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Nam Song
This peaceful river gurgles over cobble-like stones, wending its way through the countryside and past our little bungalow compound. From chill-out town to chilly town
Tracing our steps back down the mountains from Luang Prabang, we reached Vang Vieng. The town itself is nestled onto the banks of the Nam Song river, with spectacular karsts reaching into the sky on the opposite banks like the skulls of dragons rearing from the flat farming plains. The drama increased every evening as the setting sun swept shadows between the formations and the failing light turned the sky in between every indescribable colour you never imagined. Rainy mornings clouded the karsts in mist which melted as the sun grew stronger, and the green grass on the banks grew more verdant with each shower. We stayed at a cosy bungalow compound on the river with views of the surrounding mountains and found it hard to leave.
When we did, though, it was a lovely amble into the town itself, where the streets were lined with internet cafes, TV bars blaring out
The Family Guy or
The Simpsons with fellow travellers slouching on the cushions nursing hangovers and eating crappy Western food. But the town seemed to have a sleepy daylife and a more boozy nightlife, encouraged by afternoon tube rides
Karsts in the dusky light
We never tired of these serene displays. down the river, which is lined with bars that pull you in for a beer or a whiskey. On our first wander into town we were witness to a bunch of backpackers arriving back from their tube ride. The overloaded tuk-tuk screeched to a halt, a torrent of decently wasted, obscenity-wielding thrillseekers spewing forth from the tiny machine and proceeded to macho it up on the street, hollering about killing and smashing someone. Hardly the chilled-out vibe we'd heard so much about. It seems the put-your-feet-up atmosphere that's lured travelers to lose time in Vang Vieng could be in danger of becoming a memory as more and more trashy tourists turn up with a 'just here for cheap beer' attitude.
Unfortunately sensitive stomachs were out in force in Vang Vieng. By the time we were fit enough for a tube ride, the weather turned frosty. We missed our chance for bobbing along the waterways in the rubbery grip of a tractor inner tube, but we did spend a few hours lazily exploring the surrounding countryside by moto. The only maps in town are line drawings, but a lot of the fun is just hooning around passing neat villages with
View from our bungalow
Misty mornings roll back to reveal the karsts and sunset drenches them in shadowy light. their well-kempt gardens and dusty schoolyards, trying to guess which squiggly line you're supposed to be on. The countryside is open and fresh, with the other-wordly karsts looming at the edges of the farmland. Every so often we'd pass another couple of tourists puttering along, coming back the other way or wobbling over a dodgy looking bamboo bridge to reassure us that if we were lost, then at least someone else out here was lost too.
Our next jaunt saw us heading for the hills again, this time to the north-west to Phonsavan to see the Plain of Jars. A friend from school, Tony, had sent me a postcard from the Plains a few years back and I remember thinking how weird they were. Tony seemed less than impressed and reports from various sources indicated much the same. But in spite of our low expectations, the prospect of a 10-hour ride by public bus from Vang Vieng and the possibility that once we got there the only way to see the Jars was by organised tour, we persevered.
The bus ride turned out to be one of the most spectacular and enjoyable. The bus was almost empty and
we had rows to ourselves. Our fearful images of the public bus being an ancient, rusting, tractor-like machine with exposed parts and no suspension were swept away on sight of our new, air-conditioned, padded-seated coach. The bus was all but empty (save the armed security guard snoozing on the back seat, his rifle periodically slipping from his grip and careening noisily down the aisle) and Duncan and I stretched out over two seats each and enjoyed the scenery.
Phonsavan is high, almost as high as Luang Prabang, but for some reason a hell of a lot chillier (we used our powers of deduction to guess that perhaps it was the horrific snow storms in China dropping the temperature). It was brisk when we got off the bus and whisked away to our guesthouse, but when we re-emerged after showers and a rest, ready to find a motorbike and suss out a trip to the Jars sites, we were quickly forced back to our room to dive under the doona and spend the night watching sit-coms. Thus, the night-life of mid-week Phonsavan went untested by us.
The following day was a fine example of our truly poor navigational skills.
Afternoon light
The scenery was utterly spectacular. Despite a map (admittedly hand-drawn by our motorbike's owner, who also instructed us that the moto was to be used 'only for tourism to Jars not for opium or guns') and enormous road-side signs directing us towards the Jars sites, we managed to get magnificently lost. The first site was easy enough to find, as was the waterfall nearby, but a wrong turn at a four-way intersection took us riding through some very rural villages, along dirt gullies that were apparently roads.
Eventually we found the second Jars site (check out the picture below with Duncan astride the moto - we could be forgiven for not recognising the road as the main drag towards one the country's main attractions) we were pleasantly impressed. The Jars are a bit of a mystery - their function can only be guessed at, as with their age. They're just big, stone jars littering the landscape - the largest is about two metres tall and weighs about six tonnes. We had the site to ourselves and wandered around (careful not to stray off the path - the land around the sites have been visually cleared of landmines but there's no knowing what lies under
Us on the road
Mid-way through a day's moto-exploring. the soil) and enjoyed the fact that the jars are just there, amongst the trees on a hill.
Back in town we stopped in at the Mine Action Group (MAG) information centre near our guesthouse. MAG clear landmines and unexploded ordinance (UXO) from Laos, somewhat of an uphill battle considering Laos holds the dubious record for being the most bombed country in the world. The statistics are unsettling to say the least: to quote MAG "It has been estimated the US dropped one planeload of bombs on Laos every eight minutes for nine years. This is equivalent to ... more than one tonne for every person in the country at the time". There's no telling how much of this ordinance failed to detonate upon impact. Many local farmers, who previously made their income farming opium poppies (now forbidden), have turned to gathering scrap metal to make money. Thousands of people are killed and injured every year collecting UXO from their land. It's a truly horrendous situation that impacts heavily upon the locals here and MAG are doing honourable and commendable work to help these people regain some safety.
That night, as we trundled back to Vientiane on the
Vang Vieng countryside
Flat plains and the sudden limestone karsts. overnight bus, it chilled me to look out the window into the blackness and wonder what dangers were still hidden beneath the beautiful, moonlit hills, and wonder how very long it would take to make them safe again.
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dog gone
m j a
Enjoyable read!
Great writing.