Siem Reap, Cambodia

Hot Air Balloon, Siem Reap: Cambodia

Basking in the sunshine of Sihanoukville over the past week had consequences. Apart from an abundance of sunburn in places that were never meant to grace a UV ray, it meant an eight hour bus ride back through Phnom Penh all the way to Siem Reap. There’s only one main road in Cambodia that links the south with the north of the country so a fully charged ipod was a definite necessary.

The seats were far from comfy.  We stepped off the bus in a similar manner to how I would imagine John Wayne to walk on the moon, legs wide apart in a slow-motion swagger. Every sinew and muscle in our body felt brittle and sluggish. But thankfully, we’d arrived finally arrived in Siem Reap without any major issues.
Pretty paper lanterns lined the quaint streets and glowed in the inky darkness around us. Our stomachs rumbled in union.

“I could eat a water buffalo”, I said.

My Skinny Friend shot me a knowing glance, “I’m sure you have” he said. Point taken; on the road fussiness was hardly a doorway to survival and on many occasions we were too tired to ask what the ‘meat’ in our noodle soup actually equated to.

We strayed into the Amok Restaurant and managed to grab some seats that overlooked the quiet, cobbled streets. The architecture of Siem Reap holds a stunning similarity to Paris; crucially the only missing elements appeared to be the stunted notes of an accordion on the breeze and the lack of an Eiffel Tower. From second story balconies backpackers surveyed the pedestrianised civility below while supping on ice cool beverages.

Similar to Luang Prabang in Laos, motorised transport is prohibited in the inner city areas. This removes the added stress of dodging any bikers that happen to zigzag into your path. No mopeds also mean that it’s possible to sleep at night without being woken at three o’clock in the morning by some loon beeping frantically, the wind in his hair and a crazy look in his eye.

Street Outside The Pedestrian Zone Of The Old French Quarter

 Siem Reap is peppered with its fair share of candle lit restaurants and al fresco diners. It’s a very romantic town and well worth a visit if you’re thinking of an exotic escapade with your spouse. What’s more, if you happen to be looking to cash in on any unusual travelling souvenirs, then be sure to take a walk along Sivatha Boulevard until you reach the CAB Bank. Head down this road until you reach the ‘Angkor Night Market’.  Alternatively, if you’d prefer to drink spirits from a bucket and bop around like hot popcorn kernels in the microwave then head down to the aptly named bar, ‘Angkor What?’

A Boat In Flotin, A Nearby Village

‘Angkor What?’ is keen to stress that each customer should add something new to the bar, literally. The walls are adorned by a sea of backpackers’ well wishes and signatures so feel free to get your pen out and get decorating; admittedly the instinctual urge to sketch genitals everywhere can be too tempting.

However, if you consider yourself as a bit of a graffiti artist and can find yourself a clear patch of wall, then this is the place to show off your skills. It’s always nice to feel as though you’ve left a little part of yourself behind wherever you may travel. During our brief stay we could always rely on ‘Angkor What?’ to pump out the tunes late into the night.

The management at ‘Angkor What?’ have taken the time to install an extremely high quality sound system on the premises that’s rivalled only by the excellent array of drinks on offer behind the bar.  In short, this is a great place to meet other backpackers and share a drink or two. Regardless of whether you’ve explored the ancient ruins of Angkor Wat, its modern namesake, ‘Angkor What?’ is an ideal bar for anyone who’s partial to a bit of insomnia and is looking to hit the road early in the morning. That is, if you can pull yourself back from the lingering stink of a hangover.

Top Tip: Take a tethered helium balloon ride that can reach distances of up to 200 meters in the sky for an amazing aerial view of Angkor Wat, Phnom Bakheng, West Baray and other ruins amongst the surrounding jungle and rice paddies. Bring a camera or a pair of binoculars if you can. The big, yellow balloon is located on the road from the airport, about a kilometre from the front gates of Angkor Wat.

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Published on Where & Now

Written by Seb King

Vientiane, Laos

View From The Victory Monument, Ventiane

Nursing a hangover is never fun. After our 24/7 party lifestyle in Vang Vieng we we’re in desperate need of some ying to match our yang, and I’m not just talking about Alka Seltzer. I’m talking about spiritual healing.

The capital city of Laos, Vientiane, is littered with Buddhists temples and boasts some of the county’s most prestigious landmarks. Not least the golden precipice of Pha That Luang which features on the Lao Kip banknote or even the Victory Monument erected to honour those that died in the secret war. It was time to readjust to a certain degree of normality. No more swinging from fifty foot trees into murky rapids whilst inebriated. Enough was enough.
Our hotel, The Beau Rivage Mekong, cost $49 for a twin room. A little pricey for what we’d usually go for. The decor in the room had a funky French colonial feel to it was always kept clinically clean. The hotel overlooked the Mekong. On the other side of the mile long stretch of water the banks of Thailand were clearly visible. The location provided a picturesque backdrop for a much needed detox. Besides, my Skinny Friend and I were set on the premise that a brief life of luxury was the answer to our worldly stresses. After a tranquil nights rest it was time to venture into town.

