robinlawrence’s Space

Where the hell is that plane?  That question is officially baffling the Malaysian authorities although surely the question is much more simple to answer than it might appear.

The Aviation Minister and Police Chief here in KL have both managed to make themselves look increasingly more silly as each day goes by and have left fascinated observers like me.  Much more importantly the relatives of the missing feel that they are being let down.  I mean how difficult can it be to find a 250 tonne aeroplane?

The answer is probably not easy,  it is a lot easier though if you look in the right place.  The picture is changing by the hour but it now seems that the plane did change course from where it was last officially sighted.  How do we know this?  All thanks to various satellites and American classified information.  And herein, surely, lies the second biggest problem of the whole sorry mystery.  The US and Chinese doubtless do know the route of MH370 but can't officially reveal what they know because by doing that they would have to explain to the world exactly how they came to know that.  The Malaysian Air Force probably also know parts of the route too especially, as seems likely, that the plane did fly over Penang, on the west coast of Peninsula Malaysia.  Surely Penang Air Traffic Controllers would have noticed a rogue plane heading across their skies?  

What now needs to happen is that all the known information needs to be made public as well as go into the hands of a trusted investigator with a no blame guarantee attached.  There appears to be a culture of 'cover your arse first before doing anything' here in Malaysia (in order to have RM55, about £10, refunded to me at school four separate approval signatures were required) so with that in play officials who know stuff are doubtless fearful about speaking out in case they are then held responsible.  This is too serious a matter to mess around with such sensibilities.  The authorities already look incompetent but would actually enhance their much battered reputation if they went for an information amnesty.

However the biggest problem was what happened immediately after MH370 was officially lost.  Why did the Malaysian authorities wait for five hours before announcing that it was missing?  Surely the quicker a matter is dealt with the better.   The longer this mystery drags on the more the repercussions.  

Some people have started to suggest that there is another reason why Malaysia has few breweries.

The excuse for going was that I was supporting an actor in the play, but I now realise that that is a really flimsy reason for watching any play.     

Thanks to the posters for the play, titled The Flight Club, I went in with low expectations and hoped that I would come out thinking "Well that wasn't too bad."  Sadly my expectations were dashed and I came out feeling like I needed to go into Drama rehab and be put on a drip of pure Shakespeare to recover.

All good therapists recommend that one should unburden oneself of all negative experiences, so here we go....

The Flight Club began, predictably, twenty minutes late.  Soon after I took my seat some bloke came in from behind one of the flimsy studio curtains and sat in one of two wicker chairs, doing his best to look uncomfortable.  That ought to have been easy given the chair but he struggled.  He sat there for up to five minutes while various tunes played, an air steward came in and told people to turn off their phones and then another man came in a sat on the other wicker chair.  The illusion of an aeroplane was completed by two angle poise lamps hanging off a rickety black cloth structure behind the performers and a bloke wearing a captain's hat coming on and telling the expectant audience that he was a pilot.  Since when have aeroplanes had wicker chairs?

Eventually the two actors began talking to each other, although to be honest it would have been more entertaining and much less cringing if they had sat there in complete silence and then left on landing as complete strangers.  Helped by some unnecessary and inaccurate narration from the pilot ("This was a flight that would, change these men's' lives for ever") the two of them began talking.  John introduced himself to Alan.  Apparently John was, according to the helpful pilot much older than Alan (how did the pilot know this) but his appearance, hairdo, costume and mannerisms did everything it could to counteract this statement and made John appear all of six months older than the now fidgeting Alan.  Alan, according to John had not touched his non existent plate of food in front of him, (probably because  it wasn't there?) and this worried the allegedly older man.  By this point I was seriously worried about the play and where it was going.

So the aeroplane, complete with the wicker chairs and angle poise lamps, took off, but sadly the play didn't.  Alan helpfully told John that he was on a plane from KL to Macau, running away because he had played the wrong song.  He neglected to add whether he was a pianist, flutist, harp player or DJ but did tell us that his choice of music had upset his father and sister particularly.  John was very understanding about this and suggested that he could help put things right .... by using his powers.  Powers?  Apparently John had the gift of being able to travel to other places and times, almost Rentaghost like, and examine the events.  All Alan had to do was hold John's hand, close his eyes and relax, a course of action that should alarm all solo travelers, unless they are blessed with a overly developed sense of adventure several extra sets of kidneys.  Alan was not particularly troubled by this and so he gripped John for all his worth and we were taken to ....

