Viek ban

Jingle jangle, jingle, jangle.   Am I being haunted by the ghost of Jimmy Saville?  No, then perhaps Father Christmas and Rudolf are making a late stop off to get some winter sun.  No, well then obviously I have a herd of cattle grazing in my garden.  Bingo!  The grass needs cutting anway, so I can happily go back to sleep.  Bzzzzzzzzzz, bgrzzzzzzzzzzzz.  Hmm, am I being attacked by a swarm of killer bees?  No, the hive is definitely attached to my neighbour’s house and not mine and that itching is undoubtedly mosquito bites.  It must be my neighbour starting some early morning welding.  Hoooowwwwwww, haaaaooooooooooooow.  So it seems packs of dogs really do howl at a full moon?  I can definitely go back to sleep for another hour if the moon’s still out.  Of course just as I’m drifting off, the village loudspeaker system will kick in with its morning ritual of news and song.  If only the sound wasn’t so distorted, it might be quite informative.  I can understand the early wake-up as bed time in Lao is similarly early, so I find it’s best to just give up, get up, kick off the ‘Hello Kitty’ bed sheets which have inexplicably formed themselves into a ball around me once again, have a cold shower and some hot tea and start the day again.

Hungry cows - in my ruddy garden!

The cold shower isn’t a choice, although now the temperatures are on the up again, it’s starting to become quite welcome.  Why a house needs 200 television channels but no hot water system is a slight mystery to me but as long as I get the timing right, the water pressure is good enough to blast off the worst of the grime and dust.

My house is unrelentingly dusty, so any kind of shower is a welcome relief.  It will probably come as a surprise to know that I spend a significant proportion of my weekends cleaning but I really do.  Laundry is all done by hand in two buckets, with some fearsome washing powder and stain removing soap.  All in all, with soaking time included, one load takes me around 2 hours.  If I clean the ‘Hello Kitty’ bedsheets (they came with the house), another load of washing will take me another couple of hours.  Boiling water for the washing up takes around 15 minutes; a trip to the market takes around an hour and a half and I could spend all sodding day sweeping the floors and still be left with dusty floors at the end of it.  So, in a normal week, if I devote a day at the weekend to getting the housework done, then things are pretty much sanitary for the following few days.

My mess making nemeses

I’ve decided to blame the chickens for the dust.  They’re not my chickens, just as the hungry cows aren’t mine either.  They belong to some unspecified neighbour but wander around foraging as they please.  The little minxes have decided that it’s great fun to move the soil from the beds at the side of the house onto the concrete path, where it can easily be stirred up by the merest breeze and from thence be re-distributed over the house, the veranda, my motorbike and of course any drying laundry.  I hate those bloody chickens and I don’t even know what they’re looking for.  The other side of the house would be much more lucrative in terms of food sources, so I can only conclude that they’re trying to piss me off.  Either that or they’re attention seeking because there’s no doubt I’ll be having a little word with them about their antisocial behaviour.  I don’t think their chicken brains can interpret the stream of invective I direct their way, so they probably think I’m being friendly.

Because of the chickens, my clothes and pyjamas are always filthy with end-of-the-day dirt, particularly around the lower back.  When I say lower back, I mean lower back and not arse.  I can’t work out why but perhaps it's because the sweat streams down my back, collecting dirt as it goes, to form a pool of sludge at my waistband.  So my sheets get grubby quite quickly, mostly from my dusty feet but the grimy pyjamas don’t help. 

My mother always denies it but as children she used to get us to clean the worst of the garden dirt off our feet by flushing them in the toilet, so we didn’t tramp filth round the house and into the bath.  I think it’s quite a nifty idea, so I’ve extrapolated to use my in-built bathroom arse-hose to clean not only my feet but the bathroom tiles and to give the laundry a final jet wash.  The arse-hose is like a hand-held bidet and no-one can persuade me that it’s useful for its intended purpose but I hate to see a gadget go to waste.

Hanging the washing - at least it dries quickly!

