One thing about always being hungover when packing your bag to leave a place is that, eventually, you get rather good at it. It helped that I’d left a lot of my extraneous equipment in Bangkok so there was less to pack than on previous occasions. I got away in plenty of time to get breakfasted before meeting with my kayaking guide and the rest of our party…only to find that they expected us to breakfast with them. Irritated at the loss of an hour’s kip, I deliberately refused to sit around and wait for other people to turn up and sloped off to an internet café to use my extra hour productively.
Back at the tour agency, I was pleased to see that there were only five of us on the trip. I can’t say that I got to know my companions particularly well…the only one whose name I remember was an American guy, Michael. The rest of our party was made up by a young Australian girl (talkative) and a really sweet (no, really they were!) French couple. The trip wasn’t really a group affair – as long as our guide was in front of us, we were free to follow down the river at our own pace. The only times we were together, other than in the pick-up at either end of the river sections, was over lunch and when we went cliff-jumping. I must admit that at these two times, my attention was distracted by the members of the other kayaking party that were following us down the river. To be precise, a beautiful Dutch girl called Hesther was distracting me…and of course with my Dutch family (any tenuous connection will do where a beautiful girl’s involved!) I felt it only right and proper that I should try to get to know her.
The big downer of the day was the fact that (no sizeist jokes here, please!) I’d been lumbered with a two-seater kayak…on my own. This behemoth was difficult enough to manoeuvre as it was, without the added inconvenience of it shipping water. In the end, this excess ballast was enough to have the lumbering hulk tipping me into the water at the merest sniff of movement on my part. Despite this, I couldn’t help but enjoy the beautiful surroundings (more mountains and rivers with blue skies and sunshine to boot!) and generally peaceful atmosphere. This peace was shattered rudely at one point by a deafening boom reverberating from the steep rocky banks of the river. Puzzled by this breach of tranquillity, we had all looked around to spot the source and, on rounding the next bend, were horrified to discover fishermen with snorkel masks pulling small, floating fish from the water. The fact that these local men were dynamite fishing in their own waters was distressing enough…the more so when you consider that the fish they were catching were no more than 4 inches long. Sustainability and stock management are obviously not words that these guys would understand so you can hardly blame them for their actions but I would hate to be them trying to catch fish next year. Education against this type of destructive behaviour seems to be the one element missing in many South East Asian cultures and is surely something that Western governments and NGOs should be investing in heavily if they wish the local populaces to attain sustainable independence.
This aside, it was a beautiful day and an excellent way to cover the miles to Vientiane. Once there, I hooked up with a pleasant American called Jon from the other kayaking party and he helped me find a very nice hotel room – necessary before my 5.30 am departure to the airport. Of course, the added benefit of his excellent company was an evening spent in the vicinity of Hesther. Unfortunately, with an early-morning departure, the remains of my hangover and my advanced years, there was little chance of me partying the Vientiane night away. I reluctantly made my weary way to bed just after midnight. I had no regrets about seeing virtually nothing of Vientiane. Cities aren’t my favourite places and I was intent on spending my time more pleasantly in the lazy, southern reaches of the Mekong.
January 22, 2005
January 21, 2005
Reunion!
I’d spent the afternoon alternating between reading and working on the blog in my room, so come evening I was well up for dinner and a little liquid refreshment. I’d agreed to meet the Irish boys at an Indian restaurant on their recommendation and was served one of the best Chilli Chicken with Garlic Naan that I’ve had since my last visit to Jamal’s in Leicester’s Braunston Gate. A few bottles of agreeable Beer Lao and we were soon heading over the road for drinks at a cool-looking joint with a pool table. The Irish boys and Dan were due to head off further south on their way to Cambodia and I spent a long time telling them all of the delights of Serendipity Beach and writing instructions for where to stay and eat. They were now on their way down to Don Det in Si Phan Don (4000 islands). This secluded island in middle of the broadening Mekong just before its descent into Cambodia was where I was heading from Pakse so we all made plans to meet up there before the boys headed off to Cambodia. Chancing my arm at the pool table with Dave, I got a real shock as I was eyeing up an Amazonian blonde on the other side of the bar. Stood talking to her was a girl, Charlie, who I knew from Serendipity Beach! Charlie had been teaching in Sihanoukville and the last time I’d seen her, she’d been talking about quitting her job in time to meet her parents and brother in Thailand in time for a family Christmas. When I accosted her, she was as surprised as I was but she had an even greater surprise for me. Standing around the corner, a little over 5 weeks after I’d last seen them in Phnom Penh, were Tom and Adam. I really couldn’t believe my luck…just as one group of newly-found friends were departing, another gang had materialised out of nowhere. I was really excited about the prospect of tubing with these guys the next day and, to celebrate, we got hammered and went dancing at Vang Vieng’s premier nightspot, the Voodoo Lounge. When you’re so far from home and established friends and family it is particularly pleasant when you bump into former companions with whom you’ve spent a bit of time. There’s that degree of shared history, a few in-jokes and, of course, shared knowledge of other companions.
