It's 7 AM and we are waiting for the bus to take us to Pakse.
Krista and I both have our exact fare, 20,000 kip, in our front pockets. Across the street is a rural Buddhist temple. To our right stand a gaggle of Japanese tourists. They are young, probably twenty-something, but it's hard to tell. One of the young men is wearing a Paddington Bear style denim hat with a white gym towel tied around his neck like a scarf. He has a very kind face, so I find it easy forgive him for this offense. His friends, however, are wearing cow patterned jackets and displaying $300 video cameras. Without caffeine or a proper night's sleep, my compassionate streak runs short and my silent jury condemns his friends to one thousand years of hard labor in a Hello Kitty sweatshop.
Miraculously, the bus pulls up on time. A skinny, sun-darkened Lao man approaches us and takes each of our bags and heaves them onto the roof of the bus in one fluid motion. I am the last to get on the bus and I take a seat next to Krista against the front side window. In front of us, where one would normally find the co-pilot chair, is the engine semi-submerged below a platform of dusty and rusted sheet metal. Hot water spits from a gray cap and the skinny man takes the cap off and pours water into the hole. The driver disengages the brake and we our on our way. I can smell the exhaust and see a giant axle rotating below me at a feverish pace.
I turn my eyes to the back of the bus. The skinny guy is collecting fares from the Japanese tourists. I notice something is wrong: their eyebrows are turned up and they are pulling more bills out than would be expected.
I whisper into Krista's ear, "Look, he's giving them shit."
Krista looks back and sees it too. She's not surprised. After a very short discussion, we agree to give him nothing more than what we have in our pockets. He's only getting 20,000 kip.
Skinny man approaches us and begins writing on a piece of paper. Then he writes something on another piece of paper and hands Krista both sheets. I look and they say 30,000 kip.
Krista hands him our fare, the 20,000 kip, and he shakes his head.
"Two dollars. We know. We ask everybody," Krista says slowly and loudly putting emphasis and feeling into each word.
Krista is fluent in broken English.
He shakes his head again refusing the money and walks away.
Five minutes later, the skinny man returns. He is speaking in Lao and we are clueless to what he's saying. He points to the roof and to the 20 kilogram bags of rice that lay in the aisles, suggesting that bringing luggage costs extra.
I calmly place our fare on the empty seat between the man and I. Usually, I'm not one to keep my cool in situations like this, but right now I'm making a conscious effort to remain polite.
Take it or leave it.
A gentle wind starts blowing lifting the corners of the bills. The top bill blows a few inches away, but I quickly pick the stack up before they go completely airborne. I try to study the man's face in order to plan our next move, but it seems void of emotion.
With the bills in my hand I shout, "You only charge us more because we are white and because we are hairy." I lift my right arm and pinch my skin, showing him my copious arm hair to illustrate my point.
No response.
"They pay two," and I point to other Lao people using my entire palm, remembering it's impolite to point in Southeast Asian cultures. "Two, two, two!"
An older Lao woman sitting next to us silently nods and holds up two fingers. The Japanese are sitting on the edge of their seats. There's solidarity on this bus. We are making history. This one is dedicated to sister Rosa Parks.
Skinny Lao Man walks over to the bus driver. He bends down and they speak quietly. The bus slows to a stop. We are now parked on a well traveled, paved country road. They look at us, their eyes daring us to get off the bus. I put on my day-pack and prepare to depart. Krista does the same.
"Do you think I'm scared to walk down this road?" I say without looking them in the eye as I adjust my pack's straps.
"You drop me off and in five minutes and there will be a truck coming down this road and the driver will be eager to make a couple of bucks."
Slowly the bus begins to accelerate. We have called their bluff.
The fare collector approaches the remaining two Lao women who sit up front. An argument ensues between him and the lady sitting next to us. I don't understand what they are saying, but I can easily interpret the elderly lady's gasp as she reacts to the fare slip, her slapping him on the shoulder, and her scornful face as she hands him 25,000 kip. It becomes obvious that he has weaved a tangled web. Now, he's resorted to cheating his own people, even the elderly ones.
