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We arranged for a songthaew in the morning to continue our highspeed train journey south to Vientiane. True to form we were dropped well short of the train station but this time we were prepared and Vang Vieng’s parking lot is quite a bit smaller. It was obvious that news of our contraband scissor infraction had not followed us here and hopefully has not been entered in our permanent record.

We’ve found that the trick to traveling in Laos is to avoid anything that has to directly interact with what they refer to as “roads.” It’s not necessarily the distances but it’s the wretched condition of them, the mountainous terrain and lack of safety barriers that lead to so many traumatized travelers. We were closer to our ultimate goal in Luang Prabang and Vang Vieng, but the famous mountainous circuitous nine hour bus trip has left backpackers with stronger constitutions than ours weak-kneed and shattered. So our overall plan has featured two days of floating down the Mekong River, two one-hour high-speed train runs to finally reach Vientiane and the only flight to XiengKhuang Province, which is where you find (fanfare please) the Plain of Jars. We have a date for a forty minute flight tomorrow and a quick overnight sleep to catch our breath tonight.

We hardly knew how to act when our taxi dropped us right at the front door of the airport terminal. This is a sizable airport and we were in the air right on time after a long hike to the plane which was parked far out on the runway.

On arrival we had to check in with Immigration, a first for us on a domestic flight.

There was a bit of a wait in the terminal for a tractor to pull the luggage cart into a kind of garage where everyone was milling about on a raised platform. We were encouraged to reach in and pull our duffel out of the pile. Think of it as an old school luggage carousel.

We clambered into a minivan and followed a meandering route through a sad and dirty little town where, after turning into what can only be described as an alley, we quickly intersected with another alley and our driver stopped abruptly, pointed at a sign far enough away that I couldn’t read it, and said, “There’s your hotel.”

Marce gave me the you-must-be-joking look, and asked why the driver wasn’t taking us all the way to our lodging. He made some gestures that we interpreted to mean it would be a burden for him to have to turn around again to go back. It wasn’t a one-way street. There was no traffic. We didn’t understand and I wasn’t picking up that friendly Laotian vibe.

One hot 100-meter dusty schlep later we were checked in, shown to our cabin, and handed the key on a bullet fob.

We went for a reconnoiter of the rugged one-street town. We’d had a strong recommendation for a bakery/sandwich shop that was close to us. Always on the lookout for decent cheap food, it was the first place we checked out. Here you are confronted with a large pile of white bread buns with four pots of unidentifiable plop as filling. No English, not a chance.

Then we dodged a stampede of water buffalo down Main Street.

We stopped in for a sobering afternoon with the wonderful MAG people (Mines Advisory Group) an international aid organization dedicated to clearing places of land mines, cluster bombs and unexploded ordnance (UXO.) They are a huge presence in this region of Laos.

Laos was the most heavily bombed country per capita in the history of the world. During the American War (what we Americans call the Vietnam War) more than two million tons of cluster bombs were dropped on Laos — a neutral country — an estimated 30% of which failed to explode, leaving huge swathes of land uninhabitable, unusable for agricultural use or infrastructure development, and more important, dangerous to the inhabitants, particularly children. Five decades later people continue to be killed or maimed by UXO.

We learned that between 1964 and 1973 on average every 8 minutes a B52 crossed Laos, dropping ordnance to the tune of 270,000,000 bombs, some of which were cluster bombs filled with thousands of bomblets the size of a tennis ball, painted a cheerful yellow. Many failed to explode but they’re still ready and waiting for a small child to find.

This map shows the areas bombed and the density of the bombing. The southern region was targeted to disrupt the Ho Chi Minh Trail, the supply route for the North Vietnamese.

The northern region was bombed because it was the training grounds for Lao Communists. It’s an area referred to as the Plain of Jars, and it’s where we are now.

The legacy of the American bombing is ubiquitous in Laos, and particularly in the Plain of Jars region. It can lead to this conflicting image, American bombs and an American soft drink.

Every night our open air hotel lobby is warmed by a wood fire burning in a cluster bomb casing. But tonight it’s early to bed for the Escapees because tomorrow morning we adventure seekers are off to see the other side of the Plain of Jars.

