A Motorbike Accident & A Laos Wedding Party

They say everything happens for a reason... and so it was that my motorbike accident the other day held more in store than teaching me one should not, under any circumstances, slam on the front brake of a motorbike whilst riding on a sandy dirt road.

In memory, the accident was quite spectacular. I see bits of plastic flying everywhere -- I leave the seat in the style of Olympian acrobatics, completing a perfect triple somersault before landing back on the seat (and eventually the ground) -- the bike skids along the road... and why not? A trail of sparks and flames erupt from the bike, which finally comes to a stop and emits one last shudder in the comical way a cartoon character dies. Oh yeah, and the 'Rocky' theme song is playing in the background up until the bit about the shudder, at which point the music halts abruptly, making that scratching sound (long forgotten nowadays) of a needle being yanked off a record.

It wasn't quite like that -- my wipe out was far less graceful and dramatic. It was more like: bump.crash.ouch. I hit a bump in the road that dislodged the front fender, sending it flying into the air. I lost my concentration, slammed on the brake (front only) and found myself cheek down in the dirt seconds later. There was no somersault -- in fact, the fall was more in line with a disgruntled baker throwing dough onto a board. There were no sparks and flames, there was not soundtrack except a string of curse words. Well, in addition to the noise the crash must have made, which was loud enough to get the attention of nearby locals who came running to see what happened.

I was surrounded by a family. A man helped me with the bike, although I was up and righting it as if nothing happened before he even arrived (funny how the ego gives one strength in times of embarrassment). His wife patted the dirt out of my clothes as I stood on the side of the road in disbelief that I crashed for no good reason (good reasons include: avoiding a dog, chicken, cow, child, oncoming vehicle, or cash prize from America's Funniest Home Videos). Several passersby stopped to gawk. One of them asked me where I'm from. "United States, USA, America," were all met with a blank stare. Surely he must have heard about one of those, I thought. We did, afterall, bomb the shit out of his country in the '60s.

To make a long story short (and this is only a setup for the real story), this young man understood enough English to go and fetch Benjamin who was farther up the road. Benjamin bent all the pieces back in place that were preventing the bike from running, and we were back on the road to Vientiane. The worst part of all of this is that we didn't make it to our destinations that day -- the Laos Beer factory, for one, where you can drink straight from the tap.

Don't worry about me, friends and family, I came out of the whole thing with few injuries: road rash on my elbow and a slightly bruised ego (and later, a slightly bruised left side).

I started off by saying everything happens for a reason and so... this is where the story really begins. We returned to the bike rental stand (operated through a hotel) and that's where we met Wat. He suggested we get the bike repaired ourselves at a mechanic's shop -- the hotel would probably overcharge us. He and Benjamin went on this errand and an hour + $27.00 later, the bike was fixed, I'd cleaned myself up, and we had an invitation to a wedding party later that night -- we were to meet Wat back at the bike rental stand/hotel at 7 pm. If I hadn't had my little wreck, we probably never would have been invited -- we would have dropped our motorbikes off and without a reason to 'interact' with Wat, that would have been that.

"We're invited to a wedding party tonight," Benjamin told me when he returned from the repair shop.

"A wedding party? What will we wear?" I started to have a fashion crisis.

"We'll wear our best clothes. Don't worry about it."

"What best clothes?" I guffawed. We don't have 'best clothes'. The closest thing to 'best clothes' that I have includes a pair of slightly stained pants with Frankenstein stitching on both legs (I'm not good a mending tears). Women in Laos all wear silk sarongs with intricate designs. I didn't want to show up looking like a slob, but there was no time to buy anything. At least the party will probably be outdoors, I thought... in the dark -- my pants will have to do.

Wat was late, apologizing, "Laos time..." Our group included his wife, her older sister, and several other couples. Wat, Benjamin, and I rode in a tuk tuk. "VIP tuk tuk," the driver joked. Everyone else followed on motorbikes. As we cruised down the dark, bumpy backroads of Vientiane -- with the wind in my hair, the headlights of the following motorbikes bouncing along, and the noise of the combined engines -- I felt like James Dean for the second time during this trip.

We stopped a number of times to ask directions. Benjamin and I felt like we were back in high school, looking for the big party. "I've only been here once before," Wat told us. Eventually we discovered that we were in the North end of the village and we were looking for the South. Soon after, the boom of a party surrounded us. The repetitive bass line and drum beat of Laos music at full blast is the unmistakable sign of a party. That, and the occasional (but lengthy) ramblings and intermittent 'ha, ha, has' of an affable MC.