So you can see, I really put in my best effort to trying to keep the house clean but it’s inevitably a compromise between cleanliness and time efficiency.  In the warmer months, it’s also necessary to make sure the house is open, to moderate the temperature and by its design, there are vents and gaps in most places.  In particular, there are vents in the bathroom which coupled with the fact that the shed is just the other side of the wall, means that insects and bugs like to come in to the toilet area to die.  This really gives the wrong impression and no amount of arse-hose to foot spa conversion will mend those hygiene bridges!  I should also admit, part of my desire to keep the place clean is just because I don’t want the chickens to think that they’ve won.

 An added bonus with all this vigorous cleaning is that at least one night a week I can go to bed at about 9pm really tired, albeit in what is essentially the same dust bed a hamster might enjoy sleeping in.  At least it helps me ignore the next morning’s cacophony of cows, welding, dogs and loudspeakers.   

Kong gaan cao niaow

My resolution this year is somewhat unconventional.  I’ve decided that I should spend more money.  This might seem like an absurdly profligate thing to resolve in these times of austerity but it occurred to me towards the end of last year that I was spending too much time penny pinching and was consequently managing to place a self imposed restriction on my opportunities.  Given the fact that I’m living in an amazing country with huge potential for travel both internally and to the wider region it seemed insane that I should sit at home and read free books on my Kindle.  I’m not going to be in Laos forever and it definitely felt like I could be making better use of my time here.   

Farming chic

I’m doing really well with my resolution and I’m managing to steadily eat through my savings with lots of visits, trips and treats.  To put that into perspective, this week I’ve bought a KitKat every day after my lunch, when normally I wouldn’t eat any chocolate from month to month.  It’s not as if I’ve suddenly been plundering the gold and silver reserves.  The very fact that I’ve been able to amass any savings as a volunteer may surprise you but the allowance I receive is quite generous when compared to the cost of living, although it wouldn’t cover a monthly travel card if I was still living in London.  My plan was to use my savings to pay for flights home but really, what else are credit cards for?

The reason I bring up the rather vulgar topic of money is because I’m temporarily financing a dry season rice project.  That sounds genuinely extravagant and is even verging on the philanthropic but even if I was to foot the entire budget it would only account for around a month’s allowance.  I should add that I have no intention of covering the entire budget but nature waits for no man and I had no time to wait for the alternative funding to come through before sowing.  Fingers crossed, in a few weeks time I should be happily munching my way through a family pack of KitKats to make up for it.

20x20cm transplant spacing - ish

The project is the first real piece of long term agricultural advisory work I’ve been involved in since I started my placement and it feels fantastic to finally get stuck into some work.  In short, the idea is to compare three different systems of nutrition for the same glutinous rice variety, sown across small plots of land and managed by two different farming families on the same, single hectare area of irrigated land close to the Mekong.  Phew, doesn’t it sound exciting?  My main motivation for the project is to look at subtle options for trying to introduce some cropping variety into the almost relentless rice based monoculture which is prevalent in irrigated areas. 

Two of the six plots will be managed using azolla introduced as a companion crop into the paddy field and although in essence it's there to help supply a self renewing source of nitrogen, it can also be used to supplement livestock diets and if successfully cultivated, has the potential to be sold on to other farmers.

Last Friday we went to buy the azolla in preparation for broadcast through the target plots.  After some complex discussion of the arrangements the day before, I arrived by motorbike at the district agriculture office before riding with a colleague to the azolla supplier.  When we arrived, it was already packed up in old plastic sacks with no way of knowing how long it had been there.  It seemed quite cool and moist so I was happy to go ahead and follow the delivery to the trial farm.  When we arrived, I was somewhat surprised to be told that we wouldn’t be able to spread it in the field until 3pm that day, some 6 hours later.  Reluctantly, I agreed to ride back out there that afternoon and left instructions to open up the sacks and top up the water every so often.  

My biggest extravagance

Back out at the field later that afternoon and only half the bags had been opened.  As I opened the others, the gust of heat that rushed out was incredible but we soldiered on and spread the azolla in double quick time.  I only fell over in the paddy field once, so my average is improving and I’m a total convert to doing agricultural work in a skirt.   It’s definitely much more chic than my normal boiler suit and wellies combo.  The azolla broadcast well and the plots were pleasingly evenly covered when we finished but I couldn't help but be left with a sense of impending failure. 

