While admirable, all this is not particularly remarkable. But what is remarkable is how tourists travel around the jungle. Simply put, tourists spend the day ziplining over the jungle canopy in insanely long lengths (think 500 metres) and the night sleeping in giant treehouses straight out of The Swiss Family Robinson. Supposedly this means of travel is less impactful to the jungle wildlife than the alternatives, such as walking on marked trails. Really? Poppycock I say, it’s just a great excuse to romp around the jungle on cable lines. Did I see any Gibbons? No way. Was it an incredible three days? You bet! It was probably the highlight of the trip, full of misadventure, near-misses, big snakes, and giant spiders. And leeches.

My entrance to Laos consisted of a longtail boat ride across the Mekong from Thailand. This was my first sight of old man Mekong (an epithet I have to credit Jon for), and it was a river system I planned to follow through several countries until its end in the South China Sea. After some wandering around and being sprayed in the face with dirty water from some Laotian kid’s watergun, I found a place for the night. A few hours later, I reunited with Jon after his solo trip to the Golden Triangle. He had just scraped through the border crossing, making it through before closing time. The very next morning Jon and I blearily stumbled into the Gibbon Experience office, ready to meet our six companions for the journey.

We met Andy, an American working in Ireland as a photographer; Alex, an Aussie event organizer; Jean-Marie, a colourful Frenchman hailing from La Réunion; Marie, a Swedish train conductor; April, an American accountant and outdoors-woman; and Joanne, an Irish social worker. An obviously eclectic bunch, whose diversity was only augmented by me, the computer engineer, and Jon, the music aficionado and English teacher. A brochure on the wall warned tourists against offending the villagers and guides with risqué swimming suits. Since any Western female swimming suit is risqué by SE Asian standards, (us men get a pass as usual) the warning basically told the women to not swim in full view of any Laotians during our trip.

All eight of us and a driver piled into a pickup truck for our journey to the Bokeo Nature Reserve. I pounced on the shotgun seat, thanking my lucky stars I wasn’t sitting in the truck bed. The drive offered all of us our first glimpse of rural life in Laos. This was accompanied by views of some of the stunning scenery of the northern hills. Rural life looked very simple. Families reside in basic stilted huts roofed by thatch. We were on the cusp of the wet season, meaning that the weather was still unmercifully hot. Because of this, we could see many of the residents sleeping or working or just relaxing underneath their huts in an effort to escape the heat. Many grandmothers walked around bare-chested. I figured grandmas must be excused from the typically conservative Laotian sensibilities. The height of the stilts gave indication of how fierce some of the wet season floods could be. Apart from these pastoral settings, we also drove by many scenes of slash and burned areas. Slash and burn is obviously very alive and well in Laos.

Upon arrival at the base village we met our guides, two nonchalant and sleepy Laotian guides of youngish age. Quickly we set out, walking uphill at a good pace. And quickly the inevitable came. One of us was falling behind, almost in tears and absolutely ragged at the first moderate climb. It’s no fun being that person. I empathized, but part of me couldn’t help but be frustrated at the obvious lack of physical preparation. However, regardless of our physical states, we were all sweaty messes by the time we reached our first zip line. Here we were given our harnesses, and the excitement was palpable as we donned our gear. After a quick and perfunctory instruction of how to use the brake, we were off on our first zip line. It was a short one to a treehouse along our way.

Jon bravely went first. We all watched as he disappeared into the foliage, and we all heard the distinct thud afterwards. It was actually two ziplines. One to the treehouse, and one from the treehouse back to the jungle. The second zip was a considerable distance above a mini valley. It was wildly fun. Dangling on your harness, you launch off the platform and quickly build up speed. As you do so, the quiet hum of your harness rollers turns into a scream, and you begin bobbing up and down with your forward progress. The canopy whips by you as your gain a birds-eye view of the jungle. I was grinning like a madman by the time I reached the end of the line. Jon was waiting for me, also with a big grin. I was too far away to hear this thud, but when I disconnected, Jon told me he smacked into the supporting pole of the second zipline. We realized he was burdened with a worn out brake. Jon’s burden became everyone else’s entertainment though, as most of us would look forward to watching Jon’s entry and the inevitable thud that followed with anticipation. Fortunately, Jon managed to eventually get a handle on his troublesome brake and quickly became quite adept at choking off his momentum at the perfect moment.

We slept that night in a veritable palace of a treehouse. I couldn’t believe how massive of a treehouse the place was. It had two levels and ample space for way more than eight people. It even had a shower! Unfortunately the toilet, which was a simple squatter emptying directly underneath our giant tree, was also home to a bee’s nest, providing for some uneasy bathroom sessions. But, only Jean-Marie was stung. He never told us where though.

As soon as we arrived, our guides put on coffee (yes the house had power) and served us rambutans and lychees. A couple of hours later, a Laotian women ziplined in with hot and delicious dinner. I was dumbfounded at the combination of being perched above the jungle canopy in the middle of wilderness and being served hot food and drinks after a good shower. “Was this actually happening?”, I thought.

That night just as I was nodding off to bed I heard the distinctive sound of someone ziplining into the treehouse. The guides had arrived and quickly evacuated us, as they were worried about a brewing storm. Once arriving at their hut, they ushered us in. Inside three women sat up up on their elbows, waking at our arrival. The men gave us some stools, and we huddled around and whispered while the women mutely stared at us. It was awkward and we felt like intruders, so we quickly fled outside under the awning to play some Crazy Eights. While it did rain around us and thunder in the distance, the storm never really came.

The next day we set out towards the second treehouse of the trip. The rain we had last night brought out some morning leeches. Now these aren’t your layabout Canadian leeches that only latch on when you step in water. These are proactive suckers. They must inch around and under the ground layer and actively latch onto any passing foot walking through. Sometimes you can see one on the trail absolutely racing for your foot. Good thing racing by leech standards is still pretty slow. Looking down on my socks, I often saw several at one time progressing upwards toward my juicy ankles. They must also have microscopic hairs or barbs, because if you pull one off of you, it sticks to your fingers. A good hard flick from your other hand will usually remove it.

Close to our lunch stop we passed an abandoned treehouse. Ants had taken it over, and the guides emphatically denied our requests to even check it out. Apparently the critters had completely infested it, making it untenable even for a visit. For our lunch break, the guides brought us to a wonderful swimming hole and waterfall. They made sure to leave us well away from the hole to avoid gaining any unwanted glimpses at bikinis or speedos (thankfully none of the guys wore speedos). It wasn’t long before I got involved in a dunking contest with Joanne. She won using the age-old tactic of dunking me then sitting on my head while I was underwater.

As fun as it was, empty stomachs and the prospect of food around the corner brought us all out of the swimming hole. Again, we were magnificently fed. A good stout uphill walk later, and we were soon ziplining again, arriving at the last short zip before our second treehouse. Just before arriving, I heard a scream and yells for help. Around the corner ahead of me I saw Marie racing towards me at a dead run. Greatly disturbed, she told me she came across a snake and it tried to attack her. Jubilant, I walked ahead to check it out. The thing was so camouflaged I didn’t see it until it hissed from the bush next to me and coiled up. It was obviously defensive, Marie must have mistaken its hiss for an intent to attack. Very afraid of me, the snake fled through the trees. I thought he was huge, but the guides shrugged indifferently and told me it was a small python.

Very quickly all of us had zipped into our second and final treehouse for the trip. While smaller and lacking the outright luxurious amenities of our previous abode, the second treehouse was still magnificent. Better yet, should there be a storm we were instructed to stay in the treehouse, unlike the first one. I was fervently hoping a storm would pass over us that night.

We had time to kill, meaning it was time to play on the ziplines and go for swim in the river our house overlooked. While we were goofing around in the river, I left my boots with socks inside on the bank. And the damned proactivity of the jungle leeches really paid off for one sucker. It must have been attracted by the delicious odours emanating from socks (I only had one pair for the trip), as unbeknownst to me it crawled up my boot and into the toe of my sock. Actually the bugger really hit the jackpot, as once I put on my sock I spent another two hours walking around and ziplining. One of my zips, by the way, included the longest of the experience. I believe it was roughly 500 metres of zipline. Absolutely awesome!

