Vientiane, Laos
Wednesday, November 1st, 2006

"For the born traveler, traveling is a besetting vice. Like other vices, it is imperious, demanding its victim's time, money, energy and the sacrifice of comfort." -Aldous Huxley - "Along the Road"

Man this is a painful process. Almost every journal from Melbourne to Bangkok reads like a broken record. Waiting for ages to tackle a single page, then scrambling in reverse to pick out memories from a mind that can't even remember a birth date. And I seem to push myself further each time. Waiting a week, two weeks, a month, and in my current predicament, looking back at over three months of pictures bus tickets, hotel receipts, anything that might jar loose a moment I dearly want to hold on to. And so I flip back a couple dozen pages in an empty journal that sits and mocks me, and strain to remember Laos.


Laos..



Laos.......

Oh what a horrible dream. I was trekking through northern Thailand on elephants, swimming in the crystal clear waters under a multi-tiered waterfall, and cooking dinner with a lovely family in a Hill Tribe Village. Then, suddenly, I was sweating through a jungle, tripping over giant fire centipedes and wading through spider webs of prehistoric proportions. Before I could escape this nightmare I looked down at my belly, meticulously sculpted by a year of Australian beer, slightly stained by muddy water and hints of sunlight, and reeled in horror as a simple earthworm burst through my skin. Frozen with fear, unable to speak, all I could do was watch. It seemed to speak. Soft at first, almost inaudible, I could hardly hear the words. But there it was, saying this word over and over. At first a familiar voice.. saying my name. Jesse... JESSE... then in a Thai accent... I felt I was needed somewhere, but it was no use. I slipped away, fell into a deep slumber beyond the grasp of dreams, and disappeared from the human race for a small eternity.

I woke up drenched in sweat. My entire body ached, and my stomach was pulled in every direction. As my eyes flickered open, trying to expose for light, my hands searched my stomach for any sign of parasite born exits. Aside from a small hole, eventually identified as my naval, all I could feel was a couple straggly hairs and the imprint of tile. As I gained focus I found myself a good ten feet from my bed, face down on porcelain. To my left was a toilet, which I vaguely remember embracing in the wee hours of the night, to my right was a bottle of Imported-from-Mexico-my-ass Tequila that explained the whole situation. Doing my best to prop vertical, I made it as far as the bed and sat in the muggy air being toyfully stirred by a useless fan. My bed was still made from the day before. It appeared neither myself nor some tequila made acquaintance had found the comfort of it's sheets. The bed beside mine, which I expected to hold one Kyle Dawson, had been slept in, but was now empty. I fumbled for my phone, which was now little more than an expensive clock / shitty camera. 10:00am. October 21st. On any other day it would be quite an accomplishment to be up at this hour, considering the night I had had, but on this particular morning I was supposed to be three hours north by now, on the way to meet the Longneck Tribe and stand in the Golden Triangle. And on this very same morning I happened to be "celebrating" my 28th birthday.

Not the best birthday in memory, that 28th. The beginnings of my 29th year resembled the sensation of slowly dragging a stick across my cornea, which I have in fact experienced. But to be fair the day I did that was far more eventful than this one would ever be. By the time I made it down the four flights of stairs to reception, it was made painfully clear that I had missed the bus, if you will, and was left to wander in my self pity for the day. I eventually managed to reach Kyle by phone, who retold the events of the previous night in broken reception as he bounced along a broken road near Chang Rai.

We had started the night off quite pleasantly, enjoying a civilized meal with Hannah and Kirsty in a nice restaurant in Chang Mai. The day leading up to dinner was spent in leisure, resting our bodies from the previous days' trek. In between forks of steak and cups of wine we spoke of waterfalls, rice wine and parasites. At some point someone (probably me) revealed it was my birthday the following day, and we all made plans to run amuck. I was happy to have some friends to celebrate with, as I had imagined being stuck in some sweaty room in the dark heart of Asia on my birthday. Huh.. funny how things have a strange way of working out...