The tuktuk pulled up a good half kilometer shy of the Chinese built highspeed train station. The driver hopped out, pulled our loyal rolling duffel out and deposited it on the side of the four-lane concrete road, smiled and with a flourish said, “Train.” We got out in the searing Laotian sun and realized that to go any farther he would have to cough up another 10,000 KIP (.50 US) at the guard desk. We turned back to protest but by that time he was already in second gear. Resigned to our sweaty hike, the guards smiled as we slowly trudged by. They’ve seen it before.

The station facade had an austere Chinese take on Laotian architecture. The expansive parking lot was nearly empty.

Barely through the front door we found ourselves queuing up in a pre-security passport check, the kind where they really stare at your picture then your face and then back and forth for some time. This is interesting because the train doesn’t cross a border. After that we were scanned and frisked.

Soon we were off to the X-ray machines where they found a small pair of blunt nosed scissors buried deep in our duffel. Truth be told we were warned they are wizards at finding sharp objects, confiscating them is job #1, and you can kiss them good bye if you bring them. For that reason, we had left every pointy item back in the van in Ireland, and figured these small blunt scissor would make it through. If not they were designated sacrificial. And they were sacrificed.

The security people proceeded to regard everything we had with suspicion but other than having to repack all of our belongings and losing those contraband scissors our record is unblemished on the Chinese highspeed train system. All this for an hour-long ride.

I’m not sure why we were advised to show up three hours before departure but from this moment on time stood still.

It seems the train operators don’t consider the traveler to need constant entertainment or retail sales temptations and experiences as do airports. This huge hall is nothing but business.

Suddenly we sensed a slight commotion, like when hundreds of birds in a tree go silent at the same time and suddenly all of those birds take to wing at the same time in a great whoosh. We found ourselves caught up in an avalanche of pushers and shovers and the lines broke down into more of a scrum gathered around the ticket takers.

Any discipline was enforced by the purple shirts with bullhorns and attitude. Of course we had no idea what they were saying or what they even wanted, but it soon became obvious to us that they would rather everyone line up like adults according to our assigned car number and stop creating impromptu lines. At least we found out what the purple shirts are for.

A young woman in a purple shirt with a bullhorn directly in front of us seemed quite angry. I just hoped she wasn’t yelling at us, but then again how would we know? I couldn’t look at her. Her barking instructions kept everyone in line until the train entered the station and came to a stop. As soon as the doors opened all hell broke loose and we were caught in the crush of fellow passengers with luggage clambering to get settled before the train took off again.

I honestly think they took pity on us as foreigners and soon we found our seat and we settled down for a nice scenic high speed ride.

The shiny pants train imperceptibly pulled out and we were plunged into darkness where we stayed for quite a while then suddenly we were blinded by bright sunlight for three seconds and then plunged back into darkness for a good while. This is the pattern of high speed train travel in this mountainous part of the country as we zoomed in and out of near continuous tunnels. The digital speed readout at the front of the car confidently read 145KPH (90+MPH) but the carriage barely jiggled for over an hour until we glided to a stop outside of Vangvieng.

Leaving the platform we were herded in a reprise of the earlier scrum just to prove to the purple shirts that we were in fact paying customers. Blinding bright sunlight greeted us while we instinctively searched for the taxi controller guy who always seems to have a clipboard. We were packed into a Hiace van jammed with young backpackers for the 30 minute drive into town, dropping off passengers along the way. Our first look at Vang Vieng revealed a rundown dusty town. Honestly, it could have been Tijuana but without the tacos.

Finally with no one left but us, we pulled up to our hotel. After four flights of stairs, schlepping the duffel all the way, we were shown our room with a balcony that had the most incredible mountain view that I could imagine. Score big for Marce, who worked hard to find the best room in town.

Directly in front of us were several dozen narrow long-tail boats moored side to side along the Nam Song River.

A few were sightseeing, running up or down the river and we could see the occasional motor glider lazily putting past our eagle’s nest.

The craggy mountain range filled me with wonder. I see us spending a lot of time absorbing all this incredible beauty.

