So. We'd crossed the river and were officially into Laos.
After a quick panic and a rummage around I found our newly-posed-for passport photos (that look like the kind of smiley geeky photos that appear of now-famous people on 'When they wasn't as famous as what they is now' programmes) and got stamped.
We were now officially, officially in Laos.
It was from here, however, that things started to go ever so slightly wrong.
The plan had been, indeed we had even purchased the tickets, to get a slow boat up the Mekong River to reach Luang Prabang. However, the man who escorted our quite large group of pink tourists to the port told us that we could get a bus, at no extra cost, which would see us in Luang Prabang at eight o'clock that evening.
Sold.
It was from here, however, that things started to go ever so slightly wrong.
The plan had been, indeed we had even purchased the tickets, to get a slow boat up the Mekong River to reach Luang Prabang. However, the man who escorted our quite large group of pink tourists to the port told us that we could get a bus, at no extra cost, which would see us in Luang Prabang at eight o'clock that evening.
Sold.
As much as we thought it would be fun to go on a river for two days, we also thought that we would only be spending a fortnight in Laos and that a seventh of the time we were here to be spent getting to the first town would be a bit silly.
(I should also mention that the man selling us the tickets was the Laos version of Joe Lyons, one-time Southampton University Men's Football Club Captain and accomplished Lothario, so I immediately trusted the man. Strange, as I never trusted Joe...)
Besides this, most of the group also said that the bus would be the best option. How fantastically wrong we were.
The dodginess began when Joe, as we'll call him from now on, took our passports from us and gave them to a random man. At this point my voice suddenly changed into that of a Guy Ritchie character, 'Wot you fink you doing with them then, eh?' etc.
Besides this, most of the group also said that the bus would be the best option. How fantastically wrong we were.
The dodginess began when Joe, as we'll call him from now on, took our passports from us and gave them to a random man. At this point my voice suddenly changed into that of a Guy Ritchie character, 'Wot you fink you doing with them then, eh?' etc.
Our fellow travellers all started taking pictures of the man with our passports, as if that would then hold up in some kangaroo court when we were all left stranded on the Laos-Thailand border with little more than some Doublemint to our names.
Mounting the songtow to the bus station, only 'five minutes down the road', we thought we had had a touch.
Forty-five minutes later we arrived at the local bus station. Our driver got out, handed our passports to a man that had a face like a bulldog chewing a bee, and disappeared in a cloud of green smoke. Or something to that effect.
We now had no way of getting back to the port, no passports, and seemingly no transport to Luang Prabang. Well, they weren't going to put us on the local bus that was already there, surely? It was pre-war (Crimean), and something fleshy and dead was stuck to the side of it.
The grumpiest-looking man on the planet walked over and gave us back our passports, and we asked in our now perfected broken English of the backtwatter which bus was ours. Winston Churchill pointed to The Munster's wagon. Fuck.
Oh well, we'd been set up, but at least we weren't going to be on an equally clapped out slow boat and we'd be there this evening, supping an ice cold Beer Laos and chomping down on some Lapp chicken.
Only we weren't.
We sat playing shithead for four hours. We then eventually got on the bus with sixty locals that didn't want us on it, and sat for a further hour before the bus took off - a hundred yards down the road to the petrol station where we waited another half an hour.
I have failed to mention that Helen and I were sat on top of the wheel arch, meaning that I had my knees around my ears and an arse so uncomfortable I felt like I was in some sort of twisted Jennings novel.
Mounting the songtow to the bus station, only 'five minutes down the road', we thought we had had a touch.
Forty-five minutes later we arrived at the local bus station. Our driver got out, handed our passports to a man that had a face like a bulldog chewing a bee, and disappeared in a cloud of green smoke. Or something to that effect.
We now had no way of getting back to the port, no passports, and seemingly no transport to Luang Prabang. Well, they weren't going to put us on the local bus that was already there, surely? It was pre-war (Crimean), and something fleshy and dead was stuck to the side of it.
The grumpiest-looking man on the planet walked over and gave us back our passports, and we asked in our now perfected broken English of the backtwatter which bus was ours. Winston Churchill pointed to The Munster's wagon. Fuck.
Oh well, we'd been set up, but at least we weren't going to be on an equally clapped out slow boat and we'd be there this evening, supping an ice cold Beer Laos and chomping down on some Lapp chicken.
Only we weren't.
We sat playing shithead for four hours. We then eventually got on the bus with sixty locals that didn't want us on it, and sat for a further hour before the bus took off - a hundred yards down the road to the petrol station where we waited another half an hour.
I have failed to mention that Helen and I were sat on top of the wheel arch, meaning that I had my knees around my ears and an arse so uncomfortable I felt like I was in some sort of twisted Jennings novel.
Along with every seat being designated, there were plastic stools running down the length of the bus where people were sat in the aisle.