After my return to the treehouse, I removed my sock to hang it over the balcony and was surprised to see a leech fall out and plummet to the ground below. Looking down at my feet, I noticed blood leaking from a bite. The leech had been sucking on my feet for so long and had injected so much anticoagulant into my bloodstream, that the bite bled for an astounding amount of time. Eventually I resorted to staunching it with one of my gloves. The glove looked like evidence at a murder scene. Jon was very quick to snap out some timely O.J. Simpson jokes. I presume the leech survived, meaning its fall denied me the chance at revenge. If leeches could think, this one would certainly have looked back in wonderment at the lucky events that allowed it to procure and escape with such a bounty.

Since this treehouse had no power, we spent that night around candlelight. It was very nice and intimate, until someone shined a flashlight onto our thatch ceiling, illuminating several massive spiders looking straight down on us. A quick search ensued, and many, many more spiders were discovered. A loud “Guuuuuuuh!” or ‘Holy Shit!”, heralded each new discovery. These guys though were completely indifferent to our presence, not even moving when Jon took a flash photo right at one’s eyeballs. In fact, for being such stationary creatures, a surprising number of the spiders were sucking the life out of moths that they had pounced upon. The process of liquefying their prey must have been slow, as they spent hours in one spot with a moth in their fangs.

The spiders provided for over an hour of entertainment. But soon after everyone began to fade, and we all started our evening toiletries. Jon as usual was in the midst of some hilarious remark I was keen to hear. As he passed in front of me in midstride he literally disappeared into the darkness with a startled yell. The trapdoor was open and Jon had fallen through it! Not having the layout of the treehouse memorized, I was terrified that he fallen all the way to the bottom. But a succession of thuds followed by a bewildered and pissed off “Arrrrrrrrggghhh!” assuaged my fears. Jon had nailed a few steps down the way, but was otherwise OK.

Jean-Maire soon poked his head out of the trapdoor. He had left it open while using the bathroom. He looked absolutely mortified. After spending 15 minutes alone to process what just happened, Jon recovered from his experience.

Like the previous night, Jon and I were sharing mattresses. Early into the night, an unworldly thunderclap woke us up. You could feel the air being vaporized. A tropical thunderstorm was rolling in. It was preceded by a strong windstorm, swaying the entire structure back and forth. We could hear trees cracking and falling over all around us. Exhilarating. Soon the storm was upon us, bringing streams of rain, frequent thunderclaps, and the most magnificent light show. So much sheet light was striking in the clouds above us that it provided an almost constant illumination, allowing us to walk around the treehouse with no flashlights.

Jon and I quickly pulled two stools to the edge to watch the show. Watching the thunderstorm roll over the jungle canopy was a spectacle and a privilege. While most of us were completely enthralled with the show, one of the girls was terrified. The poor soul began weeping, and no amount of entreaties or logic could calm her. She put on her harness and made moves to zip out of the treehouse. I’m no expert, but ziplining in a windstorm is probably a horrendous decision. Andy tried calming her down by telling her, “Ya know how I look at it? If we’re gunna die it’s gunna happen anyway, so ya just gotta relax and accept it.” Her agitation did not lessen.

Luckily the rest of the girls stepped in and did a fantastic job at calming her down. Needless to say, we were all quite safe, as this tree and its house had survived numerous wet seasons and countless storms. The storm eventually did pass, and soon I found myself yawning. I was so bagged, I didn’t wake up when Jon crawled out of bed on a sleepwalking session. I’d be hard-pressed to think of a worse place to sleepwalk. Awake or asleep Jon was certainly pushing his luck on this trip.

The next day was a simple walk and truck ride out of the Bokeo Nature Reserve. By mid-afternoon we arrived back at our border town and checked into our hotels again. The experience was a great one, and a fantastic example of thinking outside of the box. However, I’m unsure whether it’s a model that can be universally applied. For instance, what if other ecotourism ventures open up in the Bokeo Nature Reserve? That will take funds and clients away from the Gibbon Experience and turn the venture inviable. Moreover, I feel that the real draw of the Gibbon Experience is its distinctiveness. Nowhere else can you zipline over the canopy at such distances and sleep in treehouses for three days. I fear right now there may be only room for one Gibbon Experience in the Bokeo Nature Reserve. Perhaps with greater tourism influx, similar models can be used in other villages and areas, lessening the use of slash and burn agriculture.

Now watch some videos!!

1. Here’s how we entered our first treehouse

2. Here’s a tour of the place

3. Here’s how Jon entered the house

4. Finally, here’s the longest zip of the experience

For more videos you can check out my channel.

And here’s a boatload of pics!

Jon and his soppy shirt (not pictured: me and my soppy shirt)

Jon looking ready to brave the zip

April relaxing in the first treehouse

Our Laotian guides

Getting ready to zip out of the first treehouse

Halfway there!

Jon's turn to exit the treehouse. Look at his glee!

Jon gliding down into the canopy

Morning view from the treehouse

The python beginning to slither away

Swimming in the river. I enjoy Jon's enthusiasm here

My O.J. Simpson glove

One of our spider companions in the second treehouse

Look at its six eyes!!

An area that was slash and burned

According to my blog, I’ve just left Thailand for Laos. In actuality, I’ve already traveled Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam. But I’ve been so busy, and been accruing so many good stories, that I haven’t had the chance to update it. (Read that as I got lazy)

Anyway, even though I’m back home, I plan to continue my posts as much for my benefit as for those few still interested in my stories.

Coming up, my post and pictures of my time spent at the Gibbon experience – a trip that involved ziplining over jungle canopy.

Thank you very much to those who have been reading my blog, I really appreciate it! I hope you will enjoy the upcoming updates!

Adam

The bus from Bangkok to Chiang Mai was a sleeper, a first for me. Presumably because I bought my ticket from the government station and not through a guesthouse, all passengers except me were locals. After giving us all cold towels, a sickly sweet supper, and some cold water, the attendants turned on a Thai sitcom. The show was constantly punctuated with goofy sounds, such as boings and wazoos, to clue in the audience on appropriate times to laugh. The silly noises also allowed me some measure of entertainment by allowing me to indulge in my inner five-year old. Eventually it did turn off, and I dozed off in my seat.

The bus arrived in town at 4:30 am at a station placed several kilometres outside of the old walled city. So the first order of business at that early hour was to gather my bags and look for some transportation. I noticed the locals all piling into a songthaew, so I followed suit, to the severe disappointment of a tuk-tuk driver who had been persistently hounding me the moment I stepped off of the bus. But, as all the seats were full, I was forced to hang onto the back. Thus, my 5am introduction to the city was given while I held on tightly to the back of a songthaew with my ass swaying wildly back and forth at each turn.

The driver dropped me off at the Southern edge of the moat, waving his hand vaguely Northward by way of giving me directions on a place to stay. Walking up one of the main streets, I passed groups and individual monks collecting alms for the morning. I also fended off some dumb mutt that took offense to my backpacker appearance. I was very close to pegging the animal with a rock.

Based on the recommendation of fellow travellers, I already had a place in mind and easily found it. However, their front desk didn’t open until 9 am, so I crawled upstairs to the rooftop terrace for a 3 hour hammock nap. And so began my stay in Chiang Mai, one of the most pleasant, friendly, and beautiful cities I’ve stayed in.

After my epic nap I checked in and set out to explore the environs. Since the temples are a main attraction, they were my first order of business and I compiled a big list of ones to see.

Pearls of wisdom from a Chiang Mai wat.

Even though the first one was a short walk away, the diabolical heat absolutely drained me. And once I reached the place, I quickly realized that I was actually a bit sick of temple viewing, especially so soon after my wat-sight-seeing extravaganza in Bangkok. So I quit after my first one, and opted instead for a Swedish massage, performed by a blind masseuse no less!

