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Published: January 3rd 2007
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Bridge to the Island
Walking the rickety bridge to our island paradise. Narrated by Justin After spending a week at an organic farm 5 miles outside of Vang Vieng, we decided to find a place in town our last night and minimize the walk to the bus the following morning. Our previous week at the farm was without regret, but in the end, I felt like a coil spring that was wound too tight.
After securing an island bungalow at Vieng Kham, we walked across the rickety bamboo bridge into town for e-mail and laundry. The warm hospitality of the island drew us back for dinner. We crossed back over the bridge and ambled toward the ramshackle Tiki bar for a menu. Papa, the patriarch of the island, intercepted us and whisked us to a long picnic table in the courtyard. It was as if we were late for a reservation, with food and company patiently awaiting our arrival. Leafy green chicken stew, vegetables and chicken in a thick, nutty curry sauce and small dry cakes of crabmeat and earthy herbs flanked heaps of rice, both sticky and steamed. We passed the plates, filled our bellies and one by one drifted off to the warmth of the campfire.
Libby and
Dinner with the Family
Enjoying a nightly feast with our island community. I stopped at the bar to settle the tab, only to be waved off to the fire. Our feast turned out to be a nightly ritual, not so much a fee included in our $3/night hut as sincere inclusion into Lao culture. They did permit us to purchase Beer Lao, which we nursed in the glow of flickering flames. The conversations were a hybrid of warm fire, cold beer and a multitude of languages.
Libby slipped away to our hut, while I lingered on, quietly observing the friendly commune. Eventually, I noticed the thin, unshaven, long-haired gentleman next to me meticulously rolling some sort of leafy substance whose color was obscure in the shadows. When finished, he held one of the most perfectly and beautifully rolled cigarettes I have ever seen. He struck up a conversation as he lit the stick and drew some of the mystery smoke into his lungs. We engaged in some obligatory travel conversations: Where we’ve been, what we’ve seen, where we’re going, all of which could be summed up with, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
When the subject of his origin came up, I displayed my abysmal geographic ignorance by asking the proximity of his home in Montreal to Quebec. His even-keeled nature was that on non-judgment and after clearing the air, he passed his cigarette my way. Still curious about its content and in a receptive mood, I accepted his offering.
I cannot deny that in my youth I occasionally dabbled in mind-altering substances. Then, as was the case with the campfire, these sojourns were opportunistic and short-lived. I have seen the tortured life of addicts, but have been spared that hellish path myself.
And so I imbibed. Suffice it to say, the content of that cigarette was not tobacco. I soon found the giant flywheel in my bionic machine was unbalanced. Great struts and trusses that hold me together began to tremble. The harmonic nature of this shaking reached the foundations, my anchor to reality, my very core. I knew I had to get back to the hut. Although my tongue seemed stuck to the roof of my mouth, I thanked Montreal, bade everyone else goodnight, and made off to our bungalow.
I thought Libby might be sleeping and knew the slightest noise would surely shatter my precarious perch between chaos and control. All was well as I slipped through the door. Libby was awake but didn’t acknowledge my entry as her nose was buried in a good book. I thought I would crawl into my sleeping bag and shut my eyes until dawn returned my sanity. But it wasn’t to be.
In one swift and startling motion, she rolled from her stomach to her side and greeted me with the genuine cheer and enthusiasm that I have never seen in another woman. “Hiiii,” she said, drawing out the “i” for emphasis. What I heard was, “Hiiiigh,” emphasis on the “gh.” I came apart. Rivets popped, cotter pins sheared, springs sprung, hatches came unbattened, my whole foundation crumbled in heaping sobs of laughter. For 15 minutes I laughed so hard and long that trails of dried tears were washed away by new torrents. My stomach became a fist that clenched in a relentless bid to wring from my soul all that was remotely sad or serious, somber or sullen.
Libby followed up her initial greeting with a simple and amused, “What happened?” For 15 minutes she patiently awaited a single word in response. During this time she contented herself with her own bountiful giggles. At last I managed enough composure to relay - in the most simple and crude way - what had occurred. She entertained my foolish insights and observations as sober people do with those impaired. Occasionally a piston would give one last spasmodic thrust or a boiler would crack open and send forth a new shriek of laughter.
Eventually my mood evened out and I was able to enjoy Libby’s impromptu shadow puppet show with a mere smile. My face lit up when Libby discovered a package of half-eaten sesame crackers, which we disposed of in short order. And thus with a full belly and an empty head, I slept amidst the ruins of my machine.
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