Europe and Morocco. An experience.

As seems to be becoming the norm, I have left it far too long between entries, but I will try and recollect the past week and a half to the best of my ability. I cannot take full responsibility for the irregularity of my writings as the time since I have arrived in Europe has in no way lent itself to blogging, as I hope this entry will display.

I cannot describe the euphoria I felt when I first saw Nic and Hugo walk to the gate at Heathrow. It had been so long since I had seen either of them that it felt almost like a homecoming. After more hours in transit than I ever hope to remember or repeat, it was one of the few things that could have buoyed my spirit and shattered my exhaustion. We shared stories of Asia and they told us of their less than comfortable night in King’s Cross Station, but it felt as if this trip, this pipe dream we had all shared as high school students eight months ago was finally a reality. We were going to be traveling Europe with five of our best friends, and it was, and remains to be, a beautiful thought.

The last week and a half has had the lowest of lows and the highest of highs, but going through it all with one’s best friends makes the two get confused, and if approached positively and with an air of adventure, the lows can forge some of the best memories, however, having said that, I could have done without some of the memories I have gained.

Upon landing in Lisbon after a fairly uneventful flight, my fifth in 36 hours, we found our way, rather painlessly to Poets Hostel, and when we entered our six bed dorm, it clicked that this was it. We were the boys and this was our life for the next few months. We spent the first night watching Brazil verse Korea on a big screen in the square and waiting patiently for our quartet to become a sextuplet. I hadn’t anticipated such a Brazilian population of Portugal, perhaps fairly naively, but it made for a better evening than watching Australia lose 4-0 in an English pub in Laos.

We made our way back to the hostel via the supermercado and Nic and I took up our positions as Masterchefs, and set the precedent of all meals to come. Find nutritious, cheap ingredients, put them in a pot and hope. Worked out okay and we had something resembling food. While it would be expected that six 18 and 19 year old Australian boys should spend their first night in Europe doing something debaucherous, it was a very reserved night, probably owing in no small part to our collective exhaustion and the comfort of our hostel. It felt like our own little apartment, and excited me for my future residential prospects, which at the moment are about as vague as the rest of my future “plans” or lack thereof.

We had seen a castle on top of a hill overlooking the city, so that was our first port of call the next morning, after a good night’s sleep and a free breakfast, the best kind. It was a beautiful view from the top to the terracotta rooves and meandering streets below. Considering my zero expectations of Lisbon, such a beautiful city was a welcome surprise, and we spent hours admiring the castle and the view and taking advantage of the green grass and perfect weather. I was thankful that I was in liveable temperatures and glad to be out of the perpetually stifling heat of South East Asia. We descended the hill for another obligatory visit to our local supermercado and went back for a siesta in true European style. With such long daylight hours, it almost feels as if you get two days in one. Once again embracing the culture, Harry, Tom, Hugo and I went out for coffees which were very well priced at 60 cents each, which signalled the furthering of my love affair with the place. A lazy afternoon walking around what was evidently the trendy district of Lisbon, and frequent visits to record shops and we were back at our hostel. A few Superbocks and a few games of cards and typical Tom Wolff tomato pasta later and we were hitting the streets of Lisbon.

As has now become a theme of the trip, my inhibitions (or perhaps dignity?), had been suitably depleted and, aided by a few bottles of liquid courage, I was in a position to destroy one of my favourite Blink 182 songs, “What’s My Age Again?” at a karaoke bar, where fortunately the locals were forgiving and welcoming enough to not throw anything at me. Tom and Harry have set the precedent so I guess I had better mention Connor’s vocal range, which was probably not suited to singing Avril Lavigne, but I admire your lack of self respect. I hadn’t thought until now of the pertinence of the song I sung, as my current lifestyle has made me dread ever having to grow up and I want nothing more than to remain young and carefree forever, but who doesn’t I guess.

