Laos
Off The Beaten Track?
It’s the morning of Monday 25th February, and our longtail boat whisks across the Mekong to Huay Xai in Laos. After negotiating passport control we proceed to currency exchange where a $50 travellers cheque nets me half a million kip. (That’s 10000 kip to the dollar for those who don’t have a calculator handy). The 5000 kip note is the biggest available, so I’m now the proud owner of a couple of large wads of cash.
The typical route taken by most backpackers is to embark on a boat trip down the Mekong to Luang Prabang, continue south to the travellers’ hot spot Vang Vieng, the capital Vientiane, and finally back to Thailand. We’ll get to this route eventually, but we’ve decided to be a bit more adventurous and start by going north to the town of Luang Namtha.
We wave goodbye to Conor’s French friend Tony and hope we’ll see him tonight, as he’s going to try to hitch-hike north. Myself, Conor and Julia get a tuk-tuk to the bus station and an hour later we’re sitting in the back of a sawngthaew (or truck as they tend to be called in these parts) heading north. We’re only a few hundred yards out of town when we leave the paved road behind, and it’ll be another 7 hours before we see another one. Going through the outskirts of Huay Xai, kids wave at us as we go past, shouting “Sabadee”, the Lao word for “Hello”. The observant may notice that this is very similar to the Thai for “Hello”; as they’d say in Thailand, it’s the same, same but different.
There is roughly an even split between locals and “falang” (Lao for foreigners) on the truck, but most of the locals are in the cab, leaving a bizarre collection (excepting Conor, Julia and myself of course) packed into the back. There’s Toby and Lecky, a young English couple who are very nice, but Lecky tends to come out with the stupidest statements. I don’t mind her, but Conor finds her very annoying (and that’s putting it nicely). There’s Wally from the States and his Argentinian girlfriend who would be a vegan, except that she eats fish (“well, it’s really good for you and it’s really yummy”). Wally certainly lives up to his name, and with his red and white striped hat could easily be a Doctor Seuss character. But I’ll give him credit for getting his phrase book out and getting the sole local in the back to help us out with a few phrases of Lao.
My “favourite” though, is an Israeli girl who we first saw at Thai passport control this morning, getting stroppy with the officials because they were making her pay a fine for overstaying her visa. “It’s not fair, it’s not my fault the border was closed yesterday”, she was saying. It was pointed out to her that it was hardly the fault of the Thais that the Lao border was closed. She then started shouting at those of us who were just paying the fine, expecting a bit of solidarity from us. And this was all for the sake of $4! On this journey she sits with a face like fizz for most of the 7 hours, munching on sunflower seeds and throwing the shells everywhere and anywhere, including over her fellow passengers. I really fail to see how someone with an attitude like this can actually enjoy traveling.
After a couple of hours in the waving seat at the back of the truck, my arm is about to fall off so I swap to give someone else a shot. We continue to drive through small villages of wooden huts on stilts not dissimilar to the hill tribe villages of Thailand, and everywhere we’re greeted with a huge smile and a wave from the kids, as well as a shout of “Sabadee” or their only English word “Bye-ee”.
Strangely enough, when we stop for lunch in a village there are no kids running around, but we do bump into Tony along with his driver. It looks like he’s traveling in a lot more comfort than we are, but I’d say he’s lucky to have a lift at all, as I can’t think of seeing any other traffic on the road.
Throughout the journey the locals have been jumping on and off; it seems it’s only the “falang” who are stupid enough to go the whole way! In the middle of the afternoon we stop in a fairly large village where our truck is immediately surrounded by locals old and young. It’s an interesting spectacle, for them as well as us, and an intriguing staring competition ensues. However, we have to share the limelight with three local men who get off the truck, and appear to be regaling their fellow villagers with tales of life in far off Huay Xai. (“It’s amazing, they have houses which aren’t made of bamboo”).
At the next stop two men jump on, and with them they bring a whole pile of supplies – a huge sack of rice, bags of vegetables, etc. One of them is carrying a basket containing two live roosters, and for the rest of the journey we’re treated to the occasional “cock-a-doodle-do”. And as they hang off the back of the truck with their hunting rifles over their shoulders, it looks like we’re heading off to war.
