Encounters of Kindness on the Lao Roads
VOICVEOVER
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Chapter 1: Borderlines and Beginnings
Scams, storms and friendly faces.
Eventually,
I wheeled my bicycle out into the damp air and pedalled toward the Thai
immigration office. The process was surprisingly smooth, a rare gift at border
crossings where bureaucracy often tangles into chaos. But the relief was
short-lived. On the Lao side, the officers demanded $50 for a visa instead of
the usual $30. I protested, but my words dissolved into the humid air. At the
border, one is always at the mercy of authority. With reluctant resignation, I
handed over the money, the sting of injustice clinging to me like the drizzle
that refused to let up.
Crossing
into Laos should have felt like a homecoming. Six years had passed since my
last visit, and I had imagined a joyful reunion with familiar streets and the
languid rhythm of the Mekong. Instead, irritation shadowed my arrival. Even the
river, swollen and furious from the rains, seemed to mirror my mood. Its waters
pressed against the banks, threatening to spill over, a reminder that nature,
like bureaucracy, has its own unyielding power.
I
wandered the riverfront, trying to shake off the frustration. Vientiane changed
in my absence. Some of the improvements were welcome—new pavements, brighter facades,
but others carried a bittersweet edge, as if the city were trading pieces of
its soul for progress. The old charm lingered in pockets: the scent of fresh
baguettes wafting from bakeries, the quiet dignity of temples weathered by
centuries, the slow pace of life that resisted the rush of modernity. Yet I
couldn’t ignore the undercurrent of loss, the way memory and reality collided,
leaving me unsettled.
That
evening, as the Mekong surged beside me, I reflected on the paradox of
beginnings. Journeys rarely start with the clean slate we imagine. Sometimes
they begin with irritations, delays, and small injustices. But perhaps that is
the point. Travel demands resilience. It asks us to carry both the beauty and
the bitterness, to accept that the road ahead will be paved with potholes and
kindness alike. And so, with the rain still falling and the city lights
flickering across the water, I resolved to let Laos reveal itself on its own
terms—scams, storms, and all.
Wandering
Vientiane
The
drizzle lingered into the next morning, soft and persistent, as though the city
itself wanted to slow me down. Vientiane is not a place that rushes. Its rhythm
is measured, unhurried, and I found myself falling into step with it. After a
leisurely breakfast, I set out beneath my umbrella, chasing small errands that
would become the day’s unlikely adventure: a lens cap for my camera, lost
somewhere along the road, and a mirror for my bicycle, essential in a country
where traffic flows on the opposite side.
What
should have been a simple task unfolded into a meandering pilgrimage across the
city. The streets carried me past temples whose gilded roofs glistened in the
rain, their walls whispering centuries of devotion. Monks in saffron robes
moved quietly through the drizzle, their presence a reminder of the spiritual
heartbeat that pulses beneath the surface of daily life. Each temple seemed to
hold its own story, a fragment of Laos’s layered past, and I lingered at its
gates, humbled by the weight of history.
The
scent of food was everywhere—grilled meats, steaming bowls of noodle soup, and
the earthy aroma of sticky rice. Yet it was the humble baguette that drew me
in, a legacy of French colonial days that has become a staple of Lao cuisine. I
bit into its crisp crust and soft centre, marvelling at how something so simple
could feel like a feast. Travel often teaches that joy lies not in grand
gestures but in small, unexpected pleasures.
As
the day stretched on, I realised that my errands had become an excuse to
wander, to let the city reveal itself in fragments. Vientiane is the capital,
but it does not bear the weight of power. Its streets are lined with modest
shops, its pace dictated more by bicycles and tuk-tuks than by the urgency of
politics. Even the rain seemed to conspire to keep things gentle, softening the
city's edges and blurring its lines.
By
evening, I returned to my guesthouse with a new lens cap, a bicycle mirror, and
a heart full of impressions. The drizzle had not let up, but I no longer
minded. Vientiane had offered me something more valuable than errands
completed: a reminder that wandering without a destination is its own kind of
pilgrimage. In the slow rhythm of its streets, I found a lesson in patience, in
savouring the ordinary, in letting the journey unfold without haste. In the
process, I met the very talented artist, Tim Williams, from the UK, but living
in Thailand.
Chapter 2: Heading South in The Season of
Floods
Into
the Floods
The
road surprised me. Where once there had been rough gravel and potholes, now a
ribbon of fresh pavement stretched ahead, gleaming in the morning light. It
felt like a small victory, a cyclist’s dream. But as I approached the park, the
triumph dissolved into shock. Much of the area lay underwater, swallowed by the
swollen Mekong. Concrete statues of gods and demons rose eerily from the flood,
their faces half-submerged, as if the river had claimed them back into its
mythic embrace. It was a reminder that in Laos, nature always has the final
word.
I
pressed on, searching for Route 13—the artery that runs south through the
country toward Cambodia. Asking for directions proved futile. The locals smiled
politely, nodding in ways that suggested agreement but offered no clarity. It
was not dishonesty, but a cultural kindness: better to nod than to disappoint.