The Victory Monument Erected To Honour Those That Died In The Secret War

You can expect to go anywhere in the capital via tuk tuk for $5. I passed four, one dollar notes to the sun baked tuk tuk driver. We jumped aboard.

“Victory Monument, pal.  $4 good for you, good for me, eh?” I said.

After five minutes of pointless haggling the driver nodded his head and took the four dollars. We were off. My Skinny Friend hugged his bottle of bottle of water tightly as the little tuk tuk zipped over the potholes in the road.

Before long we were flying round the smoothly surfaced duel carriageway that led towards the Laotian version of the Arch de Triumphe. The tuk tuk pulled over into a lay-by.

“There stands the American’s apology for the secret war”, said my Skinny Friend as we stepped off the carriage.

“Where’s that?” I replied.

“Patuxai, or Victory Monument was built in 1969. The Americans, as a gift, gave the Lao government enough concrete to rebuild an airport.” He’d obviously been deviously looking up the entry for Victory Monument in our battered copy of the Lonely Planet while I was unawares.

I was puzzled by his revelation. “So where’s the airport then?”

My Skinny Friend pointed upwards towards the monument in the centre of the duel carriage way. “You’re looking at it”, he said.  “I just guess they weren’t going to be told what to use the concrete on”.

A smile spread across my face. “Fair play”, I replied.

After ten years of apparently anonymous bombardment who could possibly blame Laos for doing their own thing with a preset from their apparently anonymous antagonist?

Patuxai is complemented by a rather large circular water feature. Unfortunately the army of fountains weren’t actually working at the time we arrived but we reckoned they’d look pretty impressive if they were functional.

A healthy amount of artefacts and Buddhist shrines, as well as a plethora of gift shops lurk inside the monument. But the real delight of Patuxai is the breathtaking view of Vientiane at the pinnacle of the concrete column. It’s worth every kip of the 15,000 entrance fee.

We headed back to the parade of tuk tuks and paid $2 for a lift to the golden national landmark that is Pha That Luang. Before we arrived at the gilded gates of the stupor we passed a rather distinctive statue.

“He looks a bit like the tin man from the wizard of Oz”, I said jokingly.

My Skinny Friend rolled his eyes in dismay. “That’s King Setthathirat you degenerate.  He built that golden temple in front of you back in the sixteenth century”, he said.

Again I was left reeling from my lack of general knowledge. King Setthanthirat was seated atop his throne with what I thought was a cowboy hat resting on his head whilst cradling a sword in his arms.  We moved on. Enough was enough.

In the Far Distance, Pha That Luang. The Statue In Front Of The Golden Monument Is King Setthanthirat Seated On His Throne

Inside the grounds of the golden stupor the air was heavily pregnant with the smell of incense. Buddhist shrines dominated every corner of the courtyard as we took time to soak in the serene ambiance. Monks were busy repainting fiery nagas whilst the local people prayed beneath gigantic Buddha’s. It was heart-warming to see this peaceful country’s national icon from a bonafide first hand experience.

“Do you fancy a massage?” asked My Skinny Friend.

In the wake of all this walking I most certainly was. “As long as you’re not involved in the process of oiling me up…why not?”

My Skinny Friend shrugged my comments off with a few caustic burst of laughter. “The guide says there’s a pretty good massage parlour nearby. Someplace called the Wot Sok Pa Luang. You fancy it?”

“Dam right”, I replied. We jumped in a nearby tuk tuk with the exciting prospect of being pampered for the entire day ahead of us.

Top Tip: If you’re feeling run down and achy then head down to Wot Sok Pa Luang. Directly opposite the Wot Sok Pa, in the nearby forest, is a traditional Loa massage parlour that’s complete with a natural steam room. This is by far the best masseuse in town so be sure to check it out.

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http://www.hbrm.com/

Published on Where & Now

Written by Seb King

Tubing, Vang Vieng, Laos

View From My Hotel: The Elephant Crossing

Karsts of limestone laced with a ghostly mist loomed overhead. The swollen Xong River before us was almost level with its banks. The river ran a murky beige hue, signifying strong under-water currents. My Skinny Friend and I watched as the empty tuk-tuk kicked up a trail of dust, leaving us atop a hill. But we weren’t  alone, we each had a man-sized inflatable rubber ring for company. We were about to experience what Vang Vieng has become globally synonymous with; tubing.

Before long we were lying on tyre inner-tubes with the azure Asian sky for company as we drifted downstream. The lush Lao countryside rushed past as we smashed into a half submerged bamboo platform. We had found the first bar. Safely ashore, we tossed our rubbery vessels on top of the mountain of others at the side of the river bank.

Dance music silenced the sound of gushing water and birdsong.  We bought cold beers at a straw hut that had been converted into a bar.  Shots of rice whiskey were free at every riverside saloon. My Friend and I did like free things.

Bamboo Platforms Amongst The Landscape Of Vang Vieng

Seated at one of the numerous benches scattered around beside the verge of the water, I made a crucial mistake. I talked to the British girl on our table, in-between polishing off shots, my shock at discovering landmines at the Plain of Jars. I told her that farmers could no longer farm vast quantities of land because the soil was riddled with rusty, live, death traps from the 1960’s. She didn’t seem interested.