We finally arrive in Luang Namtha at about 6pm, and myself, Conor and Julia manage to ditch the others and go looking for accommodation. The trade route between China and Laos has been opening up in recent years, and being close to the Chinese border, the Chinese influence here is obvious. So I’ve no idea what our hotel is called, because all the signs are in Chinese. In fact, I’ve no idea how we’ve manage to check in, as our hosts don’t speak any English. I don’t even know if they’re speaking Lao or Chinese; it’s all Dutch to me.
After the journey on dirt roads, my clothes, hair, face, everything in fact, are filthy. I’m desperate for a nice shower but the water seems to work only intermittently, meaning I have to finish washing myself using the water which is meant for flushing the toilet.
At night we find Tony in the restaurant at the Many Chan guesthouse, one of only two main places in town to eat. We’re able to compare notes with Tony on our journey and quiz his driver, a Lao surveyor on his way to a job in Kunming in China, about his country.
On Tuesday I have a look round the town to see if there’s anything more to it than there appeared to be when we arrived. The only real thing of interest is the market, where all sorts of foods are for sale, including a few rather bloody looking pigs’ heads. Very tempting of course, but I decide against making a purchase.
At night there’s nothing else to do but head back round to Many Chan for a bite to eat. We’re delighted to find that one of our favourites from Thai menus is also available here – the fruit shake. Conor typically has two of these with a meal, and here he takes to ordering the two at the outset rather than having to wait around for the second one. The speed of service is a little lacking, so it’s obviously not here that the phrase “I’ll be there in two shakes” was coined.
We end up getting a nice group of people together for a game of cards. When I lived at home, I thought that the one card game everyone in the world knew how to play was Trumps, but now I discover that nobody in the world has ever heard of it except people from Scotland (or perhaps it’s just a King’s Park game?). I’m delighted to say that I manage to teach it to a multi-national group of people, and hope that Trumps will soon be played in Ireland, France, Australia, and Chattanooga, Tennessee. (In case anyone is interested, the most difficult part was explaining “le chance de chien” to the French).
Actually, I think there is little chance of Trumps taking off in Australia as Melanie was far too preoccupied to learn the rules. She has traveled to Laos from Thailand, and was supposed to be meeting her boyfriend, who was coming from China, in Luang Namtha two days ago. She hasn’t found him yet, and with no internet in Luang Namtha she reckons she’ll leave for Luang Prabang tomorrow to see if there’s any news. We hope we’ll hear the end of the story.
Perhaps the most interesting person is Glen from France, who walked from Huay Xai to Luang Namtha. He plans to continue walking north so that he can satisfy his ambition of walking all the way from Thailand to China!
With the electricity in town going off at 10pm we beat a hasty retreat back to our hotel while we can still find it.
In the morning it’s time, yet again, to do a little trekking. When going trekking in Thailand, you typically leave your big rucksack in your guesthouse, and take a small daypack with you. However, we don’t rate our chances of explaining to our hosts that we want to leave our bags in storage with them, so we just pay for the night that we’re not going to be there and leave our gear in our room. At $1 each it still represents good value for luggage storage!
Our trekking group is eight strong and 50% Irish. Apart from Conor, David and Daire are from Dublin and Christine from Cork. The rest of the group are a Swiss couple, Peter and Luzia, and Bill, an American in his fifties. Peter and Bill are terrible know-alls, but fortunately they spend most of their time talking to each other and are easy to avoid.
The highlight of this first day, in my opinion, is the food. For lunch we have a variety of different dishes all laid out on banana leaves and served with the staple of the Lao diet – sticky rice. Because the rice sticks together, you just break off a chunk with your fingers, roll it into a ball, and use it to pick up the food. After a very relaxed day of walking and a wash in the stream, dinner is served in a hut in the hill tribe village where we’re staying. Again, sticky rice is to the fore, and the highlight is a fantastic fish soup. During dinner we also get our first taste of Lao whisky, known as lao-lao. It’s not the nicest stuff to be honest.
After dinner the village chief comes in for a Q+A session, with our guides Aloon and Sangkell translating. This is a great idea, as it allows us to find out a little about village life. To nobody’s surprise, Peter and Bill ask most of the questions.
After boiled eggs and toast for breakfast when trekking in Thailand, I’m pleased that we get a more local breakfast in the morning. It’s basically just yesterday’s leftovers, although somehow the rice isn’t sticky any more. “Eet ees ze oil zat ‘as made eet not steeky”, explains our Swiss friend. It’s not everyone who can stomach rice and veg for breakfast, but I find it quite satisfying.