Before I hit the hay, I booked a trekking tour to one of the hill tribe villages. Unfortunately, I only had time for a one day tour, ruling out a whole slew of amazing options. As far as the one-day-trek options went, I should have looked harder, as I limited myself to the options provided by my guesthouse. Many of them promised a visit to a plethora of different tribes in one day. Looking closer, these tours actually involved visiting a special village built by the government and populated by different villagers who moved there from their homeland due to the lure of tourist dollars.

I started to lose heart, but luckily one of the hostel employees was actually an ethnic Akha (one of the hill tribes in the region) and she told of one tour that actually goes to a real Akha village that’s been established for generations. Unfortunately it came with a whole slew of other activities outside of village trekking: rafting, elephant riding, and waterfall viewing. But, I shrugged my misgivings away and decided to just go with the flow.

The next day’s tour started off with elephant riding. Each elephant came equipped with a two person platform and a Thai driver. Before piling on, we were all given the option of purchasing banana bunches to feed our steeds. Whenever an elephant would want one, it would flip his trunk around and search the laps of his riders with his wet and gooey trunk. I have to say, elephant trunk breath stinks worse than your principal’s halitosis.

Lecherous elephant

The best part of the ride was watching the elephants obstinately refuse their orders. The Thai drivers would often have to resort to yelling, head smacks, and poking them behind the ears with hooks to get them moving. It didn’t help that many of my fellow tourists foolishly used up their bunches early on. This only seemed to escalate the creature’s stubbornness. Fortunately I kept a reserve to reward my elephant at the end of the ride.

Feeding my steed

My elephant pal looking for one last banana.

A short waterfall trek followed. Along the walk we passed by thatch villages whose occupants only seemed to scratch out a living. Since we were nearing the end of the hot season, the area was particularly dry, making the village settings seem very barren.

The waterfall with a Thai boy playing the foreground

Another waterfall shot.The kids were children of families selling water, snacks, and beer at the waterfall.

Once our group returned from the waterfall, we all squeezed onto a raft for a lackluster ride. The only cool bit of the raft ride came near the end, when we passed throngs of Thai tourists relaxing along the riverside. Entire families, consisting of three or four generations, set up picnics and parked themselves on the bank all day. It seemed like a wonderful family affair of eating, drinking, and chatting.

After that I got to try my hand at bamboo pole rafting. It was exhausting. All went well until I slipped into between bamboo beams, just saving myself from falling into the drink. Guess I should stick to my day job. Wait?! What day job?

Finally, after all that it was time to visit the Akha village. “This is going to be great!”, I thought. Soon after our guide gave us clear instructions before letting us out, “Five minutes, no more.” “What!”, I yelled.

And the village really was a normal functioning village. Almost everyone was dressed in normal gear, befitting a village too close to Chang Mai to retain its traditional clothes and too authentic to be geared entirely to tourism. The only people dressed in Akha clothes were three women on the roadside selling trinkets for the occasional tourist crew. Interestingly, thanks to the efforts of missionaries, the Akha are Catholic, something I learned when I noticed the village church.

In any event, our visit village was an entirely disappointing event, as I learned almost zilch about the people. Nonetheless, the day was fun, and really who can complain about that? However, proper village trekking would have to wait until Laos.

Since trekking was so on my mind, it was conveinent that my next stop was Laos. As a result, Chiang Mai capped off my month in Thailand. The city really is fantastic, and I did spend a lot of time just relaxing there. So for me, it was a perfect send-off to Thailand.

Akha village with church in the background.

Akha elder.

Some interesting side notes:

1. The main bar strip was go-go girl central. I even had to peel off one girl who tried to drag me inside her bar.

2. Luckily, Jon found a good bar square frequented by locals and tourists. However, it was plagued by little children (5 to 10!) trying to sell flowers to the drunks. Often refusal of the flowers brought a very aggressive reaction; throwing away your coaster, smacking you, or some other angry response. God knows how these kids will end up as adults, growing up selling wares to drunk and often condescending tourists at extreme hours of night.

3. On my way home one night, an older man asked me for help in French. Apparently, a prostitute he had procured had stolen all his money and money cards. He pleaded for 60 baht, a sum which would allow him to check into a dormitory to sleep. He didn’t fail to add that he was just a poor 63-year-old man. Although I couldn’t sympathize with the means to his plight, it was obvious he was in a bit of a bind. I gave him the money and wished him luck.

So off I dashed out of Bangkok on a short bus ride to Kanchanaburi. When I arrived in town, I quickly chartered a cyclo (like a tuk-tuk, but pedal powered) as I didn’t relish the prospect of a 3km walk with my big bag in the stifling heat. During the ride I marveled at the size of the driver’s calves as he powered his way through the streets. By the time we arrived at my hostel, I was incredibly sweaty but my driver had barely a drop! Amazed, I think I was still shaking my head the next day. It made me wonder if Thais were equally dumbfounded at those Westerners who profusely sweat.

In any event, I paid up and checked out the guesthouse. It was amazing. I had a bungalow on the river Kwai, it had a huge garden and a great restaurant and bar. Incredibly it was the same price as the cesspool I stayed at in Bangkok (3 dollars!!!), but exceptionally better in every single way imaginable. That’s another thing I noticed about SE Asia – prices don’t usually correspond to quality.

In fact, I’ve found distinctly different places almost side-by-side that sell rooms at the same price. One will have dimly lit rooms, stained sheets, cracked bathroom tiles, a toilet minus its seat, and a dribbling excuse for a shower. On the other hand, its neighbour will have amazingly quaint and clean rooms, free and clean towels, DVD lounges, satellite TV, wifi, and hot water showers. Not to mention wonderful staff and owners. It pays to shop around for sure.

After checking in I decided to visit the Thailand-Burma Railway Centre, a museum dedicated to documenting and exhibiting information related to the railway and its toll on life. Outside the museum, a sign promoted the place by offering free coffee with admission. I wondered whether the place was having trouble garnering visitors.

The place itself was a small but incredibly well-put-together museum that easily provoked emotion. Thousands of Allied POWs wasted away in the wretched jungle. More horribly, an even greater amount of Asian labourers also died, almost always forced or deceived into working on the railway. Sadder still, the Japanese kept no records on their Asian labourers, meaning that the Asians who died do not have grave markers or even exact statistics on their death toll. They just lay in thousands of graves along the railway, lost to human knowledge forever.

While perusing the museum, I never ran into another visitor, strengthening my initial misgivings on museum attendance. Directly across from the museum lay the largest cemetery of POWs who died building the Death Railway. Generously donated and maintained by the Thai government, the cemetery consists of mainly the remains of British, Australian and New Zealand nationals. It was immaculately kept up. But once more, I was alone. I don’t know if my experiences of these empty war memorials were an exception.Maybe I just happened to come on an exceptionally slow day? I hope so. But I know many travelers going to or having been to Kanchanaburi, indifferent to the cemetery and the idea of paying respect to the dead Allied soldiers.

Well after a good afternoon of war on the brain, I was looking forward to a night out. Striking out of my guesthouse onto the main (but small) bar strip I immediately set out for a string of establishments blaring music. And at every single one of them groups of Thai girls would cry out “Hello! Want to drink?”. Looking inside, the clientele consisted of mainly old white dudes and their Thai “girlfriends”. I went home early that night.

Probably for the better, as tomorrow promised an early morning start for a visit to the Erawan waterfalls. These are a popular series of waterfalls often frequented by Thai tourists. I grabbed a local bus, reveling in the money saved. I didn’t realize that a local bus also included a 1.5 to 2 hour ride.

Once there, I realized how popular the place really was. It was brimming with Thai families. Actually it was a Thai tourist trap! Occasionally I’d come across some foreigners. Most of them were good about respecting the somewhat conservative Thai conventions; as in cover up shoulders, legs, and midriffs if you are a women. In fact most Thai men wear shirts while swimming. These considerate tourists were in marked contrast to the Russian tourists I saw, all of whom obliviously pranced around in thong bikinis and speedos.

On the way back I asked to be dropped off at the famous Bridge Over River Kwai. The target of numerous Allied bombing raids during the war, the concrete supports of the bridge still exhibit shrapnel damage. It was rebuilt several times, and today is an actual functioning bridge for Thailand’s railway system.

