Vang Vieng - Somewhere in Northern Thailand

Man by a Bus
Okay, details are still hazy. For the past thirty minutes I've been forensically trying to reconstruct my journey between Vang Vieng and Bangkok--in other words, I've been googling a lot. The sole line I've got to go on is: "Travelled from Vang Vieng to Bangkok, hooked up with an English lass named Melanie."

The only thing I know for certain is that when I say hooked up I don't mean any exchange of saliva. It was a purely platonic relationship that lasted less than twenty-four hours. I see glimpses of the day but they don't connect together. I feel like I'm trying to look at a whole piece of artwork by examining tiny details of the piece. It's frustrating as hell--I mean, that was a whole day and I have near zero recollection of it.

A Restaurant with a View
What I do remember are very brief moments: guarding bags at Vientiane's crowded bus station; walking around a duty-free warehouse stacked with cigarettes, alcohol, and perfume; eating lunch with Melanie in a deserted restaurant that overlooked the Mekong in Nong Khai; killing time at the station waiting for the night-train to depart. They feel like scenes from a David Lynch film--logically incoherent with a strange or soundless audio overlayed.

Killing Time
Maybe I'm stitching together moments from different days, different years. It's a scary thought considering the fallibility of memory. And it's not just a long-term thing. Different observers recollections of the same event an hour before are notoriously diverse. It pays to remember we're never objective observers when we recall the past. We bring a lot of baggage with us--our psychological frameworks, our neuroses, our emotional states. What we notice says more about ourselves than the events. Keeping a diary is a great way of reminding yourself about this. It helps to make you more than just this bundle of impulses and rationales at the particular time in question. It helps to avoid self-deception that can allow a person to keep repeating the same mistakes over and over again.

So, I say this: get in touch with your younger self and reflect on who you were and who you are now. Have you changed? Have you confronted your demons? Do you know why the things that happened in your life happened? Life is unique, don't get stuck on a railroad loop.

Amnesia

Chemistry in Action!
I don't know what I did today. The journal entry for this day is sparse on details of the itinerary. My mind was occupied by events back home that are too personal to go into here. All I wrote about the day itself is "Didn't go tubing today as I felt hungover and not especially sociable." Not very colourful is it--although you might be curious about tubing.

Tubing does involve a tube, but it's not got anything to with colonic irrigation. The tube in question is an inner tube--a huge tractor wheel of an inner tube--that you ride down a river in. I guess it can be fast and furious and involve whitewater rapids, but around Vang Vieng the waters move slowly and tubing is a leisure activity more similar to smoking a big fat reefer than anything else. First, if you don't feel like it you don't have to move. You can sit with your butt dipping into the mild waters and let the current take you downstream as it pleases. Second, every five hundred metres or so (the distance equivalent of the time it takes to roll and smoke a bifter) there is beer and refreshments available. These are served by locals from the banks of the river. Using elaborate hooked-poles they snare the tube and pull you in for not-very-chilled bottles of Beer Lao. A three or four hour ride can result in some very merry campers--kind of like a pub crawl for the pathologically lazy.

I have some regrets about not doing this iconic activity so representative of Laos, but having the right company in this kind venture is critical. If you get stuck with the wrong person it's like being cornered by the pub-bore with no easy means of escape (I mean, how fast can you paddle?). Since there wasn't anybody I'd really hit it off with in Vang Vieng the impulse to go tubing wasn't so strong.

Cool dudes or frontin' tosspots? And how does she put out her fag?
One of the other big draws of Vang Vieng, aside from the magic mushroom, is the incredible limestone geography of the area. Karst formations abound with limestone hills riven with caverns and tunnels that have been forged by the action of acid rain. It must make for some spectacular potholing. But maybe that's too energy intensive for a place like Vang Vieng...

Writer's Bloc

Fancy a stroll? After you, then.
I must be one of the slowest writers ever. In the two months I've been away, I've managed to write one-and-a-half tales. That's a pretty poor return when the sum total of things to do on an average day is feed yourself and get to the bus/railway station.

It's not for lack of ideas or being in the wrong environment. I've learnt pretty quickly that ideas are more common than landmines in Laos (between 1964 and 1973, the United States dropped 2 million tons of bombs along the Ho Chi Minh Trail, the North Vietnamese supply route that snaked through Eastern Laos--see Laos: Exploding the Past for an in-depth report), and that the only things you need to be able to write are the implements and the right frame-of-mind. External distractions can be a pain, but if you start to seek that perfect writing space you'll probably find it's like going after the holy grail. It's much simpler to change a personal attitude than it is to change something like the sound of the streetlife outside your hotel room. I used to be a writing-space junky--lining up pens and books at home, or going to the library for peace--but travelling has helped me realize that the only thing I need is an uncluttered mind. For me this extends to having an uncluttered space--too much stuff around distracts me and my attention wanders.

Writer's heaven...what crime to do the time?
So what's been the problem?

Tangibly, a lack of discipline. I am a great procrastinator when it comes to writing. A perfect window of time and space opens up to scribble away and all I'll do is fritter the hours away on convoluted flights of fancy, or worse, make an excuse that this particular piece of fiction would be better done tomorrow/when it's sunny/under a full moon while wearing a pink sombrero. Before too long, the experience of sitting down to write and not writing actually makes it harder to try it again the next time. It's very easy to get into a vicious circle where an hour of writing will steadily become some terrible mental torture that leaves your skin crawling and your fingers crippled.

The answer, as anyone who's flipped to the first pages of those self-help books knows, is to just write. Write about wild elephants, write about that kid you bullied at school, write about the really fucking annoying guy who sits in the cubicle behind you at work and starts every sentence with the word 'Presumably'...see, I'm doing it now! Trouble is, this advice was never especially persuasive for me. A good story isn't made of stochastic literary impulses--although I understand it worked for James Joyce. A good story is a crafted thing, perhaps sub-consciously shaped, but shaped nonetheless. It has a structure, a narrative flow, an inevitable-in-hindsight conclusion. In the best work, all the aspects of the story bind and reinforce one another. The opening line informs the last. The minor character on the second page holds up a mirror on the protagonist. The setting supports the thematic heart of the piece. It's clever, subtle, and when done well, devastating in it's impact on the reader. To achieve this, as well as skill and experience, you need a plan. Writing whatever pops into your head is unlikely to lead to prize winning fiction.*

And here I spy the crux of things in regard to my indiscipline. I am afraid. Afraid of failure. Afraid of writing laughable sentences, characters, and plots. Afraid of trying my damn best and still falling well short. Better not to try and always have maybe. I think that's a truer depiction of the world than the old motto, better to try and fail than never to try at all.

