To Vang Vieng - Breaking the Ice
Trip Start
Jan 09, 2009
1
8
44
Trip End
Feb 23, 2009
Vang Vieng, Lao Peoples Dem Rep
Friday, January 16, 2009
Loman and I were up at the crack of dawn, abandoned our meager but comfortable beds to busy ourselves packing up, and ejecting the cheap shabby room to nab one of the buses at the main bus station up the road which were falling out of the woodwork destined for Vang Vieng and Vientiane.
That's one positive thing about today's globalized world and the need to make money - never more precedented - where it is king, rules, and 'talks,' is the good transport system that exists nowadays in most countries. In Asia, trains, and particularly buses, exist to serve fee-paying passengers almost on impulse. Extricating myself from the driving pull of being a passenger in Mac's car wasn't that difficult
Toothlike, Certainly
. Being dependant on it was a poor substitute, particularly when there were comfortable double decker VIP buses, minibuses and single decker local buses from which to take your pick. Loman, who couldn't wait to exit Laos, and in fact hated it because of its gratuitous philistine money-orientated attitude towards Westerners (of which more will be said later) took the VIP bus to Vientiane to wait for a visa to Vietnam where he wanted to meet a friend in Hanoi. Later, I'd heard that Vietnam is even more philistine and money-oriented then here. In fact, I also learned that it's money-making antics verge on the shark-type. I was quite happy to stay in Laos and head for the next major stop - Vang Vieng - and was also quite happy to reach it by the local bus. I thought we might travel some of the way together: "No, I'll take the VIP. A toilet on board will be needed and will be quite convenient."
I wasn't too worried. I'm sure the bus would stop a few times for a toilet and lunch break.
It made a change joining the world of other Western travelers and backpackers as the bus slowly snaked its way along the main thoroughfare boring through the low-lying morning cloud which gradually burnt itself out, giving way to hazy sunshine.
It was nice, too, to see more of the world of the locals; villagers who got on and off, and local kids, but rendered unpleasant by the need to spit an unusual gob of coloured discharge into a small plastic bag provided by an assistant
Rickety, Certainly
. I thought that only happened in China, although it would rarely be done into a receptacle. Of course, it was pleasant viewing the scenery: lofty limestone cliffs and mountains revealing their appearance, as well as hillsides notably stripped due to logging.
Right, the bus did stop around mid-day, and where I dithered about having a baguette sandwich because they normally cost 10,000, but here, because it was a stopping off joint for wayfarers, they were charging 12,000, and the female preparer and server looked distinctly cold, unpleasant and unfriendly. So much for all Laotians being the friendliest of people in South-East Asia bandied about on some travel websites and in the odd destination feature story. Like everywhere else, there are the friendy here and the not so friendly here, but to talk about them abstractedly as 'all friendly,' is quite frankly, misleading.
The scenery was slowly maturing into the spectacular: rows of jagged tooth-like mountains which elevated themselves above purply-gray limestone backdrops. A perfect entrance to the small town. I could hardly complain, and the town turned out to be very easy to navigate around, get your bearings, and lap-up the sumptuous scenic surrounds. I began to enjoy myself, being alone and independent for once.
The bus ambled into the bus station where I quickly took my pack off a driving assistant who was emptying the luggage compartment before it hit the dusty ground and made off towards the town centre on the lookout for suitable budget accommodation among and overtaken by herds of disciplined nonchalant bicycling schoolkids. Another hoard - or was it another herd - of backpackers lingered among each other waiting to take a tuk tuk into town. Admittedly, though, it was quite a leg, but made up for the long sit in the bus
Silhouetted and Camouflaged
. The tuk tuks, predictably packed to pulsating, whizzed past me, totally unnecessary, because it wasn't that many furlongs, and plenty of accommodation was available for all. In fact, the first hotel, orange and conspicuous, stood out on the town's main road: "Sabaidee, welcome." the owner reacted.
