Luang Prabang: waterfalls and black bears

Sunset on the Mekong

The trip down the Mekong was pleasant enough, hangover aside. We passed a lot of small villages, their bamboo houses clustered together and looking over the river. People were engaged in familiar river activities, like fishing and swimming and washing clothes, as well as one or two unfamiliar ones. For example, I saw a number of villagers squatting half in the water, sifting objects through a kind of conical basket. I still don’t know what they were doing.

The only animals I saw were domesticated. Most of them were water buffalo, long-horned with ribs poking out through their sides. Other than these, the occasional village dog would come bounding out to the river’s edge to bark at us and wag its tail. Not a single wild animal made itself visible: no birds, no fish, nothing. My Canadian friend and I wondered why this would be. Hunting on the part of the villagers? Slash and burn agriculture destroying the forest habitat? The latter seemed a likely explanation, considering the dark haze that hung over everything and which we took to be smoke.

Snake whiskey, a Laotian specialty.

This haze grew thicker the closer we got to Luang Prabang. My hangover dissipated in inverse proportion to it. The Canadian and I shared a tuk-tuk to a guesthouse on the edge of the tourist district and settled in for the night. We went out for duck noodle soup and strolled down to the night market. Neither of us being big shoppers, and every other stall offering the same merchandise, we wound up sitting at a table outside of a store, drinking Beerlao and talking about everything from politics to conspiracy theories to religion. Often the boundaries between these topics got blurred.

The next day I moved out of the guesthouse and down the road to a backpacker hostel. I had needed that one more night of a private room, but it was refreshing to get back into a social atmosphere. It’s a big hostel with travelers from all over the world: lots of Brits and Australians and Canadians, as well as people from Argentina, Brazil, France, Holland, Hungary, and the States, even. The other major advantage of this place, called SpicyLaos Backpacker, is that it’s only 30,000 kip a night. If that sounds extravagant, bear in mind that this comes out to just under $4.

I am slowly getting used to the Laotian currency, and the more I do, the more I realize that Luang Prabang is actually quite expensive compared to Chiang Mai. This has been an unpleasant surprise, since I was led to believe that Laos would be cheaper than Thailand. I am told that most of the country is in fact cheaper, but that prices are higher in Luang Prabang and especially in the tourist sector. Food, for example, averages twice as much as it cost in Chiang Mai, and it’s not nearly as good. Still, at $2 a meal, I can’t complain too much.

My first night in SpicyLaos, I met another American from the Bay Area and made plans to meet up for drinks at a bar called Utopia. At dinner that night, I ran into an Irishman and an Englishman who were looking for the same bar, so we all trouped over together. Fortunately, the path was marked with sign after sign; otherwise, we would never have found the place through all the twisting alleyways and private residences. We suspected we were being had, and that the signs were some kind of tourist trap. I suspected we were being led to a godforsaken alley by the river where Laotians waited with knives and ice chests to carve out our organs and sell them on the black market. Okay, an Australian girl we met at the bar had suspected that. I wasn’t as imaginative, envisioning a plain old mugging and making lame jokes about naïve Westerners who believe in utopia.

In any case, we reached the bar without incident, and it turned out to be worth it. Bamboo decks extended toward the river, and the low tables were ringed by reclining cushions and lit by candles. I felt like a Roman general, leaning back like that in the candlelight. There was a sand volleyball court that I could appreciate, even if I wasn’t remotely tempted to set foot on it. Its boundaries consisted of well-made brick walls so that the whole thing was enclosed, although it was easily viewable from seats at the bar. Hookahs were available and I desperately wanted one. I failed, however, to incite the same passion in my drinking buddies — that is, until after we left, when everyone started complaining that we hadn’t gotten one.

I got a lesson in Australian geography from the Australian girl, and even had a map scrawled down in my notepad for future reference. I was put to the test the next night, and I am sad to say that I failed, thinking Melbourne was north of Sydney. It turns out it is south. I did know that it was on the east coast, and that Perth is in the west. I also have it from a good source that the interior of the country is home to more serial killers than aborigines. I suspect these demographics have been slightly exaggerated, however.