But to never fail is to never learn. So I will embrace failure. I will take every rejection and rejoice, for I know by examining my failures I will improve. Let me just re-iterate that last part. Failure itself is no key to betterment. As I learnt from Samuel R. Delany recently, writing bad fiction only helps write more bad fiction. The analysis of the ugly mound of congealed clay that is your first story holds the secrets of producing that stunning vase.

Today I embraced that philosophy. I probably began with dull exposition, left commas hanging, and didn't leave out all the parts that people skip, but by Jove, I got some material to work with. And I still managed to tit around and climb a limestone hill, watch HBO dramas, and check my email. Life is looking good.

There's a deep, pitch-black cave in that hill. Honest!

*In free writing's defence, I would say that it aids lexical suppleness, and helps unearth a writer's voice--one of the magical ingredients of a good read.

Sports Day

Gentle waters. Check. Incredible karst topography. Check. Story about where Thai women keep their ping-pong balls. What?!
In an effort to re-balance my increasingly sedentary travelling lifestyle, today was an action-packed sporting bonanza. First up was an early morning kayaking trip on a nearby river. We arrived at the launch site around ten, the stones of the shallow banks already hot from the sun. After a brief safety demonstration, we slipped our vessels into the slow-moving waters. I paddled along with a cheerful Australian who gleefully recounted tales of hookers in Hanoi, trannies in Thailand, and cunnilingus in Cambodia. Not the kind of conversation that is well-suited to the brisk, uplifting, respectable world of kayaking--especially through such spectacular scenery. Kinda like scoring a gram of speed at the local church. There's a time and place.

This isn't me. Small clue: the kayaker is upright.
By the time the Ozzie began another story with "Let me tell you about a good friend of mine, Prince Albert," I'd had enough and made my excuses. Not only did this soothe my disturbed mind, it gave my body a refreshing workout too as I put several lengths between our kayaks. Maybe that encounter warded me off casual socialising this morning, because I barely spoke to anyone else for the rest of the journey. Since the river was slow, except for a small section of rapids, or rather, a small rapid, the physical exertion of paddling was high and I enjoyed a lonely buzz not unlike that a good gym routine gives. Some guys took on the rapid several times, carrying their kayaks up the rocky banks after they'd plunged downwards. Later downstream there was another stop so anybody who wanted to, could dive elegantly from a high outcrop that jutted over the river--that or bomb.

Not me again. Crucafix poses are against my religion. Instead, I dive-bomb!
On the way back in the truck, being the sole passenger amongst a stack of kayaks, I took a nap. The great thing about daytime naps, expecially after excercise and in unusual places, is the weird, surface-floating dreams that you experience. I remember waking from a dream convinced I was a miner trapped under an avalanche of multi-coloured canoes....it wasn't so far from the truth.

In Vang Vieng, refreshed from the sleep and keen to stay energetic, I soon found myself hitching a ride to a game of football with the locals. Organised sport, along with friends and family, is one of things I've missed most while away, and it felt great as we got closer to the pitch. Few activities give me the same level of anticipation that football does. Even though the pitch was a dustbowl, the sides were uneven, and there was no referee, I still felt the butterflies and the prickly urge to win. Because of school, the game didn't kick-off until twenty minutes before sundown which didn't help matters. Nor did the ongoing gambling, which had to be settled every time a goal was scored, and seemed to involve about forty players. Inadvertently, I'd got myself involved in this by handing over a thousand kip at the beginning, which I'd mistakenly thought was some entry fee for foreigners. It was only when we scored and somebody gave me the money back that I realized this was Laos' version of Saturday afternoon at the bookies. Now, I'm all for a flutter--providing you're betting for your team to win--as it adds an extra frisson to proceedings. What's not so good is settling-up while the game is still going. Can you imagine an Arsenal-Chelsea derby with the players carrying around wads of notes in their pants and couting out bundles every time there's a goal?

Man on!
Not that the football was anything to write home about. From afar the game probably looked more like a riot between two groups of amnesiacs who kept forgetting who was protesting and who was keeping the peace. Apart from an admirable tendency to uphold the law of handball, other small matters such as acknowledging fouls, having one goalkeeper per team, and complicated tactics such as spreading out and passing to a teammate were noticeably absent. It was schoolboy stuff--probably because they were schoolboys and I was a grown man. A friendly tip for picking an outsider at the next world cup. Avoid Laos no matter how long the odds. In the football world, Laos is no sleeping Asian giant. It's more like a weedy child in a long-term coma.

News of Iraq's invasion filled the screens back in town. CNN have taken the lead in Dr. Strangelove-esque pronouncements--one commentator talking about cruise missiles: "The beauty of these weapons is..." You gotta love the free press.

Luang Prabang - Vang Vieng

Chalk and cheese. Astrology and astronomy. Luang Prabang and Vang Vieng.

Luang Prabang, Sat, 5pm: Lads getting ready for a big night out...
Whereas Luang Prabang--royal capital and UNESCO World Heritage Site--is studded with temples, palaces, and stuppas, Vang Vieng is a motley collection of guest houses, restaurants, and internet cafes. The only thing both places share is a slow-moving river. This contrast of physical make-up contributes to their different vibes. In the streets of Luang Prabang, amongst the gentle Buddhists and white-washed buildings, dignity is dominant--tourists whisper, tread gingerly, and act respectfully; in Vang Vieng, amongst the restaurant chatter, box-office movie screenings, and the heckles of commerce, travellers (not tourists!) stomp down the dusty main thoroughfare like gunslingers in frontier towns.

Vang Vieng, Sat, 10pm: Nobody's even out yet this town is so clarkey!
The journey between the the two towns was packed full of incidents--in my head. The combination of the snaking road, rancid meat in my stomach, and spookily empty buses going the other way meant that I kept imagining myself lurching to the front of the bus, throwing-up, and then getting bullet-sprayed by rebels hiding in the jungle. Not ingredients for a relaxing ride. Fortunately, two English lads, Nathan and Scott, were on hand to put my mind on other things. In Kasi, a small trading post near Vang Vieng, we played 'Pop the Balloons' which was literally a game involving popping ballons. No expensive arcade machines to maintain here when it comes to entertainments...

Upon arrival, at dusk, the first task was to traverse the decrepit runway that divides the town from the road. During the Vietnam War, Air America (an airline covertly owned and operated by the CIA) used this as an airfield to ship passengers and cargo into the region. For the briefest of moments, with the red glow of the town ahead, the thrum of the bus engine behind, and the heavy pack on my shoulders, I felt like a US Marine planted down in enemy territory. A thin rivulet of sweat ran from my temple as I imagined Vietcong snipers setting me in their sights. I hit the ground hard, seeking cover, while mosquitos buzzed around. "Game over, man. Game over, man!" I screamed and threw a grenade--an apple, in fact--at a trio of approaching gooks.

