Riding Solo in Pai

I wasn't entirely sure what to expect, coming to Pai on my own. My decision to come here was made because of a single sentence i heard from a friend in Vang Vieng. She had said, "Stay over the bamboo bridge, it's really nice".


I spent the bus journey speculating on what I might find in Pai, and eventually we rolled up outside a tourist office on a drab, uninteresting street barely visible through a thick blanket of rain. Determined to find the fabled bamboo bridge, I plodded through the rain for a long time, passing plenty of concrete bridges but no bamboo ones. Everyone I asked seemed much more interested in getting out of the rain than aiding me in my quest.


As i walked, Puddles became ponds, and ponds became oceans. I found myself making choices at crossroads based on which way i was least likely to drown. Promptly the sun abandoned me, it dipped behind the mountains and I was left half blind to everything but the silvery veil of rain around me. I didn't let my near loss of sight discourage me, failure was not an option, and eventually I found a sloping muddy road with a sign: "bamboo bridge".


This revelation had me practically skipping through the mud in jubilation, but my elated mood was ruthlessly murdered by what i found at the bottom of the slope. All that remained of the bridge were the two broken ramps on either bank, and between them was nothing but a hopeless expanse of muddy brown water. Presumably the fast flowing river had carried it away some time ago, and what made it worse was that i could see the fabled bungalows on the other side, they did indeed look "really nice".


I stood for a few minutes staring ahead with a scowl on my face as if the river had personally insulted me, before squelching back to the centre of town and checking in the first guesthouse i stumbled across. The walls were paper thin and I was not provided with a mosquito net. Normally I wouldn't really have minded about the net, but it's a necessity rather than a luxury here, because Pai is home to an abundance of the bloodsuckers worthy of a biblical plague. After smothering myself with mosquito repellent, I lay down with my book, but that comfort was short lived since the couple in the room next to me began copulating loudly almost immediately after i lay down, making it impossible to imagine what was going on in my book. They finished and I fell quickly to sleep, becoming an unconscious blood banquet for the group of insects circling menacingly overhead.


I wasn't discouraged by my train wreck of a first evening, I had faith that things would get better, and they did. Much better.


The next day the sun was high in the sky. For the first time I could see what was around me, a busy little town surrounded by farmland and spectacular mountains. It seemed to be the thing to do to rent a bike here, and so I found a rental shop and chose a sturdy looking road bike for one pound. I decided to call my steed Kevin, for no particular reason other than that he looked like a Kevin.


After aimlessly cycling around the countryside, admiring the stunning views, I met a group of people and amongst them was a tall German man with shaggy hair named Danny. I think I ought to tell his story here since he's so modestly unwilling  to tell it himself. Danny has hardcore beliefs about sustainability. For example, he doesn't eat farmed meat on the grounds that every cow farmed is fed in its lifetime multiple times it's weight in grains that could be put to better use feeding the hungry. He isn't intrusive with his opinions, and gives them only when asked.


Upon meeting Danny, it would be easy to place him as a lazy hippy, but there is nothing lazy about this man. A few years ago, Danny decided to vent his convictions about the negativity of fossil fuels by kayaking the entire Danube river from it's source in his hometown in the Black Forest of Germany, to it's estuary on the Black Sea in Romania. Danny was the first man in the world to achieve this feat; the Danube is 2850km long and it snakes through 10 European countries. He reminded me of the many other unsung sporting heroes, such as the little known Martin Stel, a Slovenian who has swam the length of three of the four longest rivers in the world, including the treacherous Mississippi and the piranha infested Amazon. Possibly the most impressive thing about Danny is the humility he shows in his reluctance to publicise his achievement, saying that he did it exclusively for the challenge, and he has now hiked alone over Everest, although he didn't journey to it's peak.


