Driving South

Driving South

First published in ‘Beyond the Pancake Trench – Road Tales from the Wild East’ by Orchid Press in 2004. Also published in Farang Magazine

Vientiane is drowning in a cold downpour. We’re driving south to Savannakhet. The bus is old and wasted but it’s taking a long time to die. The roof is broken, water pours through cracks in the ceiling every time the teenage driver revs the engine. Passengers, all of them Lao, all of them poor, cram in, onto tiny seats that vibrate in time with the vehicle. Baggage is loaded on and empty crates of Beer Lao are stacked up onto the leaking, unstable roof. Then we are off. Route 13 is paved all the way south, along the eastern bank of the Mekong. Towns and villages slide by or rather jump by. The back wheel on the right must have some ball bearings missing, the bus coughs and rumbles like a one-legged war veteran on Red Bull. The rain follows us south. The landscape has opened, low hills rise like a dragon's spine in the eastern distance. I can see the road through the cracks between the wooden floor slats. The wind whips through broken windows. In the afternoon the bus finally emits a poetic and final grinding noise just below the driver’s seat and we skid to a halt. And go for a piss and stand in the road, and buy some fruit that some people bring from the forest. No other traffic on Route 13 but a few NGO 4WD pass and we watch the sun go down. The wheel is removed, the axle repaired. Then it turns out that the bolts to reattach the wheel are all broken. Simple solutions for simple problems, some bolts from the other wheels are utilised and by 10pm, three hours beyond hope and schedule, we make Savannaketh.

It's pitch dark and most roads are deserted, so we head to the Savanbanhao nightclub. They don't do food, but there's an excellent Lao band playing all the regional music styles - Mor Lam, Luk Thung, Thai Pop, Chinese Pop, Vietnamese Pop and Suzie Q. The dance floor is deserted and it's so dark we can't make out the other customers. Just as well probably. A middle aged Farang with a tired taxigirl attached tries to do a Lao style dance, it looks sad. Until Mr Mookie hits the floor.

Mr Mookie is over 60, white haired and unfashionably decked out in grey pants and a blue anorak. Mr Moookie likes to dance. Maybe he’s the mayor of Savannaketh. He looks like Pol Pot. He's got the best table and the youngest girl. And it’s almost Saturday night. The man’s in a dancing fever. As he rises slowly from his leather couch (oh yes!), the band abandons the Lao grooves and plays the chicken song. Mr Mookie grabs the girl and hits the centre of the dance floor. Some of his cronies drift round the edges but the old man has the limelight all to himself. The girl, dressed in tight jeans, equipped with WTC size platforms and a mobile tied to her belt, pirouettes around the old man and giggles to her friends. The song mutates into another Agadoo style party number and Mr Mookie changes his step into a weird backwards-forwards penguin shuffle, nicely accentuated by the anorak's shimmer under the mirror ball. Even the guys on stage struggle with their usual stone faced expressions as they peer down at the old goat. Mr Mookie is breaking into a sweat, the band winds down, the girl leads the blue anorak back to his table. But it's all been too much. Minutes later he gets up, slowly, ever so slowly and, with the help of his lady, heads for the exit. We follow Mr Mookie into the night, just in time. Five heavies, possibly the local cops, pile into the club. A side door opens, a long string of girls line up to greet the mean eyed men in their bomber jackets.

Of course Savannakhet is a nice town. Population 120.000 (where are they?), on the banks of the mighty Mekong. A few blocks of crumbling French colonial architecture, a big market selling goods that pass between Thailand and Vietnam. There's not much to do but to eat - Thai food, Lao food, Viet food, French food, drink Beer Lao, watch the river go past the cafés or stare into the sun. The church is nice. Naem Nuang, a Vietnamese dish involves wrapping pork, peanut and chili sauce, salad, mint, basil, garlic, cucumber, pineapple, coriander, banana and a host of other herbs into a ravioli style noodle concoction. This can keep you busy all morning.

The most entertaining spot during daylight hours is the Lao Paris Restaurant by the riverside. The reprobates gather here. Middle aged ex-GI's on a remembrance tour of duty flex their faded tattoos, tourist sip Lao coffee. The owner has a cig hanging from his mouth in a very French way. Food's not bad either, when the cook makes it to work. Today he didn't. So it's omelettes and more coffee. Lao coffee is nice and black and drunk hot or cold.

People come to Savannakhet because they are on their way to Vietnam. Only a few derelict Farang shadows, who slip by other travellers almost unnoticed and yet linger in every Asian backwater, stop here just to see the town. Because this beautiful community has fallen off the map. Behind us an old Italian is grumbling to a young Italian (It’s nothing personal, it happened that way). The old guy is in his 60s, thin, wiry and bespectacled. The younger man is enormously fat, unshaven, in tatty shorts and flip-flops. A greasy T-shirt hangs over his flabby belly and his side burns almost touch the ground. He chain-smokes Quinghua cigs, a Lao brand that can teach you to fear. The older man doesn't smoke but he looks like Billy Burroughs and he loudly intones the same mantra over and over 'Ganja, Opium, Whisky, Girls', first in Italian, then, as the two men are joined by a Lao hustler, in English. The entire cafe gets to find out about this gentleman's vision, mission, intent, spilt, useless life, whatever. 'I want you to get me girls, two girls, one each.' The hustler interrupts, 'How old?' The fat younger man lights another cig and puffs gray smoke into the air. Some of the other tourists keep turning their heads and are getting agitated. The old Italian snaps, 'Over the border in Thailand you can get them as young as ten or twelve, but you know, I am 63, so I would like an older girl, 45 perhaps.' The hustler shakes his head. The Italian snaps again. ' I pay you 100.000 kip (10$) if you get me ganja, opium, one kilo opium, two girls and some whisky, good thai whisky.' The hustler sadly shakes his head again. The old man grabs his arm and growls, 'Alora, i give you one million if you get it all today, one million kip.' The hustler throws in the towel and escapes into the street. The old Italian curses the man, curses his companion and then curses the world before ordering another coffee. The young man lights another cigarette. We keep watching the river.

To round it all off, we head for a nightclub on the edge of town. It’s called ‘Happy’. The name’s not appropriate. It’s dark in there and packed. The band is awful, churning out flat Thai rock, Western covers mutilated beyond recognition. Taxi girls flock round the stage, old men drool into the drinks and some teenagers howl Happy Birthday for one of their friends. The band is followed by handbag techno, another cultural disease spreading from the bedrooms of sad nerds in Europe all over South Asia. Where’s Mr Mookie?

The night air is cold, on our way back we stumble past the old catholic church in the centre of town, its bell-tower white-washed, cut clearly against a starlit sky. The Mekong flows like a black snake south, towards Cambodia and Vietnam, and takes our dreams, and presumably Mr Mookie's too, on a journey from Savannakhet to the South China Sea.