TRAVEL: SOUTHEAST ASIA 16 - NONG KHAI

29/01/03: Catch bus to Vientiane and pick up passports. Cross the border into Nong Khai and book into Mut Mee Guesthouse; to a bar with L and meet O.

30/01/03: Breakfast and then explore town with L. Buy T-shirt from market for 40 Baht. Drink at Mut Mee with usual crowd, plus ‘Poppy’ and some Dutch girl; on to a bar.

31/01/03: Ride bikes to Sala Kaew Ku with Welsh L & K and marvel at the genius of Luang Pu Bunleva Suirat. Tea at Mut Mee, and then catch the overnight train back to Bangkok.

Nong Khai: town of the wild frontier. Actually it’s rather quiet, but compared to Vientiane, staring back at us from the opposing banks of the Mekong, it’s a riot. Maybe it’s just the stories I've heard, but there’s a sense of violence about the place, a feeling that the simplest faux pas will not be forgiven easily. Or maybe it’s just the cold showers, or the belligerent mosquitoes. Even the Beer Chang seems uptight compared to the Beer Lao I’ve been drinking of late.

But do not despair, for Nong Khai possesses a strange jewel that I’ll struggle to find the likes of ever again. Sala Kaew Ku is a bizarre collection of concrete follies on a massive scale. Hindu deities collude with every different form of Buddha you can think of. There are serpents, giant frogs, skeletons and strange symbols. In the centre, a mausoleum with graphic depictions of the demise of Luang Pu Bunleua Surirat, the late, crazed genius responsible for this place. You can make out his body beneath a glass dome; it’s been there since he died in 1996.

Despite my hangover, part of me thought we should have caught an earlier bus. The journey to Vientiane itself was not a problem – the local transport had already proved itself to be fairly reliable – but we had to collect our passports and then make a dash for the last permitted border crossing of the day. It wouldn’t be a complete disaster if we missed this because we knew our way around Vientiane and where to find accommodation, but we’d made arrangements to stay at the same place as L, Welsh L & K, a guesthouse they rated very highly, which puts on yoga classes. On top of all that, I hoped we might be able to make a final visit to the Scandinavian Bakery.

But time was not my primary concern. I had never felt entirely comfortable about surrendering our passports for transportation back to Vientiane. It wasn’t so much foul play that concerned me, so much the possibility of human or administrative error. When we turned up at what appeared to be a derelict passport office it looked as if my worst fears might be realised. The doors were open but there was nobody home and little sign of activity. Perhaps we had the wrong building? We double checked the address and the surrounding street signage. No, this was definitely the right building. 20 minutes’ worth of panic later, a member of staff walked in off the street to inform us that the passport office had been closed for lunch – no matter about the doors being left unlocked. Our passports secured, we met up with L, had lunch at the Scandinavian Bakery and then hailed a taxi to take us to the border, which seemed a lot farther outside of town than I remembered.

First impressions of Mut Mee Guesthouse are good. It overlooks the Mekong, faces Vientiane, the rooms have a certain charm, and the riverside garden is a delight. And yet I can let go of the feeling that I’d rather be back in Laos.

Before we parted company in Luang Prabang, the congenial M (Mk.2) had said something that struck a chord: that on any given travel it took him at least a month to get into his groove. Until such time had passed he’d find the whole thing quite stressful, but something he had to put up with as a matter of course. It had taken at least that long for me, and, without even realising it, I’d finally found my groove in Laos. But I wasn’t in Laos anymore (which I didn’t feel was haunted, despite the many bombs the USA dumped there during the course of the Vietnam War) and I could feel the attendant stress I by now associated with Thailand slowly edging its way in.

When L asks anyone if they would like to accompany her to meet some friends for a drink in town I jump at the chance. I am the only person that does: my partner is tired, and Welsh L & K fancy a break too. The bar in question overlooks the river, so the quickest way there is to follow the waterfront; only a gloomy, empty market stands in our way. A maze of corrugated iron, it isn’t the route I would have taken, but I assume L knows what she’s doing. All is well until we come across a dog guarding its territory. Formed like a ripped Doberman Pincher, it just sits there waiting for us to make our move. L reckons the best approach is to simply walk straight passed it. I feebly suggest that we retrace our steps and go back around the houses, but L assures me that this would add an extra 15 minutes to our journey. My pride ensures I acquiesce.

To my relief the dog allows us to pass. I cannot say whether or not it does so with much grace, because I avoid eye contact in an effort to appear as nonchalant and unthreatening as possible. The bar, when we arrive there, isn’t anything special but is pleasant enough. We are there to meet an English girl and a Dutch girl who L met while teaching in Nong Khai, some of her former Thai students, and O, and American chap who somehow knows this lot. I feel like I’m intruding on a reunion, but I like the students and I like O, who seems keen on having a bit of a drink. I don’t get particularly drunk but the walk home back through the empty market is a breeze.

We decide to spend a day in Nong Khai before catching a night train the following evening, effectively allowing us two days to explore the place. On the Thursday my partner and I amble into town. I’m after a pair of shades to replace the ones I damaged at that bus station in Prachuap Khiri Khan, which have since completely fallen apart. I don’t find any to suit, but I do find a nice T-shirt at the local outdoor market – adorned with an image from the Ramayana – for the bargain price of 40 baht.

           I'm a starting to like Nong Khai. Mut Mee’s grounds in particular are proving the perfect environment in which to relax. Come the evening and everybody seems to be hanging out: there’s myself, my partner, Welsh L & K, L, O, and those girls we met last night in that average bar. On top of all that, people seem to be in the mood for drinking. I still feel like I’m intruding on this group a little, but some of the anecdotes we’re treated to are quite startling.

