“Airport, airport, you say airport”, was how we were greeted by our driver. I hadn’t wanted to travel by minivan, but when I checked with the receptionist in the morning, I was told that’s how I’d be going. This was the same receptionist who just yesterday told me I’d be traveling by bus. She updated me that so many people had signed up to go to Vang Vieng that she arranged a private shuttle for us instead.
As benevolent as that sounds, the reality is that by contracting out the transportation to someone she knows with a minivan, she gets a bigger percentage of the trip cost than if she booked us through the public bus company.
You might then ask why I would prefer a bus to a minivan, given that the minivan would arrive at my destination at least an hour earlier. That, in fact, is the problem. The minivan gets there sooner because it drives faster, and since the mountain range between me and my destination was traversed by a narrow winding road of over 500 curves, moving faster was not a goal.
The other liability with a minivan is that, unless you’re in the front seat, you don’t get a good perspective out the window which leaves you prone to motion sickness. The receptionist told me that she knew the operator of the minivan and she assured me that he was a very safe driver. Even then, I knew this to be a falsehood, and I was later validated as our driver headed through town weaving in and out of traffic honking his horn. This skill would later prove useful as he dodged the multitude of dogs, cats, and pigs standing in the road.
We did indeed head out to the airport, and I began to question whether I had misunderstood the driver’s original request. When we passed the airport and continued north, however, I began to worry if I was in the correct vehicle for another reason. My destination was south. I pulled out my Google maps application and confirmed we were headed north. I zoomed out to look if there was another possible route to Vang Vieng, and I was relieved when the driver took a right turn onto a road that led back to the southbound highway.
It turns out that the airport road was simply a way to circumvent the checkpoint we would have otherwise passed had we gone the regular route out of town. Whether our driver was avoiding a toll or was not licensed for intercity transport, I never learned, but at some point I was able to get out of him that this was the reason he told us to say we were going to the airport if we were stopped by the police.
Once we re-joined the main highway headed south, our driver informed me that we would be taking the new road and that he was a very fast driver so I shouldn’t worry. Perhaps the irony of that statement was lost in the translation or perhaps he thought I might be worried about arriving late in a town that was known for its laid back nature.
I should add that the reason he was speaking to me directly is because I was sitting in the front passenger seat. Normally this seat is reserved for locals, the driver’s friends or pretty girls. I’ve noticed single attractive females are always escorted directly to the front seat even though the driver has insisted the rest of us cram in the back.
For the first time in my life, I decided to play the age card when my hostel receptionist told me about the minivan switch. I call it the age card because it’s always the older people on the tours I lead who insist on getting a front seat because of their motion sickness. I’m pretty sure we all get nauseated when we’re not the driver on a winding mountain road, but it’s the older people who have learned to leverage their age as an excuse to get the seat with the best view. I used the same arguments and, with a small amount of shame, was pleased when she told the driver I needed to sit in the front seat. Learn from your elders.
Despite assurances that we would get there quickly, our hopes were dashed when we hit a traffic jam about 2 hours out of town. Our driver hopped out, went to talk to some other drivers, and came back to inform us that there was road construction ahead and the road would be reopened one hour from now.
In a sense, I was impressed that they could just completely shut down a road in both directions for an hour, but I began to wonder if perhaps the old road might have been faster. I hopped out and peed over the side of the mountain with the other minivan drivers before finding a nice shade tree under which I read for awhile before taking a nap.
I was awoken by our driver with a sense of urgency, and he insisted we get back in the van immediately. Once we were loaded in the van, he pulled into the oncoming lane and began to pass all of the vehicles waiting in the other lane. I thought it was just the antics of our “safe” driver until I noticed that all of the other minivans followed suit. I began to wonder how the oncoming traffic would get through once they opened the road if we were all blocking the oncoming lane.
The solution was one I’d not witnessed before. In order to expedite clearing the traffic, they allowed vehicles to proceed in the order of which would be the quickest. The first to be released were the automobiles headed downhill. Next came the trucks headed downhill. Once the downhill traffic cleared, they allowed uphill flow in the same way. Naturally, this prevented a situation where the cars would be forced to pass all the trucks later down the road.
Despite going first, it didn’t expedite the trip much as we spent the next 45 minutes traveling at about 30 miles per hour. The rutted road resembled a stone strewn riverbed, and we were bounced and tossed as our driver navigated his way downstream. I was finally compelled to say to our driver, “if this is the new road, I can’t imagine what the old road is like”. He simply said, “worse”.
Eventually we returned to the pavement and picked up speed bringing the promise that we might meet our destination soon until our driver pulled over and informed us that we would have a one hour lunch break. Of course we were all left wondering why we didn’t have lunch while we waited for an hour in construction traffic. The answer is likely that our driver wanted to collect his free meal from the restaurant where he always brought his passengers.
Frustrating the situation further, we were only one hour from our destination which, given the descriptions I’d read, had much more attractive dining options than a dusty roadside shack. The soup I ordered was delicious even if I had to wait awhile for it since every other minivan driver clearly had the same arrangement with this restaurant packed with tourists. We enjoyed sharing stories with those who were headed where we’d just come from and hearing what we were about to encounter.
Once the driver finished his free meal and cigarette, we hopped back in the van and continued on to Vang Vieng. For the first half of the trip, our safe driver flew through signed 25 mph zones at 50 mph honking at old ladies and school children to get out of the way. I admit to being impressed at how some of those grandmothers skipped a step; it’s no wonder they made it to that age. However, he now crawled through village after village at no more than 25 mph. I wondered if law enforcement was particularly aggressive in that region but witnessed other minivans speeding passed us.
The driver began to wipe at his head with a cloth and exhibited signs of being sick. Maybe that free meal was about to exact a toll. Finally he pulled over and poured some water into his hands splashing it into his eyes. I asked if he was alright, and he said he shouldn’t have eaten that big meal. I asked if it was his stomach, but he told me he was tired.
I told him we wouldn’t mind if he pulled over to rest, but he insisted on continuing, so as the front seat passenger, I took it as my responsibility to keep him awake. I began to ask questions about his family, and he told be had spent the night before at the hospital watching over his father. He was both worried and tired but brightened up when he talked about his son who was attending university in China.
We spent the rest of the trip talking about what his son might do when he graduated and how hard he was working to put his son through school, and before we knew it, we were rolling into the charming town of Vang Vieng. He stopped in the center of town, an easy walk to my hostel, and unloaded us all. I wished him well and looked at my phone. It was 4:30. About the same time I would have arrived had the hostel receptionist put me on the slow bus I’d originally requested.
Clearly I wouldn’t have had this story, or maybe I would have had another one. Either way, I am grateful to all the stories that come of traveling.