And so I relied on instinct, following the road as the signs of flooding grew
more severe. Soldiers lined the banks, stacking sandbags in a battle they
seemed destined to lose. The water crept closer, indifferent to human effort.
When
I finally reached Route 13, relief washed over me—only to be replaced by
frustration. The road was narrow, crowded with buses, trucks, and cars, each
vying for space. Potholes yawned like traps, deep enough to swallow a wheel
whole. It was a rider’s nightmare, a gauntlet of hazards that demanded every
ounce of concentration. The beauty of the landscape blurred into the
background; my eyes were fixed on the asphalt, scanning for danger.
For
a brief stretch, salvation arrived in the form of a “two-wheel tractor,” a
slow-moving machine that carved a path through the chaos. I tucked in behind
it, riding its slipstream, grateful for the buffer it provided against the
onslaught of traffic. But the reprieve was short-lived. Soon I was alone again,
navigating the madness, my nerves frayed by the constant roar of engines and
the jolt of every pothole.
By
mid-afternoon, and after a mere 80 kilometres, the sight of the Dokphet Hotel
felt like a mirage. It was only 3:30 p.m., and I had covered barely eighty kilometres,
but I did not hesitate. I needed to rest my mind, a place to breathe. The hotel
was a sanctuary: spacious rooms nestled in a lush garden, a restaurant nearby,
and a price so modest it felt like a gift. For the first time that day, I
exhaled fully, letting the tension drain from my body.
That
night, as I wrote my journal in the quiet garden, I reflected on the paradox of
the road. Travel is not always about beauty or discovery. Sometimes it is about
endurance, about surviving the chaos long enough to find peace at the end of
the day. The floods, the potholes, the relentless traffic—all of it was part of
the journey, as essential as the temples and the smiles of children. To cycle
through Laos was to accept both the serenity of its landscapes and the fury of
its roads. And in that acceptance, I found a strange kind of joy.
Paksan to Vieng Kham, 90 km
I woke to a lovely overcast morning,
the kind that invites adventure. Setting out, I was greeted by a good road,
albeit with some narrow stretches that tested my balance. Still, cycling was a
breeze, and I found myself captivated by the incredible scenery. It amazed me
how resourcefully the locals had adapted to the flooding—every household had a
boat, and even the tiniest kids were skilled rowers!
I’ve always enjoyed zipping through
villages, often pursued by young ones on bicycles. These days, though, what
used to be a bicycle race is now a chase on electric scooters. Times are
changing, and I find it both amusing and heartwarming.
I rolled into Vieng Kham around midday
and, despite it being early, I decided to spend the night. The room here was
even cheaper—80,000 LAK—but definitely lacked the charm of the previous night’s
stay.
Sleepless
Nights, Spectacular Rides
(Vieng
Kham to Thakhek – 104 km)
The
night in Vieng Kham was restless from the start. Just as I had surrendered to
sleep, a knock rattled the door. My heart leapt as though I had been jolted
awake mid-ride, adrenaline surging through my veins. It was nothing more than a
case of mistaken identity, but the damage was done. Sleep fled, leaving me
wide-eyed in the dark. I turned to the glow of my phone, scrolling through
videos until the hours dissolved into dawn. By the time the rain began its
morning percussion on the roof, I was exhausted. I forced myself onto the road.
The air was thick with humidity while small hills rose ahead, demanding energy
I did not have. My stomach growled, reminding me that I had skipped breakfast.
Fifty
kilometres in, I stumbled into a roadside eatery, where an omelette on rice
became salvation. The simple meal energised me, a reminder that sometimes
survival is measured in eggs and grains.
Dark
clouds gathered as I ate, threatening another deluge, and soon the road
narrowed into a stretch of construction. Gravel and dust clung to my tyres, but
mercifully, the disruption lasted only a few kilometres. When the clouds
drifted away, the landscape revealed its grandeur. To my left, the Annamite
Range unfurled like a living wall, its peaks rising in jagged defiance against
the sky. Mist curled around the slopes, softening their edges, while the river
shimmered at their base. The sight was so arresting that fatigue dissolved into
awe. Every turn of the road offered a new perspective, a fresh revelation of
beauty.
By
late afternoon, I rolled into Thakhek, a riverside town perched on the Mekong.
The day’s hardships—the sleepless night, the hunger, the sweat—fell away as I
checked into the Mekong Hotel. My room was modest, but the view was
extraordinary. From the outdoor restaurant, I watched the river surge past, its
surface alive with currents, while across the water the lights of Thailand
flickered like stars. Dinner was simple, but in that moment it felt like a
feast, a celebration of endurance and arrival.
Muddy
Roads and Instant Noodles
Thakhek to Roadside Guesthouse – 75 km
The rain returned with vengeance as I
left Thakhek, turning the riverside road into a quagmire. Mud clung to my tyres,
each rotation a battle against suction. Progress slowed to a crawl—five kilometres
in half an hour—and frustration gnawed at me. By the time I reached
seventy-five kilometres, I was caked in mud, my body weary. A roadside
guesthouse appeared like a lifeline. The proprietress charged me more than
seemed fair, but I didn’t argue. At ten dollars, even an overpriced room was
salvation. With no food vendors nearby, I turned to my emergency stash of
instant noodles, slurping them in gratitude before collapsing into bed. Travel
teaches humility: sometimes survival is measured in noodles and shelter.
