Freedom.

Sometimes you meet people who change you. Change the way you think about things, the way you see the world - in a literal sense at least.

Since I crossed the border from southern Laos into Cambodia a week ago I've been with a group of people who more-or-less shunned the day tours in favour of more travelling freedom in the form of motorbikes/ scooters.

In every town I've been to so far - Banlung, Kratie and Kampong Cham, I've been on the back of a motorbike exploring the surrounds a paid day-tour would not take me. Important to note though, I haven't been driving. Not because I don't want to, but because I don't know how - and I have skin missing from my big toe to remind me. (Story below).

Since I left New Zealand at the end of April, by default (because it seemed more convenient and a good way to meet people and because of the reason above), I had always booked day tours around each place I'd been to. And they are, by all means (mostly) worth the money in terms of hitting all the major tourist attractions in one go and for meeting other travellers. Day trips though and even treks, are highly regimented with a set schedule of where to be, what to do and even when to eat. Renting a motorbike or scooter for the day (which is cheaper than a day trip and more fun) never crossed my mind.


For more intrepid and able travellers, the motorbike is the ultimate way to get around (except maybe in the larger cities where the traffic is heavy and hectic) and see parts of the country that not many other tourists may go - and where no minivans or buses could go either. There is a great sense of flexibility and adventure when you're on a motorbike - sure, you may not see all the things you would on a day trip, you may very well get lost, run out of petrol or injure yourself, but that doesn't matter. Its just more fun. 


The freedom to go and stop where you want, do what you want and see what life is really like for the locals is worth so much more than the $5 it costs to rent for the day. And from stories I've heard, even if you do damage to the bikes (which are mostly owned by locals so you're actually riding their bikes) doesn't cost that much. 

Six of us left Kampong Cham, Cambodia's third biggest city, on four motorbikes and planned to travel along both sides of the Mekong and taking a car ferry across the river. We left late morning (because we could) and took the road to Stung Trong and across on the the ferry. The road there was pretty good - a mix between sealed and dirt roads, but all sans potholes. The other side of the river was a different story. All dirt with massive holes in the middle of the road which resembled a dirt bike track rather than a main thoroughfare through several villages.

The places we passed through, including a few Muslim villages were full of smiling children greeting us in their cute and high-pitched voices ("Hello! Hello! Hello!") followed by a wave as we sped past. They weren't the only ones though - all the villagers, old, young, big, small, greeted us or acknowledged our us with a nod of the head (and helped us out when we thought we were lost). Some seemed truly bewildered to see a small motorcycle gang briefly interrupt their daily life.

But alas, I feel this may be the end of this brief fling with freedom. Our group is going its separate ways and, despite my best efforts, I do not think I'll be riding a motorbike or scooter anytime soon.

(I now have a bandage wrapped around my big toe after trying to ride a motorbike (sorry mum). It was nothing serious, but I lost control of it because I was heavy-handed with the accelerator and ended up driving into the kerb where the bike fell onto the ground. I was wearing jandals and scraped a few layers of skin off my big toe. The bike was unscratched.)

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There and back again.

This has nothing to do with The Hobbit. I just merely stole the title. 

This is about the sometimes (read mostly) unglamorous transport options and tours which get me to the beautiful places that I take photos of and subsequently write about.

In Laos, most of the overland transport is limited to buses, minivans, motorbikes, bicycles and boats (if you're lucky enough to be near a river). 


Most of the buses and minivans (except for the local transport) are actually quite nice - clean, with air con and big windows - but what gives the simple cross-country, 3-10 hour trip, that sense of dread are the roads. Not all are made equal in Laos. One moment the road is sealed, the next gravel, the next dirt with large potholes. Others wind their way high into the mountains and back down again.  


Case in point - the four hour minivan from the backpacker tubing haven of Vang Vieng to the Laos capital of Vientiane. Our four-wheeled chariot was in fine condition, though I had one of the unenviable chairs which fold out into the aisle. Everyone I spoke to who had done the trip already had complained that it was one of the worst rides they'd experienced. But most of them seemed like a bunch of complainers. I, however, like to put a positive spin on things (where possible). Most of the three or so hours seemed like some lame rollercoaster or carnival ride ("Just pretend like its a ride at Laos Disneyland," I thought to myself).
     