One of the fascinating tales I'd not heard since I'd last seen these guys was Charlie's own nightmare tale of coming face-to-face with the tsunami. She and her 4 year-old brother had been on international news after becoming separated from their parents in the aftermath of the first wave. Fortunately, the family had been re-united and unscathed and it was a relief to see her happy face had remained untroubled by the trauma.
Considering my euphoria at meeting up with Adam, Tom and Charlie, great, great guys that they are, I can only imagine how overwhelmingly happy I’ll be to get home in August and see all of my nearest and dearest once again. Not only did I have the pleasure of Tom, Adam and Charlie’s company but also Susie (Adam’s girlfriend who’d flown out to join him for a few weeks), Anya (the ‘Amazonian blonde’ and Tom’s current ‘companion’) and Lucy (Anya’s very cute and highly amusing friend) and Anders (an affable chap from Norway). One or two of the girls were suffering with colds but I was confident we’d have a good crowd for the next day’s tubing. I knew, however, full well that Adam and Tom had fully converted to ‘local time’ and, as I also wanted to copy some of Adam’s photos from his portable hard-drive, I arranged to meet them at their guesthouse in the morning.
As I had suspected, when morning came around Adam was still away with the fairies at the appointed time. I was able to wake him and Susie up with my ‘hard-drive’ excuse and thus ensure that our show actually got on the river before sunset. Everyone, including our cold-stricken girls managed to make it and the omens were right for a rip-roaring time.
In an entirely different way, it was every bit as funny as the Wednesday trip had been, if a little more active and pulse-quickening. There wasn’t quite the same amount of laughing gas in the atmosphere but our natural good humour and the fact that we knew each other meant that gags kept coming…all (naturally!) lubricated by a steady supply of Beer Lao. Somehow on Wednesday (probably because we were blinded by tears of laughter!) we had managed to miss the rope swings and cliff jump. To be fair, the state we were all in on Wednesday, this was probably a good thing! Despite the commando slide being broken by some heifer forgetting to let go, the boys were not to be denied their adrenalin rush. With the aid of some extremely public-spirited(!) helpers who willingly dragged us back into position, we all had a blast on the water swing. Imagine if you will a large trapeze suspended from a point high above the river with a long rope attached to the standing platform. After certain half-submerged contortions it is possible to stand on the trapeze just above the water’s surface, facing the river. The hoisting team then hauls on the rope to bring the artiste roughly 30-40ft higher at an almost horizontal angle before letting go. Common sense (and innocence) tells the unfortunate heavyweight artiste that the trapeze will swing gracefully over the water, allowing him to make a graceful swan dive from the limit of the trapeze’s parabola. Experience (hence the willing helpers!) instructs that the heavyweight artiste will hit the water with his feet at the bottom of the parabola, precipitating a flawless, high-speed ‘face-slam’ into the water…much to the hilarity of any onlookers. I’ve never been so shocked and simultaneously amused in my life. I had to cling for dear life onto my trapeze as I tried to laugh and catch my winded breath at the same time. Of course, even more amusing was to watch someone else (Adam!) perform the same neat trick just moments later.
Having not had enough of laughing my ass off and scaring the bejesus out of myself, the next opportunity was a 10-12 metre cliff dive. This time only Anders had the balls to join me and I can say that 10-12 metres is just far enough to make you think that someone’s taken the water away.
In the evening, we met up at the same curry house I’d been to the previous evening. Also joining us were the Swedish girls I’d met on Wednesday. Klara, Malin and Maggi had had to return to Vientiane for a couple of days to get Malin’s leg checked out at the hospital, after she’d badly sprained it earlier in her trip. Many beers later, lightweight’s disposed of (actually, fond farewells to Adam and Susie and threats of meeting up with Tom and the girls in Don Det) I found myself at the Island Bar sitting around a camp fire with the Swedes and a scary-looking bunch of travellers. The dim lighting, trippy music and décor (fluorescent lighting and a few bog rolls) and isolated venue (on a sandbar/island in the river) made for a heady atmosphere and I have no idea what time or how many beers later I went to bed. Strangely, tomorrow was leaving day…my bag wasn’t packed…and I was going to be hungover again! Patterns…
One of the fascinating tales I'd not heard since I'd last seen these guys was Charlie's own nightmare tale of coming face-to-face with the tsunami. She and her 4 year-old brother had been on international news after becoming separated from their parents in the aftermath of the first wave. Fortunately, the family had been re-united and unscathed and it was a relief to see her happy face had remained untroubled by the trauma.
Considering my euphoria at meeting up with Adam, Tom and Charlie, great, great guys that they are, I can only imagine how overwhelmingly happy I’ll be to get home in August and see all of my nearest and dearest once again. Not only did I have the pleasure of Tom, Adam and Charlie’s company but also Susie (Adam’s girlfriend who’d flown out to join him for a few weeks), Anya (the ‘Amazonian blonde’ and Tom’s current ‘companion’) and Lucy (Anya’s very cute and highly amusing friend) and Anders (an affable chap from Norway). One or two of the girls were suffering with colds but I was confident we’d have a good crowd for the next day’s tubing. I knew, however, full well that Adam and Tom had fully converted to ‘local time’ and, as I also wanted to copy some of Adam’s photos from his portable hard-drive, I arranged to meet them at their guesthouse in the morning.
