Laidback in Laos By Andrew Raven
Publisher:The Straits Times - Publication Date: 08-04-2008

Just north of the Cambodian border, the Mekong River splinters into dozens of channels, turning Southeast Asia's longest waterway into a tangled mess of rapids, dead ends and near-forgotten islands.

It's the place where Lao fishermen still paddle to their favourite spots, rice farmers till their fields with water buffalo and the dominant mode of transport is the rusty bicycle.

Known in English as the 4,000 Islands, this 40km stretch of the Mekong is the sleepiest part of the most laidback country in Asia.

The near-virgin territory has, in recent years, become a haven for travellers looking to escape the urban crush of places such as Ho Chi Minh City and the faux cool of Chiang Mai.

I'm staying on a southern island called Don Det in a spartan, brick-walled guesthouse, one of the few buildings around not made from bamboo.

There are no air-conditioners, no television sets and, save for a few hours in the evening, no electricity. One cafe, however, can fire up a generator that powers probably the slowest Internet connection in Asia.

The 4,000 Islands are also one of the last places in the world where you can still see freshwater dolphins.

In a rickety, wooden motorboat, a few of us visited their stomping grounds - a broad part of the Mekong that marks the end of Laos and the start of Cambodia. The dolphins, known as irrawaddys, are shorter, fatter and slower than their sea-faring brethren.

Like many of the creatures that live in or along the river, the dolphins are endangered, victims of a triple threat of overfishing, unregulated development and pollution. Some estimates put their numbers at between 70 and 100, and it's believed they only live in the 200km stretch of the Mekong between here and northern Cambodia.

Our guide is careful to keep his distance, setting us down on rocky promontory in the middle of the river. Around sunset, the normally placid Mekong starts to 'pop'. The dolphins are surfacing and shooting water into the sky. They are hard to spot - they come up barely for a second - but their bobs on the surface are unmistakable. Within half an hour, the sun is gone and the popping is done.

"That's all," says our guide with a grin. "Now they go to sleep."

Because of increasingly rare sights like these, Don Det and its sister island Don Khon play host to a growing number of ramshackle bungalows set alongside the idyllic Mekong.

A former French colonial outpost, this is my last stop on a backpacking trip through Laos that began 11 days and 900km ago.

The country is an incredible mix of mountains, Mekong flood plains, airy plateaus, sweltering jungles and fading French-era towns.

Communist Laos has largely been left behind by the Asian economic boom, especially compared to its booming neighbours Thailand, China and Viet Nam. But despite widespread poverty, the people have a laidback attitude that is near mythical. (A friend joked that the national motto is 'What-evaaa'.)

My journey began in Luang Prabang, Laos' sterling former capital set alongside the Mekong. Framed by mountains, the town is home to dozens of Buddhist temples and legions of saffron-clad monks. It's one of only a handful of places that cater to budget and luxury travellers, thanks to its United Nations World Heritage Site status.

It brims with spas and four-star hotels sandwiched beside crumbling French-colonial guesthouses and riverside bars.

Luang Prabang is also a great launching point for an iconic Lao adventure - an elephant trek through the jungle.

But try not to be overly concerned by the fact that your elephant driver is a 13-year-old boy.

About four hours south of Luang Prabang is Vang Vieng, renowned in backpacker circles for its diversions, most of which are either unsafe or illegal.

Home to more bars per capita than probably anywhere in the country, the town is bursting with drunken tourists but not entirely without charm.

Have a beer while you float

It is set amid picturesque rice fields, surrounded by jagged limestone mountains and laced with sprawling caves.

It's also home to one of the most beloved, and debauched, trips in the country: floating down the narrow, muddy Nam Song River in an inner tube of a lorry tyre.

The day I went, monsoon rains were pounding the area, stirring the normally placid waterway into a mild frenzy. My rubber tube, about a metre across, suddenly didn't look like the ideal conveyance. Another tourist asked our guide - actually a tuk-tuk driver who dumped our group beside the river and quickly bid us adieu - if we needed lifejackets. The suggestion was greeted with a guffaw, a wave of a hand and the reminder that there was a riverside bar selling cheap beer around the first bend.

And so it goes in Laos, where safety comes a far second behind convenience.

Casting better judgment aside, a gaggle of us set off down a 4km stretch of the river. It was lined with bamboo-built bars along with rusty ziplines and rickety swings that catapulted buzzed foreigners into the river. "I wonder how many people die here every year?" asked a friend.

"Probably lots," interjected a red-faced man floating behind us, Corona in one hand, eyes already glazed over.

Further down the main north-south highway - one of the few paved thoroughfares in the country - is the sleepy capital of Vientiane. Crumbling Soviet-style office blocks, remnants of Russia's Cold War patronage, stand beside quaint colonial villas. Most travellers, though, don't linger for long. Vientiane lacks the buzz of a big city and the charm of Laos' provincial centres.

After spending 36 hours in the capital, I hopped onto an air-conditioned sleeper bus - a small slice of heaven - for the 15-hour trip to the southern centre of Pakse, the nominal gateway to the 4,000 Islands.

Unlike the more touristy north, southern Laos has limited options when it comes to getting around. So, with little choice, I jumped onto a battered public bus for the three-hour trip to Don Det. Despite seat springs digging into my back and Laotian music blaring from a tiny speaker, I barely groused to my friend. She thought I was car sick, but 10 days into the trip, it seemed like a small piece of Laos' 'what-evvaaa' attitude had somehow rubbed off on me.

foto

Attached Images

laos.jpg (14.5 KB, 3 views)