My passport.  Pocket-sized symbol of freedom and citizenship.  Key to boundless globetrotting and all the intrigue, headaches, sights, sounds, flavors and digestive trauma that comes with it.  And now, sitting in an office in Vientiane in the hands of a middle-aged Lao woman with a stubborn lisp.  She’s procuring a few necessary visas for me so that I might avoid any repeat imprisonments elsewhere in southeast Asia, but it’ll be three days before she’ll be done.  I rarely carry the thing around anyway, sticking instead to a laminated one-page copy, though this will be the longest I’ve ever left it behind.

And thanks to a desperate need to get out of the city and explore northern Laos, it’s the furthest I’ve ever gotten from it as well.  Don’t get me wrong: Vientiane’s relaxing enough, and they bake damned fine croissants here, but three days of kicking about along the Mekong just because I’m waiting on a couple small stamps just doesn’t fit my overall agenda.

Vang Vieng and Luang Prabang seem like easy, passport-free choices [see previous entry for the basics about each].  In remote Laos, the small villages barely stand out in the lush wilderness, like two minuscule freckles  amidst a hairy arm.  But together they form a well-balanced Yin and Yang between frenetic, near-lawless excitement and serene,  spiritual languor.  With six days until my trip to Vietnam (where I would now be 100% valid, legal and presumably welcome), I decide to split my time between the two cities equally, before taking the painfully long and bumpy ride back to the capital to retrieve my things and go.

The travel agency insists that the trip to Vang Vieng is four hours; it’s closer to six.  Reports claim that the road from Vang Vieng further north on to Luang Prabang is six to eight hours, but sadly I never was able to experience this for myself, recovering from minor surgery as I did in bed in Vang Vieng in a state of fever-induced dementia for three days longer than anticipated.  The reasons for this will be made clear shortly.

Welcome to the Jungle

It’s early still upon arrival, and the full bus payload of confused backpackers stumble off the bus looking about for what passes for a town center.  The whole place is barely more than ten blocks from bottom to top, and only the most central streets are densely filled with hotels, restaurants and tourist stands.  Most visitors come to tube down the Nam Song River that hugs closely to the town’s border, though the river provides plenty of other opportunities for excitement and peril.

Backpacker-inspired maps are readily available everywhere showing every cave, chasm, rivulet and bike path both on and off the beaten paths.  The Nam Song splits briefly as it hits Vang Vieng, creating a narrow,  diamond-shaped islet.  Mainland hotels along the river run upwards of $25 a night, though private bungalows on the islet can be found for about the same cost.  The downside to this arrangement being, of course, that only a small wall of dry thatch stands between a guest’s sleep and the outdoor club-like atmosphere that carries on until well past dawn 365 days a year.  If  you can get past house music blaring into your room at five in the morning while suffering from one of the extreme, Vang Vieng-inspired hangovers, the gorgeous views and amply provided hammocks are just lovely.

Personally, I opted for a cheaper and marginally quieter route by staying a few blocks inland.  Private rooms with toilets can be found for less than six dollars a night, and most of the late night music that finds its way through the closed windows is as soft, distorted and muted into the background as though it were coming out of the headphones of a particularly thoughtless subway neighbor.

With enough alcohol, it’s easy to dismiss.  Harder to dismiss, however, is the loud, recurring thumps and almost harrowing screams stemming from the lovemaking sessions of some over-enthusiastic neighbors.  Their personal soundtrack was distinct enough that I felt like I understood them at some kind of deep, intrinsic level, despite never actually meeting.  Each morning, I’d surreptitiously eye the various couples sitting at breakfast like Columbo seeking to get a handle on the culprits but I was never entirely certain which ones were to blame.  Unfortunately, the fresh coffee evoked no guttural moans; the dry toast, no uncontrollable, meaningless diphthongs bellowed out at full volume.  The fried eggs were quite nice, though.

I start up some conversation on the bus with a trio of American girls in their late 20′s and two men, a German and a Chilean.  They’ve been in and around the same places together for a few days now and have established a group mentality that, while friendly, leaves me feeling a bit like an interloper.  Some travelers are immediately open and warm, while others are withdrawn, bordering on unfriendly.  This group cautiously hovers in the middle, and I feel similarly lukewarm toward them.  They are good companions in an unfamiliar place when flying solo, but we probably won’t be building long-term friendships.

We stick together like two quiet partners in a lackluster conversation, always peering about the room for something better, but never quite disengaging when it doesn’t show up.

No one wants a sit-down meal at any of the open multitude of open air restaurants with nearly identical layouts and menus – Lao and Thai food tossed into the mix with hamburgers, salads and reasonable approximations of pizza.  The street crepes are the easiest, quickest and cheapest, and the same vendors can blend up some damned fine fruit smoothies — try the mango — for around a dollar.

I get mine with chicken, cheese and salsa and then head with our makeshift group to one of the two rope bridges that slink over across the river from the mainland.  It’s a calm and quiet night for Vang Vieng.  Most of the nightlife takes place on the islet, but of the four or more outdoor bars there, only two show significant signs of life tonight.  As we sit on wooden benches drinking alcohol from a beach pail (mixed with the local laolao, each enormous bucket is only three dollars), firedancers and fire jugglers come out to practice, more than entertain.

Unlike in Thailand, none of these fire-spinners are locals; young, dredlocked white people dance in fire as much for their own enjoyment as our entertainment.  The German in our group has designs on the tall American girl, effectively removing both from the social setting.  Despite the help of enough beach pails of alcohol consumed to create a sizable pyramid if flipped over, conversation has dwindled down to a small trickle, and I decide to explore a bit on my own.  Only one other bar is lively and I make my way over, sitting down next to a Welshman in his late 50′s, who’s probably the oldest patron here.