Marce read about a Kiwi-centric restaurant located across the river not far from us, which is good because I was quite leery of eating at anything I’d seen so far. Sure enough, we found a rickety old bridge a mere two blocks from our hotel. Before stepping past some mementos courtesy of Tricky Dicky and his sidekick Henry the K, a man who deserves no peace, a woman told us, “Just stay straight in the middle, don’t stop, watch out for those damn scooters and pray.”

Turns out the bridge mainly consists of old rotten bits of left over wood and holes.

We didn’t fancy picking our way back across the bridge in the dark but Yours Truly sussed out a steel pedestrian bridge about three hundred meters further down stream. It even has lights and no scooters.

The following morning I broke out our Aeropress coffee works for the first time this trip and got busy. The day’s master plan featured a Jack brewed cuppa tableside out on the balcony and that’s just about the sum total of it. I opened the door to our balcony and almost dropped our carefully crafted coffee.

We knew there were hot air balloon excursions somewhere in the valley but this felt like our own private show.

Turns out Vang Vieng is an adrenaline tourist’s Mecca, from zipline or motor-gliding, to hot air balloons, caving and rock climbing, If you want to risk it, they’ve got it. The large number of bandaged young backpackers we saw around town attest to the willingness of youth.

Every morning after the sky show we make the rounds looking for an edible breakfast, but it’s always the mountains that drew us back.

One morning at our early show, we had a surprise guest drop in due a shift in the breeze.

Unfazed, they dropped lines from the balloon and with six men hanging on they dragged the rogue balloon back to the wharf where they could exchange new paying customers for those whose time was up. A tricky bit of ballon handling.

They turned up the wick and she popped up like, well like a balloon.

Our last night here we spent with slowboat friends Simon and Karen at a place they found tucked away a kilometer from our hotel. They were staying at a cabin on the island in the river so I showed them the steel pedestrian bridge that I discovered. It was dark and they were relieved to not have to negotiate the rickety monster at night.

In the morning we were continuing our journey on the early highspeed train to Vientiane in an effort to accomplish an adventure two years in the making.

We went back and forth about whether to go to Vang Vieng, supposedly the party and adrenaline destination for young travelers to Laos. We are not young, nor are we party animals, and I can’t remember the last time I welcomed an adrenaline rush. In the end we decided to go because of the promise of mountain vistas. And we do love mountains.

Last year we did some preliminary planning for Laos but the prospect of days on crowded buses over potholed roads put us off, especially given the remote destination we wanted to visit. This year a long-awaited high speed train began operation, making the journey between Luang Prabang and Vientiane in mere hours and without kidney damage, terrifying mountain passes, or extreme motion sickness. What’s more, the train makes a stop in Vang Vieng and that sealed our decision.

Getting tickets is a little tricky and can only be done within two days of your intended journey. There are several ways to book the train, two of them requiring you relinquish your passport while someone else goes to the station and secures the tickets as your agent. We weren’t comfortable with that, nor did we want to spend nearly the cost of the ticket taking a taxi to the station and back ourselves. We settled on what sounded like the easiest option: walk to the in-town official ticket office to buy the tickets.

By “in town” I mean somewhere within the wide city limits, and it turned out to be a long hot slog out of the lovely shady historic district to a small office open only a few hours a day.

It’s funny that you can’t book ahead, and we worried we won’t get a seat on the day we want to travel, but it all worked out except for some reason we didn’t receive our tickets right then. We have to come back the next afternoon to collect the physical tickets and I was instructed to take a photo of this post-it note, our receipt for the 364,000 Lao Kip we paid, about $17.50 US.

With two more days to enjoy Luang Prabang we were determined to spend a good bit of that time by the Mekong River because we don’t know when we’ll get to see it again. There are plenty of riverside establishments to enjoy the end of the day watching the river flow.

The night market here, or at least the part of it toward the historic district, was mainly geared toward tourists and same-same souvenirs.

Much more interesting was the morning market, more local and certainly more colorful. This is the kind of market I love and it’s a rare place we go that I don’t visit the local markets at least once.

We picked up our train tickets and took a last turn around town. It’s been a nice place to hang out for a week, and now we’re ready for something completely different.

