Bad boy

Sunset on the Mekong, Ventiane.

The Ban Anou night market in Ventiane.

The weirdness of the Buddha Park, about 25 km outside of Ventiane. Created by a religious eccentric, it's a mish-mash of Buddhist and Hindu symbols. When I asked at the local bus station for the bus to the 'Buddha Park' (none of the buses have English signs) the man heard 'Border' instead of 'Buddha' so I ended up at the border from where I had just came the day before. I eventually got on the right bus.

VENTIANE, Laos - We're five hours late by the time the overnight train from Bangkok pulls up to the Lao People's Democratic Republic border. There were many unexplained stops in the middle of rice paddies and at one stage we actually went backwards for 15 minutes.

A border crossing known for hassles and overcharging goes smoothly. An Australian mother and daughter behind me in line are freaking out because they don't have the requisite photo 'required' and I assure them that if they have money, everything is negotiable. Of course they get in, for an extra $1. It's the kind of border crossing that gives me the feeling that you could write 'serial killer' under 'occupation' and still get in for an extra dollar.

One tuk-tuk ride later and I'm in the capital, Ventiane (pronounced wen-chan, but after I thoroughly confuse every Westerner I talk to prounouncing it this way, I drop my pretensions) and in another embassy-visa bind. It's Friday at 3:15 p.m., I have no hotel and the Vietnamese embassy closes at 4 p.m. and doesn't open again until Monday. I do not want to spend four days in the capital, but it's my last chance to get my Vietnam visa, which they don't issue at the border.

Quickly I find a place to stash my stuff, sprint out to find a tuk-tuk and get to the embassy at 3:45 p.m. I wait in line, get to the window with 10 minutes to spare, tell a tired-looking clerk I need a visa and, to my surprise, he asks, 'Same day?'

I look at the non-existent watch on my wrist and back at him in astonishment. 'Today?'

'Yeah, sure.'

I hand over my documents, he goes into a back room, barks out something in harsh Vietnamese, I hear the sweet thud of stamp hitting passport and he comes back in less than five minutes with my visa. Say what you will about communist bureaucracy, I challenge you to find another embassy anywhere that can do that.

After my shocking victory, I treat myself to dinner at a night food market recommended by some fellow travellers. I arrive to a bustling jam of stalls set up nightly in a strip-mall parking lot, with just about anything you could want or be revolted by, including pigs head and chicken beak. Amid the unsavory parts of otherwise delectable animals, though, is some of the most underrated food in Southeast Asia.

For the princely sum of $3, I emerge with heaping plastic bags full of crispy, fatty, duck, lemongrass sausages, spicy ground pork, and rice. I quickly realize I've ordered too much; I eat it all.

Later, while enjoying an evening Beer Lao and perusing my travel guide on a bench outside my hotel, a hooker approaches. 'What you want?' she asks slyly.

'No thanks, just reading my book tonight,' I say, trying to be polite.

She ignores this and sits down next to me.

'What you want?'

'No really, I don't want anything. I just want to read my book.'

She will not take no for answer.

'No, you tell me what you want.'

'Look I'm trying to read my book, so go away. I don't want anything and you're bothering me. Go. Away.'

She gets up, pouting, looks at me disapproving and, wagging her finger at me, says, 'You bad boy. You bad boy,' before shimmying away.

Well, I suppose she got one thing right.