While he’d certainly be out of place in any proper business setting, the Welshman doesn’t seem particularly intoxicated on anything, though he insists that the psychedelic mushroom tea he’d had earlier was working splendidly.  People pass us semi-regularly, tapping him on the shoulder as a show of closeness and friendship; he’s been here a while.  There had already been talk earlier about the famous mushroom tea, and how it was a popular way for visitors to enhance their tubing experience, and there’s no reason it wouldn’t be just as effective at night while just pacing about a riverside bar.

“People keep telling me to try the ‘happy’ tea here, but I just assumed it had weed in it like every other food labeled “happy” — it’s actually mushrooms?” I ask.

“No,” he replies, “the ‘Mushroom Tea’ is the stuff with mushrooms, mate.  ’Happy Tea’ comes with opium.”

“Oh.”

Based on what I’ve heard of opium, that’s probably an apt name for the drink, though I decline any sort of tea for now – green, black, psychedelic, earl grey, opiate-saturated or otherwise — and stick to healthier libations, like those made with copious amount of three dollar whiskey served in giant pink beach pails.

Talking to others, I get the impression that this is one of the slower nights here in town, though it’s only 10 pm, and things get started rather late on the islet.  The tubing experience apparently takes a lot out of people and early evening recovery siestas are quite common.  A group of people sit under a gazebo chatting excitedly and I discover upon ingratiating myself with the group that they’re Israeli.

All of the men in the group unanimously stare at me with something between distrust and dislike, but one of the girls takes a quick liking to me and we talk animatedly for close to an hour.  She excuses herself at one point to go to the toilet and two friends quickly follow, leaving me with a gazebo filled with people that is as cold and unwelcome as one covered in hammocks and sofa cushions can be.

I light up considerably as my lone friend returns, though her face is devoid of its earlier warmth and energy and she averts her gaze from mine.  Any attempts at rekindling our prior repartee are quickly rebuffed.  At last she looks directly at me talks to me, quietly, with a worried look in her eyes:

“I’m sorry.  I can’t talk to you anymore.  I’m sorry.”

She looks away again and the conversation is irrevocably ended.  Too many eyes are upon me now and the only reason for my sticking around has vanished.  The only bitter recompense is that she looks as down about the bizarre situation as I feel.  It seems like as good a time as any to throw in my hat for the evening.

Tubing Down the Nam Song

The group from yesterday is already up and drinking coffee and tea at the outdoor patio.  At 11 AM, it’s relatively quiet here, finally; as late as seven in the morning I woke to still find club music insidiously throbbing its way through palm trees and over thatched rooftops somewhere in the close background.

When the US government first tried to oust the Branch Davidians from their compound in Waco, Texas, they famously blasted loud music and strobed bright lights at them at all hours in a form of low grade torture.  If the Lao people are affected similarly by the occupation of their small, quiet village, it isn’t readily apparent by their attitudes.  Whatever this town once was, it’s clear that the economy almost entirely thrives on a unique blend of nightclub-inspired eco-tourism now.  And locals don’t appear to be any more perturbed or less laid back than their counterparts from anywhere else in Laos.

A Buddhist temple complex rests in the northeast section of town, and advertises for people to come interact with the monks on a regular basis.  The intention is to help visitors understand a bit about local culture while giving the monks practice time with English.  Advertisements state that the two-hour period happens once a week from 6-8 PM.  Showing a solid understanding of the program’s target audience, the description states that this is the best time to take a break from otherwise continuous alcohol consumption, during the brief period between daytime tubing and the all-night parties on the islet.

With breakfast officially ended, our small group ventures off onto the dirt roads of Vang Vieng and merge into the scattered flow of mostly tired and hungover people drifting lackadaisically along the same route through the city like bread crumbs down a lazy river.  One company — possibly run by the city itself — controls the whole innertube racket.  It’s a complete monopoly, but the price includes a tube plus transportation five kilometers northward to the de facto  starting point of the Nam Song’s wild ride.  The river’s much longer, of course, and kayakers get dumped in much farther north, but the tubing drop off point coincides nicely with the location of the first riverside bar.

We cram into the back of covered trucks while our tubes are quickly tied to the canvas roof above us, sitting in two dense parallel lines facing one another for the ride.  Two Englishmen greet me at once, dressed in the green serving aprons so wildly popular among Lao pancake vendors and purveyors of fresh fruit smoothies.

“Nice aprons,” I comment astutely.

“Oh, mate, you absolutely have to get an apron.  It might be the greatest purchase I’ve ever made,” says the first.  His apron in particular is irreparably stained and in far worse condition than the other’s, yet he glows with the pride of ownership generally reserved for purchasers of purebred horses and fine wines.

“We bargained for both of these last night.  The woman that sold them seemed just as excited as we were about us wearing them.  We haven’t taken them off yet!”

“Everyone’s gonna be wearing these soon…”

“I’m never taking mine off…”

The women accompanying them simply smile uncomfortably in silence, implicitly agreeing that the aprons have not been removed without imparting the same enthusiasm about this fact.

Hopping off the truck onto the rocky ground, I’m immediately saddened by my lack of light sandals or water shoes.  The sharp stones fill in the land along the river, and are uncomfortable under my soft, bare feet.  This is what is normally referred to in writing as “foreshadowing.”