I was inspired. The weather for the next day was forecast at being clear skies and 37 degrees Celsius. I planned out an ambitious bike ride through the surrounding valleys, and my steed, Kevin, and I were up for the challenge. The next day the heat was truly oppressive. It might easily have been hotter than 37, not only could an egg be fried on the tarmac, I'm pretty sure I could have boiled iron on it.  Kevin looked on earnestly as I packed a bag of provisions: my mp3 player, my book, some coconut biscuits, my camera, and a big bottle of water. I peddled out onto the road and instantly became soaked in perspiration... It was going to be a tough day.

So there I was, riding solo in Pai.

I used my mp3 player to distract myself from the feeling of my shoulders bursting into flames, but my mp3 player is rubbish. For a start, even at top volume it's incredibly quiet, if there's any background noise then you have to guess what the song is from the occasional loud or high pitched note that drifts into your ear over the outside noise. For that reason i felt it was perfect for the bike ride, since out in the countryside it would just be me and the crickets, who at least gave moments of silence between their chirps. The other problem with the mp3 player is that for some reason it failed to accept most of my music library when i synced it. Annoyingly, I was left without most of my favourites, so all I can do is set it to shuffle and hope some adequate song appears when i'm in the right mode for it. Actually, while I'm on the subject, I think I'm going to offer a review the player for potential consumers.

Review of "SanDisk Sansa Clip+ 8GB MP3 Player with Radio and Expandable MicroSD/SDHC Slot" 
by Sebastian Mayer. 7/5/11.
>Do not buy one.


Anyway now that that's out of the way I can tell you why I gave you all that boring information about it. The random selection of songs was quite amusing. As you're about to see, the countryside surrounding Pai is some of the most stunning I've ever seen; it was just made a little more interesting by the songs playing while I admired the views.

After an arduous climb to the crest of a hill, I came upon this view. My sandisk had selected Hot Chocolate's funk classic, "I Believe In Miricles" to accompany it. That made for quite a surreal experience.

 A few kilometres down the road I was surprised to find an elephant camp. I sat for a while and watched the magnificent beasts listening to "The Flower Duet" from the opera "Lakme" by Delibes (the song in the BA advert if you're unfamiliar). Such a graceful piece of music was amusingly inappropriate for the lumbering giants.

I passed the Japanese 1912 bridge to the tune of "Yellow Submarine" by the Beatles. For a local landmark the bridge wasn't very imposing and to be honest, the song was far more interesting. So I won't bother with a picture.

Eventually I reached Pai Canyon, another signposted attraction. It was a strange geological feature. I would have called it an inverse canyon, since it was like a thin raised path of rock and sand with cliffs on either side. I was the only person there, and it would have been extremely serene if I didn't have Tupac Shakur's gangster rap classic "Hit 'em Up" filling my ears. As I stepped into the radiant sunlight, alone before nature and felt the wind on my face, Tupac shouted in my ear "First off fuck your bitch and the click you claim, Westside, when we ride, come equipped with game." I skipped that one.

My last stop was a hill temple. There was a horrible 400 steep steps ahead of me, and I'd had to cycle to the base of the hill in the first place. Kevin, the lucky bastard, was permitted to wait at the bottom of the hill bolted to a signpost. The sun increased it's intensity with impeccable timing, and I slogged up the steps in what must have been 40 degrees.

I stumbled through the temple gate and saw the temple. It was a predictably garishly coloured temple scattered with Gold Buddha statues and orange robes hanging out to dry in the sun. I'd have guessed that in this heat, a full robe could probably dry in about 4 and a half minutes. After customarily removing my flip flops, I collapsed onto a bench under the forgiving shade of the veranda roof, and greedily scrambled for the bottle of water in my bag. A sideways glance brought a silver Buddha statue to my attention, his fixedly serene face gazing straight ahead at the view infront of us... Wow, what a view.

The steep hill ahead of us was blanketed in bright green jungle foliage, which met the flat ground ahead and gave way to acres and acres of rice paddies and mango orchards. Ahead from there, the richly green land rose steadily, and eventually became the sweeping mountain range in the distance, their peaks lost in white fluffy clouds.

