In November 2011, news of the full opening of the Kunming-Bangkok Expressway swept through like a tropical gale, stirring the hearts of every adventurer.
As a press correspondent accompanying the convoy, I carried the "heavy weaponry" issued by my firm: a Canon 40D fitted with a hefty 70-200mm "telephoto cannon." In an era when monthly salaries rarely reached five figures, the "Holy Trinity" lens kit in my bag was worth nearly 100,000 RMB. At the time, I was young, fervent, and possessed no concept of the word "danger." As I crossed the red line at the Mohan Port of Entry, the DSLR in my arms felt like a key to exploring the world, rather than a conspicuous burden. Back then, through my lens, Southeast Asia was pure and fragrant with the scent of earth, yet to be obscured by the grim labels of today.
As Mohan faded into the rearview mirror and we crossed the border, my phone signal flickered and switched to Laos's Unitel. In 2011, Boten was still a quiet expanse of red earth, a far cry from the forest of high-rises that stands there now. Our wheels kicked up clouds of dust as we wound our way along Route 13. I frequently requested stops; whenever I spotted barefoot children running by the roadside, I would push open the car door and mount my long-focus lens.
Through the viewfinder, several Laotian children were playing around a worn-out tire. Seeing a stranger like me with a "big black cannon," their first instinct was not to retreat, but to stop and shyly flash a peace sign at the camera. A little barefoot boy with a runny nose left me with the most radiant moment captured in my collection. Little did I know then that fifteen years later, when I reconnected with our old guide on social media, he would tell me that the boy with the tire was now working at a bank in Vientiane, a handsome young man in a tailored suit.
Luang Prabang greeted us with the warmth of Chinese characters in the dead of night. By the time we arrived, the darkness had grown thick and impenetrable. I was consumed by the utter exhaustion of the long journey. The bus station was crude and dim, a place where the sense of displacement in a foreign land is magnified by the midnight hour. Shouldering my heavy gear, I swung my flashlight beam wildly through the dark, searching for a sense of direction.
Suddenly, the circle of light hit a mottled wooden blackboard. On it, written in neat, chalked strokes, were the words: **"China-Aided Construction — Luang Prabang Hospital."**
In that instant, all my fatigue evaporated. In a station where even streetlights were a luxury, those Chinese characters served as a warm coordinate. I felt no threat; instead, I felt the reassuring backing of a "home right behind me." Carelessly, I set my bag of 100,000 RMB equipment on a bench, leaned against that blackboard, and lit a cigarette, gazing out at the silent, ancient city.
Today, sitting before my computer in 2026 and organizing these old photographs, I am filled with profound emotion. Two versions of an era coexist. Online, news of this road is now shrouded in anti-fraud warnings and unsettling rumors. But on my hard drive, the 2011 version remains preserved forever.
It was a journey of 13,100 kilometers of dust and starlight, of ubiquitous smiles, and the security of walking freely with an expensive camera. It was Southeast Asia in the "pre-cyber-fraud era"—a time of universal growth, an innocent chronicle of five nations—China, Laos, Thailand, Malaysia, and Singapore—being tightly stitched together by a great highway.
I want to write this down. Not for sensationalism, but to record how those children who grew up by the roadside stepped out of my lens and toward their own bright futures.