Northern Laos

The bag sighed uncomfortably as I cinched down, hard, on the straps tethering it to the back of the bike. I gave them all a few more tugs, stalling for time as the nervous energy continued to build. Eventually, there was no more give in the straps, my phone was clicked into the handlebar mount, and the helmet was descending over my eyes. No more excuses.

I fired 'er up, and gingerly putted down from the patio into the front yard of the hotel. I wanted desperately to wave back to the hotel staff who'd gathered outside to see me off, but — still feeling unsteady on this surprisingly tall bike — I decided to play it safe.

Overwhelmed with everything going on, I'd forgotten to activate Google maps — and following my nose it took exactly two sets of traffic lights before I was off course. I watched as the left turn slowly disappeared behind me, blocked by steel rails dividing the two directions of traffic. It seems the Lao are early risers like me, and there was already a steady flow of traffic around to gently guide me in the opposite direction as I searched in vain for a safe place to U-turn.

A few kilometres later, in an effort to guess my way back to my road, I'd ended up on Vientiane's one and only (horrifically potholed) dirt road. Bouncing my way through it with gritted teeth, I found myself in a quiet residential street where I could finally stop. Google maps was switched on, and I was finally on the right track.

Once out of Vientiane, I couldn't have asked for a better start to the journey. The road was smooth and wide, running directly alongside the Mekong for almost a hundred and fifty kilometres. I stopped often to take in the sights, but didn't linger — as despite it only being mid-morning, the heat was already becoming stifling.

About halfway along this run alongside the Mekong, I found out why I'd been recommended a dirt bike. The road degraded quite suddenly to a very wide, rutted and dusty track. This did not coincide with less traffic, however, and I found myself constantly sitting behind trucks spewing red dust in my face, with visibility so poor as a result that overtaking was both a necessity and a total crapshoot.

After an age however, the trucks did die down, and once again I found myself on my own.

You can't drop your concentration for a second on a bike, least of all off-road, and it was in my first lapse that I saw, too late, my front tyre approaching a huge pothole. Front forks bottomed out, back shock bottomed out — everything bottomed out. In a mild panic, I pushed over the last of the hill to level ground and stopped. There was no need to pull to the side, as there was no doubt I was in the middle of absolutely-fucking-nowhere.

The sun beat down, and aside from birds and insects chirping from the forest on all sides, the only sound was the engine ticking slightly as it cooled down. I went for a little stroll, took a few photos, and made myself busy to procrastinate having to check whether I'd destroyed something important on the bike. After calming my nerves I gave it a once over.

No popped tyres, that's good. No fluid leaking, that's nice too. Will she start? ... Yes, whew. Time to get out of here.

The road eventually wound down a hill, atop which I could just make out Xanakhan — the village that marks the end of the road following the Mekong. Here, it turns sharply North away from the river, and as civilisation was evidently becoming sparser, this was where I decided it was time for some lunch. I did several laps of the small town — attracting some curious stares — before spotting what seemed to be a restaurant hidden behind some trees. I parked up, waved at some young kids gawking at me, and stepped inside.

Leafing through the menu, I was relieved to see that some of the dishes had pictures alongside, and managed to wrangle fried rice (the safest item I could spot) and coke. Unfortunately, however, fried rice back home will just never quite be the same again. It was frankly unbelievable. Packed with herbs, no surprise mystery-meats, and garnished with fresh cucumber and juicy chunks of lime. That meal was quite genuinely a highlight of the whole trip. I'd heard the food was good, but expected something much more rustic — only cost about $3.50 too.

Here I was, day one, in a small village where not a soul spoke English — 150kms from the nearest town that you could call a 'tourist destination' — and they'd destroyed my standards for a good fried rice.

Mind and body freshly fuelled I got back on the road, and had made it about twenty-five kilometres before I heard a sound from the bike that sent chills up my spine...

The engine died, and we gently rolled to a stop in a small dip. What the fuck. I started her back up — took a few seconds, but sounded happy enough. Tense, I kept on for about a hundred metres, and was just starting to relax again when I felt the power drop.. and drop.. and drop. The bike coughed once more and switched off again. Mind racing with thoughts of what I must've broken when going through that big pothole, it took a long time to realise the obvious... I was out of petrol.

Laughing at my own idiocy, I did the only thing I could; put her in neutral and started pushing.

All sorts of hypotheticals were going around my head as I walked around the bend, but there was some relief as I could see about two hundred metres away a house nestled among a grove at a bend in the road.