Fingers crossed my concerns are unfounded but I suspect my first really extravagant expense of 2012 may well have been 143kg of dead, partially cooked, water fern!  And with that, I wish you all a Happy New Year!

Christmas bonus

I’ve been thinking about Christmas.  It’s inevitable, geese everywhere are plumping up a treat and John Lewis is reducing a nation to tears.  Incidentally, Marks and Spencer are burning their Christmas bridges with me, I can’t be doing with those smooth skinned, warbling youngsters, it brings out my inner Scrooge.  Instead, I enjoy a slightly bleak looking suburban setting, with a dad wearing heavy rimmed specs and a child in sensible flannel pyjamas.  I grew up in a house like that, my dad wears heavy rimmed specs, and I still wear sensible flannel pyjamas (yes, my sartorial flair does extend to the bedroom).  That is Christmas to me, except the snow.  Why do we always buy in to the Christmas snow myth?  We all know that it doesn’t really snow in the home counties at Christmas. 

John Lewis Christmas Advert

Angela - I loved her until she withered and died

Welsh dresser, bookcases filled with books at untidy angles, pebble dashing, decorations on the banister and a special Christmas table cloth, it’s all familiar.  The only inauthentic note I can find in the JL advert is that when it finally gets to Christmas, the young lad wakes up at about 10 to 8.  Bollocks!  I still wake up at 6am on Christmas day, except for on one memorable occasion when I woke up to find not only a biscuit crumbled in my hand but half a soggy biscuit still in my mouth after one too many Christmas wassails the night before.  I am still incredulous when the stocking arrives on my bed or door handle without me noticing (probably the Christmas wassails again) and the second worst thing my mum did last year was to decide we didn’t really need Christmas crackers.  In short, I love Christmas and the entire cynical grumble inducing paraphernalia that goes with it.  

All my thoughts of Christmas are of home.

I think the celebration of Christmas is my strongest cultural tie.  I don’t quite believe it really exists outside of northern Europe.  I know objectively that it does but I can’t quite reconcile the fact with my image of what constitutes Christmas.  I’m happy with the concept of a German Christmas; lord knows marzipan from Lubeck is a good thing.  I’m content with a Swedish Christmas; heaven help us but a tomte is a delightful addition.  I’m over the moon about a Polish Christmas, though you need a heavenly host to help you source a suitable carp.  I just can’t quite imagine an Aussie Christmas or a Chinese Christmas, or a Mexican Christmas, or indeed a Christmas anywhere that’s hot. 

Despite my heavy handed use of religious imagery in the previous paragraph, I don’t think a religious link is important.  I would go so far as to drag in other religious festivals to the wintery celebration mix, like Diwali, Hanukah etc but I wouldn’t go so far as to rename the period ‘Winterval’.   For me, Christmas is about family and community and warmth and joy and celebration.  Though I love carols from Kings and you might even find me at mass on Christmas Eve, I was only ever a sheep in the nativity and have been known to forcibly change the key of a happy band of carollers with my shoddy attempts to hold a tune. 

I am over 8,000 miles from home.

Some places in Laos have Christmas decorations up in August.  I quite like that you can see a fake fir tree in the courtyard of a Vientiane hotel on any given date but that does mean that the trappings are completely dissociated from the event.

This Christmas, I’m lucky enough that my great friend, who I’ve known for 16 years, will be coming to stay.  We’re going to one of the National Protected Areas to spend time in a swanky eco-lodge, ride elephants, visit archaeological sites and have lovely massages.  It should be a fantastic few days but I don’t think it’ll be very Christmassy.  More like a distraction from the fact that we’ll both be far from home and away from the rest of our kith and kin....and mince pies, and Raymond Briggs animations.

Oddly, my biggest concern is what happens if I really enjoy it?  Will Christmas be ruined forever?  Will a lingering ambivalence about roasted meats set root?  Will I join the treacherous band of malcontents who regularly decamp to warmer climes for Christmas?

I really hope not.

You may think I’m a sentimental bloody fool and you’d probably be right but I think Christmas is pretty special among a shrinking group of big festivals.  My maypole dancing is definitely not up to scratch any more and I've never rolled a cheese.  