The bridge itself is a fairly normal looking structure. Sometimes people tell me this as a complaint. But honestly, it was a war-time bridge spanning the river Kwai. Do people expect the Golden Gate? For me, it was wonderful. It brought out the trembling history dork in me. I felt enormously privileged to stand on a structure so heavy with historical significance and impact.

Today the bridge itself is a focal point of attention regarding the Death Railway. However, in reality the greatest hardship and suffering took place further in the jungle, away from towns like Kanchanaburi. There in the no-man’s land between Thailand and Myanmar lie the remains of long forgotten bridges and railway, weighted down, perhaps, with the scale of the suffering used to erect them.

Pictures! Sorry guys, no thong bikini pics.

Grave site at the Thailand-Burma Railway cemetery. Each grave shared with its neighbour beautiful and perfectly groomed plants and flowers.

One side of the cemetery. Each body was retreived from its isolated jungle grave and reinterred here.

Che, the famous peace activist

Thai teenage guys goofing around in Erawan

One of the Erawan waterfall tiers

Colourful wraps adorning a tree at Erawan. I'm not sure of their purpose, but I suspect it's religious in nature.

Thai dude jumping in the pool.

A rare shot free of Thai tourists. The waterfall pools were populated with fish that would eagerly nip at any exposed skin.

Standing on the Bridge Over River Kwai

The Bridge Over River Kwai

Joints of the bridge

Train travelling over the bridge and incidentally travelling on the last working portion of the Death Railway.

This also allowed the pickled Italian to conduct a one-sided conversation with me, while I lied on my bed in a futile attempt at a nap. Through his barely intelligible English, I learned that he was a chef, had worked in an astounding number of locations, and was biding his time in Khao San until his next gig. He also stated with some passion that he didn’t agree with the exploitation of Thai “darlings”. An admirable conviction I thought. At this point I didn’t know that the Italian chef (I’ll call him I-chef from here on in as we never got around to names) was also a dedicated drunk.

But he soon faded and so did I. And when I awoke I found Jon lurking in the guesthouse. An awkward hand-shake almost hug later, we set out for a night out together on Khao San. As always, it was much more fun to observe the buffoonery with a good mate than alone, and I enjoyed Jon’s cutting commentary. We toured Khao San road at night, lit up by neon signs, bisected by grimy alleys, and crowded with multiple nationalities. Bars consisting only of lawn chairs and coolers of beer had set up on the streetside.

Needing a break from the mayhem, we decided to try out an improbable late-night fish massage. A fish massage is a simple tank full of smallish fish. For whatever reason, the fish inside are ravenous for dead skin and will swarm any feet put inside the tank. It’s supposed to soften feet skin, and perhaps for some people it produces a pleasant sensation. For me, it took all my willpower to keep my feet still and not yank them out of the water as fast as humanly possible. You could literally feel hundreds of little mouths gingerly munching away. Eventually you do get accustomed to the feeling and relaxation does set in. And I have to admit, my feet were quite soft in the end.

I wish that was the highlight of the night. Unfortunately it wasn’t. Upon returning to our guesthouse, Jon discovered that he had failed to lock his room properly. A mistake anyone can make, but it was a costly error. Some unscrupulous lout must have passed by his room and noticed the error, as Jon’s iPod and Rollei camera had been stolen.

After a careful search, we were eventually forced to admit that the items were long gone, so we decided to hit the sack. This wasn’t the end of the night, as a few hours later I-chef stumbled into his room completely hammered. It was his unabashed weeping that woke me up. But it was his periodic cries of “Why!” that kept me up. Eventually he did pass out. But his light was left turned on, illuminating my room and leaving me seething in my bed. I had no idea what had upset him, but I gathered it had something to do with a darling.

The next morning I found I-chef passed out, snoring on his bed with his room door open. Upon returning I found him up and about. He seemed a little sheepish about last night’s behaviour. In a childishly eager manner, he offered me pepsi from the giant jug he was drinking, almost as a peace offering. I declined. I also declined his many repeated offers throughout the following two days. At each refusal he looked absolutely crushed.

Seeking a change of pace from Khao San, Jon and I decided to check out MBK center mall. Bangkok’s reputation as a shopping mecca is partly due to places like MBK. A giant complex of a mall, it was packed with a mixture of full-size brand stores and ultra-tiny stalls. Many Thais shopped there, but I also noticed a very large number of expats with their young children in tow.

At the time, MBK was adjacent to one of the Red Shirt rally sites. A demographic largely originating from the North of Thailand, the Red Shirts had set up camp in several central areas of Bangkok, essentially shutting down much of the commercial district. Since we were so close to the site and we saw normal Thais walking by completely unperturbed, Jon and I decided to check out the site.

To get there we had to pass through large tire barricades adorned with bamboo stakes. The rally site followed a portion of Bangkok’s Skytrain, and hundreds of protesters had set up camp underneath the rail line, using the concrete as a form of shelter. Food and first-aid stations were set up at regular intervals along the line, and many of the protesters were sprawled out asleep in their temporary homes. It was very well organized and administered.

Some Thais would beckon to us and point out a particularly well made sign or poster or slogan, but for the most part the protesters completely ignored us. After a while we eventually made it to a main stage, where a large red banner stated, “Protesters Not Terrorists!” in English. The use of English in the predominant banners was a telling sign of the protesters’ hope to garner foreign sympathy. The stage was a venue for a succession of speeches interspersed with dances and performances. The atmosphere was more passionate than angry. I’m sure things were much different at Lumpini park, where the hard-line protesters had holed up with weapons and constructed a formidable barricade. But here, most of the people were middle-aged or older, and I got the impression that these protesters were genuine in their professions of non-violence and legitimate peaceful protest, unlike their cadres in Lumpini park.

In any event, after a good stroll through the rally site, Jon and I returned to MBK for a good-ol Hollywood film. Both of us were looking forward to having to stand for the Thai national anthem, which plays before every movie. Accompanying the anthem were images and videos of the king touring the countryside. I couldn’t help but notice the irony of having just come from the Red Shirt rally site, whose protesters would most likely openly criticize the royalty if not for Thailand’s draconian lèse majesté laws.

We capped off the night with a visit to Lumpini market, which in normal times is a bustling venue bursting with tourists. However, the Red Shirt protests had stifled all business, and Jon and I were almost the only customers in the entire place. It was depressing and I felt bad for the store owners whose livelihood had been put on hold.

A big day out called for an early night in. Jon left for the ancient capital the next day, but I stayed for one more day as I desperately wanted to see a Muay Thai match at ringside. For the interests of brevity (as this post is ballooning), I’ll quickly summarize: Muay Thai matches are awesome! At each kick, elbow, knee, or punch the Thai crowd ooohs and awwws as loud as they can. In the corners of each fighter, his family screams encouragement and advice, while Thais in the background furiously bet and yell at each development in the fight. It was very easy to get caught up in all the excitement, and I found myself picking a fighter to cheer for and screaming like a local.

That night I packed it in early. I had an eventful time in Bangkok and I was beat. Plus, I planned to head out early for Kanchanaburi (site of the Bridge over River Kwai). So at 10:30, I nuzzled into my bed, looking forward to a proper rest. At 5 am I awoke to light streaming in my room and I-chef talking loudly to a darling he procured from God-knows-where. At first I feared the worst, but then I realized that he had only returned with her because he owed her some additional money. After a protracted pleading session on getting her to stay longer, I-chef finally relented and allowed the darling to make her exit. Relieved that it was over, I waited for him to flick out the light. I waited in vain, as he had already passed out with the light on again.

Red Shirt barricade

Main stage with the English banners

Red Shirt woman looking down at the rally

Red Shirt protester jubilantly supporting the speech

Listening to the speech

Ceremonial dance before the fight begins

Kicking ass at Muay Thai

Celebrating a win. Celebrations were actually quite muted.

Fighter's family watching their relative's progress

Expert martial artist and some Thai dude

Look at that goose egg!