The old lady sitting next to us starts talking to Krista in a subdued tone. She holds up four, then five fingers, and she starts rocking her head expressively. A tear slides out of the corner of her eye. Then another tear runs down the space between her nose and cheek, followed by a cascade of free flowing drops. Krista is closest to her and she looks incredulous and stunned. Krista softly consoles her by stroking her arm. Usually she is less empathetic than I am, so I'm quite pleased with her actions.
Me, I am a rock. A hardened, petrified mass only resembling a human being.
We just arrived from Cambodia where we have dodged dishonest tuk-tuk drivers, one-legged beggars, and hordes of malnourished toddlers with sunken eyes. We've visited provincial hospitals with only a single doctor on staff, inspected torture devices at an old Khmer Rouge prison camp, watched mosquito larvae swim around in an Olympic sized pool, and witnessed cops whose only contact with civilians occurs when they're demanding bribes.
Lady, you are Lao. You have teeth. Your husband probably has two legs. I do not feel your sorrow nor will I fall victim to these half baked transportation scams.
For the next hour, the skinny bus fare collector stands at the doorless entrance smoking as the bus continues on its 3 hour journey. When I look back at the Japanese people they smile and I triumphantly cross my arms in a solid fashion to demonstrate my stubbornness. Krista and I never make eye contact with the fare collector or the driver. Krista sits reading a tattered paperback copy of Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men. To pass the minutes, I look out the window at water buffalo or around the bus, or I think about all the possible ways this drama can end. After awhile, I notice a large chef's knife resting on the dash. I begin to worry and I formulate another possible ending to this story. Although Krista and I have vowed not to be extorted out of another dollar, I decide I would agree to pay them it if they threatened us with a large knife.
The bus passes a marker that says "Pakse 25 Km". The crying Lao woman signals the driver and we let her off. The fare collector walks three paces to the dash and picks up the knife. My heart skips a beat. He reaches up and places the knife above the driver in a small compartment. The two men laugh and the fare collector plops down where the old lady sat. He puts his hand out and Krista hands him the money. He puts a finger to his lips like a "Shhhhh" gesture and makes a quick head jerk towards the rear.
Don't tell them I only charged you two dollars.
The rest of the ride is very quiet. Krista and I don't even speak. I feel safe and victorious. I'm cockier than ever.
When we arrive in Pakse, we are the first to exit the bus. A young Japanese woman runs up to me just as I am descending the last step.
"How much did you pay?" she asks speaking very good English.
"Two dollars." I say, muting my regularly booming voice.
"Ohhhhhh." she says.
Krista already has our bags. The Japanese exit one by one and fall naturally into a huddle outside the second half of the bus. I feel uncomfortable as I sense a conflict brewing. I hate confrontation; Krista relishes it. I tell Krista I have to go to the bathroom and she agrees to stay and watch our bags while the drama unfolds.
When I return, Krista tells me the rest of the story:
With a new sense of bravery, the whole group of Japanese surrounded the skinny Lao fare collector. They stand there for minutes with their hands outstretched as he takes luggage off the bus. He doesn't pay them any attention. Frustrated that their pleas are going unheard, the Japanese kid wearing the Paddington cap and sporting a white gym towel around his neck climbs back on the bus refusing to get off until they give his money back. He pulls at the skinny Lao man's arm thus breaking the Japanese people's reputation for docility and politeness. Again, the Lao man pays no attention to him and they start driving off. Mister Paddington has no other choice than to jump off the bus. The Japanese are defeated.
Krista and I find the cleanest dirty place to have lunch at the bus stop shanty town. Some woman wearing an 1980's business suit cooks us the famed 60 cent vegetable noodle soup and Pepsi meal I mentioned in the previous blog. A hungry beige mutt staggers over to our table, circles below my chair and falls to his side. With the dog sleeping below my chair and Krista sipping on her soft drink, we begin to recount this morning's tale of survival.
