Vientiane, Laos-y

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Punning aside, I rather liked Laos and its capitol city. From what I’d read about the country, I’d expected that it would be more laid back and under-developed than Thailand. I caught glimpses of that mood, certainly, but my own travels were so condensed that my experience during ten days of traveling through both it and Thailand was speed—almost constant motion.

I rode in trains, buses, ferries, motor-boats, motor-bikes, scooters, motorized-rickshaws, truck-beds, and little carts. Countryside flashed by through windows or stretched away out the back of whatever truck-bed I was sitting in. And what a country it was: fields of rice, groves of durian, electric green hillsides, and little houses on stilts peppered along roadways.

The difference between Thailand and Laos, from my vantage, was stark. Thai towns were fairly industrialized: Multiple car and bike repair shops filled each town and the roads connecting these little hubs of activity were paved. Roads in Laos, by contrast, were dirt and, after even minor rainfall, mud. At one point on the way from Luang Prabang to Vientiane our bus found itself delayed four hours as a line of several dozen trucks and buses slowly threaded their way between several buses that, in attempting to navigate their way downhill had gone off the slippery road and into ditches on either side. At several points all of us traveling on board had to get off so that our bus could make it through a particularly sticky patch of mud. Most of this business happened well after midnight in pitch darkness.

The town I was coming from, Luang Prabang, had been the old colonial capitol. The scenic part of the city was contained on a small spit of land jutting out into the Mekong River. The buildings in this area were all done up in French colonial style –second-floor balconies, white paint. Barring the various places currently under construction or renovation, it all seemed to be decaying in a picturesque, tasteful manner. It was easy to imagine it playing muse to endless artful photos in upscale travel magazines. Add to that a large number of excellent cafes and bakeries and you had a place of overwhelming charm.

The entire spit was lined with outdoor restaurants where you could sit, drink fruit juice, and watch the river flow. Here and there were stairs leading down to the waterside. Men congregated around these points and touted boat tours to passersby. Early September was already the off-season, however, and they didn’t put much effort into their pitches. Mostly they just sat about or played football. (Even now the heat was fairly oppressive and I didn’t blame them for preferring to stay put.) With nightfall the air cooled and more well-to-do locals gathered at several restaurants to hold parties. These featured food and singing . . .Oh and the music! Especially in Laos, the music was an incredible mixture of warbling female vocals and groovy synth-beats--the sort of styles one hears in a Dengue Fever song.

Whether or not Vientiane had such little pleasures to reveal, I can’t say. I arrived in the morning and left in the evening. The ten hours I spent wandering around the town were not promising. Morning brought a monsoon rain, followed by (at least for a Seattleite) scorching heat. The city is located along the Mekong, but lacks the shady foliage-heavy vistas of Luang Prabang. Instead there is a long promenade with views of the muddy river. Turn around and you face a city “sky-line” of ugly buildings lacking in much charm. Were you actually living here, I honestly think it would be pleasant enough, but for a tourist like myself it offered little of interest.

The most striking thing about the city—or any comparable capitol city—was that this was the center of the national culture. TV, radio, printing, national theatre, movies, and so on all emanated from here. The pint-sized Bibliotheque Nacional would, doubtless, have been overseen by the “Laotian National Librarian.”

A nation this tiny gets tossed easily by the political tides—which goes towards accounting for the considerable Chinese presence. Used book stores had large Chinese sections. Several streets served Chinese food, and a far greater number of stores had bilingual signs. In some sense, Laos felt as “Chinese”-- and, perhaps, more so even--than some places within China’s own borders.

Preferring not to waste a night’s sleep and, consequently, a day’s time of conscious travel, I B-lined back to Bangkok and spent my final two days visiting different temples and eating various mystery-meats.

Generally, I hoped to snap an array of photos to show back home; one particular goal was to get some good shots of the red light district. After Chiang Mai, where I had (believe-it-or-not) accidentally stumbled onto the central brothel district within ten minutes of arrival and been shocked by its sheer, boisterous scale—bright lights, shouts, girls spilling of doorways—I expected Bangkok to be even more disarming.