They start them really young in Muay Thai

Bangkok traffic

I arrived from Ranong, fresh from my visa run in Myanmar, on an all-day bus to Bangkok’s Southern Terminal. It was a bustling station possessing a curious mix of modern mall and terminal-like structures next door to a chaotic and run-down local city station. Using the Lonely Planet’s instructions, I managed to locate the public local bus to Khao San road, otherwise know as backpacker ground zero for SE Asia. Having heard an overabundance of stories concerning the jostling party nature of Khao San road, I mentally prepared myself for the introduction.

The bus dropped me off on one of the main Bangkok thoroughfares. The presence of many foreigners indicated I was in the Khao San area, but so far the place just seemed like a typical big city street. However, as soon as I turned the corner and entered Khao San road, it was as if I crossed an imaginary border to another world. A world teeming with drunk and less-drunk backpackers and aggressive touts catering to the foreign presence.

Tipped off by Jon on a cheap place to crash, I resolutely made my way through the crowd. Along the way, I brushed off repeated offers of tuk-tuk rides, tailored suits, cheap buckets of booze, ping-pong shows (don’t ask), massages, and “massages”. The place Jon scoped out was located in an uninviting and dark back alley, a step away from all the action. Taking a moment to assess the alley, I was only reassured when I saw throngs of foreigners stream in and out of it. This alley fit an observation common to much of SE Asia that I’ve seen so far. Even if it looks like an alley you would only enter kicking and screaming back at home, in SE Asia it’s almost always just an innocuous avenue, one that is replicated ad nauseum throughout the city. Just another consequence of cramming people in an absurdly dense manner.

The guesthouse was a dump, a three-story building impossibly narrow. Situated above a hairdressing salon and cooking class, the guesthouse served as the third means of income for a hodge-podge of family members living on the ground floor. The family matched the uninviting exterior of the place. Without exception, every member was a classic example of what I call the “unfriendly Thai.” Let me explain.

Thailand likes to label itself the Land of Smiles. I believe this is a misnomer. A better name would be the Land of Mostly Polite People and Some Sour Grapes. I say this, because a surprisingly large number of Thais you meet as a tourist are quite surly. And the rest demonstrate an admirable politeness, but hardly ever the same manner of open friendliness you could may find in Indonesia, Laos, or Cambodia. This is notable because it’s such a contrast to Thailand’s reputation. I imagine a lot of it has to do with whether you travel to a place inundated with tourists or not.

And really, I couldn’t blame this particular family for being unfriendly. Living next to Khao San road and dealing with some of the degenerates that end up here would sour even the most friendly disposition. Even so, it wasn’t particularly fun to enter the guesthouse, as it required walking through the salon, the family sleeping quarters, and past a tiny family kitchen, all the while trudging by some or all of the surly family.

My room was a closet masquerading as a guesthouse room. No matter, it was clean and cheap, so I took it, sour grapes be damned! Jon was out of town for a couple of days on a side trip to Kanchanaburi, so after dropping my gear I set out for a bit of fun on my own. I didn’t make it very far. Walking on my way out of the back alley, I turned a corner and found myself facing a tiny bar tucked amidst a corner created by two different buildings. Named, “The Happy Bar”, the establishment literally consisted of one bar, a stereo, several stools, and metal gate for locking up at the end of night. With just enough room for his body, the bartender/owner slept on the floor after locking up.

Seeing me pass by, the owner yelled at me to join the little gathering taking place. I couldn’t pass this by, so I sat down for a beer. The clientele was roughly an equal mixture of local Thais and French woman. The women had decided to live permanently in Thailand, in order to enjoy a life filled with beaches, beer, questionable facial piercings, and copious amounts of pot smoking. I found it easier to talk to the Thais.

I called it a night soon after, and awoke the next morning in a sweaty mess from the heavy heat of my room. Determined to get a good day in of temple sight-seeing, I set out towards the Grand Palace. Along the way, a Thai man leaning on a railing complimented me on my shoes. An odd occurrence, since my only shoes are hiking shoes and are decidedly unfashionable. With the ice broken, we struck up a conversation. Eventually he asked me where I was going. When I mentioned the Grand Palace, he grimly shook his head and told me it was closed today. Brightening up, he offered me an alternative, suggesting I hire one of the innumerable tuk-tuks plying the street and sight-see some of the many Buddhas around town. This seemed sensible enough, so he led me to a waiting tuk-tuk, but not before providing me with some parting advice on price.

Now anyone reading this with a cursory knowledge of Bangkok should be shaking his or her head at my laughable naivety. You see, when a Thai anywhere near Khao San road seems to genuinely want to be your friend, chances are he doesn’t. When he tells you something is closed, it’s not. When you’re offered a cheap tuk-tuk ride, it’s only because the driver plans to drop you off at tailors and jewelry stores in the hope of procuring a commission.

For me, the most bewildering aspect of the whole situation, is that I read all about this beforehand, but for some reason my brain completely failed me, choosing to temporarily repress this crucial information (and common sense). It was only after I stepped in the tuk-tuk and it inched into traffic, did I remember. I let out a silent but emphatic curse.

Even so, I was lucky. My tuk-tuk driver turned out to be a fairly reasonable fellow. After taking me to two different Buddhas, including an impressively massive standing statue, he dropped me off at a tailor. After getting ushered inside, I made it clear that I wasn’t buying a suit today, and quickly made my exit. Somewhat dismayed, my driver took me to the next destination, but not before a little explaining. He told me how the scam works. Each of these stores will pay the tuk-tuk driver 100 baht if their unsuspecting fare stays for 10 minutes or longer. The driver makes his money from these stores and the fare he received me is quite insignificant. Since he was so upfront about it, I agreed that he could take me to two more of these stores, and he agreed to take me to some more interesting destinations afterward. Talking to some Lithuanian friends afterward, they told me their tuk-tuk driver sped off and stranded them when they refused to buy from these stores. So I was definitely fortunate.

So after a visit to an extraordinary sleazy jewelry store and another tailor, I spent the remainder of the day checking out additional sites. All in all, it wasn’t that bad of a deal. I got a day-long tuk-tuk ride and city tour, that really only cost me the time spent awkwardly and halfheartedly perusing two different establishments. I tried not to lead them on too badly. Really, I did.

Despite the sort-of-success of the day, the following day I set out on my own and on foot, determinedly ignoring all offers and compliments and avoiding tuk-tuks like the plague. And one day later than I planned, I manged to see the Grand Palace, the Emerald Buddha, and the Reclining Buddha in a satisfyingly uneventful manner. Great sites, but after two days straight of temples and Buddhas, I was ready for something else, something red….

A Boatload of Pics!

Thailand still uses glass coke bottles - Jon is particulary enthralled with this.

Inside view of the tuk-tuk scam

Giant standing Buddha

Giant Buddha toes!

Tuk-tuk? Where you going?

Try saying this name three times

Sentinels at the Grand Palace - the opulence of the place was truly astounding. Made me wish I was a Siamese prince...

Gilded structure at the Grand Palace

Not sure the signifance of this tree, but I enjoyed the chaotic tangle of its trunk

The Grand Palace had an endless and intricate depiction of the Ramayana epic. I loved it, and particularly appreciated this wild scene of Hanuman running amuck.

Workers maintaining Wat Pho (Temple of the Reclining Buddha)

Wat Pho spires

Monks making offerings at Wat Pho

Insane Skaffolding

The ride to the hospital was uneventful, and for Hannah and I it was also reasonably comfortable. But it felt very long and I was sick with sorry regarding Lucas and Adham. As we entered the Luang Prabang city limits and it became obvious we were nearing our destination, I caught myself looking with dread at each crumbling building I suspected of being our hospital. Thankfully, my worries of being sent to some sort of condemned facility were unfounded, as we eventually pulled up to a cheerful looking building roofed with charming red tile in the Chinese style. As I peeled myself off the truck seat I left behind a generous amount of bloody residue from my back. I didn’t mind so much, as we had finally made it to medical attention, at the Lao-Chinese Friendship Hospital.