'Nam Flashbacks
Actually, that's all lies. At the time I thought 'What the fuck is this massive, weed-ridden, cracked, piece of tarmac?'. 'A dozen concrete football pitches back-to-back?'. We walked across the airstrip and booked ourselves into one of the more swanky establishments in town--a new hotel with ensuite bathrooms. Price? Three dollars per night. After checking in, we headed out into the night for traditional Laos cuisine. Or pizza.

Pizza it was then. One of the specialities in town is large pizzas liberally dressed with tomatoes, mozzarella, and magic mushrooms. A special you don't see on the menu at Pizza Hut. Still feeling ropey from the bus ride, I went for a more traditional option though. A brief tour of the place and then it was back to the hotel for a smoke and hip-hop. Throughout the day I'd been battling my innate prejudice against the English (which I still have to this day--I only have think back to this morning's trip to Sainsbury's to happily characterise the whole of the nation as a brain-dead, lethargic, selfish, self-centered, and po-faced lot), or more precisely, the English lad (hostile, unmannered, boring). In their hotel room, listening to their stories, I realized perhaps I'd unfairly judged them. That's the advantage of travelling when it comes to social encounters--you have enough days to take chances on people you wouldn't otherwise mix with. And sometimes that can make life a richer experience.

An Englishman adjusts his chair
Hell, they probably were doing exactly the same when they hung-out with me, the Oxbridge, physics nerd.

Muang Ngoi Neua - Luang Prabang

Time for the gang to go its seperate ways. After a low-key breakfast we took a boat down-river to a non-descript town where the roads began again. Simon, Vero, and myself were headed to Luang Prabang while Katherine and Fred were headed elsewhere. Our bus was first to leave and there were hugs and well-wishes before we set off--only for the bus to stop fifty yards down the road. Katherine and Fred, in the meantime, caught up with us, and we had that awkward situation where you've already said your goodbyes and been solemn and offered serious words, and then you have to take the conversation back to more easygoing pastures until the real moment of departure arrives.

A live boar, trussed up with fraying rope and hauled onto the central aisle of the bus, provided a diversionary talking point while we waited. Eventually, we left, our animal cargo reminding me that if I thought I was uncomfortable the boar was in a whole different league. In circumstances like these--as an average Westerner shielded from the living conditions our livestock--I find it impossible not to consider the treatment of animals.

When the boar was pulled off the back of the bus--landing on the tarmac three feet below with a meaty slap and making a horrible whining noise--the first instinct, the natural instinct, is to imagine the animal is suffering. But is this really the case? Is the animal actually experiencing pain or is this just misplaced anthropomorphism? The boar has a face. It has two eyes, two ears, a mouth, and a nose. It has skin and hair, and below the hide we know its internal structure shares many organs with our own physiology. But do these similarities lead logically to the conclusion that the animal is experiencing mental phenomena like pain?

If I built a mechanical device--like Vaucanson's Digesting Duck of France--that displayed lifelike behavior such as waddling, squealing, eating etc you wouldn't ascribe any kind of awareness to the machine once you saw its cog-based insides. But isn't an animal just such a machine? To my mind, the only part of the animal we should be paying attention to is the brain. According to the current position in cognitive science, the mind is directly correlated with the activity of the brain. And the only cognitive feature of mind that should have any bearing on the question of animal suffering is consciousness. Without consciousness it doesn't seem possible to experience. For example, when a hospital patient is anaesthetized they are unable to feel the cut of the surgeon's life.

So the question becomes are animals conscious? Or, how high up the animal kingdom do you have to ascend before you find conscious creatures? Again, seeing those "puppy eyes" or that "playful grin" on your dog's face doesn't logically mean the dog is conscious. Sadly, modern neuroscience has not yet developed a theory of consciousness consistent with the biological structures of the brain. Current studies from the victims of brain injuries suggest that consciousness arises from a complex interplay of various localized parts. We know some structures or connections that are necessary for conscious experience but not the set which is sufficient for such experience. Some scientists have posited humankind's unique ability with language as the touchstone for consciousness--even going so far as to suggest that humans pre-1300BC or thereabouts had no awareness. If that's true then animals are nowhere near the threshold! This seems to be a minority position, however.

The fact that humans are naturally evolved creatures offers partial evidence that the animals most likely to share this special attribute are those species most closely related to ourselves. Primates in particular, and mammals in general. Some evolutionary psychologists have suggested that consciousness, like other skills such as sight or hearing, confers certain survival advantages--for example, problem solving, decision making, adaptation. An insight like this suggests that an indication that an animal posseses consciousness would be the manifestation of these abilities.

So where did all these speculations leave me as I rode that truck along dusty roads? The question of whether animals suffer is still an open one. The only way to be sure of not inflicting pain is to treat animals humanely. In my opinion, this doesn't preclude eating them though! Which is just as--self-servingly--well for me as I love a bacon butty.

Cave Dwellers

America may have been gearing up for "Operation Iraqi Liberation", but for us, deep in the heart of one of the world's least developed countries, in a village only accessible by river, we had other things on our mind. Like the challenge of swimming across the lazy, wide river. Or, after negotiating the trials of a particularly leisurely lunch, exploring a large cave system a kilometre from the village. We were like Enid Blyton's Famous Five, except we didn't have a dog, and there was no mystery to solve. Instead we just pratted about.

Throughout the day we did our best to be obnoxious tourists. First, we harrassed a local kid for a ride back in his canoe when we got to the other side of the river, probably paying him way to much in the process and annoying his parents. Second, to guide our way in the dark of the cave, we used a plastic bottle stuffed with lit paper that spewed toxic fumes and smoke into the darkness. Third, the running joke for the day revolved around denigrating the local culture: first, someone would say where they planned to go next--when they were asked what was there, they'd reply "Waterfalls, caves, temples...and treks to minority villages."

Sad, but ultimately, fair comment on the average traveller's experience.

In the evening we went back to the previous night's restaurant hoping that meat was now on the menu. It wasn't. At least not until a live chicken was brought in, hanging upside down and struggling for its life. Sometimes you get the freshest ingredients at the remotest places.

Muang Khua - Muang Ngoi Neua

If this were a fictionalised account of a journey, an entry like today's would certainly find itself cut from the final draft.

The truth is nothing of any note happened today. The gang awoke, shared waffles sprinkled with sugar, and then got on a boat to Muang Ngoi Neua. The most interesting thing is that our destination can only be reached by boat. A circle of mountains covered with dense brush surrounds the village, and no roads to the place have yet been built. This means, Muang Nboi Neua, above all, is a peaceful place. Stilted structures made of bamboo and other woods line the steep banks of the river, and the only sounds come from the occasional outboard motor passing below. The verandas of these guesthouses are populated with hammocks and easy-chairs, and the most popular activities are reading and staring into the middle distance. It's very pleasant, not to mention cheap at $1 a night.