The loft in Alan's family house.  In an alarming turn of events Alan very quickly discovered for some reason that was not made clear he was now wearing an oversized cat tail, forced to hide in a corner and miaow while the pilot entered carrying wedding presents and three empty boxes of Whiskas dry cat food.  While John looked on and Alan continued miaowing the airline pilot spoke at great length to "Auntie" on the phone trying to convince her that he had not murdered his wife and that she was fine and was probably shopping.  Thankfully this scene ended and somehow or other they all ended up back in the aeroplane, but not before John had taken quite a few slugs of brandy from a bottle that seemed to be lying around the place.  Why couldn't he have passed it round to the audience as well?  By that point I was desperate for anything to dull the pain.

The play went on.  John broke the news that he had terminal cancer, pancreatic cancer stage two for anyone who even remotely cares, and Alan looked slightly less fidgety.  Hadn't they heard that I had banned The Cancer Play in 2003?  Sick of the protagonist in GCSE devised plays shuffling into the space and declaring to anyone who cared "Mum (Dad, wisely wasn't usually there) I got cancer."  Mum would then cry and Cold Play songs would burst in.  No.  No.  No.  The Cancer Play is now officially dead.

But they struggled on.  We were forced to hear Alan explaining to John at length all about his extended and adopted family, some of whom helpfully came and sat on stools at the front of the stage and talked to each other all thanks to that holding hands, eyes closed and relaxing thing again.  Somewhere in this section John's brother, named Jerry, put the pilot's hat on again and told us all that his plane  was turning round and going back to KL as there was bad weather on the way to Macau.   Both Alan and John missed this announcement, (was that the thing that was going to change their lives) and carried on chatting to each other and irritating the audience.

Three is the magic number and before this dreadful play could be stopped we had to suffer one more hand gripping thing and taken to a final unspeakably cringeworthy scene.  Despite missing the fact that their flight was now a return to nowhere Alan managed to ask John whether he wanted to put anything right before he died or arrived in Macau.  I would have been content for John, Alan, the pilot, the family members and probably even the cat to drop dead at that moment, but, no.  Alan had now, somehow, got the gripping powers while the audience had got the gripping pains instead.  Alan grabbed John's hand and took him back to .... 

His wedding day.  John's wedding day?  Where the hell did that one come from?   Alan didn't know anything about it, did he?  Well apparently he did.  He managed to place John in a chapel where he also managed to summon John's apparently jilted girlfriend and, for some bizarre reason a guitar player, as well as his own sister and the pilot.  The story emerged that John could not bring himself to tell the love of his life that he had terminal cancer and so had run away.  Given that he'd subjected the audience to this pile of nonsense he was probably being kind to his jilted one and should really have refused flatly Alan's efforts.  But no.  I was subjected to John declaring his love to a mystery woman in stumbling, near tearful tones watched by Alan, various random strangers and all set to music.  All except one fibre in my body wanted to stand up a shout "STOP!  THIS IS SHIT!"  But that one fibre held and finally the strangers left, the guitar player departed and Alan and John were back in their wicker chairs telling each other what they planned to do in Macau.  But they weren't arriving in bloody Macau!  Hadn't they listened to the pilot?  Hadn't they even read the script?

The play ended with Alan giving John his phone number and John saying that he might phone him sometime, presumably sometime after they had both worked out they were not in Macau.  

The play lasted 33 minutes and it was dreadful from start to finish.  But the audience were given the opportunity to prolong the agony by having a talk back session with the cast.  That opportunity was announced by a smiley lady who may have been connected with this drivel but as she didn't tell us who she was the announcement left this audience member even more confused.  While I was gasping a mouthful of fresh air afterwards to try and clear my head she approached me, and asked if I was a Drama teacher.  For my own sanity I mumbled a yes and then quickly invented an excuse to leave before she could ask me what I thought of the play.

I had beer and chocolate at home to try to recover.

The art of going out as a family is forward planning, thinking everything through, packing all the right equipment and then executing that well-made plan.  Thankfully we no longer need to take things like pushchairs and nappy bags with us so we can be a little more spontaneous than in the past but all expeditions still do need thinking about. 

Our weekends seem to have become ones packed with dance practices these days and so on Sunday morning while Lexi took Edwin to his latest rehearsal I took Rupert and Trixie to The Lego Movie, largely on the back of the reviews not being too bad.  I checked the show times, selected the venue, collected our warm jumpers for the chilled screening halls, remembered to take the children with me and off we set.  Everything was going to plan and I was so organised that I even remembered what usually happens to me when taking children to the cinema.  The seats are comfortable, it is dark and, thanks to my hoodie, I am warm.  I fall asleep.  And yesterday's show was no different.  Shortly after one Lego model that resembled William Shakespeare appeared on screen I got settled, closed my eyes and off I went, but I had prepared well though.  Knowing that Rupert would ask what I thought the best bit of the film had been I quickly decided that the lego sea was pretty good and went to sleep.  True to form I woke up sometime after Liam Neeson appeared doing his Lego stuff and on exiting Rupert asked me that question.  I don't know how much longer I can get away with snoozing at the flicks.

