In the evening, we knock on the door of the alleged den. The door is opened to reveal a dumpy, middle-aged woman in pyjamas and slipslops. Eyeing us suspiciously, she asks what we want. Eric swallows. "Uh, we were, like wondering, if we could, um get something to smoke ?" She glares at him and closes the door. I want to run.I signal to Eric to beat it before she calls the cops. The door opens and she says, "Come, 11 o'clock," and slams the door. We return. Mama Opium is very jittery and hushes us, while pointing to a narrow flight of stairs leading to a loft.
Close your eyes and conjure up a fantasy of an Opium den; swathed in rich luxurious velvets and plump feather cushions, ambient music gently swirls around reclining smokers, their eyes closed in threads of bliss.
Well, forget that- here's the reality check. It's a loft. It's dirty and has raw floorboards and exposed ceiling beams. It's too vertically cramped for standing. Mama Opium brings her smoking paraphernalia up, together with a huffy "you're really pissing me off" attitude. Sultry siren seducing us with her wares, she is not. An irritable middle-aged, pastel pyjama wearing Lao woman she is. She prepares the pipe. It has a long bamboo stem, attached to a cylindrical bowl the size of a fist the one end. She has a sharp metal stick to prod with and a lamp filled with some kind of fuel.

She heats the Opium over the flame, until it becomes malleable. She inserts this into a small orifice in the pipe and demonstrates how I'm supposed to inhale, taking puffs into my mouth without interruption. I try to do this as she holds the pipe over the lamp, to keep the Opium vaporising . As it heats up, it starts to bubble and block the little hole. I inhale and Opium becomes more runny. She prevents it from dripping by channelling it back into the little hole. I can't sustain the single inhalation and the Opium blocks the pipe . She looks peeved at my lack of expertise . I try again ….with a bit more success. As we hit the street, I start to feel dizzy and nauseous. We sprawl out on our hotel bed, feeling floaty. The nausea goes away if you lie down.

Early in the morning, we head off the market. The people are dressed in full traditional regalia; still very much part of the way they live. Some of the women wear highly decorated headgear, with silver coinage from the French era, buttons and bits of bright beads, glass and cloth.

Walking in the direction of the Chinese border, we come across a middle-aged French tourist, engaged in an animated conversation with two tribal women in tiny skirts, and tops that leave their breasts exposed. I reckon he's titillated, but in denial.
We stop to chat. "oh, they're prostitutes." he claims. We are not convinced. The women are selling traditional, non-sexual Lao massages. This isn't what we're after, and sign that we want to smoke. They take us to the middle of a field where we find a simple bamboo construction. A stepladder leads up to the hut. There's soft grass and straw to lie on. The local Opium stoner is inside with his smoking set-up. He's a small, hairless man, neither friendly nor unfriendly. Open lands lie below cloudless skies. No traffic, no pollution - just birdcalls and buzz of pollen-seekers.
The women remove their tops. They are keen to massage us.
The stoner mixes up huge bowls, combining the Opium with some Aspirin. The taste is so deliciously yummy. It's like Candy. Like Coffee Candy. The women massage our legs and arms; a deep, hard muscle-relaxing massage that feels supremely relaxing .
Many superlatives later, we're still lying in the hay bales; kicking back in the middle of a field in remotest Laos. I feel warm and drowsy, like an invisible blanket has been thrown over me; like I'm being embraced by my archetypal lover. I'm grateful for its rich blackness; all the dark, sticky things which I can group together, like chocolate, coffee and Opium . I've finally been to Laos.

Nina