Chapter 3 - Savannakhet and Vat Phou
Chapter Seven: Savannakhet
Supplies
Roadside Guesthouse to Savannakhet –
45 km
The next morning, the road improved,
and so did my spirit. Savannakhet welcomed me with its wide boulevards and
colonial echoes. I wandered its streets with purpose, stocking up for the long
stretch south toward Cambodia. Bamboo shoots, mushrooms, lotus seeds—markets
brimmed with the bounty of the rainy season.
Markets of Plenty
Leaving Savannakhet, I cycled under an
overcast sky that mirrored the lush scenery. Roadside stalls overflowed with
mushrooms and lotus seeds, women led buffalo to pasture, and villagers fished
in flooded paddies. Each scene was a reminder of resilience, of life lived in
rhythm with the rains. That evening, a humble guesthouse became my refuge. The
manager, seeing my hunger, hopped on his motorbike to fetch me a meal. It was
modest—rice piled high, a few vegetables—but it was delivered with kindness. In
Laos, generosity often takes the simplest form.
Pakse and the Xe Don River
The road south carried me to Pakse,
where the Xe Don River meets the Mekong. Guesthouses lined the banks, and I
chose one perched above the water. The carnival lights of riverside stalls
flickered in the dusk, their aromas mingling with the scent of rain. My room
was less than pristine, but I laughed as I scrubbed it clean, armed with
bathroom cleaner and insect repellent. Travel is not about perfection—it is
about embracing imperfection with humour. Pakse became a place of rest, of
sorting through photos and nursing the beginnings of a cold, while the river
flowed endlessly past.
From Pakse, I rode to Champassak,
where the ruins of Vat Phou awaited. The UNESCO site rose from the landscape
like a memory of empires past, its stone stairways leading to a summit with
sweeping views of rice fields below. The grandeur of Khmer engineering humbled
me, a reminder of civilisations that once flourished here. Nearby, at Prasat
Hong Nang Sida, a seven-year-old girl appeared, her laughter and gestures
transforming her into my impromptu guide. She led me through the ruins, handed
me a lotus leaf to shield against the sun, and held my hand with a sweetness
that lingered long after. In her innocence, I found the purest form of
hospitality, a gift more precious than any monument.
The Mekong widened into a labyrinth of
islets, the famed Si Phan Don—Four Thousand Islands. Crossing
by boat was daunting, but watching motorbikes loaded with ease reassured me. On Don Khong
Island, I lingered, savouring the slow rhythm of river life. Boys
leapt from bridges into the current, laughter echoing across the water. Storms
rolled in, thunder cracking overhead, forcing me to shelter in abandoned
buildings. Yet even in the chaos, the islands offered peace. I spent an extra
day here, updating my journal, spending the last of my Lao kip, and letting the
river’s rhythm seep into my bones.
The
border loomed, notorious for corruption, but fortune favoured me. The Lao
officers asked for a two-dollar “stamp fee,” which I refused, and they let it
pass. Cambodia welcomed me with smoother bureaucracy: a visa stamped for $35.
The road south was rough, the gravel thickly laid, but motorbikes had carved a
narrow track that guided me forward. “This too shall pass,” I repeated, a
mantra against frustration. Along the way, I met a Japanese cyclist whose
journey mirrored mine and glimpsed villagers celebrating Pchum Ben, the
Festival of the Ancestors. Two-wheel tractors carried families to ceremonies,
their laughter a reminder of continuity, of traditions that bind generations.
By the time I reached Stung Treng, rooms were scarce, the town alive with festival
crowds. I settled for a modest hotel, whose cleanliness was questionable, but
its air-conditioning was a blessing. The journey had carried me across borders,
through floods and kindness, into Cambodia’s embrace.
Epilogue:
Lessons from Laos
Laos
revealed itself in contrasts: flooded roads and serene temples, scams at
borders and gifts of kindness in villages, exhaustion and awe. To cycle through
its landscapes was to live in tension—between hardship and joy, chaos and
beauty. Yet it was the people who defined the journey. Children waving from
stilted homes, guesthouse owners welcoming me with smiles, strangers fetching
meals when none were available. Their generosity carried me forward, reminding
me that resilience is not only about enduring storms but also about embracing
kindness when it appears.
As
I crossed into Cambodia, I carried Laos with me—not just its rivers and
mountains, but its spirit of hospitality, its lessons in patience, its reminder
that joy often arrives in the simplest forms. Travel is never just about
distance covered. It is about transformation; about the way landscapes and
people reshape us. In Laos, I found not only roads and rivers but also
resilience, kindness, and the quiet beauty of connection. And that, more than
any kilometre, is the true measure of the journey.
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