MONDOmagazine

Spring Break, Laotian Style

By Claire Brownell

In my last article, I compared Laos to a Grade 8 birthday party. Vang Vieng, Laos, is the exception. This town is not like a Grade 8 birthday party. In fact, this town is not like anything or anywhere else on earth. If I had to attempt to describe Vang Vieng in one sentence, it would be something like this: Miami Beach meets MTV Spring Break, meets Las Vegas, meets stunningly beautiful national park, meets — of course — Laos. Vang Vieng sucked me in, supplied me with the most fun I’ve had on this trip, then spat me out with a headache, an empty wallet, and a sudden and intense desire to leave immediately, for fear I never would.

Vang Vieng initially became an attractive tourist destination for its mountains, caves, lagoons, and river. As it grew in popularity, it gained a reputation as a party town. This is in large part because of the venerable institution of tubing drunk down the Nam Song river. I talked to a traveler who had been there five years ago, when the thing to do was buy several beers in town, tie them in a bag floating behind your tube to keep them cold, and float blissfully and tipsily along while enjoying the dramatic mountain backdrop. Then someone got the bright idea to build a bar on the side of the river and pull tubers in for a drink by throwing them a bamboo stick attached to a rope. Today, the Nam Song seriously looks like Fort Lauderdale on Spring Break, if it were held together by twine, bamboo, and chewing gum. Travelers who had studied engineering, architecture, and physics would stand around, scratching their heads and discussing how it could be physically possible that these towering Tarzan rope swings and sunbathing platforms were not only standing, but supporting peoples’ weight. It was also quite obvious that, once again, the profit motive was outweighing reasonableness and safety. The rope swings were so popular that some had been constructed in areas of the river that were clearly too shallow or rocky to accommodate them. But after a few Beer Lao, everything seems like a good idea — including attempting back flips into the one square metre where you could land without getting a spinal injury.

Meanwhile, I sat on the side wringing my hands and cursing the fact that I’m a trained and qualified lifeguard who would probably be called upon to save the day, should said spinal injury occur. I wasn’t just being paranoid, either; dozens of people drown in the Nam Song every year. Once I drank away the spectres of brain damage and water-borne tropical parasites, however, tubing down the Nam Song was possibly the most fun I’ve ever had in my life.

By far the most surreal tourist phenomenon of Vang Vieng are the “Friends” bars. Some Vang Vieng local must have scored a copy of the survey of backpackers’ tastes from the tourism meeting in Thailand (see “The Theory,” two installments ago), mistranslated a phrase or two, and concluded that all foreigners crave constant reruns of “Friends” with the volume turned up to max while they eat. Trust me, nothing is creepier, or a bigger conversation killer. It does make you drink more, though, so I guess it works.

The final piece of Vang Vieng surrealism that can’t go unmentioned is the fact that buying drugs is literally as easy as buying a Popsicle. If you walk into a restaurant and ask to see the menu, wink, no, the other menu, wink wink, you can have your pick of magic mushroom fruit shakes, opium tea, and pot in every edible or smokeable form imaginable. A fun pastime is to go to the massive island parties that happen every night, and pretend you’re the host of a game show called “What Drug Are You On?.” Five points for correctly identifying someone who’s been baked since ten o’clock in the morning, ten for finding someone on mushrooms (easy because of the giggles and huge pupils), 15 for opium, and the grand prize for spotting the truly hardcore on Laos-style, freebased speed.

This leads many people to the disastrously mistaken conclusion that drugs are legal in Laos. Minus 25 points for you! My observations and accumulated anecdotal evidence support the dominant theory in the backpacker rumour mill about how things really work. This theory is that the restaurants with “happy” menus pay the police to leave their customers alone, while other places have an arrangement to ring them up to bust some idiot they see sparking a joint. People we met saw more than one sweating backpacker being escorted to an ATM by the cops to pay the $500 fine.