I skipped the Erasmus shots that the other five soldiered their way through, 18 months of sobriety not having done any favours for my alcohol tolerance, which is a blessing to my already limited bank account. It was now 3 am and the decision had to be made whether or not it was worth staying out. I decided against it along with Connor, Harry and Nic while Tom and Hugo stayed out, Hugo wanting to celebrate the day after his 412^th birthday in style. The next morning was a slow one, but once again we took full advantage of the free breakfast before going to the park to play four a side football with our new South African friends, whose names none of knew until they reminded us a few days later. “We will give 10 euros to any one of you who know our names. Apparently “Tony Greig” and “Nelson Mandela” doesn’t count. The park was less than inviting, with bindies everywhere and a more than slight slope, but we made the most of it. Needless to say, I am the 6^th best footballer of our group.

A long walk and another visit to the local and we were back at the hostel. The area of Lisbon where we were staying was evidently one of the most eclectic, with fashions being as diverse as the buskers, but all of them aroused our interest, especially a trio of cross dressing old men playing a type of music I cannot describe accompanied by a fourth man juggling buckets. They told us of the 5 euro circus the next night and I was instantly sold.

That night was a quiet one for me, being in bed before the sun had even set, catching up cumulative sleep deprivation. In hindsight it was a good night to have an early one as the next night was to be one of the most entertaining nights of my trip, if not my life.

The next day our South African friends once again accompanied us, this time to the beach in Cascais, about an hour from Lisbon for a swim and the obligatory game of football. The water was not as warm as I had expected, but was nonetheless very refreshing, and it seems that since then, my personal hygiene has all but disappeared.

That night’s circus was amazing. Even though we could not speak to anyone, we had an amazing time and the pure eccentricity of the show was enough to captivate us. The first thing we saw when we walked into the lobby of the theatre was a man standing literally on nothing and while we knew in practicality it had to be an illusion of some sort the mysticism of it enthralled us. The show included singing, juggling, acrobatics and all manner of circus acts and when it was over and at interval I was so disappointed that it was half over, always the pessimist. When it finished we (Connor, Nic and I) spoke to one of the main performers and he recognised us as the Australians he had told to come to the show. We met perhaps one of the most eccentric women I have ever met. She looked to be early 80’s and seemed to be somewhat of a performance aficionado, dancing in the aisle to the music, which I joined in with to her delight. She was a witch with a affinity for the performing arts and an inclination for eccentricity; the only word to describe the evening.

After we said goodbye to her and the performer we had met, we went back to our hostel expecting the night to be over and to go to bed, enthralled and exhausted from laughter, but, as always in Lisbon, the sound of the music had other plans for us. The chorus of music emanating from the square down the road pulled our weary bodies towards it and rewarded us with a night befitting the festival name; Alternativismo. A large group of Portuguese saxophonists, trombone players and all manner of other instruments played a fusion of (assumedly) traditional Portuguese songs and popular western songs while the front man crowd surfed around, screaming encouragement. When the band stopped, we assumed the night was over, but as I have learnt from this trip, it is best never to assume anything, as assumptions are the first step in being incorrect. Then started what seemed to be a weird game of cat and mouse around a pole, and a running race while standing in novelty sized pot plants, Nic and having a valiant tie and being rewarded with a fake moustache and some popcorn. I started out wearing the fake moustache but then decided to hand it on to Nic, preferring to show off my own measly facial hair, now two months in the making. A few Beastie Boys songs and some other music followed and then a free shirt give away and the night drew to a close. Curtains on what Lisbon has to offer.

Next morning we moved hostels from Poets to Rituals, Poets being booked out for that night while Nic, Harry and Hugo went to sensation while I slept for 12 hours, 7-7. The day was spent reading the 501 Must Visit Destinations, 501 Must Visit Cities and 501 Must Visit Natural Wonder books at the hostel which reassured me of my excitement for the next 6 months, thought this excitement needs no reassurance.