My envisioning of the layout of Vang Vieng was drastically incorrect.  Oh, the drunken young patrons fully saturated in booze and an assortment of other chemicals are here.  There are people in tubes and lounged out over large outdoor patios with bars happily servicing them.  And as I watch a man awkwardly flail on a trapeze from a wooden tower thirty feet in the air that looks to be built with the precision and know-how of the neighborhood tree house, I readily admit that the death-defying (and death-causing) activities this river is famous for are here in abundance.

Where I was completely wrong was in my presumed distances from bar to bar.

Rather than a five kilometer drift down a river laden with the occasional bar-side rest stop, this is a cluster of mayhem all contained within a patch of territory less than two hundred meters long from start to finish.  Partakers in this madness, upon exiting a bar onto their tubes, immediately scramble, kick, splash and flail toward the next bar that typically lies less than 20 meters away.  And then, six to eight bars later [Note: the exact number is uncertain, both due to some bars seemingly merging with others as well as the relaxed state of the author and his counting skills by bar number four], buses wait to take crews of decidedly inebriated patrons — some in far worse states, physically, mentally and spiritually than others — back to the relative safety of town.

While possible to tube the entire way back down the river from the last bar, it is not recommended for reasons I will cover shortly.

An Australian man at the bottom of the small set of wooden stairs greets us with a knowing grin and a tray of shot glasses filled with Laolao, the official whiskey of Laos.  At two dollars a bottle — and that’s not even the wholesale price — they can literally afford to give it away.  The first shot is free, as are those given to any that dare the trapeze that taunts from far overhead.  On his bare chest is the number 67.  It’s the number of straight days he’s gone down this river.

Throughout the day we’d come across other, far larger numbers.  First in the hundreds then two-hundreds and finally a man with a whopping 372 days of straight river madness.

“I actually have missed a few days from time to time,” he confided, “but I didn’t include them in the final count…”

At the bar, all drinks are served, as in Koh Phangan, in pastel-colored beach buckets.  Standard mixers are available at higher rates, but if you’ll settle for fruit juice, red bull and laolao, a complete bucket runs about three dollars.  An attractive English girl, employing some of the best modern marketing skills, approaches each individual with hand-made headbands bearing catchy slogans on the front with the name of her bar on the back.

At the bar, I order my first beach pail of the day, with an additional query.

“How much for the apron?” The one in question is red, instead of green, and seems to be advertising some brand of instant noodles either aimed at Lao people, Chinese or both, according to the writing.  It also features a large pocket in the center that currently contains the bartender’s stash of loose change.  She looks confused and so I point for good measure.  ”Apron.”

“Haha.  You want this?  Ohhh.  Noooo.  This not for sale.”

“No, seriously.  It’s stunning.  I must have it.  C’mon.  How much?”

Her strange smile is both amused and befuddled at once.  She talks in Lao to her fellow bartender who looks a bit more serious when he responds to me.  ”She need the apron.  Can’t sell,” he says.

“I’m willing to pay… wait, lemme see what I’ve got.  How about letting me have it for [the equivalent of a dollar fifty]?”

She raises her eyebrows a bit.  ”For this?” she checks.  I nod.  ”OK,” she says, laughing.

She takes the money out of the pocket first, however.

I take a seat with the other apron-wearers both because they’re the only people I know here and because it seems as though we’re dressed for the same event.  They cheer with the same enthusiasm that conformity has inspired throughout history, from fascism to bell-bottom jeans.  By day’s end, at least two others will have joined the cause.

Above the bar, a particularly beefy individual swings down from the tower on the trapeze, making a long arch over the water before swinging back toward the starting point.  The trapeze itself is attached to a large, secure-looking post further upriver that hangs diagonally out over the water and is only marginally taller than the launching tower from where people jump.  Still grasping the trapeze bar tightly, the man reaches the far end once again where he hangs in the air for a split second before falling back downwards.

Finally, as close to a midpoint as can be gaged, he casually releases the bar and plummets about ten feet down into the river with a massive splash.

From the tower, a young Lao man pulls at a thin cord, retrieving the trapeze bar for the next jumper.  A row of about four people, men and women both, stand nervously waiting for their turns.  The Lao man passes the recently returned bar to a waifish young woman almost too short to grasp it without leaning uncomfortably over the edge of the platform.  Directly below it, the water is not as deep, and several large rocks are disconcertingly visible; a straight drop would be a distinctly unpleasant experience.

With almost no hesitation, she launches herself off and performs a routine similar to the man before her: two full trips to the opposite end followed by a release at the midpoint during the second return swing.  I note the similarity and one of the many people who have been sucked into the Vang Vieng lifestyle for an indeterminate amount of days chimes in to explain:

“There are actually some rocks at the far end so it’s not as safe a place to land.  And the momentum makes it harder to land comfortably.  If you wait until the second go-round and drop off around the middle, it’s a much smoother landing.”

We look up, rapt, as another man flies from the tower.  Almost immediately, he lifts up his legs over the bar and grasps onto it by the knees, letting go with his hands completely.  Upside down, he follows the same pattern as those before him before dropping down, quite gracefully, into the river.  From the deck, many of the eyes are filled with a nervous excitement as their bearers quietly consider having a go at it.  I recognize this look.  I saw it in Koh Phangan when they brought out the flaming jumpropes and more of those considering than not will likely be making an attempt of their own shortly, whether they know it or not.  Those little pink beach pails can be awfully persuasive.