I pushed up to their driveway, and peeked down at the house. An older couple sat on their porch staring back. Feeling very self-conscious, I put the kickstand down, and walked towards them. They looked at me curiously as I began artfully pointing and gesticulating the act of a bike not going anywhere. They still looked confused, so I went back to the bike and tapped the fuel tank.

They enjoyed that.

They burst into laughter, and with huge grins began exclaiming franticly in Lao, pointing down the road in the direction I'd been headed.

I cottoned on.

I thanked them, incredibly relieved, and offered a few dollars for their trouble but they refused, and simply kept laughing. Scarcely able to believe my luck, I returned to the bike and kept pushing. Immediately clear of the bend, I saw it; a huge, brand-new petrol station — lit up like a Christmas tree — perhaps half a kilometre away. Unbelievable luck.

I pushed harder, frantic now to get back going as the sun was beating down and I was boiling inside my jacket. Ahead of me was a figure, and as I drew closer realised it was an old woman... pushing her scooter! No wonder the couple had been having such a laugh, two stranded bikes in the middle of nowhere within minutes of each other.

I caught up to the lady quickly, spoke the two words of Lao I knew, and tapped my fuel tank before gesturing at her. She laughed and nodded. I laughed, and listened as she happily began to speak, without a care in the world that I had no idea what she was on about.

Beyond my lucky petrol station, the road wound steadily uphill, consistently demanding more and more of my limited off-road capabilities, before — almost out of nowhere — a big group of stopped cars and trucks.

Ah fuck.

I threaded the bike through the mass of vehicles to the front of the queue, where a group of perhaps twenty Lao were milling around. I switched the bike off and took stock of the situation.

In front of the group, there was a sharp bend in the road where it cut through the side of the hill. Dirt was splashed across the road, and dust hung in the air, but otherwise there was no obvious obstruction.

I was about to see if anyone spoke English when, above the road at the top of the embankment, swung a large CAT excavator. It was hanging off the side of the hill at an uncomfortable angle, scooping dirt from one side to the other across the crest of the hill.

For almost two hours I sat, rationing my water and swatting away insects, watching the excavator do it's thing until the group of Lao began to stir. We watched as the excavator — apparently done for the day — began inching it's way down the hill. The angle was sharp, and the track uneven and makeshift. As it slowly made it's way down, the driver used his scoop as a walking stick, propping himself up against the side of the hill when it otherwise he would surely have tumbled down. It was tense, and I could tell from the body-language of the group of Lao that there was no guarantee this was going to end well.

Finally though, the huge machine was levelling out and coming to a stop at the side of the road. The driver hopped out, wiped sweat off his brow, then turned and gave us a big cheery thumbs up. Everyone began moving back to their cars, and seeing the scooters start to take off I put my helmet on in a hurry and got moving — aside from being hot, hungry, and ready to arrive at my destination, I was also in no mood to be stuck behind the tangle of cars and trucks.

In moments I was off and away again, passing the scooters and thrilled that I now had a guaranteed empty road ahead!

There's no AirBNB or Booking.com in isolated rural areas like this, you simply arrive and keep an eye out for the ubiquitous 'Guest House' sign that has miraculously become standardised across the entirety of South-East Asia. I did a lap of Pak Lay, and ended up back at the very first guesthouse, right at the start of the street as you enter the village.

Anousone Guesthouse is a huge, pseudo-roman, bright-green mansion that looks incredibly out of place sitting on the bank of the river — small wooden shack on one side, and a rustic restaurant on the other. I wasn't entirely convinced as I parked the bike and began unstrapping my bag, but the sun was setting and I was covered in dust and grime, so anywhere would do.

It was a fantastic choice.

I walked in and was greeted by blessed air conditioning, polished wooden floorboards, high ceilings, and a twisting grand staircase behind the receptionist desk. The receptionist himself was asleep at the desk, as is normal at almost any time of day here. Despite still not seeming to have fully awoken, he was cheery and welcoming as he showed me to my room, and I was stoked to find I'd scored a spot on the top-floor with great views over the river for less than $12!

I spent the evening completely relaxed, sitting on the deck of the restaurant next door, drinking ice cold beer and watching the small lizards catch grasshoppers.

I was up and wandering the streets the next morning before daybreak. I strolled around slowly, looking (in vain) for photo ops and watching as the town slowly woke up to the new day. When it became clear I wasn't going to find any more shots, I began looking instead for a shop or ATM. I only had one large note on me which I knew typically couldn't be broken in such remote parts of the country.

As I was passing a house in the middle of town, a man called out. I turned as he hobbled up the steps onto the street and smiled at me, gesturing me to his house. I hesitated, just for a moment, but he caught it, grinned wider, and said one word:

How could I say no to that? I followed him down to an outdoor seating area. There sat seven or eight Lao men, of whom the youngest couldn't have been any less than sixty years old. They gave me a rousing welcome, but before I could even start to embarrass myself a plate heaped with some unknown food was placed in front of me.

I learnt they were some sort of pastry, a byproduct of French rule in the early 1900's. They looked dry, and a little stale, but nothing could be further from the truth. They were warm, soft, sweet, and in high-abundance — I tucked in.

"Coffee?"

"Yes please!"

The mug appeared almost out of nowhere, and the man scooped an ancient kettle off a nearby stovetop and sloshed in a generous amount. I went to pick it up, but he tapped my hand away lightly.

"Not yet!"

He wandered off inside, and emerged with a tin. He ripped the lid off, and deftly poured some of the condensed milk into the coffee, before handing me a spoon to stir.

"Lao coffee!" He grinned.

While not one of the fancy Flat Whites that I was used to, at that moment the sweet concoction was perfect. Hot, strong, and excellent. I already knew I was going to leave this place absolutely buzzing and 'highly energised' for the journey ahead.

Between eating and drinking, we chatted in French. He chatted, anyway, I stumbled through the conversation, desperately trying to remember any French at all from my five years studying the language in high school.

As I came to the final dregs of my vocabulary, I realised it was probably time to move on. As we said our goodbyes, the man modestly asked for a thousand kip (less than a dollar) to cover some of the food costs.

My heart sank.

I showed him my wallet, and the large note, he shrugged. I asked if he had any change, and he shook his head. I tried to give him the large note but he graciously refused. I said that's ok I'll break it somewhere in town and come back!

I did another lap of the town but couldn't find anything resembling a store or ATM. At this point the sun was high, and it was getting hot, it was a shame, but I couldn't keep looking — I had to get on the road.

The road was lovely and well-paved — the first half with barely a soul in sight, just myself and the bike sweeping through the gorgeous mountains with ease. Traffic picked up as I got closer to Xayaboury; the mountains falling away to dusty farmland and (sadly all browned) rice paddies.

I arrived in Xayaboury and got settled in to my accomodation. With some sunlight to spare, I set out for a little trip to a nearby hill that promised scenic views.

Navigating my way to the top, the scenery was indeed lovely — but that wasn't what caught my eye. At the top of the hilly area was a huge building, perhaps a restaurant or event venue. I parked and came closer. To my surprise, the front door was wide open, and strange, operatic music could be heard burbling in the depths. I peered inside. It was quite dark.

I called out...

No response.

Not game to venture any further, I stepped away to take photos around the perimeter of the hilltop; looking down on the vista below.

However, no matter how lovely the view, my eyes were always drawn back to the curious open door. I kept expecting someone to step out.. or a car to roll up, or something to happen — but nothing did. So, with the sun now setting, I made my way back into town.

The evening was calm and tranquil. I went to the markets and bought a box of noodles with chicken, and took it to a small park next to the main bridge into town. From there I looked down on the city while slowly getting the hang of my chopsticks.

After dinner, I sat there a while longer and watched a family play in the river while cleaning their vehicles. As the sun set I headed back to the hotel. Calm, peaceful, and ready for the next day.

The sun had barely risen yet I was already back on the road — and what a spectacular road it was! Five hours of fresh Chinese-sponsored tarmac sweeping through towering mountain ranges and idyllic hillside villages. Despite the views I barely stopped for photographs, as I was simply having too much fun on the bike!

I rounded one final perfectly-paved sweeping corner and found that I'd arrived in Pak Beng. It was mid-afternoon, the sun was beating down, and the riverside town felt vibrantly tropical. Here we were hidden — nestled deep in the lush mountains — with only the river and neighbouring elephant sanctuary for company.

I did a lap of the town, eyeing off my accomodation options as I had the day before. The town itself was tiny, but it was the overnight stop on the incredibly popular two-day Mekong boat cruise, so there was no shortage of options available.

Again like the day before, I went with the first option at the entrance of town. It was a large, mansion-esque complex with verandahs and rooms arranged haphazardly to give as much of the river view to as many surfaces as possible.

