Shortly after I got on the bus, a sharp smell of antiseptic preceded an Australian woman, with legs that I would assume were photoshopped if I saw them advertising beer, sat next to me, almost falling into my lap.
I put my headphones on and fell asleep listening to the Dreadnaughts. I dreamed of being on the same bus, next to another woman, who had impossibly laid down, with her head in my lap, and kept reaching up with a slender hand to grab my hand. My dream self was wondering if non-consensual hand-holding would be considered cheating by South African teachers living in Hong Kong.
When I woke up, I guiltily looked over at the Australian woman, who was sensibly ignoring me in favour of her phone.
I think I only booked two nights in Bangkok to give myself a chance to recover after the twelve hours on the bus before I get on another bus to Kanchanaburi. It was not a mistake, but my choice in accommodation, forced by my budget, certainly was.
Not my photo.
After being ransomed for two hundred Thai baht for a key deposit, I was walked over to the hostel next door, which looked nothing like the Agoda listing. This place was not so much a hostel as a flophouse, a storage place for the destitute and those with nowhere better to be. My dorm room had sixteen beds, was full both nights, and stank of dirty socks with top notes of a Frenchman’s sickly sweet vape. As far as I could tell, no one here sight-seed, worked, or did anything at all. I have stayed in dorms with people who worked, and you are barely aware they are there, this was different. Time seemed to have no meaning to the residents, spending their time in the dorm or the common room downstairs watching videos without headphones. No one was willing to meet my eyes. On the last night on my way to my room, I made the mistake of smiling at a Thai woman, and she glared at me.
That night the water supply to the hostel shut off, and people got even more anti-social as the miasma of unwashed bodies intensified. At ten o’clock the water was restored, I waited another hour lying in my bunk in my own stink before heading downstairs to the three shower stalls that serviced the thirty to forty people staying on the lower floors. I didn’t feel much cleaner, but at least I didn’t smell like nervous sweat and Bangkok grime.
I did manage to take a walk down Khao San Road, the most notorious backpacking strips in the world, featuring heavily in the movie The Beach, and often considered the spiritual heart of backpacking. But now it seems to be a more general tourist trap and party street, complete with loud house music.
Apparently I took very few photos.
That is progress I guess, but I didn’t find it as inviting as I did in 2007 when I was a first-time backpacker. Of course, it’s still loaded with tattoo studios, vendors selling drinks to walk around with (of course I partook) and stalls selling vapes, souvenirs, and smoking implements. Henna, dope, and clothing were all readily available, as well as deep-fried arachnids and insects, if you are hankering for that. There are also some upscale accommodation options that few backpackers, including myself, could afford.
The next morning after a Seven-Eleven coffee, I took a bowel-loosening motorbike taxi to Wat Pho, home to the famous Reclining Buddha.
Difficult to photograph.
It was constructed in 1832 by King Rama III, it’s forty-six metres long and fifteen metres high. It’s made up of a brick core, covered by plaster, then gilded. It’s impressive enough as you walk around it trying to get a handle on the size, then you realise that the soles of the feet are inlaid with Mother-of-Pearl, an incredible detail considering that the feet are considered unclean by Buddhist belief.
I had something else I had to do before I left Chang Mai. During the worst of the Great Plague of COVID-19, I developed a fascination with Sak Yant tattoos. Sak Yant is an obscure Buddhist tradition of tattooing prayers and animal representations, which are then activated by prayers and incantations. These are done by a monk, or an Ajan, a former monk who still conducts religious rituals. Sak Yant are believed to offer protection and assistance in certain aspects of the receiver’s life. Sak Yant became well known in the West when Angelina Jolie first got one on her delectable back.
I was also previously intrigued by the idea of tattoos for protection in Western culture, such as sailors getting compass tattoos, also tattoos for milestones, such as crossing the Tropic of Capricorn for the first time. In addition, much of the science fiction and fantasy media I enjoy features tattoos for protection and to celebrate milestones.
I wanted an authentic experience, not just a tattoo shop fake, which are all too common, however it’s not something that is easy to navigate as a Westerner, so I opted to book an appointment with Sak Yant Chang Mai, a co-opt of monks, Ajans, and layperson staff who assist and facilitate the process.