“So the drinks are cheap here, huh?” she said, playing with her hair.

I nodded. This was the extent of our interaction.

On the flipside my Skinny Friend was busy talking to an art student about the life works of Frances Bacon. The bikini clad vixen appeared transfixed by his conversation. In contrast, the British girl opposite me had left the table. Evidently this was not a place for holistic preaching about the inequalities of the world. This was a place to forget it all.

With a switch of hemisphere came a switch of subtle social codes. I looked on at a brazen reveller somersaulting himself from a zip wire hooked up to a 50ft Durian tree. My Skinny Friend suggested I should have a go. I figured that a few more visits to a couple more downstream bars might serve to dull my fear of heights.

The Mystical Karsts Of Vang Vieng

For every five minutes floating downstream on a rubbery craft a good forty-five minutes was spent mingling with the diverse range of people at each water-side tavern.  From doctors and nurses, to fully fledged travellers, Vang Vieng is never short of interesting characters and hedonistic personas.

As a general rule, I noticed that the further downstream we ventured the more this crazy world of inflatable fun had to offer me, then again, this could also be the result of steady intoxication. 5-a-side football goals, table tennis tables, volleyball courts and a 50 ft plummet off the top of a durian tree via a swing into the turbid waters below all congealed together to form a hellish myriad of adrenaline fuelled post drink activities. It beat the fruit machine and pub quizzes hands down.

The free rice whiskey was hitting the spot. “It’s not that high really” slurred my Skinny Friend.

He was pointing up at the small wooden platform at the top of a colossal durian tree. The zip wire ran just above the platform and was secured across the ebullient flow of the Xong River by an equally mighty tree on the opposite bank.

“You seriously need your eyes checking”, I replied.

He flashed me a drunken look of anxiety. But we weren’t about to kop it. No chance. Besides we were now at the top of the skilfully crafted staircase that winded upwards, seemingly for eternity, towards the platform and its zip wire swing. Steps had been cut into the durian’s bulky trunk. No chickening out now. My Skinny friend was the first to go.

My stomach churned as I watched him hang in mid air off a triangular swing above a river that was flowing at a speed that even the sprinter Usain Bolt would have trouble keeping pace with. After taking great comfort that it wasn’t me swinging in arcs above a murky void, suddenly it was my go. The triangular swing slid along the metallic wire and I caught it with my right hand. I said a prayer in my head and then dropped away quicker than underwear on a hot night.

From top to bottom the journey downstream took an amazing eight hours. It was dusk by the time we eventually discovered there were no more bars. Thankfully, we were floating tranquilly down the Xong River with a bunch of medical students who knew where the final turn off was and apart from the booming drum and bass and hazy neon lights there was absolutely no sign of where we were supposed to go.

The Xong River At Its Most Peaceful

My Skinny Friend and I appreciated this. It was a refreshing shift away from the bureaucratic red tape that plagues our homeland and put everything into a wider perspective. Common sense exists for one reason; to separate the fools from the foolish. You won’t find any health and safety warnings out here on your coffee telling you to ‘Be careful as the contents are hot’ and it’s just as well really because unless you’ve ordered an iced coffee or suffer from inactive nerve endings you really should be able to figure out that coffee and tea are hot drinks, unless of course, you order one of the iced variety. Ultimately, in Laos if you miss the penultimate turning whilst lounging on your tube in Vang Vieng the next stop is literally Cambodia. Now that would be a story.

Downtown Vang Vieng

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http://www.theelephantcrossinghotel.com/

Published on Where & Now

Written by Seb King

Homestay with the Hmong Hilltribe, Laos

The Hmong Hilltribe Settlement On The Outskirts of Luang Prabang

I threw my drenched backpack over my shoulders and set off for the transport boat.

On the return leg we didn’t require the power of the off-board motor, the flow of the Nam Cam was a strong enough force to push us along. The driver skilfully negotiated our route across the river, avoiding eddies and rocks with the twist of a tiller.

“So where to now?”

“We hike to Hmong tribe for dinner,” replied Sommai, our guide.

The thought of dinner made my stomach rumble despite eating only a few hours ago. I was repulsed by the thought of rambling anywhere in my soggy trainers but came to conclusion that my naivety would have to yield some sacrifices.

Being careful not to lose our balance and tip the boat over we were somewhat relieved to be back on land. Luscious foliage enveloped us from every angle and 150 feet above us the canopy soaked up the bulk of the sun’s rays. Sommai swung his machete frantically. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Vines and creepers collapsed in a heap and settled on the ripe litter layer before us.

The Dense Laotian Rainforest

I felt the time was right to ask the one question that had bothered me the whole time I’d been traipsing round these muddy pathways surrounded by strange noises and alien plants.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. “So what would you say the most dangerous animal that lives out here is then Sommai?”

He ceased his foray on the creepers. “The King Cobra. They live here. Very deadly.”

There was pause. From every direction the cicadas wined like buzz saws. Leaves the size of craniums crashed to the ground and caused me to flinch.

