Lawrence & the Machine

“You have broken the law, and now I will punish you in money”, states the officer at the Vietnam-Laos border crossing. “What? You’re going to punish me in money?” replies Lawrence Cambridge, a tall and gangly British Chap sharing the bus ride with me.

Lawrence and his UK counterpart Bill Gee have expired Vietnam Visas, making the border crossing into Laos a challenge. The two bash brothers have been traveling 6 months together, sharing expenses even if it means sharing a bed; budget travel professionals. Our crew has coined them “Lawrence and the Machine” due to their ability to rip through cigarettes without fatigue. They are rodeo clowns of the road, but their fun circus is about to be tarnished by a Vietnamese rent-a-cop looking for a bribe to feed a nicotine habit of his own. Their Visa had expired just one day prior. Sadly, Lawrence & the Machine are shit out of luck, cash and cigarettes.

We are in the middle of the Laos jungle, straddling Vietnam with nothing but mud, sticks, and straw huts for miles. It has been 14 hours of dirt roads on a rusty bus void of any fans, leg-room, or breathable air. The 16 of us are packed onto a 10-man bus along with live chickens and metal roofing needed to supply a primitive Laos border village, which only gets about two to three deliveries per week.  

It’s also the rainy season, so some roads have become rivers. Our jalopy mini bus had forded two rivers since the inception of the journey. The Vietnamese bus driver takes off his shoes and walks ahead into the river, squatting to study the curve of the earth like Greg Norman before missing a game-changing putt. Our driver feels out the flooring of the rocks for a proper place to drive across. He returns to the bus, guns the engine and plows us through 4 feet of water that nearly rushes through the dirt-glazed windows. “This chav is totally mental,” notes Lawrence as we trot up to the border. 

Now, it is time to face the music. The border patrol does not even have a computer, much less the Internet, which leads to a three hour VISA processing afternoon of ink and paper. This is an operation that normally takes 20 minutes, but we’re in the jungle baby, and we’re gonna die. 

“I speak to my boss upstairs. Then punish you in money,” states the officer as he trots up the stairs with Lawrence’s passport. Lawrence and the Machine appear to remain calm. “I’ve never been so unprepared for a border crossing. These are still just empty threats,” states Lawrence as he burns through his last Marlboro. “This guy is a wanker”. 

My time has come. I hand the other Laotian officer my passport. He appears stern when he sees I am American. In the Vietnam War, the US actually bombed Laos harder than Vietnam, and unexploded US bombs still go off on Laotian farmers to this day. I swallow nervously. My Adam’s apple pops through my skin like Sigourney Weaver’s veiny Alien belly. My Visa passes, and I am not punished in money.

Meanwhile, an old Spanish couple chips in some dollars to the Lawrence fund to help pay the troll toll. “Proceed”, says the officer. Lawrence and Bill Gee wipe the sweat out of the eyeballs and we pile back on the bus.

So in the end the Machine was “punished in money”, an extended synonym for a fine (or bribe). It sounds more like a consequence for a grand theft auto felon or repeat offender of drug smuggling.  I haven’t been “punished in money” since my 2005 traffic ticket for speeding down Coffee lane on caffeine, 13 over. Bush-league. The crew piles back on the bus to be punished with another 10 hours of potholes and river fording. To my left, Lawrence peers deep into his wallet. It peers back emptily in shame, punished and lonely, void of all currency.