Another Night at the Aussie Bar

I don’t know how we first ended up there. I think the sign that read “Cheapest, Coldest Beer in Town” may have had something to do with it. The fact that –unlike every other place in Vang Vieng– they didn’t play endless reruns of The Family Guy or Friends kept us coming back. After a couple of evenings drinking beer and eating grilled kebabs, it became my local hangout, something I hadn’t experienced in months.

The Aussie Bar is a fairly run-down bar/restaurant in a town full of run-down bars and restaurants. While others make efforts to spruce up the joint with paint or reasonably-attentive service, the Aussie is resolutely shabby and unkept, the staff too busy taking a nap or watching TV to take your order. The front is open, as most places here are, with no doors between inside and out, and rough picnic tables or raised ‘chill area’ platforms with pillows fill the space.

Our first night there, my travel buddy, Stu, and I are introduced to Tia, a young Hmong man who’s the night manager and front man for the bar. He is charming, witty, and fun — one of those people that you can tell right away knows how to take a joke and dish it back. We spend the entire night trying to convince him that they’ll get more business if he will dress as a lady boy. He isn’t buying it.

Tia is maybe five feet tall, if you include his carefully-tended hair, and we give him a hard time about it, which he shrugs off with aplomb. On our second night, Stu and I quiz him about life in his village and he spends an hour sitting with us, explaining how he got married.

Some marriages are arranged by the parents, but in his case, he married his childhood sweetheart — that was a year ago and his wife is now seven-months pregnant. The dowry for any bride in the village is set at one cow, which will cost you about six million kip ($750 US). The bride’s family can ask for other livestock, depending on their need — one cow equals three pigs equals six goats.

Stu and I both are surprised that everyone pays the same price. “What about ugly wives?” Stu asks. “No discount?”

“One wife, one cow,” Tia insists. When I ask how the ugly ones manage to get married at all, he replies “Ugly men need wives, too.”

The owner, Steve, is an odd character — he’s in his sixties and has been an expat in Laos for a couple of years, coming to work every day in his standard uniform of nothing but a pair of swimming trunks. He’s married to a Lao woman half his age and they have an adorable baby girl with dark eyes, a wobbly walk, and a smile that will melt your heart. He’s a very hands-off father and I think I’ve only see him hold her once, when he was letting her sip on his beer.

Steve tries to make conversation and keep the customers entertained, but the sad truth is that he’s just dull as hell. When we talk, I try to think of more pleasant things, like that root-canal I had done last year. Each day, he updates us with the state of his business: “Dammit, we only did five hundred thousand yesterday. A week ago, we were doing four million a night. I’ll have to close the doors if this keeps up. Another beer?”

He complains that someone left a comment on a website that his pool table is “utter shite” and laughs, “I’ve got the best pool table in town!” He points to the table, wedged in a corner with blankets, boxes, and a broken microwave oven sitting on it. I didn’t even know he had one.

As we get to know the staff, we learn that Steve is a bit of a tight-ass when it comes to food and pay — I can’t say I’m surprised by that revelation. Meals are included as part of the wage, but he limits it to small portions of chicken, vegetables, and rice. When he’s away, the kitchen is busy cranking out meals for the staff, eaten discreetly out of sight. Then, the naps begin in earnest and it’s damned hard to get a beer.

The other fixture at the Aussie is a Kiwi couple, Robert and Nita. They’re both lovable, hardcore alcoholics and are visiting Vang Vieng for two weeks, with the intention of spending every day right here, drinking beer. They’re at their favorite table every morning by ten — I often wave as I pass by, returning from breakfast. By four or five, they’re potted and stagger back to the hotel.

Robert looks like a rheumy Jack Palance and tends to get a bit surly after a few pints, raising his voice and slurring demands at the staff. Nita is Maori and sweet as can be — she keeps a tight rein on him and it’s easy to see why. She’s named me “Austin” and it charms me to no end.

Stu and I spend several evenings hanging out with the Kiwis and the conversations between the two are hilarious. I try to sneak notes on my iPhone of the more outrageous ones, but usually forget them anyway.

Robert gets into a rant one night, complaining about how his first wife “cleaned him out” when they divorced. “It cost me my house, it did!” he grumbles.

“It did not,” Nita insists, peering over her glasses.

He comes back with “Well… she got half of everything!”

“Yeah, four thousand dollars…”

Robert has all kinds of games he plays to justify another beer. He tallies them as they drink and will say “Well, that’s five. We can’t end on an odd number, it’s just not right.” So he’ll order another, down it, and say “That’s six. Seven is my lucky number, so let’s have another.” On a good day, they’ll hit double digits, drinking the 650ml ‘big beers’.

After four or five evenings at the Aussie, Tia explains that this is his last night. He’s taking a couple of months off to support his wife — she’s having a difficult pregnancy and their village is a fair drive from town. He also hints that he’s got an interview at another bar in town that will be a step up, financially. He’s not coming back.

And, with him gone, it’s just not the same. We stop by the next night, but the vibe is different, the magic spell that has held us here has broken. The Kiwis are pulling an all-day drink fest — they’ll go from ten to ten and are both incoherent by the end.

Stu and I wander down the street to the Irish pub where I order a fantastic steak and ale pie and we drink beer while watching Formula One on the widescreen. The bartender is friendly and chatty, the service top-notch, and the beer is cold. It’s our last night in town and after a couple of hours, I feel like I’ve woken from a dream. Why did we keep going back to that awful place?

And, like a dream, it’s all hazy now. But, at the time, it made perfect sense.

Tagged as: bars, laos, vang vieng