The old town is adjacent to the Mekong and one of its tributaries, the Nam Khan, and is relatively flat with only a single, steep, temple-crested limestone hill in the centre to interrupt the view to the surrounding forested mountains. The old pastel French buildings are being restored by UNESCO or commerce and, combined with the attractive Laotian-style temples and palaces, the town has a fabulously laid-back feel to it. It is undeniably touristy, but avoids the worst excesses that many tourist towns succumb to. Frangipani trees and hibiscus bushes add colour to the many avenues and hardwood villa compounds that make up the central district. With its fine restaurants and cafes, it is definitely a place to bring a lover and not just a backpack. Having made that egregious mistake, I set out to taste some of the local liquor as a poor substitute for having Kate with me. I found a bar that was run by an expatriate Frenchman called Georges who enthusiastically did the drink introductions. We started off gently enough with various brands of molasses whisky that all had an inevitably sweet but acceptable taste and varying degrees of strength. After the entree, Georges said, "Ah, maintenant yoo wil try thees won - Lao Lao!" and then he reached with a curious grin under the bar for a plastic bottle that looked innocently like a bottle of water. The contents were far from innocent though, more the sort of liquid one might expect an executioner to administer, not as a last rite, but for the final dispatch itself. Before the colourless liquid even hits your lips, the fumes singe the nose hairs and then as it actually hits the lips, a searing heat spreads across the tongue, down the cheeks and then scorches the back of the throat. The liquid then follows with its foul, bitter taste of rotten tamarinds as the brain takes temporary leave of its connection with the here-and-now and enters Jenny's 'seventh cosmic perspective'. I was attempting to return to the earthly perspective, when Georges filled up another two glasses and said "Of courze, I 'av been 'ere for yerz, I zink", he seemed unsure of this point, "not too sure I will ever leeve", he concluded and then he looked happily around his pub and smiled, "Sante!".
It is not good to stay for long in a town that offers its firewater for only 12 baht a glass and so after two nights, the second of which was actually worse than the first due to unnameable sewage problems, I decided to head south to the current capital of Vientiane. There are several luxury tourist buses that can take you there in 8 hours, but time was not a problem, so I opted for the 10 hour local service at just over half the price. The are a couple of things a passenger does not want to see on local bus service in a fourth world country: the driver wearing a cowboy hat and speakers the size of a small nightclub built into the interior. The driver tipped his broad stetson respectfully as I boarded but then gave me a you-have-just-joined-the-drive-from-hell smile which almost made me get off and reconsider my budget. Before such a cowardly and extravagant decision could be made, the ticket was stamped and the bus rolled into the hills. Cowboy decided to play DJ about a mile into the journey and made the snappy selection of some screaming which was a cross between Hindi and Korean pop and adjusted the dial to an impressive 114 decibels. It was thus that I drove through some of the most spectacular countryside in the world. The huge limestone mountains, dense with forests, their foliage hiding tigers, monkeys, deer, small cats and other mammals too numerous to mention, passed in winding, awesome splendour. Cowboy actually drove very well, and despite the numerous sheer drops at every hairpin bend, I did not feel that we were likely to join the other rusting wrecks we could spy occasionally.
By 10.30pm I was in dormant Vientiane, my ears ringing with "baai, baai, baoaioiao, ba ba aha, eeoai' in the pouring rain and without accommodation. That would not have been too bad but I was also at a different bus station from the one indicated on the faded map and none the wiser for this fact. Tuk-Tuks had deserted like unlucky gamblers from the moneylenders' bazaar and so I shrugged and walked in the general direction of town hoping to snag a waterproof one. I was joined in the sopping endeavour by a Parisian couple who bickered with less and less humour as Madame found the situation "quite intolerable". By the time we found a Tuk-Tuk to take us into town I was soaked through. We tried several guesthouses, which all seemed to be full of Chinese package tourists. Finally we came to one that had, alas, only one room free. There is a look that a Parisian woman can give that says 'Don't even think about it' and so I didn't. Madame and Monsieur checked in, and I remained stranded in a town with as much sophistication as Phnom Penh but with fewer bullet marks, and this could have been a thoroughly depressing moment. I put my backpack back on, walked out into the rainy night and wandered until I came across that weary traveller's oasis - a hotel. Not just any hotel, but one with a brass plaque that says 'HOTEL' in an official and hot-running-water sort of a way. I entered, beat the receptionist down (not physically - he didn't put up much of a fight) to an acceptable rate and retired to the dry, warm and distinctly luxurious bedroom.
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