Delusions of Grandeur

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The ride from Vientiane to Savannakhet began well enough. At 8 a.m. we started a leisurely walk to catch the 10 a.m. bus at the Southern Bus Terminal (which, incidentally, is located on the north side of town). We walked and walked and 9:30 arrived with no station in sight. Libby flagged down a tuk-tuk and our driver delivered us the final distance with time to spare. We were fortunate to get seats next to each other on the relatively clean and comfortable bus. It departed promptly at 10 a.m.

Our first stop was at 10:01, after a generous 100 feet of travel. Vendors streamed aboard, turning the one-way aisle into a two-way parade of baguettes, drinks and snacks. One gentleman had a gift for positive possession sales. He strode down the aisle placing gum in the lap of every seated passenger, collecting happily on sales and grudgingly on returns as he exited.

Soon enough we were rolling again and soon enough we were stopped again. It was 11 o’clock and there was all of a mile between us and the station. We waited and waited. There was an announcement in Lao followed by an exodus from the bus. We followed the masses and eventually a kind Laotian informed us that there was a mix-up at the station. He pointed to a new bus (new to us, but certainly not new to this world) that was parked behind ours and would surely take us to Savannakhet.

Traveling companions are made for times such as these. One can board and claim seats while the other tends to luggage, which is exactly what we did. It was my job as the baggage tender to ensure that our bags were absolutely, positively and without a doubt transferred from old bus to new. Libby’s job was to board the new bus with whatever carry-on we had and claim two adjacent seats. We both succeeded in our individual chores, but the mission required one final task to make it binding; I needed to actually sit in the seat that Libby had saved.

The transfer resulted in a passenger-to-seat ratio of approximately 2 to 1. Libby had boarded early and deep and there was now one great contiguous mass of humanity between us. The aisle was packed with heads like marbles in a jar. Perhaps with a running start . . . perhaps with the aid of Vaseline . . . but as it stood, there was absolutely no way for me to join her. By the time I resigned myself to my fate, I could barely managed to turn and face forward.

We were rolling again and stopped again. We had come alongside our old bus to transfer giant baskets, a motorcycle (whose owner, until now, had been perched upon it) and other cargo from roof to roof. I stepped off and drifted back to visit Libby through the window. I was glad to see she found and elderly woman with a brood of chicks to fill my seat.

After two months of travel and witnessing several flagrant violations of common courtesy, Libby and I were rather sensitive regarding seats. The first infraction we noted was on a slow-boat from Luang Prabang to Pakbeng. The trip was long, the seats hard and the boat crowded. The benches sat two apiece, and all appeared full except one that was occupied by a single older woman (henceforth Ms. B.) who hailed from a country other than Laos. She was a tourist like us and we traded idle pleasantries with her.

Occasionally a villager waved us ashore and we watched them board and make their way aft. Soon enough the aisle beside us was piled high with rice, chickens and an assortment of luggage. A Lao farmer was the next to arrive and a deck-hand showed him the seat next to Ms. B. She dipped her chin and peered over her glasses in astonishment. “Huh uh, no way,” she exclaimed. In a heartbeat she fortified her position with her belongings, hastily spreading them across the bench. Were it not for the spite in her soul, the scene would have been comical. The farmer dismissed her with a wave of his hand, rearranged a few sacks of rice and fashioned himself a seat we all envied.

The next seating crime involved a touring couple (henceforth Mr. and Mrs. A.H.) and Lao nationals on a bus from Nong Khiaw to Luang Prabang. There were five seats across the back of the bus, two of which Libby and I occupied and three of which Mr. and Mrs. A.H. occupied. We rolled out of the station less than full and Mr. A.H. moved up a row to indulge himself with two additional seats. As with the boat, the bus quickly filled with Lao villagers. And as with the boat, these two arrogant tourists refused to give up the extra seats they claimed with their belongings.

