Tubing in Vang Vieng and the day of the Jungle King

Vang Vieng is a place like no other in the world. Some of you will never have heard of it before, and some of you will have a rough idea of it. For the lucky few who've visited the town before, the mere mention of the town will bring back many happy memories (or perhaps some you'd rather forget). In the interest of those who don't know what tubing in Vang Vieng is, i'll begin by saying a little about it's history.
Only a few decades ago, Vang Vieng was a tiny village and farming community completely void of brick houses, roads, and tourists. The surrounding gigantic mountains and thick jungle make overland transportation difficult, and innovative farmers began using buoyant tire inner tubes to transport their goods and tools downstream to town on the Nam Song river. In 1989, Laos opened it's borders to tourists, and many used to stop off overnight in Vang Vieng on their way to the more popular Luang Prabang in the north. The surrounding natural beauty in the area is undeniable, and small numbers of tourists began to rent the tire inner tubes and float down the river. Originally their intention was solely to spend a day on the river appreciating the landscape, whereas these days, the landscape has very much become a secondary concern of those who visit. Primary concerns include the gross over-consumption of alcohol, the gross over-estimation of their own acrobatic skills, and gross over-repetition of terrible dance moves. The once calm wooded banks of the river are now home to a host of lively bars on wooden platforms offering free Mekong whisky, loud music, and precarious looking rope swings high above the river.
The increasing trend at the river in catering to drunk young tourists is now paralleled in central town. The narrow streets are dominated by shops, guesthouses, hotels and bars, from which drunken and half dressed westerners spill out into the streets all evening.

One of the smaller swings

The daily routine of most people in Vang Vieng is the same. The best way to give an impression of this routine is to tell the daily story of a typical tourist here, and i know of no more a typical Vang Vieng tourist than our Australian friend, Mitch. He wakes up at about 11am... with a headache. Stepping into the shower, he notices he's covered in spray paint from head to toe. Mitch has been here before, so he knows that any attempt to scrub the paint off will end in failure, because this isn't body paint intended for humans, this is clearly labelled for use on motorbikes. Paint stripper is unavailable, so he leaves the shower just as technicolor as he went in and dresses himself in yet more clashing garish colours, especially fluorescent greens and oranges. Mitch wanders through the morning heat into town for breakfast. On the way, the shops and bars to the west are sometimes broken to reveal spectacular view of mountains and paddy fields. Eventually he finds his way to a "friends bar", so named because of the tendency to play all the series of the US Sitcom 'friends' on repeat all day, every day. He eats his breakfast with his "morning coffee", or to you and me, a whisky and coke.
Eventually he summons the strength to head to the river, and after a short tuk-tuk ride he enters the first bar by way of a rickety bridge and is commanded by the enthusiastic staff to consume several more shots of Mekong Whisky. The daily pass time of most people who aren't constantly jumping into the river is a game called 'beer pong'. This is a drinking game originally from the USA, the basic aim is to make your opponent down their beer by throwing ping pong balls into plastic cups on the opposite side of the table. There are many ways to play and the house rules vary depending on which bar you're at, but the basic intention remains: to get drunk.

beer pong action shot

As his experience of the day slowly descends into delirium, he might decide to walk on to the next bar, (very few people actually use tubes any more) and continue with beer pong, dancing, and plummeting into the river from wings and slides. If he feels his strength is adequate, he can attempt to climb to the top of a bamboo pole set up in the middle of this bar for a free whisky bucket (which is basically half a bottle of whisky in a bucket topped up with lemonade and ice). In this fashion, it is entirely possible to spend a day at the river, have fun on the swings, have numerous drinks, and come home with the exact amount of money you arrived minus the taxi fare.
Eventually he'll hire a tuk tuk back to town and continue to drink at the same pace for a further few hours, roadside sandwich stalls are a cheap way to keep his energy up, and breaks from dancing are easily come by so long as you don't mind playing drinking games while seated.
Finally he stumbles back to bed, unaware of the time and most likely uninterested in it. At 11am he'll wake up and repeat.