Our arrival caused a bit of a sensation. Lao nurses wearing traditional bonnets and old-fashioned dresses amassed around us. Joined by male attendants, about 5 of them quickly set to pulling Adham off first. Standing away from the action, and worried about possible spinal injuries, I was disconcerted to see the attendants bend and manipulate Adham’s back and neck as they lifted him out of the truck and onto a waiting gurney. Despite the pain, Adham tolerated the discomfort admirably. As they wheeled him away to a room far from the entrance his 6’2” frame sprawled absurdly over the undersized gurney, causing his knees to splay dangerously close to some of the attendants’ heads.

Next up was Lucas with his open ankle fracture. Placing him in his gurney, the staff treated poor Lucas in a manner unfathomably indifferent to his extraordinarily painful break. As they moved him, they carelessly manipulated his loosely attached foot, causing his leg bone to rest unnaturally ontop of his shattered ankle joint. It must have been agonizing, and Lucas, who up to this point had hardly uttered a complaint, began to moan and cry out in pain, pleading for some help. For their part, the staff just looked at him. Thankfully, at this point Dr. Xax, the head doctor, arrived and with him the medical attention we received increased in a few orders of magnitude.

Dr. Xax exuded a strong sense of competence and authority, and immediately took charge in resolving the situation. Possesing a good command of English, he immediately assessed the break and rearranged Lucas’ ankle, providing him with immediate and palpable respite. Very quickly he also assessed everyone else’s injuries and prioritized order of treatment based on severity. Joined by April, Joanne was sent off to a room adjoining Adham’s.

I worriedly watched Lucas being wheeled in the emergency room. The room was labeled “Surgsery Emergency”. Soon after the hospital power began to give out with alarming frequency, plunging large portions of the building in darkness.

Since Hannah and I had recovered from our head blows and only needed stitches, we were given the lowest priority, allowing me ample time to observe the hospital and its staff. Dr. Xax was obviously an excellent doctor. However, I was definitely leery of some of the other staff, especially the ones responsible for so carelessly moving Adham and Lucas. Even more worrisome were the ones who stared slackjawed at Lucas as he pleaded for help. Now, with the immediate excitement over, much of the staff quickly sprawled to sleep on the reception desk or listlessly watched a T.V. bolted to one of the walls. For some reason, the hospital seemed to enjoy a severe overabundance of staff, leaving many of them with little to do.

At this point several police officers entered the scene, looking for everyone’s passports for their police report. As part of Lao policy, they also called the tourism authorities in order to provide an English speaker to help us navigate the system and smooth over any problems. I have to say, we are enormously grateful to the Lao government of this policy. Very soon, a Mr. Johnny arrived who ended being an absolute Godsend and a never-ending source of helpfulness and thoughtfulness. Since the hospital lacked a phone, Mr. Johnny immediately provided us use of her phone to call our insurance companies. We also received valuable explanations on how the health system works, who pays for what, and advice on procuring guesthouses and food for later tonight.

Soon after, Dr. Xax stepped out of the Surgsery room with Axelle. I overheard his recommendation that he stay the night and get air evacuated to Bangkok in the morning. A sensible course of action. After that, not much happened. Hannah and I sat on our wooden bench, our conversation already exhausted from our long drive to the hospital. A couple of hours in, Hannah began to distract herself by taking pictures of my back wound. I gladly complied.

Eventually, the inevitable happened, and my bladder caught up to me. Unfortunately, each of my attempts to use the bathroom coincided with a power outage, throwing the bathroom in pitch darkness. After several attempts I finally found a window of opportunity and raced to the bathroom.

Inside, I was met with two urinals, a squatter, and a broken Western toilet, all open to view to each other. My sandals squished amid a disconcerting amount of fluid and muck on the floor. Despite the power working, the bathroom was so dark that I couldn’t really examine the facilities. Only after feeling the sensation of hot urine splashing my feet did I discover that the urinal I was using drained directly to the floor. I was even more aggravated when I repeated this discovery with the second urinal. With my humiliation complete I shambled back to my wooden bench.

Meanwhile, April set to ensuring that Joanne and Adham were comfortable and cared for. But not even April can be at all places at once. At a point where Joanne was left alone, several nurses stepped in her room and moved Joanne to another bed. Using scowls and curt orders, the nurses then insisted she move beds again. In a great degree of pain from her broken clavicle, she refused the inexplicable request. This angered the nurses greatly, and they even went so far to tug at Joanne’s arms, despite her fractured collarbone. Finally they gave up, obstinately ignoring her for the remainder of her stay. Understandably, Joanne became upset. Seeing Joanne’s state, an old Laos lady, visiting her relative in the neighbouring bed, performed a wonderful act of kindness. Taking a clothe, she gently washed Joanne’s legs, arms, and face. A kind soul.

As for me, I resigned myself to my post at the wooden bench. Eventually, the doctors finished up with Lucas, and it was my turn for treatment. Stepping in the emergency room, I saw Lucas sprawled on a gurney, his leg wrapped like a mummy. Considerably doped up but lucid, he asked me how I was doing. Astonished at his concern, I assured him I was fine and that he shouldn’t worry about anyone else except himself. As they wheeled him away, I heard him drawl in a drugged out voice, “Good-bye Adam! Good luck!”

Taking in my surroundings, I was a little apprehensive. All the staff were wearing the same sandals they wore outside the room, leaving a considerable amount of muck and dirt on the floor. The gurney I was placed on face-first seemed grimy from its previous occupant. However, observing things a little closer, I saw that all instruments were sterilized, doctors and nurses acted professionally (unlike their counterparts outside), and the severe stinging I felt on my head wounds indicated that liberal (very liberal if the stinging was anything to go by) amounts of alcohol were used to clean the lacerations. So while it was perhaps not the General Hospital in Ottawa, I felt in good hands.

All in all, the stitching went well. While Laotian doctors will never be accused of being gentle stitchers, they sewed me up quite admirably. I think Hannah’s treatment was worse than mine, as she was forced to endure an ear stitching. I could hear her swear in Finnish while they sewed my back up. It was severely comical, and her unabashed curses eased my own back stitching experience. In total I received 12 stitches in my back and head, not too bad of a tally.

With everyone finished, it was time to collect Joanne and Adham from their beds, as it was decided that neither of them needed to spend the night. I found Joanne tired and sore laying in a bed equipped with sheets garnished with puke, crap, and blood stains. When I poked my head in the bathroom I startled a cockroach in the sink. It fled into the drainage hole, its two antennaie poking absurdly into view. Feeling malicious, I decided to turn on the tap, only to discover the water was broken. It was time to leave, find a clean guesthouse, and lick our wounds and recover. Before we did so, we bid good luck to Lucas and Axelle. They had a flight to Bangkok to look forward to, and on Lucas’ part, a long rehabilitation.

At this point it was 3am and the inimitable Mr Johnny was still with us. She ensured that we didn’t pay a cent (or a kip as it happens), explaining that the Lao government is paying for our treatment. April then hopped on the back of Mr. Johnny’s motorbike in search of a guesthouse open at this late hour. Returning soon after, the dynamic duo of April and Mr. Johnny chartered a tuk-tuk to the chosen place. The five of us piled into our rooms and all passed out. Except for April, who had one last task ahead of her. She awoke us four head-wound victims every two hours. After all that work, even a reward as simple as a good sleep was denied April.

Epilogue

Everyone is fine from our (mis)adventure (Axelle’s phrasing). Lucas and Axelle have flown to France from Bangkok for some additional treatment, and Axelle has assured me that Lucas is in fine health and spirits.

Joanne flew back to Ireland, sure to be doted on by her family who live in the village of Coolarty. She has updated me on recent Coolarty happenings; apparently the Murphy family’s cow has calved twin offspring for the third year in a row!

Hannah booked a flight to Chang Mai, Thailand and is enjoying the rest of her epic overland trip (overland over Russia, Mongolia, and China!)

As for Adham, April, and I – we continued our Laotian travels, heading South to Vang Vieng and Vientiane. Experiences all deserving of future posts!

