example is that the undisputed "Hashing" legend in Laos is an Englishman whose name is a reference to the most popular form of male contraceptive on the market. Vanya and I, of course, did not have nicknames, so everyone immediately knew that we were "virgins" to the sport. The Hash House Harriers is nothing short of a fraternity (in the general sense).

They are also really, really into the sport. When a new part of the trail had been discovered, they would yell -- loudly yell -- for everyone to follow. The sun set just as we were leaving the rice-fields, and as we went deeper in the Vientiane's dirt-road suburbs we were causing more and more of a scene. It was dinner-time, and families eating outdoors or at restaurants watched us with confusion. Some laughed, some waved, but most stared, uncomprehending. This run, I think, really increased the cultural gap between us and the people of Laos. Not believing their luck, five little Lao boys began chasing me and the group, and were extremely entertained when I pretended to be desperately trying to shake them. Two of them collapsed in an exhausted heap, laughing.

On and on we went, through back-streets and Buddhist wats. At various pre-ordained stopping points some of the group turned to go back, and, by the end of it, there were only about a dozen of us left. We were running, by this point, in the dark, and I was not confident that we would find the chalk-marks to make it back. Amazingly, we did -- these "Hashers" are good. At one point I spotted a firefly and, mesmerized, tripped and almost hit the ground. All in all I would say we covered about 5 miles. It was beautiful and warm, and for the first time in my life I saw a pink moon (Nick Drake?), one of the few benefits from dust and pollution.

Given that this is a "beer-drinking group with a running problem," the fun didn't actually begin until the whole group made it back to the State Department mansion. Drinking beer after a southeast Asian run is a recipe for an excellent time and a fantastic headache, but most were concerned only with the former. Delicious, Lao food was abundant. There is a tremendous amount of ritual that goes into the post-run party, and Vanya and I were promptly initiated as "virgins" to the Hash House Harriers. It was a rite of passage, so I won't describe it. Many of these men are professional drinkers, and while this worried both of us, Vanya and I made it out relatively unscathed (the U.S. Navy guy who had organized the race, however, ended up completely soaked in Beer Lao and was then pushed into the pool, fully clothed). As for the other "Hashers..." it was good that there were tuk-tuks waiting for them. One guy was drinking from the horn of a long-gone water-buffalo.

The point is that, if given the opportunity, you should try a run with them. There are chapters in every major city in the world. Earlier I referred to an apparently legendary English "Hasher" in Laos, a man who has been living in Laos for 40 years and has been arrested twice -- once for being a communist and once for being a conservative. "I am neither," he said. "I am a 'Hasher.'" He went on to explain to us that the proceeds from the run (it was $7 per person) were given to charity, NGOs, or governmental organizations. Hoarse from all the yelling, staring off God-knows-where into the Vientiane night, he philosophically summed up the Hash House Harriers in a heavy English accent. "We are shit. But we are not shit."

This is all on the Hash House Harriers for now.

From Vientiane we caught a bus to Vang Vieng, a town that is a guilty pleasure for most backpackers heading through Laos. Or maybe not guilty, for some. But Vanya and I both felt a little bit guilty. This town is not Laos, that is, Vang Vieng is a town that is built for the modern-day backpacker, and is not historical, or cultural, or anything in any sense. But it is stunningly beautiful. Outdoor recreation activities are abundant: rock-climbing, river-rafting, inner tubing, kayaking, bicycling, and so on. Also abundant are drugs (not the Advil type). Some of the bars in Vang Vieng have two menus: one for food, the other for "marijuana milkshakes," "mushroom pizzas," "opium whatever," etc. The drug use in Vang Vieng has actually distorted the local economy. Many of the restaurants have platform-couches rather than chairs, and have televisions inside that play Friends (loudly) all day long. Drugged and weary travelers spend all day in these chairs, slowly -- but surely -- losing the battle with gravity. It's sort of funny to watch, but only sort of. There is also an abundance of crepe stands that sell crepe combinations that contain: chocolate, coconut, honey, sweetened-and-condensed milk, sugar, and butter.