With a fierce glow in his eyes, Nate — one of the apron-wearing Englishmen — jumps up, proclaiming that he’s making an attempt at it.  And as he does so, it immediately hits me that I’ll be doing the same soon.  Maybe not immediately, but suddenly I’m filled with the awareness that I have no alternative but to thrust myself out onto a trapeze despite a lack of circus training, to drop into a river that’s notorious around the world for injuring people doing exactly what I am about to do.  And I’ll be doing this not because I’m a follower — I am — but because the only alternative would another moment of fear an hesitation etched uncomfortably into my memories.

At 16, I stood ten feet up on a precipice, looking down into opaque waters below me in Ein Gedi, Israel.  As people of every sex and age darted past me, I stood, frozen and shaking while those around me cheerfully encouraged me to jump.  But in the end, I backed away filled with profound shame, as I had in so many similar situations before where fear paralyzed me while those around me brushed it away casually and passed me by.

If all my friends jumped off a bridge, does that mean then that I would?  Well, not if they died or maimed themselves, obviously.  But if they jumped and walked away from it, then my doing anything but the same is nothing but an admittance of my own weakness, fear and lack of confidence.  And despite how foolish these overcompensations for past failures from years gone by are, adding anything new to the long list is simply unacceptable.

On the Flying Trapeze

Cut to fifteen minutes later, and this possibly flawed and testosterone-filled way of thinking has me standing on a thin wooden plank, filled with an almost nauseating degree of adrenaline.  My hands grip the bar tightly, to the point where I’m acutely aware of my rapid pulse through my fingertips.  Yet somehow it still doesn’t feel tight enough.  Suddenly I’m convinced that I will drop from the tower and almost immediately my strength will give away, causing me to flail embarrassingly (and fatally) onto the deck below.  What if my right shoulder, so famous for inconveniently dislocating, decides that now is a good time to do so?

“You ready?” the Lao man says, with a mild sense of urgency in his voice; two girls have queued up behind me.  I can’t seem to make my feet push off, and the knowledge that people are waiting for me, watching, only increases my discomfort.  We’re so high up.  Too high.  My depth perception is woozy, making it hard to gauge exactly how far the river is below me.  Is this vertigo?

“Umm.  No.  I’ll go in a minute… Here…” I pass him back the bar, now equally sickened by my failure as I had been from the adrenaline-fueled vertigo.

“It’s not that bad, really,” a small woman says as she passes me on the narrow platform.  ”I was really scared yesterday, but the hardest part is just jumping off.  Once you’re in the air, it’s pretty easy.  And it’s really fun!”  She takes the bar, but pauses for a few moments and I can see the fear is still palpable in her eyes.  But they turn resolute and she flies off, propelled by gravity, a bit of alcohol and a fearlessness I’ve yet to master.

As the second girl prepares herself, I consider the option of backing out.  So far, I’ve only hesitated far longer than anyone else, but I’m still in line and potentially ready to go.  The platform extends downward behind me, away from the plank, before turning into a set of spiral stairs that wrap their way back to the base of the tree that houses this tower.

It’s meant to be a one-way journey, and I imagine the thick vibration of shame that would resonate through me with every footstep I made down.  Every foot down would burn itself into my memory, stewing and rotting for years to come, subconsciously fueling my self-doubt and self-loathing.

With such detrimental long-term effects, the recovery time for a few broken bones is just a small hiccup in time.  Granted, death, disfigurement and paralysis aren’t particularly pleasant options, but even with them in mind, I know without a doubt which way I’ll be leaving this tower.

No one else has queued up behind me, and I’m alone on the tower with the young Lao man who is currently in the process of reeling the trapeze bar back to us yet again.

“I’m trying again,” I say, without much enthusiasm.  He shrugs mildly without looking at me.  As the bar comes, he steadies me about the waist as I grab the bar.  Despite my height, I feel it pulling me forward as though the cables are too short, and wonder how less tall people fare.  The pull of the bar seems to egg me on even more than the steady gazes of people from below.  I move forward just a fraction of an inch, then retract.  False start.  Wait.  This is stupid.  It’s time.

And like that, I’m flying.

Gravity pulls me forward and down at an alarming rate, though my grip remains strong.  More than strong.  My hands and the trapeze bar are a single unit, forged together of the same material and inseparable.  The river gets closer and then suddenly farther away as I rise back into the air.  Momentum increases the pull on my arms sharply, but not enough to do more than distract.  Motionless I hang, waiting for the course to be reset for me, sending me back down to earth and water.

As I return back toward the tower, it occurs to me that at some point, the amalgamation of hand and bar will have to split and I’ll have to rapidly plummet into the river below.  But I still have many seconds to think about that, and the seconds are moving quite slowly right now.

Falling again, I’m heading toward the water.  Not yet.  Not yet.  Drop on the way back, they tell me.  As the trapeze reaches its apex for a final time, I know I’ll have to make my move soon.  I fall, slowly at first, but then with more and more momentum and speed.  The drop from the midpoint is ten feet or so, tops, but the angular momentum will add to that, propelling me like a human slingshot.

Now?

Now?

Now.  I let go, flailing my arms in the air to regain some semblance of control over my falling body.  It’s an involuntary act, and only later do I remember that this is the precise position my right arm has been in whenever it has dislocated itself from the shoulder in the past.  As I jarringly hit the water, I immediately know something is wrong.

The shock of the fall eliminated any pain the dislocation might have caused, but the sense of discomfort coming from the upper right portion of my body is enough for me to know what has happened.  Just to be certain, I run my left hand over the place where my right shoulder should be.  Nothing but a soft, giving pocket of flesh.

Damn.

