48 Hours in Vang Vieng (VV)
Vang Vieng is a curious town.
Nestled amongst limestone karsts about 3 hours north of Vientiane, Laos, the town is known informally as the "chill-out capital" of the country.
I'm as big a fan of chilling out as the next guy, and we had heard some positive reports of Vang Vieng, so we decided to check it out for ourselves. While the town definitely has some chill-out aspects, its reality differs from the marketing in some significant ways.
Vang Vieng is an oddity. Part Kho Sanh Road, part Pai, VV is over-run by television bars, mediocre restaurants and bizarre architecture, albeit in a beautiful setting. Our 48 hours there were plenty to get a taste and move on.
The first thing you notice when you get to town is the television bars. We had been warned that there would be dozens of places showing old Friends episodes at top volume, but we naturally assumed hyperbole. We were mistaken.
In fact, it is possible to watch entire seasons of the sitcom, or the Simpsons for that matter, simultaneously from a single vantage point. After television-free time up North, we were ready for a bit of heady stimulation, so we headed to a movie bar to watch some terrible teen movie about traveling through Europe.
Beerlao in hand, we immersed in the television fracas for a night, feeling a bit dirrty (as Ms. Aguilera would say). But one night was enough.
The other "must do" in VV is tubing down the Nam Sang. In high water, this trip can be fast and harrowing. However in December, it is mostly a peaceful float down a quiet river. Except this is Vang Vieng, where chill-out equals "tie one on." Far from a teetotaller (see several earlier posts), our float included constant hawking of "Beerlao, Beerlao here, you like Beerlao, We got Beerlao, Beerlao, tuna sandwich, Beerlao..." And on it went, for three hours of floating through otherwise scenic waters.
The Laos may be Communists, but they have embraced an entrepreneurial form of Capitalism that includes seizing all opportunities to wring hard currency out of the falang. On the river, this meant bamboo bungalow bars lining the banks, sandbars and trees for the entire tubing stretch. At each spot, there would be someone standing on the upstream side with a long bamboo pole, waiting to bring in passing tubers like an angler fishing for falang. Naturally, we gave into to their marketing and charm.
And quite by coincidence, we chose the biggest, loudest and best establishment on the reach. I say "best" because not only did it have the most decks (for sunning and drying the falang after they are brought ashore), but also the biggest rope swing.
At several establishments, the liberal application of $.50 Beerlao was combined with massive rope swings over the river. A tort case-in-waiting in the US, the Lao sense of liability seems a bit more lax. Our establishment had the biggest swing on the river, towering some 20 meters over the river. With more than a little trepidation, I climbed up the bamboo ladder into the tree, where a Lao local sat in a perch, holding the handle.
With Erin gazing dreamily (to my perspective) at me from the deck below - oh so far below - I grasped the handle and walked out onto the small plank that served as a platform. From the safety of the deck, I had watched several people survive the swing and had been feeling pretty confident about my chances. As I stood on the tiny board, tenuously nailed to a branch high above the river, I felt the same rush (dizziness?) I experienced before bungee jumping in Whistler or cliff jumping into the Gross Reservoir in Boulder.
Fearful as I was, I had passed the point of return, literally. The guy behind me cheerfully prodded with, "You ain't getting back past me, so you better jump." So on I went.
With a short, "this is crazy," I swung out over the river at a velocity reminiscent of James Bond's ride in the G-force simulator. I am sure my cheeks were flapping in the breeze as I swung like a pendulum out over the murky water, but was only aware of my guttural, primal scream. When I dropped in the river, I was relieved to feel intact and in possession of both my limbs and sense of self-respect.
After a few moments to collect myself, and bask in the warm glow of my bride's adulation, I decided to give it another try. Such is the nature of the male species.
All told, our time in Vang Vieng was entertaining. And if nothing else, it confirmed our growing sense that our days of being hippie backpackers are over, if they ever existed. We prefer fine food and are willing to pay a bit more for our beers (as long as they are still less than $1).
