The JaYmes Escape

“You go Lao”, says the Vietnamese border guard pointing over my shoulder. After eight years of existence and nearly two years of intense travel my passport is showing its age. Although it had miraculously survived my bamboo rafting experience in Thailand the water had somehow crept into the photo page and it was rejected by the scanner. This is a nightmare; even if Lao immigration allows me back in I’ll have to pay for a new visa and I’ll probably need to travel all the way back to Bangkok to get a new passport.

The border corssing is nestled in a mountain pass with steep jungle covered cliffs climbing on either side of the white concrete gates. An hour or more passes whilst the guards examine every page of my passport with an illuminated maginifying glass, gabble on their mobile phones in Vietnamese and occasionally shake their heads at me and repeat, ‘you go Lao’. I try my best to look scared and desperate, not sure if I should even offer a bribe or how to go about it. Eventually they ask for a dollar ‘for the stamp’, which I happily pass over. I think I’d have just as happily paid twenty, but my relief is short-lived as still the fine toothcomb and ‘you go Lao’ treatment continues.

“Great Britain, embassy Hanoi, no embassy Lao”, I say eventually say hopefully, and finally they mutter then nod at each other and hand over my passport.

“You go Vietnam”, one of them says with a nod, and with immense relief and a dozen thank-yous I walk through to my patiently waiting transport; a minibus packed with sugar, bathroom ceramics, hair cream and other random cargo. As I climb aboard the bus and sit next to a pile of sugar sacks with ‘amazing Thailand’ written on them I remember that at the last minute I’d decided to buy two large bottles of Beer Lao for the journey. At this moment it seems like the best decision I’d made all day.

“Kor horng-nam”, I hopefully ask the woman who’d inspected my ticket on the bus; she nods and points down a muddy lane in amongst thatched bamboo stalls piled with everything from flip-flops to phones. Around the corner I have to repeat the question several times before I’m eventually gestured behind a stall where a couple of bamboo hut squatties stand next to a sign that says “WC 2000kip” along with some Lao script presumably saying the same thing. “Kor horng-nam” literally translated means “Please give me toilet”, which is the best I can do at short notice. The small town is a stop on the way towards the eastern town of Lak Sao and well off the main tourist route. The locals stop and stare wide-eyed at this strange white man with a funny hat speaking broken Lao.

“Sa-bai-dee”, some say with a gentle smile, “Sa-bai-dee”, I reply. If the Lao people are sure of one thing it’s that no-one is going to leave their country without learning their favourite word, which means hello. They’re such a gentle welcoming people that I’m sad to be leaving after only eight days; I could have spent weeks in the amazing city of Luang Prabang, which is like a rural French village with dozens of Buddhist Wats sat in the jungle beside the Mekong and surrounded by mountains.

“Hello, how are you”, says a boy of not more than six, his face is nervous but brave as he grasps a rare opportunity to practice his English, “I’m good thanks”, I reply with a gentle smile, only to be interrupted by the sound of a loud horn, which prompts me to wave, turn and run back through the mud to the bus which is waiting to take me onward through the mountains, and towards Vietnam.

Some nasty looking rocks loom in the middle of the river, just where the boat was heading a couple of minutes ago. The water is a dirty brown; logs, large pieces of bamboo and various other debris float around. Very occasionally the boat bumps into something, but the Lao boatman knows his river and confidently navigates his wooden boat packed with falang (tourists) and villagers safely through the stunning jungle-covered mountains of northern Laos.

From time to time collections of wooden huts appear on the mountainside, areas of steep jungle have been cleared for livestock or rice, and sometimes the boat stops to pick up or drop off villagers carrying anything from motorcycles to crocodiles. Sometimes the boat is invaded by local children selling refreshments and big, cheap bottles of Beer Lao, which is enthusiastically welcomed by the falang.

Back at the Thai border at Chiang Khong, a longtail boat had taken me and my luggage across the Mekong to the Laos town of Huay Xai. After a night there I had boarded this, the slowboat to the spectacular town of Luang Prabang. Some way south of the border crossing the Mekong veers east, into Laos and some hours later the two day journey is broken by an overnight stop in the village of Pak Beng.

I take another sip from my bottle of Beer Lao; the long journey will be over soon, and although the scenery is stunning and the journey smooth, the boat is cramped and the wooden benches are getting tiresome. Everyone will be happy to finally arrive.