No Wet, No Fun

The bus trip to Lao didn't seem to leave a lasting impression, probably through my gradual tolerance to horrendous travelling. The reason it went approximately twelve hours over the quoted eighteen was because of the copious pick ups of cargo; from people to pigeons. In the first five hours we stopped at least three times for half an hour to forty minutes. The driver seemed to owe a lot of favours to a lot of people. Once all the aisle space was jam packed full of chocolate bars and sweets up to chest height and our bags were squashed next to boxes and boxes of vanilla ice-cream, the roof started to get filled. It wasn't merely a few crates of beer, food or animals which shocked me most. After they had loaded what seemed like tonnes of crates onto the roof, five guys struggled to bring out a dining table. We all jovially joked about the fact that they were probably going to lob that on next. I have never laughed and then feared for my life in such quick succession. I came to the and realisation that my life is quite obviously worth nothing compared to a teak dining table. What followed in the next twenty minutes must have inspired countless 'how many Vietnamese does it take to chuck a table onto a rickety bus' jokes. First attempt was a good old throw. Five guys gave it a good old heave ho, but realised they could barely pick it up and it ended up hitting the roadside gutter. I suppose it serves the customer right for choosing free postage and packing. Next, they fashioned a pulley system using some precariously weak twine. One guy up in a nearby tree, three men pushing and one guy slipping all over the Neapolitan on the roof. They managed to just lug it up onto the top. I'm not sure whether they hadn't done it before or seen a roof of a bus, but as soon as it lay flat on the rooftop all men on the ground clapped their hands and decided that the job was a goodun. God knows what the poor chap on top was doing, but from my crude chocolate box fort inside the bus I saw this finely crafted table crash straight on the floor. The footman turned round to the massive bang, all incredibly shocked. Unbelievable. If at first you don't succeed and completely ruin a table, try, try again! This continued for an hour or so and eventually they managed to shove it on. I am not sure how the new owners will feel, maybe they can blag it as an antique. They should have gone to MFI. Driving in a bus with that much luggage on top, over Laotian roads was a recipe for disaster. Roads in Lao are the worst in South East Asia. Basically, there aren't roads. We must have looked like an oversized reliant robin.

We arrived in Luang Prabang just after the midnight curfew, so had to find someone to serve us anything. Time was short, so after a whistle stop tour we got in a minibus to Vang Vieng for tubing. It is an utterly reckless, if fantastic place. Simply put, the idea is to sit in a tube and get roped in by bar staff to a series of bars down a river so full of disease it's laughable. Added to this there are rope swings, zip lines and dive points so if you don't injure yourself on the rocky banks you can be sure to get concussion from the algae covered boulders on the river bed. We started off slowly, and managed to attract a sixty plus year old Australian who seemed to think we were in similar leagues. I tried to shun her by recommending the Aussie bar in town, but she complained that the crowd was 'too old'. I nodded vigorously and tried my most ironic stare. We ended up making our way through all of the bars, swimming some parts. We lost our tubes on countless occasions and had to grab others. Our golden rule was to not go on the rope swings. The horror stories everyone speaks about are terrible, considering you are in a small town in the mountains with a makeshift hospital which can barely prescribe Calpol. By the time it had got dark and we had lost our deposits, it was time for the rope swings. Toby and I befriended some kids who were working at the place. I say befriended, I think we were just shoving any money we had in their hands just so they would show us the place to jump in to not die. The gym buff Tobes had obviously not been following Men's Health, as time after time he stepped up like Tarzan, couldn't hold his body weight and belly/face flopped a metre away from the swing. Determined, he tried again and again but unfortunately he just doesn't have my hulk hogan arms. He just managed to fill his stomach with river water and dislodge his contact lens.