There were seven of us traveling from Luang Namtha to Nong Khiaw. From having trekked together in the previous days, we had already developed a solid rapport and camaraderie. Joking around and poking fun at our respective foibles, we looked forward to additional days of trekking together. Unbeknownst to us, a car accident would throw all of us into a situation requiring considerable degrees of luck and resourcefulness. So I’ll start my tale from the beginning.

Jon and I met Joanne and April on the Gibbon Experience, a famous 3 day trek and ziplining adventure deserving of its own post. Joanne, an Irish social worker, and April, an American accountant, were both on the tail ends of their own incredible around-the-world odysseys. Rejecting the accountant stereotype, April, a mountaineer and avowed outdoors enthusiast, allowing her to handle a surprising number of situations. I would find myself thanking God for April’s acumen in a few days.

During the Gibbon experience, April and Joanne told me of their plans to continue trekking in Northern Laos, at a town called Luang Namtha. Since Jon didn’t suffer from my trekking bug, he decided to continue on toward Vang Vieng, while I joined the girls. The three of us enjoyed 2 days of fabulous trekking through jungle with stopovers in remote villages. During the trek, we picked up some other travelers. Adham, an Englishman still deciding his future career, Hannah, a Finnish butterfly catcher (sort of), and Lucas and Axelle, two French architects working in Shanghai. As it happened, all seven of us shared plans for our next destination, a small town called Nong Khiaw.

So, the morning after our trek we all piled onto the local bus. While waiting we watched locals tie a scooter onto the bus roof and pile canvas sacs of banana leaves onto the aisles. Unfortunately, the bus didn’t make it all the way to Nong Khiaw, meaning we would have to charter a songthaew for the remaining 30 minute ride. For those unfamiliar with Thailand and Laos, songthaews are a common means of public transportation. Like many forms of transportation here, these vehicles would never be road-legal back home. Simply put, they’re pickup trucks equipped with two rows of benches on either side of the bed for passengers. For the most part, they’re just another colourful feature of traveling in SE Asia, something to mention back at home. Our particular songthaew was roofed, a crucial feature that probably saved us from more serious injury.

Ironically, as we were traveling in the songthaew, Adham and I admired the quality of the road. Soon after, I was fantasizing about the cup of coffee I was going to destroy upon arriving in Nong Khiaw. Then we crashed. Rolled over to be precise, but this is hearsay because I have no recollection of the crash. The crash violently knocked me out as my head banged against the metal carriage.

Out of everybody, Adham recollects the crash itself in the best detail. He remembers a sudden horrible bang and then being tumble dried around the songthaew carriage, rolling into metal and people. If the vehicle wasn’t roofed, we would have all been thrown from the truck, a sobering prospect. When the vehicle finished rolling, Adham found himself sprawled next to me. He managed to pull himself out of the wreck, where some Laotian bystanders placed him in a chair.

Of all of us, April came out of the accident essentially unscathed. A fortuitous event, as quite honestly she was the best equipped to deal with the pandemonium that followed. For the rest of us, Joanne suffered a broken collarbone and head blows, Adham very painfully banged up his shoulder with a helping of head blows, Hannah a major head blow and serious lacerations and contusions over her body, and Axel had several lacerations. Lucas came out the worst, breaking his ankle in an open fracture deep enough to see bone and gore. As for me, April and Adham found me sprawled inside the wreckage with blood pouring out of my head and moaning unintelligibly. I must have momentarily lost motor abilities, as my attempts to get up pathetically failed. April says she’ll never get that image out of her head, and I don’t envy her the memory.

I also don’t envy the task presented to April. Here were 6 injured travelers, some of them quite seriously, reeling from a rollover in rural Laos. The two Laotian drivers, while fine physically, were in hysterics and offered no help. Most of the bystanders were more interested in chattering amongst themselves or helping the drivers than providing aid to us. Not to mention that April had to babysit me, whose contribution to the situation was to add to the chaos. You see, I eventually gained my motor faculties but not my senses, and I kept aimlessly wandering around the crash site despite Aprils repeated exhortations to, “SIT!”

Somehow April organized transport to the local clinic and placed Lucas and Adham lying down onto its bed. Everyone else piled in except me. At this point, I finally came to. Unfortunately, I had hit my head so hard that I temporarily lost my memories of the last few days. I had no idea who the people around me were, let alone why I was holding a towel to my head to staunch a painful head blow. In its weakened state, the only thing my mind could grasp was that I had a friend named Jon. This is not surprising that he popped up first in my head, as for the last few months we’ve been joined at the hip.

Confusedly, I asked April who she was and where we were. With the patience of an angel she told me for what must have been the hundredth time that we had been in an accident. Then, forgetting we had separated earlier in Laos, I said, “I was traveling with my friend Jon. Is he ok? We need to make sure we get him out of the accident too.” She assured me Jon was ok and ordered me into the waiting truck. She didn’t neglect to add a, “Now!”, God love her.

I still don’t know how April managed to get us all organized and on our way to the local clinic. She did this despite the absolutely chaotic Laotian bystanders, the hostile driver’s wife, and very severe language barriers. She even lugged all our bags onto the truck, not forgetting one sack.

Of the accident aftermath, my memory is still spotty. I remember looking at the twisted wreckage in the ditch with comical bewilderment, being whisked onto the truck, and then my memory leaves me once again. The next thing I remember is mutely sitting in the truck bed staring at my fellow travelers in dumb incomprehension. They were all unfamiliar to me, and I was unable to pinpoint exactly where I was, except for somewhere in Laos. It was an unnerving feeling.

As soon as we arrived at the clinic, numerous Laotians converged on our truck. Unfortunately, none of them seemed to be medical staff, and like the bystanders of before they seemed content to lean against the truck, chat amongst themselves, stare at us, and occasionally point out one of our particularly notable wounds. Adham appealed for water, and thankfully some kind Laotian bystander arrived with some bottles. The act is even more kind when considering that a bottle of water is a comparatively expensive purchase for the average Laotian.

Next to me sat Hannah, who suffered a similar degree of memory loss. Through some painfully slow questioning, we began to piece together the events of the last few days. It was a curious feeling to have your memories and faculties slowly return and the relief was overpowering at times. I can compare it to waking from a particularly lucid dream. Except I awoke to pandemonium instead of a warm comfy bed. And it was obvious that the scene I awoke to could use another helpful body instead of the jabbering idiot I was minutes ago. So I set to making Adham comfortable and feeding him water, as he was forced to lay prone on his back due to the pain all over his body.

Meanwhile, April set about improving our situation. She managed to find an English-speaking nurse who promptly called an English-speaking doctor. She also enlisted the aid of some medical staff in getting Joanne transferred out of the truck and onto a bed. Unfortunately, the remainder of the staff didn’t seem inclined to help the rest of us, leaving Lucas pale and sweaty with his gore spilling out of his ankle and Adham immobilized and worried sick about spinal injuries lying on the metal floor of the truck bed. Looking back, I don’t think I’ll ever understand the reaction of most of the clinic staff, standing off to the side, joking around with each other, and refusing to provide aid in a situation clearly requiring help.

Still feeling useless, I set about rearranging our living quarters in the truck. I believe I was subject to some of the chuckling commentary of our audience. With my bloodly towel wrapped around my head like a turban, my shirt ripped to shreds in the back revealing a nasty gash, and pieces of skin flapping off my left heal, I must have been a curious site. When April noticed me off the truck moving bags around, I believe the memories of me in the wreckage were still fresh in her mind. “Sit!” she commanded. Since my answer came in words and not moans, she allowed me my token attempts to help the situation.

After 15 minutes, the English-speaking doctor arrived. He told us our best bet was to make our way to Luang Prabang hospital, where they had appropriate facilities to deal with our injuries. He offered the use of one of their ambulances, but it was more of a minivan, inappropriate for Joanne, Adham, and Lucas, who needed to be left lying down. April wisely decided it was best to use the truck we were already in. The driver asked for 800,000 kip for a fee, and luckily we were able to scrounge together that amount. As a parting gift, the doctor gave us all packages of electrolytes to help restore us as much as possible.

