Laos – A Wartime Visit

In September 1970, I was in the far north of Thailand. I had been travelling with a guy from New Zealand who was too lazy to get out of bed and catch the early bus from Chiang Rai to Chieng Khong. I took a boat across the Mekong to Ban Houei Sai in Laos. While I had an easy exit from Thailand, just finding Immigration in Laos was often a trial. I was to learn that it wasn’t enough to have permission to enter and leave Laos but was also necessary to be stamped in and out of every town. I ended up with four pages of bright red stamps.

After making a few inquiries at the river, I was directed to a nearby house where the resident admitted to being the man who stamped passports – and stamped mine twice, just to be sure. I found a cheap hotel in town, had a shower and sat on the balcony drinking beer, watching the people go by. Everyone seemed to be wearing (at least) part of a “tiger” suit – camouflage clothing – some with pants, some with a shirt. Everyone carried a weapon of some kind. I felt positively naked. The guy I had left behind came down the street looking for me, but as he was unreliable, I let him find his own way.

Later, I was to stroll around the village and discover the “airport” – essentially a flat field with a road running through it. By the side of the road was a wooden hut which I learned was a combination of Air Traffic Control, Departure Lounge and CIA Headquarters. When I say CIA, the official title in those parts was “Air America” but for some strange reason the Americans denied it was CIA – although it was common knowledge. They were flying two Cessna’s at the time, one in the air and one on standby. When one came in to land the other took off. They were flying mainly leaflet and arms drops, I was told.

I inquired around about how to travel south and found that my only real option was to fly to Vientiane – Luang Prabang was cut off except by air. It was too dangerous to travel down the Mekong River due to bandits. The area is called the “Plain of Jars” and is populated mostly by Hmong tribespeople. I decided to fly to Vientiane on the next flight in two days time. I learned that the New Zealander had been trying to hitch a ride with “Air America” – but they just laughed at him. He subsequently took a boat down the Mekong – I was to see him again in Bangkok.

The flight south was in an ancient DC3. I boarded and as the only “roundeye” (Westerner) was given a seat. These were folded against the sides of the plane which was in reality a cargo plane. The seats were soon filled but more and more people came on board. There were loops of leather suspended from the ceiling and the unseated passengers were “straphanging” like on the London Underground. As well as the passengers there were at least two pigs, several chickens, various boxes, sacks and parcels. I am surprised we took off at all. When we landed at Luang Prabang about an hour later, everybody got off and stood under the wings in the shade while the cargo (and some passengers) were unloaded. We re-boarded and flew on to Vientiane, the capital city of Laos.

The first order of the day was to find Immigration and check in with them. Then I quickly found my way to some bungalows situated on Avenue Dong Palan. There were a few travellers there already, but all had come across the Mekong from Nong Kai in Thailand. There was an American GI, a Vietnam deserter – a real wholesome “boy next door” type, who desperately wanted to be a “hippie” (whatever that is). He would visit the opium dens every day and smoked as much “Buddha” grass as he could. He slept with a different Lao girl every night (there was no shortage of girls who wanted to go to Thailand), wore love beads, etc. Even after all that, he could not help being just an ordinary nice guy.

When it comes to drugs, opium makes my nose itch for some reason, hashish makes me want to spit and “Buddha” grass made me crazy. We were sitting around smoking one night and for some reason I wanted no more of it – too late! “Buddha” had little effect on me for quite a while – then it hit me. I got the thought into my head that I would “never come down” – a thought which I could not shake and which made me paranoid. I remember walking round and round the compound in the pouring rain saying that to myself while periodically throwing up. One of the guys convinced me to go to sleep and I was back to normal (whatever that is) next morning.

To get from the bungalows to the town centre meant going through the main market where it was possible to buy grass in plastic bags ready cut or, if you were hungry, a nice grinning dog’s head (a Hmong tribal delicacy). Next to the market was the Pathet Lao “Embassy”. The generals would go out during the day and fight the Lao government soldiers and come to the “Embassy” at night to party. It was a crazy war.