I had a much faster experience tonight as I went for my running constitutional around Desa Park City.  After I had completed two thirds of my first lap a round looking chap started running next to me and offered to pace it out with me.  I accepted and off we went at what felt like a frightening speed.  He told me that he was  51 and had had to stop playing football due to a knee operation but was just trying to get back in trim.  When he accelerated, so did I and so in this fashion we charged round the place.  All very appropriate really as he had introduced himself as Mr Rush.

Rupert, year four, and Edwin, year six, are away this week until Wednesday and Friday respectively on their year camps.  It is very quiet with only Trixie here.

Sunday was one of those days when I could really have done with a long quiet rest.  I had got home at 0125 that morning after an exhausting and rewarding four days in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam where my one of my Drama colleagues and I took 21 students to take part in the FOBISIA (Federation of British International Schools In Asia) Drama Festival.  Three full days, plus travel, of Drama workshops, games, play-making and high energy activities left the chidden exhilarated and teachers exhausted but also pleased that things had gone so well.  Huge praise to the teacher who organised the festival and huge praise to my school's children for having a go at all the activities and creating some memorable plays.  The children also enjoyed trying their hands at haggling during a brief visit to Ben Thanh Market on the way to the airport for the flight home.  In order to help identify them at the airport as well as test out my haggling skills (as well as spend up the small surplus from the trip) I tried my hand at buying 23 identical t-shirts for our crowd.  After much flattery and chatting and cajoling and persuading I managed to move the initial price of $8 per item to a much more sensible $2.5 and the deal was sealed.  Thus we all trooped through the airport sporting "i-Pho, Made IN Vietnam" t-shirts in either pink (sizes medium and upwards) and grey for the smalls.  

Because we had been on our half term break during the week that had meant that holding a party for Trixie's 7th birthday was always going to be a little tricky to get all her various chums to attend.  Therefore Lexi and I arranged it for Sunday morning.  So bleary eyed I staggered around doing what I could to assist while a small gang of fellow seven year old girls, mainly dressed as fairies, as only seven year old girls can, played pass the parcel, the fairy leaf game and decorated fairy party bags.  After munching their way through pizzas, crisps and, appropriately, fairy cakes, they all trogged off to the swimming pool for fairy swimming and fairy cooling down.   They all had a fine time.  

But there is always a BUT.  So.... but....  while this marvellous gang of little ones were loving splashing around and making merry one of the compound guards came up to the pool, stared at the girls, took out his whistle and gave it an authoritative blow.  Here in Malaysia guards seem to want to blow their whistle lots and lots, often for no apparent reason, so Lexi and I exchanged glances with each other and the guard and carried on assisting our charges and chums in making merry.  This clearly didn't please the guard who was wearing a red beret,  the highest status headwear that a guard at our place can sport.  He didn't go away.  He blew again. More glances exchanged and more continuing of splashing.  Eventually when he saw that his whistle was not going to have any effect he reluctantly strolled over to our party and explained that we needed to stop making noise.  The noise was of six small girls having fun in a swimming pool.  Apparently there had been a complaint about noise from a house that backed directly on to the pool from the compound's official misery guts.  Every street or housing area has to have one and ours is a tall, surly, bearded French bloke who takes joy in explaining how he works shifts and requires complete silence during daylight hours.  Odd that he should choose to live right next to a swimming pool in a family friendly area, then.  Needless to say I offered to speak to the complainant but the guard and his red beret would have none of it, so we all dutifully ignored the guard and carried on enjoying the party, a little bit irritated and encouraged the partiers to make even more noise.  Mr Red Beret disappeared and being the boss, did the dirty on one of his underlings and told him to go the the pool and keep watch over us instead.   Quite what he planned on doing should we increase the volume still further I have no idea.  Naturally I made sure that bloke was as involved as was possible for a man wearing a cheap uniform and baseball cap with "Security" written on it could be and presented him with a slice of chocolate cake after cake cutting time.  He looked extremely embarrassed and awkward, so much so that I almost felt sorry for the poor man.  He then stood very close to the edge of the pool and stood laughing and enjoying the fun that the girls were having in the pool.  I was willing Trixie and her chums to be just naughty enough to sneak up behind him and push ....  Sadly they didn't although if he had have blown his whistle then ....

Cutest moment of the day came when I was throwing Trixie in the pool, accompanied by the wonderful squeals and shrieks of delight that daughters love to make.  One of her classmates approached me and looked up with employing eyes and asked "Mr Lawrence, could you throw me in too?"  From then on the noise levels got higher and much more excited, much to the underling guard's and parents' delights.