This was a Friday night and for the groom, whose party we were crashing, it was the beginning of a long and drunk wedding weekend. In Laos, the wedding lasts three days. The first night (this night), the bride and groom have separate parties at their homes -- this gives them time to celebrate with their immediate circle of friends and family. On the second night, there is a party hosted by both the bride and groom and on the third day, they are finally 'officially' a married couple. A hung over couple, I am sure. By the middle of the first night, the groom could hardly stand up. We saw him stumbling and swaying on the dancefloor -- eyes barely open -- brain hardly functioning. He looked like a zombie in 'Night of the Living Dead'. The fact that this was only the beginning of a long 3 days for him assured me that he'll probably never remember his wedding in the first place.

The party itself, for us at least, got off to a slow start. We were seated at a long table (indeed, outdoors... under a canopy, in a dirt yard). Apparently, things don't 'happen' until the groom-to-be has come around and shared a drink with you. After that, food is served. We had Laap (minced beef with mint (and in this case, stomach and guts)), Tom Sam (papaya salad), and a sort of fishy tasting broth served over rice noodles. While there's plenty of alcohol, it's not like what we're used to back home: an open bar, help yourself... Here, people come around with a bottle or a pitcher of beer and pour a glass for each person (one at a time) -- when it's your turn, you must drink the whole thing as fast as possible so the bearer-of-beer may move onto the next person. It's definitely a communal affair, everyone sharing the same glass, and after chugging a few well-filled glasses, I was happy to wait a while for the next one. Getting drunk is a slow, drawn out process (except for the groom of course).

I was encouraged by Wat's sister-in-law, Kongmany, to do the rounds with a bottle. For every beer I poured, I was offered one by the recipient: a very large one... and I had to down it before they would drink theirs. I don't know if this is tradition or if they just wanted to get the falang drunk. They succeeded. By the time I made it around the whole table and back to my seat, I was in that giggly stage of inebriation, lubricated enough to let myself get dragged onto the dancefloor.

The dancefloor was unusual. Normally people clear things out of the way to make a dancefloor, but here, they put things onto it: large plants on plastic chairs in this case. This is to provide an object for people to dance around. Dancing is more like shuffling the feet while moving the hands and its done in a circular fashion: men form an inner circle and face out to an outer circle of women (their dance partners). The whole group move as one, slowly around the object (plants) in a counter clockwise motion.

Being the novelty we were (the only white people at the party), Benjamin and I were constantly revolving around the plants on the dancefloor -- watch out for that cactus. It was not by choice -- we were dragged up there for the fun and amusement of others. I noticed some people copying my dance moves when I broke free from the shuffle-your-feet-move-your-hands Laos style. I was doing some '60s thing with my arms over my head. When I saw this technique take off, I imagined everyone shouting out, "Do the Farang!" Bad dancer that I am, I am damn good in Laos, and some time during the course of the night I became the star of the dancefloor. I was handed off from one person to the next. Hesitant old women were pushed in front of me, and one woman named Thong (Tong) proclaimed that she loved me and danced with me while holding my hands for a few songs too many.

Using English-speaking guests as translators, she told me that she wanted to 'be my friend'. I wasn't exactly sure if this had some secondary meaning. People kept saying, "She wants to be your friend," after I'd nodded my head in agreement. It was the repetition of the statement and their tone of voice that made me wonder if there was something more, like they were saying, "No... she wants to be your FRIEND." Who knows what was going on... she's married, so most likely it was all innocent unless she wanted to be financially reciprocated for being friends. A few people suspected she saw me as a rich foreigner who could help her with money. She dragged me around much of the night as if I was her dolly and asked me to visit her home (she lives near the groom). It was strange, but nice to be idolized for a small bit of time.

Around midnight the party began to fizzle out -- the cops make sure things shut down. The giant 5 foot speakers were packed up and the ear-bleeding volume of the music was thankfully put to a stop. The music was so loud, my brain vibrated -- my eyes crossed -- my mouth watered. It was near impossible to have a conversation with Kongmany, but that didn't stop her from trying. Once, she asked if I wanted to go to Thailand. I told her I would go there in several weeks. It was a few minutes later that I realized she'd asked if I wanted to go to the toilet (she wanted to show me where it was). She must have thought I had amazing bladder control or a strange fear of bathrooms. Benjamin made the same mistake moments after that. He told Kongmany that he loves Thailand (her ears heard 'toilet'). She must have been the most confused by my outright avoidance of the toilet and Benjamin's love of it. Opposites attract, though, right?