Next day was the beginning of the end which may sound very self indulgent but is the only way to describe what has been a monumental travel disaster. We missed our bus to Faro in the south of Portugal by mere minutes, though fortune would have it that there was a train 4 minutes after the bus, which was cheaper, faster and more comfortable. We arrived in Faro, an unspectacular town in the south of Portugal in the Algarves, with 45 minutes to spare before our bus to Seville, so after we purchased our tickets we went to get some food and then came back, five minutes before our bus. We sat at Gate 3 for 45 minutes, lamenting the unreliability of international buses before we thought maybe we should check on the status of the bus. It left 5 minutes early. We had already paid for our hostel in Seville in the south of Spain, expecting to get there that afternoon, but as luck would have it, we missed the last bus. None of us could justify paying for 2 nights of accommodation on one night, so it was decided we would sleep on the street. As any good traveller knows, even a vegan one, McDonalds provides the best refuge as they will never tell you to leave and they have free internet and toilets, so while the other boys took advantage of the facilities, Harry and I went in a vain search for a supermarket, however, being Sunday afternoon, nothing was open except for a tiny shop which looked more like someone’s kitchen. We purchased rations for the least appealing meal ever; stale bread, tomato sauce, tinned beans and canned mushrooms. Nic summed up the quality of the food so eloquently that I shall say no more about it, “the best thing about this food is definitely the price.”

As luck would have it, the park in Faro was, as I assume most of Europe is, World Cup crazy and there was a small football pitch set up and a big screen showing the game; Brazil verse Ivory Coast. Brazil won, and the surprisingly, or not surprisingly, large Brazilian population made it a night to remember, as well as a night to forget. By the time the festivities were over, and our much prolonged game of 5 a side football with some ridiculously talented young Portuguese children had reached its end, it was time to find a place to sleep and a patch of grass next to a castle wall seemed as good as any so we set up “camp”; a six man train of sleeping bags and packs, of desperation and depression. (This is one of the previously mentioned memories I could do without). Despite the hardness of the ground and the lack of comfort and dissatisfaction of my stomach, I had a relatively good night’s sleep, all 4 hours of it.

There are a few noises which trigger memories, and I do not know whether it is my own memories or memories I have gained from clichéd movies and television shows, but the noise of sprinklers reminds me of childhood and happiness. I think this association is now gone and replaced with much less pleasant memories. It was 6 am. Nic’s voice is the first thing I remember, but I think I will leave it to imagination what was said and what was echoed by everyone in the next few seconds, which seem like minutes.

I tried my best to sleeping bag hop to the dry street, and did an okay job, not being saturated, but still being moistened beyond what I would have liked. It wasn’t the best way to wake up, but we would at least not miss our 8:35 bus. Hugo, Harry and I were famished and decided to walk around the town looking for sustenance beyond dinner’s meagre offerings of which there were unappealing leftovers. We smelt the most amazing smell coming from a bakery and somehow followed our noses for about 3 blocks but we were crushed to be told that it wasn’t open and wouldn’t be open until after we had left. We found the place where our dinner had been purchased was not open either, but the well meaning shop keeper was sitting inside and opened the door for us. He had fresh bread, corn flakes and coconut milk, which in comparison seemed like luxury. Thankully, we got our bus, all that Faro having inflicted upon us being a lost Swiss army knife, discontented stomachs, one pair of tracksuit pants which Connor felt were too heavy in their now saturated state and a poor night’s sleep. We got to the Portuguese/Spanish border and our obrigado turned to gracies. We all flashed our passports, and then they asked Connor, who for now shall be named John Citizen for his passport. After a lengthy look in his bag, under the bus, in his pocket and anywhere else it may have been hidden, (near Tom’s comb and Hugo’s sunglasses) it was ascertained that it had been left by the side of the road in his tracksuit pant pockets in Faro. The curse of Faro had followed us.

It was decided to spend a night in Seville to plan our next move. Connor tried to contact the Faro police but it proved impossible, so he was forced to miss the beginning of our Moroccan journey to go north to Madrid to get a new passport; a nuisance, both time and money wise. All six of us were originally going to come to Morocco together, but it was decided that Tom and Hugo were going to stay on in Seville, Connor would go to Madrid, and Nic, Harry and I, having no purpose in Madrid, would go to Morocco and meet Connor there once his passport was organised.

We decided a last night with the boys was in order, so we went to a gypsy music night with our two French friends replacing Connor who was busy finding a hostel in Madrid. The music was a massive disappointment, so Nic, Harry and I went back to bed. Our last night in Europe.

It felt so counter intuitive to be separating so early, after so long apart, but everyone had to do what was right for them, so we were Africa bound, and in pursuit of the allusive cous cous. It was a 5 am wake up to catch our bus from Seville to Algeciras, though we could have woken up 3 hours later, as the information on the website was very wrong and the bus wasn’t until 9:30. Harry and Nic went for a walk in search of food, while I manned the bags, which between us looks somewhat like a cavalcade of baggage; the curse of over preparedness.

We got to Algeciras hassle free, Harry sleeping the whole way, Nic dozing and me being prey to my constant affliction of an inability to sleep on public transport. We arrived, avoided ticketing scams and found the cheapest ferry leaving the soonest; 3 pm to arrive just after 4. The next few hours was perhaps the most disorganised and stressful of my trip up until now and involved so many trips sprinting backwards and forwards through customs that they stopped checking our passport and just waved us through. The search for the allusive boarding pass we were told we didn’t need, until we tried to get onto the boat, the breaking into elevators to get to the boat and the general shambles that was the Algeciras ferry terminal was definitely a low light, but it at least made me regain my former fitness and stimulated my appetite for cous cous. We were finally, after days of bad fortune, famous last words “I guess today’s our lucky day”, and the worst food ever, Africa bound. It was 3:45. The whole time we were running around madly at the terminal, Chad, the Australian, was cool, calm, collected and disorganised enough to make it hassle free onto the boat. Dogging the boys.

We arrived in Tanger, waited an hour for the bus to the town from the port (52 km) and expected to get a taxi to the hostel we had read about in Lonely Planet. My initial bad luck meant trying to get Moroccan Dirham out of the ATM and receiving everything but the money and a receipt, meaning getting charged $150 and getting nothing for it; a day and a half of work for nothing. I hated Morocco. First impressions don’t last. We were told by two taxi drivers that the hostel we had read about had closed down two years ago; the affliction of arrogance and over trust of guide books kicked in and we thought we knew best and told him to drop us on the street anyway, which in hindsight was a poor choice and he probably knew best. It was a nuisance, but did give us a chance to appreciate the kindness of the locals, being directed by a deaf man who could tell we had no idea where we were going and obviously empathised with the size of our bags, looking like pathetically lost turtles. After a walk of over an hour, and finding nothing, we went to an internet cafe to look up hostels in Tanger. By now, I would have paid anything. There was literally nothing on there and our worry and desperation was obviously palpable and the internet cafe owner took pity on us. He walked us a few hundred meters down alleys and backroads we would have never found to a camp site with a beautiful view and restaurant, pool and bar, all of which cost extra so were foregone, except the restaurant with the most amazing view over the beach. We had two Casablanca beers each and Nic described in French the constraints of veganism and we ended up ordering a Moroccan tagine, which we were all so excited for. Unfortunately, they had obviously not understood and we were given three meat tagines, only one of us being able to eat it. Nic then explained it again and told them he and I did not want the meat tagines and they said they would bring us something else. It was an omelette. I ended up eating hot chips and olives, but paying for hot chips, olives, a meat tagine and an egg omelette. It was a very expensive restaurant and cost about $20 each, but we were all too exhausted to argue being charged for things we had told them we couldn’t eat.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank Nic for his French and tent, both of which have made Morocco possible. Without him, we would have been homeless and unable to communicate, so thankyou so much.

We had a surprisingly good sleep in our two man tent for three with three human sized bags, and didn’t wake up until the hot Moroccan summer sun made us. We then went for a swim, not having showered for a couple of days and then went into town to organise our train to Marrakesh and to try and find some cous cous, which once again proved futile and we got a very meaty, eggy salad. I had hot chips and bread.

We were supposed to meet our friend from the night before at 2, but he never showed up, perhaps being upset at our refusal of his offer to go out the night before with he and his friends, all being too exhausted to do anything but sleep.

We spent the whole day getting food and provisions for the train, which involved one of the most delicious experiences of my life. We were walking down a back alley when we smelt something so amazing it seemed impossible. We poked our head in a door and saw an old man and assumedly his grandson baking loaves of bread and in true Moroccan hospitality, they invited us in and gave us free loaves and after having eaten our free loaves we handed over all our coin for whatever more they would give us. It was the most incredible taste ever. Plain white bread with aniseed. Bliss.

That night we got the train. I love the idea of sleeper trains. Going to sleep one place waking up somewhere else, and waking up in Marrakesh was more than a little bit exciting, this time having booked in advance a hostel and getting the address. It all went smoothly and we were at our traditional riad by 10 am and off into the sprawling markets of Marrakesh in search of whatever it had to offer. We finally got our cous cous and were not disappointed. We spent hours wandering the alleys, a sensual assault and yet somehow it had a romance to it. I loved it.

We ran into a man who called us the three musketeers, and he said he owned a restaurant nearby if we ever wanted to have a drink. I asked if we could have some tea now, having heard the highest acclaim of Moroccan mint tea, and he obliged, showing us around his hotel and restaurant which was once a palace and giving us a history of Marrakesh before our tea in the court yard. It seemed so incongruous that something so serene and beautiful could coexist with the frantic markets, with just a wall in between, but it was truly a beautiful experience. We were given a pot of tea, and upon our first sip, we were above ourselves. We were existing in a state of happiness unlike amything we had ever experienced. All the stress and disorganisation we had been through was all worth it one perfect moment that I know will never be recreated. We were drinking tea, with a beautiful Moroccan woman sweeping and singing to herself and a bird cleaning itself in the bird bath of the serene courtyard. I have never experienced anything comparable to that single moment in time, where everything in the world was perfect and right, and we experienced bliss.

We walked slowly and on a very scenic route back to our riad and rested before going back into the markets for more fresh orange juice and absorption of the dizzyingly frenetic atmosphere. It is hypnotising. We had more cous cous and tagine for dinner and on our way back to the riad, now late at night, we passed a hammam, a traditional bath house. It was very upmarket, and had been built in the eighteen hundreds, so we were not sure whether to part with or $30 or not, but it was well worth it when we did. We hadn’t showered for four days. We got a traditional Moroccan massage and clay scrub between saunas and it is safe to say that signalled goodbye to any inhibitions I had left. I was massaged by two Moroccan men, while I was naked but for underwear and they were too, and we were all soaking wet. After a long process and being made cleaner than I can even remember, we were all lead to room of lounges to lie down and given bronze water for our face and mint tea to drink while we lay in robes. I have never been more relaxed. We walked, drunk with relaxation, back to our riad and fell straight to sleep, trying to prolong the feeling until morning.

Today, I am the final remaining of the once proud three musketeers. Harry and Nic are both very ill, and Nic has had to forego the usual use of the left hand in favour of sandpaper. We managed to book a riad in Essaouira for tomorrow night and a bus to get there, as well as see a palace, minus Harry. We are going to a world music festival for two days, about which we are very excited, but the thought of a bus trip is more than Harry and Nic can face right now. After the festival, we are going south to a town called Tafroute then back to Marrakesh to meet Connor and then into the Sahara desert for 3 days. The next week, needless to say, is very exciting, but we all wish Connor could be with us for all of it.