Continuing the mission to The Cameron Highlands various Lawrences plus Grandma Sausages had a great march the jungle yesterday, tramping up and down steep paths doing our best to be explorers.  It is quite a domesticated jungle around Tanah Rata with ten different signed paths all interconnecting.  Our party's chief mountain goat was Rupert, once again.  He loves charging up and down the various paths ducking under fallen trees and making light of mud, muck and slime.   All in all it was a grand day.

Because I had to return to KL today it was decided that Trixie should have a family tea out with as many of us as possible yesterday evening.  Following some careful hints from me she wisely selected one of the many Nasi Kandar type restaurants, specializing in Malaysian and Indian dishes.  Generally speaking Nasi Kandars in tourist areas will have a go at cooking anything or there is the option of having a scoop of whatever is available with rice or naan.  Little Lawrences like the simple things in life with Edwin and Trixie munching on roti canai and Rupert going for dosais, flat and crispy rice flour pancake things.  And so while adults were eating more exotic food Trixie enjoyed opening a present and card or two and generally acted as a tourist attraction to the staff and passers by in a way that only blonde seven year old girls can do in Malaysia.

After littler Lawrences had settled Grandma Sausages took on the baby sitting duties to allow Lexi and I to have a night, well, hour, out.  We ended our hour with a very large hot chocolate from the Tanah Rata Starbucks.  I know that that doesn't really feel right but Malaysia has embraced capitalism with open arms and so global brands have boomed.  Admittedly Starbucks is the only chain store in Tanah Rata, banks excepted, but it was booming.  But the question has to be asked, why?  In terms of price and value it has no reason to be in existence in Tanah Rata, let alone anywhere else.  Lexi and I paid RM48 for a hot chocolate and cake each, whereas earlier we had paid RM72 for all seven of us to eat exactly what we wanted at the Nasi Kandar.   Starbucks regulars must need their heads examined.  (For the purpose of this blog I was clearly only carrying out research, honest Guvn'r.). The least said about the RM59 bottle of wine that I bought from a corner shop (that for accuracy's sake was actually a terraced shop, but terraced shop doesn't really convey accurately what to sold) the better.  

Anyway we sat down to enjoy our treats, but was it £9 worth of enjoyment?, after completing an important phone mission.  Last week on Edwin and I's mission to Low Yat Plaza and Little India in KL I finally got round to going hi-tech on phones.  I had always wanted to replace the iPhone that our burglar had removed from Chateau Lawrence in January 2012, but other things always seemed more important.  However when a deal came along for two brand new iPhone 4's I decided that we couldn't really turn them down.  At less the half the price of the iPhone 5 it all seemed to make sense.  I went for it and bought one each.  Marvellous.  So far so good. Of course things in Malaysia have a habit of being either extremely difficult when they don't need to be or sometimes incredibly straightforward.  Replacing a lost car park ticket becomes a quest, booking an airline ticket can take hours and transferring money to the UK only seems to work if you go into your bank and commit loads of time to the process.  However it is when one is presented with contrasting information in the same shop by different people that matters really become frustrating.  In KL I was told by someone from Maxis, our current pay-as-you-go phone people, that we could have contract packages on our new phones.  Great.  Naturally passports would be needed, is there any major or mundane purchase that one does not need a passport for?  But also a RM1000 deposit each would be needed because we are not Malaysian citizens.  What?  Alternatively we could simply get replacement  SIM cards for our new machines, up have them inserted and away we go, just as long as we paid the RM25 fee each and, you've guessed it, presented our passports.  In Tanah Rata when I first asked about the simple SIM card change, RM25 option the first bloke I spoke to assured me that such a transaction was not possible.  I persisted and said that surely it was simply a matter of switch a SIM?  Bloke number two the chubby, geeky one with the unusual hairdo who operates several different devices at once, but does not appear to have the power of speech (every phone shop has one) grasped what we were after and took our old phones from us, removed the SIM cards, cut them down to size with scissors and a 'cutting SIM cards down to size machine,' pressed a few buttons and the new phones worked.  No charge and no passports needed.  (PS another phone shop bloke in KL, with an usual hairdo, did say that if we brought along a Malaysian friend the RM1000 deposit might be waived.  Does the unusual hairdo add credence to his whisperings, I wonder?)

Only one cultural lesson learned on the coach journey back to KL this morning:  just like in other parts of South East Asia a coach is, seemingly, never full, and following this rule a few extra people were shoved on to the maximum of 44 passengers coach.  The extras sat on the steps by the door all the way.  All the way except for a 50 metre stretch when setting off from the wee stop.  For this brief section the extras had to 'move right down the bus please' (shouted in a seemingly angry Chinese dialect) as the driver made his innocent way past two police officers who were reclining under a gazebo.  Rules have to be followed at all times, except when they are avoided.

