Laos is many things: an impoverished country ravaged by American bombs and unexploded ordnances, a jungle paradise, and a travel destination for tourists looking to escape the beaten path.

We took a short flight from Hanoi to Luang Prabang, the “cultural capital” of Laos, and one of Laos’ two UNESCO World Heritage Sites. Monks in bright orange robes carry woven baskets and walk in pairs from the market to any one of hundreds of golden temples, or wats. The sun, a shimmering red and purple blaze, sets over the sleepy waters of the Mekong River, on which long, colorful boats await curious tourists.

Luang Prabang is home to a fantastic labyrinth of a night market, complete with covered street food vendors and Laotians selling baggy pants, art scrolls, and coffee, among a sea of other things. When we were shopping, dripping sweat underneath red and blue awnings, haggling with every vendor we encountered, it was hard to maintain any sense of direction. This likely contributed to me buying altogether too many gifts.

Southeast Asia, and Laos in particular, has challenged the relationship I have with my stomach. As per usual, I want to eat everything. Street vendors rarely disappoint. Cumin, chile, coriander, onion, coconut – the medley of flavors and aromas, walking down nearly every street, is intoxicating. Unfortunately, I had my first bout of real sickness in Luang Prabang. As is healthy for any set of travelers, this provided Sara and me the opportunity to spend some time alone. While my beautiful, adventurous friend explored waterfalls, I huddled under a mosquito net in our room, attempting to stomach both the food from the day prior and a strange Japanese novel I was reading, called South of the Border, West of the Sun. I didn’t realize that the protagonist, a middle-aged Japanese man suffering a mid-life crisis, is entirely self-involved until the end of the novel. I suppose one of the themes, in addition to the tendency of people to constantly live in fear of the “what if,” is the essential egotism of humans. The book was powerful and disturbing. But I was thankful that it took my mind away from the delicious and potentially disastrous foods surrounding me.

On one of our sunny days in Luang Prabang, Sara and I rented bicycles and set off in search of a waterfall. We rode through small Laotian villages outside of town, passing children walking home from school, venders selling watermelon and mango, shining wats with golden Buddhas beckoning, and clothing lines with monk robes hanging to dry.

After riding on a bumpy, unpaved road for a few kilometers, we realized that the waterfall might have to wait for another day. Somewhere off of the jungle-lined path, we discovered an oasis of a spot, which turned out to be a cooking school called Tamarind. I was busy trying to figure out what a Tamarind is, envisioning a kind of monkey that lives in the area. Thinking that maybe we might be able to buy a delicious Laotian iced coffee, we walked through palm fronds and past sleeping dogs to a kitchen, where we met Halan. Halan works at the cooking school, and was positively thrilled that we chose his workplace to rest. He offered us a tamarind. As I was preparing myself to ensure that whatever monkey coming my way did not have rabies, he brought out a rough, brown pod about five inches in length.

It tasted like generosity and prunes.

Our next stop in Laos was Phonsavan, a dusty, crumbling town that had an unfinished feel to it. To get there, we crammed ourselves and our luggage into a sweltering minivan with ten other tourists. The minivan climbed jungle-clad mountains, passing groaning buses and resting motorcycle drivers, all the while honking at aloof naked children bathing alongside the road. The drive was picturesque, but demonstrated the immense rural poverty that plagues Laos.

We headed to Phonsavan in order to witness the Plain of Jars, an archaeological phenomenon. Megalithic jars speckle the countryside in Xieng Khouang Province, an area of Laos that is known for its dangerous, potentially explosive fields. Many archaeologists believe the jars are two-thousand-year-old urns, while the Hmong people believe they were used by ancient giants to make rice wine.  Sara and I, creative geniuses that we are, made up our own story complete with a queen, three daughters, and a limerick.  I’ll spare you the details.

As we viewed the jars, we were instructed to stay between the small, cement markers that line the “safe path,” where Laotians and tourists alike can walk without fear of explosives.