As I had suspected, when morning came around Adam was still away with the fairies at the appointed time. I was able to wake him and Susie up with my ‘hard-drive’ excuse and thus ensure that our show actually got on the river before sunset. Everyone, including our cold-stricken girls managed to make it and the omens were right for a rip-roaring time.
In an entirely different way, it was every bit as funny as the Wednesday trip had been, if a little more active and pulse-quickening. There wasn’t quite the same amount of laughing gas in the atmosphere but our natural good humour and the fact that we knew each other meant that gags kept coming…all (naturally!) lubricated by a steady supply of Beer Lao. Somehow on Wednesday (probably because we were blinded by tears of laughter!) we had managed to miss the rope swings and cliff jump. To be fair, the state we were all in on Wednesday, this was probably a good thing! Despite the commando slide being broken by some heifer forgetting to let go, the boys were not to be denied their adrenalin rush. With the aid of some extremely public-spirited(!) helpers who willingly dragged us back into position, we all had a blast on the water swing. Imagine if you will a large trapeze suspended from a point high above the river with a long rope attached to the standing platform. After certain half-submerged contortions it is possible to stand on the trapeze just above the water’s surface, facing the river. The hoisting team then hauls on the rope to bring the artiste roughly 30-40ft higher at an almost horizontal angle before letting go. Common sense (and innocence) tells the unfortunate heavyweight artiste that the trapeze will swing gracefully over the water, allowing him to make a graceful swan dive from the limit of the trapeze’s parabola. Experience (hence the willing helpers!) instructs that the heavyweight artiste will hit the water with his feet at the bottom of the parabola, precipitating a flawless, high-speed ‘face-slam’ into the water…much to the hilarity of any onlookers. I’ve never been so shocked and simultaneously amused in my life. I had to cling for dear life onto my trapeze as I tried to laugh and catch my winded breath at the same time. Of course, even more amusing was to watch someone else (Adam!) perform the same neat trick just moments later.
Having not had enough of laughing my ass off and scaring the bejesus out of myself, the next opportunity was a 10-12 metre cliff dive. This time only Anders had the balls to join me and I can say that 10-12 metres is just far enough to make you think that someone’s taken the water away.
In the evening, we met up at the same curry house I’d been to the previous evening. Also joining us were the Swedish girls I’d met on Wednesday. Klara, Malin and Maggi had had to return to Vientiane for a couple of days to get Malin’s leg checked out at the hospital, after she’d badly sprained it earlier in her trip. Many beers later, lightweight’s disposed of (actually, fond farewells to Adam and Susie and threats of meeting up with Tom and the girls in Don Det) I found myself at the Island Bar sitting around a camp fire with the Swedes and a scary-looking bunch of travellers. The dim lighting, trippy music and décor (fluorescent lighting and a few bog rolls) and isolated venue (on a sandbar/island in the river) made for a heady atmosphere and I have no idea what time or how many beers later I went to bed. Strangely, tomorrow was leaving day…my bag wasn’t packed…and I was going to be hungover again! Patterns…
January 19, 2005
Pure! Unadulterated! Merriment!!
I groggily awoke to the usual sound of barking dogs, hawking spits and low-tech construction work. It was 9am and, while my mind very much wanted to return to the deep abyss, my stomach was putting a very strong case for actually being that place. As all men are driven by their appetites, so I was forced to throw on my bearskin, pick up my club and head out in search of breakfast. A bowl of noodles later and I was peering into the various tour and travel companies lining the streets in search of the river-based activities for which Vang Vieng is famous. Way back in Hu¬e, Vietnam I had met Kate from Leicestershire who had recommended river-tubing in Vang Vieng as one of her favourite experiences whilst travelling. I’d spotted a kayaking trip to Vientiane (again avoiding the buses!) which had piqued my interest but had seen no sign of tractor inner tubes and grinning travellers in swimsuits with waterproof bags. Eventually, I was directed to the shop of the main man who, no doubt, pays healthily for the privilege of running the tubing ‘concession’ in this backpacker haven. That only one shop hires the rings and waterproof divebags required for this simple day’s amusement, is highly suspicious and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if backhanders and menacing enforcers are the shadowy backdrop to this amusing past-time. Still, all this theorizing comes well after the fact and, at this point, all I was interested in was getting a tube, meeting a group of like-minded buddies and getting battered on Beer Laos on the river. I raced back to my hotel, changed into swimmers and my favourite wife-beater vest and took a few essentials such as camera and wallet in a plastic bag. When I returned to the shop, I saw a tuk-tuk moving off under a heavy load of inner tubes and a bevy of attractive looking lasses. Cursing my lack of timing, I sat down impatiently to wait for the next group of revellers. This turned into twenty minutes of not a single person signing up to tube, which had me silently cursing myself even more. Of course, as ever fair winds had blown me on the best of all possible courses. Suddenly out of nowhere a posse of English-speakers descended upon the shopfront, full of excitement and up for a good time. In my our tuk-tuk on the way down to the river, I got chatting to Steve and Sam, rugby fans from Kent, Chris and Alice from Bristol, Dan from Edinburgh and Kevin and Adine from Northern Ireland. Instantly, I felt myself clicking with them, despite their previous acquaintance. Far from wanting to hang out in there own crowd these guys were warm and generous with their company and happily welcomed me into the fold. In the tuk-tuk behind were a bunch of Munster men who were also to become an indispensable part of one of the funniest days I’ve ever experienced in my life.