Losing a car parking ticket today was completely my fault.  Guilty as charged, M'Lud.  It somehow found its way out of my pocket as I went round Low Yat Plaza looking for, and finding, a certain pocket-sized electronic music and games device in readiness for Trixie's birthday.  Duly purchased, complete with pink earphones and pink cover, I returned to the under-ground car park and discovered the car park ticket had gone.  I searched the car, turned out my pockets and wallet, said lots of naughty words and the ticket did not appear.  It was lost and I would have to pay the RM50 penalty fine for committing such a grave crime as losing a car parking ticket.  (The cost of the parking would have been RM5.)

I went to the car park office, fuming with annoyance at my own carelessness, and grumpily mumbled that I had lost my ticket.  An equally grumpy attendant gave me an equally grumpy response along with an A4 form to fill in.  Immediately I questioned, in my head, why I had to fill in a form.  Surely the matter was a simple one.  I had lost the ticket that I needed to get validated before I could drive out of the car park.  I had my RM 50 ( about £9.50) ready to reluctantly pay.   When I was presented with the form I read it and saw red.  My name, address, passport number, car registration, make of car, colour of car, entry time into car park (worth remembering that the car park advertised fixed price parking), and car tax expiry date were all required before a penalty ticket could be issued.  Added to that a security officer was summoned. I had clearly committed a terrible crime.  

I completed what I deemed to be necessary on the form (name, car reg , make of car and my signature) and handed it back.  I decided that my passport number was not necessary and the car tax expiry was very definitely un-needed information in order to allow me to drive my fully licensed and insured vehicle out.  Naturally this was not enough information for the officious idiot sitting behind her perspex screen.  No passport number: no progress. The five foot tall and five foot wide sweating security man watched on.  Stalemate.  With great reluctance I handed over my Malaysian ID card and asked why I had to give this, what I believe to be completely unnecessary information over in order to pay what was, in reality, a punishment for my own carelessness.  The answer?  "Because we have to photo-copy it."  This really is going too far.  

The car park owners / operators do not need my passport number to process a simple tax on idiots.  Hotels in Malaysia do not need my passport number or ID card in order to allow me to stay in a hotel that I have already paid for on-line, internet service providers do not need my passport number to provide wi-fi and piano repair companies do not need my passport number in order to cock up repairing the Lawrence family keyboard.  It is all down to a matter of trust.  Thank goodness the powers that be threw out utterly ridiculous plans to bring in ID cards in the UK.  I am proud that the presumption among Britons is that you are who you say you are.  That breeds trust and maturity between fellow citizens and also, the flip side, appropriate punishments for those who decide for whatever reasons to break that common trust.  I can remember proudly pledging my support for the no to ID cards campaign fearing just the sort of ridiculous situation that happened to me today becoming the everyday in the UK.

However my ordeal was not over yet.  In choosing not to fill in the car tax expiry section of the form (sometime in October just in case anyone really needs to know) the official would not hand over my penalty parking ticket.  Instead I had to be walked to my car by the square security twit.  Raging I set off at high speed leaving him having to waddle his fastest to keep within hollering distance of me.  He puffed, panted and sweated.  On reaching the car he looked for the tax disc and took down the unnecessary information. That was when the one amusing moment from this sorry tale happened.  The security man was clearly short-sighted and struggled to read the disc but had to struggle even more to get his vast stomach between the passenger's door and the wall that I had parked very close to.  I was in mood to offer any help at all.

It might seem bizarre but this week is the first full week of teaching in January.  It is  also the only full week of teaching.  Last week we had two national holidays wishing happy birthday to Mohammed on 14th January and then having the opportunity to celebrate the festival of Thaipassum on Friday 17th.  Prior to that in the first week we had two days of teaching followed by three enquiry days and next week we are teaching from Monday to Thursday before having Friday 31st off to celebrate the first day of Chinese New Year.  

After two weeks in Lao it came quite hard having to get up at 0530 and head off to work again.  However we soon got back into the routine.  Our first challenge of the term was to sort out an agony of riches situation for Edwin and dance.  Being one of only a very few boys who dance and enjoy dancing it has not been difficult for him to find and work with a dance partner, and he and Zi-Tien are making good progress.  However there has recently been the offer of another partner for Edwin, in the shape of a colleague's daughter.  The second girl was apparently a specialist in Latin, which is what Edwin needs lots of practice in.  After much agonizing and discussion Edwin, Lexi and I have decided to leave matters as they are and continue with the established partnership.  This has meant that the Saturday morning dance sessions have got a little bit more complicated in that after Edwin's 10.00am lesson in ballroom he then has to go off to another venue around 10km away for a Latin lesson while Rupert and Trixie stay for their lesson.  The role of parent also encompasses that of taxi-driver.