"How much for a single room?" I anxiously asked.
"Forty-thousand Kip,"
"Could I see a room?"
She took a key and opened one.
"It is a spring bed."
It was a bit dingy and run-down. The ledge in between the bathroom wash basin and mirror was suspended by a screw at one side.
"Let me think about it," thinking there were other cheaper prices, cheaper options, and where the facilities were more conscientiously maintained.
Across the road, an owner of another guest house charged the same for the same quality. I walked past the orange three-storied hotel, unavoidably noticed by the woman:
"Stay here, goooid prriyce!" She softly encouraged, whirring her tongue when pronouncing the rs
One Solitary Fisherman
. As it turned out, I did check in. Other guest houses close-by were offering rooms for 50,000, so it seemed the better value.
Vang Vieng, for all the infamous 'involved' raves, is a fairly simple non-descript town: a disused neglected airstrip, a main road, roads leading off to a forked road above and back from the Namsong River.
I closely looked around, slowly getting a feel for the place and what it was all about, and what I wanted to do here for the next couple of days. I even changed about 25 US dollars, and got around three-thousand Laos Kip in return. The exchanger who also operated tour activities, very kindly let me have a thousand more because I didn't have enough change.
I found, though, that a smaller agency was cheaper, and that to go tubing inside a water cave and get a go at kayaking would cost 90,000 Kip. It also provided rock climbing, but that was a bit out of my depth, not since I'd had a scare on a rockface in the English Lake District eons ago at the age of sixteen.
"Come here at around nine-thirty and someone will pick you up, once all the other tourists who've booked for the day have been collected from the other guest houses." He tore off, stamped, and gave me the receipt.
"Ok, see you then."
"See you," nice doing business.
I was left to amble in the remainder of the day's heat, and get more of a feel for the town which, when all said and done, consisted of cafes, restaurants (those that you sit up putting your legs under a low table) and above all, bars, that seemed to provide nature trail clues, as to what it was all about here. One or two were placed across the river at the end of rickety planked bamboo bridges, while others owned riverside huts with hammocks swinging, tempting the onlooker, and imperiously territorial. If you slipped into one without buying a drink, a proprietor would come over and charge you 10,000 Laos Kip for the privilege. Is there no way of getting away from petty money swindling for this; money swindling for that; money for t'other? Not an inch. A pity one could not make oneself invisible and hoodwink the Laos blighters.
A few days ago, having told an an ex-fellow volunteer about my experiences here in one story I had posted up on one website, gave me no sympathy after having read it:
"Well, what do you expect? Those people have had enough of being at the brunt-end of white supremacy, racism and imperialism." So, it was time to get their own back, then. Hmm... I'd like to see him experience the same; see how he'd cope. Some of his worked-up sentiments may also have smacked of jealousy.
Despite the despoiling of Vang Vieng, it was nicely laid-back where reams of palm trees, the tooth-like serrated skylined ridge of the mountains were sunk in shadow in front of daily sunsets and the quiet river moved on, where solitary fishermen complimented the setting; also in shadow on the golden water.
The music started. A befitting, quiet beating sound, not too loud, not too noisy, befitting of Laos as a commercial enterprise. And better than the noise emanating from the 'Bucket Bar'
where I went in with a long haired Scot after he wanted me to fill him in on the situation in China - an impending destination for him.
After a Laos beer, watching amused at the expense of a female in a ridiculously shaped pixie type hat, I ambled boringly back to the guesthouse. Some were still out watching 'Friends' episodes, while others were busily getting their money's worth in an Internet bar. Other places along the main street were artificially decked out in strings of lights. They need something to tempt the onlooker. It was altogether like Dodge City, yet holding it all together were the eons-old quiet mountains beyond the river and tinder-dry crop fields, dominating, sadly ignored, where hardly anyone who visits here goes to. Their ever silent presence complimented a perfect paradise.