Things started off innocuously enough…the predictable mounting mishaps at the inception point of our ‘epic’ journey leading to shocking all-over intimacy with the cold river-water for one or two members of our party…a bottle of Glenmorangie being whipped out before the first beers were even quaffed (honest, Dad! It was for an excellent cause!)…tales of the previous night’s adventures (it seems I wasn’t the only one wandering around town at 3.30am!). All of this had us in high spirits – not to mention our discovery of the first ‘bar’ on the river bank. The bartenders would reach into the current with there long bamboo poles and pull willing punters into the bank. Here we could hook our toes under the bamboo landing stage and receive, in our tubes, freshly cracked longnecks of Laos beer or other alcoholic beverages, according to our desires. We were all so profoundly overcome with the delightful civility of this state of affairs that we vowed to take the only right and proper course of action: To get well and truly sizzled and to enjoy ourselves as much as humanly possible. Needless to say, you needed to be there to appreciate just how funny this day was. A few beers, fine weather, good company and the magic ingredient: water went on to make this quite literally the most hilarious day of my life. I could waste words trying to describe why Irish Andy’s unfortunate mounting mishap made us all laugh quite so hard…maybe it was the Lady-of-the-Lake like quality of his beer-holding hand breaking the surface, beer intact, while the hand’s owner languished below the waterline….maybe it was the countless fruitless attempts to haul himself out of the water whilst surrounded by an extra 4ft of rubber waistline…maybe it was purely the force and durability of the gales of laughter that overcame me and Mad Irish Dave as we floated, helplessly downstream, in serious danger of busting a gut. Most would fail to understand why jumping in the river with a pair of 3 week old sunglasses on your head and losing them is funny…but it was. All I know is that, 5 hours later, as we hauled our soaked, shivering forms from the river in the gloomy dusk we were all agreed that it was just the funniest day ever. Later that evening, at a succession of meals with Swedish girls (the ones from the departing tuk-tuk earlier in the tale), British buddies and Irish lads we all complained of the pain emanating from our over-used stomach muscles. The last time I can recall laughing for so long and so hard was when being tickled near-to-death by my merciless aunts as a poor, defenceless boy of 7. The ultimate reaction then had been to burst into tears and to beg them to cease their torture…this time I had been purely at the mercy of my own perceptions and the antics of my companions. Unable to stem the flow of mirth, I’m pretty sure I came close to giving myself a hernia…probably just as well I didn’t…we’d probably all have laughed even harder! ;-)
I retired reasonably early with promises to undertake the adventure again the following day and, after only a few pages of Homer, I was soon in the land of Nod.
The following day dawned unpromisingly cold and grey and I soon decided that, after my recent illness, a cold day on the water was probably the least favourable option for enjoying myself. There was also the nagging feeling that the heady heights of the previous day would be difficult to match. I was still keen to tube one more time and put back my plans for travelling to Vientiane for one more day. This suited me more so because it would mean that I would spend less than 12 hours in the city, which, given my previous experience with modern capitals was likely to be a good thing. Instead of hitting the river, I curled up in front of a DVD player and widescreen TV to watch, for me, an extremely topical film: Troy. It was interesting seeing how the characters differed from those of my Homer-inspired imagination and there was the inevitable deviation from the book to produce blockbuster status but, on the whole, I enjoyed it and further augmented my opinion of Brad Pitt as an awesome actor.
Things started off innocuously enough…the predictable mounting mishaps at the inception point of our ‘epic’ journey leading to shocking all-over intimacy with the cold river-water for one or two members of our party…a bottle of Glenmorangie being whipped out before the first beers were even quaffed (honest, Dad! It was for an excellent cause!)…tales of the previous night’s adventures (it seems I wasn’t the only one wandering around town at 3.30am!). All of this had us in high spirits – not to mention our discovery of the first ‘bar’ on the river bank. The bartenders would reach into the current with there long bamboo poles and pull willing punters into the bank. Here we could hook our toes under the bamboo landing stage and receive, in our tubes, freshly cracked longnecks of Laos beer or other alcoholic beverages, according to our desires. We were all so profoundly overcome with the delightful civility of this state of affairs that we vowed to take the only right and proper course of action: To get well and truly sizzled and to enjoy ourselves as much as humanly possible. Needless to say, you needed to be there to appreciate just how funny this day was. A few beers, fine weather, good company and the magic ingredient: water went on to make this quite literally the most hilarious day of my life. I could waste words trying to describe why Irish Andy’s unfortunate mounting mishap made us all laugh quite so hard…maybe it was the Lady-of-the-Lake like quality of his beer-holding hand breaking the surface, beer intact, while the hand’s owner languished below the waterline….maybe it was the countless fruitless attempts to haul himself out of the water whilst surrounded by an extra 4ft of rubber waistline…maybe it was purely the force and durability of the gales of laughter that overcame me and Mad Irish Dave as we floated, helplessly downstream, in serious danger of busting a gut. Most would fail to understand why jumping in the river with a pair of 3 week old sunglasses on your head and losing them is funny…but it was. All I know is that, 5 hours later, as we hauled our soaked, shivering forms from the river in the gloomy dusk we were all agreed that it was just the funniest day ever. Later that evening, at a succession of meals with Swedish girls (the ones from the departing tuk-tuk earlier in the tale), British buddies and Irish lads we all complained of the pain emanating from our over-used stomach muscles. The last time I can recall laughing for so long and so hard was when being tickled near-to-death by my merciless aunts as a poor, defenceless boy of 7. The ultimate reaction then had been to burst into tears and to beg them to cease their torture…this time I had been purely at the mercy of my own perceptions and the antics of my companions. Unable to stem the flow of mirth, I’m pretty sure I came close to giving myself a hernia…probably just as well I didn’t…we’d probably all have laughed even harder! ;-)
I retired reasonably early with promises to undertake the adventure again the following day and, after only a few pages of Homer, I was soon in the land of Nod.