Rupert, normally the grubbiest of The Lawrence Three, currently looks like someone has shot him just below his forehead.  He made an unorthodox descent from the slide at the nearby park where the last part of the movement was his nose scraping on the ground.  Somehow he ended up with a graze on the bridge of his nose which soon scabbed over.  Ever the experimenter Rupert soon picked the scab and so his injury went from cigar burn to gun shot wound in appearance, complete with drips of blood.  Add to this his perpetually stained and grubby white school polo shirt and hand-me-down shorts that are currently too big for him and you have Lexi and I thanking our lucky stars we are not in the UK or else we would have social services knocking at the door asking awkward questions.  

Trixie does not currently have any bleeding lesions or dance partner decisions to make but has, thankfully, recovered from being far too like Junie B.  She was recently given a collection of Junie B stories in which the eponymous and very naughty heroine behaves very badly and gets her self into all sorts of scrapes, sometimes of the Rupert variety.  Thankfully when we realised that she was trying emulate the female equivalent of Horrid Henry we switched books to the much nicer Billie B Brown instead.  In tonight's tale Ms Brown was desperate for a pet.  Having understood that neither a pony nor a puppy was suitable, due to the recent birth of her younger brother Noah, Ms B was overjoyed with the arrival of a guinea pig.  Lexi has decided not to tell Trixie about guinea pigs and delicacies just yet.

Grandma Sausages has arrived in KL along with her consort, David.  Having spent a few days with them in Chateau Lawrence the intrepid pair have jet-settled off to Bangkok, then Hanoi, Singapore and will return here in time to enjoy a few family days in the Cameron Highlands.  

And finally culture.  We all enjoyed watch Walter Mitty at the cinema last weekend.  Silly, escapist and a whole large dollop of niceness.

It really is pointing out the obvious to say that there are a lot of changes in 15 years but also plenty of things stay the same.  Here are a few observations from the Lawrence few days in the capital of Lao's Bolikhamxay Province.  

Inflation has arrived big style.  While the value of the Lao Kip to the pound has stayed relatively the same as previously (around 13000 to 1) prices of every day goods have not.  A bowl of noodle soup was 5000kip in 1998 and is now anywhere up to 25000.  Iced coffee was around 3000 per dose and is now around 10000 and the bus fare from Vientiane to Pakxan has increased from 5000 to 30000.  

At the same time as the increase in inflation the number of cars has also increased.  Whereas the car, usually in the form of a government Toyota Hi-lux was something to aspire to now anyone who is anyone has their own, often very new vehicle.  Not satisfied by a basic model three litre big wheelers are not uncommon and Hyundai elantras are the run around of choice.  It has left me thinking where all those portions of £20000 plus have come from?  Equally thought-provoking was a walk past the student bike park at the High School this afternoon.  Motorbikes out-numbered bicycles by around 9 to 1.  Where has all the money come from?

Traffic lights have arrived at the crossroads between the main north-south road and the port to Pakxan New Town road.  These new things are even complete with countdown timers which let you know how many seconds you have to wait until you can go.  I can't stand these embellishments as you can either feel your life ticking by as you wait for the change or the rubber wearing off your shoes as you press the accelerator that bit harder to try to get across in those last few seconds.

The Lawrence favourite iced-coffee shop has vanished from the junction of the Nam Xan and Mekong Rivers.  According to my well-placed source an edict from the Lao Government was issued stating that such establishments were to be removed from river banks. The cafe owners were duly moved.  Since then one restaurant returned, but sadly does not serve iced coffee.  Imagine mine and Lexi's pleasure then this afternoon as we strolled around the town asking for iced coffee in various places only to be told "Go 500 metres up the road."  Knowing that you should always treat such instructions with extreme caution we proceeded with the hope of chilled sustenance receding faster than my hair line.  Surprisingly the instruction proved to be 100% accurate and we were greeted by the grinning face of iced-coffee-lady who proceeded to make her much missed brew with her crafts-person like skill.  The resulting drinks were excellent.  Ok so it was a modern bungalow and the view was of a pharmacy and not a delightful river but at least the coffee was good.

Confusions.  There have clearly been a few more foreigners living in Pakxan since us and trying their hand at speaking fledgling Lao.  That has meant that people have become a bit more tolerant of slight inaccuracies in pronunciation.  However it was still frustrating this evening when I ordered 'goy paa' (a blend of chopped fish, onions, chillis etc) and the waitress just looked at me with a complete lack of comprehension.  A Lao friend then repeated the order, without appearing to make any significant change to the way the dish was said and she understood immediately.  This particular restaurant seemed to have confusions as its one of its USPs give that it had painted the gents' loos in pink and ladies' in blue.  It is also worth avoiding too on the grounds of cost as it charged far too much for its food and beer.