Which brings us up to yesterday (Feb 28?), when the American, Australian, and I set out to Kouangsi waterfall, along with the Australian’s traveling companion, who was from England. It was a beautiful swimming hole and had a decent number of trails. I walked along them barefoot, enjoying the coolness of the ground on my feet. There was jungle all around. Pictures to follow once the internet will cooperate.

Houangsi swimming hole

Don't know what the purpose is, but it's a nice touch.

The main waterfall.

Needless to say, we had a great time. As we were leaving, we passed a refuge for rescued black bears. A big, balding Aussie who worked there made an announcement, spreading his muddy hands wide and informing us that there was a separate enclosure with 12-month-old cubs, usually off-limits to tourists, which we could go have a look at. There were four cubs, each of them nearly as tall as me when they stood up on their hind legs and swatted at each other. Two of them wrestled incessantly, and another rolled on the ground and chomped loudly on a huge length of bamboo. The fourth one stood atop a log and gazed down imperiously at the rest.

Black bear cagefighting.

When we got back to Luang Prabang, we climbed the stone stairs up the hill to the city’s most prominent temple and watched the sun set over the Mekong. It was a great view, even if the sun disappeared behind the smoke before it actually reached the horizon.

Sunset from the hilltop temple.

Last night we returned to Utopia, and the Aussie, Brit, and I spent a fair amount of time playing “Would You Rather,” a game my step-sister remains unrivaled at. I held my own, trained as I was by the best. The question I was most proud of, posed to the two straight women, was, “Would you rather sleep with a ladyboy, or a 75-year-old man with an enormous, hairy gut?” I can’t remember the final answer. They vacillated several times, which, to me, is the sign of a good “Would You Rather” question.

As for today, I am going to take it easy and idly formulate some travel plans. North? South? I don’t know. I don’t much care, at this point. Many people are traveling on to Viang Vieng, south of here, which is a place notorious for its hard-partying foreigners. You can float the river there and have ropes thrown out to you from bars on the river’s edge. You meander down it and drink yourself into oblivion and hopefully don’t drown. This is a novel concept to every other traveler I have talked to, but as I point out, the only innovation there are the bars. Back home, we float the river, but we bring our own booze — Douglas County style.

Anyway, we’ll see. I’ll go somewhere within the next couple days and that’s as far as I care to think about it. There are more legitimate trekking operations up north than can be found in Chiang Mai. That sounds appealing. Then again, so does floating the river. I swear the heat is more oppressive up here. Maybe I’ll flip a coin.

(I wrote this on Leap Day, but have been unable to post it until now. The internet only works when I am screwing around and refuses to cooperate as soon as I need to do anything constructive.)

Shit the Bed, Fred

I thought I was done being sick. Then last night happened. I woke up nearly shitting my pants and barely made it to the bathroom. (That’s the story and I’m sticking to it.) This turned out to be the precedent for today.

I took a Thai language lesson this morning. It was only an hour long, but it was filled with a surprising amount of material. So much, in fact, that I doubt I will ever use half of it. I did learn some useful fundamentals. They won’t be good for anything if I don’t practice them, of course, but theoretically, they’re quite useful. My favorite phrase for dealing with pushy merchants was poh laew, or “enough already.”

Thai is a tonal language, meaning it is a kind of sing-song. The grammar and vocabulary is simple to the point of sounding childlike in direct translation, but the pronunciation is an English speaker’s nightmare. I kept wanting to end question phrases with a rising intonation (as you would in English), only this completely changes the meaning of the last word. The other problem I ran into was quickly shifting pitch between words. It’s well and good to vary your pitch once or twice in a sentence, but to make it rise and fall, then fall again, then stay flat, then rise, was a bit overwhelming. It made me wish I had taken choir.

