The Passing Scene

Letter From a Dusty Graustark

I suppose that the hop from Saigon to Vientiane, with its overtones of such vintage Waugh as Scoop and Black Mischief, should have prepared me for Laos. My plane was a rather shopworn Dakota which, though advertised as a passenger aircraft, had a supply of cargo packed in the after cabin. A flock of cackling chickens and a poorly hobbled pig had the run of the aisles. It was the pig who finally unnerved the beautiful Laotian woman sitting next to me. She was unconcernedly filing her nails with an emery board when the animal poked its snout into her lap; she promptly leaned over and threw up— in my lap.