After day one’s relaxed walking, we’re surprised to find it a bit tougher on day two, in particular the steep uphill section we tackle right after lunch. Surprisingly it’s the oldest of the group who seems to be the fittest, as Bill chatters away non-stop while the rest of us puff and pant our way up the hill.
We get back to the ranch in the late afternoon, and I’m disappointed to again find that there’s no running water. I really need a wash though, and have to make do with the bucket and scoop. Dinner at Many Chan means we can get back to eating normal food again. In this part of the world, that means having steamed rice rather than sticky with your chicken curry.
On Friday morning we’re up to catch the 8am bus east to Udomxai, a stopping-off point on our way to the villages of Nong Khiaw and Muang Ngoi. Christine and I have both been planning to go there after the good things we’ve heard about them. David and Daire are sufficiently intrigued to change their plans to come along too, and Conor decides at the last minute that he’ll stick with the group. At Many Chan for breakfast, the owners tell us that the bus will stop outside the restaurant for us, rather than us having to lug our bags around to the bus station. We’re a little sceptical, but sure enough the bus (and it’s a proper bus this time) stops for us. It’s packed though, and Conor and Daire get the last two seats. Plastic chairs are then produced and put down in the aisle for David, Christine and myself. It’s not the most stable seat, but it’ll do the job. We have two stops along the way, one a toilet stop (which consists of stopping the bus in the middle of nowhere and men and women alike picking their spot at the side of the road) and one for a flat tyre (our second in as many journeys in Laos). In contrast to our previous journey, it’s reasonably comfortable as the road is paved and in good condition, and we arrive in Udomxai early in the afternoon.
David is desperate for some non-Asian food, and so he’s delighted to see the items “Two Eggs” and “French Fried” on the menu when we go for lunch. “I’ll have two eggs and French fried”, he says. He waits in anticipation of a plate of fried eggs and chips, but is eventually served with a chip omelet! It’s one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen, but he says it’s surprisingly good. Udomxai is an unremarkable town, but I’m pleased to find that it has internet. It turns out to be the slowest internet on the planet, and it takes me about 20 minutes to discover that Rangers have been knocked out of the UEFA Cup. I’m not a happy boy.
Over dinner, Christine and I chat about the time we spent in Pai, and we discover that not only were we there at the same time, but we were both in the Hiccup Bar on the same night. We then realise the person who told Christine to go to Nong Khiaw and Muang Ngoi was none other than Chelsea, the Canadian girl who told me the same thing. So we don’t have two independent accounts of these places after all. We’re now feeling quite bad that we’ve dragged the others along, and hope our destination tomorrow lives up to expectations.
It’s another 8am start next morning, and we’re packed even more tightly onto a truck than we were on our first journey in Laos. Among our passengers are Patrick, a Kiwi in his late forties, and Claire from England. In the midst of a discussion on the European currency, Claire is amazed that Ireland has the Euro and declares, “England will never have the Euro because it needs a referendum and the English people will never vote for it. In fact, most people in England don’t even want to be in the EU”. I’m amazed to find such strong anti-European views from someone traveling in Asia. You meet so many people from so many different countries that you can’t help feeling that despite small differences, all people are essentially the same, and closer ties between countries must be a good thing.
Of course, her statement has annoyed me for another reason; the fact that she has used “England” and “English” rather than “Britain” and “British”. I can just about live with the fact that people from outside the U.K. use the words “England” and “Britain” interchangeably e.g. watching the news in the States or Australia and they refer to the “English Prime Minister”, or the “Queen of England”. But it really annoys me when the English do it as well, talking about an “English passport”, and “English money”, etc. Perhaps worse still though, the Irish, who you’d think would know better, do exactly the same thing. Even Conor, who usually just does it to wind me up, does it without thinking sometimes too.
Anyway, I’ll stop moaning now! My worries on taking Conor, David and Daire on a wild goose chase are dispelled in the last 20 minutes of the journey, as we drive along the beautiful Nam Ou river valley on the way into Nong Khiaw. The town is perched on the relatively steep sided valley, and there’s a rather impressive bridge linking it with the other side of the river. It’s a lovely setting, and I feel I’d like to stay here a while, but we just grab a quick lunch before heading down to the Nam Ou to look for a boat upstream to Muang Ngoi. We have to wait a while, and while we’re waiting we’re entertained by watching the locals bathe in the river.
