More than an Eye Sore: The Darker Side of Travel
Sara and I sat down on the patio of a fairly nice café and ordered two Laos coffees. Something in me sparked at the thought of the black liquid. Probably an addiction. I resisted the urge to scratch at my eye, which was swollen practically shut from a mosquito bite received a few days earlier. Over Sara’s shoulder a young busboy piled up some plates. Before taking them inside, he walked over to a planter that held some beautiful orange flowers. Pulling the front of his pants down, he plopped his dick out and squirted six seconds worth of piss into the planter, then flipped his dick back into his pants and took the plates inside. Where’s that waitress with my coffee?
A few hours later I sat, caffeine wearing off and sweat building up, on a bus to Savannakhet. I stared out the window as the bus suddenly slowed down. Looking down at the battered pavement, I saw two goats lying dead. One’s head was barely attached. I turned away at the sight of the blood, the flesh, and the bone.
The bus stopped in a small village. Swarms of people with food on sticks entered the bus trying to sell drinks, fruit, chickens, anything they could. I declined all I was offered. As the touts left I watched a child with an egg on a stick. He carefully pulled the shell off and took a bite. As I suspected the egg contained a partially developed chicken fetus – a delicacy in the area. I watched with a sour look as the young child ate half the egg. The second half fell off the stick to the floor of the bus’ aisle. Without a thought, he picked up the half eaten, now filthy, fetus-filled egg and popped it into his mouth. I sat back in my chair, looked up at the ceiling, and scratched vehemently at my swollen eye.