At dinner we discovered one of the downsides of the lack of transport links. Instead of the feast of seafoods and red meats we'd anticipated as we read the menu, upon ordering we found that the only options that night were the vegetarian ones. It's like being at a retreat for vegans . . . it's undeniably healthy with the zero pollution and a diet of fresh fruit and veg, but you suspect you might be able to have more fun elsewhere.

Constant interaction with my French-speaking companions has not only improved my French, it has also mangled my English. In that way people mimic one another's behavior--including their style of speech--when they are bonding, I've found myself saying things like: "Tommorow, we go here, yes?" and "I've finished with the guidebook. Do you want, yes?". Weird.

Luang Nam Tha - Muang Khua

It's a bus, Vero, but not as we know it . . .
A day of travel.

By lunchtime, we found ourselves back Udomxai, the nowhere town which functions solely as a place between places. There were no plans to stay here, but we had a couple of hours to kill before our afternoon connection left. I didn't feel like depressing myself by walking around, so we encamped ourselves in one of the restaurants that bordered the dusty bus compound. Perhaps "restaurants" is a little misleading. They were open-fronted shacks on stony ground with a grill at the back. Naturally, Coca-Cola signs adorned the walls.

We'd just finished our plates of limp food, when news came that our bus was leaving. Another triumph for the timetables...

We weren't the only ones who'd heard the news. When we got to the bus -- which, in fact, was a truck with low-ceilings -- everyman and his dog swarmed around it. We shrugged at one another, nodded, and then waded through the crowds, managing to bag the last patches of floorspace at the back of the truck. There were no ticket checks or no seat numbers. I just hoped we were on the right bus.

Two raised wooden planks on either side were the only seats, but even they looked uncomfortable as the truck jerked up and down over the potholed road. Sitting cross-legged on the floor was no fun either. After fifteen minutes I decided to join the two men who stood on the metal step at the back. Constant vibrations through the structure tingled my hands, and every few moments I would become airbourne as the wheels plunged into the road craters. It was like a fairground ride! Low lying branches arched over the road, and sometimes it was necessary to duck while in mid-air too. Even the young kids had seen it all before though, so it was with a sheepish air that I sat down again later.

In Muang Khua we quickly found a reasonable guesthouse with large, airy rooms, and shortly afterwards set out for dinner. A Chinese restaurant with a wide menu was the venue of a great meal, and not even the fluorescent lighting or the lack of other patrons could spoil the mood. I have no recollection of the conversation, but I know by the end were all giggly and well fed. I think the alcohol might've had something to do with it.

Loitering outside the guesthouse, we decided it was too early to retire, so we took the rope bridge over the ravine that splits the town in two. It was a good choice. On the other side, we found a few musicians playing guitar, while drinking shots of Lao Lao. They were more than happy to share, which allowed us plenty of opportunities to practice the only Laos phrase we knew:

Kob Chai Lai Lai!

Nam Ha National Park - Luang Nam Tha

Russel, Katherine, Veronica, Fred, Simon, and Olivier...Friends
A brisk three-hour walk through deforested woodland and cultivated fields, and we were back in Luang Nam Tha.

The weather was drab, my mood was heavy (yesterday's soaring sense of freedom swiftly brought to earth), and I'd decided I would check my emails in an effort to garner a good dose of self-pity. You see, I expected to find my inbox empty, devoid of any birthday greetings. Out of sight, out of mind. That's the kind of impression I make on people. Well, back at the tourist office, a long, detailed questionaire awaited us, so I couldn't actually get away until I'd filled out the damn paperwork.

By the time I had, my mood had mellowed, and I joined the others for lunch. I was glad I did. Continuity of relationships is something I struggle with, and this was a small step towards changing that. Through my life, friends have come and gone like seasons of fashion. The only friendships I have been able to properly maintain are with people I met around seventeen -- and even those bonds have weakened. There are many people I love dearly, I just don't seem to be in contact with them very often. Life only has so much room, and everyone's so geographically distant -- scattered like the flowers in a daisy chain. I should just pick-up the phone...but I always feel a sense of loneliness after hanging-up. I don't just want to read about, or talk to, people. I want to see them, smell them, watch them, prod them, get drunk with them, dance with them, share life with them. Phone conversations are so safe and bland and unreal by comparison. A detached voice. Pauses. "Take care. Goodbye." And then the sound of a dead line. So, that's why I don't phone or write so much. But I'm happy to be visited, or preferably, do the visiting, so be warned!

Invigorated by the meal, I skipped back to the guest house of a few nights ago imbuing my original room with much romance. A simple place, but clean, light, knows what its about. A place to get down to business and jolly well get some writing done. The kind of place I imagined Mark Twain, or Thoreau, penned one of their classics. Furnished with a small table and a basic bed, nothing adorning the walls, but still proud in its way.

Was it hell. Actually, it was. Hell, I mean. Squalid, dirty, dark. Cockroaches and bed-lice. Brown water from the taps. Broken nozzle on the shower, curtain torn and blemished with unknown stains. Not my scene. Encouraged me to get out and about, at least. No writing today.

At the internet cafe I found thirty or so birthday messages. No doubt, many corraled by the dictatorial Shaz -- at the time, half girlfriend, half ex -- but I was happy for the thoughts. Until you really spend a good few days with one or two people, travelling can be lonely, and the emails helped a lot.

I went to dinner with the trek gang, and the conversation come round to everyone's age.

"How old are you, Steve?"

"Twenty-six....I mean, twenty-seven."

"What?"

"Err." Long silence. "My birthday was yesterday."

So, in fact, I did get to celebrate with these folks. We shared dishes, drank more Lao Loa, and had a fun time. So much so that five of us agreed to travel on together -- a first for me on this world trip. Something I should've done sooner, but happy it's happened at all. Had a final toast, before turning in and enjoying a good night's sleep.

And not just because of the alcohol and the bed.

A Different Kind of Celebration

Creepy crawlies in the salad cause Veronica and Simon to lose their appetite
Today, I turned twenty-seven.

I didn't tell anybody. Just for a change.

Birthdays, or rather, my birthdays, have always been a combination of happiness and anxiety. Happiness because I get to be spoilt and get all my diverse friends together. Anxiety, not because I feel the weight of age, but because it means being the centre of attention.

So today I kept the knowledge of my birthday to myself as if I was a child hiding a frog in his pocket. Having this secret was strange, like a frog's skin feels strange, but it was also very exciting. I knew I was breaking a taboo -- denying people the joy of my birthday -- but it was thrilling. By not telling them, I had power. If I told them the power would be lost. All day, I was sheepish and grinning to myself.

