I've had enough of goodbyes. I think I'm having a wonderful time on my own, I meet up with people from home, the inevitable goodbye comes and the loneliness creeps up on me, pouncing the moment they have left. I’m in Bangkok and suddenly stranded, isolated in a strange place, unsure of myself where before I was so collected, so confident.
Three days on, I'm in the small town of Vang Vien in Laos, about ten hours drive north of the border with Thailand, and I've hardly spoken to a soul. I’m still feeling fully sorry for myself. I know, however, that this is totally unjustifiable as I'm on my Big Trip, my Once-In-A-Lifetime-Adventure, and have wanted for as long as I can remember to do this on my own, so that's that.
This town is crazy. Bars blare out Friends repeats, episodes of the Simpsons and American blockbusters non-stop to keep the backpackers happy. Menus have “special” options (marijuana, mushrooms, opium) leaving most of the tourists in states of semi-awareness for the majority of the days (or weeks, depending on their weakness for the specials) they spend there. There's no culture to speak of, but there are waterfalls to visit in the craggy mountains and lush green jungle around the Mekong River, which you can kayak on or bob down in a rubber ring (“tubing”). I book a day of kayaking and caving and decide to come out of my feeble shell at last.
Three days on, I'm in the small town of Vang Vien in Laos, about ten hours drive north of the border with Thailand, and I've hardly spoken to a soul. I’m still feeling fully sorry for myself. I know, however, that this is totally unjustifiable as I'm on my Big Trip, my Once-In-A-Lifetime-Adventure, and have wanted for as long as I can remember to do this on my own, so that's that.
This town is crazy. Bars blare out Friends repeats, episodes of the Simpsons and American blockbusters non-stop to keep the backpackers happy. Menus have “special” options (marijuana, mushrooms, opium) leaving most of the tourists in states of semi-awareness for the majority of the days (or weeks, depending on their weakness for the specials) they spend there. There's no culture to speak of, but there are waterfalls to visit in the craggy mountains and lush green jungle around the Mekong River, which you can kayak on or bob down in a rubber ring (“tubing”). I book a day of kayaking and caving and decide to come out of my feeble shell at last.
And it's better than I could have ever hoped: I find the swing. The swing is a zip wire set up over the river, where you climb high (about 25 feet) up a rickety ladder and then drop from the top, hanging onto a crossbar and zzzzZZIIPP over the water. The rush is unbelievable; you freefall for a few seconds then grip the bar tight over your head as the pressure lifts you up and weeeeeeee you're flying and then ping you release, yelp and wave your arms for a few seconds until you land slap bang into the water crying, ‘again! Again!’ That's how my first try goes anyway, and then I can't stop. I feel like a monkey let loose from its cage. I'm tempted to make monkey noises as I swing but resist. The joy of the whole thing grabs me immediately and I know I have no choice but to return the following day and hurl myself from it as much as possible.
The kayaking and caving trip itself isn’t bad, and I meet some grand Irish girls who make it a lot more fun. The fact that every 50 metres or so we come across yet another makeshift bar serving tremendously cheap Beer Lao and complimentary shots of ‘Lao Lao’ (a horrible spirit made from sticky rice, usually about 70% alcohol), helps lighten my mood, though somewhat hinders our journey back down the river. As the town finally bobs into sight, my miserable (and sober) self is fizzing away; I look around me at the incredibly beautiful scenery and for the first time in days let myself sink into contentment.
Walking dripping wet and exhausted back through the town, we notice all the internet shops are closed. They were closed when we left that morning as the internet was down, which isn't unusual around here, but never all day. We ask when it’ll be back up and are ushered away, our questions met with shrugs and blank looks. Rumours are beginning to unfold that there's a terrorist threat on internet cafes in this very town as it's a backpacker haven, a mini Bali, a prime target. I am dubious, and frankly, at this particularly moment more concerned with getting showered and dry so we can get some food in our bellies.