I have to say that in retrospect better judgement could have been exercised in choosing transportation to Kong Si falls. The 600,000KIP number ($7.50 US each) was attractive for four people to travel over an hour on Lao’s horrible roads, but a Songthaew, which is always painted red, with a spare tire where your feet would rather be, open to dust and dirt, with a low menacing steel bar as you try to climb in, featuring rock hard bench seats running down both sides of the truck bed, combined with a buggy suspension whose unfortunate use of leaf springs borders on the criminal, may not have been the best option. At least we won’t be roaming around picking up and dropping off backpackers on the way.

In deference to you, dear Escapees I will not attempt to describe the terrible beating we four took, but suffice to say, we’re told the bruising will heal.

On arrival our man motioned that he would pick us up over there in a dusty lot where fellow chauffeurs were hanging their hammocks or already sleeping in their Tuk-Tuks and Songthaews.

The usual carney atmosphere of countless souvenir, Tee shirt, and Satay vendors fills the arrival area, which leads directly to the uniformed authorities at the ticket turnstile. Once through we were faced with a giant tree and a decision.

Turn left and trust that the trail is a loop, turn right for what has become the Escape Velocity paradigm of counter rotation. It seems to work for us. We entered a lush rainforest.

I’m impatient to get to the waterfall but first we will visit a large area devoted to an Asiatic Black Bear Rescue Center. At any given time the center houses 10-20 bears rescued from illegal wildlife trade, and specifically the abusive harvesting of bile, used in Chinese medicine. It’s fair to say they don’t look very happy but presumably life will improve for them.

A bit more hiking and we find ourselves at the first of many pools of milky turquoise water.

It’s a spooky color that seems to glow from within, but kind of magical just the same.

Of course I’ve got that “Is that all there is?” song on the great tape recorder in my head, but we don’t judge, and I can see more and more beautiful curvey pools with a healthy spillover effect.

Not what I’d call a waterfall exactly, but definitely unusual.

Working our way upstream the milky water spread out over more and more small curved pools and the beauty of the falls began to overwhelm us. The view changed with every step along the path.

We plunged into the rain forest for a while.

Regaining the muddy water’s edge we found ourselves in the powerful presence of a beautiful 50 meter tall waterfall.

Simon instinctively scampered up a very steep slippery path that leads up to the top of the falls but it’s been my experience that the view from the top of waterfalls is almost always disappointing. That would make it a rule #3 (is the juice worth the squeeze?) infraction. We found a seat at the bottom of the falls and absorbed the beauty while we attempted to scrape the mud off our shoes.

Heading back we found more spectacular views from the other side.

Simon even found time for a dip in the milky turquoise water.

We grabbed a snack and found our driver sound asleep.

I wish I could say that the way back was not as punishing but in fairness, it was every bit as bad. We repaired to our rooms and if there was ever a day for a long massage this was it.

Having reconnoitered old town Luang Prabang we at least had a clue where to accomplish our least favorite chore when entering a new country, namely buying new SIM cards and untangling all the package deals. To that end we were queuing up at a tiny kiosk, our third, when the couple ahead of us turned and said, “Well, that was easy.” I said, “Don’t I know you?”

Turns out we did. We’d had a nice conversation with Simon and Karen at the morning meet and greet in the hotel at the Thai border but we were relegated to different boats for the journey to Luang Prabang. We instantly recognized each other as fellow travelers and we picked up right where we left off. It’s like that sometimes. Serendipity, that is.

Soon we made plans to climb the 100 meter Mount Phousi, 355 steps guaranteed, with a 24m gilded stupa called That Chroms at the top. Nirvana for a sunset junkie and I like to think we qualify.

We met right across from the Royal Palace in the middle of town.

The stairs started straight up and disappeared from sight under the trees.

At first newbies were stopping precariously, to pose for “before” snaps on the concrete stairs.

It became a slow and steady with occasional gasping rests kind of thing.

It just might be that we’re in better shape than we thought because sooner than we imagined possible we caught sight of the golden stupa.

I didn’t count the steps, after all they were guaranteed.

It was beginning to get crowded up here on Mount Phousi but the sun still had a good way to travel before anything colorful might happen.