After breakfast we set off through the woods. We ate a lunch of omlettes, sticky rice, rattan, and cabbage, accompanied by a hot-chilli dip, served on those enormous fronds, and then we swam. Stripped down to underwear, everyone splashed about in the shallow, chilly stream. Afterwards we basked on warm boulders like lizards. On the rock I felt a tremendous peace. It was on this day that something changed inside me. I felt like a snake shedding skin. From this day on, the travelling became easier, my life became easier. I no longer felt trapped. I'd finally found peace with who I was. Later than some, earlier than others. Be yourself. It's the oldest cliche, but the truest too.

How do you make a story better? You make it more of itself. How do you make a life better? The same way.

This acceptance has alienated me from many things both on a cultural and personal level. One small example. When I came back from travelling I went back to my old football team in Brighton. I lasted one game. Not because I'd lost my talent. But because I couldn't be who I was with the other players. That's the price you have to pay. In my mind it's not a very high price. It forces you to seek out friendships, groups, and ideas that you really believe in. I wouldn't want to live any other way now.

The second village was spread over a long, steep hill. The houses were built on stilts. Patchy grass covered the slopes. I saw a small child with a leash. Instead of a dog, the leash was tied to a bird. Every few steps it was mercilessly jerked backwards to the child's great amusement. Maybe a capacity for cruelty is a useful tool for a person.

The sun gently waned, earth and sky changing through a multitude of colours: ochres and violets, emeralds and umbers. The evening progressed much as the previous one. A feast of dishes and constantly charged glasses of Lao Lao. Later, massages were given by pairs of girls -- fourteen or fifteen -- dressed in bright smocks. They were old heads on young bodies -- and not just because of their experienced technique. When they finished they whipped out bracelets and fabrics for us to purchase. Who could deny them?

A perfect day.

Click on me! I'm over 900Kb of goodness!

Luang Nam Tha - Nam Ha National Park

Thinking I should book myself on a trek, since this was prime trekking territory, I got up early and set off for the tourist office.

Fifteen minutes later I was running back to the guest house -- I needed to check out and get back to the office for a three day trek that was leaving at nine sharp.

Made it back okay, and got introduced to the other trekkers on the jeep ride out to the drop-off point. For once the de-facto language of the group wasn't English: a Belgian couple, two French guys, a Canadian woman, and another Englishman with a flair for French, meant we were asking "Ca va?" instead of "How yer doin', mate?" Fortunately, everyone took pity on yours truly (and the non-french speaking guide helped too) and soon enough we slipped into English -- not that I minded listening to French conversation!

Russel, Oliver, Fred, Veronica, Simon, and Katherine soon revealed themselves as decent, eco-friendly, backpacking types, and we had a great climb getting to know one another. At eleven we stopped for lunch. The guide tore down three giant fronds from nearby plants, and voila, we had our table. Onto these leaves a spread of sticky rice, algae, chicken, pork, and ferns, was laid. I can't say it was delicious, but it was authentic.

Talking to the guide, I got a sense that he had the difficult task of satisfying our curiosity while being loyal to his government paymasters. For example, during lunch, we heard the sound of timber falling and asked if the trees within the National Park were being cut. He said no -- that we were close to the park boundary and the deforestation was happening outside. Later, when we passed a tract of denuded land, tree stumps littering the hill, he altered his story to tell us only the young trees had been felled. It seems there are commercial timber operations working alongside conservation programs in an effort to keep everyone happy. The free market has reached Laos, and unsurprisingly, the locals want to get rich. How this will pan out over the next twenty years, I don't know, but if the world wants to keep tropical rainforests, places like this need to be supported.

Hogs won't like the free market
At four we got to the tribal village where we would stay the night. Again, the presence of tourists with astronomical sums of money has distorted these people's way of life. We were now the main revenue stream for the community, and ancient practices have been turned upside down overnight. In the very basic village I got a feeling that there was a general apathy -- that traditional customs or trades no longer made much sense after the encroachment of the wider world. How should this transition be managed, if at all? Another very difficult question with no right answers.

Some traditions were still in place. People helped one another, including us, bathe at the village well. A "feet only" version of volleyball was still alive and well -- which I was ecstatic to join in with, having not kicked a ball for months. And customary handicrafts were still being made -- although that I'm more dubious about as we, the tourists, seemed to be the only market for them.

Dinner, after hours of preparation which had made me feel hungry and guilty, was served with continuously topped glasses of Lao Lao, a potent kind of Vodka that tasted of engine grease and alcohol. Brain cells have never been killed so effectively. Before we crashed, somebody cracked open a box of cigars, and I spluttered my way through five puffs before deciding it wasn't for me.

Fell asleep on the open floor of the hut stoned, drunk, and feeling very content.

Yoga and sport in one handy package!

A Load of Bull

Ever played chicken with a two-thousand pound bull?

I have.

My Polish friends had departed with invitations to Warsaw and Krackow reciprocated in kind, and I'd hired a sturdy bike and cycled out to a local stupa. After thirty minutes riding along the flat roads that laser-beamed through brilliant green paddy fields, I passed a pond where several bulls wallowed in the muddy water. They looked stupid trying to swim, with their heads poking out the water, so I decided it was a good time to take some pics.

With the bike lying on the tarmac on the other side of the road, I tiptoed up to the bank and snapped away. It was only after I'd finished taking shots that I noticed that the head bull had come out of his hut and was now keeping watch on me. Less than five yards away, the smell of sweat and dirt from his coat was rich in the air. His nostrils flared, and his haunches rippled. His horns looked a more useful weapon than my APS camera.


I stared into those tar-black eyes, big marbles of deepest night, feeling like I was peering at the Devil himself. I didn't dare flinch. I stared and stared. Then I stared some more. The bull's cloven hooves stamped and sent up blooms of dust, and his tail whipped against the weaved walls of his hut, but I kept focused on his eyes.


Eventually, he looked away, defeated -- and graciously let me take a photo.

Like Tarzan, Master of Beasts, I continued on to the stupa, a supreme feeling of wellbeing in my heart.

Overlooking the plains from atop a small, knobbly hill, the stupa was an odd mix of the old and new. Where the ancient one had crumbled into disrepair, the modern one had blossomed. A collection box for further restoration had been smashed in two, and then partially fixed with a Chubb lock. It was heartbreaking.

Udomxai - Luang Nam Tha

Robust, funny, and alcoholic: Poles make great travelling companions
The usual bus horrors compounded the journey to Luang Nam Tha, but it was somewhat relieved by the appearance of two plucky Poles. Because there were no free seats, they had to stand in the aisle, which allowed me to chinwag with them.

Coming from a relatively poor European country, Maciek and Thomas have been taking the real budget route: a huge overland route through Russia, Tibet, Burma, and China. Their non-nonsense approach and happy demeanour made the last hour of the ride fly by -- no tales about the best beaches or DJs or clothes, these guys were bollock deep in human rights, Communism, Dalai Lama and child trafficking. Okay, I made that all up as my journal doesn't record what we talked about. Needless to say, it was all great shit.