The following day dawned unpromisingly cold and grey and I soon decided that, after my recent illness, a cold day on the water was probably the least favourable option for enjoying myself. There was also the nagging feeling that the heady heights of the previous day would be difficult to match. I was still keen to tube one more time and put back my plans for travelling to Vientiane for one more day. This suited me more so because it would mean that I would spend less than 12 hours in the city, which, given my previous experience with modern capitals was likely to be a good thing. Instead of hitting the river, I curled up in front of a DVD player and widescreen TV to watch, for me, an extremely topical film: Troy. It was interesting seeing how the characters differed from those of my Homer-inspired imagination and there was the inevitable deviation from the book to produce blockbuster status but, on the whole, I enjoyed it and further augmented my opinion of Brad Pitt as an awesome actor.
January 18, 2005
Farewell, Compadres…on to Luang Prabang.
I got up early to see the boys off, certainly feeling a lot better for a second night of comfort and warmth. If I hadn’t been feeling so much better, I would have undoubtedly remained in bed…and undoubtedly have missed seeing Lior and Smadar at the bus station! Such a pleasant surprise as I had no idea that they were still in Laos and certainly not anywhere near me. It seems they’d been trying to cross the border into China the following evening but had been put on a bus to the Thai border by accident. They’d spent the entire night on some godawful bus (probably from Huay Xai!) to get to Luang Nam Tha and catch another bus to China. The poor sods looked really tired but it was so nice to see them again and catch up on plans. While we only chatted for 5 minutes it was a good opportunity to re-affirm our plans to meet in Nepal and I strolled back to the guesthouse with a spring in my step and a smile on my face.
My afternoon was consumed by a dusty, uncomfortable bus-trip south and my evening was occupied by an even less-inspiring stopover in a non-descript trading town. The place was a crossroads for the long-distance lorries travelling between Vietnam, China and Thailand…literally a crossroads! Admittedly the road was an enormous Chinese-constructed scar on the landscape, big enough to squeeze in a few motorway lanes. This dusty slab acted as the river for a shoddily constructed line of guesthouses, brothels and cheap restaurants, bringing goods and money in and taking rubbish and anybody with any sense out. I found something to eat, failed to find an internet café and locked myself away in my room with the dubious pleasure of Chinese cable TV, to avoid spending any more time in the place than I had to. When I’d finally got bored of laughing at the funny accents on the Chinese channels and seen all the news on the English-speaking Chinese News twice (Including a frankly horrifying story from Southern China that involved state schools effectively making it illegal for young boys and girls of 16 to fraternise with each other as it had been proven to affect their studies!), I was forced to resort to going to sleep with my headphones in, listening to Ian Cashman’s ‘Endure’ to escape the nasty ear-pollution of Asian techno pounding from the sound-system of some nearby bar. In the morning, I was forced to wake up a bleary-eyed madam, stinking of booze to unlock the shutters and let me out to catch my bus.
