Okay, lets disperse with the misery. Eighteen hours is a long time on a bus. That is from 2pm on a Sunday until 8am on a Monday. There are 24 Laotians on this bus with the Hennys. None of them speak a lick of English. Not one word. And then there is the smoking. The hardcore smokers, of course, sat right in front of us.
On the positive side, Julie and I have the entire back row of the bus to ourselves and can lie down toe to toe. The people are kind. And there is plenty of food available (see picture to right) if you like a bag of sticky rice and grilled frog or buffalo. We as the only farang (westerners) on the bus we get to see how the locals travel and live. We get to see five large sacks of onions loaded on the top of the bus. We get to travel with the door open and have experiences that not too many westerners get. Perhaps there is a reason that we are the only non-Laotians on the bus. The ticket was very cheap.
At around midnight, or twelve in bus hell hours, the bus stops at yet another station. The driver and his co-driver load a very large crate on the bus. Not on top of the bus or underneath in the storage area, but right between the seats blocking the aisle. Then they load another crate. And another. After 12 more crates, they ask us, or rather tell us, to move to the front of the bus so they can finish loading the rest of the crates. There are 10 people left on this arduous journey, none of which started where we did. We are all crammed in the first five rows.
Picture the roominess of an economy class airline seat. Divide it in half and you have our alloted legroom. I can't fit my legs in the seat and I can't put them in the aisle either because there is a large box with an air conditioner in it with a Laotian sitting on top. Shit, only 8 more hours to go. Pakse, Pakse, please arrive now. Where is Savannaket. Oh well, it certainly can't get any worse.
The bus begins to stink. What is that smell? The crates are full of eggs, about 20,000 of them by my calculations. Onions on top of the bus, eggs inside, we were a travelling omelette. I am beginning to feel a bit like Job. Okay God, what else is in store for us on this interminable bus ride. Bring it I can take it. Okay he answered in the form of song.
A loud terrible screaching that I hesitate to call music. We are lucky enough to hear the same song over and over again for 8 hours since it is the only CD the driver owns. The speakers are the kind you would find at a Who concert. Not even the full distortion can detract the driver from his one man party. The only Job-like solace is that it was better for everyone involved if the passengers and driver were all awake together, than if we all had a chance to sleep. The 50 year old man who could have been thirty had the only solution. He was drinking whisky out of a plastic bag, with a straw. I had my suspicions that the driver had his fair share.