My Skinny Friend broke the silence. “Ah heck…Nothing much to worry about then.”

Sommai grinned and continued to carve his way through the wall of green. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack .

We followed our machete wielding guide across countless streams and ditches for two hours. Every step was conscientious, fresh in the knowledge that nature really was wild and not limited to zoos and theme parks. By the time we’d reached the Hmong tribe, dusk was starting to fall.

Hmong Tribe Settlement

Apart from a few stray toddlers that scampered away into the bushes, the town was deserted.

“Where is everyone?” I asked Sommai.

“Women are working in rice fields. Men hunting for meat.”

Cracked dirt paths mazed past wicker huts. Satellite dishes pointed to the sky and were assembled on tripods outside the arid earth of every dwelling. We stopped at one of the larger abodes and Sommai shepherded us inside.

He pointed at a log that had been sculpted into a bench. “You wait here. We meet tribe leader and eat.” Sommai strode out the void in the wall and into the dusty streets.

We were alone. The roof of the hut had been thatched from banana leaves and the walls held together by interweaved bamboo reeds. The dirt on the floor had hardened to form an uneven surface and the table we sat before was wonkier than a rocking chair.

It was eerily quiet. A breeze ruffled through the gaps in the walls and sent a fine layer of dust spiralling about our feet. Outside the rasp of rubber against parched earth grew louder until Sommai approached the open void of the hut.

He took a seat next to me on the bench. “You miss me, no?” he said, smiling.

I nodded vaguely. “So when does everyone get back?”

“People start to come back now. Oven is on. Food on way. No worry!”

I couldn’t help but laugh a little. Perhaps Sommai thought that all Westerners cared about was their next meal? Either way, I couldn’t deny the fact that I was hungry so maybe he had a point.

Houses Of The Hmong Tribe Harness Materials From The Rainforest

Outside in the street a strange chafing noise grew louder until we identified its source. A woman, in soiled rags wore a bloodstained bandage round her left leg. In her hand she used a thick piece of bamboo to help her walk. She limped toward the hut, hauling her injured leg behind her with a look of dread on her face.

Sommai leapt from his position on the bench. He put her left arm over his shoulder and helped her into the hut. They spoke in foreign tongues and I found it impossible to distinguish whether they were arguing or being compassionate.

In a matter of seconds he was surrounded by male members of the Hmong tribe. Sommai handed the woman over to the men who forced her to walk the rest of the way to her bed at the rear of the hut on her own. It was painful to watch.

“Now we eat. Follow me,” said Sommai.

Both my Skinny Friend and I were gobsmacked. “What happened to her?” I stammered.

“She was bitten by snake, while working in rice field.”

“Is she going to be ok?”

Sommai shrugged his shoulders. We left for dinner, the harsh reality of life in the rainforest jarring against my western sensibilities.

The food consisted of noodles, meat and chilli. Everyone ate with brutal conviction. However, before the chopsticks we’d been given went anywhere near our mouths we were sure to clean them meticulously with antibacterial tissues.

A Variety Of Deadly Snakes Hide In The Waters Of The Paddy Fields

I enjoyed a few smokes after the meal but was shocked when small children no older than seven or eight fought over the stubbed-out butts I’d clumsily dropped on the floor. Lighters in hand, the children stuck the mangled stub of the cigarette between their lips, lit them and took heavy drags as they bowled past us pretending to be adults.

Re-discovering Our Sodden Clothes Outside Our Cabins

That night we slept in wicker cabins that had been decorated with flowers. In the morning we awoke to a bowl of sticky rice and crawled back into our sodden clothes from yesterday.

Sat at the table my Skinny Friend asked, “How do the people here have satellites outside their homes?”

Sommai rolled his rice into a little ball and popped it into his mouth. “The government give satellites and TV to Hmong tribe for free.” My Skinny Friend looked cynical, his forehead rippled with a frown.

I figured the government had to have some form of ulterior motive for giving a hilltribe televisions other than ensuring the populous could watch the Laotian version of Countdown or Loose Women.

After breakfast we said our goodbyes to the tribesmen and expressed our thanks for allowing us shelter in their town. Within five minutes we were back in the rainforest, hiking.

The clouds overhead looked ominous. Sommai led the way through steep meandering pathways. My legs felt as if they had morphed into concrete blocks overnight and I struggled to keep pace with the others, especially since my trainers were designed to tread urban streets; not the greasy trails of the rainforest.

“Where are we going Sommai?” asked my Skinny Friend.

“We walk a little longer ‘till we reach kayaks. You be home in time for lunch.”

“Sounds good.”

Angry Clouds Gather As We Descend

The sky grew dark. The clouds burst and unleashed their load. By the time we’d reached the muddy banks of the Nam Cam its waters had swollen level with its levees. Lightening crashed in big cobalt forks across the horizon and the flow of the river was fierce.

Sommai pointed at the two Kayaks fastened to the scrub that lined the river. He had to shout over the rush of the storm. “Now we go. Nice weather, eh? You take one together. I go on my own.”

