Roberto, squared

I've already written, OK whined, about my first days' ride out of Luang Prabang, Laos. It was a 80 or 90 km day (already repressing the pain) of mostly uphills and heat. But I failed to mention that this is where I ran into Roberto. And his friend, Roberto. The guest house was at the top of the hill and I was dead tired as I pushed my bike into the storage room next to the restaurant. The storage room also had a large mattress on the floor and doubled as someones bedroom but no one seemed to care I was parking my bike there. It was then I saw a beautiful new Trek mountain bike next to the fridge and piles of veggies and fruit. My sense of "off the beaten track" was offended, but I looked forward to talking trash with another cyclist. It's the kind of conversation that will make the average non-cyclist fall rapidly into REM sleep. You know, "how many kilomteres did you go today" and "how much water did you drink" and "what did you think of that last hill" and the like. It's weird but we instantly have a connection. No matter where we are from or how old or how different, a cyclist out here is a kindred spirit. So I sat down and was thinking about my upcoming noodle soup when a very handsome and ruggedly stubbled Italian guy came in and sat down at another table. I walked over and sat down and he introduced himself as, you guessed it, Roberto. After 2 minutes the conversation ended. It was clear the kindred spirit thing was not going on here, at all. At first I thought it was a language issue, but his English was pretty good. You know that feeling when you really wish you hadn't just sat down and committed yourself to a conversation with someone you have absolutely no connection with and you feel sort of tight in the throat and chest and a little squirmy and fidgety and you start looking around for empty tables and thinking up excuses for why you have to eat alone and can't come up with a good enough one to make it hide the fact that you'd pretty much rather eat anywhere else in the world than at this one table? Yeah, that was the feeling I was having just as his giant, bald headed, bird faced friend named, mm hmm, Roberto came and sat down with us. I was relieved...for about 2 more minutes until the same feeling crept over me and the silencio at the table became strained. I tried the always reliable, "George Bush is a moron" line of conversation but it fell away almost unnoticed. I tried the well worn bike-gear-blather but again a big miss as he didn't seem too interested even in his own cycling adventure. As a matter of fact he didn't seem interested in much. He had just met his friend, Roberto, in Laos and Roberto was following Roberto via bus and carrying a lot of his gear for him. I was wishing Alisa would hurry up and save me from this scene but since she and I were needing a lot more space than a small box of a room with two single beds can provide (i.e. wishing the other would accidentally ride off a mountain cliff), she was in no hurry to share dinner as well.
When dinner came we all dug into the food and I finally noticed the eyes of these two mis-matched Italians. They were bleary and bloodshot. When the conversation was thus directed to the always popular subject of drugs they both perked up and the discussion was lively. Both in their 30's and a bit old for constant drug use I was startled to find out that this was why they liked Laos so much. With the constant pot use, and smoking opium when available, I wondered when the one Roberto had enough time or energy for bike riding. It was like a full time occupation with these guys as they discussed the different aspects of drug use here in Laos.
We vowed to cycle together the next day and I finally escaped off to bed. By 9:00 the next morning there was no sign of Roberto, or that his bags were anywhere near being packed so Alisa and I took off. We ran into him later that day. Since his buddy had all his gear on a bus somewhere, he caught up with us easily...even after smoking his morning joint. That afternoon, found the two Robertos staying at the same guest house as Alisa and I, once again. This place was a jewel that every passing cyclist had mentioned to us. As an aside, after cycling for hours and seeing the cars, busses and mopeds passing, and having long internal dialogues with oneself, it is a rare and wonderful treat to see a geared up, loaded down, cyclist coming from the opposite direction. I always like to stop and chat and it gives me another excuse to not pedal. There are an amazing number of us cycling fools out on the roads of the world and even if it makes me feel a little less "special", it's always good to share the pain and information. The ones that make me feel like the wuss I am are the ones who have cycled from their homes in Europe somewhere. Through the middle east and Pakistan, into India up the Himalayas into Tibet, through China, maybe dip in Kyrgistan or durka-durkastan until they find some beach in Thailand to hang out on. I find them heading north, cycling home...2 years or so later. Along this stretch of road every cyclist had mentioned the hot springs just outide of our next destination. After 2 days of mountain passes the decision was a no brainer and we altered plans so as to stay at the bungalows just next to the hot springs. The steep mountains and woods surrounding the place were beautiful. The atmosphere, even though built right on the main north/south route of Laos, was serene. "Main route" here means an occasional truck or bus passes as opposed to a smaller road where nothing passes. A large square pool had been dug out right next to the road but a little further up the hill was a hot stream that, nestled in the trees and boulders, soaked away all my muscle tension and pain. In the morning I was glad I had chosen the stream to sit in as there was a group of locals that were brushing their teeth, doing laundry and bathing, soap and all, in the big pool. The two Roberto's were sleeping in apparently, once again, so Alisa and I took off after a snack, vowing to eat in town. We didn't want to repeat last nights dinner experience. The Roberto's must have had the munchies last night because the food that arrived at the table was sketchy and had no similarity to what was ordered. I'm used to that by now of course but the disparity had reached a new level. Why Roberto chose to order schnitzl in northern Laos was a mystery. So was the plate of food that arrived about an hour later. My vegetarian noodle soup had more huge chunks of meat in it than noodles but it looked rather like chicken so I picked out the bits and ate the rest...and I hate doing that! But they must have run out of chicken because the mystery meat that everyone else ate brought up the topic of eating dog meat in Laos. Apparently eating a dog that had yellow fur gives one more power than if the dog is another color. In Thailand a yellow dog will be exported (as pets of course) and fetch up to 4000 Bhat. That is almost $150!! As dinner here was dirt cheap the meat must have come from some poor black mutt. No one felt very good the next day.
Riding along in the afternoon heat I discovered how Roberto can do so many drugs and cycle around Asia so well. As passenger truck passed by I heard a "ciao" coming from the back and saw the Roberto's waving amiably with big grins and a bike tied to the roof of the truck. "Hey, that's cheating" I yelled smiling and waving, forgetting all the trains and busses I've enjoyed over the past few months. For the rest of my time in Laos I kept running across the Roberto's. In Vang Vienne they came up to our breakfast table, already hopelessly stoned, and ordered their second breakfast of the day as ours looked so delicioso. Later that day I ran into them heading for the "happy pizza" place and they were discussing the magic mushroom shake with which to chase it down. In Vientiane we cycled passed them once again and they invited us to visit them at their guest house later in the day. I never did get there. I think we took our relationship as far as it could go...even though I ended up really liking these guys. I can't even say why. Maybe it was just seeing a familiar face everywhere I went. Maybe it was their relaxed attitudes and constant smiles. But ultimatley, it's not nearly enough as stoned people are really boring. Pleasant maybe, but boring and I couldn't face another evening with the Roberto's.