I was furious. I could not think clearly. But slowly, methodically I developed a plan. I would very kindly, very gently ask Mr. A.H. if I could sit next to him, leaving my seat to a local. If he was not more than accommodating in my request, if hesitated in the slightest or was not beaming with a smile as he cleared the seat I swore I would commit crimes against him unspeakable in both quality and quantity. The aisle would run red with his blood. Shrieks of fear and agony would pierce the air. Until this point in my life, I had reserved violence for inanimate objects: leaky pipes and cross threaded bolts. But this case was exceptional. This was a war worth fighting: It was a cause for which to die.

As I put the finishing touches on my murderous plan, the bus stopped and out poured a throng of passengers. The opportunity was lost. I spent the rest of the trip attempting to stare a hole into the back of Mr. A.H.’s skull and vowing to never again allow such conceit go unpunished.

Later Libby and I conferred in righteous indignation and settled on a more peaceful plan for handling ignorant passengers: We would lead by example. And in subsequent trips we did. We were falling over each other to give up our seats. Young, old, healthy or frail; if the bus was full, anyone was welcomed to our seats. This system worked well on two, three, and even four hour rides. We figured anything longer would surely have assigned seats. The bus to Savannakhet proved otherwise.

With Libby imprisoned by the masses, I would sacrifice for us both. Indeed, I would sacrifice for the entire bus. I would stand so that other could sit. I would suffer so that others would not. I would die so that other could live! Never mind that others were standing. Never mind that most of those sitting were subject to conditions only nominally better than mine. My suffering would be of the highest caliber. It would be the exquisite suffering of a martyr in full glory. I would be burned at the stake. I would be crucified there behind the windshield, in plain view of all passing traffic.

The reality was slightly less dramatic. I willed my sturdy 6’2” American frame into the size of a Laotian. My breath was shallow so as to shave valuable space from the volume of my chest. Surely the woman in front of me needed it more than I. The fact that my chin was in my chest was an involuntary function of ceiling height, but it would have been a voluntary position given the option.

It was an Odyssean epoch. With my head on the ceiling, I had a clear view over the driver’s shoulder. The gauges read as follows; speed, zero; fuel tank, empty; oil pressure, off the chart. The fall of darkness revealed one static but foreboding red light and another very dynamic white one. Apparently the horn had been creatively repaired and was now activated by raking the bare end of a ground wire across the steering column. As we overtook slower vehicles, the driver announced our presence with a flick of his wrist. The horn bellowed and the cockpit filled with blinding sparks of ghoulish white light.

Shifting and repositioning was limited and required coordination. At some point I felt a body part, foreign to me, subtly but decidedly on my hip. Taking the cue, I shuffled and maneuvered the best I could so as to give the owner of this appendage the precious few millimeters that he needed. Millimeters did not placate my neighbor and I tried for a full centimeter, to no avail. In fact, his anonymous appendage decidedly became a hand and then an entire arm. This poor soul, too week to hold himself up any longer, was giving me a one-armed waist hug. I could feel his head and shoulder on my side, opposite the hand. “There there . . . you just rest your weary head on me . . .”

Meanwhile I was coming to terms with my own fatigue, my own weakness, my own mortality. Seven ours in a semi-vertical, semi-balanced, semi-bearable state was taking its toll. Just as I began to doubt the limits of my endurance, someone gently and firmly took hold of my wrist. Turning, I found a visibly pregnant woman on the edge of her seat. She motioned to me and spoke in Lao. Her intentions were obvious but I feigned ignorance. I could not allow myself to believe that she was offering me her seat. The risk of misinterpretation was too great. She insisted, persisted, and I would like to think she physically forced me to trade places with her.

She stood briefly in the aisle until the bus stopped and delivered her to the night. I called out a word of thanks through the window but it was consumed by the roar of the bus as we pulled away. I was vindicated. Her recognition of my suffering made it valid and somehow worth while. With my delusion affirmed, I basked in its glory and drifted off to sleep.

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