Sozzled Christmas nap

So there we are, I’m an advertiser’s dream but I don’t really care.  As Kermit the frog once said, ‘god bless us every one’ and as Kay Harker once said ‘if you push it to the left, you can go swift’.

Disclaimer: the cultural references in this blog are even more esoteric than usual as it’s essentially written as a giant and overly long Christmas card to my family, who I love and miss.  They really should get rid of the goose fat from 3 years ago though.  Merry Christmas! 

  

Nam tuam

This month I was due to go on a long scheduled trip to Hong Kong for a friend’s wedding.  Following my previous arduous trips via Bangkok, I decided to treat myself and fly the majority of the way.  The route would take me on a comparatively short three hour bus journey from Pakse over the border to Ubon in Thailand.  From there, I would fly on to Bangkok and directly from Bangkok Suvarnabhumi airport to Hong Kong.  I diligently checked prices and times and avoided the extra charge pitfalls of the Air Asia online booking system.  Feeling pretty confident that I had finally cracked the secret of the best way to get to Bangkok, I was left with two major problems in the run up to the trip.

1.  I didn’t have a passport. 

Stamps galore

This breaks the first and most sacred rule of international travel and it’s one I’ve run up against in the past.  As a fresh faced 22 year old my first international work trip should have been to Israel but alas, on the morning of the flight, I casually flipped open my passport to discover it had run out 3 months previously.  Several hurried phone calls later and it was all cancelled but I’m still sore about my mistake 5 years on.  Not as sore as my colleagues who managed to make the trip and were stopped at the border for some extra checks but sore none the less.  I like to think that providence stepped in on that occasion but I've probably run that  particular well of favours dry by now.

Thankfully, this time I could shoulder no blame.  Since my arrival in Laos at the end of February I had been crossing the border once a month to renew my visa.  Then, in August, I had been granted an official entry visa and the reason I was without my credentials was because I was caught up in bureaucratic limbo waiting to get pasted with my multiple entry visa and temporary stay permit.

Despite the fact that my placement is in a government organisation it has taken nearly 9 months to get officially recognised.  In that time, I have accrued 7 paper visas, 2 visa extension stamps and 33 cross border stamps between Laos and Thailand.  That’s a lot of ink!  Not to mention the cost of making the regular crossings.  I even know of a man who has lived in Laos for some years, has a business, wife and child here and still has to make a monthly trip.  I can’t quite work out if it’s genius or insanity but I certainly know that I’ve enjoyed the regular excuse to go on a road trip.

I was starting to get nervous when my passport still hadn’t been returned two days before I was due to travel but after a couple of quick emails and a trip to the bus station, I finally had it back in my hands with one day to spare.

The next problem couldn’t be solved by any amount of nagging. 

2.  Thailand was suffering the worst floods seen in decades.     

I tried nagging the god of rain and flooding but he was having none of it (or I was talking to the wrong god) and the waters kept flowing.  I thought about having a quick nag at Yingluck Shinawatra but she already seemed to be woefully out of her depth as the Thai authorities presented inadequate and inconsistent information to a disgruntled population.  The stories coming out of Thailand were horrific, with huge loss of life and massive destruction throughout 25 provinces. 

Despite trawling the internet, the only reliable information I could find listed details of the Bangkok flooding and there seemed to be confidence in the protection established around Suvarnabhumi airport.  Therefore, my major worry, as a spoiled and self obsessed international traveller was my planned initial bus journey to Ubon.  Having checked the UK Foreign Office advice at least three times a day, it continued to state that all but essential travel to the province should be avoided. 

A drop of rain

As the time got closer, and none of my flights were cancelled, I thought I’d chance the journey but leave extra time in case of mishaps.  It may seem misguided to value the advice of a budget airline above the Foreign Office and its network of skilled civil servants but everyone knows that civil servants hate soggy feet.  Their love of water absorbing stripy socks and brogues is well known and although a furled umbrella can be swiftly deployed, bowler hats have built in gutters which make them entirely unsuitable rainwear.   Air Asia cabin staff on the other hand, are a hardy bunch of lithe young things with dynamic smiles and snazzy new uniforms featuring specially designed materials with wicking and compression capabilities.  I know this because the latest edition of the in-flight magazine features a wonderful editorial on the new uniforms.  Strange then that while waiting in the departure lounge at Ubon airport I should notice a member of ground staff wearing kick flares with an ankle split.  Maybe she was planning on auditioning for the Air Asia tribute act to Pan’s People and far be it from me to begrudge the hardworking souls some corporately sponsored extra-curricular activities.