It turns out that one of their number is presently recuperating in a nearby hospital after receiving a severe beating from the local 'mafia'. She (she!) became involved with a local lad, but that wasn’t the issue. In a bar where the foreign teachers from the nearby English school readily mix with the locals, this English girl intervened when some Thai guy got a bit rough with his girlfriend, who may or may not have been one of the English girl’s students. In Thai society you're expected to mind your own business, but some of the foreign teachers couldn’t help but get involved. This caused a a bit of a scene and forced the local lad who’d been seeing the English girl to step in, which in turn caused a bigger scene. Ostensibly the matter was resolved, but hell hath no fury like a Thai humiliated. Some days later, the English girl and her local boyfriend were intercepted while out driving their scooter. She was beaten up. So was the young lad, and he also had an eye gouged out for good measure. This was all second-hand news, and I can’t verify any of it, but apparently there is some sort of local Lao/Thai organised crime thing going on, and these people don't mess about.

L also has an anecdote concerning the in-house masseur (who, incidentally, bears an uncanny resemblance to a young John Malkovich). Using the pretence of massage, she asserts he persuaded her to take off all her clothes before proceeding to manipulate her in a weird way. She’s at pains to point out that this wasn’t as blatantly indecent as it sounds, but she felt violated nonetheless. Again, I cannot verify any of this. Indeed, if it wasn’t for the spectre of John Malkovich’s face hanging about the scene, I’d have filed this tale alongside the one about M (Mk.2) being a bit 'creepy'.

Welsh L & K are taking me and my partner to the local Buddha Park. The Buddha Park, or Sala Kaew Ku as it is known locally, was the brainchild of an eccentric cove named Luang Pu Bunleua Surirat. The story goes that sometime during the 1970s Luang Pu was wandering the countryside when he suddenly stumbled into a ditch, only to find a preying monk at the bottom of it. This monk persuaded Laung Pu that it was his destiny to create statues of Hindu and Buddhist deities. Completely untrained in the mixing of concrete, let alone the infra-structuring of these giant sentinels, Luang Pu proved himself to be very adept at this (I do not know whether or not the monk had been material specific) and built a whole park of these things, first in Laos and then, to escape the communist regime, in Nong Khai across the border.

And they really are a joy, if a little bit bonkers. The craftsmanship is quite astonishing considering the self-taught circumstances. Although Luang Pu died in 1996, his minions continue building to this day, which allows a glimpse into the process involved. They start off with a crude construction of bricks built up into the rough size and shape of whatever form they’re assembling – it might be a 40ft seven-headed serpent, a Buddha the size of a two storey house, a squat toad. Then twisted metal is used to form the more intricate parts, and on top of this framework the concrete is sculpted.

There’s an exodus headed for the capital. As well as Welsh L & K and our American friend, L, we also have O and one of the faceless extras from Mut Mee. This turns out to be of real benefit because there’s been a mix-up with the train tickets and we don’t have the beds we thought we’d booked; instead we’ve reclining leather chairs. There are far more rudimentary versions somewhere on this train, so it could be worse. Only L seems particularly bothered, citing a hitherto unspoken about back condition as the cause of her consternation. She hobbles off in search of an empty bed while the rest of us play cards and drink beer well into the night, O now proving a most welcome addition to the team. I think I’m probably the last to fall asleep, the soporific nature of booze finally getting the better of me just around midnight.

TRAVEL: SOUTHEAST ASIA 15 - LUANG PRABANG

21/01/03: Partner still ill. Miss early bus to Vang Vieng, get later bus to Vang Vieng, which takes seven hours. Book into French place. 'Yellow' curry with L, M and the mysterious R; go to Hive Bar.

And so to Luang Prabang, by way of Route 13. At least that's the plan. On her way to catch the coach, L stops by to see if we want to go together, but my partner isn't sure she can manage it. If we notice an improvement in her constitution then we might try the public bus, otherwise we’ll follow on tomorrow. L understands, provides us with an approximate address and bids us farewell.

My partner isn’t interested in eating so I have breakfast alone. I’m not sure how I feel about spending another night in Vang Vieng but have resigned myself to it. So when I return to our hotel to find my partner willing to make the push for Luang Prabang after all, I’m ambivalent. Will her stomach hold, and will be all right on our own? Actually, the people of Laos have generally been so casual – so unthreatening in every way – that, lest I speak to soon, I don’t really have any cause for concern.

The bus, when it arrives, appears to be full, having come all the way from Vientiane. Not that this is considered a problem: there are brightly coloured plastic stools put aside for such an eventuality, on which my partner, myself and a stray Italian will be obliged to perch upon for the entire journey.

It’s a back-breaking seven hours that follow. This is public bus: cheaper, slower, over-crowded and devoid of air-conditioning. Fortunately, the absence of any controlled ventilation is of no concern because almost all the windows have been opened, possibly on account of the abundance of vapours. Apart from the many cages containing fowl stowed away under seats, there is a very small child on board whose cries convey genuine illness, and two middle-aged gentlemen smoking what I can only assume is opium through what appears to be a wooden bong.

The first couple of hours of our journey are a joy, tracing the valley floor through spectacularly lush scenery. Then the terrain starts to shift upwards and Route 13 adopts a more serpentine strategy. A different sort of view presents itself: a haze-tinged, vertiginous type of spectacle. When we make the occasional stop, our Laotian friends disperse in all directions to relieve themselves within the privacy of the surrounding woodland. Nobody’s too proud, woman the same as men, although I think better of it in case it takes me too long and the bus pulls away, leaving me at the mercy of the local Hmong militia. These insurgents are thin on the ground, most Laotian Hmong having either assimilated or emigrated, and aren’t supposed to be particularly active anyway. The very visible military presence along Route 13 suggests otherwise, although they do look pretty relaxed, hanging out in roadside cafes, smoking cigarettes.

By the time we reach Luang Prabang, dusk has fallen. Luang Prabang reveals itself to be larger and more vigorous than I expected, although the incurious placidity of the Laotian people continues to put me at ease. The Southern Bus Terminal (with public lavatories!) lies on the city’s perimeter, so it’s still another half hour before we reach Sisavangvong Road – by way of a tuk-tuk shared with the Italian guy – where L assured us she could be found.

