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.
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.
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.
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.
Hell, they probably were doing exactly the same when they hung-out with me, the Oxbridge, physics nerd.
posted by Steve at 4:38 PM
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