My quest got largely sidetracked when I happened, equally accidentally, upon the Middle Eastern district of Bangkok; a series of interconnected side streets lined with kebab shops and nargile cafes. Wandering around here ate up all the time that I had to spare, and a ten-minute jaunt up and down Alley #3 (one of the famous red light streets, located across from a Starbucks) offered no opportunity for evocative photography.

Perhaps coming later might have presented something else, but the scene at dusk was rather bland. Girls sat about with bored looks on bar stools. Here and there groups of foreign men—mostly over fifty, with shaved bald heads—sat chatting with one another, largely ignoring the women next to them. Here and there foreigner couples sat together, their faces signaling the same apathy as the bar girls.

As I headed back to my place, it was getting dark and the neon lights were coming on. At night, Bangkok becomes its most beautiful. Lines of cars caught up in the traffic glint with reflected light, as do the murky canal waters that snake through the city.

Photos: Bangkok

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Photos: Bangkok Food

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Photos: Religious Buildings in SE Asia

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Photos: Thailand National Museum

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Bangkok, Dangerous?

As we all know from having watched the opening several minutes of The Beach, Bangkok is the sort of place where you will be invited to a back room and offered a shot glass of snake blood within moments of arrival. As we learned from OngBak, its back alleys are a hot bed of street fighting. Also, for those of you who saw Bangkok Dangerous and Hangover II, Bangkok is a den of perpetually, percolating, polyamorous vice and depravity where anything goes and usually does.

I, however, went to the mall because Bangkok is also, after two months in China, the sort of place where you can buy a good book. Streets are colorful, food is light and healthy, and transportation is quick. Bus, train, and subway stations were clean and organized—the train station even employed a roving group of English speaking guides to give people advice and direct them to the proper ticket counters.

I emphasize all this because the very name “Bangkok” carries a sense of sleaze—or, to some, romance. I expected chaos and confusion, but was met with tranquility. I certainly saw hints of the less seemly side: shacks covered in tin-roofing lining the train tracks; canals radiating through the city, bearing viscous, black, foul-smelling water to the population. I have no doubt that far less savory sights can be found easily, and yet . . .

When I went to the Paragon Mall (site of the most well stocked English book store I have ever seen in Asia) there was a Japan-themed festival going on. A huge stage had been erected and all through the ground floor were (Japanese?) kids dressed in the most fantastical anime-inspired outfits. Crowds of Thais mobbed around these kids, snapping photos. All this was a far cry from China were the following question prompt, “If you had a million dollars what would you do?” had elicited the response from one eight year old, “I would go to Japan and kill many Japanese.” (He was particularly good grammatically.)

I spent most of my two days in the city wandering around to various spots with a friend who teaches ESL there. She’s a fan of architecture and the like, but I prefer just wandering streets and eating various foods—and Bangkok’s layout allows for both. However, compared to Xi’an, Bangkok was not particularly packed with excitement or with people. Whereas a typical Xianese street would be overrun with children and overseen by groups of old people, Bangkok could be relatively desolate outside the center.

There were other, more mundane surprises as well. Thai food in Thailand was the same as in Seattle—with the exception that Thai’s do not use chopsticks. Thai toilets were often of the squat variety, but raised in a manner that required you climb up on to them and perch. Cars in Thailand drive on the left side of the road—I suppose on account of British or Japanese influence—and, most shockingly, drivers observe traffic rules. Motorcyclists wore helmets! The legendary tuk tuks I’d heard of with their opposite-direction driving were prettier and no more aggressive than the Chinese sort. All in all, Thailand seemed pretty tame.

****

From Bangkok, I headed south to Ko Pha Ngan, an island off the eastern coast. To get there I took a train to the city of Surrothani. Arriving, I braced myself for an onslaught of touts and assorted shysters. There were none and, as per Lonely Planet’s advice, I took a city bus to what I understood would be the port. From the bus’ final stop I wandered around asking where Ko Pha Ngan was and getting all variety of conflicting directional gestures. An hour’s walking around in various directions led me to realize that I was still 60 km inland from the port located at Donsak. Right beside the final bus stop was a travel agent and clusters of backpackers whom I asked for directions:

“Are you going to the ferry?” I asked.

