She lay deep in his arms as if she belonged there. Music drifted from a campfire through the small gaggle of riverside huts occupied by young Western travelers. Someone was strumming a guitar, not too competently, but it hardly mattered. Maier could see fireflies bouncing around in front of the window.
Muang Ngoi was the last frontier for the Lonely Planet set – a laid-back Lao village that had made the necessary concessions to the twenty-first century nomads that scoured the Earth in search of cheap foreign thrills packed with the necessities to keep the comfort zone intact – beer, m*******a, pancakes and fried rice. The Internet wasn’t long off. Travelers needed little more to continue their consumption-driven lifestyles in front of a more exotic background than the suburbs they came fr