I looked at my Skinny Friend for encouragement. We nodded in unison, tired, worn but fresh with adrenalin for whatever this excursion might decide to throw at us.

Sommai untied the kayaks.

“So how far do we have to kayak?” I asked.

“Oh, just 13 kilometres. No far.”

“Holy crap!” I muttered in the full Knowledge that my last attempt at canoeing, over ten years ago, ended in me being dubbed as ‘The Fish’. On that very same day, I’d also managed to get myself wedged underneath Southend’s pier and had to be rescued by lifeguards; these memories did very little to inspire any confidence of negotiating tropical rapids in flood season.

However, we had a plan and the theory behind it was simple. Being more ruggedly built than my fellow crew member I took the back space of the kayak and sought to provide the power while my Skinny Friend steered at the front. It wasn’t long before we were navigating rapids, rocks, and eddies. All around us rain dented the surface of the Nam Cam with huge blobs that made the whole river dimpled like a golf ball.

Sommai diminished to a dot in the distance. Hauling ourselves along with paddles became increasingly testing and for some reason the end of the kayak (including my backside) kept sinking a good inch or two into the warm clayey waters.

The Nam Cam River In Rainy Season

My Skinny Friend barked out the orders. “More Left…more left…left. Left”

Upon realisation that we were on course to hit a cluster of rocks and a few trees I paddled with fury.

My Skinny Friend became hysterical. “More Left Seb…are you deaf? LEFT!”

I wanted to demonstrate my tenacity at paddling so I went at it with added flair.  My biceps burnt like hell and my breath grew baited. I wasn’t about to let the team down. My Skinny Friend swivelled to face me.

The muscles in his face contorted and the whites of his eyes bulged against a backdrop of clay.

“THE OTHER LEFT YOU MORON!”

By the time I’d reverted to the opposite direction it was too late. The plastic chassis of the kayak reverberated madly as it smashed against the rocks. The force of the collision bounced us back into the flow of the river. Thank god plastic was flexible.

“You ok?”

“Ye-” There was no time to answer. The front of the kayak struck the foot of a mangrove tree head on. The underside of the kayak scraped against grit as the river tried its best to drag our kayak along its ebullient path regardless of whether we remained inside the thing or not.

My Skinny Friend jiggled around frenetically, arms gesticulating everywhere. “Bloody things! Get ‘em off! Get ‘em off! Get ‘em off!”

Crouched in the back of our plastic vessel I crooked my neck for a better view of the palaver.

“You’re rocking the kayak you nutter, what’s wrong with you?” I said.

My Skinny Friend turned to face me. Before I knew it, a cockroach the size of a fist smacked me in the space between my eyes. Its hard shell made a hollow ‘thump’ as it ricocheted off my forehead and tumbled into the murky water below.

“I’ve got a crotch full of cockroaches and ants and… the ants bite! Ah! Bloody things get ‘em off! Get ‘em off!” Considering the intimate location of his infestation I thought better of getting physically involved in brushing the bugs from his shorts. He’d just have to sort himself out and man-up.

However, I did managed to push the kayak off the gravel we’d run aground on in order to stop any more insects from hitching a ride downstream via my Skinny Friend’s crotch. It took an anxious period of floating backwards before it finally dawned on us the kayak was sinking.

Our Beds At The Hmong Tribe Were Primitive But Effective.

Alluvium flitted about our stomachs as we heard the sibilance of the rapids approach, our backs turned to the flow of the river. We tried to right ourselves but the flow of the Nam Cam was resilient and the sudden change of balance in fighting the flow tipped the kayak precariously to one side. Paddling was pointless.

“Right my ol’ cheese. It looks like we’re in the crap. Whatever you do keep both paddles on the kayak. We’re going to capsize.”

As an experienced sailor I took my Skinny Friend’s assertion in high regard.

“Have you got rid of those insects yet?” I asked.

“Yeah. I think I drowned the buggers.”

“Good for you.”

Water plummeted over our heads and forced us to buckle out of the kayak. I couldn’t see anything beneath my feet. My first concern was to avoid any rocks as I tumbled around in the Nam Cam as if I were a fragment of silt.

I broke the surface of the water. A little further downstream My Skinny Friend clung to the side of the kayak with one arm. I was unscathed.

This is crocodile territory whispered a voice from somewhere in the back of my mind. Crocodile territory; just think about that for minute while you flap around like a kipper in an oil slick.

“Give me a hand you pleb!” shouted my Skinny Friend.

I swam with the current. The Thames Estuary boasted better visibility. God knows what prowled about beneath my feet, or lingered a few yards away. Crocodile Territory , said a familiar voice. Just you wait…

Together we laboured to flick the convex of the kayak back to the underside so we could once again mount it.

“Tell me you’ve still got your paddle?” said my Skinny Friend breathlessly.

I nodded.

“Good.”

Our gear suddenly seemed pretty insignificant. I watched my flip flops and our water bottles zip past us, slaves to the beige rush of the Nam Cam. To join the Mekong and bob across the border into Vietnam would be their next destination and to launch an impromptu pursuit behind them would be suicidal without a passport.