It’s about 21:00 by now, and we run into L within minutes of our arrival. It is too late to book ourselves a room in the same guesthouse, but she kindly walks with us until we find somewhere with a berth to spare, albeit slightly over budget and riddled with lace and teak, where French is the lingua franca. It’s just for one night – L will reserve us a room at her gaff for tomorrow. Accommodation taken care of, we accompany L to meet M (Mk.2) – another member of L’s network of travelling chums – to have something to eat.

I’m starting to develop a kind of traveller’s guilty conscience. The buying of coffee and beer aplenty can be justified, because these things are reliably cheap, and I think we’ve certainly slummed it with regard to accommodation and transport. Where food has been concerned I’ve been more extravagant. It’s not like I haven’t taken to the local cuisine, but too often I’ve ordered meat and potatoes when really I should have been ordering rice and vegetables. So I decide to make more of an effort and try and avoid altogether the sort of establishments where the local cuisine plays second fiddle to more western-style cooking. Tonight I’ll be having the yellow curry, which will not disappoint.

I instantly take to M (Mk.2). He’s from Greenwich in London, a handsome lad and another one of those well-travelled types, although he’s only been on his current tour of duty for a couple of weeks. This is M (Mk.2)’s second night in Luang Prabang and he’s sharing a room with L, purely to save money – a common practice among hardened travellers. He knows of a place called the Hive Bar just the other side of Mount Phou Si. It sounds like a bit of a hike but Mount Phou Si is nothing more than a hillock (albeit an impressive one) with a monastery clambering all over it. Dinner finished, it takes about 15 minutes to circumnavigate this holy knoll through Luang Prabang’s suddenly deserted streets.

The Hive Bar itself is rudimentary but has been designed with a degree of imagination. In the low light, the exposed brickwork, minimal wooden furniture and red-painted walls are quite striking. It’s not too dissimilar to that Belgium-run place in Trang, but with more customers. I’m surprised by the amount of people drinking here, and I even recognise a few from Vang Vieng. We don’t stay out for long because it has been an arduous day, but Luang Prabang feels like a good place to be.

22/01/03: Move to Phoun San Guesthouse. Walk up Mount Phou Si; Kwang Si Waterfall with partner, L and M (Mk.2), food with same plus R. Maylek Pub plus Welsh L & K, who have just arrived from Vang Vieng. Hive Bar with L & M (Mk.2).

23/01/03: Scandinavian Bakery (disappointing); boat up the Mekong to Tham Ting with L & M (Mk.2), and Welsh L & K. Stop off at a whiskey distillery on the way back. Organic Bakery for coffee. Check emails, Nazim for curry, Hive Bar with all, plus ‘Yam & Sasha’.

What majesty the Mekong. A murky brown deluge of water breaching China, Laos, Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam, not compromising in mass along the way. Almost as wide in Luang Prabang, some 300 clicks upstream from Vientiane, the river defines the landscape. Seen from Mount Phuo Si, the surrounding hills channel wisps of smoke from up high, a feature of the slash and burn agricultural methods practised by the surrounding tribes. Not as nonchalant in manner as Vang Vieng, and maybe five times the size, Luang Prabang still possesses the same stoicism that makes Laos the endearing country that it is.

Phou San Guesthouse will do. It’s an older build, a bit like the guesthouse we stayed in back at Vientiane, but without the scarier elements. Crucially, it opens out onto Sisavangvong Road where the bulk of the cafes and restaurants are; the close proximity of Mount Phou Si begs its ascent. After breakfast, I walk up it to take in the view and have a look at the two working Buddhist temples housed there – Wat Tham Phou Si and Wat Chom Si.

Becoming a monk in Southeast Asia is a bit like entering into National Service: it is expected that all boys ordain as a monk for at least a couple of months, to earn merit for their family and to acquire a rudimentary knowledge of Buddhist teachings. Although not compulsory, to avoid doing so would be frowned upon. Besides, for those too poor to attend school – or from families too poor to spare them – becoming a monk allows them a basic education they might otherwise miss.

(Theravada) Buddhism isn’t as dogmatic as some religions, and so I don’t get the feeling these young men see doing their time as any sort of chore. They seem quite a jolly bunch, keen to interact with foreigners, hang out and smoke cigarettes. I’d be quite content to spend the rest of the day getting to know these surroundings, walking up more hills, looking at more Wats and drinking copious amounts of Laotian coffee. But L has other ideas and we’re very much part of them. Given that we sort of owe her one for arranging our accommodation, we’ll be accompanying her and M (Mk.2) to Kwang Si Waterfall.

I’m jealous of M (Mk.2), for he is hiring a scooter to drive himself to the falls while the rest of us sit in the back of a songthaew. I only have rudimentary travel insurance, and I’ve never taken charge of a motorised velocipede in my life. What’s more, one hears tales of unscrupulous companies who charge customers for extant damages, holding their passport to ransom, or whatever it is they’ve been obliged to leave as security. Even M (Mk.2) seems slightly hesitant, providently inspecting his bike for any potential blemishes that might later be ascribed to him. And what if you take a wrong turn and get lost, or run out of petrol?

The journey takes almost three quarters of an hour, which is longer than I anticipated. The falls are only 18 miles out of town but the condition of the roads slows us down considerably. The corollary of this is the bucolic landscape we pass through: paddy fields, woodland and the open road. Even the car-park connives to perpetuate some sort of pastoral idyll, with perfectly formed trees protecting us from the midday sun. The falls themselves operate on a number of physical levels, forming a number of shallow travertine pools at the top of an almost sheer hill, before cascading 50 metres and collecting in turquoise blue terraces at its base. I break loose at one point and climb up the side of the falls, ending up in a field that resembles any other field. Then I descend in search of coffee, only to find that they don’t offer the Laotian kind here, only instant.

As is often the way, the journey back seems much quicker than the journey out. We’d left for the falls late in the morning, so it’s still quite early considering how busy we’ve been. Despite this – or maybe because of this – people are quite willing to take dinner sooner rather than later, allowing for an hour to freshen up beforehand. Moreover,  L has arranged to meet up with R (I don’t know where she picked this one up, but he is a middle-aged Englishman) and after that she’s supposed to be meeting Welsh L & K at some place called the Maylek Pub. I have no idea when or how this was organised but can only deduce that emails were involved.

