Polite People, Encroaching Tourism

Laos is a relatively untouristed country. The Rough Guide to Southeast Asia says that the People's Democratic Republic only opened up to foreigners in the 1990s and that many areas of the country are not much different to what they were when the French first arrived.

Indeed, the smaller towns and villages still live a very pared-down existence. Both Don Det and the village of Pakbeng get electricity from generators, which shut down at 10 or 11pm. Outside of Luang Prabang and Vientiane, most dwellings have a roof of corrugated tin or bamboo thatch. Most of the population still lives in the countryside.

Compared to the rest of Southeast Asia, tourists' needs are not accounted for and visitors have to adjust their expectations to the lifestyle around them, like water running around rock formations or islands in a stream.

One can see that Laos is new to having visitors, too, in the guilelessness of its people. They say sabaidee without prompting and never deny a visitor the chance to talk. Particularly in the villages, locals will nod and wave their greetings.

Even the language is friendly: the words for hello and I'm fine are the same. The result, during introductions, is polite, if repetitive conversation.

"Sabaidee," I say to a girl out front of her restaurant.

"Sabaidee."

"Sabaidee baw?" I ask.

"Sabaidee. Sabaidee baw?"

"Sabaidee!"

We grin and nod our heads vigorously, knowing that this is as far as the conversation goes. I sit down at a table and order food, pointing at what I want.

But even when the conversation stops, the courtesy doesn't. While I'm waiting for the night bus out of Vientiane, the guest house staff is having their evening meal. They invite me over and I politely decline. They insist and insist and insist and I drag a chair over.

The meal is do-it-yourself spring rolls. Plates of grilled fish, peanuts, rice noodles and fresh herbs crowd the table. Spicy hoisin sauce sits off to the side. Lettuce and cabbage leaves are there for wrapping.

We dig in. The Laotians laugh and say who-knows-what and laugh some more. They make sure I get enough, pile my leaves with fish. They ask if I like the food. Yes very good, I say.

I do my best to fulfill the requirements of their invitation: eat enough to be polite but not too much. My ride to the bus comes by and I am able to make my excuses without giving offence.

Even though this is likely the only food they'll have all evening, these people have no problem sharing with a stranger. It's the polite thing to do when the stranger is sitting off to the side, just waiting for his bus. Of course it is.

But Laotians are starting to deal with strangers in a different way and the signs of a changing attitude are everywhere.

Tuk-tuk drivers work their other jobs, like other Asian countries, though they ask their questions in a hesitant undertone, knowing that they're not supposed to ask them at all. Restaurants in Vang Vieng, an aberration in the country, play American sitcoms all day, everyday. The smaller towns are in the midst of major construction projects, setting up new guest houses and bungalows to meet the increasing demand of tourism.

On Don Det, a girl sees an opportunity when she returns a tourist's laundry.

"32,000 kip please [about $4US]."

"But yesterday, you said 20,000."

"Please mis-ta, my sister has to go to school." The line comes straight from the vendors of Vietnam, Cambodia and Thailand.

The man shows no sign of backing down. "You said 20 and that's what you'll get." He hands over the money and walks off with his laundry.

The girl stands, open-mouthed and staring for a moment, then begins chattering to her friends and looking in his direction. This is the first and only time that I see conflict between Laotians and their visitors in two and a half weeks.

So tourism is having its effect. Like water running down a river, it wears on its surroundings over time, changing them, etching in new shapes and patterns, molding them to fit the current and flow of the people who come to visit.

Laos is an island in the stream, whose banks are wearing slowly away.