Crossing the Lao/Vietnam border by mistake

I was in Sepon, and wanted to go to Ban Dong, where there is a War Museum. The Lonely Planet guide and maps show that Ban Dong is well inside the Lao border.

I went to the bus stop just to the west of the Vieng Xai hotel. The bus stop has no sign, but you see a group of people waiting for the sawngthaew to Ban Dong and beyond. Sitting on the grass, squatting, sitting on a bench. An old woman wearing the sin, one with bare feet. They have a scarf wound round their head. The conductor spoke a little English and asked if I wanted to cross the border. I said no. Everyone rushed to get on and in the end there were 26 people inside and nine hanging on behind. After about half an hour, some got off, and I was able to sit on the floor. Next to me was an old woman with a live chicken in a plastic bag. She had some trouble saving it from getting squashed we were all so packed in and I found another old woman’s arm resting on my knee as there was nowhere else to lean. 

We reached what looked like a border crossing, with a new concrete arch and police and offices. Most people were ordered out, rather reluctantly, and then there was an order to empty the vehicle of all timber. Big blue plastic sacks of wood were thrown out, amazing how they could get that much in as well as all of us – a red wood in small square-cut pieces. By this time I was sitting on a bench. My neighbor pulled my trouser leg closer to her and didn’t want me to get out. She was sitting on her bag. The police smiled at me and there was no problem – everyone got back on, and we drove off to Ban Dong, which was hardly much further. 

On the way back from Ban Dong, an aged bus with a heavy load on top, broken windows but few passengers, stopped when I waved. They were going to Sepon. It was full to waist height with boxes and bales and bags, no room on the floor at all. The aisle was completely full and I climbed over the front passenger seat to get to another seat. There were six other passengers, all the men smoking and a small boy climbing over the merchandise, finally going to lie down in the back on a pile of stuff. There was a very strong smell of dried fish, like travelling in a rancid sardine can.

When we arrived at the border crossing again, nobody had to get out except the driver. A police officer asked through the window  in English for my passport and I said I hadn’t got it. I showed him the key of the guesthouse and said my passport was in Sepon. He looked disappointed and walked off. For a moment I thought they would come back and order me off, but the driver got back in and off we went. I had a

 

better view on the way than from the sawngtheaw, where you couldn’t see out at all. The window beside me was broken and had a tattered curtain. The door only shut if pushed and kicked.  

 

 I don't understand why this will only attach sideways.

You couldn't say that Sepon is a town, it's more a phenomenon of the east/west trade route from Vietnam to central Laos. It's not just without a plan, it's anti-plan, or negative town planning. Function has replaced form. And the function is servicing trucks and truck drivers.  Ribbon development has been followed by some back-land development, with a temple and a school. Old Sepon is further to the east but I couldn't find it. So there are lots of guesthouses, beer-halls, shops selling everything you need to repair a truck, workshops repairing trucks, karaoke bars, many businesses run by Vietnamese. 

 Google Earth view of Sepon

Opposite the ViengXai guesthouse there is a piglet market, each black piglet slipped into a bamboo tube so only the face and rear haunches are visible.

 

November 2013, in Taiping, on the west side of Malaysia. They have the first library, first museum, first hillstation, Maxwell Hill and other firsts. There is a study by the University of Singapore (2010) on the town, so I was able to see how it worked. There must have been dhobi lines all over the empire, and here they are still working. The ground floor of the building at the back has the laundries and now dry cleaners as well, still using the name 'dhobi'. Every morning they hang out the washing and take it in at about 1 in the afternoon.

This is because it rains almost every day in Taiping. Warm air comes in from the sea, swirls upward when it hits Maxwell Hill and then rains. The sky goes black and the humidity rises. Same view of Taiping in the afternoon and the morning of the same day. Maxwell Hill, now Bukit Larut, is in the background. There is a government landrover service to go up the hill part way, but even if you start quite early, by the time you walk to the top, there is no view at all. I was waiting for the landrover coming back, and a woman told me about the Conoration swimming pool. Which conoration? It must have been 1952, and they say it was the first public pool in Malaysia.

July in Rangoon

 5/6/13 Rangoon - In Latha Street there is a Chinese cafe with excellent steamed buns, spicy meat filling or sweet red bean paste. It's in one of the shophouses, the whole ground floor is open with lots of tables and cast iron columns at the front.  They have put in a mezzanine floor, and the orders are sent whizzing down a string on bulldog clips to the cashier. We arrived about half past five, and went to sit inside as all the tables on the pavement were full. Then it started to rain and went on for about an hour, I have never seen such torrents. The boss is Chinese from Yunnan, his folks crossed the border during the Cultural Revolution. Two men came to sit next to us, both Chinese speakers. One short and fat in red and white Hawaiian style shirt, big diamond rings and huge wodge of money, the other thin with dyed hair and no front teeth. After some chat about who are you, how old etc etc, they paid for our coffee and buns and drove us home. Lots of consultations about where we are staying, we didn't have the address in Burmese, boss called in,  neighbouring table interpreted the map, general agreement reached. We set off in an airconditioned car, along Strand Road, past the Strand Hotel and the Post Office. Streets all flooded, shoes off to reach the pavement.

Here are the builders at 12 rue du Terrage, seen from my kitchen window. If you ever read Beatrix Potter's Tale of Mrs Tittlemouse, you will remember how she followed dirty feet with a dustpan and brush.

This is on Lake Inle
September rainstorm brewing