The night before we explored the area, I went to a local bar to watch a movie titled “The CIA’s Secret War in Laos.” I walked into the bar and mentioned the sign outside advertising the movie to the bartender. He grabbed a DVD case and directed me to a small room in the back, with a black and white TV and a dirt floor. I watched the hour-long movie with an open mind. The director of the movie, and many of its participants, were Americans, all of whom discussed the incredibly detrimental effect Americans have had on the geographic and political landscape of Laos. According to the movie, when Vietnam War pilots could not hit their targets in Vietnam, many dropped their bombs on Laos without questioning the consequences.  As Kennedy and Johnson publicly recognized Laos’ neutrality during the war, fear of communism and the “domino effect” provided American politicians enough impetus to arm the Hmong people to fight the communists within their own country.  The Hmong people, a generation of young men and women, were obliterated.

While we were in Phonsavan, we visited a Hmong village.  I was nervous that it would be similar to the experience I had on Lake Titicaca, when I visited the island of the “native” people, all of whom seemed to present an artificial preservation of culture to please eager tourists. Thankfully, the Hmong village seemed untouched. Sara, our tour guide (Mr. Wong), and I walked around a small village, complete with cows, a monkey, wooden buildings with thatched roofs, and pigeon coops supported by bomb shells. The surreptitious presence of bomb shells, as building supports and flower “boxes,” was disturbing.

Poppies are one of the primary sources of income for the villagers, reminding me of the heroin drug addictions suffered by locals and American soldiers alike during the Vietnam War. We were welcomed into the home of So, a young Hmong man who kindly poured us shots of rice wine and practiced his English. As we were sitting around his small hut, on thatched stools, I realized how fortunate Sara and I were to be offered such an opportunity. Graciousness, even among great poverty.

Phonsavan was a strange, decrepit place. We were glad to take another winding, scenic bus ride to Vang Vieng, a small town in the south known for its antiquated party culture. In the past fifteen years, tubing down the Nam Song River became a tourist endeavor and unfortunately, a wild party attraction. Fed up with pulling an overdosed tourist from the river once every ten days, the government shut down the bars alongside the river in an attempt to quell the madness in Vang Vieng. The locals in Vang Vieng were, to put it mildly, cold to us. Who can blame them? Only last year, loud Westerners smoked weed on the streets, wearing nothing but bathing suits, disrespecting Laotian culture and the peace that encapsulates so much of Southeast Asia.

We decided to observe the social environment, be as respectful as possible, and not take anything personally. There is something artificial about the place; at night, restaurants play Friends or Family Guy on big screen TVs, while tourists sit comotose on beds and eat. Sara loves Friends, so we watched a few episodes. But mostly, I looked around and thought about the stale energy of the place. Vang Vieng is a very different place indoors than out.

During our three days in Vang Vieng, Sara and I tubed down the river, marveling at the limestone rock faces and jungle walls lining our path. We biked down dirt roads, much to the chagrin of our butt muscles, passing cows and local people, to a cave. We leaped into rivers from sprawling treetops, swam with fish, and drank coconut milk. We made friends. We thought about how lucky we are. We realized how important education is, and how many rural people in Laos never receive the opportunity to go to school.

See that smile?  It keeps on going.  We are headed from Chiang Mai, Thailand to Bangkok tonight on a bus.  I don’t have an iPad to lose this time, so I’ll focus on my latest novel: Roberto Bolano’s 2666. And when I arrive, I’ll be directing all of my energy into singing this, as many times as possible.

I’m sorry I haven’t written in some time. I am in an dark internet cafe in Chiang Mai, Thailand. I am surrounded by rusty, groaning fans and giggling middle school students playing video games. Although I love Chiang Mai, and have an entire country to document (Laos), this post is going to focus on the journey from Vang Vieng, Laos, to Chiang Mai, Thailand.

