Day 89 to 101: Thailand, Laos and hitting 100

The slow boat from Pak Beng for the second leg of my journey down the Mekong River to Luang Prabang in Laos was going to take 8 hours, setting off at the bright and breezy time of 9am.

It took barely the first hour for the young group of Aussies behind me an hour to get on the beers. It took barely the second hour for them to get loud. It took barely the third hour for them to get wasted and VERY loud.

It took barely the first minute for them to piss me off.

8 Hours you say? Ho hum. At least we won the Ashes.

At one point the loudest and ‘craziest’ of them (he wore his cap sideways for fucks sake), climbed over the railing, clinged onto the side of the boat and tried to ‘waterski’. Rather than the display of heroic machismo he so craved it to be, this simply resulted in the passengers behind getting nicely wet from the backsplash.

As he emerged to an angry dialogue with his saturated boat mates, I sat back and pleasantly imagined a scenario where he had slipped, fell under the boat and was mauled to pieces by the boats rotor blades, but not before pleading for our eternal forgiveness for his stupidity and lack of humility.

I had been across the border into Laos barely 2 days and already the curse of our increasingly small world had glared its teeth as it had in Thailand frequently.

I had no idea what to expect from Thailand. But with the exciting bright lights of global Bangkok to the tourist saturation of the islands it became clear that my route was not going to take me anywhere fresh and new.

It had its perks – the main one being my New Year celebrations, a special night crowned atop of one of Bangkok’s tall, swanky hotels watching the city’s fireworks with old friends (Bobby D) and new.

The weekend Chanatuk market gave a little hint - full of wildlife, bustle (and hustle), colours, smells and wonders - like something from the pen of Terry Pratchett.

But North Thailand was a very different proposition. A world away from the drunken mayhem of the islands.

Chiang Mai – Thailand’s second city – is a fraction of the size of the capital, but still holds the prestige as a significant draw. As the base camp for its Doi Inthanon mountain – the country’s highest peak – and the launch pad for Laos, it attracts those willing enough to escape the comfort blanket of the south.

Arriving here from Bangkok it was refreshing to see a town not littered with the Western influence/pandering I had been exposed to the previous 3 weeks. It’s laid back, cheaper and offers glimpses into the way Thailand used to be.

Glimpses mind, and mainly because I got lucky.

After arriving in Chiang Mai with Julien and Samya (a wonderfully fiery French couple whose passion for music, love and life were almost on par with their passion for arguing) and their Corsican friend Yannick, we decided to take a 3 day trek into the mountains.

I had sworn, after my Himalayan epics to never embark on another trek for a very long time. To make that emphatic I had even had sent my walking boots home from Bangkok. But after receiving assurances that my Adidas Classics were going to work just fine, a trip into the jungle became too tempting to turn down.

Day one involved an elephant trek before our first walk. I say ‘trek’, but it was more just sitting atop this huge beast while he ate every 2 steps. We probably covered a 100 metres in an hour.

Still, elephants are pretty cool. You question how they’re treated sometimes, especially when the guide on the one behind us yanked his animal’s ear with a sharp hook to make it change direction, making the poor beast yowl in pain...

…but if you start to question this, then you could end up with a whole itinerary of campaigns to fight against. They at least are left alone in acres of grassland to roam and feed – Nepal was a far more unforgiving place for Dumbo’s relatives.

But this wasn’t the glimpse that I referred to. Nor was it the tribal village we stayed at the first night – genuine though it was, its freezers full of beer and artisans ‘who just happened to be passing’ offering us ‘just passing special discounts’ on their wares left you thinking you’re not the first gringo they’ve tried to manipulate.

No, the glimpse came the second night. But it was a good one.

After walking through the day – which in the heat of the midday sun and the humidity of the jungle isn’t  breezy, literally – we arrived at our next village in time to join in the celebrations of a local wedding.

Though we had missed the ceremony, we were certainly in the right place to enjoy the celebrations.

And don’t expect bucks fizz, a first dance or a 3 course meal.

The villagers had made 25 litres of rice whiskey for the occasion, and had killed a buffalo in the morning to consume over the course of the day.

People from the villages of the bride and groom grouped together in random houses, singing songs that wished the happy couple the best of luck in their life together. I say songs, as far as I could tell there’s only one. Sung over and over again.

Cigarettes made from tobacco and dried banana leaf were rolled and smoked till the huts became heavy with smoke, and vocabularies that amounted to around 3 words in English were stretched to their limits as they made us more than welcome in their homes.

Not only that, but I met a 5 other foreigners who had also hit gold with the wedding, and lo and behold one of them was from Chile.

I’m telling you the world is getting smaller.

We returned to Chiang Mai the next day, after a little stint of Bamboo rafting and to the reality of civilization.

I had come to like Chiang Mai a lot, especially after negotiating its rush hour traffic on semi automatic motorbike, merely hours after I’d learned to ride one.

It felt a bit like when I learned to drive a car on the streets of Sparkhill…

…cope there, cope anywhere.

With half a mile of traffic in  front and behind you, wedged between truck, lorry, bus, bike and tuk tuk, praying when the light turns green you’ll remember how to drive off smoothly in a place where every spare bit of free tarmac is greedily covered by motorized vehicle…

…is certainly an experience I won’t forget in a long time.

Might be a while before I join the Hells Angels, mind.

But no matter how much I liked Chiang Mai my lack of time on my Visa forced my hand – so Laos People’s Democratic Republic and its mighty Mekong River beckoned.

This once French Protectorate (which means a lot of crepes, croissants but no blue cheese dammit!) used to be one of the world poorest 10 countries, but with economic resurgence (in part due to extensive tourism since new roads allowed navigation into and around the country were finally introduced) its slowly but surely growing.

And while it’s no Thailand, places like Luang Prabang – a city rich in French style, artisan culture and a laid back way of life – holds the travelers attention as much as a bucket does for a Gap Year student.

I’ve come here with no guide book either, seeing if a reliance on the Lonely Planet can sometimes distract the traveler into seeing what it feels it needs to see, rather than what they want to see.

And maybe the poverty that still hangs around will ground me more than the commercialism duped me in Thailand.

We’ll see.

The extraordinary journey on slow boat along the Mekong from the Thai border is already an experience richer than I’d had anywhere travelling within its neighbor – bar the Aussie pissheads of course (though they did have something to commiserate).

Laos promises much. And though my journey has already been undertaken in amongst throngs of travelers, it still feels that this country is – like Nepal – one whose status among the world’s significant must sees will become apparent in a few more years time.

With the 4 thousand islands, 7km cave, the might of the Mekong, deep untouched jungle full of wildlife (as long as its timber provision for China is reduced before it becomes decimated), rich history, there’ll be plenty to enjoy and write about.

So like Alastair Cook, I’ve made a hundred with relative ease. A hundred days travelling.

But like Jonathan Trott, it’s been slow to watch occasionally – especially the bus journeys.

A hundred days across 4 countries – one that I’ve only just graced – but each with their own different personalities, stories and adventures, faces and friends.

And with a heavy itinerary planned, there’ll be plenty more to talk about for the next 100. Its almost too much to digest whats actually happened – but I reckon that won’t happen till I stop altogether.

Of course that will only happen I survive Tubing in Laos’ notorious Vang Vieng.

And if you don’t know what that’s about, at the expense of a more nail-biting cliffhanger (and without scaring my mom too much)…

…I’ll keep you posted.

Just wish me luck.