I arrived in Luang Prabang in the warming rays of the early-afternoon sun and congratulated myself on the excellent choice to head back towards warmer weather. I spent almost an hour trying to find a place to stay, after initially turning down a room at $5 as this was so expensive compared to what I’d been paying up north. I realised my mistake some 800m, 2 ‘Sorry, we’re full!’s and several ‘Cheapest is $10’s later. Of course male pride dictates that, having delivered my best ‘Pah! You must be joking! $5!’ laugh to the proprietor of the first hotel, there was no way I could go back and ask for a room…besides, the room was probably long-gone by now…and the place looked a bit dirty…and it was too far from the centre ;-) These, at least, were the consolations I muttered to myself as I staggered on in the heat with my rucksack Eventually, I found a nice big airy place with clean bathrooms for $7, which satisfied my ego and the constraints of my budget. I vowed never again to be one of those backpackers that wanders for hours trying to find the cheapest fried-rice, water or hotel room. My luck had treated me well so far on my trip and, while I couldn’t claim to be living the pure life of the budget-traveller, I certainly was not living extravagantly. I’d formulated a rough plan involving flying from Vientiane to Pakse on my way south (to avoid a gruelling 12 hour bus ride!) so first stop (after lunch, of course!) was to find a travel-agent to book my flight. At $87 dollars, this was a luxury item but two Lao bus journeys of 5 hours had been enough to warn me against going for any longer. Business settled, I headed for an internet café to catch up on my correspondence for the first time since leaving Thailand. Before I knew it, evening had descended and I found myself strolling down through Luang Prabang’s night bazaar. This mile-long stretch of high street is lined by rush carpet stalls selling every ware imaginable. From beautiful silk embroidery to bone opium pipes, steaming noodles to barbequed egg-coated sticky rice, there really was an endless variety of choice for the crowds of tourists walking the beat. Luang Prabang didn’t have the same frenetic energy of Chiang Mai or the seedier feel emanating from garish girlie bars, but I immediately felt like I’d slipped back into the tourist mainstream again. Laos is still a destination for more relaxed, culturally-interested, tranquillity-loving travellers but Luang Prabang, with its rich architectural heritage and former political significance (as the former capital of a kingdom that far-exceeded modern Laos’ restrictive borders), already seems to be drawing more than its fair-share of ‘been there – seen that!’ package tourists. Undoubtedly, the income from the out-of-town tourist hotels they frequent is a major boost to the local economy and I’m certainly not denying anybody’s right to travel where they wish but, for me, I wanted to get away from ‘civilisation’, from high-rise, from shiny cars and petrol fumes and I resolved to move on sooner rather than later.
I was up early in the morning to have a look at Luang Prabang’s main attractions – some of the tens of historical temples that are dotted, from place to place, all round the city. Waiting for the currency exchange to open so I could change some Baht, I had a chance encounter with an affable American called Greg. In his fifties and on a short holiday from work in the corporate world he impressed me with his gentle nature and humour. In a hurry to get to the travel-agent and pick up my ticket (the currency exchange had opened 15 mins late…or as the locals would say, on time!), I bade him goodbye and wished him luck on the rest of his travels. I didn’t think too much more about him during the rest of the morning as I soaked up the sumptuous architecture of temples and was mesmerised by the richness and detail of the ornamental carvings and artwork.
For lunch, I found a peaceful riverside restaurant recommended by the LP and endeavoured to enjoy some of the local cuisine. The ambience was perfect: a hot drowsy summer day, avoided in the deep shade of riverside trees, watching a lazy river gliding by. The river moss (dried and fried with chillies and sesame seeds) was delicious (a lot more appetising than it had looked as it was beaten with rocks and thrown into baskets of our river trip!), local mushroom soup and cold minced chicken with coriander and mint were all absolutely delicious, washed down with a couple of long-necks of the award-winning Beer Laos. Stomach-like-a-drum, contented and slightly light-headed I wandered down the riverside to find a boat to take me to the Pak Ou caves, a few miles upstream and on the other side of the river. In the end, the boat seemed too expensive and I opted, instead, to take a tuk-tuk out to Nam Ou village and get a ferry across from there.
At Nam Ou, I caught a long-tailed boat across the river to the impressive looking opening of the lower cave. Inside, were literally thousands of Buddha images. The cave was not particularly big or furnished with any of the unusual forms I’d encountered on my previous travels and, yet, there was something else that caught the breath, caused people to speak in hushed, respectful tones. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it but the cave certainly had some kind of calming effect – perhaps, due to the relative coolness compared to the heat outside, I’m unsure. Anyway, as I was about to head up the stairs to the upper cave, who should I bump into, but Greg from the currency exchange queue. We chatted pleasantly about our travels in Asia and the varying degrees of development and the impact of tourism. Greg seemed to have an almost anthropological interest in people and I would have liked to stay and chat longer about his views on the indigenous peoples of the region. Unfortunately, I’d booked the evening bus to Vang Vieng and it was time for me to be heading back to town to pick up my bags and head for the bus station. We exchanged e-mails and I have a feeling that Greg will be yet another correspondent with whom I’ll keep in contact. The most fascinating thing about my travels has been the fact that, wherever I’ve gone, I’ve met interesting, thoughtful individuals…from vastly different backgrounds, of all shapes and sizes and with two major things in common: a curiosity about the world we live in and an open mind. On parting, I recommended Greg to try Somchan restaurant, where I’d eaten lunch. I think when you find somewhere good, it’s important to pass the word – not only for the benefit of fellow foodies but also to encourage the continued growth of a good business.
On the bus to Vang Vieng, where I was expecting to arrive at 1am, I decided to opt for staying awake rather than potentially sleeping through my alarm. A diet of David J, Ian Cashman and Jon O’Bir along with Homer’s Iliad was sufficient to see me through – despite the fact that Laos time seemed to be running a full two hours behind the proscribed GMT +07.00. I arrived in Vang Vieng tired and more than a little concerned. Where the hell was I going to find a bed for the night at this time?!