The town looked quiet and restful in the distance; only the occasional murmur of a motorcycle engine floated up to me and reminded me of Pai's vitality. All other sounds had been drowned out by the animals. Choruses upon Choruses of chattering insects were coming from all directions, tropical birds whooped invisibly from nearby trees, and dogs woofed conversationally somewhere below.

The view coupled with the sounds was incredible... With the paddy fields it reminded me of the rolling patchwork countryside in England, except a million times more exotic and not partly hidden by a grey veil of rain.

I do have a picture of the view. When I look at it, I am reminded of that old saying: "a picture speaks a thousand words". To me, this picture speaks eight: "Not nearly as good as the real thing"

I permitted myself a sandwich on the way home. It was very expensive by Thai standards (nearly 90 pence!), but since all I'd spent that day was a few Baht in 711 and Kevin's rental fee (That allusion to prostitution can be ignored), I bought it anyway.


I don't know how far I went but can estimate from my map it was about 35km. My mind was blank with fatigue as I returned to the idyllic bungalow where i am now staying and stumbled shakily to the shower. I crumbled under the feeble pressure of the cold water, and delighted in the feeling of the film of sweat being swept off me. After some time, i emerged, and found danny waiting at the bar. I confess, he wasn't as dumfounded by the tale of my adventure as I had been of his the previous day, but he was mildly impressed and mildly impressed is good enough for me.


After that trip, I felt like i'd earned a beer. So I had ten.

Chiang Mai

So finally we made it out of Laos. I'd be lying if i said i wasn't still feeling the sickly affects of our two week stint in Vang Vieng, but we expected that going in so i can't really complain.
Chiang Mai is a large city in north thailand surrounded by mountainous jungle and fertile farmland. After so many weeks in modest towns and villages in Laos, we found the wide busy streets and cluttered pavments slightly intimidating. The city is awash with travellers, so guesthouses and hotels are everywhere. I'd like to be able to say that we found a place to call home here, but it's difficult to draw any comparisons between the spotless, comfortable english homes in our minds and the underlit, cramped rooms we have here with disfunctional toilets and matressess that might as well be made of granite.
Anyway, it seems that rather than the city itself, most people come here to indulge in the hundreds of treks, cooking courses, elephant reserves, tiger kingdoms and hill tribe homestays offered by the tourist offices. We were happy to find that the headquarters of an organic farm cooking course was directly over the road from our hostel/dungeon, so we booked on to the course the next day.
We were entered into a group of 10 other budding culinarians, and the first stop was a local market. Here, our thai guide Tommy provided us with his encyclopeadic knowledge of different rice varieties, and then let us amble through the stalls to see what else was on offer. Some of the group were a little horrified by the pigs heads and chicken guts available, but we had been happily desensitised to these strange food preparations back in Hanoi, where we watched a freshly decapitated frog hop from a startled woman's stall and attempt to cross the road in front.

Next we made it to the farm; a quiet, lushous piece of land surrounded by lotus ponds and forests. Tommy showed us some of the produce they were growing. We were shown papayas, thai ginger, mangoes, thai basil, limes, lemongrass, corriander, chillies and many more. Tommy gave us some information about each, and sometimes some jokes as well. A notable example was the thai aubergine, which is the size of a marble and has a much stronger flavour than it's european cousin. Tommy explained that everything in Thailand is smaller, and gave a cheeky self deprecating grin, much to our amusement.
We had booked into a full day of cooking, and each of us had chosen five dishes from a list of options. Personally, I had chosen a chicken massaman curry, tom yam kung, papaya salad, spring rolls, and sweet sticky rice with mango. The curry was easily the most challenging, and also the most delicious. We began with a mortar and pestle, and were instucted to vigourously smash our raw spices into a paste. Tommy explained that the required movement was a short upwards and downwards motion with the wrist, and if performed properly, it should create a loud and frantic banging on the bottom of the mortar. He added that when a thai man is trying to choose a bride, he waits in the living room and listens to the sound of curry paste being made in the kitchen. Satisfactory banging noise means "Good wife because she has good hand". He chuckled and repeated the motion with his wrist, flashing a grin my way. I wasn't particularly disturbed at the time, but i found it a little disconcerting later on when he sidled up to me while i smashed the spices and whispered "good wife" in my ear.
All in all, the banquet was a success, and we gluttonously feasted on our creations in a open air dining room in the middle of the lilly ponds. There were a few slip ups with the chillies, which we perhaps hadn't used as sparingly as we should have done, given that they were the hottest variety in thailand. My papaya salad, for example was a blazing inferno so hot that it nearly warped the air above it.
A fantastic day, nonetheless.
The other trip we went on was a packed day of elephant riding, jungle trekking, waterfall swimming, white water rafting, and bamboo punting. The elephant were good fun. We sat on the back of the huge beasts in twos, with the thai driver placed on the head. At one point, our driver was distracted by a stray chicken in the jungle, and he jumped off the head with a slingshot presumable attempting to hunt it. Ed and I found ourselves in sole control of the behemoth, who was far more interested in spraying herself (and us) with cool mud and drinking from the river than going the direction we asked.