A charming lady by the name of Ploy was to be my guide, and after selecting my design, doing some paperwork and making the remaining payment, Ploy tentatively drove us through the afternoon traffic to a temple on the outskirts of Chang Mai- a temple very much untouched by Western ideas or influences. I was lead to the top of a building where I met the monk who would perform the tattoo and activation. Aum has been doing Sak Yants for over fifteen years.
After bowing, we conducted a three-way conversation (Aum spoke not a single word of English), about the design I wanted, and specific issues I would like addressed by the Sak Yant. After this discussion, Aum told me that he would include extra emphasis on communication, as I had stated that’s something I struggle with. After getting my inner forearm shaved, a stencil of guidelines was placed on my skin and we got down to business.
Aum wielded a long and slender tool, tipped with a hollow (and single use, I got to keep it), which he dipped into a pot of ink to load, and then free handed the script onto my delicate skin. I was impressed with the speed, accuracy and lack of hesitation as he tapped away.
The pain was spicier than my other tattoo, that was done with a modern machine, where the needle goes in and out of the skin before you feel it. As it was explained to me, you should not attempt to distract yourself from the pain by reading or listening to music. It seemed the monk’s two offsiders didn’t seem to be aware of this, talking in Thai and laughing, which was a little distracting and annoying, seeing this was supposed to be taken as seriously as Holy Communion in a Catholic church.
When the tattoo was finished, Aum laid his tool to rest, and placed a square of gold leaf onto the centre of the tattoo and it was time for the activation.
Taken on the car ride home.
Without the activation, the tattoo would not be considered a proper Sak Yant. While Aum was praying, I was making my own, private chant, similar to the prayers that I would make when I still believed in a Christian God. It was not something that I had planned to do, but seemed appropriate at the time.
Part of the activation, and the blessing of the traditional gifts to the monk.
After this, I was asked if I had any questions, and I just thanked him for allowing me to be part of this tradition. Aum responded, thanking me for showing respect. While one of the temple helpers pulled our car around I got a quick tour of the temple. Also on the way out we stopped for photos at another temple, which featured a school for children which was entirely funded by donations.
When we returned to the office in the city, I was treated with some excellent tea and cookies, and some further instruction on healing and rules I had to abide by for my tattoo.
Just what I needed.
Rules for having a Sak Yant:
Do not kill
Do not steal
Do not lie
Do not be unfaithful to your spouse
Do not get intoxicated
Do not speak ill of any mother
Nothing left to do but get a photo with Ploy, and depart. The experience was awesome and if I ever find myself in Thailand again I will consider getting another one!
Ploy and her amazing smile!
My design: copy and pasted from Sak Yant Chang Mai:
Hah Taew Sak Yant Blessings
1. i ra cha ka ta ra sa 2. ti hang ja toh loh ti nang 3. soh ma na ga ri tah toh 4. pi sam lah loh pu sa pu 5. ka pu bam too tahm wa ka
Hah Taew, represents 5 yants or magical spells. Each one will be done individually and the following magical spells have been cast to do as described below.
.
The first row prevents unjust punishment and leans in your favor when the area is grey, cleans out unwanted spirits and protects the place you live in.
The second row reverses and protects against bad horoscope constellations and bad fortune.
The third row protects you from the use of black magic and anyone who tries to put a curse on you.
The fourth row energizes your good luck, success and fortune in your future ambitions and life style.
The fifth row is to gain charisma and attraction to the opposite sex. It is also is a boost to the fourth row.
Chang Mai has gotten a lot busier since I was there last, but the old city still feels cool.
Love those Spirit Houses
Get past the ring road inside the remains of the ancient walls, it’s a thin layer of hotels, Seven-Elevens and temples, then it’s mostly enchanting windy alleyways, filled with bars, hostels, and so damned many weed shops. Many of the alleyways that seem nothing more than nightsoil roads feature some amazing street art.