Needless to say, the journey went surprisingly smoothly.  There was evidence of water encroaching on to normally dry land and lots of road repairs underway but it wasn’t until I was in the air over Thailand that I was able to see the full extent of the devastation.  Central and protected areas in Ubon where I spent an evening and at Suvarnabhumi airport in Bangkok showed no evidence of anything being amiss and tourists and locals carried on unimpeded.  I found it difficult to decipher whether this was a remarkable act of defiance against the difficulties the country was facing, or a misuse of resources and skewing of priorities when so many were suffering enormous hardship.  Following the immediate clear-up after the floods, it will be interesting to see how and in what image Thailand rebuilds, particularly in its agricultural and industrial areas and where the people are most susceptible to disasters of this nature.  The impact on Thailand’s neighbours will also be interesting to gauge, as it could provide both opportunity and impediments to growth in the rest of the region, which normally relies on a strong outflow of Thai products.    

Hong Kong at night

On a more upbeat note, the wedding was absolutely fantastic.  In many respects, Hong Kong seemed more than a world away from Laos and for a few days I really enjoyed drinking being somewhere where I could get anything I wanted.  Having said that I was reassured that when I arrived back in Pakse after the trip, it felt comfortable and homely.  I even found that despite having spent 4 days successfully rebalancing the champagne to blood ratio in my body, I didn’t feel like I was missing out by being back in Laos. 

Bpai heua

Blistered & burnt

This month I’ve been having a slightly sinister Dr. Strangelove style relationship with my left arm.  At the beginning of the month, an angry ant managed to get stuck underneath my watch strap.  He writhed and struggled and fought hard but ultimately succumbed to death by crushing and washing up water.  In his death throes, he bit my wrist red raw.  I can only assume he did this accidentally, not understanding that it was my watch and not me that had caused his untimely demise, whilst I was entirely focussed on scrubbing a frying pan.  Anyway, my wrist swelled to twice its normal size and was bright red and itchy for a week.  At the time, it made me laugh as I’d just that day been trying to describe some common ailments to my English class and both swelling and rashes had been difficult to mime.  ‘Oh the irony’ I chuckled to myself, promptly getting an Alanis Morisette song stuck in my head for the rest of the day.

The following week, I was cooking some fried potatoes to eat with some Lao style scrambled eggs and like an idiot managed to splash water into a pan of hot oil, resulting in some nasty blistered burns on my forearm.  In case you’re wondering, Lao style scrambled eggs are the same as normal scrambled eggs but without benefit of butter and only a drop of UHT milk.  Recently, all my eggs have had double yolks, which never fail to excite me, so I’ve been eating more than I normally would.  

Then, to top it off, my watch stopped.  It had been losing time all month, probably weakened by its run in with the ant and finally gave up the ghost at the beginning of this week.  So, all in all, it’s been a bad month for my left arm. 

In other news, I finally made a trip to see Wat Phu and Buddhist Lent came to an end.

Looking towards Wat Phu

Wat Phu means temple mountain and despite the Alton Towers sounding name, it’s a UNESCO World Heritage site about 50km from where I live.  Essentially it’s a crumbled down Khmer temple similar to the arguably more famous Angkor Wat in Cambodia.  It was an extremely pleasant day out with a volunteer from Vientiane who was passing through on his way to the flood stricken Thailand.  We zoomed down in the morning on motorbikes, crossing the Mekong at the Nippon Bridge (no word of lie – that’s what it’s called) in Pakse and taking the rather splendid road along the west bank.  Now the weather has calmed down a bit, the mostly tarmac road was a delight, cutting a course along the river and below tree covered mountains.  At one point we passed what seemed to be an organised 4WD race with chequered flags and everything but seeing as it was on probably the flattest piece of tarmac in the whole of Laos, it was a tad incongruous to say the least.  We arrived in good time and after a swift Pepsi cola we promptly set off up the mountain to see the temple.