It took nearly half an hour for us both to board the kayak without throwing the other off the side or completely capsizing the thing all together. To the neutral observer it must have made for hilarious viewing. Fortunately for us, the only witness to these events was the thriving wildlife. The cicadas continued their estranged choruses and the rain drove itself into every orifice that wasn’t, by way of a miracle, already wet.

The sight of Sommai waiting by the bank of the river stirred a dormant pool of energy inside me. We steered soberly, careful to paddle in unison to avoid knocking the boat off balance.

Once we’d gathered enough momentum it was only a matter of time before the nose of the vessel ground against the river’s grassy banks. We threw ourselves onto firm ground. Sommai yanked the body of the kayak until it sat beside his own.

“You kayak very slow. What is wrong with you?” enquired Sommai.

“It’s the boat! It’s sinking!” snapped my Skinny Friend.

“Sinking you say?  It does feel a bit heavy. Let me see.”

Sommai trudged up and down the grass that lined our red kayak.

He caressed the facial hair on his chin. “Hmm…Blue tack has disappeared from plug. Kayak been filling up with water.”

“Blue tack? You put blue tack in the plug of a-” I was cut short.

“Leave it mate.” My Skinny Friend started. “I don’t think health and safety rules are quite the same over here as they are back in the UK. Let’s get on with it, eh?”

I nodded. He had a point.

“Help me drain water,” said Sommai.

It took the power of all three of us to upturn the kayak in order to empty it. Taupe water spilled from the plug for over twenty minutes.

“It nearly full. You lucky,” Sommai pointed out.

“No shi-” Again, my Skinny Friend cut me off.

“Thanks a lot Sommai. What can we put in the plug in place of blue tack?” He said cooley.

“Duck tape?”

“Oh great,” I moaned.

Sommai produced a roll of silver duck tape and wrapped a sturdy wedge of the stuff over the void of the plug in question.

“That should hold,” he said triumphantly.

“I bloody well-”

My Skinny Friend threw the palm of his hand up in protest.

“Enough,” he mouthed.

“Thank you Sommai.”

And so we plopped back into our makeshift vessel and floated down the Nam Cam hoping that duck tape would prove to be more water-resistant than blue tack, singing lyrics from The Smiths at the top of our voices. It just seemed like the right thing to do.

If you get a chance to ride an elephant through the jungle be sure to wear trousers, as the flies that feed off the elephant will bite your legs.

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From the town of Luang Prabang it’s possible to book an adventure trek for two days and one night for $12 (US). This includes food, local accommodation and activities such kayaking, hiking, mountain biking and elephant riding. It’s hard to miss the place from which we booked our trek, it’s located in the town centre (near the monastery) and has a huge plastic elephant outside its doors. Failing that, look out for an eco tour operator called Tiger Trails.

Tiger Trails: http://www.laos-adventures.com/

Published on Where & Now

Written by Seb King

Journey Into The Laos Rainforest

We had to veer off the beaten track. I’d gazed long enough at the mysterious mountains above, wondering what life was like in that forbidden frame of the wilderness. It was time to find out for myself what secrets the rainforest harboured.

Biking was the first activity. On our way to visit a Buddhist temple at the pinnacle of a mountain the winding pathways were uneven, steep and unsurfaced. Vegetation grew heavier, mopeds vanished and the sound cicadas intensified. The thick thread of the bicycle’s wheels kicked up ruby red dust as they dashed past the luscious scenery. Finally, after all that eating and drinking I began to work up a healthy sweat.

It took an hour’s pedalling before we reached the golden temple. We stopped for a quick breather. The Lao highlands spread out before us, dense black clouds bubbled up to crown the peaks and the town of Luang Prabang nuzzled the bottom of a v-shaped valley.

“This, my old home”, our guide, Sommai informed us.

“You used to live here?” asked my Skinny Friend.

“I used to pray and live here, when I was a monk”, he replied.

There was a silence. Then the inevitable question slipped out my mouth.

“Why aren’t you a monk anymore?”

“I wanted to study. The monastery said that if I studied then I couldn’t be a monk anymore.”

Again, silence.

I cut in, “well that’s a little harsh.” I tried to giggle the understatement out of my system but no one else was laughing.

Sommai's Old Home, The Golden Temple

We pushed on and mounted our bicycles. The midday Asian sun beat down. The clay stained water of the Nam Cam river gushed past us as we zipped through the mountainside in a blur of green and brown.

The constant buzz of exercise flooded my brain with endorphins and I soon found myself well ahead of the group, so much so that I hadn’t a clue where they’d disappeared to or what turning they’d taken. I estimated that I’d been riding in solitude for at least 45 minutes, totally oblivious.

Curious as to the whereabouts of my Skinny Friend and our guide, I turned back the way I came in the vain hope that they were waiting for me around the next corner. All the slopes I thought great fun on the way down now looked menacing and the noontime heat drew all the energy out of my legs.

I thought I was finished. A boy lost in the jungle, I drew comparisons to Mowgli and prayed that I wouldn’t bump into The Jungle Book’s hypnotic python, Kaa. But thankfully after an hour’s painstaking cycle I met Sommai, only to discover him rather angry and concerned that I was dehydrated. He led me back to the others who were busy enjoying a meal beside a river that seemed on the verge of breaking its banks.