Ironically, the scenery surrounding Laos is some of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. A few kilometers out of town, there are caves so huge, and with such intricate rock formations, that it’s hard to believe they were created by water erosion and not Steven Spielberg’s set designers. There are impossibly deep turquoise lagoons filled with goldfish that scatter when you jump in, also just a few kilometers out of town. And as I mentioned earlier, while I was tubing down the river, every once in a while I’d look up at the misty cliffs and think “My god, they decided to set MTV Spring Break in Gondor this year.” Then I would motorbike back to my guest house, hear “See no one told you life was gonna be this way…” from a dozen restaurants, and remember that I was living in Bizarro World, not Middle Earth.

So go to Vang Vieng. Have the time of your life. Try to wake up before noon once or twice to see some caves and lagoons. But pack your bags and leave after a week, tops. Or else you’ll find you’re always stuck in second gear, and it hasn’t been your day, your week, your month, or even your year…

Curfews, Bars, and the Plain of Jars

By Claire Audrey Brownell

Do you remember being about 14, on the tantalizing cusp of young adulthood, curious about the things you hear go on at high-school parties like drinking, drugs, and sex, but not sure how far you can push the boundaries? Remember when parties revolved around an activity like bowling, swimming, or dancing self-consciously in a school gym decorated with streamers and dollar-store tinsel? Perhaps you had one friend with cool parents who would drive you all to the roller rink and back, then go to bed early and pretend they didn’t know you were raiding their liquor cabinet and smoking badly rolled joints ’til the wee hours of the morning?

Welcome to Laos, where I have been metaphorically enjoying a month-long party hosted by the kid with cool parents. Laos officially has a curfew of midnight. That means everyone in the country, by law, has to be in his or her place of residence by that time. By extension, this means that bars generally close at eleven thirty. Don’t get me wrong – the cops in Laos are scary, and you may find yourself on the business end of a $500 fine if you push things too far (kind of like the constant threat of being grounded back in the day). But just like the Thai, Laos recognizes a backpacker cash cow when it sees one, and many places are more than happy to deliver a party – as long as you figure out what the rules are, and play by them.

A prime example of what I’m talking about is a typical night out in Luang Prabang, a fairly major city in north Laos. The first night we arrived there, we asked the owner of the restaurant we were eating at where we could go out dancing. “Come with me, I’m already drunk and I’m leaving in half an hour!” she responded. We followed her to an establishment marked only by a neon sign signifying “Dosco” (Southeast Asian spelling mistakes are ubiquitous and adorable), which was a flawless flashback to a middle-school dance, except with a bar. To certain songs, everyone danced a Macarena-like line dance; to others, slow danced in that awkward, hormone-ridden, seventh-grade zombie style; to others, vacated the dance floor en masse for reasons unbeknownst to us (I guess those songs weren’t cool enough, or something). After several attempts at learning the line dance, my friends and I decided to infuse some Western ’90s flair by busting out the actual Macarena, much to the delight of the crowd.

But wait – it’s eleven thirty – the lights are on, the music is off, curfew is in half an hour, but we’re drunk and riled up! What do we do? Accept the invitation of a passing tuk-tuk to take us to the bowling alley, of course. For some reason, bowling alleys in Laos can defy the curfew. I’ve heard several rumours as to why this is the case. One is that they’re owned by the police; another is that since it’s considered a sport, it’s legally classified as an acceptable late-night pastime. But whatever the reason, we were allowed to keep being rowdy there until one or two in the morning, when we had to slink silently back to our guest house or risk being shushed by old ladies in night gowns peering disapprovingly out of their windows.

My friends and I tried having an actual birthday party for my 23rd on Don Det, part of Si Phan Don, or the Four Thousand Islands, on the Laos-Cambodian border. Just when I thought we were used to the midnight curfew, I had to adjust to being on an island so literally in the middle of nowhere that it only has generator-powered electricity between six and nine thirty at night. After that, the darkness is so total that unless I remembered to buy candles before the shops closed, I literally had no option but to go to bed and hope I didn’t trip and fall into the Mekong river on my way.