After skirting round several guesthouse compounds to no avail, I was seriously considering roughing it on a roadside when I was overjoyed to see a half-familiar figure stumbling through the darkness towards me. The shambling, technicolour figure of Danny, a French-Swiss who’d been staying at my guesthouse in Huay Xai was never a more welcome sight. Although, we had not spoken, we both recognised each other and seemed to be equally pleased to see each other. It soon became clear that Danny’s joy stemmed from a similar source. While I was pleased to have company in an unfamiliar town at 3am, he was pleased to have company in a town that had become unfamiliar after the ingestion of a vast quantity of mind-bending hallucinogenic mushrooms. I couldn’t help but laugh at our sorry state of affairs. Two fools, leading each other blindly around a ghost town in the dead of night…but at least we had someone to laugh about it with.
Eventually, after wandering seemingly aimlessly for a good half-hour and having been regaled with most of Danny’s recent life-history (infinitely preferable to his scary mushroom ramblings whenever his focus was allowed to soften!), he seemed to think he saw something familiar. In his uninhibited state, he had no qualms about walking into a guesthouse with an open gate. He soon roused the poor fellow sleeping behind the desk and had ascertained directions to his own guesthouse – apparently just around the corner. As I waved him off, I found myself in the useful presence of a hotel worker who had just been rudely awakened by someone else! Unable to vent any frustration on me and, no doubt, compelled by economic prudence he quickly showed me a pleasant groundfloor apartment with en-suite for the intolerable excess of $3. After my long journey and exhausting trek around town with Danny’s over-active imagination, it was all I could do not to bite the man’s hand off and I was soon drifting off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
My afternoon was consumed by a dusty, uncomfortable bus-trip south and my evening was occupied by an even less-inspiring stopover in a non-descript trading town. The place was a crossroads for the long-distance lorries travelling between Vietnam, China and Thailand…literally a crossroads! Admittedly the road was an enormous Chinese-constructed scar on the landscape, big enough to squeeze in a few motorway lanes. This dusty slab acted as the river for a shoddily constructed line of guesthouses, brothels and cheap restaurants, bringing goods and money in and taking rubbish and anybody with any sense out. I found something to eat, failed to find an internet café and locked myself away in my room with the dubious pleasure of Chinese cable TV, to avoid spending any more time in the place than I had to. When I’d finally got bored of laughing at the funny accents on the Chinese channels and seen all the news on the English-speaking Chinese News twice (Including a frankly horrifying story from Southern China that involved state schools effectively making it illegal for young boys and girls of 16 to fraternise with each other as it had been proven to affect their studies!), I was forced to resort to going to sleep with my headphones in, listening to Ian Cashman’s ‘Endure’ to escape the nasty ear-pollution of Asian techno pounding from the sound-system of some nearby bar. In the morning, I was forced to wake up a bleary-eyed madam, stinking of booze to unlock the shutters and let me out to catch my bus.
I arrived in Luang Prabang in the warming rays of the early-afternoon sun and congratulated myself on the excellent choice to head back towards warmer weather. I spent almost an hour trying to find a place to stay, after initially turning down a room at $5 as this was so expensive compared to what I’d been paying up north. I realised my mistake some 800m, 2 ‘Sorry, we’re full!’s and several ‘Cheapest is $10’s later. Of course male pride dictates that, having delivered my best ‘Pah! You must be joking! $5!’ laugh to the proprietor of the first hotel, there was no way I could go back and ask for a room…besides, the room was probably long-gone by now…and the place looked a bit dirty…and it was too far from the centre ;-) These, at least, were the consolations I muttered to myself as I staggered on in the heat with my rucksack Eventually, I found a nice big airy place with clean bathrooms for $7, which satisfied my ego and the constraints of my budget. I vowed never again to be one of those backpackers that wanders for hours trying to find the cheapest fried-rice, water or hotel room. My luck had treated me well so far on my trip and, while I couldn’t claim to be living the pure life of the budget-traveller, I certainly was not living extravagantly. I’d formulated a rough plan involving flying from Vientiane to Pakse on my way south (to avoid a gruelling 12 hour bus ride!) so first stop (after lunch, of course!) was to find a travel-agent to book my flight. At $87 dollars, this was a luxury item but two Lao bus journeys of 5 hours had been enough to warn me against going for any longer. Business settled, I headed for an internet café to catch up on my correspondence for the first time since leaving Thailand. Before I knew it, evening had descended and I found myself strolling down through Luang Prabang’s night bazaar. This mile-long stretch of high street is lined by rush carpet stalls selling every ware imaginable. From beautiful silk embroidery to bone opium pipes, steaming noodles to barbequed egg-coated sticky rice, there really was an endless variety of choice for the crowds of tourists walking the beat. Luang Prabang didn’t have the same frenetic energy of Chiang Mai or the seedier feel emanating from garish girlie bars, but I immediately felt like I’d slipped back into the tourist mainstream again. Laos is still a destination for more relaxed, culturally-interested, tranquillity-loving travellers but Luang Prabang, with its rich architectural heritage and former political significance (as the former capital of a kingdom that far-exceeded modern Laos’ restrictive borders), already seems to be drawing more than its fair-share of ‘been there – seen that!’ package tourists. Undoubtedly, the income from the out-of-town tourist hotels they frequent is a major boost to the local economy and I’m certainly not denying anybody’s right to travel where they wish but, for me, I wanted to get away from ‘civilisation’, from high-rise, from shiny cars and petrol fumes and I resolved to move on sooner rather than later.
