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This is no international harbor

said the border policeman when the world sank into the mist for the first time. No harbour – I could imagine that, since I just drove 100 kilometres away from the sea on tiny village streets, then 20 lonely-as-hell kilometres on serpents up into the grey clouds, which condensed on me and made me terribly wet. The policemen seemed happy about some company at the end of the world. So I stayed for a cup of tea before heading to the next border which, according to the detailed map one of the policemen drew, was about 100 kilometres away. It was late. So I drove much too fast for the five metres of sight the mist left me.

Now I sit at the Vietnamese border, looking at my toe. There was an incident on the way: My toe got between Betsy’s brake and the leg of a calf. Of course Betsy had no problem defeating the piece of cattle. Even my toe looks like in one piece. Well, that is what happens if you hurry too much. At least the condensed mist helps cooling it.

I have been sitting here for half an hour. I am waiting. Not that I had any real choice: The only person in the room made absolutely clear by gesticulating that my wish is none of her business. Getting on her or anybody else’s nerves is not even worth thinking about: My visa ran out two days ago. If anyone here is in a bad mood, I will have to pay for it – plenty! Simply driving through is not a solution either: The mist leaves me no chance to see if there is a sentry. Also I do not know about the further consequences. That is all my list of things I can do has to offer for now. So I wait.

Finally a policeman passes by. My problem does not seem to be of his business either but he speaks some English. I make a compliment concerning his uniform, which suits him formidably, show him my passport and in no time he goes to kick awake his subordinate and watches himvery carefully as he makes his stamp in my passport. Step one done: I got out of Vietnam with a run-out visa.

I don’t know

said the border official when I showed him my last 300000 Dong – about half the visa cost in the wrong currency. There was no ATM capable of giving me money in the last 200 kilometres. Then the official went into the security hut, from which laughter can now be heard regularly. I have been sitting in the mist, smoking cigarettes for half an hour now. The border police is playing boule.

The official comes out of the hut. He wants to send me back to Vietnam. Neither do I want nor can I go to Vietnam: My visa is invalid. Just as I cannot go to Lao: The official is not open to any negotiations. I’m stuck between two borders.

I sit down and wait. Doing that I recognize – open and attentive as I am – that the rear lights of a car passing the border vanish in the mist without stopping again. So there is no second checkpoint. Whick gives me the new possibility to simply walk across the border. Nobody is at his post anymore and the waiting hall is open at both ends. But I would have to leave Betsy behind and who knows when the fact that I have no visa will cause trouble – when I leave the country or even in the first hostel when I check in? Not to mention the risk of being seen by the guards anyway. I keep that in mind and wait on.

A border policeman comes over to me. He is all smiles. “You sleep here? Have dinner?” There is hearty eating and heavy drinking in the security hut. Sticky rice, meat, fish, vegetables and soup. Plus a lot of beerlao. I get out the guitar and the party starts. Eight Laotian border policemen cheer me on while I bawl ‘I will survive’. By the end of the evening I have climbed the social ladder to be their cupbearer. I fill the glasses plentiful. We lie in each other’s arms listening to greasy thaipop. The Universe is bombarding me with possibilities now: All the guards are drunk. It would be more than simple to get my stuff and cross the border. Even better: I got one of them in negotiations concerning the price for my motorcycle and my guitar. Both of them are already at the half of my desired price. Still none of these are good enough for me yet. I decide to wait on. I lie down on a bench in the waiting hall and fall asleep.

No Cannot

said the woman at the counter. So I sit down with the waiting crowd and stink. Strong enough to recognize that the business man next to me smells normally. It’s the bank’s own fault if they want you to take off your shoes at the entrance. A shower for my morning rituals would have been too great a demand – I am soaking wet from the mist anyway. The first travellers were baffled enough when a white guy in his underwear with a toothbrush in his mouth welcomed them begging at the laotian border. I spent the morning with a sign in my hand reading ‘I’m stuck! Please donate for my visa! Moto for sale!’. My moto wouldn’t have brought me the sum I wanted to have. Nobody wanted to donate either. Partly this was – as some dutch friends I met in Hanoi and here again explained to me – because everybody had the same problem: No one took more money with him then he needed for the visa to avoid losses with money exchanges. But then the Laotians had just raised the price for several nationalities and the Vietnamese demanded one dollar stamp fee. So nearly everyone was one to six dollars short.

My new allies from the border police helped me to succeed in my siege at last. Or at least to find a compromise. They gave the OK to the officials; so I could leave them my passport and head for the next city to get money from a bank there. There was no ATM but three dollars charge seemed a ridiculous loss compared to selling off my moto for half of its value.

Now there’s another intricate problem opening up: Without money I can’t get back my passport. Without passport, though, I can’t get money. So I sit dripping in the bank, stinking and clueless. I grab the mobile of a businessman and call the border twice. Twice I explain my problem. I’m unsure if the man on the other end understands at all what I want. The only thing coming back is “one moment”, a click and a dialtone.

So what now? Drive back to the border? Then I would have to go twice back and forth. Once to get my passport and once to bring them the money. 120 Kilometers. Which means two hours driving. I have hardly any fuel left. Call once more? Sure … do you know the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again expecting something different to happen. And no, I will not rob the bank, nor ask another time if it would work without passport. I’ve already strained the nerves of the woman behind the counter enough. After all she should help me. Again, only waiting can help. And indeed: 20 minutes later the woman behind the counter calls me: “Sir! Please wait! They bring here!”

Almost 24 hours after I first stood at the Vietnamese-Laotian border it’s done. I find myself with Betsy on the Laotian side, a beautiful, freshly shining visa in my passport. Now the money changer is already offering me two thirds of my former desired price for Betsy. But the tables have turned. The price just climbed 50%.

I just want to start my Laotian adventure when a cloudburst breaks loose. Once more I am waiting at the border. The storm passes; I start driving. This time I only waited for a short time. I overtake the clouds and get terribly wet. Once again. Still I won’t stop again – that little dryer wouldn’t be worth the wait.

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