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I’ve pretty much decided to go with “the bicycle gang” to Pakxe to celebrate New Years. And for visa extensions and email.

I dropped one of my journal pens through a crack in the floorboards, and now it’s lost forever. Bugger.

I really, really want to see a blacksmith, and as there’s some between Pakxe and Paksong, and possibly some between here and Pakxe, it’s another added reason to go.

Plus I’ve really been enjoying the bicycle gang’s company.

I had a lie in hammock day yesterday, till mid-afternoon, when I rode my bike up to the next waterfall.

I found two boys from the village fishing. Or rather, one was catching fish, and the other was unhooknig the fish, and putting them on a stick for safe keeping. Which meant one was fishing, and one was lying on the bank, waiting for the other to catch fish.

When he’s catch a fish (usually only a few inches long), he’d vigorously swing it around in a circle over his head, so it wouldn’t come off the hook. Only sometimes it did anyway, and went flying across the river. Which they both found extremely funny.

When I came along, it was my job to unhook the dizzy fish, and Paets job to put it on the stick, which only added to the labor inequality.

Then later, I got out the frisbee, and played a rousing game of ultamite frisbee with a bunch of the villages kids and Medde, one of the Swedes. We couldn’t really explain the rules due to language barrier, but I explained them to Medde, and then we simply correct when they did something wrong. We didn’t have to correct much after 5-10 minutes. It was amazing how quickly they picked it up. Even when we were playing catch, the girls were not into it. They’d run screaming when you threw it to them, and the few that would give it a go seemed to be under big social pressue to stop. Plus, while the boys had it down in usually about 5-10 throws, the girls had a much harder time conceptually with how to throw it. It would be really interesting to study child development here.

Apparently, ever decreasing size of handwriting is a sign of Parkinsons.

I think someone managed to take a US $100 bill out of my money belt sometime between now and the morning I left Khongsedone. Which sucks. But there’s not a whole lot I can do about it, as it’s cash, and I’m not sure whether it disappeared here or in Salavan. hell. Oh well. There’s nothing I can do but accept it. I keep wanting to think it fell out, and is lying in a bag or something, but that’s really not true.

I’m at Tad Lo waterfall, after a light morning cycle yesterday. It’s gorgeous here, and I chose a beautiful little thatch bungalow which has a view of the walls, and a hammock.

When I first arrived, I ran in to Ruth, who was also on a bike, with a fiddle over one shoulder, and a daypack over the other. She had red cloth plaits in her hair, and a hankerchief on. And she’s a doctor. I had a great time hanging out and debating and talking with her, and the two swedes I ran into on the bus to Khongsedone who I ran into again here, and the two danes Ruth met who also were on rented bikes out of Pakse. I had a small glass of lao lao last night, which was ok, but very similar to rice wine in Malaysia and as such, was too salty.

All the women were laughing at me at the market yesterday, because I had to duck so much to get under all the various tarps and roofs.

Going shopping here is very different from the western world. The hassle is not in going to the market, but rather in actually finding and purchasing the item. And I usually have strange shopping lists, like: rice, bananas, degreaser, zipper, bike pedal (left). So the basic tactic is to wander around until you find what you’re looking for, or at least the right section, as stalls are clustered by type of item. So all the tabacco sellers are togetehr, adn the meat sellers are together, and the hardware sellers are together.

Then, once you’ve found what you’re looking for, you have to agree on a fair price. Which is neccesitates knowing how much a particular item is worth, in the local currency. So you can stand there thinking, “How much are zippers worth?” or “how much is a big bunch of bananas worth?” Which is particularlly hard if you’ve just arrived in a place, or you’re buying an item you haven’t bought before. Fortunately, most Lao people offer a fair, or close to fair price, and bargining often involves simply rounding off the last bit of the price that they’ve clearly tacked on to bargin off again, say 2500 instead of 2000.

Then, invariably, you get whatever you’ve bought in a plastic bag, regardless of what it is. From drinks to rice to bananas to fish to puppies, it all goes straight in the bag, no other packaging. You end up with a fistful of plastic bags by the time you’re done.

I was supposed to continue to Sekong today,but I’m very tempted to stick around here and relax for another day.