We booked a bus to take us to Chiang Mai, knowing that the journey would take about 24 hours. Sleeping pills, Monopoly cards, and our iPads provided necessary assurance that we wouldn’t lose our minds on the bumpy, twisting roads that connect Laos and Thailand.  We learned quickly that the trip would include several stops and bus switches, designated by arbitrary stickers haphazardly placed on our shirts, and the random suggestions provided by strangers. This was our first bus, which we boarded in Vang Vieng at 10 AM.

We disembarked the first time in Vientiane, Laos, after a couple of hours passing children playing and bathing alongside the road. As per the request of our bus driver, who quickly drove away – along with our confidence that we would make it to Thailand – we waited on a corner next to a small fruit stand and a couple of taxi drivers resting in the shade. After about thirty minutes, a sputtering tuk-tuk approached. This is a tuk-tuk.

The tuk-tuk picked up a few more travelers along the way, two of whom became our travel buddies for the next couple of days: Robert and David, from Rome and Luxembourg respectively. It was fantastic to spend time with such easy-going and fun-loving people. After arriving at another bus stop, we asked around and climbed on a bus headed to Udon Thoni, a Thai town south of the Laos border. I spent the first five minutes of the ride attempting to conquer the mosquitoes that promptly swarmed Sara and me, and the rest of the time entirely engrossed in a book that I picked up at a tiny, used bookstore in Laos. The book, you ask? The book is the reason I lost my iPad, I think. If you consider yourself a passionate person, with an ability to suspend disbelief, and maybe you enjoy cooking and the intimate relationship between food and emotion, read Like Water for Chocolate.

We got off the bus leaving Laos, frantically getting money out of an ATM to pay some kind of exit fee, then off the bus again (with all of our belongings) in Thailand before Udon Thoni, getting our Thai visas and ensuring that we are not meant to be on “Locked Up Abroad.”  By the time we got to Udon Thoni, I was sure that I was in the clear.  What could go wrong?  We had our visas, maybe had one more switch ahead of us, and – as the bus pulled into the crowded and smog-filled bus station – I was reading the last page of my book, transported to a magically realistic Mexico, with tears streaming down my face.  I got off the bus, dreaming of quail in rose petal sauce and true love.  My iPad was tucked into the pocket of the seat in front of me.

After getting off the bus, we were ushered to the flat bed of a pick-up truck, where we relaxed against a mountain of luggage.  Robert, ever the romantic, got out his ukelele and starting playing “What a Wonderful World.”  Sara and I sang along, the wind in our hair and the half-moon shining down, as we raced to another bus stop from which we would leave for Chiang Mai.  It was at this bus stop, ten minutes later and twenty minutes before our final bus would depart, huddled over a plate of fried rice, that I realized I didn’t have my iPad.  I looked at Sara, apologized, told her to go on without me, and set off to find my iPad.  Looking back, I’m fairly sure I knew I would never see it again.  There might have been something in the hunt in which I reveled.

To get back to the original bus stop, I must have climbed into the oldest tuk-tuk with the oldest driver in all of Thailand.  In my panicked state, I should have taken a picture.  I’m pulling money out of my wallet, completely clueless as to the value of any of the bills, begging him to go quickly; he is looking at me with glazed eyes, turning off the engine and cocking his head to the side.  It was the polar opposite experience of that which people in a hurry have in New York City, in which they leap into a cab and scream, “Chase them!” and the taxi cab driver gleefully obliges.  We finally took off, at a breakneck speed of seven miles per hour.  You know how when you’re in a hurry, the lights always seem to turn red right as you’re approaching?  That was us.

When I arrived at the bus stop, after 8 PM, I knew I was in for it.  I ran between buses, coughing through smog, quickly realizing that absolutely no one around me spoke English.  I was playing the fool.  I should speak Thai.  Somehow, I ended up in a small, bright office with orange chairs and ten Thai people waiting patiently for their buses.  Desperately – and egotistically – attempting to tell the entire room that I left my iPad on my bus, typing imaginary air keys to the sound of their laughter, I somehow ended up on the back of a motorcycle with a Thai man, about my age, who spoke no English.  We took off, with me grabbing onto his waist, completely oblivious to where we were headed.  The other bus stop?  His house?  The moon?  I decided to call him Hero.