In Luang Nam Tha, at a guesthouse opposite the bus station we found a three-bed room for a dollar each. We didn't hesitate. Freed from our packs, we took a stroll before deciding it was time to find a bar. (Poles may not be the richest people, but that doesn't stop them being one of the world's chief pissheads).

The only place open that early was an alfresco restaurant that an hour earlier had been jam-packed with dozens of people. Since the tables were mainly empty now, we wondered whether they were still serving. One table was left with six or seven communal dishes, traditional Laos food still uneaten.

"Can we eat," I asked one of the waitresses.

"No problem," said the woman.

We watched her wind her way over to the table stacked with lukewarm food. Where were the menus? She came back carrying three of the dishes. It was then we realized we'd gatecrashed the end of a private party and were being offered the leftovers. Too embarassed to walk out after this show of generosity, we picked at the food, hoping we might be given Beer Lao to wash it down with.

None was forthcoming.

Apparently it was National Women's Day -- a day celebrated in many Socialist countries. What that woman thought of three men intruding and demanding food, I don't know, but after a suitable amount of time, we slunk away to another, genuine, restaurant.

Here we did get beer, and the night flashed by -- partly because the town only has electricity until ten. We stumbled home in the darkness, somehow able to find the guesthouse. In bed, I fell asleep instantly, waking up much later when I was dying for a slash. More difficult than you might imagine. No light and no familiarity with the layout of the room. With all the noise I made, I wouldn't have been surprised if Maciek or Thomas thought I was some wideboy Brit out to rob them while they slept.

Luckily they were too pissed to notice.

Men are scarce on National Women's Day

Luang Prabang - Udomxai

The 09.30 bus...leaving at 09.12
Sometimes travelling sucks. Today was such a day.

On the whole, the actual travelling part -- the physical ferrying of yourself and all your belongings -- is tedious. The biggest draws of all these planes, trains, and automobile rides is the sense of movement (and I don't mean over potholed roads or through pockets of turbulence). New adventures are coming your way. New experiences and new stimulations. The destination is an exciting, exotic place just a few hours away. Sometimes you might even meet someone interesting on the journey.

None of that happened today.

The bus station in Luang Prabang is a dust-bowl at the edge of town filled with ancient vehicles and crumbling shacks. That's fine. I'm here to catch a bus, not make an in depth comparison with National Express facilities. Except, it turns out that my bus -- the bus in which I reserved a seat less than twenty-four hours ago -- has departed and the next one doesn't leave for three hours. Apparently, when the bus is full it leaves. Sensible, really.

Of course, when the next bus does pull into the station two hours early, churning up clouds of dust that sticks to my sweaty skin, it's best to get onboard. After all, you don't know what time it'll leave. So, crammed onto the bus with everyone else in the midday heat, we waited. And waited. Eventually the driver deemed the bus full enough and we left. To give the people their due, there was a lot of camaraderie between the passenegers, which I was fortunate to share. Pieces of fruit and ice-cream were distributed round and I offered some biscuits in kind.

The journey was very monotonous, the landscape uninteresting. The only energizing part was the thought of the new town. Udomxai. Lonely Planet was particularly brief, leaving the cityscape to my wild imagination. A frontier town, I thought, full of hustlers and backpackers exchanging stories of danger and revelry, before heading out into the badlands or returning to civilization.

How wrong can you get?

Udomxai has to get my personal award for most charmless place I've ever visited. It's a two-dimensional place, having no buildings beyond those which line the main road that passes through. Rotton fruit and cheap electrical good vendors ring the bus yard. Stray dogs and buzzing insects swarm the broken pavements. The buildings it does have are functional, Communist style blocks, built and maintained with no love. I walked up and down the town, looking for life. If I could at least find other backpackers then I'd take a bed in a dorm -- even if the dorm looked like a prisoner's wing. No luck. It seemed everyone else had moved on or checked into private rooms and necked half a dozen sleeping pills to avoid the reality of this hideous place.

A small family run establishment caught my eye and I marked it as my lodgings for the night. The luxury room at $5 sounded just the ticket to leaven my sour mood. Or maybe that was cruel joke for gullible guests. The TV had one Chinese station, the squat toilet was underneath the shower, the A/C was broken, and a foul aroma permeated the air. Nice. When I asked if we could negotiate the price, the owner took out a marker pen and scrawled a number on the wall.

Maybe he was redecorating tomorrow.

I nodded, defeated, and took off my backpack. Inspecting the room I found the source of the smell: a box of rotton eggs in the bedside cabinet. Maybe it was supoosed to be a treat? The biggest thrill of the night -- between eating bad food at a nasty restaurant and checking my threadbare email account -- was dumping those eggs in another room. I went to bed vowing to leave this outpost of hell at the earliest opportunity.

This doesn't do it justice...

Breeziness and Betrayal

Children play cricket
Loudly in the temple square.
It's too hot for me.

Oak floors, plump cushions.
Sip Earl Grey and read "Medi-
-tations" while anger grows.

have you ever had to push push push push? biketrouble oh yeah!

Feeling energetic, I hired a push-bike and headed out of town. Where I was going, I didn't know.

After ten minutes of aimless cycling I decided I needed a destination. Fortunately, a road sign pointing to "Kowangsi Falls" appeared shortly afterwards, and I was set -- even if I was skeptical about visiting a waterfall again. I figured that if I could maintain a steady fifteen k/hr and provided the falls were within forty five klicks, I'd be okay. The first assumption was swiftly derailed when the route took me off the pristine highway and onto some dirt track. Along the dusty, pot-holed road, man and machine rattling in equal measure, my speed slumped.

And that was before the sun rose higher and the path got steepened! I consulted my Lonely Planet and found out that the falls were a paltry thirty two klicks away -- no problem. I must've riden at least ten already, so I pressed on, invigorated. Jeeps full of youthful travellers, lithe and tatooed, swept past, probably wondering who the idiot on the bike was. In turn, I wondered what was wrong with the youth of today. There they were, crammed onto hard benches, inhaling petrol fumes and dust, and missing out on the joys of physical exertion.

Fools!

Except, by the fifteenth kilometre I didn't think that anymore. What was I doing? My shoulders burned, my water was finished, and my ride was falling apart. The front brake, envious of the back brake which hadn't been working from the off, snapped, leaving me with no means of stopping except the old-skool foot on the tire trick. Then the rear bracket began to disassemble itself from all the jiggling...

Too proud to flag for help, I carried on, determined to make it under my own steam.


Luckily, fate intervened and saved me from heat exhaustion and/or bike homicide -- one of the jeeps that passed carried a couple from Hawaii, Brad and Sarah, I'd met a few days earlier. I waved in a nonchalant manner that surface-conveyed "I'm absolutely fine", but screamed underneath "Please help!". At first they didn't stop, disappearing round the next bend, and I cursed myself for my stiff-upperlippedness, but a kilometre further on I found them waiting at the side of the road. We hoisted the wheeled contraption onto the jeep's roof and I joined them in the back, grateful for the shade and the breeze and the water.

