An Ego Cleansing

The eight hour bus ride I felt was quite an amateur one after completing a 17 hour journey with leg room built for the 5"3 average Laotian height on a vehicle so packed that the aisles were lined with standing and sitting bodies. We had come to a close of the trip in the small town of Vieng Thong and our only focus was the attainment of food. The power of our minds to obtain said nourishment for the sake of the body however wasn't quite strong enough to make our brains spontaneously poor forth the Lao language from our lips. It's important though, we've learned, to use the phrase book and keep your head in the game or you could wind up eating a 16 day aborted duck fetus as we had in the Philippines ("By 22 days they have fingernails" {Cohen, Noah 2008} and on the 32nd day the parents fulfill the greatest deed possible according to the Old Testament). Our communication struggles culminated unsuccessfully with me attempting to order my dish by running in circles, flapping my arms, and cooing. However, my charades would not be in vain as the commotion managed to gain the attention of a couple of the town's rare, and possibly only, bi linguists, Po-xai and Noi. They invited us to dine at their friends house a few kilometers away with two late teenage girls and their parents, for laap, pho in a plastic bag, fish from the Mekong River, sticky rice, numerous shots of rice whiskey, and an ensuing water fight in our subsequent drunken stupor.

After finding out that the two of them worked for the National Protection Agency (NPA) for a nearby National park that had yet to open in the country's beauty queen province (Lonely Planet 2006), I asked them to give us a guided tour of this pristine slice of the Laos mountainous jungle. At first they were hesitant, and rightly so. At this point the park had no trails or markings. The only people it sees are a group of 70 or so local villagers that are paid 600,000 kip a month (about $70 US, that's right I'm a kip Millionaire), twice the average amount that can be made off the main employer's (the land) wage, to go through the forest for 21 days straight to track wildlife, enforce the protection of the land, and map the area. Additionally, Po and Noi are just beginning their careers in the tourism industry and had yet to guide anyone before. In the end they decided it was a good profitable way to spend their Sunday.

Over dinner Shula and I cripped and cropped at their requested fee. "Don't get me wrong" I said, "I love your company but does this trip really require both of you as guides plus the hiring of a local guide to bring around just two of us? We're good, fit hikers." He skeptically looked my scrawny body up and down but only said that the point of this excursion was not business, but pleasure, and that we should spend only an amount that felt comfortable and manageable to us. Papaya salad was consumed and an agreement was reached.

We rose early the following morning and rode the backs of two motorbikes piloted by Po and Noi an hours ride to the North where we would meet local guide # 7 (spending most of their time in the office and away from the forest had made it difficult for Po and Noi to keep their names straight). #7 met us at his small village of about ten bamboo houses and silk weaving shelters with a population of about 50 villagers, and led us through the valley of rice terraces into the thick jungle. Armed with a two foot blade, #7 would take the front most of the way, hacking the forest in order to blaze the trail for the four of us. The pace was quick, so I took up the rear taking comfort in the knowledge that while I was the most able bodied hiker of the group, it was important to take in the sights, sounds, and smells of the beautiful bamboo jungled landscape, rather than show off my ever capable feats of physical strength. I was more at one with nature then my companions who would rather compete and attempt to impress then to take the time to see the lush landscape and exotic birds that surrounded us.

Once we began our descent to the waterfall the terrain became steep. Each step required an extreme amount of physical and mental caution and concentration. First a secure grasp of a vine, tree, or bamboo needed to be sought and executed, then proper footing had to be established on the slippery substantially pitched slope, and finally the numerous large thorned bushes along the way had to be avoided. After 30 minutes of descent, with the sweat pouring into our eyes, we had reached the river, a good kilometer south of our intended waterfall destination, only to find that we were stuck. Flanked on both sides by cliffs and confronted by a river that was too deep and too sparsely decorated with sturdy stepping rocks, #7, Poi, and Noi, decided our best course of action would be to climb up an area they located where the cliffs weren't too high. Then we would hike along it until the river appeared more fordable. This is where I resolved to kick my hiking into high gear, to give this group a morale boost and a dose of physical prowess in which to aspire. As an American male with the individualist explorer spirit ingrained in my soul, like Lewis and Clarke before me I had to take the lead and show these "guides" and my girl friend what I was capable of.