Four hours later I’m fed and comfortable, sitting in a bar enjoying a few drinks, when men appear at the door with frighteningly large guns. We are all told in broken English to leave. This is more than a little unexpected. “It’s them again”, cries Leanne, the loudest of the Irish girls. Again? She divulges what little she can remember of the previous night, when they and several other tourists were marched home by gunned men after attending an after-hours party. Something worth mentioning earlier perhaps, I silently consider. The gunmen aren't uniformed and most of them look younger than me; they are just boys. We are reminded by the bar owner that (believe it or not) we are in Laos, a Communist state, and it is time to leave.
The kayaking and caving trip itself isn’t bad, and I meet some grand Irish girls who make it a lot more fun. The fact that every 50 metres or so we come across yet another makeshift bar serving tremendously cheap Beer Lao and complimentary shots of ‘Lao Lao’ (a horrible spirit made from sticky rice, usually about 70% alcohol), helps lighten my mood, though somewhat hinders our journey back down the river. As the town finally bobs into sight, my miserable (and sober) self is fizzing away; I look around me at the incredibly beautiful scenery and for the first time in days let myself sink into contentment.
Walking dripping wet and exhausted back through the town, we notice all the internet shops are closed. They were closed when we left that morning as the internet was down, which isn't unusual around here, but never all day. We ask when it’ll be back up and are ushered away, our questions met with shrugs and blank looks. Rumours are beginning to unfold that there's a terrorist threat on internet cafes in this very town as it's a backpacker haven, a mini Bali, a prime target. I am dubious, and frankly, at this particularly moment more concerned with getting showered and dry so we can get some food in our bellies.
Four hours later I’m fed and comfortable, sitting in a bar enjoying a few drinks, when men appear at the door with frighteningly large guns. We are all told in broken English to leave. This is more than a little unexpected. “It’s them again”, cries Leanne, the loudest of the Irish girls. Again? She divulges what little she can remember of the previous night, when they and several other tourists were marched home by gunned men after attending an after-hours party. Something worth mentioning earlier perhaps, I silently consider. The gunmen aren't uniformed and most of them look younger than me; they are just boys. We are reminded by the bar owner that (believe it or not) we are in Laos, a Communist state, and it is time to leave.
The next day I go tubing with the Irish girls. I know I should leave, but I ignore my conscience. It's an unexciting thing to be doing in the dry season, as we float along at a snail’s pace, desperately paddling with flip-flops on hands in order to move another inch along. I get reacquainted with the swing and spend a good few hours repeatedly jumping off the big marvellous contraption. The force of the falls from my failed acrobatic attempts leaves one side of my body glowing red, half a toenail almost ripped off, two contact lenses popped out (but one recovered!), several mishaps with my bikini top, bruised eyelids in three places (a thing I had previously believed impossible) and a very sore coccyx.
As the afternoon passes I conclude swing romance and take a step back. I see dozens of drunk, lairy foreigners showing off mindlessly and I feel the guilt creep in. I’m out to get my high from this toy on the river and it has nothing to do with the country I'm in.
That night it happens again. The men come to escort us from a bar and it’s only 10.30pm. Each night it has moved earlier, and none of the tourists knows why. Lao people are not permitted to discuss politics and they abide by this rule. So no Westerner gets a straight answer out of anyone, and all we know is that the country is politically unstable; something is going on. It's possible some Lao men were killed in a political uprising near Vang Vien but its all just rumours and they spread like wildfire, exaggerated along the way. An excitable Australian called David is convinced a few days ago a Canadian was “burned alive” somewhere nearby. I’m sceptical.
For the first time since I left the UK I feel the need to be walked home, not to be alone in the dark. It’s clear there is no terrorist threat, but someone wants communication lines cut and no news to escape. There are things going on that we can't know about and that they, whoever ‘they’ are - the militia? The police? - don't want the rest of the world or us to know about. The rest of Laos is more stable; the towns have their own life aside from the tourism, and it seems the activity in Vang Vien is an isolated event, which is a relief. I've never felt so unwelcome anywhere, or seen and been a part of such invasive hedonism. I am glad to leave. I am also, however, eternally grateful to the zip wire Swing of Joy that brought me back to being myself. The feeling of missing someone is still there, but this is a journey I do want to be on and these experiences are unforgettable, amazing, and I'm ready as I'll ever be for more.
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