The night turns out to be a bit of a damp squib: R is running late but eventually shows up at the Maylek Pub, accompanied by a rather young and bashful Laotian “man”, and Welsh L & K are tired after their six hour journey from Vang Vieng. After a few drinks, it’s left to me and my partner and L and M (Mk.2) to wind up the evening back at the Hive Bar.

You can imagine my delight on discovering another branch of the Scandinavian Bakery, and so you can probably also imagine my disappointment when it turns out this particular wing doesn’t adhere to the same formula. They don’t use those little forms here, meaning there are fewer options, and I’m sure the juice is concentrated rather than fresh. But it makes do as a rendezvous, for L has roped us into another one of her excursions, although this time Welsh L & K have been added into the mix. Pak Ou Caves is our destination, about two hours by boat from Luang Prabang, depending on the currents, and with six people to spread the cost it’s a steal.

The craft that will take us there is long and narrow – a bit like a gondola, but with a roof. As with the fishing boats we observed in Thailand, its propellers are fixed to the end of a long piece of scaffold, allowing the vessel to navigate shallower waters. This is just as well because it is dry season and the Mekong is not at its deepest, giving rise to bizarre currents ebbing this way and that. After travelling upstream for about an hour, it doesn’t feel like we’ve made much progress at all. The terrain is a little bit of a let-down too, until we approach the Pak Ou Caves themselves. Beyond, the river dissolves into a tantalisingly steep gorge, but we’ve come as far as we’re allowed on this trip.

Pak Ou Caves is actually a pairing of two: Tham Ting (the lower cave) and Tham Theung (the upper cave), situated directly opposite where the Ou River confluxes with the Mekong (‘pak’ meaning ‘mouth’). Tham Ting itself is a sort of hole carved – or eroded – into the side of the overhanging rock face that borders a large portion of the Mekong’s west bank. In this orifice resides thousands of effigies of Buddha, of varying dimensions and in various poses, put there who knows when by God knows who. Tham Theung offers more of the same but with a better view.

On the way back we’re cajoled into stopping off at a whiskey still, responsible for the stench that we cut through on our way upriver, wherein we’re given a free taste of some of the pokey blends distilled there. In the unlikely event that you find this stuff potable, you can buy a bottle. Then swiftly back to Luang Prabang with the flow of Mekong firmly on our side.

Later that evening a large group of us (the same who I had spent the day with, plus Yam and Samya – a double act who were slowly creeping up the bill) sampled the curry at Nazim. I opted for the Tikka Massala, which proved to be a good choice. (I’d normally go for something a bit more aggressive but they don’t hold back on the spices in Southeast Asia.) It tasted so good that on any given night during our stay in Luang Prabang, at least one member of our growing entourage could be found dining there. After dinner, we all bowled down to the Hive bar. There were to be no heightened levels of intoxication. It had been too civilised a day for that, and everyone was stuffed full of curry.

24/01/03: Power cut. Random café with L. Xieng Thang with L, tea at Nazim with M (Mk.2), Hive Bar with all.

25/01/03: Check email. Scandinavian Bakery on my own, walk around town on my own, Nazim with L, M (Mk.2), Welsh L & K, Yam & Sasha. Party at Yam & Sasha’s; Hive Bar.

26/01/03: Scandinavian Bakery on my own again, and back later with partner. See photo exhibit by Henri Thenard. Coffee/stroll/beer with partner and Welsh L & K, bookshop and Hive Bar with partner, a new bar for tea, then drinks back in Welsh L & K’s room.

I had to put a stop to L’s tour operations. I enjoyed our trips, and I appreciated her efforts, but Luang Prabang had so much to offer of its own that I wanted to spend at least a couple of lazy days there. I managed three.

          The next day my partner and I walked to Wat Xieng Thang – replete with smoking monks – possibly the most impressive temple in Luang Prabang, if not radically different from all the others. For high tea, I hooked up with M (Mk.2) for a second visit to Nazim, before meeting up with the rest at – wait for it – the Hive Bar.

I shunned the invitation to join ‘the gang’ for a return visit to Kwang XI Waterfall and to swim in the lagoon there, and seized the opportunity to spend some time alone. I took breakfast at the Scandinavian bakery – for despite it not living up to the Vientiane branch’s precedent, it was still one of the better cafes in town – wrote some postcards, and then wandered aimlessly, taking photos of this and that, trying hard to appreciate how far flung a place I’d found myself in. I made good progress before the midday sun beat me back. The nights may be cooler than in Thailand, and the humidity lacking, but at two in the afternoon it can still get very hot in northern Laos.

Yet Luang Prabang was far from being off the beaten track. It had hotels and European styled cafes, and gift shops selling local art at exaggerated prices. It had ex-pats and it had an airport. The rich and famous have been known to holiday there, and what I was getting out of it wasn’t really very different: I may not have had a pool to lounge beside, or petals spread across my freshly made bed – or even a freshly made bed – but I was looking at the same things, breathing the same pure air and eating the same quality food – to my uninformed palate, at least. Further, I had the protection and the good company of the biggest entourage since my time spent on Koh Phangan.

On their return, Kwang XI Waterfall has everyone gushing – they’d even been allowed to stroke some dopey tiger. (I allude here to rumours that such beasts are more often than not tranquilised for your pleasure. In this case the tiger was a young orphan, possibly mollified by trauma, and my colleagues had been informed that nothing could have been further from the truth.) The day’s success begets another visit to Nazim and a low-key party at Yam and Sasha’s, who, like L and M (Mk.2), are cohabiting for financial reasons.

But there is agitation among the ranks. L is quietly casting specious aspersions as to M (Mk.2)’s character, making out that he’s been giving her something of the creeps. In turn, I’m not sure how thrilled Welsh L & K are about L’s company. The signs are there that Welsh L & K could be the most convivial people we’ve met yet – K and and my partner are really hitting it off – but I feel our association with L might be getting in the way of things. Yet, when the party finishes prematurely, L and M (Mk.2) accompany me and my partner to the Hive Bar with no apparent ill feeling between them. Is L two-faced or merely fickle?