Shula had just scrambled up the fairly vertical pitch quite masterfully with Noi close behind her to ensure her safety. I pushed Po and #7 aside and dug in, placing my feet on two small holds in the rock. I reached with my hands to grasp the various vines and roots and hoisted myself up. Everything was going well until I came to a section of the boulder that was totally smooth, I didn't see any solid hand holds. I scoured the area for several seconds when I spotted a rock that was destined to lead to my triumphant summiting. It was built for my hand, shaped to the contours of my carpals, intentionally placed by the universe itself to ensure my most victorious and impressive cliff scaling. Success lay a mere few feet above it. As I reached for it I heard Po yell from just below me.
"Grab the root to your right."
"This rock is fine!" I shouted back sharply. In my head, and inhenrent with the intonation of my reply and the accompanied facial expression, I added
"This is your first guiding experience and my millionth hike. I climbed the Half Dome of Yosemite before I had hair on my balls and have summited numerous presidential peaks of the White Mountains including an ascent up Huntington's Ravine. I was the starting short stop, pitcher, and the clean-up hitter for my little league baseball team. Hell I probably know Laos better than you. You've been living in Australia the last few years. Just like the rest of your people your short and you don't have a chest hair to speak of. Cliff Hanger was played by Sylvester Stalone, a North American Caucasian, not Jackie Chan. I sure as shit don't need your help, plus I..."
Suddenly my internal rant was rudely interrupted when the rock I had grabbed, and subsequently shifted my weight over, came loose from the soil that held it. I was now hanging on with only my left hand. Noi swung into action reaching his hand down from above while Po and #7 climbed up to me quickly, pushing with all their might at my butt and the bottoms of my feet. In a combined effort, all three guides together just managed to hoist me over the edge to safety. Now at the top, lying on my back, I looked up at the sky huffing and puffing while Shula stood over me with her arms crossed shaking her head and smiling. I cursed out the lord for the undoing he had caused me. He countered with a swarm of bees.

That night the four of us lost ourselves by way of bamboo straws jetting out of a giant jug of hard alcohol, rice, and water; a beverage that tasted similar to wine. After learning how to say I'm wasted in Lao and repeating it a few times, Po looked at me with a smile and when the room fell silent yelled "The Rock is fine!" There was nothing to do but laugh. We closed the evening with a bathe in the town's immensely hot spring, under a sky of shooting stars.

A Peoples' History of Vang Vieng (A work of Historical Fiction)

One day in the nineteen teens, James Thompson was cruising in his Model T scoping out a piece of land along the Colorado river looking for the perfect place to put up a new Dam for his energy company when suddenly he struck a pot hole. Just like modern SUVs the T had a flipping problem. This safety issue was compounded by the fact that seat belts were never widely used by the Ford Company until years later when Robert McNamara's brilliant mind came to work for them, the same mind that was encapsulated by the human body that was the Secretary of State that planned and carried out the secret war the US lead agaist Laos making it the most heavily bombed country in the world. When he struck the pot hole poor James found himself soaring through the air and landed in the Colorado river. Fortunately for James, who never learned to swim, in a moment of extreme improbability, one of the rubber tires landed with its hole surrounding his head, and the rubber encompassing his body, looking like the perfect lifeguard life buouy toss. In-turn Jimmy grabbed hold for dear life. Now, not only was James life spared, but he found he was having quite the chill, pleasurable, and relaxed time being taken down the gently rapid river under the warm sun.

Mr. Thompson would soon share this discovery of the tube float that he really rather enjoyed with his colleagues and loved ones and pretty soon little pockets of tubers were showing up along the Colorado river in the various tamer sections. Tubers started coming out in ever increading numbers along the river. The newly discovered activity found its way over to the Mississippi, the Rio, the Amazon, the Niger, the Congo, the Nile, and pretty soon the Mekong, the Nam Song, and now the Nam Song river at its crossraods with the town of VangVieng.

Aside from the waxing and waning of the Nam Song's water level as the seasons change every six months from wet and damn hot to dry and scorching, all was basic, standard, and calm in this town for many years. Then in 1989 the Laos border opened itself up to toursits. Lying just a four hour bus ride to the North of the capital of Vientiene, and dug in amonst a series of mountains, cliffs, and caves that submerge in a beautiful eerie mist during the earlier part of the year, and the Nam Ou river, made Vang Vieng an accessible and attractive destination. It didn't take long before the first few caucasian tourists stumbled upon it. When they came to the river to cool off from the ridiculous climate god has chosen for this area of the world, the local Laos tubers offered the visitors the oppurtunity to share in this great experience and lent their tubes out. As the 80s became the 90s a Laos enterpanuer saw his chance to make some serious kip and opened up a tube rental business which started to turn quite the profit. The market realized this causing numerous tube-rental companies to follow suit. The river banks began to fill with barbecues and picnics and with it came leisurely drinking. As the mid 90s approached an executive from Beer Laos, the nation's largest export, visited the town and was horrified to see that while people were drinking, none of them were really drunk, and that needed fixing. Beer Laos soon launched a relentless marketting campaign to ensure that every tuber would not be able to complete a float down this river without totally forgetting the practice of swimming. Coolers transformed into bamboo bars.