Many people connect Vang Vieng with danger. Having stayed there for two weeks now, i can only say that this connection is entirely fair.
Wet season is between September and February, and its dry season right now. The staff at the river have a different name for the two seasons: Wet season, when the river is high, is known as bruising season. Dry season, when the river is low, is breaking season.
A lot of the river is less than a foot deep and the current is extremely strong in places. Occasionally the depth increases so there's a pool of water safe to jump in about the size of a trampoline, but the pool's always surrounded by jagged rocks visibly protruding from the waters surface. The rope swings are huge. If you let go at the optimum time, you're about eight metres in the air above the river, but its quite daunting knowing that if you don't land exactly where you mean to, there's a significant risk of serious injury.  Of course, if you have a level head and know what you're doing, the swings are extremely fun. We all had some great times flying through the air on the swings and flipping about. To be honest though, i probably should have had a little more training before attempting a double back flip, which landed me square on my stomach knocking all the air out of my lungs and sending me coughing a spluttering onto the riverbank.
It isn't enough to rely on your own sense to avoid injury. The structural integrity of everything by the river leaves something to be desired. When i initially tiptoed warily across the rickety bridge to the first bar, i noticed that most of the construction materials were sticks of wood with the bark still on. These are the sort of sticks you would expect to find amongst the leaf litter in an English wood, the home to a family of woodlice.
A few days later i discovered my worries had been justified when a storm arrived at the river along with me. Actually, it can hardly be called a storm, a forceful gust of wind is probably a better description. Anyway, whatever it was, it blew down a bridge connecting two of the bars further up the river, and near to where we were standing a huge permanent wooden canopy collapsed on top of a disgruntled sandwich maker. Fortunately she was alright, but i can't say the same for her sandwiches.
On a serious note, people do die at the river fairly regularly, and this is not kept a secret.  In fact, five people died in the month before we arrived, and although the deaths are nearly always a result of people being far too drunk and diving into the river where they are warned not to, it still serves as a powerful reminder to everyone of their mortality. Fortunately, most people are sensible enough to know that if they've gone beyond the point where they can't walk in a straight line, their acrobatic skills are almost certainly going to be impaired too.

On the final Wednesday of out stay in Vang Vieng, it was Ed's 19th birthday. We were all aware long in advance that the day would be a good one. I was staying in a hostel next door to the other three boys, so i had the benefit of being able to prepare him a surprise crown the night before with some help from the people staying with me. It's made out of leaves from the surrounding jungle, duct tape, two key rings, some cut up playing cards, and a beer sticker. You may notice that on the sides of the crown, the numbers 27 4 92 are written in cards; that is the date of his birthday.

In the morning, all of us at the hostel prepared our costumes by picking various bits of plant from the jungle underbrush and attatching it to ourselves. One of the friendly staff even cut down a young coconut palm so we could use the fronds for skirts and headresses. We fashioned a flag from an orange t shirt and some spraypaint, and then all of us went to the river together in full jungle costume.
Pictures speak a thousand words, so i'll leave you with these:

The keen eyed amongst you may have noticed the flipping blob at the top of the screen... That's our friend Mitch back flipping off the rope swing

And here's the grand finalle as the sun went down. In Olly's defense, as the jungle king, Ed had the authority to make demands of us all day. Olly had just finished playing naked football.

Two weeks in Vang Vieng is enough to kill a horse. We're going to Chang Mai for a detox.
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Water

I apologise for the delay in writing this. For reasons you're about to discover, my hands have not been dry enough to safely operate electrical equipment at any point in the previous week.

Luang Prabang is a sizeable town in central Laos, and home to two of the biggest national festivals. The first is in October and involves some kind of rowing race on the Mekong river; I can only assume it's like the Henley Regatta except with far fewer canapes and rice whisky instead of Pimm's. The other festival is new year water festival, which was celebrated this year on the 13th of April.

We happily albeit accidentally arrived in Laos just as the preparations were being made, and in speaking to our new Lao friend, Noy, we quickly became excited. But don't be fooled as we were by the word "festival" and all it's joyous connotations. What we had stumbled upon was much more of a "water war" than a "water festival".

On new year's day, the normally quaint and peaceful town of Luang Prabang is completely transformed into a anarchic water warzone. It's physically impossible to sneak twenty metres through town without being mercilessly attacked by hundreds of Laos children armed with water guns, buckets, bottles, and any other implement with which they can satisfy their sadistic urge to drench every living thing.

 

It's only the elderly that are spared the humiliation of a drenching. Out of a deep respect for them, they are permitted to walk amongst the watery madness unperturbed. The children are not granted the same right.

