Vientiane - Luang Prabang

The sub-title of this post is 'Dope Heads, or, the Carnival of Human Stupidity'. That's right. I was at the airport today.

I don't remember this particular airport experience as better or worse than normal, but it gives me an opportunity to make a painstaking argument that if you want to witness homo sapiens at their most pig-headedly stupid then go to the airport.

First off, patterns of behavior aren't helped by the fact that everyone who goes to the airport is in a state of stress on arrival. Lone-travellers? Sweaty and fatigued from battles with the public transport system to the airport (because taxis are way out of budget). Couples? Aware that the relationship is going to endure microscopic investigation over the following fortnight, couples are often very tetchy. Families? Work/life balances are suddenly all out of kilter on vacation, and the ten nights in Corfu with the whole gang suddenly doesn't seem so appealing in the departure lounge. Only the kids seem to enjoy the experience, tearing around the shops and being the totally selfish beings they are, much to the annoyance of everyone else. The airport staff? Who in their right mind ever aspires to working at an airport? Do you do it for the scenery? For the relaxing vibe? For the easy commute or the hours? No. You do it because flipping burgers at Gatwick Grill is the best employment opportunity you've ever had. These people deserve double holidays -- maybe that'd help make them happier.

So, first step after you're thrust into the airport is to check your luggage in. You grab a trolley and steamroller your way through to your airlines check-in desk. Except there's five of them and no formula known to man that'll help you predict which queue will move fastest. Even chaos theory comes unstuck here. Oh, but there is one queue which is empty -- the first class/business line -- but it isn't open to the likes of you. So, you stand in line like the rest of the lemmings and watch the other queues move forward at an astonishing rate. Apparently you've chosen the line for muppets. Misplaced passports and tickets, overweight luggage, lengthy discourses about preferred sitting arrangements are the domain of this bunch. What you're doing here is a mystery until you spy the hand luggage cages. One piece only, and no bigger than a briefcase. Okay, that'll be my theatre of operations, you think, as you marshall your arguments for why you need so much stuff on-board the plane (because the 20kg weight allowance for hold luggage is pathetic and you don't trust the throwers..sorry, handlers, with your new laptop and other breakables). Sometimes, cunningly, I hide my second piece of hand-luggage at my feet or on my back -- try it! (Except it won't work with the current zero-policy).

Next, you have a choice. Do I go through customs now or later? Duty-free enticements and a slight feeling of superiority that you're one of the special ones (i.e. travellers) allowed over the other side, mean most people go through straightaway. The customs control is a kind of necessary evil that you can't get away from anyway. Here, the country's finest and brightest law enforcement officials apply their razor-sharp minds determining if your belongings pose a threat to the flight. Given that these guys are less sharp than the policy makers who've decided airplane food can be served with real forks, but not real knives, I'm not so confident. What are they looking for on those monochrome screens? How do plastic weapons get picked up by a metal detector? Can a person take down a 747 flight armed with a pair of nail-clippers? Why do you need my belt?! Enquiring minds want to know.

So, you pull up your trousers, put your shoes back on, collect your items from the seventeen receptacles that your belongings have been divided into, and stumble into the land of duty-free. What a concept! Cheap stuff! Except I have no more room, and buying my hi-fi at the airport doesn't make sense on so many levels. I shuffle past and go through the long corridors that wind their way to the departure lounge -- which never take as long to get to as the estimated times in the duty-free area indicate. It is here that the stupidity index peaks. Everyone is so keen to get on-board! Guess what? Flights don't leave until everyone is on board! Perhaps it's understandable for flights without seat allocation. Get on first -- get a good seat. But, then you think about it, and really, there's only three kinds of seat. Window, middle, and aisle. The row is irrelevant. Get on last and you'll still probably get the seat of your choice. You wanna get off first at the other end? Why? You can't leave the airport until you've got your luggage anyway, so you'll have to wait with everyone else. To my mind, it makes sense not to rush. The plane hardly has spacious seating. No one's going to serve you anything. The flight magazine can wait. I feel sorry for the airline staff in bright cagoules -- each appearance they make precipitates a sudden scrum of activity, which if it reaches a critical mass is unstoppable.

Why can't we be civilized!

And the best bit -- when the flight lands and the safety-belt lights go off and everyone stands up...for about ten minutes! Claustrophobia has never been so much fun!

Anyway, this flight was fine if a little turbulent. The landing was expecially cool, as the skies were clear and we had a great view onto the hundreds of stupas and temples that dotted the hillsides of Luang Prabang. And then, karmically, waiting to collect my luggage I got chatting to an English-Japanese couple, Duncan and Keiko, who live in Tokyo. We shared a ride into town, got on pretty well, and exchanged email addresses. I never saw them again in Laos...but I did see Duncan later...

Luang Prabang was low-key, or lower-key, compared to Vientiane, and I found myself alone in a trendy bar that night. I drank, taught the barman how to play chess (or maybe he was teasing me -- he picked it up fast), and ate home-made pizza. Kicked-out shortly after ten, I ambled homeward, still looking for more adventure.

It didn't take long to find...although "adventure" may be stretching it.

On an empty, dark street, somebody whispered something from one of the few well-lit sections on the other side. A little drunk, I didn't catch what they said. "Sorry?" I said, wandering closer.

"You want opium?"

I was being offered drugs. Cool! "No, marijuana," I said, still a good fifteen feet away. Subtle, this wasn't.

He came over and indicated that we should climb over the small wall next to the road. We did, noisily.

In broken English we did business, but before he bolted I explained I needed him to roll for me. He shook his head, but made up two spliffs before disappearing over the wall. Then I realized I didn't have a light. I climbed down to the street and went over to his spot. "Can you give me a light, please?" I said, making the universally understood lighter motion. I wasn't his best customer by a long shot, but he lit the joint.

The farcical exchange was complete when I inhaled and discovered I was smoking an ordinary cigarette smeared in opium resin. Whatever, I thought, and wandered home happy.