Around the corner from Lanna Square
My hostel, one of two identically named ones, was on one of these quiet alleyways, that only allowed one way travel for cars. It was very typical of its breed, a building designed for something else, which failed one way or the other, and now was cheaply renovated into its present, unassuming purpose. The bathroom in my dorm room raised some eyebrows for me. While sitting on the toilet, your eye was immediately drawn to a decoration that to me seemed straight out of a nineties era penthouse.
It’s enough to give you IBS
I asked the lovely lady working in reception if the building had been a brothel or a short-stay hotel, and she very carefully didn’t answer, which of course just made me more suspicious. I have probably stayed in dozens of former brothels during my travels, but this is the first time I felt it was so obvious. The dorm was also racially segregated. When I checked in two Thai lads had set up camp in the bunk beds closest to the bathroom, and out of habit I choose the lower bunk closest to the balcony. When a westerner checked in later, he oddly choose the bunk above me, rather than the two empty bunks in the middle. The oddness continued when I realised the two Thai lads seemed to never leave the room, spending their days in their bunks and taking long showers.
During my night time walks, I discovered Lanna Square, a group of international food stalls set up around a temporary stage, the food was overpriced, but the entertainment was decent.
A lot of the temples around the old city, while being open to the public, were in no way being promoted, which meant I could walk around to my heart’s content without being hassled overly.
At least the locals don’t need to be told to take off their shoes.
There are provinces in the north of Laos that are entirely forgotten by the government, the roads are barely passable at the best of times, resulting in a situation where the only reliable transportation is by boat, on that ever-present Mekong River. There was nothing further for me in Laos, except the near-legendary slow boat to Thailand.
On the shared taxi to the pier, I met the Westerners I would be sharing the journey with. Four beautiful but highly aloof Dutch girls, an extremely conceited Swiss man, a Japanese couple, and an Australian music producer doing the digital nomad caper. The boat was bigger than I expected, which was somewhat comforting to my caffeine starved mind, something I managed to ease further after I spotted eskies outside a hut and purchased two Birdy iced coffees.
We made our way upstream under the loud, low-revving Diesel motors, as our captain piloting a convoluted path, whether to avoid the strongest currents or to avoid underwater hazards I had no clue.
Having attempted, and failed to engage my fellow passengers in conversation, I turned my attention to the views. The Mekong here is nestled between high hills, leading to some dramatic landscapes.
Hard to photograph with a phone.
Some buildings dot the river banks, most were humble, which in Laos can be nothing more than a lean-to made from scrap materials. A number of bridges cross the Mekong, many half finished, no doubt stalled by sudden lack of funds, or interest as political forces waxed and waned. Judging by the vegetation growing around the stark concrete pylons, progress had been stalled for years.
Can’t believe we were the slower slow boat.
After a few hours I got bored, and turned to my Kindle, and when cell-phone towers got close, tedious Youtube videos. At eleven o’clock I decided boats are like airports and its never too early for beer. After ten hours on the water, we arrived at Pekbeng. I had booked the night’s stay at the unimaginatively named Pekbeng Guesthouse, a two minute walk from the pier. I took great satisfaction in checking in while the Eurotrash was still trying to get their luggage and bodies into a truck. An hour later I was eating a curry dish while the family who owned the guesthouse watched a trashy TV show, the situation mired when half -way through the meal a cockroach scarpered over my table.
The next morning I woke early and walked to the pier, which was worth it for the light shining onto the river.
I want to see Mountains, Gandalf!
The second day was very similar to the first day, and this time I made sure I had my notebook with me to keep myself occupied. I landed in Huang Xai, walking the two kilometres along a faded promenade, much to the amusement of school children and dog walkers. My hotel room in Huang Xai was lovely, and featured a balcony helpfully overlooking an alleyway instead of the river. I stayed for one night, which was enough to book my onward trip into Thailand, and enjoy my last Larp dish, a few Big Beer Laos and a sundae to burn through the last of my Lao Kip.
Also, Cafe Cat.
In the early morning light I walked to the hostel I was to meet my guide half an hour early, to discover my flawlessly polite guide was already waiting for me in his Landcruiser.