I was exhausted on the first outing of our two day adventure and felt as if I should’ve listened more carefully to Aesop’s Fable of The Tortoise and the Hare.

Sodden And Spent After Mountain Biking

At lunch I wilfully filled my needy stomach with Lao food.  By the time we set off again the angry clouds above us began to pour and raindrops the size of golf balls thrashed at my dry clothing. Within five minutes I was sodden.

“Where are we walking to?” I asked Sommai.

“We take boat to other side of river. We see waterfall. Have drinks. Sounds fun, no?”

“Sure does!” I said. However, my legs had turned to jelly and I suspected that although the mind was willing the body was weak.

The group soon sped ahead of me as my Converse trainers slipped about on the greasy mud. I traversed up steep gradients and clung to the dirt pathways and its surrounding plants and shrubs the best I could. I fell over on many occasions, cursing my lack of appropriate footwear.

A Vantage Point Above The Jungle

It took one and a half hours of desperate shenanigans before we reached the transport boat. The frenzied waters of the Nam Cam were almost level with their banks and the velocity of the river caused the little dragon boat to jerk around like a dog on a leash. But at least it’d stopped raining.

We stepped onto the rickety planks of the vessel one by one. As I boarded I felt its entire weight shift dangerously from side to side, then eventually settle once I’d claimed a seat. With everyone aboard, the motor spluttered to life and we made our way, against the flux, towards our next destination.

The current was fierce. It thrust itself against our forward motions at such a rate that it was hard to determine whether we were actually making progress.

“I wouldn’t like to breakdown here,” said my Skinny Friend.

“You can bet your cotton socks I wouldn’t like to break-” I was interrupted by a sudden blast. Black smoke poured from the chassis of the off-board motor.

A Bad Place To Start Floating Backwards

The pull of the Nam Cam grew stronger until eventually we became part of its flow. We drifted back the way we came for nearly ten minutes before the industrious efforts of the driver eventually paid off and he took control of the tiller once more. My Skinny Friend and I were quiet for the rest of journey, mutually grateful that we’d not bumped into any rapids or waterfalls on our little detour downstream.

The waterfall was just a short walk from where the boat had dropped us off. Thank God! I needed to relax, put my feet up and enjoy a tipple while bathing in the sun that had burned through the clouds.

Crystalline water cascaded from a variety of separate planes that met in a main pool; it reminded me of a coin that tumbles the through knuckles, always looking for the next plunge. It was so strikingly beautiful that I had to question if it were real.

I flung my sweaty body into the peaceful, turquoise water at first sight. It cooled my core temperature to a tolerable level and soon I was focussed on more important things. I ordered a rum and kicked back on one of the sun loungers near the base of the falls and shut my eyes.

The Upper Reaches Of The Hidden Waterfall

“Tut tut…wake up you slacker.” The words of my Skinny Friend yanked me from my reverie.

“What, right now?” I slurred, drunk with sleep.

“Yes right now! Everyone’s ready to go…”

“Oh boy.”

—

Find out why you should never kayak down a river in rainy season without examining the boat beforehand and why satellites practically outnumber people in the Hmong hilltribe in the next travel post.

From the town of Luang Prabang it’s possible to book an adventure trek for two days and one night for $12 (US). This includes food, local accommodation and activities such kayaking, hiking, mountain biking and elephant riding. It’s hard to miss the place from which we booked our trek, it’s located in the town centre (near the monastery) and has a huge plastic elephant outside its doors. Failing that, look out for an eco tour operator called Tiger Trails.

Tiger Trails: http://www.laos-adventures.com/

Written by Seb King

Luang Prabang, Laos

We had to walk into town to find somewhere to stay for the night. I didn’t fancy crashing in my hammock with all my gear; I’d accumulated too much stuff that I now considered valuable in the confines of my backpack.

Thankfully, we’d managed to find a room, my Skinny Friend and I agreed on one thing; it was likely to be the best sleep we’d had since the start of our South East Asia adventure. Not a single moped beeped its horn in a demented frenzy on the narrow streets before us as we lumbered towards a guesthouse. The sound of the mighty Mekong roared somewhere in the far off distance.

Luang Prabang’s town centre is a no go area for motorised transport in a bid to keep noise to a minimum for Buddhist monks living in the surrounding temples.

One Of The Many Gilded Temples In Luang Prabang.

Our guesthouse was called The Mongolao. The room cost twelve US dollars. It appeared clean and boasted a balcony that overlooked the muddy banks of the Mekong. But most importantly, it had a working shower.

On our first venture into the streets of Luang Prabang we parted with $5 for a traditional massage.   After an entire hour of pampering, my Skinny Friend and I were rejuvenated men.

“You’anson,” my Skinny Friend’s young masseuse said as we were just about to step outside the door.

I was clean shaven- and my friend sported a full length caveman beard and I suppose this could have helped to warp her perception of age.