In fact, the kids here are surprisingly adept at warfare. They pick their ambush points carefully and surprise attacks are a favourite. I was absent-mindedly strolling along with a sandwich in hand, when suddenly I found myself surrounded by dozens of laughing children and a whirlwind of water. Before I realised what had happened, all that was left of the children was the distant sound of laughter and the pitter patter of flip flops on wet tarmac. All that was left of my sandwich was a soggy dripping mess which i could squeeze like a wet sponge. Enough was enough. We had no choice but to retaliate.

We resigned ourselves to the cause and sat stony faced in our room drawing up plans for the reactive strike. We prepared for battle in much the same way that the brave soldiers during the great war rallied themselves for a trench assault, and by that i mean we drink whisky.

The first battle plan was not particularly ingenious. We adapted empty water bottles by cutting them in half and lined them up on our balcony railing with the intent to throw cascades of water down on unsuspecting moped drivers and toddlers (War isn't fair). Unfortunately, after a few hilarious soakings, there was a huge telltale splash of water on the road in front of us, and pedestrians began to wise up and walk on the other side of the road. Disappointed but not giving up, we returned to the room and refilled. If the battle wouldn't come to us, we would have to go to the battle.

We charged into the street and were instantly soaked. Things had escalated in town. Water was no longer the only armament; now there were flour throwers, detergent sprayers and other random household object shooters. There were lone insurgents with burned woks, approaching from behind and then rubbing a charcoal like substance on the face of helpless enemies. We hadn't been engaged in combat for five minutes before we had been turned about five different colours. We responded with heavy fire and manged to push our position forward through the frenzy of soaked combattants and reach a tap.

 

If any of you have ever participated in a water fight, you will be well aware that control of the tap is the absolutely dominant position. It was certainly a reason for celebration, but our ecstatic faces quickly turned to frowns as we heard the slow rhythmic beating of a drum.

Everyone in Luang Prabang knows that the beating of a drum means one thing: You're going to get very wet. As the faint rhythm got louder and louder, people in the street began to scatter wildly. Buckets we refilled, hiding places were sought, and prayers were uttered.

The origin of the sound is basically the water fight equivalent of a tank. Well, as close to a tank as a pick up truck could ever be. Other than a drummer, the truck carries a giant vat of water, usually coloured red or green, and a dozen trigger happy and usually drunk teenagers armed to their proverbial teeth with buckets and water guns.

 

This cruel and usually drunk rabble travel down the road at snail's pace, laughing hysterically as they mercilessly soak the helpless pedestrians and cyclists they pass. It was not the first convoy of the type we'd come across that day but we were determined to make it the last.

Jogging along side the pick up we took bucket after bucket of icy red water on our heads. We saw an opportunity and all four of us managed to vault onto the back of the truck and were immediately taken in as members of the group.

Now it was us who beat the drum to signal others of their impending doom. We had a great day soaking others from our near-impenetrable mobile water fortress. The best defense is always to stay out of range.

Ha Long Bay

It's been a long time since we were in Ha Long bay. As a result, I can't fully remember enough details to write a good story about it, but i feel i ought to write something since the area is so famous and recognisable.
Not much needs to be said about Ha Long Bay other than that it was extremely beautiful. We spent many hours in happy silence on the roof of our junk boat as it glided silently amongst the thousands of limestone karsts, and many more hours below deck making idle conversation with a hilarious Irish couple and some lively Peruvians.
In truth, we weren't there at the best time as far as the weather was concerned. A dense fog lay heavily over the area for the entire three days we spent there. Visibility was restricted, but to be honest it added something to the impressiveness of the landscape. The karsts immediately next to the boat slipped past us huge and bright green and imposing, while those further away were completely shrouded in mist, just immense dark silhouettes looming in the fog.
I've just noticed that a sizable portion of this post is taken up by a description of the weather. I am therefore fully satisfied with the Britishness of it and will stop here.

Hanoi

We took an 18 hour sleeper bus from Hoi An to Hanoi. The journey was a particularly cramped one, but we were all nice and cosy, particularly Nathan, who had so little room he was forced to spoon with a Swedish passenger.

The city itself, with it's busy streets and numerous motorbikes, is extremely reminiscent of Ho Chi Minh City but on a smaller scale. Other than the size of everything, the principal difference we found was in the quality of the chicken noodle soup available on the street. Back in Ho Chi Minh we were spoiled by huge flavoursome portions with refreshing vegetables and tender spiced chicken. Up here in Hanoi you get a bland dribble of thin soup only made less interesting with a sprinkling of chewy noodles. Once all the inedible parts of chicken (thick rubbery skin, bones and gigantic pieces of gristle) have been removed, you are left with a vegetarian dish.

