A rose by any other name

Cities smell.

In Vientiane, it was primarily woodsmoke. Wood is still the most common fuel, so the city always had at least an undercurrent of smokiness about it, though at mealtimes on particularly still days, it became so thick and heavy that it must be an asthmatic's nightmare. A nice smell, though. Probably terrible for your lungs but kinda homey.

Flying out of Laung Prabang, where the air is fresh and damp, except for the odd drift of incense coming from one of the many temples, we flew straight into Bangkok. I had only actually visited once before but the minute we got out of the cab it all came rushing back - mostly via my nostrils. Its a funny smell, Bangkok: complex and polyvalent as befits the massive, sprawling metropolis that is it. Its kind of sweet and kind of dirty. I would guess at a recipe that is 2 part sweet chilli sauce, 2 part fish sauce, 1 part lemon grass, mixed in with 1 cup of sump oil, a smattering of mildew, a burst of neon and seasoned with an occasional sprinkling of open drain and lightening. Not unpleasant, but not exactly something that you would dab behind your ears.

Just as homey as the aromatic woodiness of Vientiane is Edinburgh's distinctive but sporadic pong. One of the things I really love about Edinburgh is the smell that comes over the city - and I mean the whole city, including inside your own house if the window's open - when the brewery is brewing and the wind is from the west. Its a kind of yeasty baking smell, which always reminds me of the very fine beef burgundy pies that I used buy at the Schwobs in King Street decades ago as an indulgent winter treat. Its a kind of wholesome, warm smell which gives you an appetite. Makes your stomach rumble if you are hungry, though.

I am not sure the same applies to one's home town. I think you are blind to it, like you are blind to the distinctive aroma of your house. There are a few that stick in my mind though. One is the salty assault of a southerly change as it sweeps up the bay. The other is the smell of wheat or grass tinder dry and baking in the heat.

The third was responsible for one of the worst pangs of homesickness I have had since I left. I was out for a post-dinner stroll in the old part of Boulder City. This part of town is the deco era creation which sprang up as they were first building Hoover dam. Walking through the quiet streets with its palm tree-ed parks and deco houses  in the dark, I guess I had already been subconciously lulled back into an Elwood frame of mind. Suddenly there was a huge, suffocating billow of jasmine blossom. How many evenings had I got off the train or tram, or stumbled home from parties and pubs and bands and friend's houses, or driven through a summer evening with an elbow hanging out the window of my faithful car, and known that once I started smelling jasmine I was home. Being hit with it there in Nevada seemed like some cruel hallucination intended to trick me into getting lost. I think I burst into tears.

An America Legion bowling hall appeared just in time to remind me that home was still safely where it belonged, down there at the bottom end of the southern hemisphere.

Lao PDR and the Lonely Planet

Woo hoo! One of my Lao PDR photos in the Lonely Planet mosaic.

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"That hurts, doesn't it?"

In Vientiane, you can't go far without bumbing into an establishment offering massage.  Of the wholesome, theraputic variety, I hasten to add. The most rudimentary menu will offer you a choice of 'soothing', 'Lao1 (meaning a little more vigourous), facial and foot.  Depending on the size and ambition of the establishment, any number of variations may soon follow.

I had no real intention of indulging, having generally stuck to the principle of only sharing a massage with someone with whom I would be willing to share a bed. However, my firstThursday in the country, I woke to find my lower back completely dysfunction and the rest of me barely able to walk. By the end of the day, I could barely stand straight. It was disturbing. The next day, I was heaps better, but tap-dancing - or climbing in and out of large vehicles to go to my meetings, for that matter, remained completely out of the question. The top half of my body was tilting forward at 45 degrees like a giraffe in mid-stride.

Enter Mrs B. The minute our locally-based collegues heard of my demise, they had no hesitation in recommending her. She couldn't fit me in for two days, but it was worth the wait. A small Lao woman wearing jeans and a striped, long sleeved t-shirt, she agreed to meet me at my hotel.  I later realised I had put her in a rather akward position with this request, as it was not becoming for a massuer to be seen visiting hotels. If I had been a man she would never have agreed. I so glad she did. Within five minutes, she had not only pinpointed the spot in my lower back that was misplaced, she had also identified two other spots, including this little one at the base of my skull which I gave up mentioning years ago because no physio I had ever seen in Melbourne had made the slightest iota of difference to it.

" Mmm," says Mrs B. "That hurts, doesn't it?"
"Yes, it does."
"That's hurt for a long time, hasn't it?"  I could have hugged her then and there. By the time she proceeded to make me completely better with forty minutes of massage and gentle manipulation, I was ready to dedicate my unborn children to her Genius. All this for the equivalent of about $15US.

Ms B happens to be a trained physical therapist, as well as a great massuese, so the session included helpful information about what number vertebrae were needing attention, and a little lesson in stretching exercises to begin the next day and stop the problem from re-occuring. Excellent health care in anyone's world. Unfortunately, public sector salaries for health professionals here in Lao reflect the GDP: they are at rock bottom. A doctor's monthly wage is not much more that a single Medicare session payment in Australia, and other health professionals earm much less.  As a result, this genius of life-giving goodness has to work in the private sector to earn enough to support her family, largely ministering to the aches and pains of  the employees of international NGOs and aid organisations i.e. those with foreign incomes.

If I am ever lucky enough to be back in Vientiane, the first thing I do will be call Mrs B. I might have to borrow someone's house for my visit.

This is Wednesday, I must be in an elevator

Locals here in Lao PDR  will tell you that the PDR may officially be People's Democratic Republic, but in reality means 'Please Don't Rush'. And after ten minutes wandering around the capital, I was totally on board. Yes, drivers will ask you if you want a tuk-tuk, but chances are they will do it without getting out of the hammock that they have strung between the uprights of their vehicle. It would seem almost cruel to accept.

So, when the carpet in the elevator takes the trouple to remind me, in big capital letters that its Sunday, one can only sigh a sleepy little thank you to the proprietors. Here, I don't think it will take long to forget what day it is.