I will leave this with an Arabic proverb we were told. “Never expect anything good from a man who doesn’t travel”. This loose translation has reassured me off the life I want for the next few years. There is more learning to be done in the world than can be done in schools or universities, and if the last few days is any indication, I want to see everything the world has to offer.

To anyone who read all of this, thank you and congratulations. I will try and be more regular with my blogging from now on and I hope l enjoy reading as much as I enjoy living.

Last Day In Asia.

After seven amazing weeks, today is our last day in Asia. We have experienced the polarities of cultures, from the affluence, efficiency and modernity of Japan to the opposingly poor, often delapidated charm of South East Asia, where one is surprised everytime something runs on time, and neither are without their appeal.
I know in the now six and a half months to go, I will be exposed to a plethora of different cultures, but I must consciously not compare to anywhere else and take each culture and country on their own merits.
I have realised that the Football World Cup is going to be one of the best times to be abroad, and being awake at 3:30 am at an English bar called the Hare and Hound watching England draw with the USA was evidence of how much fun the next few weeks will be, however, it is now midday, and all I have done is lie in bed, listen to Harry Potter audiobooks, get a much needed espresso and lament the smell of cigarette smoke lingering in my every pore.
We spent many more days in Luang Prabang than either of us intended to, but the hostel we stayed at was too hospitable and the people we met were too friendly to ever want to leave. It was an eclectic mix of Tom and I, two American girls, a crazy French Canadian who debatably spoke English, a hilarious German girl, a crazy Russian, fresh from the military who would wake every morning with a fitness regime that made me feel incredibly lazy, but was interesting none the less and a staff who became more like a family, complete with the cutest little Lao girl I have ever met and Shampoo, the owner. "Oh my buddah."
We tried our best to become locals, frequenting the same fruit shake stand and vegetarian buffet everynight, to the point where he saw us coming. "Two mango fruit shakes."
We were offered drugs by what seemed to be every tuk tuk driver in Luang Prabang with the ubiquitous wink, click of the tounge and euphemism of "you want something?"
We spent a great day tubing down the river with all the people from our hostel, to a lunch which, for vegan purposes, consisted of sticky rice and chilli eating challenges, which, as is the nature of chilli eating challenges, noone really won.
Saying goodbye to Asia will be hard and I feel that now on top of my pangs of homesickness, will be pains of loss for the absence of the beautiful continent from my life; at least for now.
But a lazy afternoon spent thumbing through Europe On A Shoestring Lonely Planet added to my already massive anticipation of the next three and a half months, however it also reiterated my imminent level of destitution.
It is now only 13 hours until Australia's first World Cup game, and thanks to our support of England last night, we have recruited some support from the Mother Country.
My plans for Europe are fairly loose, but I see that as one of the greatest joys of travel; the way that dates and times become inconsequential and one is left with nothing but their own will and a three month Eurail pass. There are things I really want to see, both new places and places I feel drawn back to, but I have no cement plans, only desires.
Their is a palpable excitement between Tom and I to meet up with Harry, Hugo, Nic and Connor in Lisbon, but standing between us and that meeting is an epic of flights and transit, which I am trying to not think about (except for our excitement to be flying Cathay Pacific; I don't know what we are actually expecting from it, but it is surely preferable to British Airways.)
Our one full day in Vientiane thus far was not spent in any way I could have expected, including little more than lots of Indian food, a visit to a waterpark and a very late night with our new English friends.
I am incapable of describing our time in Luang Prabang in great detail, because on reflection I cannot recall where the time actually went, except into meeting some great people and seeing the beautiful World Heritage city. It was painful to leave, but as I expect to do many times this trip, I consoled myself with the knowledge I will return one day; youth is not entirely wasted on the young.
Hardly surprisingly, we met up by pure coincidence with the UK family who we have shadowed for our entire time in Laos, but this time we had a proper farewell, but with the knowledge we will see them sometime soon in Bath.
It is frightening on reflection to think how fast this seven weeks has gone, and I know this rapidity will not slow down for our entire trip, which is disconcerting but instills in me a knowledge that I must treasure every moment on the road, this perhaps being the last time in a long time I will have such liberty without the constraints of normality and routine, which I am sure may seem more appealing after months of wandering.
As is seeming to have already formed itself as a habit, we will be getting Indian for lunch, after my last 14 minutes of internet connection runs out. I would feel very culturally traitorous, but we have been eating Lao food for the last two weeks, and we have realised we will not have the chance for affordable Indian for a long time, which, for me, is very distressing, but I am looking forward to what will end up being a bread tour of Europe and a lesson in freeganism and frugality. It is strange the things one looks forward to, but I remember with amazing clarity a vegetarian restaurant in Cezky Krumlov in the Czech Republic which I have missed ever since I left, 3 years ago, to which I will return for regular patronage.
It will be hard to say goodbye to Tom, after having spent everyday for almost two months together, but this farewell will be equally matched by traveling with Harry. We have heard that friends traveling together has the potential to destroy friendships, but we have escaped that and only ever have pointless little squabbles which we quickly realised the triviality of and sort it out. We have seen and experienced too much together for there to be a danger of any sort of major falling out, and all my memories of this amazing experience thus far are intertwined with his presence.
It is time to sign off on this entry, the last one to come from this beautifully unique continent, and both lament the loss of it and be excited for what is to come.
Asia, I will miss you.