Looking down from Wat Phu

Now don’t get me wrong, it’s definitely worth a visit, if only to marvel at how such tiny ladies manage to haul their wares to the top for sale but we couldn’t help coming back to the same questions, ‘what makes somewhere qualify for World Heritage status?’ and ‘how do I get a job with UNESCO because it seems like a piece a piss?’.  Neither of us knew but it’s quite easy to find out if you go to,
http://whc.unesco.org

Despite lingering scepticism about the impact of UNESCO, I had a smashing day, while my friend charmed the drinks sellers, confused a Cambodian, smoked an extraordinary number of cigarettes and tried to convince everyone he met that he was from Laos. 

That evening in Pakse it was unusually quiet and the only moment of hilarity came when we were eating at one of the floating restaurants as it was being hauled off the muddy bank by a diesel belching tug boat, which filled the restaurant with fumes in minutes, much to the chagrin of the Thai party on our left.

With hindsight, the evening was probably so quiet because everyone was anticipating the festivities to come. 

The Wednesday following my diesel tainted meal was officially the end of Buddhist lent, so to celebrate I ate a curry and had a couple of beers with the volunteer from Paksong who had come to see the boat racing festival to be held the next day.

The entire area around the river was transformed with stalls and stages and more people than I have seen in Pakse in the last six months combined.  There were colourful lights, fireworks, Chinese lanterns and the release of small plant based floating displays onto the river surface.  It was all fairly spectacular and another example of how well organised things in Laos can be.

The next morning it was pissing with rain and with some hesitation we managed to drag ourselves back down to the river for the boat racing.  When we arrived we had posh coffee and pastries to prepare ourselves and then spent the next few hours walking around the bank watching the brightly coloured boats and teams indulge in some frantically competitive dragon boat racing.  A dragon boat may be an insanely inefficient way to travel but it certainly makes for an engaging spectacle.  As I have something of a penchant for boats I found it to be a highly entertaining and celebratory day despite the rain, which became almost inevitably beer soaked as it wore on.

I’ve decided that I definitely want to be in a boat for next year, so if any sporty types are thinking of visiting, the middle of October would be a good time.  Hopefully my left arm will be back in shape by then.

Saad kun kai

Laos is a nation of shopkeepers...who all sell the same thing. 

Beer and Mama Cup

I live down a small side street (street is actually a bit grandiose) that ends in a field.  Despite that, there’s a shop only three doors away.  There’s another one on the corner and another one across the road from that and another one a couple of houses from that and...well, you get the picture.
It’s pretty handy assuming I want to buy beer and pot noodles which is more or less all they sell.  Mostly, I want to buy beer and pot noodles, so it works out quite well for me.  I had only ever eaten one pot noodle before I came to Laos but now eat them almost daily.  Not the Golden Wonder kind but a spicy Thai variant thereof.  My favourite brand is Mama Cup but I’m kidding myself if I think they’re made of anything other than the same MSG and fond wishes that go into a Bombay Badboy.

I digress. 

Shop wise, there are also the many beauty salons which seem to specialise in late night ear cleaning (seriously) and the agricultural fertiliser shops where you can also buy a handy snack (not advised – unless you enjoy glowing like a Ready Brek kid).  I have developed a finely tuned sense of which shop/market stall I need to go to get what I need most cheaply and also know exactly where my favourite shopkeepers hang out.  This inevitably means my shopping involves several circuits of the town which undoubtedly uses more money in fuel than I save at the till but it passes the time and if my eggs arrive home slightly the worse for wear, it means I get to eat eggy bread for breakfast.

Espadrilles pre-funeral

Clothes shopping is more tricky.  I recently managed to break my flip flops just as I was setting fire to my espadrilles.  It was deliberate; they’d survived the worst of the wet season but had finally succumbed to the ravages of the constant soaking and drying cycle so I gave them a Viking funeral.  That left me with only a pair of Converse and although my Sinh and Converse combo fits right in with the teenage Lao girls, I’m a 27 year old volunteer civil servant who struggles to cling to my dignity at the best of times.  New flip flops were therefore sought.