Apparently I was the only one who booked today so we set off. My guide drove us towards the Lao-Thai Friendship Bridge, where I was stamped out of Laos. A bus took me across the bridge, and at the Thai border my Australian passport granted me my first free entry into a country since Hong Kong. I was picked up at the other end by my previous guide’s Thai offsider, who was less useful, who managed to hit a stray dog on the way to Chang Rai. I stayed in Chang Rai just long enough to buy a local SIM card, get some coffee, and then on the bus, where I was seated next to a head-scarfed older lady who made it abundantly clear she didn’t want to sit next to me.
Leaving Vang Vieng proved to be difficult. After the third travel agent told me that a landslide had closed the road between Vang Vieng and Luang Prabang, I finally admitted defeat and booked a train.
It turns out that the Laos-China Railway is the only piece of infrastructure in Laos that approaches western standards, most likely due to the influx of Chinese money. The security measures seemed on paper to be strict, but in practice seemed entirely for show, a wand was neglectfully waved all over me, but no attention was being paid to the beeps and I was shoved through.
The trip was uneventful and I got a shared taxi to the centre of town, and then walked the last kilometre to my hostel. Luang Prabang has a delightfully shabby historical centre, and was the capital until 1975, which may explain why Vientine feels a little soulless by comparison.
Royal Palace
On my first full day I took the hostel’s mini bus to Kuang Si Falls, which are incredibly epic.
One of the three tiers
Three tiers and multiple pools you can frolic in. After taking many photos and a short swim, I spent the last half an hour with my feet in one of those pools, reading a vampire novel, unmolested by the tourist hordes.
The focal point of Luang Prabang is Phousi Hill, overlooking the night market, The Mekong, the Nam Khan River, and the Royal Palace.
View from Phousi Hill
The hill itself features a beautifully ramshackle wat, with incredible views from the top.
Like so much of Laos, the temple was once grand, but now much faded. The ticket seller was engaged in some paving repair when I arrived, which gave a good indication about how well funded the place is.
A forgotten corner of a near-forgotten wat.
The hostel I stayed at was well populated by young backpackers, most of which I struggled to relate to, but I did get to know a few. Bree, an Australian lady from Sydney I bonded with over a similar history. Ruby, an English lady who contracted Dengue Fever in the jungles of Thailand. Leander, an irrepressible Canadian lad who shattered his ankle on a motorbike and was awaiting his insurance company to organise his flight home. These last two were a sober reminder on how precarious the situation can be here for independent travellers, and how lucky I had been that after two and a half months of travel, I had no trouble apart from a stomach bug and an infection that responded well to antibiotics.
My second to last night in Laos I was manipulated into joining the pub crawl. After we left the first bar, we were waiting outside the second bar while our guide tried to sort out our previously approved entry, and I was feeling sweaty, bored and very out of place. I slipped away unnoticed, bought a beer to drink on the way back to the hostel, then headed to bed.
I am no longer in a relationship. Not just not in a relationship, but no longer in a relationship with the most amazing, beautiful and kind-hearted person I have ever met. The fact that I ended it does nothing to help the feeling of heart-ache.
A month ago, I noticed a cooling off of responses and messages from Arum. Something had changed, or something happened. I could write pages on hypotheticals, but it would be pointless conjecture that would not do myself, or Arum any good. I am self-aware enough to know that the change may well have been me, something I said, didn’t say, did or didn’t do. Or maybe just something about me that she was no longer willing to look past. In a draft Dear John note I was hoping to never have to send (and didn’t send, it remains nothing but messy words in a notebook), I acknowledged this and apologised. Another regret.
Five days ago I sent Arum a string of messages and pictures. twelve hours later she replied with a single Avatar pic. I messaged her back that I needed more than that from her, she replied while I was trying to sleep that she had been super busy. The next morning I messaged her that I understood that, and I was super busy as well. Arum simply replied with a photo of her feet and suitcase at the airport, leaving for a long-planned trip to meet with her best friend. After four days of total, horrible silence, I finally messaged her today asking if she knew how frustrated I was. A handful of hours later she replied that she knew, and that we will talk when she returns from her trip. After two weeks of constant anxiety this was not something I could accept. Our relationship ended, not with a bang, but with a wimper.