Anywhere else and I’d be thinking of moving on. I think L already is, but Welsh L & K are a day behind our schedule. What’s more, they feel that they rushed Vang Vieng a bit – not realising fully what it had to offer but hearing all about it since – and fancy stopping off there again on their way back to Vientiane. This makes good sense if only to break up the journey, which would otherwise take about 10 hours. Welsh L & K have not made definite plans from there but I gather that whatever they decide to do will involve first returning to Bangkok.

          My partner and I had originally intended to head east from here into Vietnam, possibly stopping off at The Plain of Jars along the way. This strategy had run into problems when we’d tried to obtain the requisite visas, on account of the Chinese New Year, its hold as national holiday in Vietnam and the subsequent closure of its embassies. We’d been led to believe that purchasing a visa at the border was a viable option, but we'd also heard murky stories relating to Vietnamese Customs, of people becoming stuck there or having to turn back. Whatever the truth behind these tidings, I have now become very wary of the idea of going to Vietnam – or at least towards the journey into its interior – but Louise is still keen, as it transpires is L.

Fortunately for me, an imposing poster in the local internet café has piqued my partner’s interest. It is advertising some place in Cambodia called Angkor Wat, 'where you interface with God,' which L has been to and cannot recommend highly enough. I say fortunately, but I know nothing of Cambodia other than the starving children there that my grandmother demanded I consider whenever I failed to finish whatever food she’d prepared for my younger self. It is, in truth, a poorer country than Vietnam, but if we decide to go there – and it looks like we might – then geography dictates that we must first return to Thailand.

I would suggest we stay in Laos, cut the rest of Southeast Asia loose, go see those jars and then maybe cross back over the Thai border to the west and move onto Chiang Mai, which everybody raves about. There is a problem, though: our Laotian visas expire tomorrow. There are a number of ways to approach this situation. We can head for the border now – be it the border with Thailand to the west, or the opposite eastern division with Vietnam – take our chances and pay the fine for overstaying our visa if we are unable to make it in time. Or we can submit our current visas for extension in one of the local travel agents and pick up our amended passport in Vientiane within five days, where someone will have driven it for the extension to be granted. In Luang Prabang we’re stuck in the heart of Laos, so a run for any of Laos’s border crossings is going to take the best part of a day, whichever direction we take. I think I quite like the sound of Welsh L & K’s stopping off in Vang Vieng scheme.

After gingerly handing over my passport to a woman who assures me that all will be well, I look forward to a final day’s relaxation within the environs of Luang Prabang. Alone, I stumble upon a gallery run by a French photographer called Henri Thenard, exhibiting photographs he’s taken of the local hill tribes. Then I re-join my partner to explore the town further. Later, we hook up with Welsh L & K. After a few drinks, they invite us back to their hotel room for more drinks. It is a pleasant evening and I decide that, if forced to choose, I’d be more than happy to follow their trail, rather than the pro-Vietnam L’s.

27/01/03: It’s Monday. Get the 10:00 bus to Vang Vieng, book back into Amphone, food by the river with Welsh L & K and a few Germans, Xayoh café with Welsh L.

28/01/03: Breakfast at Sabaydee Restaurant. Hire bikes and head north with L, Welsh L & K – partner crashes. Beer at sunset bar, drinks on guesthouse balcony, Pizza Falconi, Xayoh Café + Yam (but no Sasha!); more drinks on guesthouse balcony.

I’ve resisted the temptation to sleep in of late, and the more civilised pace of drinking has ensured I have succeeded. I am glad of this because the mornings in this part of Laos are something to behold. Night-time temperatures typically dip as low as 15°C and induce a strange morning mist you don’t get in the country’s southern provinces. Then, come about 11:00, the low-lying cloud burns off to reveal the sun and the temperature quickly rises by about 13°C.

            For this reason, we’ve arranged to catch a relatively early bus. Everyone is present and correct: myself, my partner, Welsh L & K, and L. Being a fairly organised lot, I’ve enough time to stroll across the road and inspect Luang Prabang’s local stadium. It’s a modest building but a continuous concrete structure low enough in aspect for me to take photographs that do it justice.

            Our coach is in far better nick than the one that brought us here, yet only marginally more expensive. It’s also populated by a mere smattering of passengers, most of whom are travellers (although we will pick up a fair few locals along the way). We stop once, in the town of Pho Koun, which is a relative service-station compared to the café we paused at going the other way. This is in stark contrast to some of the villages we pass through, which are completely subsistent and more representative of the way most Laotians live. No longer hampered by the aisle, I get to better appreciate the scenery this time around, some 1500 metres above sea level. We pass the odd cyclist engaged in some sort of charity bike-ride, and I wonder whether they knew what they were letting themselves in for when they embarked on their ‘Tour de Laos’.

            We arrive in Vang Vieng at a reasonable hour, book back into the same hotel and are even given the same room. My partner and I nip out for a quick drink and then meet Welsh L & K for dinner down by the river, joined by a few Germans they’ve bumped into somewhere along the line. Everybody is tired but I manage to persuade Welsh L to join me for a few drinks in Xayoh. It’s not a foolishly heavy night by any means, but you could argue that it shouldn’t be any sort of night at all.

Despite insisting on celebrating my return to Vang Vieng the evening before, I’m in relatively fine fettle today and, after breakfast, very up for hiring more bikes. Our destination is a winery four miles north of Vang Vieng in the village of Phoudinaeng, and everybody who caught the bus yesterday is involved. The speciality is Mulberry wine, as well as vegetarian food, which is a rare thing in Southeast Asia. The wine isn’t great but the tea is good and the plantation has a nice, laid-back vibe about it. It makes for a relaxing hour, sat outside talking, karst outcrops demarcating the horizon.

