Sapa dreaming

After the rigours of Vietnamese holiday heaven, I am pining for a cool, laid back atmosphere so I can put up my feet and escape the heat. We catch the night train, aiming for the sleepy mountain oasis of Sapa in the north-west of Vietnam. At Lao Cai, we trade train for mini-van and ascend the windy mountain road towards Sapa.

Each metre we ascend lifts a blanket of heat off, and the moist breeze whipping up the valley brings the promise of cool. The van struggles up the steep road, following an adjacent mountain range draped in white fluffy clouds. The landscape is rich and green; each hillside adorned with a myriad of terraced rice paddies glowing in brilliant apple-lime. Motorcycles weave around us, honking their horns, vying for headway and fearlessly overtaking on blind corners.

The road emerges into a wide valley, with each bend in the road revealing layer upon layer of breathtaking scenery. Eventually Sapa appears, a charming yet ramshackle collection of hotels, eateries and tourism operators. The roadsides in the town are heaving with friendly, multi-lingual hill tribe women in their traditional dress, looking to chat and ply their wares. These enchanting ladies attach themselves to a group of foreigners and follow, and when the time is right, use hard-arm sales tactics to sell their handicrafts. There are so many of them though - I wonder if they make any money at all.

We pull up for breakfast, soaking in the views and enjoying the coffee, before sniffing out a hotel. Our room is nestled around from the main town centre and boasts full 180 degree views of the sweeping valley below. Already, I can tell it's going to be difficult to leave.

Now I've heard about Vietnamese culinary 'delicacies', but on a stroll through the market I came across a particularly grizzly discovery. Along with all the pieces of pig, cow, snake, eel and fish flesh, I saw the face of a friend. That's right, a canine cranium sitting on the bench for sale, along with what looked like Rover ribs. I was horrified, and quickly told Steph to avert her eyes. I have limits, and this is one...

Jewels of the north

Just a hop, skip and a jump up the Highway One on an overnight bus and we're in the heart of it - Hanoi, the capital of Vietnam. Centred around a generously pungent lake, which Hanoins revere with mystical appreciation, Hanoi offers shopping and culinary delights in purpose named streets - each road is named after the commercial venture found there. There are also heaps of fantastic French-style bakeries and patisseries dotted around the central city district, a positive legacy from Vietnam's French colonial past - which means delectable baguettes, croissants and other pastries are on offer. Vietnam is famous for it's mountain grown coffee, a strong earthy brew that the locals can't get enough of. I'm following their lead.

Hanoi is well known for frantic traffic - the public transport is limited to non-existent, and so everyone gets around on motorbikes. Tackling a busy intersection takes some getting used to - the bikes sound like a swarm of angry bees and morph in an organised chaos around cars, buses and pedestrians. The 'green man' appears to guide you across the road, but take his advice at your peril - no one's paying attention to him. It's easier to walk slowly across the road, as motorbikes really do weave around you. Horns rule over traffic lights and you need eyes in the back of your head while you're walking - it's not even safe on the sidewalk.

The monsoon hasn't broken up here yet, and it's almost melting us when the mercury soars to over 40 degrees each day... so we decide to head for the ocean. Out to the north-west of Hanoi is Halong Bay, an amazing group of nearly 1000 limestone karst formations blanketed with jungle thrusting phalically out of the South China Sea. We organise a boat cruise - the perfect way to see the area. As the boat chugs through the calm waters between the pinnacles of limestone, haze in the distance hangs eerily between the rock formations, creating a mysterious air. Included in our trip is kayaking, which turns out badly for some of our group when a kayak sinks... perfect reason why you shouldn't drink and drive. Luckily no one is injured, but the kayak operator is pissed because we can't find the canoe. After some particularly heated words, the kayak proprietor demands an extortionate amount of money, and there are whispers of calling the police. In the end, they agree to pay a lesser amount - still extortionate, but better than the initial amount. Puts an interesting spin on the afternoon though!