Generosity.  Everyone who we have visited and spent time with here has been extremely welcoming and generous.  We had dinner with one of Lexi's former students and her husband last night and as well as feeding us very well they also gave Lexi a new Lao skirt and have offered us a lift to Vientiane tomorrow (Friday) as they are going there too.  They also arrived with a freshly cooked pot of sticky rice and eggs for our breakfast this morning.  Following that we had lunch at the very pretty Manivanh's Garden restaurant next to a nearby lake with one of my former students and the received a very warm welcome from the family of a deceased former student of mine.

All in I leave Pakxan with mixed feelings.  Confusion about some matters, particularly the rapid growth in car numbers, but with the warm feeling of seeing old and good friends.

Many things have changed in Laos since Lexi and I worked here between 1998 and 2000 and again since we visited in 2002.  There are are loads more cars on the roads, as well as loads more tarmac on the roads too.  The status symbol that is the four wheel drive, usually a Toyota double cab pick-up appears to be the aspirational must have and when combined with many motorbikes, mobile phones and winter dust all makes for interesting travel and for a newly invented phenomenon: the rush hour traffic jam.

Vientiane has definitely seen a building boom.  There are now many more banks in along Lane Xang Avenue all of which are three or four stories high and there has been Lao's first shopping mall build in addition to the Talaat Sao Market.  The arrival of the the ATM cash machine has brought the possibility of easy money and put pay to black market money changers.  In a wonderful example of inter country co-operation the Vientiane branch of Maybank (Malaysia's most common bank) will not accept Malaysian bank cards.  Vientiane has also seen a huge increase in the number of tourists, particularly the professional tourist, the sort of ethnic trouser, place name t-shirt, silly hair-do-wearing, Lonely Planet Guide Book clutching seeker outer of cold lager type.  

In an attempt to make things simpler for the tourist, both professional tourist and  the others most guest houses and hotels have started selling onward travel tickets and offering pick-ups, not the Toyota ones, to take their tourists to bus stations etc. Currently the prices that are charged are pretty much identical to local buses. However the tourist has to juggle the added convenience of being collected from its hotel with added inconvenience of the buses being late.  We booked a bus from Vang Vieng to Vientiane on Sunday, through an agent near to our hotel and arrived for our 0930 pick-up ten minutes early.  We were taken swiftly to the out of town Southern bus station (why does a small town like Vang Vieng need three bus stations?) to wait for our advertised 1000 departure, one of four buses that were scheduled to leave each day.  Yes that's right a brand new bus station built for four departures per day.  We clambered on and being a gang of five sat on the back row.  Fine.  More and more people got on until all the seats were taken and then some more got on.  It appeared to be a complete surprise to the bus station manager that the bus was over-booked.  When I had booked the tickets the night before the agent had simply taken my money and written out a ticket without checking if the bus was full.  After loads of mobile phone calls we eventually set off at 1030, caught a Thai bus up that was going through Vientiane to Udon Thani and offloaded some passengers on to that one.  Our bus arrived in Vientiane's Northern Bus Station, inconveniently 7 km out of the city centre which meant a tuk tuk journey into the centre, followed by another tuk tuk journey out to the Southern Bus Station, a further 9km away, for our bus to Pakxan.  The Talaat Sao bus station in central Vientiane was always busy 15 years ago and needed expanding then.  If the land behind Talaat Sao had been used for expansion it would have been possible to bring buses right into the centre.  However some moneyed genius had decided to develop the newly vacant land into a shopping mall, to go with the virtually empty shopping mall adjacent to the Talaat Sao.  Development is a rough and blunt instrument and does not always bring about progress.

Starting our journey to Pakxan from 9km out of the centre meant that many of the previous journey essentials had also been moved out of town too.  At the newish station there were countless buses parked in a seemingly random order and lots of shouting announcing that they were about to leave.  I found a Pakxan bus whose driver announced that, true to form he was about to leave in five minutes.  However that was after I found another Pakxan bus with only one passenger on it.  The conversation went thus (in Lao)

Me: Is this the Pakxan bus?

Her: Yes it is.

Me: Good.  When is it leaving?

Her: (Blank look).

Me: What time is it leaving?

Her: (pause) Today.

Helpful.

The bus we did get left just over ten minutes after it was aiming to, pretty good time-keeping really, but driving out of the bus station was always a bit of a false dawn and continues to be so.  On the way out many more things had to happen before we could get going properly.  Before we left the compound the conductor had to shout to lots of people to tell them we were going to Pakxan, just in case there were any further passengers hiding.  Next as we turned on to the main road we made our first scheduled stop, conveniently right outside the bus station, to see if any of the huge numbers of people waiting there wanted the bus.  (Why do people wait OUTSIDE bus stations for buses?). After that it was a short hop to the bread shop for the driver and conductor to buy baguettes and then it was the open road, well apart from a stop to buy oranges, another to buy 21 litres of diesel and then a break for the conductor and driver to have pee and collect the fares.  It was all just like the good old days.