I’m going to contradict the statement I just made about all nationalities getting on so well when traveling. There’s one exception – a lot of people have a big problem with the Israelis. For some reason a lot of Israeli travelers tend to be rude, arrogant, and difficult to get on with. Of course there are many exceptions to this rule, but the stereotype tends to stick. As we get on the boat there’s a good example of this. Nitsan and Ila are an Israeli guy and girl who Conor had a good chat with on the truck into Nong Khiaw, and he told us that they’re a really nice pair. But Nitsan has to spoil this by walking along the roof of the small wooden boat beside ours in order to get their rucksacks onto the boat. The roof bends under his weight, and there are many cries of “Get off the roof!”. But he makes a couple of return trips, and finally his foot goes right through the roof. “It’s very weak – it was going to break anyway”, he insists, oblivious to the fact that it was only intended to be used as a shelter from sun and rain, and not as a loading bay.
The boat trip to Muang Ngoi takes about an hour, and the scenery around about us is nothing short of stunning. On a few occasions we have to go upstream through some sections of rapids, and after negotiating a particularly powerful section, the driver turns around as if looking for applause. Should be good fun going back down the river in a few days time.
We set off to find some accommodation, and quickly find that the choices are slightly restricted, especially if we all want to stay together. We eventually settle for two guesthouses next door to each other, both of which have just 2 or 3 rooms, with the owners living there too. Christine and I are in Khonsevanne Guest House and Conor, David and Daire are next door. Each of us has a double room for 8000 kip or 80 cents – a new record low for the trip. All the communication with the people in our guesthouse has been with the 11-year-old son Nom. At first I think he speaks good English, but then I realize that he only knows the phrases that he needs e.g. “You would like room”, “8000 kip”, etc. He also manages to explain that the guesthouse is named after his younger sister. David comes over and is introduced to Nom. Now comes the moment of truth. We’ve been told that there’s only electricity in Muang Ngoi for three hours a day, so we’re worried about being able to get cold beer. “Nom, do you have cold beer?”, asks David. He receives a puzzled look so repeats the question. Then there’s a look of recognition, a big grin, and “Ah, Beer Lao cold!” David nods and Nom runs off somewhere. He reappears about 5 minutes later with an almost cold bottle of Beer Lao.
At dinner we’re introduced to the Muang Ngoi concept of service. We thought they were slow at Many Chan in Luang Namtha, but it’s even worse here, taking anything up to an hour for the food to come. I suppose this is what you get for the cosy setting of one person running a whole restaurant – cooking, waiting tables and the rest. I’m also assuming that all the meals are cooked on the spot from scratch. Again, the restaurant closes at 10pm, and with no electricity it’s straight to bed.
On Sunday I’m woken at around 6am by the sounds of kids playing and cockerels crowing. Our guesthouse has a full menu, and I order a fruit salad for breakfast. Nom runs off into town and comes back with a banana. Then the guesthouse next door provides a melon and we’re all set. Christine appears and she asks for a fruit salad as well. Nom pauses only briefly before running off again, coming back with another banana. We both fancy some bread as well, but they don’t have it on the menu. It’s tough to explain, but then I point it out on next-door’s menu. With help from the neighbours, Nom’s mum works out what we’re after, and says something to Nom. This time his face falls, but off he goes again, and reappears a few minutes later with some rather stale bread.
Once the rest of the gang surfaces, we take a walk out of town to have a look for the local caves. We don’t have enough light to venture in too deep, but the walk is well worthwhile as it gives us a chance to take in the beautiful karst scenery which surrounds the town. After a siesta, myself and Christine play cards with Nom, Khonsevanne and some of their friends. They know how to play the memory game (sometimes called pelmanism) and beat us hands down. As well as knowing the game well, they are most adept at cheating! After dinner what I like to call “the Laos effect” kicks in. When you get used to going to bed early, you start getting tired even earlier than you have to. Even though we had an early night last night and a siesta this afternoon we all head off to bed at 9:30, despite the fact that we’ve still got half an hour of electricity left.