Back on the boat, we cruise to a vantage point to enjoy a beautiful sunset across the bay and settle in for a few beverages. In the morning, we head to Cat Ba Island, the largest island in Halong Bay. Due to it's proximity to Hanoi, it's packed to the rafters with predominantly Vietnamese tourists, and population pressure has not treated Cat Ba well. Still, there is some good hiking in the centre of the island with fantastic 360 degree vistas across the entire bay.

Vietnam - first impressions

Touts, like flies to shit, attack us even before the bus grinds to a halt, climbing on the wheels to attract attention. They are frantic and intense, touching my arm and jostling competition away. As usual, we refuse all assistance, and wait for the melee to recede. After more than an hour of traipsing the main road, fending touts off and looking at rooms, we arrive at a guesthouse/restaurant. The distracted hostess, sweat beading on her forehead, appears from behind a bamboo screen, and after looking us up and down, approaches our table with dog eared menus. She wipes the table resentfully with a grubby, damp cloth, and stands looking blankly our the window at the busy street awaiting out order.

Do you have any rooms? I ask. Her eyes flash as she considers the proposal. Thinking about money I assume.
Yes, she coos. Would you like to see?
Please, I respond. But first we’ll order food. I’ll take the vegetable fried noodles and a beer. Steph orders fried rice.

The lady yells our order towards the kitchen and beckons us to follow down a dank, poorly lit passageway. She stops and pushes back a creaky door. Two fans already set at maximum stir the humid air, as our host explains the various features of the room. A three quarter wall separates the bathroom from the simple bedroom, where 2 beds are crammed into the corners, sheets stretched across weary, sagging mattresses. I poke my head around the divide, assessing the bathroom. It’s a standard Asian issue – toilet in the corner, complete with waste bin for toilet paper. Toilet paper causes Asian sewerage systems to block. Wall mounted hose with shower nozzle attachment and a basin with mirror and side board. The hand basin is not plumbed in so water drops directly to the floor and flows to the shower drain. It’s relatively clean at first glance, and although a closer inspection would yield all manner of filth, I’ve seen worse.

How much? I ask, hoping the direct approach will reduce the asking price.
Eighty thousand, without air-con, she replies in perfect English, holding my gaze. Check out is at 12.
And air-con?
Forty thousand extra. A small grin comes across her face, but she stifles it, replacing it with a cold, unemotional business expression.
We’ll take it, I say. No air-con.
Fine, she says, passing me the key. Don’t forget your food, she adds and closes the door.

I remove my sweaty clothes and jump under the shower nozzle wearing only thongs. It’s lukewarm on the cold setting, a legacy of summer afternoon heat, but refreshing nonetheless. I pull on some fresh clothes and join Steph in the restaurant. The beer is colder than the shower (a good sign), and the food is hot and tasty. Adding a generous squirt of chilli sauce, I scoff it down. So begins our auspicious month in the Socialist Republic of Vietnam.

Down south in Laos

If I have only one tip for Laos, it's south, south, south. With tails firmly between legs, we head south to the capital. Vientiane is relatively small, as far as cities go, but it oozes quiet charm and sophistication. Beautiful tree lined streets ramble along past aged French colonial buildings, great coffee shops, an amazing rendition of the Parasian Arc de Triomphe, and Lao people going about their daily business (gasp!). It's only a stopover, but what a nice stopover!

Soon we're heading south to Four Thousand Islands, a group of islands bordering Cambodia on the Mekong. It's a serious trek - around 18 hours total travel via bus and boat, but so worth it. The further we head south, the more Laos relaxes, and I'm not sure if this is even the same country. Still, I'm pleased with the metamorphasis. As we approach Don Khon, bungalows complete with hammocks adorn the banks while palmtree sway lazily in the breeze. A delicious, decadent feeling of relaxation tumbles over me as we stroll up the road looking for a bungalow. The Lao charm I remember is still strong here - people are happy to stop and chat, and there's a friendly openness I find pleasantly disarming.