Vientiane had a distinct French flavor – the main road was the Avenue Lan Xang complete with a copy of the Arc De Triomphe. The specialty of most of the restaurants was French cuisine – Chateau briand steaks and crepe suzette – expensive by Lao standards but a nice change from rice and noodles.

In the centre of town was the Coca Cola factory (in reality CIA headquarters – sorry, Air America). It was also the hangout for a strange person, believed to be a hooker of some sort, who would call out to passing foreigners in a strange strangulated voice. No-one was game to reply as no-one was quite sure what sex he/she was. Whoever it was didn’t do much business. There was also an Englishman, thought to be a mercenary who wanted to sell us a machine gun for some reason – we avoided him also.

I was to meet a couple of other interesting people, one a Dutchman called Hans, and a Frenchman named Michel. Hans had boldly strolled into Siem Reap (Ankgor Wat) in Cambodia and had been captured by “Charlie” (for the uninitiated – Victor Charlie or VC or Viet Cong). When I met him he had been relentlessly pursued by a couple of reporters and other busybodies who would ask him “What was it like?” We went out drinking together. Looking back, I think he told me about his experiences mainly because I didn’t ask. When he tried to explain to his captors that he was not an American GI (he had longish hair and a big red beard), and showed them where Holland was on the map – it made no difference. To most people in the South-East Asia, all “roundeyes” came from America – Europe and Australia were both in America. I suppose it works both ways – “All Orientals look alike to me” was a common attitude in the West. I always found it odd that a Thai girl could tell at a glance whether another girl was Lao, Chinese or Burmese.

Hans told me that he had been taken from camp to camp while they decided what to do with him. The group was bombed by the Americans and Hans was wounded – some shrapnel in the hip. Medical supplies were not going to be wasted on a prisoner so the wound did not heal too well. After three months in captivity, Hans was released – apparently “Charlie” was sick of feeding him and would not waste a bullet. He was left with a permanent scar and a hatred of the American military machine. I learned awhile later that he had been hired by the wives of some missing journalists to find out information about their husbands. He had deliberately got himself captured. Two weeks later he went back – I never saw him again.

The other guy I mentioned was quite different. Michel was a French Communist who made his money by buying antiques in SE Asia and selling them in Paris. He wanted to meet “Charlie” and kept pestering Hans for an introduction. Incredible! Hans mostly ignored him. No-one cared much which side Michel was on but when he told us he was “going in” to try to meet Charlie (he wanted to help finance “the cause”) we tried to dissuade him. The problem was he had a nervous disorder. Every 10 seconds or so his right shoulder would twitch. We tried to explain a possible scenario to him. “Just imagine you are walking through the bush and a soldier jumps out – he may be VC or Pathet Lao or even a bandit. He carries an AK-47 with the safety off, his village has just been napalmed by the Americans and all his family killed. He says to himself – Roundeye! – and you just stand there and twitch!” He would not listen and went off into the bush – we never saw him again.

After about a week in Vientiane I decide to go south to Savannakhet and Pakse. First I had to go to Immigration and tell them where I was going – more stamps. It was a long bus trip – two days. The route followed the Mekong and there were stops at various villages along the way. I chose this route because Thailand was just across the river and I could escape if there was any trouble. I reached Savannakhet and, after finding and checking in with Immigration, found a place to stay. The local people thought it strange that a “roundeye” was staying at a cheap hotel. I was to find out that the best hotel in town had been virtually taken over by Air America pilots.

I wandered through town looking around when I heard a voice calling “Come and join us”. I turned to see a “roundeye” with two gorgeous Lao girls sitting outside a bar/restaurant. I sat down and he introduced himself as Jim and bought me a beer – then proceeded to ignore me. From time to time he would turn and ask me a question then ignore me. After a while I got sick of this and made to leave. He persuaded me to stay and bought me another beer – I didn’t need any more persuading. The girls left and Jim suggested that we go back to hotel “where we could talk”. The next thing I know we are jammed into the back seat of a cyclo and heading off into the night. Two beers on an empty stomach had made me happy but suspicious. What did this guy want? My body?