As the two most severe head-blow victims, Hannah and I sat in the front under severe instructions to keep ourselves awake. We had 2.5 hours of half-hearted inquiries such as, “So………..what do you plan to do after you’re done travelling?” Even so, we were happy and lucky to be in the front. The poor souls in the metal bed of the truck had to endure a long and bumpy ride. Lucas, for his part, had to continually brace himself amid all the bumps to avoid further aggravating his nasty break. But we were on our way toward help, toward the Lao-Chinese Friendship Hospital in Luang Prabang.

Story continues in Part 2

The beach I stayed at is a short hop via long boat from Had-Rin beach, the locale of the famous Full Moon parties. Our beach, called Had-Yuan, was much quieter – extraordinarily chilled in fact. Based on the recommendation of my little sister, we stayed at a place called Eden, owned by two Thai brothers. One brother, Kang, had an immediately likable disposition and would easily break into giggles or more often just a winning smile. Naturally he dealt with all the customers. I never met the other brother, but only saw him skulking around the background with a permanent scowl on his face. A more severe contrast between brothers I couldn’t imagine.

The bungalow we stayed at was a simply plywood shack, not even possessing a fan. Needless to say it was an absolute sauna during the day. Luckily days are not spent in plywood shacks in Kho Pha Ngan. Instead you spend them broiling on the beach, enjoying the incredible views.

I spent the next four days either lounging on the beach, getting a Thai massage (awful), or motorbiking around the island. One memorable day I dove on a locale called Sail Rock. Initially I was supposed to be partnered up with a banana-hammock clad Frenchman who had over 300 dives under his belt. Not happy to be partnered with such a newbie, he insisted on another arrangement. To everyone’s satisfaction, I joined a group of less experienced divers. Even so, I was always the first to finish my air, but thankfully my group didn’t hold it against me.

Jon ended up leaving for Kho Tau, while I decided to stay for a couple of days. But like him, eventually the days of endless nothing gnawed at me and I had to go too. It didn’t help that it was incredibly expensive on the island as it was impossible to simply walk off the beaten path.

One of the nights before leaving, the normally chilled-out Eden held an incredibly hedonistic party. The music bumped until 10am, I made it until 7am. That was enough for me, I decided to leave the next day. As I left, one of Eden’s electrical outlets burst into flames. Kang’s reaction was to blow the fire out and poke the smoldering outlet with a piece of paper. Inside I was screaming, “Shut the power off!!” Time to leave.

My 15-day visa was almost running out, so I decided to make my way off the island towards Ranong for a visa run which I described here.

Along the way I stopped by at Khao Sok National Park, a rare jungle sanctuary left untouched in Southern Thailand. I met a couple named Andy and Charlotte, and we decided upon a 14km hike. It was a nice walk, punctuated by numerous swimming holes. Leeches were in abundance, so all of us were very vigilant in ripping them off of our boots and socks. About 4km in, we met two random dogs who joined us for the walk. They were half wild, and definitely scared away all potential wildlife viewings. But they were nice companions, even when they engaged three separate monkey tribes in barking fits. Honestly, I thought the monkeys were going to massacre the poor mutts, but thankfully the primates stayed in the trees.

Next up was a visa run and then Bangkok, city of angels and right now city of red shirts.

Thai guy touching up some of the crass logos on Had Rin beach. Don't ask me how this started, just accept it.

Longboat ferry ride from beach to beach. When these guys wanted to, they could demonstrate the most amazing dexterity with their ungainly boats.

Rotting long boat hull somewhere on the West coast of Kho Pha Ngan

My bad-ass motorbike in Kho Pha Ngan

Dive location: Sail Rock island. This place is located roughly halfway between Kho Pha Ngan and Kho Tau

Sleeping on the return ride after diving.

Eden at night during the party

Eden, full out!

Serving drinks at Eden

Bamboo forests in Khao Sok Park

One of the dogs we met along the hike.

The night before leaving for Phuket, we celebrated the Thai new year, so neither of us was particulary equipped to deal with early morning travel. After dragging our sorry sacks out of bed both of us were hoping to relax and snooze on the bus ride over.

When the bus pulled into the station, all the Thais stampeded onto the bus, leaving Jon and I somewhat bewildered. We soon were enlightened. As is common with local transportation here, the bus was overbooked, consigning an unlucky few to a standing trip, us included. Jon soon found a perch on the bus stairwell, but I wasn’t so lucky. After three hours of standing, a very nice Thai lady graciously offered the edge of her seat for my grateful behind. Unfortunately, only my left cheek was on the seat, forcing the muscle to sleep. The rest of me soon nodded off too, only snorting awake in a startled state after I had unwittingly slammed my forehead into the Thai lady’s back.

But we arrived in one piece, ready to tackle Phuket Island (a peninsula actually for the geography nitpickers). The island’s attractions are its naturally beautiful beaches. But, due to its popularity, staying near Phuket’s beaches is expensive. On the other hand, Phuket Town, located roughly in the center of the island, is only a bus ride away from the beach and offers great budget deals. Even better, it’s a fully functioning Thai town, complete with roadside stalls selling tasty authentic dishes for one dollar or less. If you don’t mind choosing your meal by pointing at an unknown but enticing dish being consumed by one of the local customers, it’s hard to go wrong by Thailand’s roadside eateries. So far, I’ve yet to be disapointed.

By contrast, the tourist haunts near the beaches were incredibly overpriced, selling Western food or watered-down Thai ‘curries’. And what about the beaches themselves? They were very nice. But after the splendour of Krabi province they failed to astound. Since they were surrounded by resorts and filled with speedo-clad Euros, there wasn’t much to entice us to stay.

So after a day of Phuket, it was time to leave. But not before checking out the nightlife on offer in Patong Bay, the major club and bar destination of the island. After a 25 minute taxi ride from sleepy Phuket Town, Jon and I stepped out of the car and entered a completely different world. A world unecumbered by any normal standards of decency.

Packed with neon lights and pulsing music, Patong Bay was busy with wandering tourists, more often very drunk than not, and go-go girls, prostitutes, ladyboys, and gayboys calling after any and all passing foreigners. Now before coming to Thailand, I knew of course of the sex tourism industy. So I expected to see it. But what I didn’t expect was the sheer scale of it on display in Patong Bay. Bars upon bars of gyrating go-go girls, and on the streets were the more conventional prostitutes. It was endless.

Keep in mind that Phuket is the main tourist destination of Thailand, and that Patong Bay is the main party location for Phuket. Since the average Phuket visitor is a normal person simply looking for beaches and booze, you would think that most of the bars and clubs would be a little more ‘traditional’ in nature. As in, only selling booze and only offering someplace to dance or listen to music. But they’re not, and in every one of them you could buy your companionship for the night. Because of this, the go-go bars and all the rest of it have become a perverse attraction in of itself. Tourist couples, groups of girls, amateur photographers, frat boys, and whoever else you can name come here to drink and party admist the twisted atmosphere of Patong Bay. And I admit, Jon and I included ourselves in this group for one night. But we hated it and didn’t understand the appeal.

Don’t get me wrong, sex tourists still abound in Patong Bay, but almost every person was a normal tourist coming to see what all the fuss was about. And many return night after night to party, making Patong Bay the highlight of their vacation. I don’t understand it myself. Perhaps these people seek the illusion of being privy to a sordid world that usually only a brave or unscrupulous (or both) few witness? A story for friends at home? Maybe it’s the appeal of entering a world that at home would come accompanied with all manners of risks and difficulites, but in Thailand comes as part of a tourist package, promising everything with none of the risk. But as it’s on shameless display for all to see, it’s hard to avoid the fact that you haven’t done anything more notable or special than visiting Phuket’s monkey zoo or any other one of the island’s myriad of attractions. I left with an inescapable sense of how pathetic it all was.

Time to move on. My advice, skip Phuket. It can be nice, but there’s much better places on offer in the country.

Roadside grub! This eatery was mobile, as it was simply a motorcycle and an attached food cart and bbq.