Given this setting, a group of about a dozen backpacker friends that had assembled itself supplied me with my only two birthday wishes: a bottle of gin and a birthday cake. The owners of the restaurant, in true Lao style, shook their heads and laughed at our request for a pitcher, ice, and ten straws to mix my drink in, but complied. Several pitchers of gin and tonic later, it was eight thirty (it’s important to start early when the power goes off at nine thirty), we could barely stand, and my birthday cake arrived: on which “Happy Birthday” was written, once again in true Lao style, in mustard.

(To go on a complete tangent, one day I am going to open a Lao-style restaurant in Toronto. If people want to order, they will have to wake me up from my hammock, and again an hour later to remind me to bring them their food. Part of the appeal of the restaurant will be that every meal is a surprise, since it will either bear absolutely no resemblance to what was ordered or have some bizarre twist, such as mustard on a birthday cake or grilled cheese on two potato halves instead of bread. The directions to the washroom will be “past the pig on the right, if you hit the water buffalo you’ve gone too far.” Some days I won’t feel like cooking, but I’ll tell customers they’re free to hang out and play with my baby and chickens and three dogs, and if they want to rent the monkey it’s three dollars a day. I’ll finance my operation by taking bets on how long I’ll stay in business.)

Given the state we were in, the only logical recourse to our mustard-covered cake situation was to shove it in each other’s faces. Again following logically, this led to commandeering the restaurant stereo, deciding this was now a dance party, and shoving cake into strangers’ faces. In the same logical progression, this being Laos, and the restaurant owners being like cool parents who just shake their heads and say “kids will be kids,” we didn’t get kicked out of the restaurant: probably in large part because they knew we’d leave when the power went off anyway, and that their three dogs and monkey would happily clean up our cake mess by eating it. I did, however, have to leave the island soon after because my friends and I were known to everyone else as “those crazy drunk Canadian girls.”

Feeling like I was in grade eight again grew on me. Once I was old enough to go to bars, I forgot how much fun activity-based parties like bowling and swimming can be. Also, the threat of being caught out late doing something you’re not supposed to be doing really adds to the thrill. So I think for my 24th birthday I’ll rent out a roller rink, then go to a movie and start a food fight, then assure the owners it’s okay because my monkey will clean it up, followed by some backyard pool hopping for that touch of mildly illegal thrill. I’m sure that will go over just as well as it did in Laos.

How backpacking in Thailand became the institution it is today

By Claire Brownell

As I expected, I like the north of Thailand a lot better than I like Bangkok. A little more fresh air and a lot less people walking around wearing ominous surgical masks; a few more jungles, mountains and waterfalls and a little less sleaze, vermin, and congestion; same or better opportunities for reckless, adventuresome partying. Something about it just inspires me to write elaborate, complicated run-on sentences with multiple semi-colons.

However, the path we followed through Sukhothai, Chiang Mai and Pai is a well-beaten one for backpackers. Some of the same themes kept popping up often enough that I started to wonder if something was up. It was almost as if everyone in Thailand was in cahoots to deliver the same brand of experience to us farang (foreigners). Soon, I had developed The Theory. The Theory explains just about every facet of backpacking in Thailand by speculating on what must have been said when the major players were deciding what direction the tourism industry would take. It’s best explained around a camp fire at about two o’clock in the morning in Pai, where everyone that my friends and I ran it by unanimously agreed that they were damned if I hadn’t figured it out, spot on. There are three main players in The Theory, whom I will refer to as Groucho, Harpo, and Zeppo. They work for the Thai government, the tourism industry, and a data collection agency, respectively. One misty Thai morning, the three of them met to discuss their interests in the newly blossoming backpacker industry, and history was made.

ZEPPO: To summarize, the rate of exchange on the baht with Western currency combined with our pleasant weather and breathtaking scenery make Thailand a very attractive destination for young people traveling for extended periods of time on a budget. I have it summarized here in a diagram: “Cheap + sunshine + pretty = smiley face wearing backpack.”

GROUCHO: Hm, yes, I see. So the question is how we can best develop a tourism infrastructure that will allow the economy to gain optimum benefit from these “backpackers.”