As we finished our meal and paid our bill, Hannah and Kirsty mentioned some bar near by that boasted one of the best blues guitarists in all of Chang Mai. Although I was pretty sure Chang Mai's best blues artist was not the most fiercely contended title, I was fully up for some live music, and we all piled into a tuk-tuk and made our way to the Riverside Bar (or was it the place beside the Riverside Bar?). We took a table front and centre and yelled our orders to a friendly lady and/or boy, fighting the volume of the opening act. Eventually the first band finished their set, and we had just enough silence to discuss the foolish possibilities of tequila. So as the headliners, with the owner on lead guitar, took the stage we found ourselves face to face with a yellowish liquid masquerading as tequila. Feeling as invincible as only a birthday idiot can be, I proceeded to pour tequila for everyone including the band, using the basic one-for-you-one-for-me principle. Unfortunately my invincibility lasted the whole of two hours. The fragments of that evening that I recall saw me trampsing about stage between songs handing out tequila, sitting completely oblivious to the friends around me mimicking the finger movements of the guitarist as if I could have jumped on stage and joined right in, and hearing "Happy Birthday Jason" from the band before announcing my need for immediate departure. There was a real shaky tuk-tuk ride back home where I found my place nestled beside the porcelain goddess for a horrible night's sleep. Oh, and proclaiming in a drunken stupor that I "ain't goin' on no fu@&in' tour tomorrow!" before I passed out.

So, in hind sight, I can't really blame Kyle for not waking me for the 7:00am call to tour. Especially considering both him and the owner of the guesthouse had tried to wake me countless times to no avail. And so that's how I spent my birthday. Alone in a strange city, country, continent, with the closest familiar face some 400km north.

As that day of self pity and longing for home gave way, the morning brought with it a welcomed close to our first tour of Thailand. Wiping sleep from our eyes, we boarded a mini bus headed for the small town of Chiang Khong, situated minutes away from the border to Laos. As we gripped our seats, our driver punished the tired old Toyota up down and sideways through the countryside of northern Thailand. Beside and behind us sat a group of Brits who would end up forming our new group. They were, in no specific order: Steve & Keiren, friends and co-workers from the U.K. who were tackling Asia after some time spent in New Zealand; Dawn & Rachel, two physiotherapists from England freshly removed from the comfort of home; and Ali, who was travelling solo, and who was, surprise, surprise, British. And so for the next couple of months, we would travel with the group in some form or other through Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia and back to Thailand. And for two months we would be saturated with conversation and longing for Bubble and Squeak, Steve Coogan, East Dullich or some other topic of Britannia that eluded us. However half British Kyle and boast to be.

Our journey lasted a full day, with only a couple of stops, to eventually drop us at our destination well after the sun had shed it's final light. Piling out of the van in a symphony of creaking joints and yawns we all found our beds in our stop over town, and managed to stomach some curry and a beer or two before retiring for the night. Another early morning rise found us jumping on the back of pick up trucks headed towards the border. Well, perhaps border is too strong a word.. We had all heard horror stories of border crossing in southeast Asia. Delays, bribes, headstrong officials making entry into a new country misery, but what we "endured" was almost laughable. We walked up to a desk, showed our passports, dropped a couple baht, and turned around. We didn't even pass through an imaginary line, we just walked back where we came from and boarded a small boat to cross a river. I'm not even sure why we had gone through all the hassle of pre-arranging our visas, because as I saw it we could of easily just jumped on that boat and wandered into Laos. But, there we were, regardless of the lack of story building excitement. Laos.

We had planned two stops in Laos, around which our trip would eventually form. In a week's time, a trip down the lazy river in Vang Vieng, which, in essence, is floating down a river in novelty sized inner tubes, stopping every 500 meters or so to plunge into the water from massive rope swings under the guidance of Beer Laos. But to get there we would first have to tackle the mighty Mekong River. The 13th longest river in the world, it starts in Tibet making it's way south, carving the border between Thailand and Laos, trickling into Cambodia before escaping Vietnam and emptying into the South China Sea. Our first destination was Luang Prabang, some hundred miles or so from the border. We had two options for transport. Fast boat or Slow boat. Both seemed to have their own advantages and disadvantages. Slow boat was, well.. slow, but would give us a chance to see the country at a leisurely pace. The fast boat was, well.. you know, fast, but carried with it the possibility of disintegration and drowning with any contact with floating debris. With plenty of time to spare, and an adversity to disintegration, we chose Slow.

And slow she be. An interesting vessel, designed to minimize any notion of comfort, your typical slow boat, let me rephrase, backpacker budget friendly slow boat, is about eighty feet long, fifteen feet wide, cruises at a blistering eight knots and seats as many people as can inhumanely be packed within it's hull. The trip would take two days, one actually pleasant, one excruciatingly long, with a stop in Pak Beng to break it up. Our first day we managed to score a group of seats together at the back, foolishly close to the engine. New to the experience, we laughed and joked our way along the banks of the Mekong, taking our time to get to know each other as our new little family emerged. We introduced our selves to the reigning king of Southeast Asian lager, Beer Laos, and took comfort in our ipods for a full day of slow boat. By the time we reached our little halfway house of a town, we welcomed a bed and stable land.