Quite possibly the most terrifying trip so far though was the 8 hour bus ride from Phonsavan (home of the plain of jars) to Vang Vieng. I decided, in all my infinite wisdom, to take a local bus which left at 4.30pm and was told would arrive about 11.30pm ("no problem because everything will still be open in Vang Vieng", I was told by the guy at my guesthouse). I could have/ possibly should have left on a tourist bus first thing the next morning and arrived about 3 or 4pm (hindsight is great). I guess I just wanted to get out of Phonsavan.

I got on the bus hoping to see at least one more traveller, but no luck. I was fortunate enough to experience this one on my own. The bus itself had seen better days (I suppose they save the good stuff for the tourists). The seats were a bit worn and colour faded. The seat backs were loose and the elastic at the back of the seat in front of you where you put your things had come apart. The air conditioning was barely working. It also seemed like it was oversold. At least three people were sitting in the aisle on plastic stools and fold out chairs. Luckily that wasn't me.

That wasn't what I was terrified about though. I think it was a combination of being the only foreigner on the bus, the prospect of arriving at my destination in the middle of the night (actually arrived about 12.30am), paranoia about missing my stop (I was the only one getting off at Vang Vieng) and also trying to stay awake until we arrived in Vang Vieng (I never actually knew what time we were meant to arrive so I tried to be alert the whole time).

Our two day slow boat from Thailand into Laos seems like luxury compared to the land transport. The first day anyway. As the crowded boat filled with tourists and some locals meandered along the Mekong River we wiled away the day sat in what were probably the back seats stripped from. Set up in rows like on a bus or plane, passengers dump their weary bodies into any seat they can get, only to find none of them are bolted to the wooden floor boards and their weight pushes the seat into the people behind them. During all of the first day the wind keeps weary travellers cool and refreshed, but on the second, we find ourselves sat behind the engine in a closed in room with two windows and about 10 degrees hotter than the rest of the boat. Not ideal for a 9 hour trip, but it builds character, right?

The best time though, was zipping around Phonsavan to the plain of jars on the back of a motorbike. I'd arrived there on my own and found few other travellers (its not really a big hit with tourists, it seems). A package tour of a couple of the sites and other attractions in the area would have cost far too much to do on my own (about 4-500,000 kip or $67-83NZD) or even if I found another person to go with (about 300,000 kip or $50NZD). I was contemplating scrapping it all together and leaving for Vang Vieng and was generally in a bad mood for having possibly made a mistake in going to Phonsavan in the first place. Until I visited the UXO (unexploded ordnance) Survivors Information Center. (Around the time of the Vietnam War, American forces dropped millions of bombs over Laos in what is known as the Secret War. It was thought the Viet Cong were using paths through Laos to get in and our of the country. Millions of those dropped bombs failed to explode and so now the country is littered with explosives which still kill about 100 people a year and injure many more.)

When all hope was lost of finding a tour, one of the volunteers at the centre, Kham, had offered to take me on a tour for less than half of the cheapest tour price I was quoted. The money too would go back to the centre. He would pick me up at 8am the next morning.

The people at my guesthouse, who had quoted me those initially high prices, were so passive aggressive and trying to dissuade me from going with Kham. Apparently, according to them we'd get pulled over by the police and possibly fined because he was not a recognised tour guide. The reason their tour was so expensive was because they needed to pay fees to be able to do the tours etc etc. It worked for a little bit - sowed the seed of doubt - but everything turned out fine. People make their own way to the jar sites all the time with no problems.

Arriving on his red motorbike which he had had for about 10 years ("Its a bit slow, but the first bike I've owned."), Kham, a university student in his second year of an economics degree, tells me mystery surrounds the large carved stone jars which are about 2500 years old. Some say they were used to hold whisky and food, others think they were used as family urns and the sites are a cemetery.

We also go to the old town which was bombed by the Americans and forcing most of the town to flee to other parts of Laos. We pass an old French hospital destroyed by American bombs and what were essentially a vault for the towns valuables - gold, silver etc - called Stupa which were first raided and razed by the Thai people then further damaged by American bombs.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this anymore, but I guess the moral of the story is things will always work out in the end and don't complain about long haul transportation?


