The Thong Also Rises Read Online Free Page A

I pray to all saints in France that I never have to hold another conversation that involves Grandmère jabbing at her hooha.
    â€”Cookie Everman, “ Grandmère ”

TAMARA SHEWARD

Pills, Thrills, and Green Around the Gills
    A renegade Aussie in Laos struggles with the advice of Helen Keller.
    A S THE PLEASURE-PAIN MAXIM WOULD HAVE IT, THINGS went rapidly downhill on our way back to the Mixai, when we were nearly run over by a samlor, pinched on the bum by a familiar-looking midget, and driven to fits of apoplexy by a shady monk who sprang out at us from a gloomy alleyway. Back in our room, the lightbulb burned out and I wound up stubbing out a cigarette in El’s pot of expensive moisturizer. And after a restless sleep plagued by ravioli-induced nightmares and mosquitos, I could only hope Lady Kismet would be a bit kinder in the morning.
    But Fate’s a bitch. We spent the entire morning battling it out with everyone we came across. Our waitress at breakfast threw a spoon at me after I asked six times for milk. The cleaner at the Mixai yelled at us for smoking in our room. And on our way to register our presences with the Australian Consulate, two kilometers away, our songthaew driver took us on a forty-five-minute junket before charging us ten bucks for the pleasure.
    â€œI think I’ve had it with city life,” I grouched as we pushed open the doors to the consulate. “Even a little pit like Vientiane is getting too stressful for me.”
    â€œWe should go up-country,” El said. “A city is a city anywhere, but we’d get a real feel for Laos if we headed north.”
    The doors of the consulate slammed shut behind us and we leaned on the unattended front counter. “I reckon. What about that town we read about, the one with the bouncy-sounding name?” As usual, we had no plans and I had no clue.
    â€œI think it’s called Luang Prabang. It sounds utterly brilliant and really gorgeous. Hey, is anyone even in here?”
    â€œOn my way!” came an Australian voice from behind a heavy office door. The voice was saddled with a less strident ocker twang than Bruce’s had been back in Nong Khai, but I cringed anyway. Back in Australia, where we spend so much of our time poking fun at the flat whines of the Yanks and the bizarre vowels of the Kiwis, it’s easy to forget we have an accent at all. But spend some time overseas, preferably somewhere they don’t broadcast Home and Away , and it hits you like a ton of bricks. We sound like freaks. Even in their rare moments of calm, Australian women sound constantly hysterical, and the men manage to give the impression that their words are suffocating somewhere between the glottis and their last meat pie. All this while hardly moving our lips at all.
    The door swung open and a well-dressed woman approached us. Apart from the fact that she wore shoes, she looked like a typical Queenslander: blonde, tanned, and hungover. But despite her bloodshot eyes, the woman was polite and efficient, negating my theory about her Queensland origins.
    â€œG’day girls, I’m sorry to have kept you. My name’s Louise. How can I help?”
    I stared at a framed copy of the words to “Advance Australia Fair” on the wall while El explained that we wanted to register ourselves. “We were told we had to,” she finished.
    â€œWell, you don’t have to,” Louise said. “But it’s a good idea. At least then we have an idea of where Australian citizens are when they’re in Laos. That way, if anything happens, it makes it easier to identify you.”
    I winced. “Isn’t that a bit dramatic? I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”
    â€œIt’s just a precaution,” Louise soothed. “If you play it safe, you’ll be fine. But if you start wandering off into certain areas, you could find yourselves in big trouble. Laos can still be a very dangerous,