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.