Our two neighbours were a couple of teenagers who had just finished Thai boxing practice. By the smell of them they had been practicing very hard and very long. And in manure.
It's okay though. We'd be there by eight. Oh, no, wait. We're running about four hours late. So we'll be there about eleven or midnight. That's not too bad. It's not what we'd signed up for, but it's better than the District Line. (Who actually fucking goes to Olympia?)
We were traversing the worst roads that any of us had ever been on. This included, surprisingly, the locals as they too were looking and pointing in astonishment at the landslides, holes and cracks in the road that made what Reeves had to deal with in Superman II look like a tarmac paper cut.
Our driver, who looked just like Party Boy from Jackass, was laughing like a maniac for the entire journey. Well, almost.
At first it worried us that we had a driver that guffawed harder than Akabusi at seemingly anything, but after a few hours we realised we should be more concerned when he stopped laughing, as this meant he was probably trying to navigate a precipice the size of a small country.
Hours passed, and soon day turned to night. Pitch-black night. In the jungle. With a huge fucking thunderstorm cracking on. Normally, I would have enjoyed such an occurrence like some kind of simple child, but I was so uncomfortable that all pleasure was being converted straight into pain, and with a great rate of interest.
Our two neighbours were a couple of teenagers who had just finished Thai boxing practice. By the smell of them they had been practicing very hard and very long. And in manure.
It's okay though. We'd be there by eight. Oh, no, wait. We're running about four hours late. So we'll be there about eleven or midnight. That's not too bad. It's not what we'd signed up for, but it's better than the District Line. (Who actually fucking goes to Olympia?)
We were traversing the worst roads that any of us had ever been on. This included, surprisingly, the locals as they too were looking and pointing in astonishment at the landslides, holes and cracks in the road that made what Reeves had to deal with in Superman II look like a tarmac paper cut.
Our driver, who looked just like Party Boy from Jackass, was laughing like a maniac for the entire journey. Well, almost.
At first it worried us that we had a driver that guffawed harder than Akabusi at seemingly anything, but after a few hours we realised we should be more concerned when he stopped laughing, as this meant he was probably trying to navigate a precipice the size of a small country.
Hours passed, and soon day turned to night. Pitch-black night. In the jungle. With a huge fucking thunderstorm cracking on. Normally, I would have enjoyed such an occurrence like some kind of simple child, but I was so uncomfortable that all pleasure was being converted straight into pain, and with a great rate of interest.
Helen, bless her, accommodated me lying in her lap for a good while, but then, unbelievably, the bus picked up about another ten or so passengers. There were now people standing all the way down the bus, falling all over the place and spitting without aim.
It was midnight and we were still a good hundred miles away from Luang Prabang.
The German lads we were with were fine, they had been drinking and 'using marijuana' since ten that morning and didn't really have a clue what was going on. The rest of us were agitated but also so tired that perversely we weren't even really looking forward to getting off the bus, as it meant that we'd be in a new town in the middle of the night with nowhere to sleep.
We stopped off at about one in the morning and I had some sticky rice and Hel had some noodle soup. She was made slightly more upbeat by this influx of energy that the grub had given her, I was made a thousand times worse as my metabolism kicked in pretty much as soon as we hit the road again.
Eventually, at half-four - eight and a bit hours after we were meant to have reached our little bastion of rest - we arrived at a random bus lot in the middle of nowhere. Everyone got off and we piled into a tuktuk that took us to a hostel. After a bit of half-hearted bartering we bedded down and as soon as our heads hit the pillow we were out.
Well, I was out.
Hel had about an hour’s sleep, and then spent the next three hours riving in pain on the toilet. The noodle soup that she had been singing the praises of had obviously not enjoyed its time in her intestines. And this was just the start of another chronological path constructed mainly of shit.
It was midnight and we were still a good hundred miles away from Luang Prabang.
The German lads we were with were fine, they had been drinking and 'using marijuana' since ten that morning and didn't really have a clue what was going on. The rest of us were agitated but also so tired that perversely we weren't even really looking forward to getting off the bus, as it meant that we'd be in a new town in the middle of the night with nowhere to sleep.
We stopped off at about one in the morning and I had some sticky rice and Hel had some noodle soup. She was made slightly more upbeat by this influx of energy that the grub had given her, I was made a thousand times worse as my metabolism kicked in pretty much as soon as we hit the road again.
Eventually, at half-four - eight and a bit hours after we were meant to have reached our little bastion of rest - we arrived at a random bus lot in the middle of nowhere. Everyone got off and we piled into a tuktuk that took us to a hostel. After a bit of half-hearted bartering we bedded down and as soon as our heads hit the pillow we were out.
Well, I was out.
Hel had about an hour’s sleep, and then spent the next three hours riving in pain on the toilet. The noodle soup that she had been singing the praises of had obviously not enjoyed its time in her intestines. And this was just the start of another chronological path constructed mainly of shit.
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