Kowangsi Falls didn't disappoint. It was multi-levelled, climbable, and studded with places where you could swim, dive, relax and watch. At the foot there was a deep pool where you could get under the falling water and have your body and head smacked about. I messed around here with the Hawaiian couple, dive bombing, and checking out Sarah who looked a lot like Denise Richards. Shame I didn't have the balls to take pics of his girlfriend right in front of him. However, this was somewhat remedied later when I came across four Swedish girls posing in one of the mini-falls higher up. What with all my ogling and rope-swinging and ascending, by late afternoon I was knackered.

Needless to say, I took the jeep home.

Vientiane - Luang Prabang

The sub-title of this post is 'Dope Heads, or, the Carnival of Human Stupidity'. That's right. I was at the airport today.

I don't remember this particular airport experience as better or worse than normal, but it gives me an opportunity to make a painstaking argument that if you want to witness homo sapiens at their most pig-headedly stupid then go to the airport.

First off, patterns of behavior aren't helped by the fact that everyone who goes to the airport is in a state of stress on arrival. Lone-travellers? Sweaty and fatigued from battles with the public transport system to the airport (because taxis are way out of budget). Couples? Aware that the relationship is going to endure microscopic investigation over the following fortnight, couples are often very tetchy. Families? Work/life balances are suddenly all out of kilter on vacation, and the ten nights in Corfu with the whole gang suddenly doesn't seem so appealing in the departure lounge. Only the kids seem to enjoy the experience, tearing around the shops and being the totally selfish beings they are, much to the annoyance of everyone else. The airport staff? Who in their right mind ever aspires to working at an airport? Do you do it for the scenery? For the relaxing vibe? For the easy commute or the hours? No. You do it because flipping burgers at Gatwick Grill is the best employment opportunity you've ever had. These people deserve double holidays -- maybe that'd help make them happier.

So, first step after you're thrust into the airport is to check your luggage in. You grab a trolley and steamroller your way through to your airlines check-in desk. Except there's five of them and no formula known to man that'll help you predict which queue will move fastest. Even chaos theory comes unstuck here. Oh, but there is one queue which is empty -- the first class/business line -- but it isn't open to the likes of you. So, you stand in line like the rest of the lemmings and watch the other queues move forward at an astonishing rate. Apparently you've chosen the line for muppets. Misplaced passports and tickets, overweight luggage, lengthy discourses about preferred sitting arrangements are the domain of this bunch. What you're doing here is a mystery until you spy the hand luggage cages. One piece only, and no bigger than a briefcase. Okay, that'll be my theatre of operations, you think, as you marshall your arguments for why you need so much stuff on-board the plane (because the 20kg weight allowance for hold luggage is pathetic and you don't trust the throwers..sorry, handlers, with your new laptop and other breakables). Sometimes, cunningly, I hide my second piece of hand-luggage at my feet or on my back -- try it! (Except it won't work with the current zero-policy).

Next, you have a choice. Do I go through customs now or later? Duty-free enticements and a slight feeling of superiority that you're one of the special ones (i.e. travellers) allowed over the other side, mean most people go through straightaway. The customs control is a kind of necessary evil that you can't get away from anyway. Here, the country's finest and brightest law enforcement officials apply their razor-sharp minds determining if your belongings pose a threat to the flight. Given that these guys are less sharp than the policy makers who've decided airplane food can be served with real forks, but not real knives, I'm not so confident. What are they looking for on those monochrome screens? How do plastic weapons get picked up by a metal detector? Can a person take down a 747 flight armed with a pair of nail-clippers? Why do you need my belt?! Enquiring minds want to know.

So, you pull up your trousers, put your shoes back on, collect your items from the seventeen receptacles that your belongings have been divided into, and stumble into the land of duty-free. What a concept! Cheap stuff! Except I have no more room, and buying my hi-fi at the airport doesn't make sense on so many levels. I shuffle past and go through the long corridors that wind their way to the departure lounge -- which never take as long to get to as the estimated times in the duty-free area indicate. It is here that the stupidity index peaks. Everyone is so keen to get on-board! Guess what? Flights don't leave until everyone is on board! Perhaps it's understandable for flights without seat allocation. Get on first -- get a good seat. But, then you think about it, and really, there's only three kinds of seat. Window, middle, and aisle. The row is irrelevant. Get on last and you'll still probably get the seat of your choice. You wanna get off first at the other end? Why? You can't leave the airport until you've got your luggage anyway, so you'll have to wait with everyone else. To my mind, it makes sense not to rush. The plane hardly has spacious seating. No one's going to serve you anything. The flight magazine can wait. I feel sorry for the airline staff in bright cagoules -- each appearance they make precipitates a sudden scrum of activity, which if it reaches a critical mass is unstoppable.

Why can't we be civilized!

And the best bit -- when the flight lands and the safety-belt lights go off and everyone stands up...for about ten minutes! Claustrophobia has never been so much fun!

Anyway, this flight was fine if a little turbulent. The landing was expecially cool, as the skies were clear and we had a great view onto the hundreds of stupas and temples that dotted the hillsides of Luang Prabang. And then, karmically, waiting to collect my luggage I got chatting to an English-Japanese couple, Duncan and Keiko, who live in Tokyo. We shared a ride into town, got on pretty well, and exchanged email addresses. I never saw them again in Laos...but I did see Duncan later...

Luang Prabang was low-key, or lower-key, compared to Vientiane, and I found myself alone in a trendy bar that night. I drank, taught the barman how to play chess (or maybe he was teasing me -- he picked it up fast), and ate home-made pizza. Kicked-out shortly after ten, I ambled homeward, still looking for more adventure.

It didn't take long to find...although "adventure" may be stretching it.

On an empty, dark street, somebody whispered something from one of the few well-lit sections on the other side. A little drunk, I didn't catch what they said. "Sorry?" I said, wandering closer.

"You want opium?"

I was being offered drugs. Cool! "No, marijuana," I said, still a good fifteen feet away. Subtle, this wasn't.

He came over and indicated that we should climb over the small wall next to the road. We did, noisily.

In broken English we did business, but before he bolted I explained I needed him to roll for me. He shook his head, but made up two spliffs before disappearing over the wall. Then I realized I didn't have a light. I climbed down to the street and went over to his spot. "Can you give me a light, please?" I said, making the universally understood lighter motion. I wasn't his best customer by a long shot, but he lit the joint.

The farcical exchange was complete when I inhaled and discovered I was smoking an ordinary cigarette smeared in opium resin. Whatever, I thought, and wandered home happy.

