Travel Column: The bag with the blue ribbon #1 Be prepared… to wait

Follow our travel columnist and her blue-ribboned backpack around the world to discover the intriguing stories of the people and places she sees

The simple comfort of home seemed a hazy dream as we shrugged on our backpacks. Nursing our New Years Day churning stomachs, we headed to the road to catch a local Laotian bus.

As we clambered aboard a converted pick up truck, two benches tied to each side, our senses were immediately confounded. A small metal roof covered half the back, slowly cooking us alive. Sidestepping over live chickens and navigating our way over rice sacks, we safely squeezed into seats and took in our surroundings.

Our neighbours were a walnut withered couple with puckered cheeks and wide eyes, looking at us with intrigue, blood red betel nut juice, oozing from wide teeth and dripping down their chins. Feeling self-conscious, we tried looking elsewhere only our eyes were met with bobbing brown heads sneaking peeks at us through piles of belongings. Even the baby ceased to cry, reaching to our fair hair in wonder. Thankfully, a struggle of ducks, tied into a string vest distracted the audience by trying to run out of the back with a tumble, legs caught in the mesh.

Belongings were being loaded as we sat amidst the mayhem and scratched our legs where the mosquitoes were drunkenly swaying around our ankles.

Suddenly, a wizened man climbed up beside us, a manic grin spread across his face, wild white hair sticking up in wisps. We watched as he clambered up to the roof with ease, a motorbike slung nonchalantly across his back. We looked at each other, confused.

Within seconds, he had joined us and like a conjuror, produced a clear bottle of noxious liquid and some sticks with mystery meat jammed onto the end, which he proceeded to thrust in every passengers direction, chattering animatedly.  Our stomachs heaved as the offerings came our way. Again the whole congregation looked at us. Silent. Waiting. As my companion ripped off a section of carcass, I raised the bottle. My eyes watered. The man’s face was falling so I squeezed my eyes shut and gulped down the shimmering liquid. My liver immediately dissolved yet the man was delighted. Now that the ‘farangs’ (foreigners) had passed the test, the journey could start.

After travelling long enough to join a deserted dust track, the truck started to rattle and whine, slowly juddering to a halt. Men started to get out makeshift tools from the Stone Age and squeeze under the wheels. Our new friend staggered away and then we realised our naivety. Of course locals know what to expect when they undertake a journey. We waited to see what our friend would do and were rewarded with a keen wave, his white hair blowing in the wind as he rode away on his motorbike, and a wide victorious grin. We, however, would have to wait.