No matter where the station clerk says the bus is going you can rest assured that nearly every 3rd world bus is coming from the same place: hell. Weather it is the cramped seats, livestock sitting next to you, or the people pushing past to puke out your window it seems there are always a few reasons to find yourself uttering the phrase again.
Oh my god, this is the fucking bus from hell.
I had just crossed the border from Thailand into Laos. The capital city Vientienne had a few charms to offer, such as not being Thailand, but the city Luang Prabang had been calling too loudly for too long. It was only a matter of hours before I was on my second bus excursion of the day.
It was 20:00 O’clock when I boarded for the nine-hour ride. It took no student of shit situations to see at first glance that this, indeed, was the bus from hell. The seats looked to be inspired by Guantanamo stress positions and the motorcycle in the isles killed any fantasy of ever standing up again.
Thanks to the young body it was a few hours before the pain started. By the time any real agony of note had set in I had already accepted that my knees were going to ride in my nose for the duration. What I could not come to terms with though was the geometrically impossible angle my seat was positioned in. It was nothing short of a modern engineering marvel. Between chair, window, and angle there was no possible way to position my head in a manner that even approached ‘kind of uncomfortable.’ Miserable was the only option.
The X Y axis of evil fought its good fight with my comfort until the early hours of the morning. My pain was pushed further by the gong that clanged out over the PA some noise that was a bastard cousin of melody. The sound was a display of sleep canceling racket I dare any anthropologist to call music.
The bus sped through tight turns that were invisible in the black night. Occasionally a headlight would offer a hint of a rock like a girlfriend offers a hint of cheating. As in, a hint you would much rather do without. Periodic crashes announced potholes and hinted at the possibility that the bus ride had the potential to be the last. The only consolation was that the stench of BO was coming from my own armpits and not the man next to me.
The voice that came over the PA caught my attention for a number of reasons. First, it was no longer a banging gong, and second, it sounded kind of good. Despite the totally unfamiliar language the echo on the vocals was familiar. In fact, it was something I knew. When the horns dropped and the rhythm started my brain refused to believe my ears. I was bewildered that not only was the song not causing me physical pain but was borderline fantastic. I listened intently waiting to realize that I was wrong and it was awful but the moment never came.
I said sleep be damned and sat straight up to sort out the tune that was unfolding before my eardrums. The ChiKA ChiKA rhythm was right, it was just in the wrong place. The lead singer’s scratchy voice turned the unpronounceable refrain over again and again. The only word I could understand was when the word “reggae” was shouted like an explanation that my ears were not deceiving me. The guitarist then moved to beat the snot out of his instrument in a poor mans Jimi Hendrix impression that said this is the raw, real, home grown spiel. I swear you could hear that guitar scream rape.
What could this music be doing here? It was real reggae. The rhythm, drums, and guitars were better than a message and bed. I moved with every bit of the song and its time changes soaking up the audio therapy. For me, the bus no longer existed.

But just as quickly as it started it was over. The gong commenced and I remembered where the bus had just come from. The feeling was awful. I had been felt up and left cold. The bitch of a song told me she loved me then left me high and dry. It was heartbreak. I did not know if I should be grateful for the experience. Or was it worse to have the glimmer of hope only to be dumped back to the dregs of a window seat on the Shit Can Express.
At 6:00am I got off the bus with the rhythm still in my ears. Lush green hills rolled through fog, and orange glimpses of the morning sun echoed the saffron clad monks that went about their business. It was a scene as far away from the pit of the bus as one could hope.
Days later while walking through a market in Luang Prabang I could not believe my ears again. The song was spilling out of a tall single speaker that had a TV set on top of it. On the set was the Karaoke video that accompanied my song. The grainy video was that type of fantastic that only low budget can provide. A fifty something year-old Thai man with dreadlocks wailed out the song in a club filled with real people in the only conceivable setting for a reggae karaoke video.
I did not even bother to ask how much for the disc. In three months the bootleg CD was the only item I purchased without bartering.
With no CD player I relied on chance encounters to hear the track. Once aware of the song it was suddenly everywhere. Markets, sidewalks, even hip-hop remixes in Phnom Penh blared the musical work of genius and graceful timing. It even was the first song played at the American owned bar after Barack Obama was elected president.
Every person I talked to about the song seemed to have a few things in common. First and foremost was the universal appreciation of the track. Even the Beatles had detractors but somehow this Thai reggae jam was beyond that. The second thing they all had in common was their response to a question. It was the question that I hoped would unlock what had become my mystery for Laos. The question was an obvious one. Who is this group? Their answer sits under the song’s “Artist” category in my I tunes library: I Wish I Knew.