People cheer as I come up out of the water, but I dismiss the cheers as though my botched landing invalidated them.  Ahead in the water, cement steps lead down from the platform, and it’s clear that this is where we get out.  Swimming one-handed, I make my way to the first step and then hobble out of the water slowly, my face scrunched up with worry and embarrassment.

“Nice jump, man!  Have a shot!” says the Ozzie.

“Can you help me a second?  I seem to have dislocated my shoulder…”

“Damn, mate, sure enough,” he says, looking at my motionless arm as it rests limply against my stark red apron, several inches lower than it should be.  He’s suddenly very serious and walks with me away from the crowd, setting the tray of laolao shots down on the ground.  I explain that I can usually get it back in, but I need someone to lift the arm up into the air into its normal position for me to do so.  He’s quick to do exactly as I instruct him.

The arm held properly aloft, I twist the arm inwards and with a soft, crunching sensation coming from my armpit, the arm falls back into place.  I hug the arm against my body gratefully.  ”Thank you,” I say, visibly relieved.

“No worries, mate.  You ok, then?”

“Yeah.  It’ll be sore for a while, but I’m good.  I’m good.  Thank you.” As has happened in the past, the experience saps much of my energy, leaving me with the drained but extremely content sensation that generally only occurs a few minutes after sex.

“Here.  Take one of these.  Fuck it, mate, take three.  Looks like you need it.”

“Yes.  Yes.”  I take three shots of the cheap whiskey.  It’s a terrible idea.  ”Good idea,” I acknowledge.

Moving On

Lemmings over the precipice, we fling ourselves with casual (and sometimes critical) abandon into our tubes, moving on at some unspoken implicit agreement that it’s time for some new scenery.  The pattern continues all day, as happening waterside spots with dangerous implements of aquatic entertainment become passé in favor of similar drinks and similar dangers just a few meters away.  The inner-tubes, supposedly the reason we are all gathered together, bear our shifting weights for barely a minute; just long enough to cool off or, in the case of the industriously desperate, warm up by sinking deeply into the tube to surreptitiously relieve ourselves of the excessive liquid that such behavior precipitates.

The second bar offers no unique opportunities for self harm, short of a beer pong table and the type of excess it tends to inspire, on top of already excessive behavior.  The game is ubiquitous throughout the United States in alcohol-soaked gatherings of college students and those with sufficiently arrested development to continue acting like them well beyond their college years.  I’m an average player at best.  Luckily, it’s only just starting to catch on outside of America, meaning that true non-American ringers are generally tough to find when abroad.

[Interesting side note: one of the best players I've ever come across was the diminuitive Chinese manager of a hostel in Yangshuo, China.  Those that beat her were presented with a t-shirt to celebrate the hard-fought victory.]

Max, a Canadian, plays about as well as well as I do normally, but from the first toss I can tell that my recently misplaced shoulder will be working against me.  As if punishing me for treating it so carelessly in my drive to overcome a cowardice that, with hindsight, might’ve been well founded, it now betrays me, providing about the same degree of agility as a wet scarecrow’s hay-filled sleeves would.

Aside from a few key shots, Max carries me.  I pretend not to notice.

More interesting than his gameplay, Max is recently arrived from Luang Prabang.  His prior location is of secondary importance to hearing that he arrived by motorcycle.  It’s my first indirect encounter with one of the infamous Minsks of Southeast Asia.  As one might guess from the name, the motorcycle does not originate in Laos, nor anywhere in the immediate vicinity.  During the Soviet era, the Belarus-born two-stroke motorcycles were the mechanical workhorses of the countryside, cutting through craggy dirt roads with the speed and reliability of a three-legged turtle.  On a good week, it’s been said, a Minsk might only break down twice.

Still, the reputation of the Minsk as a traveler favorite in Southeast has, like a pervasive whisper, passed subtly through the region in dirty hostel common rooms and the types of bars where whiskey is served in beach pails.  Little information about routes and buying information can be found on the Internet, but talk to other backpackers and someone always knows someone that knows someone that made a perilous Minsk journey somewhere in Southeast Asia.  Max was the first ‘someone’ I’d actually come across, and I instantly set to picking his brain about an idea that was beginning to fester its way out of incubation into the forefront of my mind.

“I left Luang Prabang about four days ago,” he tells me.  For perspective, the bus journey from Luang Prabang to Vang Vieng generally takes 7-8 hours.  To be fair, he spent a day around town learning to ride the bike; he’d never ridden a motorcycle before.

“Has it broken down yet?”

“Three times!  But it’s not so bad, really.  So many people ride motorcycles here that there’s a mechanic in every town, so I never had to push it long.  The one time the engine gave out where I wasn’t near anyone at all, I didn’t have to wait more than thirty minutes before some guys drove by with a truck and carted the bike back to someone they knew could fix it.  Really awesome guys, too!  I ended up staying with them for the night, and they took me out the next morning hunting for land mines with them.”

“But you felt safe driving it around here?”

“Hah.  Not at all.  The road south of here isn’t bad, but there are some really mountainous, curvy roads up north and there’s no railing or anything along the edge.  And bus drivers just do not care about you at all.  They come flying around corners and at best they’ll honk their horns to give you a little warning, but there are times where it’s just the truck and a hundred foot drop, with just about one meter between them.  Its… pretty insane.”

If I wasn’t sold before, Max’s story, against all common sense and rational behavior, has now done the job.  Another victory at beer pong and we notice the tide of people weighing down the small wooden deck seems to be ebbing in favor of the Next Big Thing.  A path leads out behind this bar to the next one by land, but this tubing experience is too short on tubing time as it is to go hiking about on land taking unnecessary shortcuts.