Looking ridiculous, as always!

15 flip flop shops later and I have seen the same pair of size 39 flip flops 15 times.  Fair enough but in my obsession I’ve noticed that there are actually quite a few Lao women with feet larger than size 39 who hobble around in shoes which are too small.  Never fear, I know exactly where to buy screws and electrical tape and although looking a tad dishevelled, my Havaianas are soon to be back in business.

A volunteer who is based in another province came to stay last weekend.  His placement is much more rural than Pakse and from his description is almost completely lacking in services of any kind.  He’s currently struggling with food, as the local diet is mostly insect based and he’s not keen.  He was discussing the hospitality of his neighbours and said that he found that as long as he arrived at a house with a couple of bottles of Beerlao he was welcomed anywhere and that conversely he could arrive anywhere and find that they had beer to give him in replacement for the insecty treats.  Needless to say, he’s on a more or less entirely liquid diet.

Now this is what I find confusing.

Brewing beer is a complex procedure of biotechnology utilising modern techniques and equipment.  Admittedly it doesn’t have to be, but in the case of Beerlao it is.  The Lao Brewing Company is jointly owned by the government and Carlsberg.  They have two large, modern and shiny breweries, one in Vientiane and one in Champasak and the Beerlao brand has an absolutely extraordinary hold on the market with some figures quoting a 99% share; remembering that 80% of all statistics are made up and in Laos I suspect the figure is somewhat higher. 

Spelling mistake?

The beer is produced with hops and yeast from Germany, malted barley from France and Belgium and some local rice.  Once bottled, it enters into a really efficient distribution stream, including a collection and rebate system for used bottles.  The whole thing is incredibly sophisticated and means that it’s possible to buy Beerlao in the most far flung and remote destination in Laos, including the places where they’re mostly eating insects.

Brian Ferry's favourite t-shirt

How the bloody hell do they do it?  Actually, why the bloody hell can’t the same application be used to supply other products and why haven’t secondary industries sprung up to support LBC e.g. bottle and label manufacturers etc?  Or, why not piggy back on the distribution system to provide people with slightly larger sizes of flip flops?  I find it puzzling but it’s probably quite a nice metaphor for Lao organisation in general that they can do something so complicated, so well and yet struggle with the basics.

On a final note, amongst the range of easy to source products in Lao shops, are some quite imaginatively inappropriate t-shirts.  I’m on the fence as to whether the messages and images are deliberate or just misguided but I intend to stay ever vigilant for new examples so I can chuckle quietly to myself as I limp round the market in my ill fitting and slightly singed shoes. 

Hua bin, lot fai le lot nyon!

What’s the best way to get to Bangkok?  That’s not the start of a bawdy joke, although now I’ve got the idea in my head, several punchlines have occurred to me.  In fact, it’s what I’ve spent most of the past month trying to find a genuine answer to.  From Bangkok, it’s quite straightforward to get to almost anywhere in the world but to get to Bangkok itself, or more specifically to get to Suvarnabhumi airport from Pakse, takes some thought, a lot of time and varying amounts of money.

My plan was to spend a couple of weeks in the UK this August.  My sister’s baby was due; I had a wedding to go to and a bridesmaid’s dress to help look for, so it seemed like a prime opportunity for a holiday.  It was easy enough to book the flights, although there is a bewildering array of options for different routes at different prices.  As I didn’t want the trip to take three years, I chose a direct flight to Heathrow with an airline that shall remain unidentified.  For the purposes of this blog I’ll call them Blighty Flights.  Actually, I won’t be coy, it was British Airways but if I ever get the capital to start a budget airline, I’m going to call it Blighty Flights.  My first problem was paying for the flight.  I’m British, the company is nominally British, my credit card is British and I pay off the debts on my credit card using small denominations of British currency.  If anyone can therefore explain to me why I was forced to pay for the flight with Thai Baht purely because I was starting the journey in Thailand, I’d be grateful for the explanation.  In the process of paying, I lost out twice over on the exchange rate and incurred an unnecessary fee, which made me understandably, a bit miffed.

Anyway, the flight was duly booked for just after midnight on the 4^th August.