Last night I went out for a bit of a wander after a wonderful dinner from a buffet style place - which was a nice break from the few things I know how to ask for. I wandered down through the market, and then saw what looked like a stage with flashing lights and music. I decided it was a concert, and that I’d better investigate.

It turned out to be that some sort of motorcycle stunt show was in town, and the rest of the town had built up a bit of a carnival around it with food and games and gambling and the like. There was the obligatory Lao pop-the-balloons-with-darts-win-drinks game, in full force, and food of all sorts, from candy to crushed ice to boiled eggs to tubes of sticky rice with coconut cream to sugar cane to grilled chicken.

And then there were the groups of kids gathered around the homemade roulette wheels, fists full of small notes, slapping their bets down expertly. Invariably an older, matronly figure was overseeing it all, taking and paying bets and keeping young overeager hands away from the spinning wheel. The wheels were simply, a wheel of fortune design, with pegs and a “clicker,” painted with various fanciful pictures - ladybugs and fish, or rocket ships, showing the odds. One had a hand carved rocket shop as a spinning pointer.

Each stand had some sort of lightbulb, be it the head end of a miners headlamp on a stick, a bare lightbulb, or some homemade battery powered conraption, which lead a mystical aura to the place amoung the smoke of the grilled chicken fires.

But, looming in the back, rock music blaring from the speakers, was the motorcycle stunt show. It was a tall structure, covered in falshing lights, with a double staircase leading up the middle, to what looked like a circular balcony at the top. Below was what looked like a wooden water tank. On either side were billboards, hand-painted, shoing people on motorcycles, riding sideways, doing ricks.

My guess, which turned out pretty correct, was that they were going to ride motorcycles on the inside of this water tank, and people were going to pay to watch from the balcony.

I bought some sugar cane, and waited for things to start. I squatted in the dirt, and watched people setting up their stands.

As invariably happens when I’m in any place with lots of people, someone came up to me who wanted to practise their english. As Lao people tend to be pretty shy , so if they want to practise their english, it’s usually pretty enjoyable, as they are fairly fluent. This man was studying to be a teacher in Pakxe, but had come home to Salavan for the weekend. After a while, we hear the rev of motorcycle engines, and he said he had to go, and left me to my sugarcane.

Soon, an announcer came on over the speakers, adn people started to jion the group of kids hanging on the railings around the entrance. They were ready to start.

I wandered over, and saw the guy I just met sitting in a chair behin the speakers. Putting his hand over the microphone, he said with a grin, “I’m the announcer”.

I walked around to the front, where they were selling ticket. Now, Asian people as a whiole don’t stand in lines. It’s not a concept they understand, or much care for. So they simply push and shove and jostle their way to the front. I eventually made my way forward, bought my 5,000 kip ticket, and made it past the bouncer (literally, due to the pushing and shoving) and up to the stairs, like the entrance way to an Aztec ruin.

The whole structure was certainly built to carnival standards - bolted together, but swaying slightly, as though it oculd fall over, if anyone gave it a a chance. I reached the circular railing at the top, lined with kids faces - awestruck and quiet with anticipation. They hung over the railing, staring down into the water tank, eyes drawn to three men in pepsi shirts (clearly the sponsor) and a motorcycle, white, with blue and red stripes and stars. At the center was a pole with four clourescent tubes, lighting the inside, and incense sticks, an offering to the gods. Once guy mounted the bike, roaring it into life, and raised an arm with a flourish, to light applause.

Then he was off, riding around the floor, and then up onto a curved 45 degree ramp where the floor met the wall. And then, with a collective gasp from the audience, he was up on the wall.

We could feel the whole structure sway with his weight as he raced around and around. The cildrens heads went around and around, in unison, watching him. He rased around a bit and then came down, to applause, and a second man mounted the bike.

He was off, and soon up the wall. He proceeded to ride with no hands, put on a t-shirt and took it off, and even put it over his face, all while speeding around this rickety vertical barrel. He finished by racing up to the top edge, mere feet from us, making everyone scream.

All too soon it was over, everyone pouring down the staircase, back to the relative tranquility of the carnival, while another group eagerly waited to climb the stairs and see the guys who could ride a motorocycle on the wall.