Even more worrying was the fact that we were being pursued by a notably well-endowed bull elephant who was ignoring the minute chinese ladies on his back and seemed to be threatening penetration at any moment. Fortunately, nothing came of his advances.
The jungle "trek" really turned out to be more of a jungle stroll. We walked for forty minutes towards the waterfall, crossing streams and inspecting the exotic insect life along the way. The waterfall was lovely and cooling after our "trek", but as soon as we felt suitably cooled for the return journey, it began to rain.
It's impossible to truly understand the word "rainforest" if you havent been slipping and sliding down muddy streams that were once paths with all of heaven thundering down overhead. There was thunder and lightening. Gigantic bolts which lit up the dark sky to a blinding white, and deafening crashes of thunder that sounded like a skyscraper being demolished with you on the bottom floor.
The guide was dubious about taking us rafting after a storm so terrifying, but we decided to do so anyway. The rapids were perilous. Four of us sat staggered in the inflatable boat with a thai skipper on the back barking out hurried commands as if we were in a warzone. "FO'WARD!" "BACK!" "RIGH'!" "LEF'!" "STOP!" "DOWN!".

Down was the worrying one. Usually this meant we were seconds away from sliding down a not unimpressive waterfall, and we had to crouch down in the middle of the boat with feet jammed beneath the seats for support, one hand firmly gripping the rope at the side of the boat. During these times, the boat would topple down the rapids, crashing into the angry water and basically putting the boat (and us) fully underwater for a split second. Besides a minor fall when the french girl opposite me lost her grip and slammed into my side of the boat nearly sending me over the edge, our team managed to pull through. There were comparably calm stretches of river between the worst rapids, and we use the time to catch our breath and let the adrenaline settle. We floated past a boat containing a crying girl being comforted by her friend; apparently a member of their team had tumbled into the rapids and it had scared her. The man-ovrboard was unharmed.
Once the rapids had been defeated, we left the boat and climbed precariously onto a long, unstable bamboo raft. With the weight of us all on it, the actual raft was drifting invisibly a foot beneath the murky water. Nathan used a long bamboo pole and punted down the river to the finish line, and although we did get there quite fast, he had some trouble breaking in the fast flowing current. In his defense, he had recieved absolutely no formal instruction, and our well meaning skipper's limited english vocabulary did nothing to help matters. A swiss man and I bailed as we crossed the line and strenuously swam to the bank, moving about an inch a second against the strong current. Nathan dissapeared along the river struggling with the raft. We waited at the camp for five minutes and I presumed Nathan was lost to the river, but he appeared shortly after, half drowned and wheezing with his five foot thai rescuer.

I'm leaving Chiang Mai today to visit the town of Pai in the north, while the other three go to "Tiger Kingdom" to pet and wrestle with a tame half-ton tiger and it's cubs. I don't know how tame such a beast can be, and we were assured that the tigers are not sedated. Given the mane-like shape of Ed's beard and hair, I wouldn't be suprised if he was mistaken for a lion and attacked by the monstrous feline.

I hope my goodbye was not the final one.

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.
l

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.