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Hitching a Ride
two ‘wanidas’ thumb their way through Laos
by Kari J. Bodnarchuk
Excerpts:
“Good Lord,” says Geri. “I’ve never hitchhiked before.” Geri and I are in northwestern Laos, just across the border from Thailand, and planned to take a ten-seat minibus from the Laotian border town of Hua Xai up north to Luang Nam Tha. But when we arrived at the station, an hour early, we were told “bus go” already. It’s a 260-mile trip — too far to walk — so we are hitchhiking.
I’ve hitchhiked in Tasmania and New Zealand and found it a great way to meet people. It seemed safe, so long as I was with someone else. The one time I hitched alone, I was so scared my thumb was visibly shaking. Nothing terrible happened, but I promised myself I’d never hitch alone again.
Traveling in pairs opens all sorts of doors, and that’s the main reason why Geri and I have stayed together for six months. Otherwise, we are the most unlikely travel companions. Geri is an accountant from Ireland who’s up by 7:00 each morning, goes to sleep by 10:00 p.m. and follows a steady routine in between. I’m a writer from New England whose brain won’t function before 10:00 a.m. and works best after 10:00 p.m. Geri is one of eight kids. I’m an only child. She hates to swim. I love to scuba dive. She left home to work in an Australian bank for a year, and I quit my job to wander the world for 18 months.
We met when I was midway through my trip and Geri was on her way home, planning to make several quick stops in Asia. We ran into each other in a guesthouse in Java a week after I was attacked by four men. We were headed in the same direction and decided to travel together for safety reasons. We’ve stuck together ever since
He asks about our families and tries to figure out what the heck two wanidas — Laotian for women — are doing out here, traveling without our boyfriends or husbands. “Oh, the boyfriends are at home,” says Geri. When she adds, “Men are a big headache,” Samran laughs so hard his shoulders bounce.
We swap stories for several hours, and when the conversation begins to lag, we try to amuse Samran with Western music: Enya, Counting Crows and the Cranberries. When the tape gets stuck between “play” and “eject,” he sings us a few of his favorite songs: “Country Road” and “Sunshine on My Shoulders.” Every hour or so, Samran asks us to reach in back and pull out a greasy bottle full of homemade whiskey. “Makes the trips go smoothly,” he says between swigs . . . . . . . . . After two days in Muang Sing, we cram into a truck with three other people and their giant sacks of market goods, and head toward Udomxai, six hours away on another chewed-up road. My spine crunches like an accordion with every bounce, and I have the best seat — I’m able to lean against a backpack and several bags of sanitary napkins. Geri’s feeling downright ornery, and when I try to share her misery, she snaps, “Can’t you move back more? Bloody ’ell.”
I wonder if the trip has soured her desire to hitchhike and hope it hasn’t, because I’m completely hooked.
We end up in Udomxai for the night, where I accidentally check us into a brothel . . .