The whole experience was like something put together in the deep south, by someone named Bubba, who’d been to Barnum and Bailey’s circus one too many times.

I went roughly 70-80km today, depending on who you talk to. The whole way, people had vastly differing estimates of how much farther I had to go, often differing by 20km.

I’ve decided if I’m going to get in an accident, I’d rather it be with a car, or god forbid, a bus, rather than a rock or a ree. Because a tree can’t take you to the hospital.

I traded some bananas with some boys with slingshots for some tamrind. They conned me a bit, as not all were ripe, but they were still really good. It reminded me of Savoy and snow and Katie and Stephanie, which made me really happy.

At first one of the boys simply asked if I would give him a banana. And I was about to, but decided he had to ask “May I have a banana, please?”, which he refused to do, even repeating after me.

Then one of his friends offered me a tamrind pod, so I traded each of them a banana for three tamrind pods. Which they seemed to think was a great deal, as did I, because I had some tamrind, and got rid of some of my huge bunch of bananas.

Does that count as a century ride? :)

So I did about 102km, and then took the bus to Khongsedone, another 60_ km. I would have simply stopped and found a place to stay in a village for the night, or set up my hammock, but I really wanted to get here so I can head towards Salavan tomorrow, as I’m worried about running out of time on my visa. The bus cost me 20,000 kip, which is too much, but we started at 30,000…

I took some pictures of some really cute kids coming back from the fields with their moms. They were carrying some sort of pole for digging, with a very small scooped end sacks filled with something. Still haven’t figured out what they were digging for.

There was a vicious headwind all day, which sucked.

I went to the market in Seno today for breakfast. I wished I knew how to say, “Do you have anything other than grilled chicken feet?” I’m normally pretty adventurous when it comes to food, but not that early in the morning. And they were chicken feet. On a stick. However, I do consider my ambivalence about what food I eat a serious asset when travelling. I never have to worry about finding food, or worry about ordering the wrong thing.

60 km before lunch, and I feel great.

Saw a young girl and her even younger brother on a bicycle that was way too big. The girl had to stand up to reach the pedals, with the seat at about her shoulders. The boy was sitting on the carrier rack, holding on to the seat. I tried to stop and take a picture, but they got a bit freaked out, and the boy started to cry. I hate making kids cry.

This som tham (green papaya salad) I’m eating is making me cry. It’s hot enough to peel paint. Must remember to ask for less chilis.

I stopped at Ban Lak 35 (literally 35km village, at, you guessed it, kilometer marker 35) to watch some men playing boule. I got my camera out and started taking pictures. As soon as I’d taken the first picture (of a man looking at my bike), a man dressed in full military regalia came out of a thatch hut nearby, waving his arms, saying I couldn’t take pictures. It wasn’t like I was in front of a military installation or something. I was in front of a temple, sort of. Very strange. The man went back in his hut, to talk to his partner, and I chose that moment to leave, before they could give me any more problems.

Oh, and I was complaining last night I hadn’t heard any Christmas songs this year when we were in the nightclub, so Ron and Lindsey sang “We wish you a merry Christmas”. It was very nice, though drunken. The band didn’t know any Christmas songs, though Andy asked. Ah, well, my one christmas song for the year.

In trying to learn Lao, the hardest part is learning the tones. I find myself, particularlly on the bike, humming to myself a lot - hmmm HMM hmm Sa - BAI - dii.

Falang haa pai lot tiep - Crazy foreigner goes by bicycle

I find myself repeating what people say to me back to them when I’m riding, as it’s usually of the form “sabaidii”, “hello”, “goodbye”, “I love you”, “good morning”, etc. I caught myself the other day barking back at the dogs and mooing at a cow. Barking back at dogs is not advised. Because then they chase you.

I’m still in Savanekhet, having taken a rest day for Christmas. After mass yesterday morning I went and called Mom and Dad and Matt for Christmas for a few minutes for 19,000 kip/min. Very expensive, but a real phone connection for the first time in months. We switch3ed to IM after a few minutes which was good, though delayed. I showed them my online journal (this), which they really like. I’m a bit concerned I’ll start writing my journal with the public veb version in ming from now on, and no longer write only for myself. Gonna have to watch it.