Krista and I both have our exact fare, 20,000 kip, in our front pockets. Across the street is a rural Buddhist temple. To our right stand a gaggle of Japanese tourists. They are young, probably twenty-something, but it's hard to tell. One of the young men is wearing a Paddington Bear style denim hat with a white gym towel tied around his neck like a scarf. He has a very kind face, so I find it easy forgive him for this offense. His friends, however, are wearing cow patterned jackets and displaying $300 video cameras. Without caffeine or a proper night's sleep, my compassionate streak runs short and my silent jury condemns his friends to one thousand years of hard labor in a Hello Kitty sweatshop.
Miraculously, the bus pulls up on time. A skinny, sun-darkened Lao man approaches us and takes each of our bags and heaves them onto the roof of the bus in one fluid motion. I am the last to get on the bus and I take a seat next to Krista against the front side window. In front of us, where one would normally find the co-pilot chair, is the engine semi-submerged below a platform of dusty and rusted sheet metal. Hot water spits from a gray cap and the skinny man takes the cap off and pours water into the hole. The driver disengages the brake and we our on our way. I can smell the exhaust and see a giant axle rotating below me at a feverish pace.
I turn my eyes to the back of the bus. The skinny guy is collecting fares from the Japanese tourists. I notice something is wrong: their eyebrows are turned up and they are pulling more bills out than would be expected.
I whisper into Krista's ear, "Look, he's giving them shit."
Krista looks back and sees it too. She's not surprised. After a very short discussion, we agree to give him nothing more than what we have in our pockets. He's only getting 20,000 kip.
Skinny man approaches us and begins writing on a piece of paper. Then he writes something on another piece of paper and hands Krista both sheets. I look and they say 30,000 kip.
Krista hands him our fare, the 20,000 kip, and he shakes his head.
"Two dollars. We know. We ask everybody," Krista says slowly and loudly putting emphasis and feeling into each word.
Krista is fluent in broken English.
He shakes his head again refusing the money and walks away.
Five minutes later, the skinny man returns. He is speaking in Lao and we are clueless to what he's saying. He points to the roof and to the 20 kilogram bags of rice that lay in the aisles, suggesting that bringing luggage costs extra.
I calmly place our fare on the empty seat between the man and I. Usually, I'm not one to keep my cool in situations like this, but right now I'm making a conscious effort to remain polite.
Take it or leave it.
A gentle wind starts blowing lifting the corners of the bills. The top bill blows a few inches away, but I quickly pick the stack up before they go completely airborne. I try to study the man's face in order to plan our next move, but it seems void of emotion.
With the bills in my hand I shout, "You only charge us more because we are white and because we are hairy." I lift my right arm and pinch my skin, showing him my copious arm hair to illustrate my point.
No response.
"They pay two," and I point to other Lao people using my entire palm, remembering it's impolite to point in Southeast Asian cultures. "Two, two, two!"
An older Lao woman sitting next to us silently nods and holds up two fingers. The Japanese are sitting on the edge of their seats. There's solidarity on this bus. We are making history. This one is dedicated to sister Rosa Parks.
Skinny Lao Man walks over to the bus driver. He bends down and they speak quietly. The bus slows to a stop. We are now parked on a well traveled, paved country road. They look at us, their eyes daring us to get off the bus. I put on my day-pack and prepare to depart. Krista does the same.
"Do you think I'm scared to walk down this road?" I say without looking them in the eye as I adjust my pack's straps.
"You drop me off and in five minutes and there will be a truck coming down this road and the driver will be eager to make a couple of bucks."
Slowly the bus begins to accelerate. We have called their bluff.
The fare collector approaches the remaining two Lao women who sit up front. An argument ensues between him and the lady sitting next to us. I don't understand what they are saying, but I can easily interpret the elderly lady's gasp as she reacts to the fare slip, her slapping him on the shoulder, and her scornful face as she hands him 25,000 kip. It becomes obvious that he has weaved a tangled web. Now, he's resorted to cheating his own people, even the elderly ones.