The place seemed deserted, but after some wandering I found the proprietor, sleepy and dazed, but cheery once he'd gotten his bearings. He signed me in, showed me the room, and let me know the place would quickly fill-up once the cruise arrived — it wouldn't be this quiet for much longer!

By the time I'd refreshed it was late afternoon, the sun beginning to set, and cool enough to wander around. I did another lap of the town, everything bathed in lovely low-hanging sunlight.

As I was heading back I could hear a commotion down by the river. I rounded a corner and saw from my vantage point two large boats lashing themselves to the pier as tourists poured out onto the shore.

Dogs were running around, Lao men rushing to help unpack luggage, and in an instant the town had transformed to a hive of excitement and festivity.

As promised, the guesthouse indeed filled up. I made friends quickly and easily, eager to speak English again to someone other than myself. As the sun set, the Beer Lao flowed, followed at some point by tequila. I then had my first exposure to Tones & I that night, after we kicked on to the town 'club'.

I say 'club', but what I mean is that one of the smarter (or braver) locals had decided he'd add a sound system to his entertaining area, build a separate dunny out the back, then call it a day and invite tourists to come party every night while he poured them shots and raked in the cash.

Getting on the bike the next day was rough. I said goodbye to my new friends as they boarded their boat, and hopped on the bike hungover and deflated. That day's ride had few redeeming features; the roads were in good shape, but boring. The scenery flat and dominated by endless rubber farms — any beauty that the tree's might bring ruined by the obnoxious plastic taps sticking out, as they collected the rubber sap in heinous brightly-coloured plastic bags.

I took few stops, hurrying to my destination which I was sure was a natural jungle paradise.

My already dark mood worsened considerably as I came to the outskirts of the town — which as it turns out was a busy, dusty shithole.

I'd mistaken the name of this town for the one I was to venture to the next day, and the town I was thinking of was still some 300km's away, nestled deep in a picturesque mountain-scape, as-promised.

There was nothing for it but to check in to a hotel and go from there. The hotel itself was fine, but the clientele were odd. I explored the city at dusk for all of five minutes before I gave up, deciding it was awful and seedy — to be honest I was also somewhat fearing for my safety. I retreated to the hotel and was relieved they had a restaurant in-house, which to be fair, was very good. Several large beers also helped.

That night I did some serious questioning of my plans. I felt dreadful, the solitude had been exciting for the first two days, but now that I'd had a taste of the social aspect of travel I was missing it dearly. I fired off a few WhatsApp messages to the new friends I'd made the night before.

Tempting.

If I was to meet them again in Luang Prabang, I couldn't spare the several days I'd scheduled to spend in the North, deep in the remote, lonely mountains.

I made my mind up, and responded that I'd see them in Luang Prabang.

Just like that, twelve months of intricate route-planning was destroyed. The change in plans cascaded through my tightly-coordinated route, and forced the removal of two major towns, three day trips, and some ~750km's riding from my plans.

Having experienced the roads for myself, at this point I realised that my dirtbike was complete overkill. I could no longer do the whole country in a big loop anyway, so with much sadness decided I'd have to return the bike to Vientiane much, much earlier than expected.

So it was that I found I suddenly had a whole lot of extra time available at the end of the trip. Unsure what the future held, I figured I'd work that out later, for now it was time to just go with the flow.

With much to look forward to, and the exciting prospect of the unknown ahead, the next day was much better. Heading away from the Muang Xai hellscape, I was treated to another exceptionally scenic ride. I stopped as often as I could, took plenty of images, and things were back on track.

Luang Prabang is the travellers capital of Laos — it has the lions share of postcard views, activities to do, daytrips to explore, and bars to drink in.

I made full use of it those next five days, completely chilling out, slowing down, and experiencing the city and surrounds at leisure. My Pak Beng friends eventually moved on, headed toward Vietnam, but with the bustle and hype of Luang Prabang I thankfully wasn't left with the same pangs of loneliness.

In the midst of all the waterfalls, cheap cocktails, early morning walks, and hiding from the sweltering heat, I also managed to get my trouser leg caught on the bike as I was dismounting at my new hostel accomodation.

The resulting drop of the bike was bad, but far worse was that I landed on the scooter next to me. I knocked it over in brutal fashion — right in front of almost twenty of my fellow patrons sitting outside eating breakfast. My face red and conscious of everyone staring, I tried to make amends as the owner rushed out and picked his bike off the ground, tutting me and cursing his luck.

I scurried off into town to collect myself. It was fortunate that I quickly came to accept the gaffe in good humour, as that night I went to Utopia (the spectacular neighbouring bar) and fielded numerous questions along the lines of...

Yes. Yes I am.

If nothing else, it was a good icebreaker! I quickly found myself in a good group of friends. That night we kicked on to the cities only nightclub, which lay 10km outside the city for curfew reasons, and also doubled as a bowling alley and archery range.

It is truly a miracle no one got seriously hurt, though I did wake up the next morning — Christmas Eve — with a nasty bruise where a bow string had caught more of my forearm than the arrow shaft.

That night, our little group made the most of Christmas Eve in Laos; playing cards, eating pizza, and wandering the night market.

It didn't feel like a real Christmas, but it was lovely in it's own way.

After a few more days lounging around and exploring the wider Luang Prabang area, it was finally time to move on. My new friends were headed in the same direction, and we agreed to meet back up that afternoon at the next destination: Vang Vieng.

While the road to Vang Vieng was incredibly dusty, and constant roadworks made progress slow, nothing could kill my vibe that day.

The scenery, in contrast to the roads, was incredible — and became more and more so the closer I came to Vang Vieng. Huge, impossibly-shaped mountains sprouted from the earth, stunning vistas appeared over every crest, and I mingled with a wide range of happy and excited travellers (both local and foreign) at every rest stop.

Vang Vieng is a town renowned for it's sports, activities, and adventure. Here is the best place in Laos to rent a dune buggy, go tubing or spelunking, or even grab a dirt-cheap ticket on a dawn hot-air balloon ride.

Frankly, I don't trust any form of air-travel that costs less than breakfast, so that was a big 'no' from me. However I did get to enjoy the balloons — hundreds of them — every morning from the ground, watching as they floated around the town, occasionally coming perilously close to each other.

I did however participate in the tubing, which was quite incredible. Almost surreal. They drive you to the top of the river, plonk you in a tube, and you float down as a group, stopping at riverside bars along the way to hang out and play beer pong.

'One for the road' is a must as well of course, so you float languidly in the sunshine, with a bunch of mates and cold beer in hand. Can't ask for much more than that.

The following day my mates hired one of the aforementioned buggies, and I followed along on my bike. We checked out the local 'lagoons' (which are essentially just commercial swimming pools like any other unfortunately), and hiked up through caves and rainforests.

Eventually it was time to move on again for the last leg of my hastily re-planned loop. I was headed back to Vientiane a solid two weeks early to drop the dirtbike back. Though it had been a lot of fun, it was clearly far too much bike for the conditions.

The roads I was travelling on were far better than I'd been led to believe from forums and articles online, and — as much as I'd loved the dirtbike experience — hired scooters and public transport were clearly the most appropriate choice. So it was with great sadness that I took off on the FTR223 for it's last stint.

The ride itself was absolutely horrid. Flat, dusty, straight, and incredibly busy. Trucks and cars everywhere, slowing my progress and covering me in fine red dust. However about half way along I discovered part of the reason for the insane traffic; as I approached a new town, jam packed with cars in every possible crevice, I saw the people walking around were dressed in fantasticly colourful formal-wear.

I recognised it immediately — this was one of the fabled Hmong new year celebrations!

The Hmong (one of the primary Lao ethnic groups) celebrate new year at unpredictable times, and in unpredictable places. There's no schedule or guide online, it's all local knowledge. I had read about this when preparing for the trip and basically consigned myself to the fact that it'd be blind luck if I happened upon it. Well, here it was!

The celebration is a huge, colourful party, where all the towns and tribes in the area gather together and teenagers participate in games to meet each other and potentially pair off into couples. The costumes are intricate, beautiful, and completely hand-made by the wearer over the course of the year leading up to the celebration.

I parked my bike, risking all my luggage that was to be left unattended and unsecured, and made my way into the heart of the celebrations. This was clearly a one-off opportunity that I couldn't miss, and I still feel privileged to have been welcomed in to participate in my own small way with such a unique and traditional experience.

Despite the continued awful riding conditions, I returned to Vientiane happy and inspired.

The next day I returned the bike. With baited-breath I watched him go over it, praying there was nothing broken or damaged that I'd have to pay for. He looked at me, smiled, and gave the all clear. I was bike-less again.

I relaxed at the hotel for the rest of the evening, reflecting back on the journey so far, and looking ahead to the next chapter. Early the next morning I hitched a ride to the bus stop and began the next phase of the adventure.