The last two weeks have been horrific. How can you sleep when you keep checking your phone, just in case you missed a notification that you so desperately need? How can you look yourself in the eye when you feel ignored by the person who you want to spend the rest of your life with? How can you reverse a five tonne truck between two posts two inches wider than the width of the truck while the centre of your life for the last seven months seems indifferent to your feelings?
I know I could have done better to try and find out what was wrong. Maybe if I was more forward in trying to find out we could have worked it out. I found it impossible to correctly broach the subject, when communication was perfunctory. I will most likely never get closure on this, which is something I will have to accept and move on from.
I was trying my hardest to make things work, but maybe the wrong hard. We had all these fragments that I thought were enough to sustain us until we could be together again, physically. It was not enough. We were not enough.
Vang Vieng would be just another dirt poor Laotian town if it didn’t have unspoiled natural beauty on its outskirts, and some enterprising individuals came up with the idea to rent truck inner tubes to backpackers to float down Nam Song River, and then others set up bars along the same river, so backpackers can get plastered on bathtub local spirits and beer, and engage in heavy petting while near naked, with their new-found friends. Due to pressure from Western governments who objected to their youth dying by the dozen due to drowning while heavily intoxicated, tubing was shut down, and when it restarted many of the bars shut down, and with some half-hearted safety demonstrations mandated.
The town resembles a low rent version of Bangkok’s Khao Sahn road, and while I enjoyed my stay it feels a little forced, and the locals a little too eager to empty my pockets.
Very pretty.
After two days languishing in Vang Vieng, I succumbed to the allure of tubing. I walked to the tubing agency, paid my fee, and was promptly told to return in an hour when they had more people. I had a hasty and tasty lunch of a Lao-style sandwich loaded with salami and avocado, then returned, and was promptly ordered into the back of a truck. We were driven around for half an hour, picking up people until the truck resembled a sardine can.
And then more people squeezed in.
We were then driven out of town to the starting point, where we got our brief safety talk, and then we were on our way.
Here we go here we go…
I found the current too strong (this was just after the rainy season) for relaxed tubing, which lead to too short a time between the three bar stops. I spent the first bar stop alone, nursing a Big Beer Lao, thinking I was too old for this shit. At the second stop, I was feeling more sanguine about the situation, and spent some time sitting at a table with some English tubers, but struggled to join in with the conversation. One of the guides decided to start a conga line, which was entertaining but I was certainly not drunk enough to join in.
What a stud.
It’s worth noting here that I don’t magically become more sociable when I travel, sometimes I push myself to be more sociable, and this gets mixed results, from me and other people.
I suspect the kayaks are easier to steer.
On the last section before the last bar, I was invited into a flotilla of tubes and tubers, featuring two vivacious American ladies, two very young and charming Dutch lads, and one very polite Indian man. We continued our time together at the last bar, and later had a few more drinks at the Mad Monkey, before breaking up the party due to quite a few of them going hot air balooning early the next day.
We cannot be held responsible for our actions.
The next day I hired a scooter and spent the day checking out a few of the blue lagoons, which were quite impressive.
Blue Lagoon Number… 1?
However the scenery was quite incredible just from the road, so I spent a lot of time just riding around taking in views.
I had to wait a while for a bike to be in the shot.
My four day stay in the Laos capital of Vientine was entirely unworthy of my time, except for a visit to the Australian Embassy and the Buddha Park.
Apart from some excellent cafes.
Back in Australia, where the sun shines, our kind-of great nation was debating and voting on something that should have been passed into law in the sixties. But I’ll get off my soapbox, shall I? It did give me a valid reason to visit an Australian Embassy, for the first time ever. The embassy is conveniently located five kilometres away from the centre, along the coast and nestled around other embassies, company HQs and NGO offices with image-conscience PR departments. I got a motorbike taxi to the embassy, and while holding on for dear life I noticed a building labelled Aussie Mart, and knew I must be getting close.
I showed my passport and signed in, passed through a metal detector and was issued with a snazzy visitor lanyard. I then stepped onto what by treaties and convention is considered Australian rather than Laotian soil, which made me feel wonderful after months of travel.
Yay!
I walked through a well-maintained garden but was mildly disappointed I didn’t see any gum trees, complete with koalas munching on leaves. I stepped into a building that smelt and felt like the lobby of a hospital. As soon as I sat down I was ushered into a smaller room, where a flawlessly polite lady checked my credentials again and I filled out a declaration, then the voting form. I was offered some Anzac cookies, which were baked by the consulate’s spouse, which I am pleased to report, were delicious and just about made me cry. I asked the lady to thank the consulate’s spouse for me and I departed Australian soil, and reluctantly handed back my lanyard.
Home! Almost.
The Aussie Mart was two buildings over from my embassy, next to the Singapore Embassy, and was a treasure trove of Tim-Tams, Vegemite, Dawn Dish Soap and other Australian staples. I managed to restrain myself and only buy some TNCC jelly babies, and on the walk back to town I munched on Anzac biscuits and jelly babies, and was a happy and content Vegemite.
Unrelated cat photo.
The next day, having baulked at paying a whole day’s budget on a one way taxi to the Buddha Park, I hiked to the local bus station and took the Number 14 bus for the twenty five kilometre trip out of town. It was slow, uncomfortable and tedious, but was worth it just for the expression on the locals when they saw me board the bus, exact change in hand.
The Buddha Park commenced contruction in 1958 by a priest-Sharman Bunleva Swilat. The statues are of gods, animals, and demons.
The focal point of the park is a sculpture that has been described as a pumpkin, and has three levels, representing Heaven, Earth and hell, which you can enter climb through.
You want me to climb into that thing’s mouth?
I found the park to be a delightfully ramshackle affair, the statues have been allowed to become dirty and in some cases broken, the iron rebar showing and rusting away. I found this to be perfectly symbolic of the nature of Laos, so much faded glory lined by good intention.
Don Det was much the way it was when I left four years ago, but even quieter. The friends I made back then had all moved on, and it seemed like the lowest of low seasons, and the high season nothing but a vague promise from a former lover best forgotten. The restaurant I had breakfast at so many times before was empty, and the bar I drank far too many beers in was dark and shuttered.
If you wait long enough by the river, the bodies of your enemies will float past.
After two days at a cheap bungalow on the sunset side without a working toilet, I moved to the sunrise side to an even cheaper place where I needed to fill a bucket to flush the toilet, but at 2.5 USD a night I had no interest in complaining. I was befriended by a Texan by the name of Brian, who told me where I could buy cheap weed and advised me on the best resturants. My efforts to develop another drug dependancy came to nothing, as the cheap weed did nothing for me. I spent a pleasant week mostly in a hammock, watching Youtube via the surprisingly fast Wifi, reading trashy science fiction, and shooting the shit with Brian, seldom venturing more than a hundred metres from my bungalow.
Excellent book cafe near the pier.
I did go for a short walk at one point to the so called village based around the local school, and the old French Pier, which was a nice stretch of the legs. It was scenic enough and I had a chat on the way with a English engineering student, but this was enough sightseeing for a while.
If those pylons could talk…
When I started taking an interest in the sex lives of the geckos living around the bungalows I knew it was just about time to leave. I could have happily rided out my visa on Don Det, but I still had a long way to go.
Gary the Gecko. Likes craft beer and Anime. Has problematic opinions on WW2.
I took a walk to the sunset side for a beer and to of course watch the sunset, which was the first time I saw anything like a crowd anywhere on Don Det this trip. Back at the Indian restaurant near my bungalow I booked boat and bus tickets to get me to Pakse. Brian was also leaving on the same day, and it would be nice to have some company for a bit longer.
Sigh
The last night on the island I ate a space cake, and felt absolutely nothing from it until the morning, where I dry-heaved multiple times, and felt incredibly hungover, which struck me as grossly unfair. In this fragile state, I managed to pack and walk to the pier, and board the ferry and then the bus to Pakse. My only memory from the bus ride was a short break somewhere and a French backpacker asked me about my tattoo, and my poor attempt to explain it. I shared a Tuk-tuk with Brian to the cheapest hotel we could find on Agoda, where the receptionist fumbled his way through check-in and then led me to my very basic room, where I promptly fell asleep.
Adrian's Got The Moose 