After the lesson, I went back to J.J. Dome’s, the dormitory where I’m staying for 100 baht per night (about $3.33). I’m still not sure if it’s supposed to be “Dorms”. It’s a homey little spot run by a Thai woman who calls herself “Mama.” She takes good care of us and calls everyone “Dahling.” She gets you super secret tour rates that you can’t tell anybody else about. (Wink, wink.) She and another guest convinced me to take it easy today and not go gallivanting off for more punishment at another Muay Thai gym. Instead, I bought the Thai equivalent of Pepto Bismol (Gastro Bismol, which is more descriptive, anyway) and settled in with my copy of The Beach, by Alex Garland. I didn’t know until halfway through that he’s the guy who wrote the screenplay for 28 Days Later, one of my favorite movies.

It works out okay, in the end. I didn’t think I was sore after Muay Thai yesterday. Now, I know better. As the day has progressed, so has my soreness. New muscles keep announcing their existence in whiny little voices. Most of them are obscure abdominal regions, but I’m surprised at how sore my upper back and shoulder blades are.

Anyway, it’s been a few hours since I’ve taken a shit, so that’s good. Maybe the next one will even contain solids. Wouldn’t that be a treat? I hope I’m better tomorrow, because I want to go spike my testosterone again. I keep seeing ads for shooting ranges. Muay Thai and guns… sounds like a properly brutish day out on the town for this American yokel.

I have been reflecting today. Facing certain realities – for example, that I most likely will need to return to the States to deal with responsibilities I’ve been neglecting. (Student loans, ahem.) I can hear my dad agreeing, loudly. The refrain echoing in my thoughts today, Pynchon-like, has been, “Can’t stay a Lost Boy forever.” I’ve been scheming for weeks about how to deal with this, but I seem to be locked in orbit around one particular plan. This is only a tease, you four or five readers, so don’t bother asking. This plan needs time to incubate, to draw strength from the clammy embrace of my paranoia.

Ha. I’m quite the drama queen, aren’t I?

Stay tuned.

The Train Journey

It took 37 hours, but I managed to traverse the length of Thailand without leaving the ground. The first leg of the trip was a bus ride from Phuket Town to Surat Thani on the mainland.

I walked across the better part of Phuket Town to reach the bus depot. I bought a milk tea (“Thai iced tea”, back home) from a street vendor, and it was still the best I’ve had in Thailand. I drank it with ice, and yes, I survived. I took sidestreets and passed open air markets without a single farang in sight. It was a welcome change from the previous night’s hostel.

Phuket Backpacker is a nice place, but maybe too nice. I’m finding the more humble guesthouses attract more down-to-earth backpackers. (Air-con = arrogance?) The hostel culture can breed a particular kind of smarminess, like a toxic mold. “How many countries have you checked off your list? What are your international partying credentials?” I don’t know, I guess every subculture has its arbitrary pecking orders. Or maybe I’m just a cynical bastard. I still like the way Leonardo DeCaprio puts it in The Beach: “I just feel like everyone tries to do something different, but you always wind up doing the same damn thing.” Party, go somewhere else. Rinse, repeat, all over the world.

I checked out Pud Jow Shrine on my way to the bus depot. Thai religion is quite syncretic. People make offerings before statues of Buddha, Taoist sages, and a myriad of other figures I couldn’t begin to identify. These offerings are usually incense, from what I could tell, but may also include food placed on the altar. Visitors also engage in some kind of divination based on the I-Ching. They kneel down and shake a can full of sticks. They shake it just hard enough so that the sticks bounce back and forth, making a distinctive rattling noise, until finally one works its way loose and falls on the ground. They study the position of its landing, then shake out a few more. Their faces appear intensely focused as they hold a question or entreaty in their mind. Slips of paper on the altar clarify the different meanings of the possible configurations of the sticks.

The spirit houses are another fascinating element of Thai religion. You see them everywhere – ornate little houses standing on a central column, filled with statues, flowers, and incense. Every single structure has one somewhere nearby. According to my guidebook, these are built to house the spirits of the land displaced by whatever human structure is erected there. Not having one is considered extremely bad luck since the spirits, bereft of a home, will get irritated and make life difficult for you.