Hero grinned at me every time I asked him a question.  A big, toothy grin, shot back my direction as he raced between cars and ignored honking tuk-tuks.  The next thing I knew, we pulled onto a small, quiet street.  On the street was my original bus.  I was shocked.  Surely, my iPad would be there!  Where it always was!  Hero and I, without keys, looked at each other.  He grinned one more time and removed (a much more diplomatic word than “broke”) a window.  With the flashlight from his phone, we climbed onto the bus, rushed to my original seat, and sighed.  No luck.  He searched everywhere, including the engine and the driver’s belongings.  The iPad was gone.

We made driving motions, attempting to convey to one another that we still had some fleeting, far-fetched hope that the iPad was safely at home with the driver, awaiting my return.  Upon returning the office at the bus station and hugging Hero, I sat next to the only person in the office who spoke a smidgen of English: an older woman named Sula, whose bangles made clanging noises every time she spoke.  She had terrific gestures, and was proud to show me her favorite bracelet, made entirely of charms engraved with the image of the beloved King Bhumibol.  Sula called numbers that we thought might be the driver, while the remaining people in the office engaged in heated debate over the best course of action, smiled at me, and occasionally broke into fits of laughter.  At one point, everyone broke into cheers when someone on the other end of the line said that yes, in fact, they did find a computer.  But it was a large computer in a case, and as my face fell, everyone in the office shook their heads sadly.

Eventually, Sula looked at me and said, “Annette, come back at nine AM.  Driver arrive then.  You talk to him.”  I asked my Thai family where I should sleep.  Several people attempted to tell me that if they weren’t heading to Bangkok, I could have come home with them.  Sula looked at me and said, “I know place.  But not five-star.”  I couldn’t help but laugh.  I had absolutely no luggage, trusting the amazing Sara, Robert, and David to take care of my bags, which were now on a bus somewhere in central Thailand.  Sula walked me to a small hotel, near the bus stop, with a room with broken shower and a television playing Scrubs.  We hugged goodbye.  I told her she is a gift.

I went to sleep for a few hours after trapping a couple of mosquitoes in the bathroom and reflecting on privilege.  I hadn’t learned the lesson yet.  All I could think was that I had just left one of the poorest countries in the world, and I must be a real shit to be such an airhead.

When I woke up the next morning, I went to the bus stop and postulated who might be the new owner of my iPad.  Because Sara was nearly the last person off of the bus, I’m guessing that the iPad is now in the hands of the young man who works for the bus company and collects tickets from the passengers.  He needs it more than I do, surely, with all of the agonizingly long bus rides he takes.  When I waited for the bus driver to arrive – who eventually showed up with the ticket collector, each shaking his head emphatically when I told them I left my iPad on their bus – a man working at the station gave me six small, ripe bananas and ate them with me.  I looked around the bus station for the last time and finally realized that the experience had absolutely nothing to do with an iPad, and everything to do with humility and gratitude.

Somehow, I used my phone to book a flight leaving five hours later for Chiang Mai.  I hopped into a tuk-tuk headed for the airport with a driver who jokingly, using gestures, asked me if I wanted to drive.  I laughed and told him that it wasn’t our day to die.  When I arrived at the airport, I was somehow able to get through security and walk directly onto a propeller plane leaving for Chiang Mai in ten minutes.  No waiting, no fee, nothing but clear skies and time to reflect.  By the time I walked into the garden of our hostel in Chiang Mai, energetically drawn to the shining figure of Sara, laying in the sun and worrying about my whereabouts, I was happy.

People spend hundreds of dollars on tours to have “authentic” experiences when they’re abroad.  Instead of berating myself for my humanity, I am choosing to look at the scenario like this: I paid a few hundred extra dollars to have an authentic Thai experience, in which I was welcomed to this beautiful country with kindness, humor, and ripe bananas.

Written on February 11th: