D is for Dangerous

September 16, 2008.

After a night in a border town which vaguely resembled the South East Asian version of small town USA, we crossed the border into Laos, and embarked on a 2 day trip down the Mekong to Luang Prabang, where we spent 6 days jumping off waterfalls, missing sunsets, drinking Lao Lao whisky, and adopting local wildlife, notably a pink plastic swan named Hans whom I felt it necessary to carry under my arm everywhere we went. We met some new friends on the boat, and picked up a few more at Spicy Laos, the hostel we stayed at in LP. The 7 of us headed by nauseating minivan to Vang Vieng two days ago, on a dirt road which wound its way through the most majestic scenery I have ever seen, stopping only briefly in a village endearingly named "The 3 Next Clean Village." It is here, in Vang Vieng, where we encountered our first, and hopefully last, near death experience of the trip.

Vang Vieng, Laos

Fun and sun seekers flock to Vang Vieng for the tubing experience. You get your tube, lifejacket optional, and float down the river. Sounds easy. Without stopping, the lazy ride should take about an hour. We managed to cover about 15 minutes of this said hour in about 6 - this is because every 20 feet, a little Lao man is waiting to fish you out of the river with a long stick and lure you to his makeshift bar and fill your soul with whisky out of a bucket. There are makeshift ziplines, volleyball courts, opportunity at every corner to mudfight with friends old and new, and if you were lucky enough, someone would create lewd art using your body as a canvas.

By the time it occurred to us that maybe we should head on, dusk was setting in, and it was starting to rain. "It wasn't pitch black out yet," Steph recalls. "Just dark navy." Dusk turned to dark, and rain turned to lightning and thunder, which turned into power outage along the banks of the river, the lights of which were our only guide. We were wasted - there is no sugar coating the state of our irresponsible intoxication. We floated down the river, no idea where to go, or how to get out. The current was strong, and it was cold. Someone told me once that it's not safe to be in the water during a thunderstorm. We held each others' extremities and stuck as close together as we could, some exhibiting more fear than others (guess who?) About 4 or 5 people die on that river every year, or so I've been told, and that's a lot in my books. "Over here!" we heard, suddenly, out of nowhere. Two fellow tubers appeared, and they had done this the day before, they said. It was all going to be ok, as long as we could swim. "Now!" one of them shouted, and we all jumped out of our tubes and swam furiously for the riverbed, clawing at the muddy earth and hoisting our scared asses to safety. 

And then they were gone. "Our tubing angels," one of my travel mates suggested. We didn't know their names, and we hadn't seen their faces. The power shut off for good at this point; so as we ran barefoot through the streets to our guesthouse, happy to be alive and able to drink more Beerlao, I couldn't help but wonder if they really were.