On our way back towards Vang Vieng we decide to take a detour towards the river that runs through it. I find a suitable dirt track and take the lead. About 20 metres along, I come across a field rampant with hairy, horned cattle. I promptly apply my brakes and tell everyone to do the same. Due to the quality of the bikes’ brakes, the dustiness of the path, and the varying reflexes of my fellow cyclists, I inadvertently cause a collision between my partner’s front wheel and Welsh L’s rear one. As a result, my partner is thrown beyond her handlebars and face-butts the ground. Inspection of her face reveals grazes of varying severity to her chin, nose and mouth. My primary concern is the one to her mouth. Has she split her lip or, even worse, broken any of her teeth? Fortunately, there seems to be nothing seriously amiss, but the expedition is curtailed and we cycle back via the main road.

           My partner’s accident is not without benefit. It seems to bring the group together, and there’s no question that we’ll not be spending the evening in each other’s company. Everybody is keen on the idea of eating out at the excellent Pizza Falconi, and the suggestion that we have a few pre-dinner drinks on our guesthouse balcony is met with real vim. Sure, the pain to my partner’s mouth prevents her from eating solids, and she can only just about manage to drink her vodka through a straw, but the alcohol serves as an emollient and eases her pain.

After dinner, we’re joined by Yam (no Sasha) at Xayoh Café for a couple of rounds, and we finish off with a few more beers on our balcony. My partner may not concur, but I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my second stay in Vang Vieng.

TRAVEL: SOUTHEAST ASIA 14 - VANG VIENG

15/01/03: Scandinavian Bakery for breakfast. Go to catch a bus but end up getting a songthaew with Al, L, a wealthy Israeli and two girls from Halifax. Book into Amphone, take tea at Xayoh’s sister café and return there later for drinks with Al and L. Drinks somewhere else with Canadians, and back to their room for a nightcap.

No show of Vientiane’s neo-colonialism in Vang Vieng. Maybe the French deemed the place to have insufficient 'Je ne sais quoi', or perhaps it was simply too physically constricted a location. Whatever, they missed out because Vang Vieng is a place of perfect beauty. Surrounded by cave-ridden mountains and a refreshingly diverse range of deciduous flora, it provides welcome relief from the palm trees that so characterised Thailand in their ubiquity. Only the pimping of opium casts aspersions upon this serene idyll.

‘Future’ was almost as bad as any club in Britain trading under a similar name. It recalled the old Ritzy chain of nightclubs, except without the threat of spontaneous violence. An experience, but one I am now paying for.

Which is why we’re running late for our rendezvous with Al & L at the Scandinavian Bakery. Not only that, but they – the bakery – have run out of my preferred bread. It’s a rushed job on a hot, sunny mid-morning that punishes me for my condition. But we do manage to catch up with Al & L and are very quickly re-assimilated into their plan, and in very little time we’ve waved down another one of those knocked up tuk-tuks to take us to the station.

In stark contrast to Vientiane’s general state of being, the bus terminus is a hive of activity. Across the road is an outdoor market, which goes some way to explaining this, but there are a lot people in attendance for the buses also. It takes a while to find the vehicle bound for Vang Vieng, but we soon establish its whereabouts and set up camp on the backseat.

Then a strange thing happens. A corpulent Israeli in expensive sunglasses approaches Al and presents him with some sort of arrangement. He will front 500 baht out of the 900 needed to pay for a songthaew to Vang Vieng, which he has ready and waiting, if the four of us collectively fund the balance. Individually, this will cost marginally more than the public bus but should supposedly shave about an hour off of the journey time. Nice idea but we’ve just invited two young and slightly lost English girls to join our troupe, and it would seem rotten agreeing to this now.

A songthaew can comfortably seat eight people – ten would probably be of no great inconvenience – but for some reason the Israeli steadfastly rules out the possibility of bringing them in on the deal. We are not sure if this is because he thinks the comfort of the journey will be compromised or for the reason that we’ll now be dividing 400 baht between six persons instead of the originally conceived four – he’s vague about it when asked. Al and L are suggesting that we could all pay the individual rate that was originally offered to us, meaning he’ll only have to subsidise his newly acquired coterie to the tune of 300 baht, to which the young girls from Halifax readily agree.

I get the feeling that the Israeli could afford the whole songthaew to himself and was merely looking for some auxiliary company for the three hour journey to Vang Vieng. Now, considerably outnumbered, he’d feel like he was subsidising a trip for very little in return. I can see the potential in this point, but if this is indeed his position then how can he possibly articulate his objection without looking horribly needy? So he doesn’t try but doesn’t do a bad job of throwing a tantrum either, plugging himself into his CD player for the first hour of the journey, communicating with no one.

I wonder if it was worth all the bother. Without any humidity, songthaews can get a little parky in the back. Not only that, but the public bus visibly trails us for much of the journey, overtaking us momentarily when we stop for our comfort break, although falling behind again when it stops for theirs. But it is possible that we arrive with just enough of an edge to reserve a free room in a more conveniently located guesthouse.

Talking of guesthouses, ours – Amphone – is not what I was expecting. It’s obviously a fairly new build, in a similar vein to the apartments we rented in Krabi Town. This is to say the floors are tiled, the fixtures and fittings are clean and modern (no squat toilets here), the walls are painted one colour, and there’s even somewhere to file away your clothes: eminently practical and reasonably priced. They do laundry, too – which is not completely unexpected – so now I can think about introducing that mould-ridden jumper into the fold.

First impressions are good, then, but it’s the view from our second floor balcony at the front of the building that really puts a spring in my step: a vista comprised of corrugated iron rooftops, home to many cats; a shallow, sleepy crystal-clear river running parallel to our building’s frontage; sharp karst outcrops wrapped up in lush green foliage, their depth far exceeding my field of view; and a subtlety of sound to match. Yes, I very much like it here, but it is the lack of bustle that impresses upon me the most. I am vaguely aware of Vang Vieng’s formidable reputation as somewhere to cut loose, and, as I’ve outlined, the physical attraction is immediately obvious. What is missing, however, are the hitherto attendant sounds of Bob Marley or the Red Hot Chilli Peppers and televisions showing Friends on endless rotation and the shops selling fake gear and the general sense of permissiveness about many of these sorts of places. There’s not even a 7-Eleven (fast becoming the gauge by which all things modern and potentially ruinous are judged).