I'll let you decide.          

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Forty-eight hours in Vang Vieng

Curiosity got the better of me when I booked a ticket to Vang Vieng.

I'd heard plenty of stories about the place about three hours north of the Laos capital Vientiane - a place of excessive drug taking and drinking; bar hopping while floating along a river in an inflatable tube. Stories about people dying or getting seriously injured.

I told myself I'd stay away. It wouldn't be my scene, I thought to myself.

I was right.

Getting on the local bus, I was hoping to find other travellers to talk with or at least be with when we were scheduled to arrive  in Vang Vieng about 12.30am. I was out of luck. The bus, as the name suggests, was full of locals and none, it turned out were getting off at Vang Vieng. Though I didn't see why any of them would. The town, in recent years anyway, has been overrun by westerners seeking the seemingly simple thrill of floating down the river while drunk.

Every seat in the bus was more than full (folding chairs and stools were placed in the aisle for a few extra seats, but more on this in another post) and from what I gathered, everyone was heading to Vientiane. When I told the young woman sitting next to me I was heading to Vang Vieng her face was a mix of surprise and shock as if to say "why on earth would you want to go there?"  

What I found in Vang Vieng was a lesson in youthful excess which made me feel much older than my 23 years. (I'm really an old man at heart.)

In the morning and into the early afternoon people sat in restaurants with low wooden platforms and small tables and pillows which were playing either back-to-back episodes of Friends or Family Guy. Many, I imagine, were nursing cuts, bruises and hangovers while drinking fruit shakes and eating food.

It seems to be a town which can keep people in its grip and keep them in a vicious cycle of tubing during the day, drinking at night, nursing the hangover then doing it all again.

One of the girls we met had been in town for three weeks. She was working for one of the local bars which ply free buckets of alcohol and mixers to travellers by directing foot traffic to it. She was paid in alcohol and food and took care of her own accommodation.

There is more to do in this town though and you don't have to look far. Kayaking, rock climbing, trekking. I set my sights on a kayaking, tubing and caving day trip which inadvertently gave me a feel for what the drunk tubing experience would be like. Albeit at different times of the day. The tubing was 350 metres through a cave. Headlamps lighting the way, we entered the cave through a small gap between water and cave roof and we pulled ourselves along a rope to as far as we could go. I felt like an undercover agent on a mission to blow something up. Doing this was more dangerous during the rainy season, our guide Mr Sing told us. Mostly because of flash floods which could increase the river levels at a moments notice.      

During the kayaking leg, we stopped at one of the riverside bars which tubers can stop at. One of the workers throws a full water bottle tied to a rope to pull in those wanting to take a break from the river. We, however, pull up on the side of the bank and climb up the stairs. The bar has a good crowd of people and also a trapeze swing over the river for patrons to jump in. One of the staff, an older, balding Laos man, pulled the swing in  using a rope while another threw a semi-inflated rubber ring to pull in each jumper.

The bars themselves, about 6 in total, are semi-permanent structures made of wood and built along the banks of the river. Each has a different vibe or thing to do. The bar we stopped at had a beer pong table, a basketball hoop and was covered in different coloured spraypaint. Another bar we kayaked past looks closed, but had a giant metal water slide which would launch the person into the river.

For some this will be the last high they will ever experience. Estimates on the casualty rate each year from tubing varies, but travellers do die or are seriously injured while tubing.

During the rainy season the river levels are high enough that revellers can jump and dive without hitting the rocks below the surface. But this day I still saw rocks and debris rise up above the water and act as a reminder of what is lurking under the river's murky, fast flowing, surface. The problem comes during the dry season when river levels are lower. That and the combination of a sense of drunken invincibility and sometimes an overestimation of swimming ability (A drunk tuber had told a friend he did not know how to swim).

Perhaps this pessimistic view comes from my own realistic estimation of swimming abilities and a healthy respect for any natural body of water.

Despite all this though, I can see the appeal for some people and the reason so many young (though not exclusively) travellers make the pilgrimage to Vang Vieng. If I were a few years younger and was in the right state of mind I'd probably give it a shot and have a great time, too.

Such are the perils of being an old man at heart.

  

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