We found a good seat and started our sunset vigil, something quite familiar to all sunset junkies.

This is the time the smart chronicler jumps in and says, “sometimes the magic works and sometimes it doesn’t.” I think mystical, quite mystical covers it.

Simon, like all good pathfinders, found an entertaining alternate route down the backside of the mountain.

Feet soundly planted on terra firma our thoughts turned to nourishment.

How about dinner at a place that features a tasting menu of typical Laotian food?

This is the kind of impromptu social interaction that we’ve been missing since losing our cruising community.

With one last look at That Chroms lit up on top of Mount Phousi at night, we laid plans to explore Kuang Si waterfall and called it a night.

Caves and waterfalls are popular excursions in Luang Prabang but we’re more interested in getting a sense of the town itself. The old section is a UNESCO World Heritage site because of the fusion of traditional Laotian urban architecture and colonial styles from the 19th and 20th centuries. UNESCO particularly likes well preserved areas, and this one certainly is.

The city lies on a peninsula formed by the Mekong and Nam Khan Rivers. It’s only about three blocks wide so most days we walked one way or another down to the water.

We didn’t remember before we got here that Laos is nominally one of the few remaining communist countries along with China, Vietnam, North Korea and Cuba, so the occasional old hammer and sickle flag surprised us.

Two days after we arrived I got up before dawn and went down to the street to watch the morning alms giving. This is a ritual in most Buddhist or Hindu countries, where the monks walk through the streets gathering offerings of food and other needs from the faithful. We observed the procession from our rooftop hotel in Bhaktapur, Nepal, last year. Now I have the opportunity to watch from across the street. There are strict rules for tourists: no flash photography, no impeding the monks’ progress, stay out of the way and quiet.

As the sun rose, the monks came in waves. All in all there may have been about a hundred, many of them young boys.

Here in Luang Prabang the alms-givers sit on low stools with pots of cooked sticky rice and drop balls of rice into the monks’ bowls or baskets. In other places we’ve seen small packages you can buy to give the monks that include toiletries or other non food items.

We learned that many young boys enter the monastery for the purpose of education, since schooling is not free in this part of the world, and many poor families can’t afford the school fees.

The alms-giving ritual here in Luang Prabang was silent, with only the padding of bare feet on the street and the swish of the robes as soundtrack. In Bhaktapur the monks were accompanied by drums and chanting. I’m glad I witnessed both.

The small girl holding up a bucket is begging from the monks. This area, the historic district, is a relatively wealthy area, so I’m not sure where the children who are begging come from. I did see many of the monks share their rice with the children.

We spent each day exploring the town, trying different cafés for meals and coffee breaks. Often we ran into fellow slowboat passengers and shared more time with familiar faces. We felt like we’d gained a whole community by taking the two-day boat journey.

Luang Prabang is known as much for its crafts as for its architecture. Jewelry, textiles, carvings, unique clothing. We enjoyed every little shop, but of course with limited luggage space and no home to put anything in anyway, we had to walk away from all the beautiful hand crafted things we saw. These soft sculptures particularly delighted us. We’ve never seen anything like them, and we watched the women in the back of the shop working on other similar creations.

The days were warm and the sun was harsh. We usually retreated to our air conditioned room for a few hours each afternoon before heading out again in a different direction.

We saw this Silkworm Poo Tea in a small shop on a back street. We passed. And spoiler alert: we bought a couple of those soft sculptures. We love them.

Back when I was looking for an affordable flight to Asia I tried for the first time the travel services offered by our credit card company. After searching via Google Flights, Skyscanner, Kayak, and all the other sites, Capital One Travel came up with the most economical and easiest journey via Hainan Airlines, a company I hadn’t heard of and that none of the other portals included in their search results. Not only was it considerably cheaper than the others, but it came with a guarantee to refund the difference if the cost went down after booking. Sure enough, a week later the price went down and I was credited $100.

Based on that good experience, and facing hotel rates in Luang Prabang higher than our budget normally allows, I applied the $100 credit to a six-day stay at a historic hotel in a deluxe room with a balcony overlooking the street where we could watch the sunrise procession of monks for the daily alms-giving.

When we arrived in Luang Prabang our slowboat company drove us to our hotel and it was as beautiful as we hoped, nestled on a shady street in the quiet historic district. We will be living within a UNESCO World Heritage site and we were thrilled.

Not so fast, said the travel gods. The hotel did not have our booking. I showed the manager my confirmation. He shook his head. “I never heard of that site,” he said, indicating Capital One Travel. He showed me the reservation list. No Schulz in evidence.

We were tired and hungry, sweaty from climbing up to the Buddha Cave. We wanted a shower, a nap, and dinner. We wanted to unpack.

The manager suggested I call Capital One. I didn’t have a local SIM card so he logged me onto the hotel wifi and I called via Skype. The woman who answered was sympathetic, said she’d call the hotel, then put me on hold. I waited. The hotel phone didn’t ring.

When Capital One Lady came back she assured me that the hotel had our booking; she had spoken to the manager Sara herself. “Go to the hotel,” she said. “They’re waiting for you.”

“I’m at the hotel right now,” I told her. “I’m sitting next to the manager and his name’s not Sara. What hotel are you talking to?”

“Can you let me talk to the manager?” she asked. I passed the phone over. I watched as he listened to Capital One Lady. Then he said, “Da.” There was a long pause.

“Da,” he said again. Another pause, then “Mister Da. That’s my name.”

With the introductions settled the two got down to business. I only heard our side of the conversation but it went something like this: Yes, that is the correct address. No, that’s not the phone number and hasn’t been for ten years.

The phone was passed back to me.

“Please hold.”

We spent the next hour and a half alternately waiting on hold and passing the phone back and forth. I kept asking Capital One Lady what hotel had our booking because at this point we’re happy to just go there and call it a day. She wouldn’t say. But Mr. Da told me “Sara” is not a Lao name so he can’t imagine that any hotel in Laos would have a manager by that name.

I practiced deep yoga breathing while I was on hold. Jack was slumped in a chair outside with our luggage. It was hot. Da got bottles of cold water for Jack and me and managed the noisy fan, turning it on when we were on hold, then off when Capital One Lady came back online. Otherwise you couldn’t hear anything.

While we waited on hold Da told me that anyway he didn’t have six nights of a deluxe room available because they were fully booked for the coming long weekend with a group of VIP envoys from many different countries attending a regional conference on economic development.

Eventually, Capital One Lady admitted defeat. “It’s our mistake,” she said, stating the obvious, and we all wished she’d come to that conclusion an hour ago. She never said what hotel we had been mistakenly booked into or what country it might have been in, but she offered either a complete refund or a handover to a supervisor who could “solve our problem.” Oh good grief. Just give me the money, I thought. I reminded her that I had used my $100 credit as partial payment and I wanted that back too. She agreed and she even added an additional credit which will come in handy in the future but doesn’t help us right now.

All parties handled the situation with grace and humor but we were left at square one with no room. It was now past 8:30. Da could give us three nights in the hoped for deluxe room with a balcony but then we’d have to move to a small room in a different building in the back for two more nights. Our planned sixth? Well, he’d help us find a room somewhere else. The town was booked to the gills.

Fine, we said. At this point we’d have accepted a futon in the alley. In sympathy he gave us a break on the deluxe room price.

By the time we got checked in it was late and we were weak with hunger. Da pointed us in a few directions for food but as we walked the neighboring streets we learned that the UNESCO part of town shuts down early and we had trouble finding anyone still serving at 9 pm. Eventually we came across a little bistro where we ordered small bites because our need for sleep was overpowering our hunger.

Back at the hotel all was forgiven as we settled in to our lovely spacious room and I set an alarm for 5:45am so I could watch the monks from the balcony in my pyjamas. This was the whole point of booking this particular room.

Not so fast.

I awoke before the alarm to find the travel gods were not finished toying with us. First of all, the view from our lovely balcony was obscured by shrubbery so that my planned morning sitting in my pj’s on the balcony with coffee watching the procession of monks was a bust.

Ok, no worries. I’ll just need to get dressed tomorrow morning and go out to the street to watch the alms-giving.

Before returning to bed I went to the bathroom and when I sat on the toilet the seat broke off and nearly launched me across the room.

Have I done something to deserve this karma? Or are we just on the Practical Joke Tour of Laos? I remind myself of our guiding mantra, “Every day is a journey” and expect the day will improve from here. But for now I’m going back to sleep.

It was one of those rude awakenings. You know the kind, with alarms buzzing and you’re sure that someone has made a terrible mistake. Let’s see, it’s still dark and foggy outside but somewhere in the back of my groggy mind a faint memory surfaces and I realize that we are really meant to be up now and showering.

I’d had the foresight to line up the hotel shuttle to schlep us up the incredibly steep path to breakfast on top of the mountain.

Having just finished repacking we heard the beep beep of the shuttle. I threw the duffel in the back and marveled again at the steepness of the path as we chugged up the mountain almost all the way to breakfast. We walked this way last night for dinner. That’s when I decided the shuttle would be better.

A couple of our slow boat shipmates were already eating and we started to see a few more stagger in. With military like precision the slowboat van showed up on time and breakfast was over.

Today will be our longest and reportedly the most interesting run on the Mekong, necessitating an early start. Crew used the 20 foot long bamboo poles to push us back off of shore.

We relaxed into the zenlike flow that only a river can provide.

Soon we were gliding through the exotic Laos scenery.

The fog burned off revealing craggy mountains and unusual rock formations that disturbed the swiftly flowing river current.

Our guide mentioned that if you see a person squatting beside the river, they aren’t fishing, they are panning for gold!

I started noticing many straw hatted people apparently doing just that. Huge construction projects at turns in the river are common and often created pinch points due to their encroachment out into the river.

Turns out they’re Chinese projects and they’re not making reclaimed spoil land but they’re using large machinery to sluice for gold. I suspect that Laotians don’t get much of that revenue.

For our part, we were thoroughly entertained just watching this gentle landscape slide past, but then again, we’ve spent weeks at sea watching the beautiful ocean waves roll by our Escape Velocity.

As we got to know our fellow passengers we realized not everyone finds boat travel as scintillating as we do. One pair, a mother and daughter on a year-long travel odyssey before a planned move to Ghana, brought art supplies and games along to while away the hours. They were often joined by a young English couple who work remotely, he as a writer of children’s books, and she as a remote teacher of English as a Foreign Language. Another couple lived in Berlin for many years and now in New Jersey, so we had lots in common with them. Our group was rounded out by a Norwegian-Thai family with two sweet little kids. Marce and I enjoyed talking to everyone but more than anything we were focused on the river and the journey.

I began to notice strange boxy, man made concrete structures mounted on top of rocks in the river.

They look like small stairs, maybe for times with high water.

Growing up in Pittsburgh with three rivers heavy with barge traffic, I like to think an old river rat like me could figure this out. Then it dawned on me. They are water depth gauges, and when you see all the rocky obstructions it’s no wonder. Water vortexes, overfalls, and standing waves are our constant companions on either side, as we motor past. During part of the year they can’t even run the boats due to the lack of water.

We stopped at another village necessitating another scramble up a steep slope but Marce and I were quite comfortable where we were, soaking up the river scene, thank you very much.

Back underway we came across a brand new high level bridge across the Mekong that abruptly ends against the face of a mountain. There is no tunnel yet. It’s part of a controversial hydroelectric plant under construction that will dam the Mekong about 25 kilometers upstream from our final destination, Luang Prabang. The project is a joint effort between Lao PDR, Vietnam, and Thailand. Our guide suggested that most of the power will go to Thailand.

For now it’s possible to navigate around the enormous structure but no one seems to know what will become of the river when the dam is complete. We’re glad we’re doing this trip now. Who knows if it’ll be possible in the future.

It was about this time that the first of several dead pigs floated past the boat. As any of you old time Escapees know, when a dead pig floats past the boat, it’s a sure sign that it’s time to leave.

Well actually the bloated pig was stuck circling in a whirl pool, but to us the meaning can not be denied. It’s odd because pigs are supposedly strong swimmers but with current this strong apparently they get caught out.

With images of whirled pig before our eyes we nosed into a pier with dozens of other slow boats to climb up to the Pak Ou “Buddha”caves.

