...with a man asleep on his knee

It was when the guy sitting in front fell asleep on my knee that I knew I was experiencing one of those epic Laos bus journeys we'd heard about.
When we were shown to the back seat of the bus in Vinh, central Vietnam, we had been among only about eight passengers.
But after stopping several times for pick-ups, there must have been nearly 100 on the single-decker.
The two rearmost sets of seats had been removed and in the space freed up I counted 13 heads - on top of the six of us jammed onto the back row.
Dozens sat in the aisle or stood at the front, while it was three to every two seats further forward.
Despite squatting on tiny plastic stools or perching on bags, the Vietnamese around us - to a man - managed to nod off.
The bloke perched between my legs just rested his head on my knee and started drooling over the mate sitting to the left.
In spite of all this, the journey proved exhilarating as we first passed through mile upon mile of paddy fields before winding slowly up the steep mountain's jungle landscape towards the border.
Despite losing the sensation in my feet several times, it would have been a really enjoyable trip were it not for the lingering anxiety over whether we'd have enough time - or cash - to get our Laos visa.
We also weren't sure whether we'd managed to convey to the driver that we wanted to get off in rural Ban Na Hin and not go all the way to the capital, Vientiane.
As it happened, he stopped in the right place and we made an unconventional departure through the bus's back window. It was nice for us to leave the other passengers wide-eyed for once.

One guy we met remarked that the sun starts shining the minute you cross from Vietnam into Laos.
That was true - literally and metaphorically - in our case.
As we walked through no man's land, in baking heat we'd not experienced in Vietnam, we were greeted with a ''Sabaai-dii'' by a passing Lao.
And we've met that casual friendliness ever since - a far cry from view that Western tourism is simply a cash cow to be milked that exists in much of Vietnam.
Mountainous borders must tend to be quite spectacular but this one really was beautiful. Laos immigration was housed in a pagoda-style building, surrounded by greenery. (I still wasn't going to risk taking a photo, mind, given I was ordered away when I tried to look back up the road into Vietnam to see where our bus was.)
When we arrived in Ban Na Hin, we ended up walking the wrong way up the main road until a kindly local pulled over.
We told her the guest house we were looking for and she insisted on driving us there - and refused payment.
Only in the car did she reveal she was the owner of a rival guest house. She made no attempt to talk us into staying at her place. No wonder the Lao have a reputation for being such great people.

Given that we'd messed around with our itinerary several times to make sure we could get to Ban Na Hin to visit the Kong Lo cave, it was a pity we marked our arrival with a furious barney.
It was our first proper row of the trip (not bad a month in, I reckon) and, as usual, it was over nothing more than the pair of us being a bit stressed and weary.
Still, it must have been highly comical for the two guys steering the long boat into the 7.5km cavern through the limestone mountains of Phu Hin Bun national park.
The odd occasion when we had to climb out of the boat to wade through shallower parts of the river left me with the dilemma of whether to risk an ear-bashing by telling The One With The Common Sense she was hitching her skirt too high and exposing her pants.
The alternative seemed to be risking an ear-bashing by not telling her and letting her realise for herself. I chose the coward's way and said it very quietly.
It was impossible to stay in a bad mood too long, however, as we disappeared into the eery blackness, lit only by our headtorches.
We pulled over for a short walk to admire some stalactites and stalagmites which, unlike some we'd seen in a cave in Halong Bay, had not been spoiled by insensitive "disco lighting" that seems overly popular around here.
It was great to feel the cool wind flowing past us - the noise of the boat's engine amplified to sound like a helicopter and the water rushing past us seeming like a waterfall whenever the walls closed in.
Above us the roof of the cave sometimes rose to 100m, while in other places water seemed to have created weird spirals in the ceiling.
There were one or two big tree trunks positioned as though holding the roof up, here and there, but we tried our best to ignore them.

Later that night, The One With The Common Sense had awoken to find an old lady peering at us with a torch through the sheet dividing our sleeping quarters from hers.
Apparently I had been snoring, or talking in my sleep, or something.
Sleeping on the floor of someone else's home in a totally alien environment is always going to throw up the odd awkward moment but it was a brilliant experience.
After the cave trip, we opted for a homestay in one of those wooden stilt houses we'd seen all over the region.
The village was a hive of activity, with locals - kids included - tying up what we think were tobacco leaves, ready for sale.
Our host family consisted of the aforementioned granny, a young teacher and two very cute girls of about three and five.
We spent an hour or so drawing pictures with a pad and pencils we'd bought them as presents, coaxing them out of their shyness.
It was so nice to sit, nine feet up, on the floor of the timber house as the sun set.
Dinner consisted of sticky rice, which you roll into balls before dipping into the main dishes.
There was fresh fish, seasoned with a paste of chili, lime and herbs, pork with green beans and spinach with herbs. All were delicious - and I think we managed to convey our appreciation.
When your host doesn't really speak any English, it's pretty difficult to know what is acceptable behaviour.
We left a little bit of each dish on our plates, which we think is the polite thing to do. (If you clean your plate, I think that obliges your host to provide more)
Knowing when to go to bed when everyone sleeps in the same room is also tricky - particularly with young kids involved. Anyway, we didn't mind a very early night so retired at about 8.30pm to our mattress on the floor.
It's something we'd love to do again.

They eat most things in these parts and we had no idea what we were munching through but our best guess is that it was a chicken's stomach.
The lady had pointed to her abdomen when we asked what was on the skewer and we assumed she meant it was a chicken breast that had been flattened for marinating - something quite common here.
But the rubbery texture proved otherwise. It actually tasted really good - a stronger-than-usual taste, more like duck.
It certainly was more filling than the chicken's foot we shared, which tasted like the crispy skin on the outside of a roast, and was covered in a beautiful glaze.
We were visiting Chicken Street in Hanoi - after a great tip from a workmate. A side alley a fair walk from the city centre, it was filled with stalls barbecuing every imaginable bit of chook. Great fun.
And where else to go after Chicken Street but Beer Junction.
All four corners of the crossroads were filled with people sitting on plastic stools drinking Bia Hoi, that 50p-a-pint nectar of joy.
We just had a couple but were joined by a passing cyclo driver (that's a kind of bicycle with a scoop on the front where two people can sit) who was quite obviously hammered.
I conducted a hilarious conversation with him through sign language and animal sounds - I never miss a chance to perform a few mooing noises.
Seeing how his eyes were rolling, however, we declined the free ride home and bought him a beer instead - seemed safer somehow.