Laid Back

The Welsh guy, Richard, who I'd shared a room with for the last two nights departed for Vang Vieng this morning. I would've kept the room except for the bed bugs which had left a machine-gun of red blotches down my legs. I checked into another hotel and then headed out.

Searching for news on the internet, I discovered there was still limited information about the gunmen who'd attacked and killed a bus-load of passengers. What were their motives? How many gunmen were there? Was another attack anticipated?All these questions remained unanswered. Because of this I decided I might as well fly to the next city---Luang Prabang---rather than getting the bus. I booked a flight for the following day.

The rest of the day I fell into the gentle rhythm of the city, lounging and reading and then leisurely eating and drinking.

Some thoughts about travel types:

1. The Lad

The lad is typically a young male in the 18-25 age range, although older examples are occasionally spotted. For the lad, travelling entails transposing his weekends back home onto the entire duration of the trip. This means extended binges of alcohol and drugs---usually lager and weed---consumed in inoffensive bars hooked-up with cable, interleaved with days of comatose-like recovery when the lad does the sight-seeing bit. Always chasing skirt, and regaling anyone who'll listen about the threesome he had in Bangkok with a couple of dirty hookers, the lad is a fun companion in rare doses, but generally a complete bore for anyone whose interests are wider than beer, women, and sports. The lad is quick to find other lads and ensure that any burgeoning enthusiasm for history, language, art, science, and culture is quashed under cheap jibes emanating from the lad collective. Odd lads have been known to dedicate their travels to buying as many bootlegged DVDs as possible, as if the acme of a once-in-a-lifetime, round-the-world trip is the film collection they return home with. Willing to do strange and dangerous stunts in order to raise status in the group. Best avoided altogether.

2. The Cultural Observer

The cultural observer comes in many guises. They may be a pair of octogenarians or a single thirty-something. The cultural observer's MO is to do extensive background reading about the place in question---historical accounts, interviews, sociological studies, original sources---and then throw themselves into the experience whether its a temple excursion or an authentic meal at the house of a grass weaver. For the cultural observer the local people are often viewed as a necessary irritation in their quest to chart the cultural lives of long-dead civilisations. Polite and knowledgable, the cultural observer is an acceptable associate to have while travelling, but can be a bit of a stick-in-the-mud and usually disappears early doors to board luxury coaches and be whisked to satin-sheeted beds.

3. The Earth Healer

The earth healer is a traveller who truly believes that he or she knows not only the answers, but also the questions, to make the world 'right'. The earth healer has a very black and white view of things and categorises human activities into good (organic, natural, hand-based industries, sunshine, love etc) and evil (globalisation, money, high-technology, hatred etc). This despite the fact his or her travels are funded by either Daddy's rocketing corporate wage, or selling imitation Third World handicrafts like cow dung earrings and healing stones at astronomical prices and not returning any of the profit to source. The earth healer often dresses like a local and insultingly believes this impersonation extends to remaining unwashed for weeks and stinking to high-heaven. Changes philosophy of life like a DJ changing records. One day Vipassana Meditation is the route to spiritual wellbeing, the next Vedic Astrology. Fun on occasion, prolonged contact with the earth healer will result in a dissolution of all critical thinking followed by entry into some kind of scary drum-thumping cult.

4.The Shoe-Stringer

Money doesn't just talk for the shoe-stringer, it whimpers, cajoles, screams and whispers. The two questions the shoe-stringer asks when making choices on the road is how much does it cost, and can it be done cheaper? The shoe-stringer's affiliation to a strict budget usually comes not from a rejection of the capitalist system with its inherent paradoxical nature predicated on unlimited growth in a finite world, but from being incredibly lazy. In drinking circles the shoe-stringer always goes AWOL when its their round, but is happy in the drunken delusion that nobody minds. The shoe-stringer is easily spotted by their terrible appearance: a Happy Mondays T-shirt bought at THAT gig in 1986 or similar worn over their skinny physique like canvas over a rickety tent frame; disease-ridden gums from budgeting toothpaste off their essentials list; listless, staring-into-the-distance eyes as the shoe-stringer lives in a twilight world of reduced sensations, forever thinking about where the line between hunger and starvation is drawn. The remorseless logic of the shoe-stringers situation often means that they end up broke and reduced to petty thievery from rich, bourgeois [read 'other'] travellers. Useful for finding cheap places to stay if you don't mind roughing it, but remember to sleep with your valuables down your pants if you do.

Who am I? Well, a little bit of all of them I guess ;)

I've got a couple of other types to write-up, but would appreciate you telling me any I've missed!

Capital Dreams

Vientiane is unlike any other capital in the world.

In places it has the wide-open boulevards, historical authenticity, and self-assurance of any other capital, but the overwhelming feeling is one of tranquility and timelessness. The city isn't carved into discernable districts. There's no banking district. No shopping district. No entertainment district. The place is just a gentle amalgam of stupas, temples, monuments, embassies and unhurried commerce. For a capital, the streets are deserted. Few cars populate the roads---which are still being constructed even in the centre of the city. The buildings are generally single leveled, and a great expanse of blue sky is visible almost anywhere you go.

It's very relaxing.

At one point during the day I stumbled across Laos' National Stadium. Thinking there might be a national football team having a training session I entered the complex. Maybe they'd be a slim possibility of hiring the ground for a kick-about with the other travellers I'd met on the long bus ride here.

I poked around the dusty car-park outside the ground looking for the reception. There didn't seem to be one. However the doors to the stadium proper and the changing rooms were open. I could've wandered in and treated the place like home. Imagining doing that back home at Wembley made me chuckle. You wouldn't get near the stands, never mind the England dressing room.

Eventually a porter type wandered out. I rifled through my photocopied Lonely Planet trying to find the language page. Before I could get a chance to book the pitch using the basic phrases supplied in the guidebook---"Can I have...", "I'd like a strong coffee." etc---he disappeared back into the building.

In the afternoon I hired a bike and cycled up to the famous stupa, Pha That Luang. In Laos, the tourist machine isn't as well-oiled as other places and the temple was a fascinating snapshot of a site in transition from primarily religious to commercial significance. Worshippers mingled with tourists. Rows of historical artifacts were interspersed with tin ashtray stands. At the entrance to the temple grounds a vendor sold souvenirs.

Later I rode along the bank of the Mekong to a bamboo bar overlooking the river. The bar was like a huge treehouse with wooden tables and seats. Sipping Beer Lao, I watched kids play on a sandbank in the middle of the wide, lazy river as the sun set. They looked like they were walking on the water which shimmered as if sprinkled with petals of gold. Their laughter bounced across the surface like skimming stones.

Was I a spolit Westerner romanticizing an ordinary day, or was I witnessing something that we're close to losing in the developed world with our minds preoccupied by growth, productivity, crime and instant gratification?