Photo-Story Laos

We didn’t manage to post any pictures of Laos while we were on the road, so here are a few from the trip, with captions. We’ve also worked in plenty of others into previous posts, so sift through if you want to see any more. We’ll do the same for our travels in SW China in the next week or so.

The roads were generally very quiet in Laos, even Highway 13, which links Luang Prabang and Vientiane. Certainly peaceful enough to ride two by two and chat.

It was December but still, the sun beat down, making the climbs tougher than we expected. The first couple of days rollercoasted up and down from one valley into another. Up and up…

Then back down again. Fast and swoopy. Road bike territory.

We had our own on board sound system, so didn’t need the cheap copy Karaoke CDs and VCDs sold in every roadside truckstop. Laotians like nothing better than to crack open some beers and (drunkenly) sing the night away.

There’s plenty of fresh fruit on sale too. You’ll need to sharpen those bargaining skills, as prices spike at the sight of Westerners. Tourism has mushroomed in the last five years (apparently in 2007 it was over 1.4 million, up 37 percent from the year before), with a slew of negative side effects on Lao culture – yet Laotians are still a very welcoming people.

Religion is predominantly Buddhist, with some Animist tendencies too. Offerings, often in the form of a soft drink (and in this case some deodorant), keep spirits happy and thirst quenched. And clean.

Heading Home – and a Merry Christmas too!

It’s in the detail: 50 Cent and the Buddha..

And a rich man.

We’ve begun the first leg of our non-bike-propelled travels to get us home. Not quite in time for Christmas, but close enough to see all the Gilbert Clan. Perhaps that’s the best way to do it (-;

With this in mind, here’s out last post:

After crossing the border from Laos into Thailand, a night train whisked us to Bangkok in relative comfort and luxury. As sunlight shone in fingers across the cityscape, we chugged in fitfully for the last few kilometres, pausing at small stations as we cut through the urban sprawl that rings any Asian metropolis as big as this; under soaring concrete overpasses and glinting high rises, across stagnant canals and past squat, crooked and makeshift wooden homes. Segregated by the narrowest of darkened alleyway-tunnels, these houses opened out directly onto the rails and all the detritus that’s quite literally excreted from the trains. People wandered along the tracks to work, or sifted through garbage to see what new offerings the night had brought. Clothes hung out to dry in the humid air, between the dead-headed leaves of banana trees and under palm trees, combing the air in the breeze. Ladies pushed carts loaded with leaf-wrapped delicacies, plying their wares with drawn out, nasal cries – “Sa-ba-di-kaaaa”. Dogs and men yawned as they awoke.

A road to Vientiane – The End

Children are everywhere, and never miss a wave or smile.

Stack ‘em high: cheap and easily sourced wicker is used for all kinds of goods.

Finally, as Cara and I leave Vang Vieng, the terrain calms down. The lumpy, hazy limestone backdrop is still impressive, but now the long climbs have been replaced by gentler rollers, which relax into an all but level, agricultural landscape. It’s been a while since we’ve ridden a flat road.

Still, when the short and stunted climbs come, they hurt. They should feel easy: our leg muscles are strong and sculpted from dozens and dozens of mountain climbs. But the sun syringes out our energy and salty sweat blots out our vision. My heart pounds in angry, head-thumping beats and my sweat-drenched arms are as slippery as eels.

Past cement works burping out fumes into the hot, sticky air, the traffic is now newer, faster. The latest, bodywork-pumped Toyota Hilux pickups, and even some sleek Mercedes sportsters streak past, and a couple of ridiculous civilian Humvees. There are wartime Willy’s Jeeps on blocks, and older flatbed minibuses too, locally converted into people carriers. Not in the European sense of the word. These ‘Jumbos’ heave both people and their produce, so loaded their chassis sags over balding tyres, gulping over every pothole. Jetties are welded on the back to handle the assumed overflow: wicker baskets with discontented chickens, lengths of rebar dragging in screetchy screams along the tarmac, even a moped or two roped down on the roof. Come school time, boys hang off the rails, or off each other, like a bunch of grapes swaying in the wind on every bend. Other school children are on their bikes, dismounting to push up the hills, which their simple, one-geared drivetrains can’t cope with. Girls ride, holding parasols to protect their faces from the sun. Here, dark skin is for peasants.

Pics from our first weeks in China

Here’s a few pics we resized in our first couple of weeks on the road, but never managed to post in China – or rather, were blocked by the Great Firewall… Loads more to sift through when we get home!

The road to Dechen is said to offer some of the best views on the Yunnan-Tibet highway…

Dropping down towards Zhongdian - I mean Shangri La, as it has been officially renamed, a marketing gimmick for the hordes of Chinese tourists… There’s an ‘eco-village’ nearby – cue convoys of tour buses.

Every day in China was a banquet. The parents of this little fellow ran one of our favourite finds.

Peckish? Dumplings don’t get better than these. Steaming hot. Just 3 Yuan a plate – that’s 20p.

South to Vang Vieng, B52s and Bruce Springsteen

Highway 13 runs south of Luang Prabang and is the last challenge on our ride. Rising from the hot and humid banks of the Mekong, its backed by canine teeth mountains and sharp limestone peaks straight from the pages of Middle Earth, where one jagged silhouette blurs into another. In the morning, clouds lie marooned in the fertile valley folds below, as we climb one pass after the next, briefly skirting along ridges before swooping down once more to cross a river. Then we huff back up again, slowing to a crawl as the sweat beads down, maliciously stinging our eyes – and this is one of the cooler times of the year… Water stops come courtesy of the communal taps in villages, most of which bare the insignia’s of various aid agencies – in fact, 10 percent of the country’s GDP is provided by foreign aid. There, men with slim, toned muscles, and women with sarongs clinging to their petite but shapely bodies, wash in the sun and wave as we pass.

High Five! Laotian kids have borrowed from the book of Borat, high-fiving us as we rode by.

The villages themselves are invariably small and simple; most houses are little more than bamboo huts. Tobacco, grasses, chillies and fruit are being dried out in the open, and enormous, spiky-skinned jackfruit hang down from trees, straining their branches. Like bird baths, miniature golden temples – the size of doll’s houses – are set on plynths fixed to posts; offerings include soft drinks crawling with ants, sticky rice and even cologne. By afternoon, we’re melting in the heat haze. But a relay of smiles keeps us riding. Girls dance to the music from our on-board sound system as we pass, and everywhere, children wave and call out the Laotian greeting with impressive, relentless enthusiasm. Babies are scooped off the ground and their tiny hands flapped into action by smiling mothers. All this attention is phenominal. We pull over for bananas sold on bamboo tables by the roadside, short and stumpy bunches like a fat man’s fingers. Or to refresh ourselves with sweet, sticky papaya that runs down our chins.

Firy colour: chillies drying in the sun.

There are plenty of mud-caked water buffalos…

…but fish is the main source of protein in Laos.