"All Tevas stink," was the uniform, across-the-board statement agreed upon by several members of our group.

Mine don't, I thought, and dug a little further.

It turned out that the individuals that were complaining had purchased leather Tevas. I could barely stop myself from pointing out that if you buy leather water-shoes, you're asking for trouble. And if they aren't for the water, don't bother, because they're going to get wet regardless. On trips like this we get caught in the rain, go out in leaky boats, land in puddles and stand in inches of water above squat toilets.

My tolerance for group dynamics was clearly nonexistent. But at least my cloth Tevas didn't stink.

We took the mafia-boat back to dry land and caught a 20-seat mini-bus for a seven-hour drive towards the border. I stared out the window at Laos (called Lao by the locals and nearly everyone else within the country).

The shrubbery and undergrowth was plentiful and green, but not the rich, vivid green of Bali. Just a normal green. And it was all relatively short. The tarmac was riddled with potholes and old wrecks dotted the landscape at points. There wasn't too much traffic but there were a lot of cows, goats, and chickens.

Our driver, like many drivers in developing nations, used his horn to signal anything. "(Hello)Beep." "(Move over)Beep." "(I'm overtaking you)Beep."

We stopped at a few remote villages on the way. The houses were all on stilts and these villages were only visited by other Intrepid travelers like ourselves. Everyone stared at each other. We stared at the villagers. The villagers stared at us. Wendy passed out photos that she'd taken on her last trip through the village.

The smaller children pointed and laughed. One baby cried.

One place we stopped was a wat with a Buddha footprint. I don't quite understand this bit - is it supposed to be a real footprint? It's big enough for me to take a bath in so I don't think Buddha made it unless he was a massive giant. I couldn't find anything in my guidebook to explain it so I have to assume it's some sort of monument, not a genuine footprint.

Someone in our group had brought along a Michael Bolton tape and offered to let us hear it in the minibus. Fortunately, the tape deck didn't agree with the tape so it was handed back to its owner.

Lunch was noodles or rice at a roadside open-air restaurant. Wendy hovered over the cook until I got noodles without soy or MSG. She's too good to me. She almost makes up for my lousy leader on my last leg. Almost.

My belly full of soy-free, MSG-free rice noodles and veggies, I sat in the bus and looked out at the landscape. A nice breeze came in through the window and no one tried to talk to me. For a while, I was happy.

Then the luggage started to fall on my head.

I had swapped seats with Rebecca after lunch. Her seat had been the worst on the bus and I had a single, window seat. Share the pain, I figured. I hadn't figured on the tarmac getting worse and the bags sliding down on my head. I tried holding them in place but the potholes became deeper and more plentiful and finally I scooted up to the front, unfolding a jumpseat for the remainder of the trip.

By the time we got to the dirty little border town of Lak Xao, I was light-headed. I hadn't gotten the travel-illness that had felled half our group and I was hoping that my hard-earned third-world-bacteria-immunity would hold.

The hotel was still under construction. Only six rooms were finished and they were lovely. But that left us with the same problem we'd had at Lao Pako. I wearily volunteered, knowing that it was my job.

My room was fine. The bathroom was shared with Wendy and with the entire family that ran the hotel. I checked it out - there was a fresh roll of toilet paper but no disposal bin. The locals use their left hand so they aren't real with-it when it comes to our needs. Furthermore, there was no sink. I looked around the kitchen just outside the bathroom. No trashcan, no sink. Then, confusion and depression. What a pain. Dare I stuff up their toilet with paper?

I asked Wendy about the situation and within minutes a bin appeared. The same cannot, unfortunately, be said for the sink. Wendy explained the local system to me.

"Just spit your toothpaste down the toilet and use the shower for anything else."

Okay. Fine. But that didn't stop me from sulking about it. I went to my room and locked myself in and cursed myself for volunteering for inconvenience. I ate every single one of my emergency-stash Chips Ahoy cookies.

The weather had become quite chilly, and we all dug out our socks and fleeces. I hadn't worn proper "real" shoes in weeks and they felt nice after my non-stinky Tevas.

Dinner was at the restaurant next door - sweet and sour vegetables on rice for me and meat, Korean barbecue, for everyone else. It wasn't bad, actually. I went into the shared bathroom after dinner, to wash my face and spit my toothpaste into the toilet.

I opened the bathroom door to leave and go back to my room. I surprised a young boy of about 14, who had been listening at the door. Or maybe he was watching. I didn't see a visible peephole.

The boy took off running and stopped at the refrigerator, pretending to be suddenly fascinated by the refrigerator door.

"What on earth could be so fascinating about me in the toilet?" I asked the boy, who couldn't speak a word of English and just stared at me.

I went back to my room and moved the comforter from the second bed onto my own. A small dead bug flew off the comforter and careened across the room, landing near the two glasses bearing Raid logos. I took out my sleepsheet and unrolled it.

For lack of anything better to do, I went to sleep.