Cycling though Luang Prabang

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.

slow boatin’ along the Mekong.

The destination is in the journey.

Not quite ready to say goodbye to Pad Thai, the baht, and Thai smiles, but knowing it was time to go, Marianna and I had to get moving and take it slow. We had heard from countless travelers about the “uncomfortable, but worth it,” journey up the Mekong River to Laos from Thailand. This boat journey was the only consensus from our fellow backpackers – it is so good, we had to do it.

After bargaining, then booking a all-inclusive Laos slow boat package from our guesthouse owner Saki/Sindy (his name was really Saki, but we thought it was Sindy for 4 days. Turns out Sindy is a long lost unrequited love. So then we called him SakiSindy, one word), we jumped on a van, waving goodbye to Chang Mai and heading towards a new journey, backpacking, moving towards another adventure.

The slow boat journey takes two days. It starts in Huay Xai, stops one night in a small village called Pak Peng, and ends in Luang Prabang, an old cycling formerly french colony of Laos. The boat – well, it’s slow. The wooden boat is outfitted with seats converted from an old car or airplane, crudely strapped onto the hard wood floor with rusting bolts. The crew was a Laos family, with their quarters at the back of the boat and a squat toilet in the rear near the engine.It is not particularly comfortable or uncomfortable, fancy or primitive, charming or ugly – it is slow.

Walking on the boat these old converted seats were filled with fellow backpackers, travelers, from all over the world, here for the journey. Here for the slow ride. Not in any particular hurry to get from one place to another, drinking in the Mekong and traveling like people should travel – slowly. Slowly in order to feel the kilometers and hours that separate places from other places.

The cast of characters strewn about these seats clothed with various colors of elephant-genie pants, big backpacks, and Lonely Planet books became our friends over the two days and one night. After all, all we had was time. Slow-moving time to soak in the Mekong lush green and one another’s stories.

There was George. A 63-year-old man from California, recently divorced and finding his new adventure. He has meditated for 20 years, works as a psychotherapist. As we floated on the brown muddy Mekong, Dennis talked about how to experience the greatest depth of the many emotions and experiences life hands you. He talked about falling in love. A person can fall in love every day, with different people, different types of love. But it can always be mad love. He had a certain sadness in his eyes, but an excitement that even as an old man he was something new, always changing. He was a man on a mission – he wanted to retire in Asia and also may or may not have been doing “research” on finding a Thai bride. We slowly floated along.

Then there were the german boys. We met them on our bus from Chang Mai. They were so, so German. Serious faces, thick accents, and jokesters. They both just finished studying and had a few months to travel. Silly boys walked down to the river during our stop over in Pak Beng and shared Beer Laos with the slow-boat drivers, coming back drunk and giddy, just in time to pay for their dinner. We spoke of their health-care and school systems (free for all), taxes, and our future plans. We lamented the inevitable end of adventure and the beginning of picking our career paths. We slowly floated along.

Bonnie was a trip. Korean tour guide Barbie, we jokingly called her. A woman from Korea who had broken every societal expectation placed on her. She wasn’t married, no kids, and did not live in Korea much of the year. She was a tour guide for young Koreans who go to Europe. She brought her tour guide persona on the journey as Bonnie shepherded us from one boat, van, restaurant and pier to another, a smile on her face the whole time. She called one of the french boys “BB” meaning, beautiful boy and laughed out loud each time he called her, in his thickly-accented way “BG,” beautiful girl. We slowly floated along.

The frenchmen were well, French. Hailing from the alps in France, these two chain smoked cigarettes and tentatively rolled newly-acquired English words on their tongues and ordered wine in a country that only drinks beer. They had spent a year traveling and the more drinks we had the more stories they told about their travels living in a van in Australia. They listened to French rock music so loudly it hurt my ears. They smiled and sat on the edge of the boat, looking out at the villages and greenery we passed. We slowly floated along.

Then there was Johnny from Portugal. He was a cartoonist by trade and had lived in Paris for 9 years. Johnny studied astrology and numbers. My number, calculated by the day of my birth is 5. He was a 5 too. We are always pushing, moving forward, changing, learning to be flexible. My life number, a 9. A giver, caring, always making time for people. Marianna’s day number is nine, her life number, 5- exact opposites, but the same numbers. “When you say good morning and someone doesn’t respond, you can’t let it hurt you,” he told Marianna and I as we listened intently over the roar of the engine. “This is who you are, you want to give, not everyone is like you. You will suffer if you expect the same from others.” Learning more about yourself and how to interact with other people, that’s why he studies numbers. I told him my stories, he gave me his insight. His deep yellow/green eyes staring intently. We slowly floated along.

Slowly floating down the Mekong our fellow passengers read, slept, talked, drank BeerLaos, leaned on one another’s shoulders for quiet naps, told stories, and listened. Listened to the sound of the boat’s engine, listened to the foreign Laos language uttered by the crew, listened the calm waves slapping against the wooden body of the boat. And we listened to one another. Traveling, making time, slowly floating along.

-Katy