Family Values

As a trio, H, Z and I cause no little confusion to the good and tolerant folk of Laos, where we’re exploring en route to China.

“Two loom?” folk at the guesthouses ask, eyeing the flabby white lady, the skinny white child and the tall, built, black chap, and trying to work out the dynastic maths behind this particular request for accommodation.

It’s particularly confusing for the more metrosexual Lao gentlemen, whose Gaydars vibrate tangibly at the sight of H.

“Yes, please,” I say, firmly. “Two rooms. One with two beds, one with a double bed.”

“Two loom?”

“Yes,” I say. “Two rooms.”

As H proceeds to the room with the double bed, while Z and I progress to the twin, you can see them grappling to compute.

As, in fact, did kids at school when we all lived together back in the UK, before I sold out and we both skipped town for the great wide open.

Z’s formula of choice at the time? “He’s sort of my stepdad.”

Here in Laos — unlike when we travelled together in Bali last November — there’s the odd direct question.

“You family?”

“Umm, not exactly. Sort of.”

“You baby father?”

“I AM NOT A BABY…”

In fact, we’re arguably even more confusing as a trio than when Z, his father and I pootled around north Vietnam last year.

Part of it is, I guess, the beer.

I drink it.

H doesn’t.

His preferred fuel is a noxious but undoubtedly health-giving gloop prepared from a brownish powder which looks, to one who’s spent as much time in Asia as I have, uncomfortably close to the contents of the local sewers (I’m sorry, I mean, OF COURSE, the storm drains).

It has spirulina in it, and things like that.

Good things. Healthy things.

Z quite likes it.

I can’t stomach it. It tastes like bad water to me.

Anywise, the beer causes a lot of confusion.

“One large water, one Pepsi and one Beer Lao, please,” I’ll say.

“Large Beer Lao?”

“Yes,” I’ll say. “A large Beer Lao.” (The stuff is delicious. As Laos’ only recognised branded product, it’s a source of national pride. An icon on T-shirts. And, at roughly a dollar for over a pint, phenomenally cheap.)

The water will arrive. The waiter will solemnly present a large Beer Lao and two glasses to H, who will push the beer and one of the glasses across to me.

At some point over dinner, I will generally order a (gasp!) second Beer Lao.

This, too, will be delivered to H, with one glass, this time.

Weirdly, when the bill comes, it tends to go to whoever asks for it.

Which, not that I’m bossy or anything, is usually me.

“I don’t think Lao women drink much,” H says. “Do you?”