Let me take you onto the battlefield of an Asian bus ride. It all starts with the bus station. Sometimes, you know the bus schedule; other times, you just show up and hope a bus is leaving soon. Today, I couldn't find any information, so I went to the station at 10 AM. I asked for a ticket to Pakse and was given one for 200k kip.
I was directed to a bus and asked the driver when it was leaving. "12," he said—two hours from now. Not ideal, but not the end of the world. In the past, I've arrived 30 minutes early and barely snagged the last seat. There are no assigned seats, so marking your territory immediately is crucial. They pack the buses full to the brim. People will be standing or sitting on the floor—you can be sure of that. You just have to hope it's not you.
Assuming you arrive at least an hour early and save your seat with a bag, you're in pretty good shape before the war begins. There are various types of buses. Sometimes, you get a "VIP" bus, which just means it has AC. Other times, you're stuck on a local bus with no AC and terrible seats. Today, I got something in between—AC, but still terrible seats. I've found that buses leave fairly promptly, so it's best to get on 10 minutes before departure.
Now, when the bus leaves, the battle begins. Locals are known to play audio on their phones at full volume. On my last ride, the girl next to me played a loop of someone slurping soup the entire time. My seat of choice is the left-side window so I can lean against it. I put in my noise-canceling AirPods Pro 2 and turn on some music.
Let's go over the battalion of the bus. You have the bus driver, whose only job is to drive. He has no power. The most important person on the bus is someone I like to call the Dictator. This is the guy who decides where new passengers sit and when the bus stops. On the way, there's always rice, produce, or even chickens that the Dictator drops off in local villages. These drop-offs can take one minute or 15, depending on whether he wants to smoke, schmooze, or do something else entirely.
Now that you understand the Dictator's tendencies, let's talk about the most critical moment of the ride: the bathroom/snack stop. On an eight-hour journey, you'll stop once—twice if you're lucky. The location and duration of this stop? Decided by, you guessed it, the Dictator. Sometimes, it's just a hole on the side of the road. Other times, you might get a full convenience store.
When the break comes, veteran and strategic warriors like myself shine. This is a sink-or-swim moment. Some people take their time stretching their legs and wandering around. No. This is go time. This is what I was born for.
First, you must rush off the bus to maximize your time and survey your surroundings. I'll take you through an example from today. Thanks to my veteran instincts, I sat at the front of the bus, ready to be the first one off. As I step into foreign terrain, I quickly scan 360 degrees. A rookie mistake is only looking forward and walking straight. To my right, I see a bathroom for 10k kip, with a line already forming. To my left, local Lao food stalls selling dried meat on a stick. And behind me, to my very pleasant surprise—the cornucopia of all bus stops: 7-Eleven.
In an instant, I perform a complex calculus calculation in my head. I realize I can't pee and visit the cornucopia at the same time. A decision must be made. I briskly walk 200 meters across the street to 7-Eleven. You know this is an expert move because I'm the only one from the bus going. There's a slight risk the bus leaves without me, but I've factored that into my equations.
Inside the cornucopia, I'm overwhelmed with choices. I must act fast—get in, get out. No time to experiment with unfamiliar snacks. I dash to the seaweed section and grab two bags of seaweed and seaweed chips—a classic. Then, I spot some good old-fashioned American corn chips. God bless the USA. Just as I'm about to leave, something catches my eye. A Slurpee machine.
I try to stay calm, but internally, fireworks explode. Throughout my entire trip in Asia, I've been to countless 7-Elevens but never encountered the holy Slurpee machine. I rush to get a Coke Slurpee, watching in awe as it pours smoothly into my cup. At checkout, I make a last-minute decision to grab a cheese sandwich. I keep a careful eye on the bus from afar. Total: $6. Perfect. The clerk asks if I want my sandwich heated up. I say yes, even though I know I'm pushing my luck.
They take longer than expected. From the corner of my eye, I see my bus honking and pulling out. The cheese sandwich was not in my original calculations. I abandon it without hesitation. Swiftly, I jog back to the bus to ensure I'm not left stranded in rural Laos. I climb aboard as the last person on.
Everyone who just went to the bathroom and got no snacks peers at me with a mix of disgust and admiration. I sit back in my seat, victorious. Yet, deep inside, I mourn the loss of my cheese sandwich.
The next leg of the journey is standard. The Dictator makes stops in small villages to drop off rice and packages. Some locals get on; others get off. People continue playing their phone audio out loud. I bask in my snacks, listen to music, and contemplate my mortality.
After eight hours, you're exhausted. The sun has set. You nod at the driver and the Dictator as you wait for your bag beneath the bus. The battle is over, but the war isn't won yet. The station is far from the city center. You still need to find a tuk-tuk to your accommodation.
This is the art of war.