More news about Pakxan to follow as we explore some more.  However it too has been subjected to development.  Its first set of traffic lights have arrived, a new market has appeared and the dodgy snooker club has gone.  Also, sadly, the marvellous iced-coffee cafe has gone too.  However our old house is still there, going strong, and next to it our former neighbours are still around.  We have a slightly frightening lunch engagement with them on 1st at high noon.  They were both big drinkers.  On a social visit to Pakxan hospital this afternoon we found that the social life of the hospital was in full swing.  From the outer edges we could hear two small parties celebrating the imminent arrival of 2014 in full swing.  The party season is not a time to be ill or seek medical advice.

And then there is the thing that has not changed in 15 years.  "Look It's A Foreigner.  Say Hello."  Parents still see it as one of their duties to train their off-spring from the earliest possible age to stare and point at foreigners.  Several times today well-meaning Lao parents have stopped their toddlers from doing what ever they were about to do, turn them in the direction of one of us and say "Look It's A Foreigner.  Say Hello."  Of course now there is the added bonus of Trixie, a small blond girl, to add interest.  

As the title suggests it is easy to find this restaurant.  It has a view of the Nam Song River, which is over the road between a three storey place and a building under construction.  It also has some nice tables and plants at the front.

Earlier in the day we got much closer to the same river during a canoeing trip.  In the company of our guide, Mr Get, we paddled 8km down river through some stunning scenery.  Edwin and Rupert accompanied Mr Get in his boat while Lexi, Trixie and I were in another.  While we didn't actually race Trixie was mad keen to go "Full steam ahead, Daddy" and more than took her turn paddling, desperate to go in front of the boys.  We broke our journey after about 5km for coffee at a river side place, high up on some cliffs.  It was a lovely way to spend a morning.

With soaking wet bums we headed back to our hotel, past The River Sunset Restaurant, with its distinctive red table cloths, and after a dry off went in search of our next mode of transport of the day, bicycles.  The best place to hire bikes appeared to be close to The River Sunset Restaurant, which had a distinctive white sign out the front.  Each bike only cost 15000 kip, about £1.30, to hire, and after picking up some locks as well we set off in search of caves.  To find Krokham caves we first had to go across the river on wooden toll bridge and then negotiate a very stoney road/track.  This would have been straightforward had all of us been riding our own bikes but with Rupert sitting on the back of mine and Trixie on the back of Lexi's the going was slow.  However we did eventually find the turn off to the the cave.  This second track was more rocks than track and we soon parked the bikes up in favour of feet.  At the entrance to the caves a lean Lao guy was doing something with a pile of breeze blocks as well as hiring out head torches and taking entrance fees.  We paid the necessaries and for a bit extra he offered to be our guide.  Thank goodness he did really as there was no indication as to where to go beyond his initial 'over there' type gesture.  He led us on a brief but satisfying clambering, crawling and climbing session that impressed all of us.

By the time we had peddled back to the river for the crossing to Vang Vieng our various bottoms were bruised and buffeted and so we were ready for a feed.  But where to go?  If only there was a restaurant that had a semi view of the river and had raised tables next to beige walls.  Luckily there was. And it's name, dear reader?

So we took our seats at The River Sunset Restaurant and ordered food.  The children being very adventurous went for chicken burgers while Lexi and I had Lao delicacies.  Naturally the food took ages and, surprisingly, the children's food arrived first.  Faced with a brand new bottle of ketchup Edwin, of course, did the small boy thing of taking the lid off and holding the bottle upside down.  Being a wise mother Lexi took the bottle away from him to prevent his food being flooded with the red stuff.  Me being the wise Dad fixed the lid on to the bottle tightly, checked the seal and gave it a good shake.  Then we had a nice meal and there is little more to say.

PS You might like to know that The River Sunset Restaurant is even more distinctive than previously.  The nice tables and plants at the front now appear to have designer red marks on them, as do the red table cloths, the back of the white sign, and a couple of the tables.  If you look closely you might notice a slight red staining on the beige walls where some hasty wiping has taken place.  Finally if you see a thirty something female tourist with what appears to be a ketchup stain on her dark shorts then you should sympathise with her.  Thai ketchup bottle lids, even after checking that they are screwed on tightly, are liable to fly off when shaken, creating an impressive arc of fast-flying ketchup.  Least said about the hairy English bloke who ended up with ketchup all over his knees, much to the delight of his three children and wife, the better.