Stories of the City of Drunks

After a lovely week relaxing we head for the Anti-Christ of Luang Prabang: Vang Vieng. Known as the Mekka for drinking, partying, drugs and complete idiots we decide to check out the place for ourselves.

We arrive to find that the rumours have overshadowed an amazing limestone landscape with dramatic towering cliffs along the river side. Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on the observers view) its not the only thing along the river side. Armed with canoes and an international crew of compatriots we drift silently along the beautiful scenery as out of nowhere faint but rhythmic drum beats reach us from the distance. As we draw closer hordes of half naked barbarians crowd the river banks, armed with glass bottles and what appears to be buckets filled with whiskey as legend tells. To our misfortune we get stranded on some rocks in the river right in front of a main bar, which draws great amusement upon the intoxicated dancing mass. Slowly surrounding us in their tractor inner-tubes we do not have a chance left but joining their obscure rituals. Before we know it we find ourselves comfortably perched on the bamboo bar, watching the escapades below. All seems right again with a beer Lao in hand. Even better with two.

Back in town reality quickly conquers back its territory as we encounter an American limping along - foot surrounded by bandages - injured during his excessive river adventure. A typical appearance indeed, with plenty of others hopping around wearing nothing but their swimming attire and a plaster cast. In fact the place seems to have mutated into an outpost of hedonism. For those that are partied out there is bar after bar screening hypnotising episodes from 'Friends' or 'Family guy' (selling happy shakes, space pizzas and of course banana pancakes as well). Not all bananas should be allowed to get pancakes and so, after some discussion on the big white telephone, we take some days off for adjusting to the delicious local food. Being cured first from the travellers illness I use the time for trying to help at the local voluntary 'community' project. Claiming to be aimed at supporting local organic farms and schools by promoting a sustainable community this project invites travellers and their money to make a contribution by building in rural Laos an – as I would describe it – Italian pizzeria. A future guest-house that will offer the controversial 'Eco-Tourism' or more general and better described by some words that slipped out from the owner himself: a possibility to “make money from tourism”. There is not just black and white in this world and the volunteers seemed to be happy to be doing something – whether or not its for the good of the Lao people, themselves or somebody trying to procure a free work force.

We rent a scooter to explore the nearby valley and some of the many caves. On the way we stop along the dirt-road for a necessary tyre-check. Having never been charged for air I react surprised to the mechanics' demanding words after the finished 30 seconds of 'work'. A tiny girl – most likely just having learned her first words – clarifies the confusion: “Money money!”. A phrase that is later also screamed after us by a women attempting to charge us for crossing a tiny wooden bridge over a river we might as well have driven through. In the peaceful back end of the valley we find young children playing in the water and diving with their self-made harpoons for fishes. One of the boys demonstratively shoots the metal arrow, which rams its way into the stony ground like into butter, assuring me of the efficiency of his deadly device. We stop at the rather hidden 'gold and silver flower' cave, passionately and perfectly maintained by an old but surprisingly nimble local and find ourselves surrounded by stalactites shimmering indeed in those precious colours - a fairytale scenery if you wish so. Being called Mister and Misses from a man reminding me strongly on the little boy from Indiana Jones (just 60 years older) gives the event the whimsical feeling of being in a strange film. We stop at another lagoon for a swim, to which a bizarre amount of Americans get transported before heading back to the centre of noise.