On Monday, we head down to the boat landing to take a day trip to the local waterfall. We get chatting to a couple of Americans who went to the waterfall yesterday, and they tell us that their driver got so drunk on lao-lao while they were at the waterfall that he was in no fit state to stand, let alone bring them back up the river. They had to flag down a passing boat in order to get back up to Muang Ngoi. In talking to the boat drivers, it seems that no day trip is possible without them indulging in some lao-lao, and David, Daire and myself decide to give it a miss, spending the day relaxing around town. I sit down at the river for a while, watching the men working on their boats, and goods being brought in on other boats, all of them about the same size as the one we came up river on, capable of holding about 20 people. A few kids come past, and a couple of small boys stop to try to point something out to me. I haven’t a clue what they’re talking about, so they content themselves with closely examining the hairs on my arms.
Before dinner, Nom’s dad serves up complimentary lao-lao, and when we get to the restaurant for dinner, there’s more of the same. Tonight is probably the worst case of service I’ve ever seen. Our food takes over an hour to come, and when it does come it’s all wrong. We just eat what we’re given and there’s a few grumbles, but we’re not complaining really. We realize that this is the price we pay for coming to a place where tourism is only just beginning to get going.
On Tuesday it’s time for us to say goodbye to Nom and leave Muang Ngoi. My thoughts that it’d be fun going downstream through the rapids come back to haunt me when our laughs at getting a little wet turn to screams when we realize that the front of the boat has broken and is flapping in the driver’s face, meaning he can’t see where he’s going. We crash head-on into some rocks at the side of the river. Everyone quickly clambers out onto the rocks, and we wait while David helps the driver and his helper bail water out of the boat. The driver’s helper indicates that we should follow her in making our way along the bank, climbing over rocks. Half of us follow, and then we’re surprised to see our boat pass us complete with the remainder of the passengers. After we’ve made it a couple of hundred yards, the boat comes back for us. I’m not too happy at having to get back in, and I’m even more worried when I realize that they’re going to try to turn the boat round where we are. If the rapids catch us when we’re side-on there could be trouble. The driver realizes this and solves the problem by taking us backwards through the last of the rapids down to the spot where he dropped off the others. Another boat has stopped to help, and I’m surprised to find that it’s Nom’s mum and dad. So I take advantage of this and desert the others for a boat which is actually intact, and make it back to Nong Khiaw with no further incident.
We say goodbye to Christine, who is going to go further north, and buy our bus tickets for Luang Prabang. Claire and I are last and are told there’s no room on the bus, and to go on the next bus. We’re quite pleased about this, as the others are jammed into the back of a truck, with a couple of pigs as fellow passengers. On the other hand, our transport is a proper bus. We give our bags to the driver to put on the roof and jump in. After a few minutes of nothing happening, we jump out and ask him when he’s leaving, and he says “two hours”! Why didn’t he tell us in the first place? This gives us the chance to grab some lunch, and relax a little after the morning’s excitement. But I’m not too happy when I look over and see our driver at a nearby table, polishing off a glass of beer! It looks as if there’s some lao-lao being drunk at the table as well, but I convince myself that he’s not involved!
On The Beaten Track
The bus journey goes smoothly and we arrive in Luang Prabang, another town on the Mekong, in the late afternoon. Back on the regular tourist circuit there are a few internet shops around, but before I can check where Conor is, I spot David walking up the road. Bumping into someone you know seems to be a regular occurrence in Luang Prabang, as there’s only the one main street, albeit a reasonably long one. We’re even more spread out in Luang Prabang, with David and Daire in one guesthouse, me in the one next door, and Conor next door again. Conor has gone for a little luxury, getting an en-suite room for 40000 kip, while I have a dorm bed for 10000 kip. The most interesting is David and Daire’s place, which is in the process of being renamed “The Lao-Irish Guesthouse” having been bought by a Lao girl and her Irish husband. Mashed potato, black pudding, etc. are of course on the menu.
Luang Prabang is very cosmopolitan in terms of the food choices available. After the last week of very simple Lao food we’re of course desperate for a bit of variety, so it may come as a bit of a surprise that the overwhelming vote is to go to Nazim’s Indian Restaurant. (This reminds me of a cartoon I once saw in the Evening Times where a Glasgow woman on holiday in Spain declares, “I’m fed up with this foreign food – can’t wait to get home for a good curry”.) The food is very good, but more expensive than we’ve been used to. Imagine paying as much as $3 for a starter, main course, rice, bread and beer!
Next day, after a fantastic sandwich and muffin in the Healthy and Fresh Canadian Bakery, Conor and I go for a wander round town. We’re a little disappointed as the town is World Heritage listed for its French colonial architecture and Buddhist temples, but it’s not all that impressive really. We’re more interested in watching some kids playing the sandals game – throwing a sandal down the street and then trying to hit it with your other one. The accuracy is amazing and Conor remarks, “If sandal throwing ever becomes an Olympic sport, Laos will be in with a good chance of a medal”.