One thing that has impressed us all over Vietnam is the skill and innovativeness of the motorcycle driver to carry any necessary load.
 

In Hanoi we met our friends Sam and Gary from England, who were about to embark on an ambitious 2,000km motorcycle trip from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh city. They're documenting their journey on www.getjealous.com/samham if you're interested. The two of them had already stayed in Hanoi for a few days, so they took us to their local Beer joint; a cramped, extremely busy cafe with children's plastic furniture overflowing into the crossroads and blocking the path of many disgruntled taxi drivers. In an ineffectual effort to combat the traffic problem, the police would drive past at more or less hourly intervals and glare menacingly at the cafe owners. Everyone was then encouraged to stand up for a few seconds until the police convoy passed, after which all would return to normal.

The crossroad area was always completely full of people drinking beer, and apparently it owes some of it's popularity to an elderly resident living in one of the rooms overhead. During the war, she sat at her window with a machine gun and managed to single handedly bring down an American bomber returning from a mission, killing all 10 crew members. These days she's a local legend, yet the window she once used as a makeshift pillbox is now home to a washing line draped in baby's clothes and undergarments. It certainly looks a lot less threatening that way.

The following day while walking around the lake in the city centre, we accidentally stumbled upon a huge coordinated effort to capture a sacred turtle from the water. Literally thousands of people were gathered around the banks, completely encircling the lake and clambering on benches and trees to get a better view. The struggle went on for hours, and since we had no idea what was going on, we left after a couple hours of straining our necks. We heard afterwards that the mission had been a success, and the team triumphantly pulled in a 200kg 6 foot long turtle an hour later. The turtle is a member of a critically endangered species, and had been caught so that they could give her medical treatment. It is believed she is one of four such turtles left alive in the world.

Upon arrival in Hanoi, we were warned by some Australians that there's a vendor of extremely strong cocktails nearby, and we should take it easy there if we hoped to see any of Hanoi the following day. We didn't heed it as a warning exactly, really more of a recommendation, and sure enough that night we were sinking bucketfuls of fiercely strong liquid. As predicted the next day we found it difficult to make it out of the comfy hostel, much less to visit Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum or the infamous Hanoi Hilton prison.

We've promised ourselves to visit these sights tomorrow to make up for it. One thing's for sure, I'm never drinking vodka that is decanted from a 5 litre plastic container again... Well, I'll see how i feel tomorrow evening.

Terrible tailoring in Hoi An

As i mentioned in a previous post, Hoi An is host to an abundance of tailors and cobblers who will make pretty much any garment or shoe for a fraction of what it would cost in England. Unfortunately I wrote the previous post before Ed and Olly had picked up their branded garments. Ordinarily i would leave it at that; but since the garments in question are so hilariously bad i feel i would be cheating you if i didn't post a picture.
Firstly, I'll give an idea of the context under which the garments were revealed. Ed and Olly entered the tailor a few days ago with the intention of buying fitted jumpers and polo shirts with embroidered logos, or in their words: "Uni pulling gear."
If you are a member of the younger generation or if you have children of the younger generation you will know that the tiny logo on a shirt is exceptionally important to us. Ed and Olly both payed considerably extra to have emblems embroidered on their new clothes, excitedly choosing the Ralph Lauren polo player, the Adidas Originals trefoil, the Lyle and Scott eagle and most importantly the Lacoste crocodile.
The next day, the tailor was eagerly revealing the completed garments one by one. The joyful expression on her face showed how hugely proud she was of her handiwork. She was particularly overcome with pride as she displayed her Lacoste crocodile to Ed, and her eyes were searching his face for a sign of the immense gratitude she was expecting to recieve.
Instead, she watched  his face sag into a miserable grimace reeking of despair and disappointment. He turned to Olly and solemnly spoke the words "I think i might throw it in the bin right now."
Here is a picture of the atrocious imitation for which Ed payed 15 english pounds. For those of you unfamiliar with René Lacoste's signature crocodile, the original is in the bottom right.

 

Never have i been able to derive so much schadenfreude from such a small thing, and never has such a small thing been so embarrassingly conspicuous.

I don't have pictures of the other logos, but needless to say they were all horrifically obvious fakes, some of which made us question whether she had even looked at the real ones. Fortunately that night we were able to drown our sorrows in beer which cost 9 pence a glass.

To give her some credit, her Adidas Originals logo was almost certainly original.