May 5, 2025
Letters from Indochina (Part 36)
By Simon J. Lau
This morning, I was scheduled to join a tour to visit a remote village that’s only accessible by boat. My vendor picked me up on a Honda Ruckus — or as they call it here, a Zoomer. In the U.S., these scooters are much uglier and more utilitarian, but in Southeast Asia, Honda gives them a sleeker, more stylish look. Ironically, it’s their awkward, rugged design back home that makes them more appealing. I’ve wanted to ride one for years, and today I got a short, sweet taste of it.
My vendor literally scooped me up from my guesthouse and drove me three minutes down the road to the pickup location — no helmet, of course. Normally, I’d pass on pillion rides without being fully geared up, especially without a helmet. But traffic here moves so slowly — more like a bike lane than a highway — that I knew it would be fine.
After waiting more than 75 minutes at the pickup spot for the rest of our eight-person group to return from an earlier overnight trek, I finally told my vendor I was bailing and to rebook me for tomorrow. He was clearly embarrassed. Despite strong reviews on Google Maps, he hadn’t been able to organize a full group himself and had passed me off to a less reliable operator.
He texted me later to apologize and offered a discount — from 660,000 LAK (about $30 USD) down to 460,000 LAK (around $20) — for tomorrow’s trek. A kind gesture, but I’m really hoping tomorrow’s group gets off the ground on time. It gets hot here early, and if we leave an hour late, I’ll be roasting on the boat and missing out on parts of the full itinerary.
Next on my improvised agenda was coffee — Lao coffee, specifically. At first glance, it looks a lot like Vietnamese coffee: dark roast beans, served strong, and often with condensed milk. But the key difference is that Lao coffee tends to be smoother and less bitter, thanks to the use of Arabica beans and a lighter roasting process. I actually prefer it — it goes down easier and doesn’t leave that sharp, lingering bite.
While walking off my caffeine buzz, I spotted a hand-painted sign for the Ban Man Da Museum — a small, locally run space focused on the U.S. bombing campaign in Laos. I hadn’t planned to wander far, but the path to the museum led me beyond Nong Khiaw’s center and into the surrounding rural areas.
Out here, satellite dishes and water buffalo coexist side by side. The main road is just a sleepy strip of guesthouses, noodle shops, and convenience stores, but it quickly gives way to jungle-covered hills and scattered villages.
The sign said it was 3 kilometers away — about 2 miles. Back home, that’d be an easy walk. But here, it was a struggle. By late morning, temperatures had already climbed into the mid-80s Fahrenheit (around 30°C), and the sun was relentless. No breeze, no cloud cover — just thick, oven-like heat pressing down on me. By the time I finally reached the museum nearly an hour later, my arms were stinging from sunburn — despite my constant efforts to reapply sunscreen.
The building itself was surprisingly nice — I’d expected a shack, but instead found a newly built complex. The ground floor displayed rusted-out bombshells from the U.S. bombing campaigns, haunting reminders of the “Secret War” waged across Laos (and Cambodia). Upstairs was a half-hearted exhibit of Laotian cultural artifacts — mostly farming tools and kitchenware — but it felt like an afterthought and didn’t hold much attention.
Next to the museum was a small cave that villagers once used to hide during American air raids. During these bombing campaigns, many rural communities took refuge in caves like these — sometimes living in them for weeks or months. They became makeshift homes, hospitals, and schools, shielding entire villages from the near-constant threat overhead. For me, its greatest gift was simpler: the air inside was cool — a welcome escape from the brutal heat outside.
The walk back to my guesthouse was just as painful as the walk there, but I used the time to catch up with Jean. Hard to believe I’m five weeks into this six-week Indochina trip. It’s bittersweet — but I plan to make the most of this final stretch.
Closing out with this photo I took this morning of a father and his young son. I love how children here grow up around motorbikes from such an early age. I wish I had — I’d probably be a better rider by now, and maybe even seen more of those hard-to-reach corners of the world. But hey, it’s never too late to start.
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