We bump into a lot of people we know, including the Aussie girl Melanie, who you may be pleased to hear has been happily reunited with her boyfriend. And Conor is disappointed to learn that Toby and Lecky have arrived and are also in the Lao-Irish Guesthouse!
On Thursday we join with David, Daire, Claire and Patrick to hire a tuk-tuk to visit the nearby waterfalls. We’ve been travelling with Patrick for a few days now, and he’s an interesting character. He’s a middle-aged Kiwi who has done a lot of travelling in his time, and has now retired to the Philippines. He has many tales to tell, but we’re not sure what to think about the stories of his 19-year-old Philippino “housekeeper”. It’s rather chilly today, and so it’s a day for quickly admiring the waterfalls, rather than taking some time to relax and swim as most people tend to do here. I’m amused by the sign warning “What’s out, slippery way”, and later on in the afternoon I laugh again at a sign beside some roadworks declaring “Sorry in your convenience”. This is the second such sign I’ve seen, and it’s amazing how one person spelling something wrong can snowball round the country. My old favourite “French Fried” has appeared on many a menu.
Friday is a national holiday to celebrate Ladies Day. In the evening we’re invited to a party at the end of our street where there is the Lao version of karaoke – a live band with different people coming up to sing. There’s a good bit of dancing going on, and we are most successful at tackling the equivalent of the Macarena. We notice that the Lao way of buying rounds of drinks is to buy one bottle of beer, take one small glass, and continually fill the glass, offering it round to different people. This would be fair enough if you weren’t then expected to down it in one; not a great way to drink beer if it’s happening over an entire night.
On Friday night we have our third Indian meal of the week, and get ready to leave town. But when I go to my bed I’m not feeling too great, and in the morning I’m in no fit state to go anywhere. Conor heads off to Vang Vieng, and after a Saturday spent recovering I’m up early on Sunday. I share a tuk-tuk to the bus station with Pelle, a Dane who occasionally gets delusions of grandeur when people pronounce his name “Pele”.
The bus is packed, and again I don’t have a proper seat but a plastic stool in the passageway. The bus seems to be particularly old, and as usual all the luggage is packed onto the roof. There are a couple of metal poles which have been put in as additional support for the roof, and these are making a lot of creaking noises as they take the strain. For the first part of the journey I’m a little worried about the bus, but I forget about this as we drive through some of the most stunning scenery I’ve ever seen. Even a couple of breakdowns don’t matter too much, as the places we break down conveniently offer spectacular views of the karst landscape.
And then, just as I’m thinking that our bus and driver have done us a good job after all, disaster nearly strikes. The driver steers a little too far to the right to avoid an oncoming bus, and we clip the gravel verge which slopes fairly steeply away from the road. With both the wheels on the right on the gravel and those on the left on the road, the bus is at an incredibly awkward angle and it seems inevitable that we’ll topple over and smash into the village we’re passing through. Screams fill the air as we bump along, and just as I think the driver has recovered, again it seems we’re going to topple. But finally, somehow, he manages to get us back on the road and we come to a halt.
We all jump off the bus, and there are a few bruises around, especially a Japanese girl who has a huge bump on her forehead. The poles I was worried about earlier have saved me from any battering, as I was holding onto them for dear life. The driver and his mate are examining the bus for damage, and get a few tools out to make some repairs. We reckon we’re only about 8km outside Vang Vieng, and a few people wonder about walking it when it becomes apparent that the driver wants us to get back on the bus. But my feeling is that it’s only 8km, and with the bus listing to the right as it is, we’ll take it very slowly into town. So I get back on relatively happily, and am then shocked when we fire into Vang Vieng at the same speed we were doing before. With every slight lean of the bus, I get the feeling that it’s going to topple, and I’m so relieved when we finally make it to the bus station. I’m then amazed to realise that the bus is going to continue on to Vientiane. It’s basically only the backpackers who get off, while the locals stay on the bus. They are way braver than me, but I suppose they are too poor to contemplate shelling out for a ticket on the next bus.
I meet up with David and Conor at a beer garden down by the river where we watch the sun set behind the nearby hills. Afterwards we go to the Wildside Bar where we meet with Pelle, along with some other fellow passengers, and we share tales of our traumatic experience this afternoon.