“No,” they all told me. Each group seemed to have other plans, many involving a place called Krabi that none of them knew much about. When I tried to learn what was in Krabi, I received shrugs. (NB. Krabi is the location used to film Kashyyk, so perhaps these tourists are simply all Star Wars devotees.)

The travel agent offered buses to the port and ferry tickets for 350 baht (about $15), but I figured I could do better. First I found a covered truck-cum-taxi that gave me (and a revolving assortment of locals) a ride to Donsak amid a rain storm. 50 baht. Donsak’s station was not, however, at the port either and from here I got a ride on the back of a scooter for another 7km to the ferry. Quoted price 70 baht, demanded price 100 baht. The ferry ticket was 220 baht bringing my cost to 370. Had I bothered to negotiate, I could have realistically saved at most 50 baht ($2).

Waiting at the Donsak ferry terminal, whatever part of me had set itself to be wise to all scams and wary on all fronts while in Thailand died and I resolved to stick to the cost-effective, hassle-free tourist trail for the duration.

The ferry terminal and the ride out to the islands were almost identical to the commute I’ve made hundreds of times in my life from San Juan to the mainland and back. Contemplating the small, greenery covered islands passing by from my seat on the green and white painted deck of the ferry, I wondered if I should really be spending time on a small island when I’d already spent over eighteen years doing the same, in albeit colder climates.

****

Ko Pha Ngan is known for its Full Moon Parties where huge numbers of tourists converge on the beached to get shit-faced and do like rabbits. Over the years business-savvy locals have added Half Moon Parties. I arrived in the lull between either of these. The same resourceful locals, however, were now advertising something called a “Black Moon Party” that evening. I wasn’t in the mood and set out along the road to Hat Rin at the south end of the island where there were numerous cheap accommodations. Between the ferry landing and the town lay a 10km road. I didn’t plan on trekking the whole thing, but imagined that, once outside the landing’s concentration of stores, I would find a nice little seaside walk ahead of me.

Not so. The whole way was lined with stores and shacks. Squalid little hotels and dilapidated bars. As renting a scooter was so simple, tourists went roaring up and down the road, stopping at these various spots to refresh. Tiring of this endless range of run down little places I was passing, I decided to get in a taxi I saw idling up ahead. The driver had gotten out and crossed to a small bar across the road, and, as I hopped in the back, she returned, followed by a group of four tall, handsome white guys who were, in turn, followed by a group of girls calling after them and blowing them kisses. Upon loading in, the driver explained that they still owed money to the girls. I waited while they bickered with her about prices. When, finally, we headed off, there was some awkwardness in chit chat. Two asked me where I was from and how long I was traveling. The other (who had popped some pill back at the bar) was holding his head. The forth worried aloud that he had just caught the clap and asked my advice on clinics.

This seemed more like the Thailand I had imagined.

Hello Dali! (And Lijiang)

“Backpackers go where people aren’t.” This was said to me by a rather desiccated-looking Irishman as we sat in the courtyard of Dali’s Emerald Duck Hostel. A day earlier, tromping around the town of Lijiang in a pair of new shoes, I had managed to bruise my foot and was now holed up at this hostel, doing nothing more strenuous than drinking tea and playing pool. The Irishman’s koan of a response had come when I, making a stab at conversation, observed that, despite Dali’s reputation as a backpacker haven, I’d seen precious few.

I’d heard about Dali and the nearby city of Lijiang for several years now. They were reputed to be laid back little towns where travelers who liked getting “off the beaten path” congregated, toked up, and chilled out. I wasn’t sure what such places would look like, but I assumed they’d be rather small affairs. Moreover, I assumed they’d be full of “world traveler”-type westerners.