We reached his hotel and went into his room – I was filled with trepidation. He opened a drawer, gave me what must have been a kilo bag of “Buddha” grass and said with a smile, “Roll us a couple of joints and I will be back in a second.”

I stood there for a long moment – literally “holding the bag” – my little brain working overtime. I dropped the bag and was out of there – down the road in the pitch darkness. (What would you have done?) I found out a few days later that Jim was actually a genuinely nice guy (me and my paranoia). He was a “kicker” for Air America and was living in that hotel with a lot of hot shot pilots who mostly ignored him – making him desperate for company. (On a mission, the pilot flies over a drop zone – leaflets, arms, food etc. and the “kicker” is the guy who opens the doors and kicks the goods out – holding on for grim death. He is lowest man on the totem pole so to speak).

I was offered a lift back to town by a Lao guy in a jeep. He pointed out the buildings of interest. “There is the Post Office, the Mayor’s house” etc. etc. I asked what he did in Savannakhet – “I work for Air America” – “Isn’t that the CIA?” I inquired. He stopped the jeep and told me to get out. Me and my big mouth. Quite a evening!

I only stayed another day in Savannakhet before catching a bus for Pakse further south. Again the trip to Immigration for more bright red stamps in my passport. At the bus station I met two French guys. They made a dash for the first of two buses but I decided it was too full as I hate being packed like sardines. I caught the second bus – it turned out to be a lucky choice. On the bus was the Lao guy from the night before – he was most apologetic, “I am sick of having to deny working for the CIA,” he said. His name was Boon and he was going to a small village to visit his family.

A few miles out of town we saw the first bus had stopped and the two Frenchmen were standing with their hands up being threatened by some armed men. Boon said to me, “Get your head down – they look like bandits!” With my head between my knees (kissing my ass goodbye?), I waited. Boon threw a blanket over me but it was unnecessary – our driver did not stop. A little later we heard shots. I felt sick. Boon said, “It doesn’t mean anything – it happens all the time.” A hour later Boon left and I carried on alone to Pakse.

In Pakse I did the usual chores – find out where Immigration is and check in, find a hotel and something to eat. No problem except I had lost my appetite. I had heard that I could buy strawberries in Paksong, a hill village nearby. When I asked how to get there, I was directed to the USIS (United States Information Service). I had used their reading rooms before in a couple of places. This was somewhat different. The guy on the ground floor told me to go upstairs – “They have the latest sitrep on Paksong.” Sitrep? I was to discover that upstairs was (you guessed it) the bloody CIA yet again. The walls were covered with maps – arms drops, leaflet drops, etc. etc. They were actually quite helpful.

“When you get to Paksong, just go to the foot of the hill, show the soldier on guard there your passport and you will have no problem.”

So I went and bought some luscious strawberries. I returned and went back to the USIS – (giving him some of my strawberries) and inquired about local trouble spots to avoid. He said, “The situation is getting worse – only yesterday, bandits took a couple of Frenchmen off a bus and shot them.” I must have gone pale for the guy said “Are you alright, fella? You look as though you have seen a ghost.”

I thanked him for his help and left. I went straight back to the hotel, picked up my pack and headed west to the Mekong. I wasted an hour finding the Immigration guy and getting stamped out of Laos (I got him out of bed and had to give him some money), and was across the river and safely in Thailand.

Two hours later I was on a bus heading for Ubon Ratchathani and subsequently Bangkok. When I checked into the now familiar Thai Son Greet in Bangkok, who should be there but the New Zealander I had left behind in Ban Houei Sai. He had taken a boat down the Mekong (against all advice) and, sure enough, the boat had been attacked by bandits. They took everything he had except his passport and sent him on his way. He thought of himself as some kind of hero – but I thought of him as a fool. He didn’t know how lucky he was to be alive.

I learned later that both Hans and Michel had been shot. Michel had been killed by bandits who just wanted his boots. They didn’t care whose side he was on. Hans was again commissioned by relatives of MIA’s, captured yet again and moved from camp to camp. His captors were surprised by an American patrol who opened fire, killing everyone – including Hans. A sad end.

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