The preferred mode of transport on the island is bicycle, and apart some waterfalls, a few fish traps and French era rail infrastructure, the predominant scenery is natural - rice paddies are the mainstay of the island. As I amble around the island on my bicycle, the vibe of life here begins to soak in. Afternoons are spent melting into a hammock, awaking at dusk to the magnificant pastels of another Mekong sunset. Just like waking up in a dream!

After four days on the Mekong, the dream is over, and we hit the road again, heading north to Suvannakhet for a bus to Vietnam. I've enjoyed my time in Laos, apart from some close contact with unchecked tourism, and in hindsight, I've come to a few realisations. Rampant tourism repulses me. Although I see myself as a concious traveller looking for a unique experience, I contribute to the degredation of local customs by my presence; a contradiction that sits poorly with me. Choices I make right now create the Laos of tomorrow, and I know my choices don't always reflect my values - when the internet is slow or the air-conditioner doesn't work, I'm liable to drop the ball. I recognise the inherent hypocrisy and I'm committed to becoming a more concious traveller.

If you're thinking about travelling in Laos, do it. Prepare to be enchanted by genuine smiles and friendly people, relatively poor economically but rich in happiness. Rich dividends are paid to intrepid travellers, with the path less travelled yielding particularly rich rewards. So with that, I bid farewell to BeerLao and prepare for whole new country - Good Morning Vietnam!

The touristed north

There's something about a town or city which does not rely on tourism to survive. It has energy, purpose and direction, and it doesn't start the moment you get there and stop the moment you depart. Life goes on... However, when tourism is the exclusive occupation of a town, people become jaded, local customs are lost and prices rise exponentially. Welcome to the touristed north.

Heading south from Luang Nam Tha, I couldn't be more suprised. Where a sleepy enchanting mountain town used to be 4 years ago, a bustling commercial heartbeat pulses. We're in Luang Prabang, where guesthouses have popped up everywhere, roads have been paved and the main market now stretches for the best part of a kilometre, a sea of red and blue canvas awnings. Since the tsunami in 2005, Luang Prabang has become the preferred destination of a generation of well heeled tourists, looking for newer and safer roads to travel. As a result, prices have risen dramatically and Lao business owners push for as much as they can get. I hate to see commercial greed harden a once friendly, good natured area, like innocence lost. I’m getting a distinctive dollar sign assessment with many businesses I encounter – a stark contrast to the sleepy roads and back tracks of Luang Nam Tha.

So we head further south to Vang Vieng - take a slice out of Bangkok’s Khao San Road and you’ve got some idea of how this place is. I just can’t understand how it got transplanted into this paradise. There’s internet cafes and western style eateries everywhere, and a particularly insidious Vang Vieng institution – the TV bar. Episodes of horrid American sitcoms play on loop from early morning until late at night, enthralling viewers for hours on end. Then there’s tubing, the other Vang Vieng institution. An inflated inner tube is supplied at an inflated price and participants are taxied up river to float down. On arrival, we encounter bars, loud music drunken tubers and huge swings. A lethal combination of booze and water sports.

There are massive limestone karst formations which overlook the town, but I’m not sure if they are noticed, let alone appreciated. Our guidebook suggests that Vang Vieng is a sullied paradise – an assertion I heartily endorse. Surprisingly, it’s difficult to get traditional Lao fare and apart from the Lao people serving you food between episodes of Friends, you could be anywhere. What happened - is this really Laos?

Lovin' it in Laos

The Mekong, a huge angry brown mass sits at our feet as we survey Thailand from Huay Xai in Laos. While getting our Laos visa, we met an America guy, Tyler, who tells us about a tiny mountain village, Luang Nam Tha, near the Chinese border in remote northern Laos. Tyler is looking for company to get a boat to Luang Nam Tha for some trekking - it's an out of the way, 'frontier' expedition and I'm immediately interested. We discuss the trip over a beer, and agree to team up.

