Lydia Laube - Lost in Laos

Land of a Million Elephants! How could anyone resist a place with a name like that?

A scan of the map of South-East Asia revealed that Laos, the country that formerly gave itself such an intriguing title, was the only place I hadnt visited. This had to be rectified. Over the years I had watched Laos progress through war, unrest and upheaval until it was relatively settled. In 1989 the Lao government relaxed enough to permit tourism, but it was controlled and restricted, making it difficult to get about. Finally, individual travel was possible. Right, I decided, now Laos is ready for me I am off!

But of course I couldnt go straight there like any sane, sensible person. Laos is a landlocked country of 236,800 square kilometres. It shares borders with Cambodia, China, Burma, Thailand and Vietnam, so adventures could be had along the way if I travelled there overland after flying to Singapore. Excellent trains run from Singapore up the Malaysian Peninsula, into Thailand and across to Laos. I had fond memories of the train journey I had taken from Singapore to Bangkok back in 1970 when I had first set off to see the world and I thought it would be great to do it again. On that trip I had followed the regular tourist route up the west coast, but studying the map now I saw that there is an alternate way. Branching off from Kuala Lumpur is another train line known as the Jungle Line. Little used except by local people, it crosses the Malaysian Peninsula and terminates on the east coast close to the Thai/Malaysian border.

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I got off to a fairly bad start well, I was not even started when, attempting to collect my US dollar travelling cash from the Travelex office at Adelaide Airport, I discovered that I had not, as I thought, already paid for them. (I had been so proud of myself for managing this twenty-first century achievement on the internet, but pride, as I have often been reminded, goes before a fall.) Next I found that I had left my number one credit card the one with money in it with which I was about to rectify this deficiency in my other handbag, the one that was right then sitting at home in my wardrobe. How could I have done such a stupid thing? Easily, was the obvious answer. Maybe I am getting past being allowed out on my own. I paid for the dollars with card number two, my back-up card, in which there was no money, only credit.

I had plenty of time to consider the dilemma of how to transfer some funds into card number two when the next hiccup appeared. The plane was declared to be two hours late due to some bother it had encountered in Sydney. I had a deadline of nine pm to meet in Singapore. That was the time my train ticket would be held for me to collect. (in another major triumph on the internet I had established an almost pen pal relationship with a wonderfully helpful woman at Malaysian Rail, who, over a number of emails, had chatted me through the intricacies of the ticketing system.)

Idly flipping through the little red notebook that has accompanied me on many adventures, I noticed the express line phone number for my bank account. I had completely forgotten about that since I had taken up with the internet. I phoned the number and managed to locate a real person instead of the usual machine and she, bless her, transferred a slab of cash into card number two for me. Problem solved.

Meanwhile Qantas, in its infinite generosity, compensated the delayed passengers languishing in the airport with ten dollars worth of sustenance from the kiosk in the departure lounge. Airport prices ensured that this did not allow for much expansion into high living. Poor payment for two hours in departure mode. I wondered whether a certain nameless Qantas CEO would be happy with a sandwich and a small black coffee for two hours of his time. But I have become philosophical about delays in travelling and always come prepared. No longer allowed to indulge in the highly suspicious practice of knitting, now I carry a book in my handbag. I also found some Singaporean students from Adelaide University to talk to. They told me that it was holiday time and they, along with many other students, were on their way home for the break.

Finally airborne, the plane made up some time and we arrived in Singapore only an hour late. Entry formalities were swift. I sprinted straight through immigration and into a taxi that sped me to the train station, a twenty-minute drive away. By then it was almost nine. Id had the sense to pick up some Singapore dollars along with my US cash in Adelaide Airport and this saved some time. The exchange rate had been good at 1.25 to the Australian dollar. The ticket seller at the train station wasnt my nice friend of the internet chats; he grumpily demanded to know why I hadnt collected my ticket before this. But he gave it to me anyway.

I had pre-booked a room at the Royal Peacock Hotel in Chinatown. At $105 it was one of the cheapest I could find apart from the backpacker hostels that were all too far from the railway station for an early morning exit. I find Singapore pretty expensive these days. As the taxi weaved and threaded its way through the tiny, crowded streets of Chinatown, the driver dropped dark hints about this locations respectability, or lack thereof. The Royal Peacock is one of the old Chinese shop-houses, many of which were former brothels that have been sanitised and born again as small hotels. As I waited for attention at its front desk in the cramped foyer, I suspected that the Royal Peacock might not have quite made the transition to absolute decorum. Some of its previous infamy appeared to linger; a man beside me was negotiating a price for a stay of a couple of hours.

Finally turning her unenthusiastic attention to me, the receptionist gave me an off-hand greeting and waved me in the vague direction of the lift. I dragged my bag to my closet of a room, so dark I couldnt see into the cupboards or my bag when I opened it on the bed. Dingy and in bad repair, nothing in that room worked all the switches and knobs were broken or seized in one position, including those of the air-conditioner, which were set firmly on freezing and couldnt be turned down. Worse, the operation of the shower was complicated and it produced just a trickle of hot water. I was not amused.