There is little to say for Pak Beng. It was probably a quaint little village before the tourist trade picked it as the stop for the couple dozen slow boats that stop each day for refuelling and rest, but now it's purpose is obvious. Hundreds of people pour out of their boats around sunrise and scramble for accommodation. As we lugged our gear up the steep hill from the "dock", we passed a circus bizarre of sites. Mangy dogs sniffing around for anything partially edible in the garbage, a child tugging one end of chained monkey, a despondent woman sitting on the gravel, spitting up blood, and young Laotian men casually strolling the main street with ak47's slung to one shoulder. This would not be the first or last time Kyle and I would glance at each with a look that quickly non-verbally communicated "Oh God.....".

But aside from it's first impressions, our Pak Beng night proved to be quite pleasant. After showers and a change of clothes we all met for a decent little dinner, and raised our malaria pills in cheers. Once we had had our fill, and convinced Kyle to part with one of his cherished Kohsan knockoff t's to the proprietor of the joint, we made our way to the balcony of one of our hotels. The ugly beginnings and dusty atmosphere of the town would eventually be masked by darkness as the power was cut at 8:00pm as it is every night. A beer or two, a bit of guitar and the rest of the formal introductions led to an early night in anticipation of our second and last day of boating Slow.

And there remains a painful memory of claustrophobia, wooden seats and the kind of boredom that leads to psychotic tenancies. As the boat leered from side to side temping the Mekong to come spilling in, the novelty of that slow boat waned. The scenery that tested the limits of my shutter the day before repeated itself that second day, and no longer seemed exotic. Man in boat. Man fishing in boat. Trees. Water. Man with stick. More trees. And more water. I remember the desire to strangle someone. Anyone. A random stranger would do. Perhaps we could capsize. That would spice things up a bit. But then all my gear would fall victim to that muddy water of the Mekong... No a strangling was definitely in order. And all the while those blasted Fast boats would rip by, mocking us in their wake. But there was something on the faces of it's passenger's that reminded you why you chose Slow. Under ill-fitted helmets, behind those knuckles drained white of blood, you would catch an expression of nervous laughter. You know that "Hehe.. this is fun [oh God please let me survive]" kind of grin. But before anyone could strangled, and before a Fast Boat had the misfortune of exploding gloriously in front of us, the Men in Boats and Hills of Trees would eventually clear to make way for Luang Prabang. The final destination for all boats Fast and Slow.

It would be four days before we would leave Luang Prabang. A very quiet welcoming city that is a fusion of French and Laotian cuisine and tradition. Our first night was spent finding beds (lovely musty room with a window looking out into reception (?) ), a quick loop around the tourist drag, and a teenage, Beer Laos inspired round of 'I've Never'. We had a couple of nights out at various eateries and drinkeries, Lao Lao Garden, Hive Bar, and the Blue Lagoon, to mention a few. On our second night we rejoined forces with Hannah and Kirsty who had opted for a [God let us survive] Fast boat, and enjoyed a posh dinner for little more than the price of Happy Meal. And we quickly realized that the Luang Prabang experience was a far cry from our usual three in the morning adventures. Devoutly Buddhist, Luang Prabang shuts at midnight. Everything. Most guesthouses will shut and lock their doors at midnight. Hannah and Kirsty can attest to this. Restaurants and bars close at midnight. The whole city wakes before sunrise to give alms to the monks. And the only people you'll find on the streets after 12:00am are other tourists searching for a nightcap, or crazy Laotians eager to pry a few kip from any available fools. Namely Steve and Bradstreet. On one of these nights a-searchin for some sort of adventure, a local stopped to ask us for a cigarette. In exchange for said cigarette, Steve and I convinced this fellow to give us a quick ride down the block on his motor powered cyclo. I'm not sure if we looked like easy marks, of if it was Steve pushing me into the back of said fellow while reaching around to tease his hair, but something set the guy off. And for half an hour we stood outside, beside, and inside our guesthouse as this guy pointed at his back tire, mumble-screamed in Laotian, and uttered, over and over again, Money! The conversation was hardly a battle of wits as all parties simply reiterated our points of view until we simply walked off and buddy gave up trying to fleece a couple bucks out of us. But for the rest of Laos I kept my eye out for the stink eye and crooked teeth of scooter man.