19th

That day, I awoke to spiralling patterns and spots of light, my vision blurry and my body tingling as if I were lying on a bed of fleas.

It took me about 20 minutes to recognise where I was, figure out how I’d gotten there, and remember who I’d been with the night hat before. Given these sensations, I imagined rice whisky must have flowed freely, as it often does when I visit Laos and meet up with my acquaintances in Savannakhet.

The locals in Savannakhet, use to drink every evening when the temperature goes down a bit, and when we got together, we tended to honour the local tradition by indulging in unusual barbecued pieces of exotic animals, from goat to water buffalo; stomachs, heads, feet, everything is possible when it comes to night BBQ there.

That morning, the hotel was quieter than usual. It was 11 a.m.; typically, at this hour, there would be a flurry of check-ins and check-outs, with people bustling about. Sunlight bounced off the white walls of my room, irritating my eyes. My mouth was dry, and my brain felt useless and sore.

There weren’t as many backpackers as usual, which was a relief. Over the past few days, I’d noticed that the town’s atmosphere was different: fewer people on the streets, fewer food stalls, and a much quieter market, both day and night.

During those years, I visited Savannakhet periodically, but I was hardly an expert in the area. In truth, my visits were solely for bureaucratic reasons — to renew my working visa for Thailand, where I was living.

I’d come for a few days, update my paperwork, perhaps indulge in a drinking spree, cross the Mekong to the other side, and not much else. So, I wasn’t particularly surprised that the atmosphere felt different; perhaps it was just my perception or things simply weren’t as they usually were.

I took a shower, and 15 minutes later, I took another. I was sweating, which was normal there, but my body also felt feverish. Suddenly, I began to hear voices downstairs in the reception area. The phone in my room rang quickly, and the receptionist explained in rudimentary English that I needed to come down immediately.

I put on a pair of pants and headed to the reception.

There, I found a trusted tuk-tuk driver, someone I often called when I needed to go somewhere or required a service. A good man, Laotian style. The receptionist was gesturing that I needed to leave the hotel immediately. At first, everything seemed surreal, partly due to my state after the previous night. I didn’t understand anything. I started to get nervous.

However, I quickly realised that something strange was happening.

The receptionist managed to explain a little better and told me that I had to go quickly to the border post, about 4 kilometres from where I was. The tuk-tuk driver was there waiting for me; he was a very helpful man who had made many trips for me. He had taken it upon himself to notify the hotel to pick me up and take me, and he didn’t want to charge me anything for the trip, which left me completely stunned. The situation wasn’t normal, and it wasn’t just my perception altered by the hangover.

The journey was very fast. I encountered many empty streets and almost no traffic on the way to the border. When we arrived, I said goodbye to the driver with the usual warmth and affection, although I noticed a strange expression on his face. He was worried. I was still very confused, not yet understanding or even suspecting anything about the situation.

We arrived at a small door; it wasn’t the usual exit where they checked passports. I went through, followed by three more people — two Chinese citizens and one Thai.

I noticed two strategically placed Laotian army tanks and several soldiers scattered along the corridor. Across from them was the Thai army, even more heavily armed than the Laotian forces.

Immediately after the last person passed through, they put a large padlock on the gate, closed the door, and at that moment, around 2:00 p.m, that gate never opened again until two years later.

It was March 19th, 2020.