A walk up the main drag to check out the local scene reveals Xayoh’s more modern and minimal little sister. With the state of things apparently this good, I know that I’ll want a drink at some point, and I know that I need to eat before I do so. I order the spare ribs, which comes with chips, a bread roll (with real butter) and a salad on the side. Across the road they’re playing The Beastie Boys and later they will play Curtis Mayfield, all of Rubber Soul by The Beatles, and 'Wild Horses' by the Stones. When we return that evening, conditions are equally propitious, and even the Israelite appears convivial. We play some pool, make friends and, once the bar has closed, end up back in some Canadians’ room for a nightcap.

16/01/03: Hire bikes and cycle to Tham Phu Kam caves, stopping at smaller caves along the way. Tea at Pizza Falconi, meet Al and L at Xayoh Café, go to another bar where we’re joined by some Scandinavians. Partner retreats early.

17/01/03: Feel a bit unwell; partner goes ‘tubing’ with Al and L. Have fish at Tanketkham, across the road from our hotel. Meet a group of friendly Americans at Xayoh Café, who then invite us back to theirs. Full Moon Party on island – partner ill. Chat to Scandinavians and some guy called Will.

Turning right out of our guesthouse, the dirt-surfaced high-street rises steadily for about 30 metres until it bends dexter to meet the main concreted drag, where you will find the majority of cafes and restaurants of Vang Vieng. Bend sinister and there’s an undercover market peddling smells to affront the senses – it’s the desiccated fish that does it. The Laotians trade away as if you weren’t really there, their raw produce of little use to the passing tourist. How alive it all is, and intensely stifling under the corrugated metal carapaces that cover this collection of stalls. (It’s not all foodstuffs. You can buy pots, pans, toilet roll, and a variety of minor domestic appliances.) Beyond this, there's a riverside bar and steps leading to a footbridge connecting the mainland to a small ait.

Before hitting the drag, there is Xayoh Café, the vague notion of a bank, and a few pseudo 7-Eleven type establishments, useful for buying bottled water, postcards, cigarettes and savoury snacks. Throughout, you will also find smaller cafes and bars, some of which run a side-line in bicycle hire. These shabby velocipedes are a handy way to explore the countryside and surrounding caves, and my partner, Al, L and myself are up for using them. All this is covered in our guidebook, with recommended destinations and the time it takes to reach them. Than Phu Kham is the cave we are advised not to miss, and we can slip in one or two others along the way if we feel we have the time.

Our journey is not without peril. The bamboo footbridge we have to negotiate to travel west out of Vang Vieng has not been designed with bicycles in mind, although the locals don’t seem fazed; a motorbike with a large sow (alive) strapped across its back confidently makes the crossing before we do. (You have to pay a small toll, too.) Then there’s the poor quality of the roads and the consideration that our bikes aren’t really up to the job, and the fact that it’s a good 6 km to our final destination – but these are minor quibbles.

The first cave isn’t much of a cave at all but delivers a very pleasing view from its opening. A bamboo pole with an orange rag attached to its end (in all probability, a scrap of old monk-robe) protrudes from this crow’s nest. I try to search this marker out from ground level but fail to do so. Maybe we climbed higher than I thought?

We’re about 4 km into our 6 km journey and we stop at a barely existing village – Ban Na Thong – for liquid refreshment. It’s an overcast and humid day, although I’ve endured worse. We take a wander around some of the local fields, in among the limestone protuberances pushing up through the fields, and I am struck by how less tropical the flora is compared to that we found in southern Thailand.

Our destination reached, we start the long, arduous scramble up the side of the outcrop that supports our chosen cave. The path – if you can call it that – struggles, like a thwarted helix, up the side of the rock-face, offering nothing more than bamboo staves and minor footholds as aids. Another fine view greets us from the top, although not as unblemished as the last. From there we start out descent downwards into the cave itself, the target being a supine golden Buddha taking shelter under a small canopy. It is late afternoon, which means the sun puts the Buddha under its gaze via a conveniently located opening in the cave’s mantle. (There’s nothing convenient about it, really: it’s why the icon was placed there.) We wander off into the gloom as far as we dare – or as far as our cheap torch will allow us to dare – before starting our re-ascent, followed by our re-descent.

For those who’ve brought their swimming costume – I don’t have one – there’s a swim-hole to play in. While my cadres are busy doing that, I will introduce myself to the pleasure of Laotian coffee (café pakzong). The Laotians ship their Robusta south of the border, where it’s made into instant coffee, and save the superior Arabica for domestic consumption. This ground bean is filtered through a kind of muslin cone and then sweetened with condensed milk. Unless one has an exceptionally sweet tooth, there is no need to add sugar. Served in a short glass, it makes for a pretty strong blend, and maybe the best coffee I have ever had the pleasure of tasting; within 20 minutes of finishing my first I will have ordered a second in preparation for the cycle home.

That night we went for pizza at Falconi with Al and L, and got talking to the various faces that some of us could place somewhere, or were in the process of placing. There was a real communal feel to Vang Vieng. It was if everybody knew each other by only a few degrees of separation. The proprietor of Falconi made every effort to interact with his clientele and referred to Koh Phangan by name when predicting the future he thought this serene little town might have in store for itself. A shame, you might think, although this potential was still a long way off, as evinced when the town’s electricity supply was shut down at about 23:00. A generator swiftly booted into action but only to supply enough energy for a single bar, where everybody who was still up for a bit of action subsequently convened. Even then it was made clear that there was limited time at our disposal and anybody looking forward to an all-nighter had come to the wrong place – for tonight at least.

Al and L had another outdoor excursion lined up for us the next day: tubing. Our Japanese friend in Samui had expounded on the subject, as had J (Mk.2) in Bangkok. My antipathy towards water put me on my guard, although the shallow river running through Vang Vieng suggested I could cope.