Vang Vieng is a curious town.
Nestled amongst limestone karsts about 3 hours north of Vientiane, Laos, the town is known informally as the "chill-out capital" of the country.
I'm as big a fan of chilling out as the next guy, and we had heard some positive reports of Vang Vieng, so we decided to check it out for ourselves. While the town definitely has some chill-out aspects, its reality differs from the marketing in some significant ways.
Vang Vieng is an oddity. Part Kho Sanh Road, part Pai, VV is over-run by television bars, mediocre restaurants and bizarre architecture, albeit in a beautiful setting. Our 48 hours there were plenty to get a taste and move on.
The first thing you notice when you get to town is the television bars. We had been warned that there would be dozens of places showing old Friends episodes at top volume, but we naturally assumed hyperbole. We were mistaken.
In fact, it is possible to watch entire seasons of the sitcom, or the Simpsons for that matter, simultaneously from a single vantage point. After television-free time up North, we were ready for a bit of heady stimulation, so we headed to a movie bar to watch some terrible teen movie about traveling through Europe.
Beerlao in hand, we immersed in the television fracas for a night, feeling a bit dirrty (as Ms. Aguilera would say). But one night was enough.
The other "must do" in VV is tubing down the Nam Sang. In high water, this trip can be fast and harrowing. However in December, it is mostly a peaceful float down a quiet river. Except this is Vang Vieng, where chill-out equals "tie one on." Far from a teetotaller (see several earlier posts), our float included constant hawking of "Beerlao, Beerlao here, you like Beerlao, We got Beerlao, Beerlao, tuna sandwich, Beerlao..." And on it went, for three hours of floating through otherwise scenic waters.
The Laos may be Communists, but they have embraced an entrepreneurial form of Capitalism that includes seizing all opportunities to wring hard currency out of the falang. On the river, this meant bamboo bungalow bars lining the banks, sandbars and trees for the entire tubing stretch. At each spot, there would be someone standing on the upstream side with a long bamboo pole, waiting to bring in passing tubers like an angler fishing for falang. Naturally, we gave into to their marketing and charm.
And quite by coincidence, we chose the biggest, loudest and best establishment on the reach. I say "best" because not only did it have the most decks (for sunning and drying the falang after they are brought ashore), but also the biggest rope swing.
At several establishments, the liberal application of $.50 Beerlao was combined with massive rope swings over the river. A tort case-in-waiting in the US, the Lao sense of liability seems a bit more lax. Our establishment had the biggest swing on the river, towering some 20 meters over the river. With more than a little trepidation, I climbed up the bamboo ladder into the tree, where a Lao local sat in a perch, holding the handle.
With Erin gazing dreamily (to my perspective) at me from the deck below - oh so far below - I grasped the handle and walked out onto the small plank that served as a platform. From the safety of the deck, I had watched several people survive the swing and had been feeling pretty confident about my chances. As I stood on the tiny board, tenuously nailed to a branch high above the river, I felt the same rush (dizziness?) I experienced before bungee jumping in Whistler or cliff jumping into the Gross Reservoir in Boulder.
Fearful as I was, I had passed the point of return, literally. The guy behind me cheerfully prodded with, "You ain't getting back past me, so you better jump." So on I went.
With a short, "this is crazy," I swung out over the river at a velocity reminiscent of James Bond's ride in the G-force simulator. I am sure my cheeks were flapping in the breeze as I swung like a pendulum out over the murky water, but was only aware of my guttural, primal scream. When I dropped in the river, I was relieved to feel intact and in possession of both my limbs and sense of self-respect.
After a few moments to collect myself, and bask in the warm glow of my bride's adulation, I decided to give it another try. Such is the nature of the male species.
All told, our time in Vang Vieng was entertaining. And if nothing else, it confirmed our growing sense that our days of being hippie backpackers are over, if they ever existed. We prefer fine food and are willing to pay a bit more for our beers (as long as they are still less than $1).
No comments:
Post a Comment