Such assumptions were woefully off base: Lijiang was the closest thing I’d ever encountered to a Chinese Cancun. The first indication came when I disgorged from the train alongside nearly a thousand Chinese. What followed was an hour-long wait in the station parking lot as the arrival of each new bus caused a scrum—crowds of Chinese chased the bus around the parking lot until it finally came to a halt and opened its doors, lone family members would dash onboard to secure seats and then pull in baggage through windows.

Finding my hostel was also difficult. I had reserved the most highly rated place on HostelWorld.com, a site which usually features the most obvious of places. Imagining Lijiang to be a small affair, I assumed the hostel would be rather prominent. Instead it was located down a half-constructed alleyway, on the outer edge of the old town. Yet even this still-developing warren of streets wasn’t rundown in the manner of many an urban Chinese neighborhood. Everything suggested careful planning—nor did it hurt that the air was exceptionally clean, meaning there was no omnipresent layer of dust to make even new buildings look aged.

Lijiang was the first Chinese city I’d visited where one sensed conscious zoning might be taking place. All the streets were freshly swept and composed of identical grey stones. All the houses were designed in “traditional” style and fitted with wooden signs displaying the name in Chinese, English, and the pictographic writing style of the local Dai people. The English was often laughably wrong, but, as with the inane English phrases plastered on most clothing in China, it was meant to be decorative. It conveyed a message that Lijiang was an international destination, not merely one suited to Chinese vacationers. As so often in China, the English was not there for foreigners, so much as it existed to send a message to other Chinese.

The streets were packed with Chinese tourists. Hundreds. Thousands. All snapping photos and sporting cowboy hats with the same enthusiasm I’d seen Americans do in Hawaii and Mexico. Endless rows of stores hawked knit-knacks to these travelers. There were large stores selling “authentic” local art and fabric; narrow shops decked out with Bob Marley posters, blasting the same Chinese pop-song, selling drums; and an equally undifferentiated array of shops selling local yak-jerky. A canal ran through the heart of the town and was entirely lined with restaurants, cafes, and bars. At night, the crowds swelled in size and the bars filled to capacity. By midnight, the bustle subsided a bit and was replaced by still large numbers of merrily drunk Chinese twenty and thirty-somethings.

This entire area was the “Old Town”—in the sense that it looked like a traditional village. In terms of historic value, it seemed to have as much authenticity as a Disneyland park. Although it was easy enough to get lost in these winding streets, it only took a several minute walk to emerge from the Old Town and find yourself on streets that resembled a typical Chinese city full of honking cars, banks, clothing stores, and scruffy, low-priced restaurants.

And that’s precisely why Lijiang must have seemed “magical” to many Chinese. There were no cars, no honking motorcycles, and no dirt; just pleasant views and evocative architecture. The Old Town buildings weren’t old physically, but they felt as if they were, and walking around in the morning and afternoon I really did feel as if I had stepped back in time.

I had been naïve to assume myself venturing into the back of beyond. I’d envisioned Yunan province to be removed from the rest of China and places like Dali and Lijiang—as being, as it were, twice removed. I felt as you would have arriving in Las Vegas expecting to fine yourself in a pure desert wilderness.

Over the following weeks, reading articles about Lijiang revealed to me what a true latecomer I was to the city. Over two decades earlier, the town had been targeted by the government as a tourist-development site. The crowds had only grown since then. Much of the academic literature now focuses on issues of sustainability and how locals acclimate themselves to new environment.

The past twenty years of development has not been led by the local Dai minority, but rather by Chinese migrants who rent property from the locals. I was informed by the President of the Dai Student Association at Chendu’s Minority People’s University—which is to say an overly-friendly twenty year old who monopolized my time for five hours on the train—that his people are “lazy” and “bad at business.” Such castigations of one’s own people are par for the course in China—and practically pro-forma in Xi’an—but I imagine it’s hard to be “good at business” when it’s the new arrivals who have all the investment capital.

The writing about Lijiang was all very earnest, reading it was like eating vegetables. The academic writing on Dali was a bit more fun in so far as it all sounded a bit grumpier. Titles included "Dialectics of Authentication: Performing "Exotic Otherness,” and could often be summed as: Foreigners come to Dali to experience other cultures, but are really just experiencing an Otherness consciously produced by the locals for their consumption (and for the locals profit.)