I got directions for eggnog online, and then went to the market to get ingredients. I found everthing except nutmeg and salt, even found vanilla extract. And I bought a proper rice-paddy working hat for myself for 2,000 kip. However, I didn’t think about how aerodynamic it’s going to be. We’ll see, I had to take it off on the ride home, but I still need to work out a proper chin strap. I almost bought a fedora instead, but it was too small.

The eggnong was… interesting. NOt exactly like back hom. I think it really needed the nutmeg. Plus, in retrospect, I think we should have whipped the eggs more, to make it thicker. Ah well, it was still nice. However, I was the only person at the guesthouse besides one other Laos girl to finish mine. I think everyone else was slightly worried about the raw eggs. This morning, so far so good:)

I retrued my bike wheel, book in one hand, spoke wrench in the other. I did pretty well, considering. Problem is, I think the rear axel is slightly bent. A problem I’m ignoring for now.

I had Chritmas dinner with the two belgiun bicyclists and then went out to a night club with Andy and Lindsey, the two British English teachers from Japan, Ron the Israeli, and two Lao girls who were lots of fun that Lindsey and Andy had met. Really enjoyed talking with everyone. Particularlly Andy and Lindsey. Such good people and good stories. Andy’s stories of being 6 foot and a good bit and red haired with freckles in Japan were hilarious. About having all his students burst into laughter when he ducks to walk in the door. And how they think he dyed his hair.

The night club was a trip, with Laos line dancing and massages in the toilet while you’re peeing at the urinal. Here the clubs open at 9pm and close promptly at midnight. So you don’t screw around. Had lots of beer, and slept like a drunk rock.

Bike riding with a hangover, Woohoo!

I just went to Christmas mass at the big Christian church here in Savanekhet. It was odd. Good, but odd. And very, very long.

A middle-aged french woman who’s staying at the same hostel as me and I went to the church around 8am. The church was maybe half full, and they were already practising singing that day’s music. The priest was dressed in full white robes with plain white rope sash. He was a portly man, or at least portly for a Laos man (which isn’t very). He was really drilling them on getting the hymn right, harmony and everything, and so the mass started late.

The church surely dates back to the french colonization, and reminds me of pictures I see of country churches in Spain. It has a big wide, though unmaintained, avenue leading up to it, and is a huge, vaulted ceiling affair with columns and the works. But is also slightly run down. Outside is a formidable grotto with small creche and decorations (complete with random poster-backdrop of a swiss mountain village). Inside was a nice little christmas tree, complete with ornaments and little santa claus. And then, on either side of the alter, were framed pictures of jesus, with flashing LED halos, like you see at garage sales and kitchy roadside stalls. Pretty amusing.

Before the service, during the intro hymn, the priest took confessions, behind a small, portable confessional (nothign more than a divider). From where I was sitting, I could see both sides. Very interesting…

The service itself involved lots of singing, and my personal favorite, a Laos style offering, where representatives from various famlies processioned down the aisle bear the traditional Laos offerings bowls (which I’ve only ever seen at buddist festivals before), ladden with everything from fruit to bread to Milo (hot chocolate). I wonder if Christ would like Milo…

Plus, the best part were the money offerings, a Laos tradition that involves some sort of pole stand from which hangs streamers of money, often folded into various shapes. Sort of like monetary origami. I guess when you have relatively low denomination money, you can do things like that(the highest here is 20,000 kip, about $2, and the highest you usually see in circulation is 5,000 kip). It definitely had a different feel, as it was a lot less anonymous than the western way.

All the representatives (about 20 or so), processioned down the aisle, up on to the raised area by the alter, knelt, and made their offering in prayer as the priest blessed them.

The mass itself was pretty uneventful, besides a very rude chinese tourist wandering right during communion, camera gear and tanktop and all, who ended up at the very front, standing on a pew, taking pictures. I was horrified, and said something to him afterwards, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t understand. It’s people like that that give tourists a bad name.

I’m sticking around in Savanekhet tonight. Going to try making eggnog, and maybe mulled wine. Provided I can find necessary ingredients. We’ll see:)