I was up early in the morning to have a look at Luang Prabang’s main attractions – some of the tens of historical temples that are dotted, from place to place, all round the city. Waiting for the currency exchange to open so I could change some Baht, I had a chance encounter with an affable American called Greg. In his fifties and on a short holiday from work in the corporate world he impressed me with his gentle nature and humour. In a hurry to get to the travel-agent and pick up my ticket (the currency exchange had opened 15 mins late…or as the locals would say, on time!), I bade him goodbye and wished him luck on the rest of his travels. I didn’t think too much more about him during the rest of the morning as I soaked up the sumptuous architecture of temples and was mesmerised by the richness and detail of the ornamental carvings and artwork.
For lunch, I found a peaceful riverside restaurant recommended by the LP and endeavoured to enjoy some of the local cuisine. The ambience was perfect: a hot drowsy summer day, avoided in the deep shade of riverside trees, watching a lazy river gliding by. The river moss (dried and fried with chillies and sesame seeds) was delicious (a lot more appetising than it had looked as it was beaten with rocks and thrown into baskets of our river trip!), local mushroom soup and cold minced chicken with coriander and mint were all absolutely delicious, washed down with a couple of long-necks of the award-winning Beer Laos. Stomach-like-a-drum, contented and slightly light-headed I wandered down the riverside to find a boat to take me to the Pak Ou caves, a few miles upstream and on the other side of the river. In the end, the boat seemed too expensive and I opted, instead, to take a tuk-tuk out to Nam Ou village and get a ferry across from there.
At Nam Ou, I caught a long-tailed boat across the river to the impressive looking opening of the lower cave. Inside, were literally thousands of Buddha images. The cave was not particularly big or furnished with any of the unusual forms I’d encountered on my previous travels and, yet, there was something else that caught the breath, caused people to speak in hushed, respectful tones. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it but the cave certainly had some kind of calming effect – perhaps, due to the relative coolness compared to the heat outside, I’m unsure. Anyway, as I was about to head up the stairs to the upper cave, who should I bump into, but Greg from the currency exchange queue. We chatted pleasantly about our travels in Asia and the varying degrees of development and the impact of tourism. Greg seemed to have an almost anthropological interest in people and I would have liked to stay and chat longer about his views on the indigenous peoples of the region. Unfortunately, I’d booked the evening bus to Vang Vieng and it was time for me to be heading back to town to pick up my bags and head for the bus station. We exchanged e-mails and I have a feeling that Greg will be yet another correspondent with whom I’ll keep in contact. The most fascinating thing about my travels has been the fact that, wherever I’ve gone, I’ve met interesting, thoughtful individuals…from vastly different backgrounds, of all shapes and sizes and with two major things in common: a curiosity about the world we live in and an open mind. On parting, I recommended Greg to try Somchan restaurant, where I’d eaten lunch. I think when you find somewhere good, it’s important to pass the word – not only for the benefit of fellow foodies but also to encourage the continued growth of a good business.
On the bus to Vang Vieng, where I was expecting to arrive at 1am, I decided to opt for staying awake rather than potentially sleeping through my alarm. A diet of David J, Ian Cashman and Jon O’Bir along with Homer’s Iliad was sufficient to see me through – despite the fact that Laos time seemed to be running a full two hours behind the proscribed GMT +07.00. I arrived in Vang Vieng tired and more than a little concerned. Where the hell was I going to find a bed for the night at this time?!
After skirting round several guesthouse compounds to no avail, I was seriously considering roughing it on a roadside when I was overjoyed to see a half-familiar figure stumbling through the darkness towards me. The shambling, technicolour figure of Danny, a French-Swiss who’d been staying at my guesthouse in Huay Xai was never a more welcome sight. Although, we had not spoken, we both recognised each other and seemed to be equally pleased to see each other. It soon became clear that Danny’s joy stemmed from a similar source. While I was pleased to have company in an unfamiliar town at 3am, he was pleased to have company in a town that had become unfamiliar after the ingestion of a vast quantity of mind-bending hallucinogenic mushrooms. I couldn’t help but laugh at our sorry state of affairs. Two fools, leading each other blindly around a ghost town in the dead of night…but at least we had someone to laugh about it with.
Eventually, after wandering seemingly aimlessly for a good half-hour and having been regaled with most of Danny’s recent life-history (infinitely preferable to his scary mushroom ramblings whenever his focus was allowed to soften!), he seemed to think he saw something familiar. In his uninhibited state, he had no qualms about walking into a guesthouse with an open gate. He soon roused the poor fellow sleeping behind the desk and had ascertained directions to his own guesthouse – apparently just around the corner. As I waved him off, I found myself in the useful presence of a hotel worker who had just been rudely awakened by someone else! Unable to vent any frustration on me and, no doubt, compelled by economic prudence he quickly showed me a pleasant groundfloor apartment with en-suite for the intolerable excess of $3. After my long journey and exhausting trek around town with Danny’s over-active imagination, it was all I could do not to bite the man’s hand off and I was soon drifting off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
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