After a day of recovery and yet another cramped minibus with an American with a new video camera we arrived in Chiang Mai, northern Thailand. We explored the old town and tried found a self proclaimed tour guide who showed us some muy Thai boxing rings. Ge next day decided to for a trek. We had somehow managed to miss malaria up to that point, so that had to be rectified. We started the day with some bamboo rafting, an hour south of the city. Toby and I were split up with two elderly dutch couples. These rickety rafts were made from bamboo shoots bound together with bits of old tyre. We were assured it was shallow, slow moving water with a professional at the helm. Unfortunately, mine had less nautical nous than the captain of the Costa Concordia. As we got on and she paddled, we gained speed and started to narrowly miss rocks. The raft was falling apart, but being polite, (they got up at the crack of dawn to make them) I hoped it would make it. We got to a particularly fast white water bit, and our captain at the front steered us firstly into bushes, then full speed into the side of a large rock. She was instantly catapulted off with her bloody steering stick and into the (now learned) deep water. I was next in line on the boat, and sitting down. This was my moment to shine. The fast flowing water was rapidly capsizing the boat and ripping it apart. It was now when I realised the older man couldn't swim and he was holding onto the bamboo for dear life. Luckily, being young and nimble I jumped on a nearby tree root safe and sound. I would have helped, but I didn't particularly want to ruin my perfectly coiffed hair. I managed to smile and shrug reassuringly. By this time el capitain had surfaced crying out "no wet, no fun" like it was a company tag line. I guessed this happened often. By this time my legs and hands were swarming in ants so I jumped back aboard and managed to flip the raft the right way, getting drenched in the process. It rapidly dawned upon me that bringing a camera wasn't such a bright idea, as I mulled over Bamboo Tours' thirty pence insurance policy. 'No wet no fun' became a sort of mantra as we flew down this river hell for leather, with absolutely no one in control. Inevitably, we crashed again. I had lost all hope and any conviction I previously had. I was screaming "no wet no fun" hysterically by now. Especially at the poor chap who couldn't swim. I think he was having one of the worst days of his life. For some reason I thought shoving this newly found philosophy down his throat might just make him start believing it, and just drown like a martyr.

We did some elephant riding also, and managed to pick a naughty nelly. The beaten track would have been fine for us, but ours decided to stampede through every bush and undergrowth possible. We left with hay fever and bruises.

The next day it was time to head back to the capital. I really don't want to harp on about this, but I think I should on account of life insurance and inevitable death. We boarded the last bus back to Bangkok and as usual were given seats behind those people who before even blinking on a bus instantly recline their seats fully. They had managed to get some rest, much to my annoyance. After tossing and turning we did too, only to wake up to a "WOW, OH WOW" from our favourite late night Pavarotti. The packed bus really appreciated it, and I once again was trying to calm Tman down whilst simultaneously having a cardiac arrest. The recliners thought it was a terrorist attack by a man with a megaphone. Hilarity ensued (for me anyway). I need the laughter to counter the years chopped off the health of my heart.

We have spent the last couple of days relaxing in Bangkok and stocking up for Australia. Tobes has meticulously planned out how he is spending his last £12.47 to the last Baht. We spend hours walking round looking at menus, mouths watering for Toby to announce that "nope! It's not in the budget!". We hit a new low during a financial crisis in 7-eleven. Tman realised he needed to buy toilet roll (I couldn't convince him that they definitely had them in Australia). All hell broke loose when Toby Vitold Osbourne realised he hadn't put it in the budget! He slammed down his oversized rucksack and delved into the pandoras bag full of stuff, rooting through the thirty four inhalers and eight litres of contact lens solution he found his calculator, a pen and pencil. Licking the nib, he started to crunch some numbers. Unfortunately, he was going to have to starve himself. Ironically, he probably then wouldn't need the loo roll, but he wasn't so sure. After ten minutes of the poor Thai till lady wondering whether an accountant from head office was checking over the monthly earnings and me pacing round wanting to jump out of the window, pleading with him to let me use my 32p to treat him, he found a tax break/money laundering loophole which allowed a clean set of buttocks. Hooray! As if the previous ten minutes weren't excruciating enough, Tbird reconfirmed the price of the roll with the check out lady (who was now haggard with stress, trying to give us the paper for free) and proceeded to open his sellotaped up neck money pouch. I was reaching for anything I could use to end it all as each baht was counted out, up to and including sixteen. Oh the perils of being an economics student!

We now leave, very much ready for Australia with a new two pound 'unique' haircut fostering a general lack of confidence. We've lost all travel documents, my clothes are all newly bought and skin tight and we carry an overwhelming financial anxiety. Join the queue ladies.