If one really expected Dali to be “authentically” off the beaten path, then I suppose such critiques might be dispiriting. But I’d heard of it strickly as a backpacker hangout where foreigners went to chill out and enjoy easy access to the massive amounts of pot produced in the surrounding mountains. In this respect, Dali did a fine job of meeting my expectations. What this thumbnail sketch fails to mention, however, is that Dali itself is gorgeous, located between a range of mountains and a vast lake. There’s a reason all those folks choose to chill out here and not another location.

One arrives in the “real” Dali—a typical, albeit pleasingly small and clean, Chinese city—and must take an hour long city bus ride to “Dali.” Compared to Lijiang, this Dali is still undeveloped. What development is occurring is more slapdash. Most of the streets have the same, sun-baked, dusty feel I’d seen in Mexican cities. A couple central streets have been fixed up nicely and one main street, exploding with merchandise, attracts the highest concentration of Chinese tourists. A single block running perpendicular is the focus of the foreigner-friendly cafes and bars. About halfway through the day my foot started to seriously hurt, forcing me to sit down at one of these cafes. The whole street was fairly quiet, only a few tables occupied. Here and there local women sat idly, occasionally wandering over to offer me pot.

When I ultimately limped back to the hostel, I found the majority of guests hanging out in the courtyard. The owner was a rather silent Kiwi who Chinese wife managed the place and whose mother-in-law cared for their kid while he played pool. Throughout the day, a succession of locals popped in for a game—most seemed to have lived quite some time in China and had acquired that Graham Greene-quality of dissipation one learns to expects from ex-pats.

Among these was my Irishman who claimed Dali as his home-base, but was constantly on the move traveling to Turkey, Thailand, etc. in order purchase fabric for his t-shirt business—call me a cynic, but I suspected that his flights around the Golden Triangle and Europe’s main drug entrepôt might be more than circumstantial. As for his thoughts on the nature of backpacker-ness: Lijiang and Dali are good examples of how doomed such a life-style is. Obviously, the mythic backpackers of several decades past didn’t get away from “people,” they got away from their own people, and the notion that somehow the people they did encounter were not “people,” but rather something more natural, primal, uncorrupted, and, ultimately, decorative, is the dark-side of a backpacker culture that many (myself included) tend to romanticize.

At least in this sense, the disappearance of “off the beaten path” may be a good thing: You can’t travel to Lijiang and Dali and tell yourself that you’ve transcended tourism, nor can you be too certain that’s a bad thing.

Stuff By Other People:

Ateljevic, Irena, and Stephen Doorne. "Dialectics of Authentication: Performing "exotic Otherness" in a Backpacker Enclave of Dali, China." Journal of Tourism and Cultural Change. (2005).

Su, Xiaobo, and Peggy Teo. The Politics of Heritage Tourism in China: A View from Lijiang. London: Routledge, 2009.

Bingaman, Eveline. What Is Culture in Lijiang?: Discourses and Life in a Tourism Setting in Southeast China. , 2009.

Hall, Derek R. Tourism and Transition: Governance, Transformation, and Development. Wallingford, Oxfordshire, UK: CABI Pub, 2004. Internet resource.

Wang, Yu. Naxi and Ethnic Tourism: A Study of Homestay Tourism in Lijiang Old Town. , 2002.

White, Sydney D. "The Political Economy of Ethnicity in Yunnan's Lijiang Basin." Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology. 11.2 (2010).

Yiyi Jiang (2009): Evaluating eco-sustainability and its spatial variability in tourism areas: a case study in Lijiang County, China, International Journal of Sustainable Development & World Ecology, 16:2, 117-126

Notar, Beth E. "Producing Cosmopolitanism at the Borderlands: Lonely Planeteers and "local" Cosmopolitans in Southwest China." Anthropological Quarterly. 81.3 (2008): 615-650.

Photos: Lijiang's Old Town

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Pictures: Beijing

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