The market in Phuket Town has a reputation (again, in my guidebook) for being geared toward locals. In other words, it is a real place and not another theme park for tourists. This reputation turned out to be true. While there, I developed a new strategy for finding good, cheap food: find a place filled with only Thai people and order the same thing as the person in front of you. I have been spending $1 per meal this way, and I’ve tried things I would never have known about, otherwise. One of my favorites thus far was a beef noodle soup in Chiang Mai. (For breakfast.) But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Eventually, I reached the bus depot. I sat on a bench and, for some reason, decided to pull out my Sharpie and blacken the color accents on my Nikes. (I made room in my backpack for the damn hiking boots.) I forgot that feet are considered dirty and rude in Thai culture, especially elevating them or pointing them at people. So there I sat, a foreign yokel with a sweaty foot up on his knee, coloring his shoes.

It rained in the northern part of Phuket. I watched people on mopeds hunch over their handlebars, ponchos trailing behind them.

We got into some proper jungle upon reaching the mainland. I was starting to nod, thinking the landscape wasn’t going to offer any further surprises, when I spotted four or five elephants next to the road. Only a glimpse before they were gone.

I had some prime yokel moments at the train station in Surat Thani. I could not figure out my ticket, and kept jumping up for every train that came through. I showed my ticket to six different people. Is this the right platform? Is the train on time? No speak English, stupid farang. Should send you to wrong train, send you to Malaysia. One Thai woman took pity on me and offered to lead me, more or less by the hand, to the proper train and car. Then, when the train came, it turned out she misread my ticket, too. I felt better and was able to find my own seat once boarding the (correct) train.

An elderly Thai woman sat across from me, chanting quietly to herself from a book. Knees and feet angled politely away from me, clothes pressed and clean. My Columbia hiking shirt dripped sweat, meanwhile, and my fears that the train would be smellier than in my fantasy proved to be true. I just hadn’t counted on it being my fault.

Switched trains in Bangkok, took a quick shower in the train station. I found my train with no problems this time. I watched the city unfold with all the contrasts you’d expect: slums and skyscrapers, beggars and businessmen. I don’t have much of a desire to spend time in Bangkok.

Eventually the city gave way to outskirts, the outskirts to rice paddies. I was excited for the first one, hurrying to take pictures as it rolled by. I can’t imagine what the other passengers were thinking, because I soon figured out that I would be seeing nothing but rice paddies for the next five or six hours. Turns out the central plains are the breadbasket (so to speak) of Thailand, a region envied by its neighbors.

The train broke down in the northern foothills. I wrote a separate post about that little experience, which I remember with great fondness, for some reason.

Finally, four hours later than anticipated, I arrived at the train station in Chiang Mai. Here my second-hand guidebook began to let me down. The guesthouses I was calling simply may not have been answering, but it seemed to me their numbers had changed in the six years since my book was printed. I ended up allowing a taxi to rip me off 150 baht to take me to a “cheap guesthouse.” Of course, the asshole dropped me off at one across town from the main cluster of guesthouses, then refused to wait while I went inside to see if they were full. They were, go figure.

So, I found myself in a dead part of the city (as opposed to picture above), with no taxis or tuk-tuks around, and no place to stay. Strangely, I felt calm. Chiang Mai cools off to a nice temperature at night, and the streets were well-defined and reasonably clean. It feels very much like a college town. I approached a few young Thais working in a restaurant and tried to ask about a place to stay. They spoke no English at all, but understood my predicament. I was touched by their concern as they abandoned their posts to help me flag down a taxi.

During this, a young man who had been watching the situation approached me. He spoke pretty good English and seemed nice enough. He offered to drive me around in his car to find a place to stay. At this point, I noticed some odd facial scars curving up his cheeks in a grotesque smile. Exactly like the Joker’s in The Dark Knight. I fought the insane urge to ask, “Why so serious?” and thanked him for the offer. Fortunately, at that moment, a taxi pulled over and I got in.

Long story short, after wandering around Chiang Mai for the better part of two hours, and running into a guy from Louisiana (of all places) who was in the same predicament, I managed to find lodging. I celebrated by getting a bacon cheeseburger from a corner restaurant.