Happy kayakers pass by from time to time, a great majority of them Korean, experiencing a different and earthier side of Vang Vieng.  We wave at each other like alien races uncertain of how to proceed before our species proves to be the less kind and gentle one by pelting them with pieces of bananas and limes.  The Koreans do their best impressions of finding something hilarious.

Inexplicably, two or three Lao people stand on the deck of a bar on the opposite side of the river, rather than downstream.  A crossing would theoretically be possible, but gauging from the clientele, no one appears to think it is worthwhile to do so.  The current is stronger here and as our tubes miss the target of a bar that is nearly packed to capacity already, some Lao boys toss ropes out to us, rescuing our motley crew from a suddenly abstemious lifestyle by dragging us in.  Tubes are tossed onto a large pile with no regard for personal ownership; leave a tube, take a tube.

From a wooden platform loosely fifteen feet above the water and overlooking this new bar, jumpers — single and in pairs — launch themselves down into the water below, just feet from where new arrivals lumber awkwardly up the bamboo ladder into the bar.  The far more popular ride here is a zip line that runs parallel to the river for close to thirty feet until a jarring stop at the end of the cable.  Riders have the option of dropping down gently at any point along the line, or be forced from it violently with the speeding handlebar reaches its sudden and abrupt conclusion.  Those that choose the latter option invite a sensation similar to a head-on car collision as their momentum is halted in a split second with a loud thud, sending them flailing up, out and inevitably down.

My shoulder cries in its socket with every thud, and I avert my eyes from the entire section of the bar, focusing instead on talking with some of the regulars.  Mingled in with tourists like me are the regulars, modern Lost Boys (and girls) that came for a day or two and never escaped the easy-going town’s hedonistic pull, staying for weeks that turned to months and longer.

Magic markers spread graffiti over flesh without reserve — caustic in-jokes, signs and symbols written in code, invitations, denials and proclamations of sexual promiscuity.  A standard smiley face drawn somewhere upon a person’s body implies they are taken; a smiley face extending a tongue means the person is available and actively looking for attention of the lewd and lascivious variety.  By midday, even the safest and least error-prone people have no protection from being covered in black and blue.

The Mud Bar

All day the regulars have praised the next bar in line for its fondness for mud-based activities.  A small mudbath greets the recently arrived, though the true prize here is a mud volleyball court in the back.  Like many forms of entertainment here, its existence barely makes sense without a certain degree of inebriation.  Hidden below two feet of slick mud is a lumpy surface that varies drastically in height with the curvy regularity of a sine wave.  In short, it is nearly impossible to walk more than two steps through the court without wholly and completely succumbing to the mud below; an actual game of volleyball — though regularly attempted — is an absolute impossibility.

And it is here, at this penultimate bar that I, like so many before me, receive my crippling Vang Vieng wound.  It comes not by acrobatics gone awry, misplaced footing, unfortunate collisions with large rocks, overdoses of gravity or drunken mishap.  Not with a bang, but a whimper.  I am taken down by a single, unremarkable pebble.  The small, sharp stone pierces through my heel as I attempt to disembark barefooted from the tube, and I let out a soft yelp and fall backward gracelessly into my tube, exacerbating the situation by skinning the edge of my big toe as I do so.

A small oval of exposed flesh on my toe immediately starts to bead up with blood where the skin was ripped cleanly away from it.  It stings, but shouldn’t be a major problem.  My heel, at least by casual glance, is fine; there’s a thin slash through the center of it about a centimeter long, but no blood and only a bit of rubble that I’m quick to brush away.  Slowly, I make a second attempt and rising up and I’m pleased to find no pain upon standing.

The Mud Bar, as this place is casually referred, could only be located this far downriver.  The senseless flailing about in mud only begins to make sense after several hours of living the Vang Vieng lifestyle.  It’s fun, though a sense of exhaustion is beginning to pervade the air as overexerted bodies, minds and spirits begin to buckle under the weight of this delirium.  Mud flies through the air with reckless abandon, while new, short-term lovers surreptitiously writhe in the shadows after first cleansing their lips of any errant debris.

Tubes are due back by sundown and it’s nearing five o’clock now.  With less than an hour left to get back, my time at the last bar — notable due to a large, curving waterslide that deposits riders, at an angle, a good ten or more feet in the air – is short.  Despite shoulder and foot pain, I entertain the idea of riding it briefly until discovering that this one actually requires the purchase of a ticket.  My decision made for me, I return back to the water for the last time for an extended ride down river.

Buses leave directly from this last bar, taking tubers back to town for a small fee.  ”Can’t you just ride the river back?” I ask.  ”Long ride,” I’m told, as succintly as possible.  There’s an hour or so left before dusk and I see no need to cut my tubing time short.  It’s what I came here for, after all.  My apron-wearing friends don’t seem to agree, however, and I start my long trip back to town alone.

The idea might not have been a bad one a few hours earlier.  But the remaining hour of sunlight is deceptive; a line of small mountains follows along the river, and just minutes after setting off on my own, the sun disappears behind them and the air cools by what feels like 20 degrees.  The shivers set in immediately and as I slowly pass each bend in the river only to discover a large stretch of river with the land that runs along it devoid of houses, people or even hints of civilization.  The other unfortunate tubers that chose this route and myself realize at once we’ve made a terrible mistake.

“Oh my God, that feels so good!” shouts one of the other stragglers.

“What?”

“I just pissed myself and it’s so warm!”