Laos

The irregularity of my blogging recently is indicative of the amount we have been doing in the fairly small amount of time. I have spent more time on buses that I would like to remember, but have been rewarded by having seen and experienced some amazing places.
From Siem Reap, we caught a bus back to Phnom Penh, out of practicality and necessity more so than desire, and from there caught a bus to Don Det, an archipelago of 4000 islands a few kilometers over the Laos border.
It took a long and laborious bus trip to get there so we were determined to make the most of it and were in rush to travel anywhere else anytime soon. We spent three nights in Don Det, making friends with a Brazilian named Adriano. The days were methodical and formulaic. We would wake up, get a pineapple shake or two, and then relax. In hindsight, I can't actually remember where the time went. It just passed. We spent a day cycling around the islands with Adriano, who, with his shirt off, played on all my pale, skinny insecurities. The "road" did no favours for Adriano's tyre, going flat about 4 kilometers from where we were staying and resulting in a two hour stop at a local's house to get it repaired with about eight tyre patches, and just as were leaving, I discovered mine was bordering on flat too, but I had had enough of standing around playing with the kids, so I just rode back and left the bike owner to deal with it.
The nights were all spent in the same beautiful location, in a bar overlooking the water, drinking Lao Lao mojitos and hanging out with Adriano, Tom, a Laos guy with a hilarious laugh, two Austrians and about a hundred million flying bugs. It was blissful.
The islands have evidently changed a lot since the printing of the 2007 Lonely Planet that we are operating on which said that there was no electricity on the islands, however we established they have now had it for 4 months; the all encompassing hand of globalisation.
I expected Cambodia and Laos to be much of a muchness, however they are not as similar as I thought. They general demeanor of the Lao people is unbelievably relaxed and it is contagious. The prozac of travel. It is an effort to get very far off the tourist trail as public transport to smaller areas is hard to come by, but I have established that if somewhere is a tourist destination, it is that way for a reason.
From Don Det, we had one of the longest and most tedious days of travel I have ever had. A 15 minute boat ride, then a one hour wait, then a four hour minibus ride to Pakse, then a five hour wait, then an overnight sleeper bus (without the sleep) to Vientiane, then a two hour wait (where we were rescued from exhaustion by a cafe), then another five hour bus trip to Vang Vieng; the Mecca of backpacking. I had admittedly low expectations of Vang Vieng, thinking it would be full of nothing more than drugs and debauchery, and while this was a big part of the town, it was juxtaposed by the beautiful countryside which I am sure most visitors are too drunk or hungover to appreciate. We had a whole day of caving, "trekking" (one of the many loosely used terms in South-East Asia, along with "VIP"), tubing in caves and kayaking. We went further into a cave than I ever would by myself, and then turning of our torches and plunging into complete darkness. I stood there in the pitch black and expected my eyes to adjust to the minimal light, but there was nothing to adjust to. The eerie darkness and the sound of dripping water. Sensual respite. We had a local guide named Ktoy, who, we later established over dinner was one of the best people in the world at speaking to girls, so much so that he overcame the language barrier (an admittedly small one), and stole two Thai girls from their boyfriends. He was 29, but looked about 20.