Vang Vieng is well-known in backpacker circles as a place to go and relax for a few days or more. The only real things to do are to visit caves, and float down the river in an oversized rubber ring. I don’t feel like doing either, so for three days I do little but eat, drink, read and sleep. Like Luang Prabang, you just keep bumping into people you know in town, and it’s not unusual to have breakfast, then bump into someone and go for a drink with them, then someone else appears and you have to have another drink, and then it’s time for lunch. Daire’s friend Sinead has arrived from Ireland, and Sharon and Muireann, the Irish girls I met in Pai, are in town too. So are probably most of the people mentioned in the last few pages. As Conor says, if you wanted to avoid someone here, it would be impossible.
Over dinner one evening, a small language difference between Vang Vieng and the rest of Laos is explained to us by our waiter. We have been saying “Kawp chai la lai” (singing may be a better way of putting it) for “thanks very much”. But in Vang Vieng, it’s more normal to say “Kawp chai eh eh”. I don’t notice any other signs of Canadian influence in town though.
On Friday, I leave Vang Vieng along with David, Daire and Sinead, while Conor, along with Pelle, have stayed around to do some volunteer work on the local organic farm. I’m nervous about getting back on public transport, and am pleased that we’re getting on a small truck rather than a bus like the last one. But still, I am very uncomfortable during the whole journey, and with every lean of the truck as it takes a corner, my mind flashes back to the incident of a few days ago. It’s a pity, because I really don’t take in the experience of my last journey in Laos; things like the animals on the truck with us, and large families packed onto tractors rumbling along the road.
It’s only about three hours to the capital, Vientiane, and we arrive safe and sound. The French influence is obvious here, and dinner tonight is steak, complemented by red wine; the first time I’ve drunk wine since I came to Asia.
Next day, I go for a look round the city with a couple of guys from the hostel, and am surprised to bump into Conor. I wasn’t expecting to see him until Bangkok. To be honest, it’s far too hot for proper sightseeing, but Peter and I do make it to Patuxai – Vientiane’s version of the Arc de Triomphe. We climb it, but the views from the top aren’t overly impressive; in fact the city in general isn’t particularly attractive. Even the Mekong, which has been impressive everywhere else I’ve seen it, looks pretty horrible here. On the way back to the guesthouse, we spot a large gathering of people at one of the temples and go for a closer look. Not sure what’s going on, we ask someone. We’re shown a photo of a woman, and then it clicks – we’ve gatecrashed a funeral! It seems like nobody is worried about us being there, but we feel a little uncomfortable and beat a hasty retreat.
In the evening I have my last Lao meal – chicken laab. It’s chicken minced, with mint and spices, and served with the ubiquitous sticky rice. After dinner the even more ubiquitous Premiership football is on TV in the bar, and a doubles pool competition sees Conor and I retiring unbeaten.
On Sunday Conor and I split again. He’s made the admirable decision to risk a flight on Lao Aviation in order to see the Plain of Jars in the east of the country. Or the “Jar of Plains” as our Kiwi friend Patrick kept calling it. On the other hand I’m leaving Laos, and a 20 minute tuk-tuk ride takes me to the Mekong yet again. A short bus trip across the Friendship Bridge takes me to Nong Khai, and I’m back in Thailand.
Thailand (part 2)
I’m kept entertained on the overnight train journey to Bangkok by a young Lao boy traveling with his dad in the bunk below me. He keeps climbing up the ladder to get a look at me, exclaiming “Falang, falang, hee hee hee”, before disappearing again. Thankfully he gets bored of this after a while, leaving me alone to get some sleep. Back in Bangkok, I jump on the bus back to our old friend, the Khao San Road.
Rather than staying on the Khao San itself, I grab a room in a hotel behind the nearby temple. It’s a little quieter here, but the difference is marginal. In the evening I’ve arranged to meet up with Paddy and Mandy, an Irish couple we met on the Magic Bus in New Zealand. I didn’t have to bother arranging a meeting place, as I see them walk past my hotel during the afternoon. Friends of theirs, John and Vanessa (again from Ireland), meet up with us as well and we go for a bite to eat and a few drinks. Eating dinner I’m amused that Bangkok seems to be an extension of Laos, as I see a few people I recognize from Laos wandering past. A couple of the girls see me and come and join us. And then Mike and Neil, the Canadians we met on Koh Phi Phi, appear. For anyone who is following the story closely, Mike has still not managed to get himself a pair of shoes. He has got himself a job in a modeling agency though; a little bizarre given the spots currently covering his chin.