“No, he’s not my son”, replied my friend, pointing directly at me with a stern face. No doubt about it, he did look a lot older than me and I could forgive her misconception.

“No. You’an son” reiterated the bronzed masseuse.

My friend’s facial features began to contort. He was obviously saddened by the fact that this girl was convinced I was the fruit of his loin. The very thought of it made me shudder. The masseuse tried again, determined to express herself.

“No…you han some”.

“Ah”

The penny dropped. Masseuse. Young, vaguely attractive girl. Unnecessary flattery. What was this girl after? Considering my friend was nearly twenty years married, a bout of group romance was strickly off our agenda. We quickly paid for the massage and left.

It was time to explore some of the gilded temples that seemed to pepper every street in town.  Drums sounded for lunchtime worship. We wore full length trousers and t-shirts as a mark of respect and took our shoes off at the entrance.

The Temple Drum That Summons The Monks To Prayer

We sat on the embroidered floor cross-legged and admired the intricate architecture and artwork while the small group of monks in front of us sung a mantra, each clothed in an orange sash hung loosely over their shoulders. After zipping rapidly from place to place for the past five or so weeks finally the chance to stop, chill out and reflect on our excursions hit home. I suppose that’s the beauty of Luang Prabang; it moves at your own pace. When you want to chill out, the temples or the masseuses are always on hand. On the flipside, if you want a blow out then there’s nothing to stop you popping in to one of the many bohemian bars or cafes.

After a decent bout of temple cleansing it was time for a drink. We popped in to the Lao Lao Garden and ordered a pint of the imaginatively titled “Beer Lao”. This straightened us out, because if I haven’t mentioned already, “Beer Lao” is undeniably the best lager I’ve ever tasted. Without sounding too much like a drinks commercial,  it’s not too fizzy or gassy and full of flavour.

We indulged in a few pints and soaked in the picturesque scenery before us. We lost track of time. Before we knew it the sun was setting. I wasn’t stressing though. We let anolther couple of hours slip until finally deciding to check out the night market.   No need to rush.

View Of Luang Prabang From Buddha's Footprint Temple

On the streets local traders set out their stalls. Paper lanterns, jewellery, antiques, artwork, silk, and clothes are all available for a decent price here, as long as you’re prepared to haggle. My friend bought his wife a silver water buffalo for 850,000 kip (about $10). He had a thing for water buffalo.   I ended up procuring a hemp t-shirt for 8,500 kip (about $1) to relive my tired western clothes of duty and numerous other gifts for people back home in England.

The shopping binge was over. Our stomachs rumbled. We stopped at the L’elephant restaurant. This place is immersed in a variety of tropical plants with green mountains arching across the horizon as a suitable backdrop. The food was every bit as desirable as the view. Exhausted, intoxicated and in high spirits we lumbered back to the guesthouse. In the morning my Skinny Friend’s back had been ravaged by bed bugs, but luckily for me they didn’t seem to like my blood.   We made the executive decision to change hotels. ..

After the bed bug episode we figured it’d be best if we moved upmarket in the accommodation ladder.  For $30 each we stayed at a new hotel called the ‘Sala Prabang’: just a short walk along from our original bedsit. It was flawlessly clean and there was a large walk-in power shower and a hairdryer. I used this to dry the pages of my travel journal that was sodden from our previous adventures. Yes, this was luxury. But I felt we’d earn’t it. Besides, where better for a spot of reckless abandonment than this tranquil, tropical haven?  I certainly couldn’t think of one at this particular moment in time.

The Beautiful Kuangsi Waterfall.

http://www.elephant-restau.com

http://www.sala-prabang-hotel.com/

Written by Seb King

A Backpackers Hostel In Vinh, Vietnam

*Extract from June 19th 2008

The incessant cries of hopeful touting fill the air on urine drenched streets.

After missing our 6am bus to the Laos boarder, we’re a defeated team, in a desolate place. A needy place.

Judging by the reactions of the locals they don’t see many Westerners around here. And even less money.

In Hanoi, northern Vietnam, the pools of human waste were limited to the gutter streams that lined busy roads, here in Vinh (south Vietnam) it’s hard to distinguish the faeces from the asphalt.

Yet the people are still happy. Fuck knows how.

They smile, laugh, say ‘hullo’ as I tiredly waddle down the unsurfaced pavements. And in a roundabout way, it cheers me up. At least people trying to sell, to make a living. All for a few dollars.

We have to disinfect the chopsticks we eat with as a precaution for hypatius related infections. The dirt is visible on the tools used to feed ourselves. It repulses me, yet it seems entirely normal in this place. We are aliens. Wrapped in our own little Western-cotton-wool-bubble and now, in Vinh, it has burst. For all to see and profit from.

The Backpacker hostel. It’s a prison. The windows are steel bars. Flies buzz through the gaps and feast on our precious, money-honeyed blood. The toilet leaks. Nothing is clean.

Nothing works as I perceive it to.

Even the praying mantis that used to live under my bed has kopped it back to its maker.

The pinprick of mosquitoes as they devour my skin, too tired to bat them away. I wait for the velvet cloak of slumber.

—