NOTE: This guy was trying to convince me it was a good idea to smuggle gems from India to the States. Really it was the kind of employment I have always wanted. You don’t actually do anything and you get a fat pile of coin. But then I remembered I am not an idiot. Regardless, it was about a week after I wrote this. He had the song on a memory stick that I put on my computer and that lead to an album name, that led to a youtube clip, and that answered everything.

I often wonder if what it is the human race is missing is a natural predator. Imagine something dangerous, preferable with big claws and teeth, maybe thick fur, that could come and snatch anyone of us at any moment with no warning. SNARCH and gone.
A Scandinavian woman told me a great story. She had gone on one of those tiger safaris through a tiger reserve where nobody ever actually sees any tigers. After the drive she was enjoying a meal in the town when, behold, a tiger arrived. It sprinted down the block, grabbed a barking dog by the scruff of its neck, and was gone in an instant. Imagine what the other dogs thought. Not one of those pooches was ever the same again. If they had been suburban children the therapy bills would probably made orthodontics and college impossible. Each one knew that in their world there was no safety. I bet the next day they barked less and might have even been more considerate when marking the trees and lampposts they claimed as their own. Just think of the potential if these tigers were lose in NY. Rude police men and the walking spittle that occupies Wall St. They would all be fare game.
While India and Asia is full of things that are best described as fucking bizarre, I can’t say I have seen any creatures that would fill the requirements to be the predator the human race requires. But, I can say I dig the way holy cows keep people on their toes. Many of the bovines get pushed around and “Hut”ed away by the locals but every so often you see one of the creatures that have that air of authority. Kings of potential burger kingdom. I am never quite sure if smacking their ass and screaming is the best way to deal with the big fellas even though if is standard procedure for the others. Their height is close to five and a half feet. They have dorsal fins that would make a great white envious. Their racks look like medieval torture devices.
The traveling God Father has told me stories about the cows taking chunks out of people. Michelle the (flying) Frenchmen was apparently tossed a few meters by one. In Jaisalmer a man told me about a rude tourist being shit all over by another. And just the other day I looked up to see a calf running at top speeds down the narrow street right towards me. It was a close miss and part of me hoped that it would get somebody further down the block. In fact, most of me hoped it would get somebody further down the block.
Unfortunately I have never seen one of the cows really stick to somebody. It is my dark and (not so) secret fantasy to see a rickshaw driver (Branden’s mortal enemy) tossed, maimed, stamped, and/’or crumpled by one of these guys. While it has not yet happened, it is nice to know when you hear that ass hole on his motor bike honking his horn that at least there is a chance that this could be his fate.

Its pretty amazing the number of excuses a person can come up with for not taking a photo. Little kids are boring, I hate it when people look right into the camera, and I feel badly invading this person’s privacy. The last of those is the worse because I don’t honestly care about their privacy, I just feel awkward taking the photo.
Brooks set up this ideal photo in my mind and it has kept me from shooting some flics that by other standards would actually be pretty dope. It roughly works like this: The subject is up to some task, you can see their eyes, they are not looking at you, and it elicits some emotional response. There is also of course great light and nothing coming out of their head and No little kids. NO EYE CONTACT. Maybe the rule of thirds in play.
So I took this shot of these little kids. They looked right at the camera. I said huh, that’s kind of cool.

This is from Essaouira Morocco. The town is famous, in part, thanks to Jimi Hendrix who in theory wrote "Castles Made of Sand" after visiting the city. It was BS though. He wrote the song before he ever made it to Morocoo. But as they say never let the truth stand in the way of a good story.