Toerke

You know what it is? The road passess endlessly through nothing. It follows the Mekong, that’s true. Not that you’d notice. There is just heaps of dust, piles of plastic garbage waiting for a recycling scheme, but not a much as a hill in sight. I take a nap on the bump-bus, wake up one hour later thanks to the inevitable potholes and the landscape is still the same. Heaps of dust, piles of plastic garbage, not even a hill in sight. I have to get off this road! Travelling over water is virtually impossible. Everyone swears by the comfort of highway 13. Asphalt, a blessing for progress! Gone are the boat trips, the long tail taxis, the Mekong river cruises. All that is left are a handful of slick guys offering a slick speedboat deal to the Cambodian border for more than a handful of easy cash. I don’t think so. There is still the motorcycle option, though. The wooden butt ordeal still fresh in mind and somewhat lower body parts, I set off on a waterfall route with mixed emotions. I grumble and pay the entry tickets to the entry, the tickets to the parking lot, the tickets at the entry itself and the damned ticket for crossing the resort to get to the actual splashing sight. Tourism is alive and kicking, kicking hard! But I had to get off that dusty road and warmly welcomed every drop of wate.

Could it be the slow Lao rhythm? Maybe, but not really. Or is it a case of the notorious asiatitis? Probably. After five months on the road, for the first time now it feels like a road to nowhere. Just yesterday could I, in childlike wonder, admire the mysterious plumeria blossoming, the beauty of man’s artistic power and the virginity of a handful of landmassess in a sunset bath. Today, however, I look at yet another guesthouse menu, I read: pancake, hambuzger, flench fies – and I wonder what the hell I’m doing here. I can feel the time has come to move on and focus on a different diet altogether.