On Tuesday I’m on the internet to arrange to meet Sharon and Muirean, and again I didn’t need to bother as I bump into them on the street. And with them is Lauren, one of the crowd from Pai. We arrange to meet later on, and along with the crowd from last night we head round to the Khao San Road to choose a place to eat. And just to ram home the point that the traveller scene in Bangkok is so closely packed, we bump into Conor, who flew in from Vientiane this afternoon. Without needing reminded, Lauren says, “I guess I owe you a beer”, after she went off with my money that night in Pai. So it’s then strange that she heads off early after dinner never to be seen again. For us, after dinner is time to go back to our favourite lady-boy-psychedelic-camper-van-50-Baht-cocktail stall. We’re a little disappointed to discover that they’re no longer serving from the camper-van; just using it as a base.
On Wednesday Conor and I decide to go to Siam Square for some shopping. After getting fed up waiting for the bus (at the wrong bus stop), we decide to jump in a tuk-tuk. The bus would have been 3.5 Baht each, so when the first tuk-tuk driver says it’ll be 100 Baht we say no thanks. A bit stupid maybe, since that’s only about $2 between us! Another tuk-tuk driver pulls up, and we have the ludicrous situation of telling him his fare is too cheap and we want to pay more. He says he’ll take us for 10 Baht, but it’s common knowledge around Bangkok that if a tuk-tuk costs only 10 Baht, the driver is on a commission to take you to the “Export” shopping place. We say, “No, we want to go straight to Siam Square”, and he replies “Yes, 10 Baht”. We say, “No, no, we want to go straight to Siam Square, no stopping anywhere else.” He thinks for a while and then says triumphantly, “200 Baht!” We tell him to forget it, and eventually get a taxi for the 100 Baht we should have given the first tuk-tuk driver. After a few hours shopping, we save any more such problems by finding the right bus stop for the trip back.
After my bus and boat incidents in Laos, I’ve lost my appetite for any more travel in Asia at the moment. One of the incidents on its own would have been OK, but the two coming so close together has really knocked me for six. I’m not ready to go home just yet though, and have decided to go back to Australia for the last couple of months of my trip, and spend the time on the west coast. Conor has taken advantage of his new found independence by changing his own plans a little, and on Friday we say our goodbyes as he flies out of Bangkok for a couple of weeks in Burma.
In the evening, I meet up with John and Vanessa for dinner. Marie-Chantal, the French-Canadian girl we met in New Zealand joins us, having bumped into us on the street last night. It looks like those three will be heading in the same direction from Bangkok; I’m not sure if this is something John and Vanessa will relish!
The weather has been so oppressively hot and humid in the last few days, and coupled with the fact that I’ve had a slightly dodgy tummy, this means that I’ve made little effort to visit the sights of Bangkok which I missed last time round. But on Saturday I finally make it to one of the city’s highlights – The Grand Palace and Wat Phra Keo (otherwise known as the Temple of the Emerald Buddha). I was aiming for the 10:30am guided tour, but the Bangkok traffic makes me late, as I have to take a huge detour in order to get across the road. I can’t even hire one of the personal audio guides, as I don’t have anything to leave as a deposit, so I have to resort to wandering aimlessly, much like most of the hordes of tourists who are there. The temples are certainly impressive, but the Emerald Buddha itself is probably the smallest Buddha I’ve seen!
In the evening, John and I head off to find a pub showing some of the day’s Six Nations rugby. For some reason, none of the games are on live, and even the pub which has adverts up for the games seems to be showing J-League football instead. We decide to give this a miss, and instead go round to the place we’ve been casting glances at for the last few days – a street beer stall which has big Changs for only 40 Baht. Here we get chatting to Colin, a Scot who has been living in Ireland for a few years. Conor is fond of proclaiming that Cork will sometime get it’s independence from the rest of Ireland, so he may have been pleased to hear Colin say, “People from Cork have such a strange accent, they might as well be from a different country”. But he follows this up with, “They sound as if they’re from Jamaica”!
On Sunday I say goodbye to John and Vanessa and get my last taste of Thai food before an early rise on Monday morning for my flight to Australia.