Route 13, Laos

I’m vaguely concerned. I don’t know much about rifles, but I know the three men in the aisle are all carrying wicked metal things that look like rifles. We’re about to depart Luang Prabang’s bus terminal for Vientiane, and the air-con VIP bus (supposed to be less of a target than government buses) has an armed guard. I’d heard that armed robbery was an issue along this section of road, but I wasn’t emotionally prepared to have an armed guard. Otherwise, there is nothing to differentiate this bus from any other SE asian long-distance bus: over-airconditioned for the actual outside temperature, peach satin flower-patterned curtains with white tassels (that Bette Midler would requisition for a skirt if she ever actually visited Laos), many farang with paperbacks in a rich variety of languages, and little plastic bags with snacks and juice hanging from the anterior seat. Similar to buses all over the world, there is a screaming baby and a puking girl.

The landscape of northern Laos is definitely not commonplace. The mountain lifted just before 9am before which time the mountain peaks floated indistinctly and mysteriously above the clouds. As the mist exits (with a swirl and a flourish to unknown destinations), the peaks gradually come into focus. The road curls around the peaks (and back over itself, it seems at times) and up and down past earpopping altitudes—we’re so high up that the trees look like ants marching steadfastly and resolutely towards the mountaintops, one by one. Even sparser are the stumps of areas obviously chosen for some Hmong slash-and-burn agriculture. I wonder if the road signs that warn of curves (every 10 m) are meant to be facetious? We have yet to traverse a semi-straight section of road.

The child continues screaming—in terror? The road is extraordinarily steep and curvy, and the bus sways ominously around certain bends. I wonder if young children have a special sense of danger like animals? I’m so glad that I get a front-row seat to his fearful hyperventilations. The child’s father held and rocked him for nearly five hours, alternating offers of sticky rice and mystery juice. Even the bus driver is being extraordinarily kind, waving into the rearview mirror to say hi, and stopping for the child’s potty break. Earlier, the armed gunmen (thick-bodied youngish fellows with shiny clothes and greased hair—do they hope to look good in the afterlife?) made adorable though ineffective attempts to distract the baby from its terror.

Before they took their rifles and knives to ride on the rooftop (necessity or intimidation?), the two guards both stooped to either caress the boy’s cheek or ruffle his hair. When they first boarded the bus, I was terrified of their resolute attitude towards murder (in self-defense, yes, but still murder). I couldn’t stop eyeing the muzzles of the rifles tucked into their armpits, and the supplementary weapons in their waistbands and in a bag in the overhead storage. After seeing how they acted with the squalling child, and how the one sitting further back provided a pillow by holding his fellow guard, I realize they’re only boys whose mothers have probably gone prematurely grey with worry. They’re probably not even old enough to be married and have children of their own. I don’t see them as being prepared to kill; I see them as being prepared to die. It’s terrifying that they’re willing to die on the behalf of some tourists who are wandering through their country—I would hate to be the reason that these young men never marry, have children and grandchildren, and grow old surrounded by love.

Epilogue: We arrived safely in Vientiane. Laura, when the guards first boarded the bus, I desperately wished that I’d followed your advice and flown, but that was a very important 9 hours of my life. I didn’t have any way to really express my appreciation to the guards (other than a clumsily mispronounced “kop-chay” (‘thank you’)) so I hope that this blog serves as some cosmic sort of telecommunication vehicle, and they just generally sense good feelings meant for them.