It was not to be, as I suffered something of a faulty digestive system that confined me to my room for much of the day. By evening I had made a full recovery – so much so that I ordered fish for dinner – and hoped that the positive reports I heard back from my partner, Al and L might motivate a repeat performance on any of the coming days. Such disappointment aside, the evening was a very active one. Another visit to Xayoh Café precipitated a meeting with some of the friendly Americans who had been out and about the night before, a trip back to their hotel room for light refreshments, and then a walk down to a Full Moon Party taking place on the previously alluded to ait.

Now it would be my partner’s turn to fall foul of whatever was troubling stomachs around these parts. Ordinarily, you might have assumed the fish to be responsible, but if this was true then surely I would have been doubly aggravated. Whatever she had picked up, it punished her far more severely than it had I, and she spent a brief time feeling unwell before disgorging the contents of her stomach in spectacular style. And so I took my partner back to our guesthouse to convalesce and re-joined the party alone. But I was not alone because there were people there. I sat myself down, in front of a conflagration of coals, next to a seven foot Swedish man, and together we babbled away into the early hours of the morning.

18/01/03: Partner still unwell. Check emails, process partner’s camera film to cheer her up, then go for a walk. Eat at bar by the river with Al, L, Sasha – the giant Swede – and Yam(?) – a Welsh scaffolder – and others. Back to Xayoh, return to the ‘generated’ bar and drink with Al, L and ‘Will’. Check out local club, and then end up back on the ait, the scene of last night’s Full Moon Party, with Sasha.

19/01/03: Breakfast at Tanketkham. Process some camera film of my own, drink at Xayoh, tea at bar across the road, watch some football.

20/01/03: Breakfast on the main drag, temples with partner and then walk to riverside café. Attempt another cave but it shuts early. Tea at Xayoh, internet cafe, and a few drinks back at Xayoh.

You should have seen her last night – she looked almost choleraic. I was a little concerned by the ghostly visage before me, skin turned green, lips purple. My partner had reassured me that she did not feel as bad as I assured her she looked, and with that I’d rolled over and fallen asleep. She doesn’t feel too good today either, so I offer to get developed some of the disposable cameras she’s accumulated, in the hope it might cheer her up. [My partner had actually brought a camera along with her but it seized up in Prachuap Khiri Khan. From then on she had little choice but to rely on disposable cameras, which are a far sight bulkier to carry around than rolls of film.]

When the films are developed an hour or so later I also return with crisps of a neutral flavour. The photos are quite good, far better than one would expect from such an impromptu photo-lab in the middle of Laos. On the way back I run into Al and L who invite us for dinner at a restaurant down by the river. This will be Al’s last night, for tomorrow he must leave to catch his flight back to England, a flight he’s already postponed once so as to allow him to accompany L to Vang Vieng. Sounds great, I say, but warn that my partner’s limited appetite might preclude her attendance, which it does. It’s just as well because Al’s last night is a strange one. It involves some of us drinking in the street after chucking-out time at Xayoh, trying out a club called the Full Moon, before then returning to the scene of the previous night’s debauchery.

My partner feels no better the next day, and again I am left to my own devices. So impressed was I with the quality of my partner’s photographs that I decide to process some of my own, if only as something to do. My partner’s appetite is completely shot, so I take brunch alone, again at Tanketkham but this time avoiding the fish. I anticipate having to dine alone a second time but bump into L, who invites me to dinner to meet a few friends of hers who have recently arrived in Vang Vieng; Welsh L and his girlfriend K have just come from Nong Khai – by way of Vientiane – across the border in Thailand, where they were on something of a yoga focussed retreat. L vaguely knows them from her time there and spoke well of the pair when we met earlier, and there is no obvious indication to the contrary. Also in attendance are the seven foot Swede – 'Sasha' – and a Welsh scaffolder named Yam, who have formed something of a bond. Dinner goes well and inspires everyone to reconvene at Xayoh Café a few hours later.

I successfully persuade my partner to take leave of our room and join the party, where we soon get talking about for how long, and to where, we’ve been travelling. For some reason or other, I conjure together an anecdote built around the dread-locked hippy who had threatened the canine-hassled Thai fisherman back in Koh Phangan. Welsh L has dreadlocks, and he’s a vegetarian too. This needn’t be a problem but the change in atmosphere suggests that it might well be: that I’ve made a bit too much of a big deal about the Island Hippy’s proclivities for all things ‘new age’, rather than let the aweless threats speak for themselves. Fortunately, Welsh L recognises that my point is neither personal nor political. Indeed, he is rather amused when I try to clarify my position, positing that the dreadlocks were incidental, that I was simply adding colour to the narrative. For those listening in, the persistent excavation of one’s own hole must undoubtedly come to mind.

Not because it was a Sunday and a Monday – for the days of the week have only the vaguest of implications when travelling – but the next 48 hours were given over to rest and relaxation. We chanced upon a few charmingly modest temples and attendant Buddhist casts, hired bikes again, tried to explore another cave only to find that it closed early on a Monday, and generally went about our business, like we were waiting for something to happen. Such indolence didn’t particularly bother me but I noticed that some of my fellow travellers were getting restless. It was if we were all following some cosmic timetable that forbade us from putting down roots for more than five days at a time – and even that might be pushing it. Except when I found somewhere that grabbed me, I quite liked bedding down indefinitely and taking a more capricious approach to moving on again. So it was with Vang Vieng.

This wasn’t the first time that my relative apathy had revealed itself. L and H had made the decision to push on by the end of our first evening in Hua Hin, and M and E always seemed to know when their time was up. S, on the other hand, had been more in tune with what my partner and I wanted to do – or what we didn’t want to do, which none of us were always sure of. And when my partner and I had cut ourselves adrift in Krabi we had taken it very easy indeed, only the impending expiration of our visas and the appropriation of new ones forcing us to move on.

It was possible now that we were entering our third epoch, considering our journey down the east coast with S as defining the first, and then our time on the islands representing the second (we’ll regard the journey from Trang back to Bangkok as something of an incongruity). I had enjoyed the sodality of our extended company of late, so when I sensed there were plans afoot to move on I was prepared to follow. Because although I was fond of Vang Vieng, I had to concede that we had pretty much exhausted all that it had to offer us.