To get to Luang Nam Tha, we have to travel up the Nam Tha River. It's a much smaller river than the Mekong, flowing through heavily wooded jungles where humble traditional villages huddle along the banks, and roads are yet to reach. Boats don't run regularly, so Tyler and I set out along the banks to charter a boat for the journey. Our search for a boat to charter lands us at the only boat crew able to make the trip in Huay Xai. Even though the Nam Tha river is small, it is treacherous and littered with rapids, so the boat must be small and the boatmen skilled. I try out some of my Lao language skills, which are really limited - after about 30 seconds I'm done. We agree a price in broken a Lao English hybrid, and with the business out of the way, we're all good to go.

Calling it a boat is an overstatement - it's little more than a motorised canoe. Along with our luggage, it's packed with supplies for villages along the way. This is no tourist cruiser - unlike the the Mekong tourist slow boats, we have hard wood seats and no covers. When the sun shines, we bake and when the rain falls, we get wet. I wouldn't say I'm adverse to comfort, but I relish the opportunity to experience the real deal and travel as the locals do - not something polished or softened for my tender white tourist ass.

At the first set of rapids, I feel my teeth clench and I grip the side of the boat - if the crew are not skilful, we're going for a swim up a different creek without a paddle. The captain coolly pilots his craft directly up the rapid with confidence and poise - he looks like he could do it in his sleep and it's clear we're in safe hands. I breathe a sigh of relief, and sit back to enjoy the scenery. As we pass small villages, the captain hollers goods we have for sale, and stops to inspect any merchandise the villages have to offer. As we pass one village, an old woman yells for us to stop and runs straight into the water near our boat. She emerges proudly with a foot-long catfish. The whole village crowds around the shore to participate in the negotiations. A deal is struck, money and catfish change hands, and we pull anchor and head upstream.


After about 8 hours on the boat, getting wet and baking in the sun, we arrive at our stop for the night - the boatman's village. There's plenty of supplies to unload, and our hosts are happy when we all muck in to get the job done. With the shopping taken care of, we make our way up the steep bank to our lodging for the night. Word has gone out that foreigners are in town, and we get a visit from most of the village - all smiling and saying hello. ­Lao's are notorious for retiring early and rising early, and by 9pm, we are fed and promptly tucked in. The next morning, having said goodbye to our gracious hosts, we are on the river and cruising by eight.

The scenery along this part of the river is spectacular – huge limestone karst formations jut out arrogantly from river level, towering above to make me feel insignificant. Massive trees with sprawling buttress roots stretch their fingers to the sky, straining under the draping weight of ferocious, parasitic creepers. The rapids so common yesterday are beginning to thin out, replaced by long stretches of flat water. Steep jungle slopes are replaced by cleared farmland, and houses on the banks appear increasingly modern, sporting tiled roofs and solar water heating units. The concrete bridge spanning the river signals our arrival to Luang Nam Tha - before long we are walking up a road thumbing a ride to the centre of town.

As I look back on our boat trip, I realise it’s one of the most remote places I have traveled to. There’s something special about being so far away from ‘civilisation’ –the necessities we surround ourselves with don’t seem so important and the humble villagers I met were happy and contented. People in subsistence village life are more likely to die from malnutrition and not having enough, whereas, in western societies, having too much perpetuates diseases of excess - obesity and diabetes to name a few. Governments spend huge sums to encourage citizens to exercise, and people spend lots of time and money to have the healthy, fit bodies that these villagers take for granted.

Sure, I can indulge in romantic notions of village life as an observer on a 2 day boat ride, and then scamper back to my air conditioned hotel room with wifi. But from my perspective, it's impossible to compare a village in Laos with western culture without recognising the paradox in calling the western world developed. Civilisation, it seems, is not without a sense of irony.