The old lady sitting next to us starts talking to Krista in a subdued tone. She holds up four, then five fingers, and she starts rocking her head expressively. A tear slides out of the corner of her eye. Then another tear runs down the space between her nose and cheek, followed by a cascade of free flowing drops. Krista is closest to her and she looks incredulous and stunned. Krista softly consoles her by stroking her arm. Usually she is less empathetic than I am, so I'm quite pleased with her actions.
Me, I am a rock. A hardened, petrified mass only resembling a human being.
We just arrived from Cambodia where we have dodged dishonest tuk-tuk drivers, one-legged beggars, and hordes of malnourished toddlers with sunken eyes. We've visited provincial hospitals with only a single doctor on staff, inspected torture devices at an old Khmer Rouge prison camp, watched mosquito larvae swim around in an Olympic sized pool, and witnessed cops whose only contact with civilians occurs when they're demanding bribes.
Lady, you are Lao. You have teeth. Your husband probably has two legs. I do not feel your sorrow nor will I fall victim to these half baked transportation scams.
For the next hour, the skinny bus fare collector stands at the doorless entrance smoking as the bus continues on its 3 hour journey. When I look back at the Japanese people they smile and I triumphantly cross my arms in a solid fashion to demonstrate my stubbornness. Krista and I never make eye contact with the fare collector or the driver. Krista sits reading a tattered paperback copy of Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men. To pass the minutes, I look out the window at water buffalo or around the bus, or I think about all the possible ways this drama can end. After awhile, I notice a large chef's knife resting on the dash. I begin to worry and I formulate another possible ending to this story. Although Krista and I have vowed not to be extorted out of another dollar, I decide I would agree to pay them it if they threatened us with a large knife.
The bus passes a marker that says "Pakse 25 Km". The crying Lao woman signals the driver and we let her off. The fare collector walks three paces to the dash and picks up the knife. My heart skips a beat. He reaches up and places the knife above the driver in a small compartment. The two men laugh and the fare collector plops down where the old lady sat. He puts his hand out and Krista hands him the money. He puts a finger to his lips like a "Shhhhh" gesture and makes a quick head jerk towards the rear.
Don't tell them I only charged you two dollars.
The rest of the ride is very quiet. Krista and I don't even speak. I feel safe and victorious. I'm cockier than ever.
When we arrive in Pakse, we are the first to exit the bus. A young Japanese woman runs up to me just as I am descending the last step.
"How much did you pay?" she asks speaking very good English.
"Two dollars." I say, muting my regularly booming voice.
"Ohhhhhh." she says.
Krista already has our bags. The Japanese exit one by one and fall naturally into a huddle outside the second half of the bus. I feel uncomfortable as I sense a conflict brewing. I hate confrontation; Krista relishes it. I tell Krista I have to go to the bathroom and she agrees to stay and watch our bags while the drama unfolds.
When I return, Krista tells me the rest of the story:
With a new sense of bravery, the whole group of Japanese surrounded the skinny Lao fare collector. They stand there for minutes with their hands outstretched as he takes luggage off the bus. He doesn't pay them any attention. Frustrated that their pleas are going unheard, the Japanese kid wearing the Paddington cap and sporting a white gym towel around his neck climbs back on the bus refusing to get off until they give his money back. He pulls at the skinny Lao man's arm thus breaking the Japanese people's reputation for docility and politeness. Again, the Lao man pays no attention to him and they start driving off. Mister Paddington has no other choice than to jump off the bus. The Japanese are defeated.
Krista and I find the cleanest dirty place to have lunch at the bus stop shanty town. Some woman wearing an 1980's business suit cooks us the famed 60 cent vegetable noodle soup and Pepsi meal I mentioned in the previous blog. A hungry beige mutt staggers over to our table, circles below my chair and falls to his side. With the dog sleeping below my chair and Krista sipping on her soft drink, we begin to recount this morning's tale of survival.
posted by c. @ 1:13 AM
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