Being that we were in Vang Vieng, we thought it our responsibility to tube down the river, a backpacker's rite of passage, and I think I am one of the few people to have ever done in sober, not really being keen to become a statistic. Safety is not high on the list of priorities in Vang Vieng with some of the most precarious flying foxes, rope swings and giant slides in the world, often made out of nothing more than the ubiquitous Asian bamboo and twine, but somehow giving the impression of haphazard safety. The last bar was two kilometers from the disembarkation point, so it was a slow float back, but relaxing nonetheless and every slight rapid was a blessing.
Vang Vieng is otherworldy. Every restaurant has big screens playing Family Guy or Friends or any other Western television show, and it was a strange phenomenon and sometimes I had to consciously think of where I was.
We have one week left in Laos and Asia, so we are both excited about getting to Europe and meeting up with the boys, but are already dreading going from the relative affluence of being a Western backpacker in Asia to being an Australian in Europe. I will miss Asia, so it is all the more reason to make the most of while I am here.
We are now in Luang Prabang in the north of Laos, a beautiful heritage listed city. It has a very different feel to Vang Vieng. There is an 11:30 curfew in the city. Every morning, monks walk around the city for alms giving, however, since we have only been here for one night (a late one), we weren't in any position to be awake at 5:15 am to see them, but tomorrow will certainly be more proactive.
It seems that there is a fraternity of South-East Asian travelers, and it is surprisingly small. We have met the same people all over Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos, and it is a peculiar experience. There is a family of English travelers, two parents, a 14 year old, and two young kids, perhaps 6 and 4, and we have seen them everywhere we have been in Laos. They have shown me that, contrary to what I had thought, a traveling lifestyle doesn't have to end because of children, and it has also secured me a place to stay in Bath, which I am sure will be a beautifully familial experience after 5 months in hostels.
We have four nights in Luang Prabang before heading back down south for our flight to Lisbon. We have decided that we have to have another night in Vang Vieng. I am already having withdrawals from constant Friends and organic mulberry fruit shakes.
I have found a vegetarian stall in the night market where you can fill a plate with delicious vegetarian Lao food for 10000 kip, about $1.40. Spring rolls are an extra 1000 kip (12 cents), so cost is hardly much of an object. We have lived so incredibly inexpensively and I now understand the mindset of people who spend years here.
There is more I could write, as there always is, but I fear that anything more I write would be rambling, as this has already descended into. It is hard to pick the things I do and see which I deem noteworthy. To write about something is to force myself one day to remember it, and when every moment I am being immersed in such beautiful cultures. It is impossible to express in words the beauty of the minutiae and mundanity of everyday life, but I see this as being the most honest reflection of a place. A walk through a local market divulges more of a culture than a day spent in a museum. Museums and tourist destinations are facades of the actuality of a place, but I am incapable of writing about the beautiful simplicity of an Asian market or a local culture, so I have to leave it to imagination.
It is now 12:30, and probably time to do something more productive than blog, however it is very liberating to be able to now empty my mind of what I have done and look forward to what it is to come.
The last week starts now.