For 20,000 KIP extra ($1) we even climbed all the way up to the cave at the top of the mountain and to be honest, after lazing around the slowboat for two days this had us seriously sucking air.

So it was back to the bamboo poles and a prodigious amount of reverse to get the slowboat to back up against the Mekong’s stiff current. Another hour and we were jostling for space at a small pier which led to the most outrageously steep and high set of concrete stairs.

We couldn’t believe they actually intended for us to schlep ourselves and our luggage up this monster. Turns out no, just our own cabooses. This is one of the many advantages of paying extra for the VIP slowboat; the boat crew hauled our luggage up the steps.

Feeling a little faint at the top, we were hustled into a van, bounced our way into town and disgorged at our beautiful hotel in old town Luang Prabang.

Wayside Guesthouse is our home away from home, although technically we really don’t have a home anywhere else. But after a month doing medical maintenance we have a choice: pay $55 each to extend our visas for another month or go on a visa run to another country. Our trip here to Southeast Asia is itself a visa run from our six-month limit in the UK, so we’ve decided on a visa run from our visa run. Destination: neighboring Laos.

It’ll be the Green Bus to the border for us. Our host Jackie, known to us as Mom, suggested she’d better call her friend to take us to the bus station rather than relying on a tuk-tuk at rush hour. Mom knows best. We made it with a comfortable margin and schlepping our faithful rolling duffel, found bus bay number 20 to Chiang Khong.

Thailand’s roads are legendary so we have girded our loins in preparation for a rough day. Loins are one thing but there’s something seriously wrong with my seatback which insists on pushing my torso into a forward facing vice.

It’s raining before we even get out of town but our bus attendant lady has already passed out a box full of tiny complimentary water bottles and I’m sure she’s accumulated a body full of bruises fetching up against the bus’s seats. I’m spending most of my time searching for a lever or anything to at least get my seat back to vertical.

Parts of the road are fairly recently patched but what I find intolerable is Thailand’s penchant for adding speed bumps to the potholes for which they are already so richly endowed. We lurch from village to village, temple to temple, this Buddha to that Buddha, each covered with gold even though they’re surrounded by people living in little more than lean-tos, but then that’s Thailand. I reach down under my seat feeling for someway, really anyway to recline my seat back, without joy.

Now we are creeping up the beautiful mountains at a screaming snail’s pace only to hurtle down the other side. The Green Bus has a beeping speed warning to let the happy passengers know that the driver is now speeding.

In the meantime, great news: it’s time for the distribution of the complimentary snack which features the only word in English — banana — on the paper wrapper and may include some form of spongecake rolled into a tube. I missed out because I was looking under my seat for the elusive lever to recline my seat. Still no joy.

Now we’re grinding our way up more mountains. I have serious reservations about the health of this poor Green Bus. It’s still beep beeping down the other side though. People periodically begin to depart the bus while the driver opens the door to dart into various businesses dropping off parcels or picking up other parcels. Bear in mind this Green Bus is marked as an express.

In time we found ourselves alone in the Green Bus with just the driver and the bus lady for company. I’m looking at the empty seats to see what could possibly operate the goddamn seatback. We jostled through a dusty country village only to swing around in a lumbering 180 degree turn, abruptly stopping in a cloud of dust, and with that the driver turned and looked at us. My best guess is that we’re not going any further on the Green Bus.

The good news is that after seven plus hours of searching and being pummeled by the Green Bus, I finally found the tiny black plastic knob that marginally reclines the seatback.

We stood up stiffly, claimed the only bag remaining under the bus, and hired a tuk-tuk to take us the rest of the way to Day Waterfront Hotel.

After being sprayed with dust and dirt for a half an hour our driver ended this madness by braking to a merciful stop at the precipice of an ungodly steep hill.

With the muddy Mekong River spread out below us, he mumbled “It’s down there.” I assumed he meant our hotel, so I yanked our loyal rolling duffel out of the tuk-tuk and with baby steps we carefully negotiated the ski jump of a hill.

Finally in our room we divided our time between filling out visa forms and marveling at the sight of the mighty Mekong River valley.

It’s not home but it’ll have to do until morning.