No, the scorpion didn't actually win. I'm still here

I've just spent two days in a more rural Laos - Ban Kuh Nang - a town so off the map that my host wasn't even sure of its name. We'd met in Khon Kaen, Thailand, at the visa office. He was peering intently over what appeared to be a thin guidebook, and despite his age (nearing 50), his sandals and shorts seemed to indicate him as a tourist.

"Where are you going?" I asked. "Laos, renew visa," he replied. We started chatting over a map of the country, and then, unexpectedly, an invite.

"Why not come stay village? Wife Lao, love visitor." And, why not, I thought? We traveled together for the rest of the day, and truth be told, it was nice not to have to think about logistics. The countryside slid by, dusty and dry, a miracle that anything could be grown. The vivid technicolor patches of sticky rice plots never failed to amaze me. There wasn't much to see along this stretch. I racked my brains for an American comparison, but the only thing that came close was Eastern Washington, maybe, crossed with the dryest upper reaches of the Yucatan peninsula in Mexico. I loved it, wrestled for a reason to stop and visit.

We finally made it, after 8 hours, 3 trucks, 3 buses, 1 train, and 2 tuk-tuks, to his house. His wife, Noi, greeted us. I showered, using a scoop to dump chilling cold water over my body on the cold concrete of the bathroom floor. Then I sat on the front porch, watching the passing traffic. It was difficult, the language barrier, but I'd decided to stay here for two nights.

In the morning, we headed off to the market. "Breakfast is bread, coffee," Hiro had said. "No butter, sorry, okay?" Of course it was.

"We like you stay 7 day, 10 day," he invited. "But you stay more 2, 3 night, police. But no problem, no problem, just talking!" he said. I wasn't sure what he meant, and as I sat on the truck rumbling into town, I tried to erase the image of Laotian military men, dressed like Mao recruits in khaki pants and round shades, coming for me in the dead of night.

When we returned, arms full of fresh fruits and vegetables and loaves of bread, a young man in his twenties, dressed in a Puma hat and an Adidas jacket, was sitting on the porch. I offered him some peanut butter for his baguette and some slices of dried mango, just to be friendly. A few minutes later, Hiro leaned over. "This man, police. You stay one week, 10 day, okay police." Guess it pays to bribe the cops, even in Laos.