The most straightforward option for getting to Bangkok is to fly from Pakse airport but only if you want to travel on a Monday, Wednesday or Friday and pay through the nose for the privilege.

Bangkok park

Option 2 is to take a bus.  It’s really cheap and very direct and reliable, with only a short train ride on the uber efficient airport express once you arrive in Bangkok.  I chose this option.  Never, never again!  I woke up at three in the morning, wedged in to an unfeasibly tiny space to see that the aisle had been filled with plastic garden chairs and extra passengers.  I passed the 15 hour bus journey by listening to a Kindle ‘text to speak’ version of Crime and Punishment.  It was like having a bed time story from Steven Hawking and although I don’t know which of my crimes I was being punished for, I’m fairly sure I’ve done my time.

Having survived the journey, Bangkok was a bit of a revelation and I’m definitely keen to spend more time there.  The transport around the city was easy and cheap and I spent a very pleasant morning watching the middle aged joggers in an immaculately kept park before retiring to the airport in the hope of a shower and a change of clothes.

There followed a fantastic, although action packed time at home in the UK, covering a ridiculous number of miles and racking up enormous train fares in the process.  As my new nephew had arrived nearly four weeks early, he was tiny, grumpy looking and a bit spewy but undoubtedly a lovely edition to the family.  He is variously called turtle face, spider monkey, Twix and James and it’s a real shame I won’t be seeing more of him over the next couple of years.  Even if seeing him had been the only reason for going home, it would still have been worth the ridiculous journey.

James looking grumpy in a natty outfit

After my exertions in the UK, including the jet lag busting trip to the Great British Beer Festival only 12 hours after I’d touched down, it was time to head back to Laos.  Predictably it started badly.

Take note, if you travel to Bangkok with British Airways, the flight might be operated by BA or by Qantas.  If it’s BA you get a 23kg luggage allowance but must use only one bag, if it’s Qantas you get 20kg but can use as many bags as you like.  Don’t confuse the two or you will get screwed over at the airport for excess baggage, like I did.  My evident and facially expressed displeasure at this elicited a ‘cheer up, the flight won’t be that bad’ from one of the stewards as I boarded.  I responded cheerily with ‘it’s what happens at the other end that I’m worried about’, which with hindsight probably isn’t the wisest response when it’s Bangkok you’re heading to.  Yet another example of why I shouldn’t be allowed to talk to people.

Learning the song 'boogie nights'

What did happen at the other end was another seamless trip through Bangkok on their excellent public transport.  I’d decided to take the train back to Ubon and catch a bus from there, over the border to Laos.  This method is marginally more expensive than using the bus all the way but given the amount of money I’d frittered away on my Oyster card in the previous two weeks, I thought it would be churlish to complain.

The train was clean, cool, spacious and comfortable.  I had a lovely bunk and slept pretty well.  I used the spare time to catch up with the Archers omnibus podcasts and arrived in Ubon refreshed.  We were inexplicably over three hours late.  It took us half an hour to leave the station in Bangkok and well over two hours to clear the suburbs.  I have no idea if this is normal but reading some forum posts about Thai Railways, it sounds like it might be par for the course.  Also, everyone on the train seemed to have doughnuts.  Some had Krispy Kreme whilst others preferred Dunkin’ Donuts but boxes of doughnuts were everywhere.  Perhaps that’s what slowed us down.  Who knows, but they’re definitely the accessory du jour for the discerning Thai traveller.

Thai tuk tuk

Having missed the bus in Ubon, I took a series of minivans and tuk-tuks to make it to Pakse.  In total the journey from Gantshill to Pakse took 39 hours but I’d definitely use the train again, as long as I was in no rush.

I’m due to head back to the UK for a flying visit next June.  Predictably enough I’m going to a wedding and potentially a bridesmaid dress fitting.  I think I might try mysterious option 4 to get to Bangkok.  That would involve a bus to Ubon and a cheap Air Asia flight from Ubon to Bangkok.  It sounds feasible but getting the timings to add up will take many hours of careful browsing on Skyscanner and precision timing to get the cheapest deal.  I’m planning a dry run in November when I’m going to Hong Kong, so I’ll keep you updated. 

In case you’re wondering, I’m going to Hong Kong for a wedding.