The Holland man with an American accent recommended an enticing adventure our first night in Luang Prabang while I feasted on fish and Lao spices. “It’s a secret, don’t tell anyone,” the tall waiter whispered, urging us to rent some bikes and go on the path less traveled. Always looking to be intrepid and seeking an adventure, this was exactly the flavor we were craving.
We were three now. Mari and I met Irene on the tuk tuk after the slow boat. Irene is a girl from Italy who is traveling the silk trail, moving through the continent by land to return to her country. She is tough. Hardened by solo travel, she has a Laura Croft aura about her. Hiking boots, camo leggings, “don’t mess with me” written across her forehead, and wild curly hair. Irene is a badass kind of chick. Underneath her seasoned exterior, Irene invents English/Italian words (Italish), is ready for any type of adventure, and is as silly as Mari and I. Irene is easy going too, “too me, it’s the same,” she says with her Italian accent, willing to go anywhere, do anything. She was a good fit.
The next morning, the three of us filled up on crepes, Laos coffee (coffee with sweetened condensed milk), and, of course, the daily mango fruit shake. “You need good mountain bikes,” the Holland man warned. What we found were so-so mountain bikes. Satisfied, armed with a take-what-you-can-get-we’ll-make-it-work-for-sure-we-are-in-Asia mentality, the three of us biked down to the ferry dock behind the national museum.
Luang Prabang is a beautiful old French colony. It’s architecture and ambience feels European despite the Wats, Asian textiles, and Laos people gracing its streets. When we hopped on the ferry across the Mekong River, it was clear we were floating away from this fairy land. Dirt roads, mountains, and fields greeted us.
We took off on a loop through the land, 30 kilometers over steep terrain, potholes, wading through rivers that coated the shabby road. Each hill crest opened to one of the most beautiful views I have seen over and over again. The mountains were coated with wild jungle and sprinkled with lush green rice patty fields locals planted and tended. The green was so vibrant that it hurt my eyes. The sun beat down and my body was soaked with sweat as my legs powerfully pushed the so-so bike up the steep-steep hills. Along the way were herds of water buffalo with cow bells ringing, occasional chickens, dogs, and even wild boar. We cycled through villages waving at small children splashing in water or playing on this Sunday afternoon. “Sa ba deeeeee!” they yelled after us as we biked by.
The trip seemed interminable in the heat of the day. After four hours of biking, when it felt like we could not go much farther, we ran into the Holland man once again. Our good omen promised us only 15 minutes to go. We heaved sighs of tired relief and pumped up the last few hills. When we made it back to the ferry landing I was famished. I eyed a fresh fish from the Mekong, secured between two wooden sticks charring over a fire on the side of the dirt road. I pointed to the fish I wanted, and $20,000 kip (about two dollars) later my hungry stomach welcomed its sweet flesh stuffed with lemon grass, Laos words, and spices.
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