You wake up, you are confused. You make yourself aware of your surroundings. This is not where you normally sleep. In sudden pain you bring a hand to your head, your hair is wet...hmmm. You are shirtless but otherwise clothed, which is probably a good sign. Who has done this to you? That devil alcohol, acting out of character? Mr. Happy Shake, that charming and mysterious gentleman? Your old friend spacecakes, forming some kind of unholy coalition with one of the aforementioned offenders?
There is writing in multiple different colours and handwriting all over you. Many statements, none of which providing the answer to the overbearing and incessant question: What the actual fuck?! You are in Vangvieng, and you have been tubing.
There are many places in this world that proudly carry the badge of a 'city of sin'; Vegas, Bangkok, Littlehampton - but never in my life have I encountered such a literal interpretation of this phrase than in Vangvieng, Laos. First and foremost it's not a city, more a small village, but it earns the gold because small village though it might be, it is pretty much entirely dedicated to making a right old mess of yourself. Here is a town with a high street composed of 90% bars, all of which sell buckets of spirits mixed with something for under Three Great British Pound Streling. Oh yes. In Vangvieng the nighttime is almost sole priority and the day dedicated simply to recovery, with episodes of Family Guy and Friends shown in restaurants where large pillows replace chairs. I should have known there'd be trouble when I was more humiliated than I've ever been in my life before we even got off the bus.
There is writing in multiple different colours and handwriting all over you. Many statements, none of which providing the answer to the overbearing and incessant question: What the actual fuck?! You are in Vangvieng, and you have been tubing.
There are many places in this world that proudly carry the badge of a 'city of sin'; Vegas, Bangkok, Littlehampton - but never in my life have I encountered such a literal interpretation of this phrase than in Vangvieng, Laos. First and foremost it's not a city, more a small village, but it earns the gold because small village though it might be, it is pretty much entirely dedicated to making a right old mess of yourself. Here is a town with a high street composed of 90% bars, all of which sell buckets of spirits mixed with something for under Three Great British Pound Streling. Oh yes. In Vangvieng the nighttime is almost sole priority and the day dedicated simply to recovery, with episodes of Family Guy and Friends shown in restaurants where large pillows replace chairs. I should have known there'd be trouble when I was more humiliated than I've ever been in my life before we even got off the bus.
There is nothing quite so bad as being sick in public. Anyone who's ever been ill at secondary school will testify to this. But I feel the spectacle I made of myself whilst stricken with some terrible lurgy or other in a minibus takes every kind of biscuit, sweet or savoury. Charlie later described it as 'Exorcist style' and he was not wrong, I liken it to those vomiting old ladies in Little Britain. Even still, I feel if this was filmed as a scene for television it would be shot down as unrealistically ferocious. And the fact that I was sitting at the front next to the driver would be considered way too farfetched. Ohhh such sickness, you've never seen it's like, I was reverted instantly to a small frightened child by the sheer velocity of my own body's attack on my self esteem. A bus full of people recoiled in horror at the sight, with the exception of a kindly elderly German couple who came to my aid. I was so desperate and infantile at this point I fully accepted these people as my new parents, to the point where the gentleman had to remind me that he was not my father. In a way it was for the best, with a culture like Vangviengs it's better to start off at rock bottom.
Anyways, back to tubing. The concept is simple, you sit on a river with a fairly strong current in a giant rubber ring and float down it serenely. At least it would be serene if not for all the bars, who lure you in by throwing you a rope; dragging you into a world where the only sensible way to drink is from a bucket. Bushwackers in Swindon aren't allowed to sell 99p drinks anymore and yet I can buy a bucket of cheap whiskey to fell a horse for around £2.50 - there is no justice in this world. I would like to tell you about the day we went tubing but honestly it's pretty damn blurred. Here's what I can tell you:
1.) Charlie no longer has any shoes.
2.) I can't be trusted with permanent marker. (The words 'THE FILM JAWS AROUSES ME SEXUALLY' on Charlie's chest are in my handwriting).
3.) Someone, somewhere in Vangvieng wants to, and may already have, beat up Charlie.
4.) I am, apparently, a surprisingly strong swimmer and audacious diving board artiste.
5.) We're never coming back here again.
The next morning was surreal as morning afters get. We didn't know who anyone was or whether we'd ever seen them before but it's a small town and chances are there was someone we'd made a dick of ourselves in front of on the street. We just couldn't be sure. It's a strange feeling, unfounded shame - a potent embarrassment based more on the certainty that you must have done something wrong than any actual memory of wrongdoing. Were Charlie's shoes robbed from him? Did I ask for that giant banana in sunglasses on my back? Why was Charlie covered in sand? Have I joined the long line of proud Fyans males to vomit in running freshwater?
We cannot answer these questions so we did what we always do after a particularly strange evening. Get on a bus and don't get off for at least 20 hours.
Peace
Joe
Anyways, back to tubing. The concept is simple, you sit on a river with a fairly strong current in a giant rubber ring and float down it serenely. At least it would be serene if not for all the bars, who lure you in by throwing you a rope; dragging you into a world where the only sensible way to drink is from a bucket. Bushwackers in Swindon aren't allowed to sell 99p drinks anymore and yet I can buy a bucket of cheap whiskey to fell a horse for around £2.50 - there is no justice in this world. I would like to tell you about the day we went tubing but honestly it's pretty damn blurred. Here's what I can tell you:
1.) Charlie no longer has any shoes.
2.) I can't be trusted with permanent marker. (The words 'THE FILM JAWS AROUSES ME SEXUALLY' on Charlie's chest are in my handwriting).
3.) Someone, somewhere in Vangvieng wants to, and may already have, beat up Charlie.
4.) I am, apparently, a surprisingly strong swimmer and audacious diving board artiste.
5.) We're never coming back here again.
The next morning was surreal as morning afters get. We didn't know who anyone was or whether we'd ever seen them before but it's a small town and chances are there was someone we'd made a dick of ourselves in front of on the street. We just couldn't be sure. It's a strange feeling, unfounded shame - a potent embarrassment based more on the certainty that you must have done something wrong than any actual memory of wrongdoing. Were Charlie's shoes robbed from him? Did I ask for that giant banana in sunglasses on my back? Why was Charlie covered in sand? Have I joined the long line of proud Fyans males to vomit in running freshwater?
We cannot answer these questions so we did what we always do after a particularly strange evening. Get on a bus and don't get off for at least 20 hours.
Peace
Joe
No comments:
Post a Comment