It’s at once a terrible and fantastic idea, and I release my surplus of urine without even an inch of submersion into the tube.  It’s an unpleasant yet so welcome respite from the cold, but any benefit from the personal defilement refuses to last for more than ten to fifteen warm seconds.  Luckily or not, the long ride would allow for two more quick, warm breaks breaks from the cold provided by my own biological processes.

Forty minutes in, a Lao man on a powered canoe starts to dart by me and I call out to him in hope of a ride.  It takes a bit of negotiation, but eventually he agrees on a price for myself and another nearby tuber that was still cheaper than the alternative bus ride.  The savings does not, in any way, make me feel good about avoiding said safe, quick and easy alternative.

Vang Vieng never seems fully asleep, but the hours from six to nine at night are particularly calm as things go here.  Quick naps often turn into longer ones, while those with less need of recovery time seek dinner or other forms of relaxation.  At barely more than four dollars for an hour-long massage (called a “Lao Massage,” it doesn’t seem particularly different from those given in Thailand or Vietnam), it’s one of the best massage prices in the world.  After a hard day on the river and still too awake from the cold water to nap, it seems like the best way to kill an hour.

Back on islet I meet up with new friends from earlier.  Most people have a tiredness in their eyes but look ready to power through; I’m not so energetic.  After an hour or so of casual socializing, I excuse myself to have another chicken and cheese crepe from a street vendor who procured my business by calling me “handsome.”  And then I collapse into a fitful night of strange and unusual dreams.

A Slow, Painful Deterioration

In one dream, a hulking rabid dog leads me through a dark forest to what will surely be a gruesome and unavoidable doom, yet I’m resolutely compelled to take no action to escape.  In another, I make my livelihood whittling wooden gnome-like figurines that no one has any interest in purchasing; they’re poorly crafted and unattractive, so I’m not really surprised by their unpopularity, but I keep working away at them nevertheless.  Now I’m lost on an icy plateau, unprepared and underdressed, with no hints of civilization in any direction.  I wake with a strong urge to urinate and discover the bed-sheet fully soaked in sweat to its every corner.

Stepping down from the bed, my right foot touches the floor lightly then jerks back upwards involuntarily from a crashing wave of nauseating affliction, as though a large splinter had bypassed my skin entirely and lodged into bone.  The foot’s warmer to touch than the rest of my body, and slightly swollen as well.  Testing the threshold of pain, I set it lightly down once again and it fills instantly with an agony that seems to course through my entire foot, radiating outward from the center.  Softly limping to the toilet, each footstep provides a dull jolt of teeth-gritting pain.

Throughout the night, fevers burn through me then break in a torrent of sweat, only to return again shortly afterwards.  Each step I take with my right foot is less comfortable.  Could I have inadvertantly broken my foot and only noticed now?  Without much internal debate, I know I’ll be visiting the hospital shortly after dawn.

Vang Vieng Hospital stands out like an anachronism in the southern part of town.  While not new or particularly impressive looking from outside, the hospital is significantly more modern than orderly than anything else in the wild little town.  Despite severe walking pain, it doesn’t take long to reach the hospital complex.  The miniscule nature of Vang Vieng makes it so few things are more than five minutes walking — or even limping – distance from each other.

Despite common reputations about “third world” hospitals, the hospital is clean and orderly and the nature of the tubing experience makes it so visits from tourists are common and expected.  The nurse’s English is clumsy and slow, but far better than my Lao, and she’s quick to grasp the nature of my symptoms.  No breakage.  Possible infection.  She cleans both cuts on my foot and applies bandages while the doctor finishes wrapping a sling around the arm of an Australian man.  Behind him stands a woman — likely his girlfriend — glaring at him with a mixture of concern and contempt.

“What happened?” I ask.

Before he can answer, the girlfriend speaks out: “What happened is he’s a dumbass.”

The man looks like he’s about to say something, then closes his mouth and nods his head in acquiescense.

“He was drunk, and just walked off the deck of one of the bars like an idiot, and now he’s busted his elbow.”  I pity the man for multiple reasons.

“Ahhhh, it’s not that bad, really.  But I was pretty stupid.  Hit those rocks pretty hard.  It’s a good thing I can’t remember anything.”  At this, the girlfriend coughs out an exasperated sigh.

The nurse finishes her handiwork, having fully wrapped up not only the two cuts I was aware of on my right foot, but another on the left that I’d missed entirely.

“You take medicine?  Antibiotic?” she says, with a questioning tone.

“Umm.  Should I?”

“I think so,” she says, still looking at me for an actual affirmation to her diagnosis.

“Yes.  Yes I will.”

She walks with me to the hospital’s pharmacy and procures two packets of pills to be taken regularly for the next week, then guides me back to the main office to present me with a bill for services.  Total cost, including medicine: Just under two dollars.  The slow, lumbering walk back to my room saps me of the last of my strength and I collapse into a deep unconsciousness as soon as my body touches down on the still-damp bed.

For twenty four hours, I burn through an ever-worsening cycle of fevers and pain.  Some bread that I’d hastily purchased on the way home from the hospital earlier is my only meal, and even still I can only take in small nibbles at a time.  In a recurring dream, my body’s health has been scientifically linked to the state of the global economy and a great depression worsens with every degree my temperature rises.  Upon waking to the dull thumping of techno music in the background, my violent shivers become tinged with guilt for the selfish nature of my illness and the effects I’m uncontrollably visiting upon the world.

