Vientiane 1969.

The roar of numerous motorcycles brings me into the fog of a hangover. I curse, roll over, cover my head with a pillow and try to die for a bit longer. The roar persists. Banging on my door, adds to the racket.

            "Mastah, mastah. Bad people come to see you." The maid yells through the door.

I groan and force myself up.

Wrapped in a sarong I go out of the bedroom and peer through the front door glass.

Half a dozen motorcycles stand by the garden gate. Their drivers wave their fists and holler demanding admission.

"Let them in." I reach into the fridge in the dining room and pull out a bottle of vodka. A swig of the stuff ought to help the headache. 

The roar of the motorcycles stops as Somphong, the self styled leader of the Lao kickers and his followers get off their bikes.

"Sambaidi kap." Somphong salutes military style as he enters the house. The rest follow suit. "We come to drink beer and make you happy. Okay?"

I take beers out of the fridge and pass them around.

Somphong says something in a smattering of French, English and Lao. I'm still in no shape to understand much in any language. Yesterday we lost an engine while dropping fuel in northeast Laos near the Ho Chi Mhin Trail. To get out, we had to fly through a pass over five thousand feet high. The kickers refused the offer to parachute and then be picked up by something safe to fly out in. We cleared the trees in the pass by a couple of feet and made it to Vientiane, with the aluminum still intact, strapped to our butts.

Somphong says, "We're going to dance, sing and have fun."

Soon, after another slug of vodka, I have Zorba the Greek spooled on the stereo set. The kickers think this is neat music and before you know it, we're doing the sirtaki. I think any Greek would be proud of us.

"Now we go eat chicken, drink and dance on the river," Somphong says.

My hangover is gone, Surrounded by six powerful motorcycles I drive my little scooter toward the border crossing of Nonghkai.

A row of open-air restaurants line the riverbank. We're obviously expected as a waiter brings a tray of Tiger beers before we have time to sit down on the benches lining a long table. Everybody gets a beer, except me.

I begin to protest and shut up when a lovely Lao woman in formal national dress approaches, lowers to one knee, bows and offers me a beer.

I steeple my hands and bring them to my forehead.

The girl hands me the beer then bows and also steeples her hands.

The kickers cheer.

"You like?" Somphong asks.

"Yes, very nice."

"Good." He turns and says something in Lao.

The kickers cheer and we all clink cans.

Another round of beers arrives and the girl treats me to the same ceremony.

Waiters bring plates of barbequed chicken, baskets of rice and bowls of sauce. Lao music blares from overhead speakers. My mind drifts as the kickers carry on an animated and jolly conversation in Lao.

I feel appreciated, almost belonging to this mystic kingdom. On the other side of the brown river is Thailand. I watch the steady traffic of smuggler boats cross the river two hundred meters from the customs post. Nobody cares. Tolerance is the norm. Let live, everyone has a right to their bowl of rice. How can people like that tolerate and wage war is difficult to understand.

I was at the war yesterday. Today I'm in peace.

On this side of the river there are no railways, only six miles of paved highways. Many people have seen airplanes very few have seen a car. Powerful people in Washington, Moscow and Paris have an unhealthy interest in what is going on here. We just fly, mourn our dead and get drunk.

The girl ceremoniously brings me a cup of Lao-lao, the local booze.

Somphong says, "She loves you too much. You marry her, okay?"

I don't know what to say. The girl stands next to me, obviously waiting for an answer.

"You get girl, you get restaurant, she work very hard. You have good life, eat, drink all you want."

To get out of that situation without offending anyone, I lie and claim to have a wife and several children.

More information on Air America, the secret CIA airline and photos can be found on:

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