ZEPPO: Precisely. Which is why we have commissioned Harpo’s company here to conduct a worldwide survey of what youth in the backpacking demographic would be impressed by.

GROUCHO: Brilliant! What were the findings of your survey, Harpo?

HARPO: (Clears throat) Things Westerners in their Early Twenties With Disposable Income and No Adult Responsibilities Think Are Neat. A report by Harpo Marx.

1. Puppies.
2. Tree houses and bamboo huts.
3. Getting recklessly drunk in public.
4. Cheap, readily available beer and liquor, to facilitate #3.
5. Cute, romantic paper lantern hot air balloons.
6. Hammocks.
7. Bars with camp fires.
8. Bob Marley.
9. Marijuana.
10. Driving motorbikes, with no requirements for a license or experience.
11. Waterfalls.
12. Smoothies.
13. Secret gardens.
14. Beaches.
15. Elephants.
16. Kittens.

(Everyone takes notes, nods, and mulls this over.)

GROUCHO: Fascinating. And excellent news! Many of these are things we already have. Cats and dogs roam and copulate freely! And anybody with half a brain can drive a motorbike. Licenses are for pussies.

ZEPPO: And we can turn huge profits by taking suckers on elephant treks where you hike through the jungle all day then ride an elephant for half an hour in a parking lot.

GROUCHO: And if they want to get drunk cheap, by God, they will! We’ll make liquor available at every corner shop and what’s that ubiquitous North American convenience store chain?

HARPO: The 7-11, sir?

GROUCHO: A 7-11 every half a block!

ZEPPO: And we’ll get bars to serve the same sludge they’re used to mixing in water bottles and drinking in parking lots on the way to the bar back home. You know — energy drinks plus rum or vodka and some sort of pop. Any thoughts on the best way to serve it to impress our target market, Harpo?

HARPO: In a bucket, with a bendy straw.

GROUCHO: Genius! There is, however, the question of the cost of developing the infrastructure to handle all these backpackers. Sleepy towns will suddenly be flooded with five times the population expecting Western toilets and hot showers. Cities will need hundreds of guest houses and burger joints.

ZEPPO: I think that’s the question, precisely — how do we provide all these things our demographic demands, while keeping costs low enough to turn a profit? These people are, after all, intrinsically cheap. I have two words for you: Bare Minimum.

GROUCHO: I’m listening.

ZEPPO: For example, we can allow guest houses to build new Western toilets, but also allow them to pump the raw sewage into rivers and gutters and recycle the water. No one will notice.

GROUCHO: Build bridges and moats out of bamboo with no guard rails!

ZEPPO: Yes! And conveniently enough, it’ll form part of the rustic appeal.

GROUCHO: We’ll just overload the electrical grid with sockets that don’t work and blow fuses!

ZEPPO: And our cost cutting measures will be part of the appeal of “roughing it” and “living like a local.” Everyone loves a good “I almost died” story.

GROUCHO: But there’s still the matter of #9. We’ve spent years constructing some of the most Draconian anti-drug laws in the world; we can’t dismantle them just because some Birkenstock wearing hippies would pump a few hundred more Baht into the economy for a joint.

ZEPPO: How about a compromise? We’ll just cover guest houses with pot leaf motifs, play Bob Marley constantly, and have bars with names like “THC.”

GROUCHO: Perfect! That way, if they get drunk and confused enough by the mixed messages to ask the bartenders where they can get some, we can also squeeze a couple thousand dollars out of their friends for bailing them out of jail.

ZEPPO: Well gentlemen, it sounds like we have ourselves a plan.

And so they shook hands. And that’s my theory of how backpacking in Thailand became the institution it is today.

Part One of the Hipster Handbook to the World

By Claire Brownell

We were introduced to Khao San Road by a drunk Englishman. As we walked down the street to our guest house with our packs, fresh off a 35-hour flight from Toronto, he stumbled into our paths and declared, “Khao San Road is not for you!” I’m not sure what inspired that declaration — our startled looks, our dirty clothes, or just drunken intuition — but he was right. Khao San Road was okay. Just okay. It was not for us.

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