That said, the drug culture is still somewhat of a sub-culture even in Vang Vieng. Vanya and I did the outdoorsy stuff by day, watched the scene unfold by night. On day one we did a popular inner tube ride down the first clear, blue water that I have seen in all of southeast Asia. The inner tube trip combines inner tubing with zip-lining, rope-swinging, bamboo river-bars, and Beer Lao. "Drinking and inner tubing?" One asks oneself. "Isn't that dangerous?" The answer is yes, it is somewhat dangerous, but not too dangerous. We heard that one backpacker dies each year, but my conservative estimate is that approximately 15,000 people inner tube each year. But an indicator of the danger was that prior to inner tubing in Vang Vieng, I had to actually sign a waiver. I had not previously signed a waiver in all of southeast Asia.

The scene, itself, is absurd. Sun burnt backpackers, some of them drunk, float down the river cradling 22 oz. bottles of Beer Lao, while employees of the river-side bamboo bars actually fish them in. They throw bamboo sticks attached to lines into the water -- imagine a fishing pole in reverse -- near the floating inner tubers... grab on and they pull you up to the bar. Cue Bob Marley (or Jack Johnson, or the Cure, or Bob Dylan, or horrible pop music). The massive platform rope-swings (which are free and are merely good advertisement for the bars) were so... much... fun. I love rope swings, and have grown up with them. And these were amazing rope swings. They were built to perfection in a way that natural rope swings cannot compare. Vanya and I went "doubles" a few times, and I worked on perfecting my back-flip (again, always thinking of my resume). The back-drop to all of this were huge, limestone mountains, completely under-appreciated given the circumstances.

Day two took Vanya and I on a 20 mile round-trip bicycle ride on uncomfortable bicycles to some of the caves north of town. A guide, Mai, took us around to the entrance of one of the caves, gave us head-lamps, and proceeded to take us 1.25 miles into the cave. That is deep. That is really, really, quite deep. At about 3/4 of a mile in, the river appeared and we spent the next 1/2 mile or so wading and swimming through it. There was quite a bit of ducking, scraping, squeezing. Throughout the trip, Mai killed four bats, either jumping and grabbing them or splashing them with water, so that they were too heavy to fly and would flutter to the ground. He broke their necks with a quick jerk of his thumb. Smiling at me, he explained that they were "for barbecue." 1.25 miles into the cave, we finally turned around at a spot where, at some point in the recent past, a Spaniard's head lamp had gone out and he had died there. At one point we all turned out our headlamps as a test, and it was not pitch-black or jet-black. It was just black. I could not stop thinking about the Spaniard. Dying is one thing, dying over the course of weeks is another. There was plenty of clean, potable water down there -- there was a river running through the cave -- enough water to stay alive for much too long. I think it was at this point that I resolved to finally buy an REI membership card.

The third and fourth days were spent kayaking and inner tubing, respectively. Yes, we inner tubed again. It was a guilty indulgence.

Now we are in Luang Prabang, an indisputably beautiful city. I will write more about it at a later date.

As a forewarning to anyone else considering travel in Laos, an unusual concern in Laos is "having enough cash." There is one international ATM in Laos. One. And it is Vientiane, not Luang Prabang. The maximum withdrawal at this ATM is $70 at a time in the equivalent of $2 bills (this is the highest denomination possible in Laotian 'kip'). It is possible to get cash in Luang Prabang, but expensive -- there is a burgeoning credit-card withdrawal business in Luang Prabang. I would think that the government of Laos would want me to dump my cash in their cities, would want to make it easy for me to withdraw big, stinking heaps of it (the money actually does stink a little bit). But they do not. Oddly, it was much easier to withdraw money in Cambodia. More oddly, in Cambodia the unofficial-official currency is the U.S. dollar, and international ATMs dispense nothing but beautiful -- albeit old -- greenbacks. America!