My foot was now swollen to twice its normal size and hot to the touch, and it refused to accept weight of any kind.  Worse, the pain shot out from the arch, rather than the heel, where I expected the infection was spreading from.  Hopping to the bathroom, even the soft thump of hitting the floor with the left foot sent a blast of unavoidable pain through me.  Another visit to the hospital is direly needed, but dawn is still hours away.

Between my repeat visit and the look of visible anguish on my face, the nurse tells me that I’ll be meeting with the doctor this time.  She guides me into the emergency room, where a man — also Australian — lays prostrate and moaning on a stretcher while the doctor attempts to explain his sad situation to him.

“See, you have broke your collarbone,” the doctor explains, pointing at the chart.  The break is clean and so devestating that I can see the wide gap in his left collarbone from across the room.

“Ughhhahhhhh.  Ohhh nooo.  Noooo,” he cries out.

The doctor starts to speak again, but the Australian has more to add.

“AhhhhhAHHHHH!  Fuck!  Ughhh.”

“Yes,” the doctor says, “it is very bad.”

“Ugh Ugh hhhhh Well what can you do?  It hurts.  It hurts so pfppfff BAD.  Nmff.”

“There is nothing I can do.  We are a small hospital.  You have to go to Vientienne.”

“PfffWHAT??  You’ve got to do something!  Doc– You.. You.. Whatever you can do here, please.. MaahhHHHH”

“No, I cannot do anything here,” explains the doctor, preparing to give even more good news.  ”Probably Vientienne, but even there maybe they cannot help you.  Maybe you will have to go to Bangkok.”

“NOOOOOO.. Fucking.  Fucking Bangkok.  I can’t go to fucking Bangkok!”

“I am sorry.  You can get an ambulance to Vientienne, but it is very expensive.”  He quotes a price that works out to close to two thousand US dollars, evoking yet another moan from the injured man.  ”You can also take the bus, but it might be uncomfortable for you.”  This is putting the situation mildly; the road between Vang Vieng and Vientienne is unpaved and unmerciful.  The man cries to himself for a bit while the doctor lets this information sink in.  I offer to get his friends for him, but he says they already know he’s here.

“Can you at least give me some painkillers, doc?”

“Yes,” says the doctor, delivering his first good news of the day.  My foot burns with pain and I’m acutely aware of my own fever, but suddenly my situation doesn’t seem as bad.

The doctor walks up to the edge of the bed and gently lifts my foot into the air, applying pressure in various places and eliciting whimpers of varying power from each touch.  He then examines the gash in my heel for several moments before finally putting the foot back down.

“Nothing is broken.  You have pieces of rock in your foot and there is infection.  The river is very dirty.  I need to cut into your foot and take out the pieces.”

News that the injury is minor is taken well, though I’m less than ecstatic about having my foot be dissected.

“Do you any anasthetic?” I ask.

“Yes.  I will put three shots of anasthetic into your heel.  It will probably hurt some.  Then I will have to cut into the heel to get all the pieces out.”  His style is emotionless and matter-of-fact; I appreciate it.

I don’t appreciate the shots as much, despite what they will be doing for me.  The thin needles pierce directly into the delicate nerve centers of my feet and evoke sharp exhalations, gritted teeth and clenched fists.  Almost immediately the heel goes numb and he begins his work.  My view is blocked, but there’s a distinct sensation not of cutting but of unnatural tugging taking place.  The white tissue that my foot rests upon quickly saturates with a dark red flow of blood.  With tweezers, he seems to be removing things from inside me, and far more than I would’ve expected.  I would rather him him be overly thorough now than ever have to go through this again.

After five minutes or so, he tells me I am healed and his confident wording functions as a natural soporific.  I do feel better.  He tells me I can walk on the foot without difficulty, but I should not even come close to putting it in the water of the Nam Song.  In addition to painkillers, he provides me with some iodine, instructing me to wash the open wound out twice a day and flood it with the iodine.

It’s not clear whether the surgery — costing less than eight dollars, by the way — had an immediate healing effect or if my body was already on an upswing, but the foot already appears smaller and the pain and fevers are minor when present at all.

I’m still bedridden all day with a light diet of bread, water and house music, but the situation has devolved from karmic punishment to sobering inconvenience.

For the three remaining days that would’ve otherwise been spent by me in Luang Prabang, I gradually make my way out of the reclusive seclusion of my bedroom and into the nearly identical restaurants throughout town that, at any given time, will be playing either The Family Guy or Friends.  There are no other options; both shows are ubiquitous and playing on the large flat-screen televisions from each place’s opening until well past closing.  It’s unknown whether these shows are beloved by the Lao people, or simply safe favorites for the tourists.  With no mobility or safe activities to take part in, I spend two meals with the Griffin family and four with Monica, Joey, Chandler, Ross, Rachel and Phoebe.  It’s a true Lao experience.

After a week of horizontal living and subsisting on Larb (a tasty local dish made from ground beef, chilies and mixed greens), I’m ready to travel, returning to Vientiane for just a day before catching a flight to Hanoi for a second time in barely more than a week.  Weakened and humbled by my trying week along the Nam Song, I sincerely hope they’re more welcoming this time.

I try take the overall experience in stride, but I’d had such hopes for Vang Vieng and so many of them were left unfulfilled.  I’d looked forward to tubing down the river for some time, but there are so many options here, and while I could’ve been biking, caving, trekking or kayaking (and thus, dodging small bits of bananas and limes), I was confined to a thin mattress, American sitcoms, minor bodily harm and forced solitude.  On the positive side, if I’ve truly managed to work out all of this trip’s injuries right here in Laos, I should be fine motorcycling across Vietnam, right?

I’d be finding out in just a few days.