By the turn of the Millenium Vang Vieng had overgone a complete makeover. The Laos tourism department soon figured out that if caucasians are to make it over this way, there will need to be countless intrnet cafes, guest houses, and resteraunts and bars that serve wood fired pizza, sticky rice, and beef laap, and play episodes of friends and Family Guy on repeat interspersed with occasional movies all with plots like "The day After Tomorrow." Beer Laos would no longer suffice, there would have to be Captain Morgan available both on and off the river, and music, lots of music that Americans love. They figured out from the Thais that what all of us backpacker types love is that one song "Country Roads" and anything and everything with a heavy bass. What was once a quiet little villiage was now a battle for the airwaves between Eminem and P-Ditty.

By 2002 travllers had spread the word of spontaneous frat-like parties in Vang Vieng on the sides of the Nam Song river with huge swings to launch off of into the refrehing water that only, very occasionally, lead to serious injury. The bamboo bars added to their list of amenities volleyball courts, pool tables, ping pong, french or freedom fries, and a badmitton court in case a local actually showed up. There was only one thing missing that the "farmers" picked up on very quickly as soon as they got their eyes of the number of dreadlocked travellers that came crawling through town. To keep everything legal the goods were dealt to the resteraunts who now began expanding their menu to the special grilled cheese, the special toast, and the special Chocolate Chip cookie. Or if one is feeling a bit more hard core, and wants the already spectacular mountains, river, and cute Laos children everywhere to be graced by angels, fairies, and lucy in the sky with diamonds, there are the happy shakes, happy pizzas, and happy teas. In this way now instead of just tubing down a river, as Mr. James Thompson once did nearly a century ago, which sounds cool but has more potential, now you can tube down this stretch of river with a beer in one hand, a whisky in the other, stoned from breakfast, hallucinating from lunch, and hung over from dinner, while listening to Britney Spears say "Hit me Baby one more time" but not before she is rudely interrupted by eminem's My Fault with the lyrics sreaming "I never meant to give you mushrooms girl, I never meant to bring you to my world."

A Losing Resolution

When I was a little camper Lost and Found day was always a day where I found myself in the spotlight. I rather liked the attention of being called up to the front of the dining hall with the entire camp population as my audience as well as getting numerous towels, pairs of socks, hats, and various items of sports equipment, returned to me. It felt like winning the lottery. I figured that with age I would improve at my ability to keep track of my possessions by learning from my careless habits. However, instead something interesting happened: I have molded my ideology and maintained my habits. Since there are fewer greater feelings in life than the one derived from recovering a lost item, everything need not be kept on such a tight leash. Sure one might argue that before an item can be found, it must first be lost which causes a certain amount of pain and discomfort that is most unpleasant. But life is not meant to be lived on an even keel. What is success without failure? What is ecstasy without despair? What is pleasure without pain? And what's winning without losing?

It's certainly true that when an item is lost it's not always found, but that's okay every now and then, it's healthy to experience a certain amount of loss. Without it there is no attempt at betterment and therefore no forward progress; the meaning of life is lost without struggle, as humans can't evolve without striving for improvement. Of course there is something to be said for balance, nobody is envious of the life of Job, and to consciously seek pain, loss, and discomfort is destructive behavior. Recently though, I have found that my karma has slipped a few notches and my lost items are not being found at the rate they once were; at least not by me. Therefore in order to reserve my experience of discomfort on this Asian excursion for squat toilets, limited plumbing, sparse electricity, lumbar pain, stomach upset, and frequent marathon bus rides, I made a pre-trip resolution to keep track of all my possessions. As it turns out though I realize I have a terrible record with these promises to myself: I still don't floss, rarely exercise, don't meditate, don't eat enough fruit, haven't cut meat or dairy from my diet, take too many prescription drugs, haven't picked up an instrument, and haven't read the collective works of Nietzsche. Following this tradition of resolution failure so far on this trip I've lost 1 pair of sunglasses, 1 hot chilly's ski shirt, 1 North Face winter cap, 2 baseball caps one from the Nantucket brewery and one army hat purchased in El Nido. Philippines, 1 bottle of anti-dandruff shampoo, 2 contractor trash bags as rain protection for our packs, 1 bathing suit, 1 bottle of body soap, 1 airplane blanket, 1 journal of traveller's email addresses, musings, and ramblings, and destroyed or broke 1 digital camera, 2 ipods, my right sandal, 1 cellular telephone, one headlamp, and the most recent and horrific loss of all came just the other day, my travel pillow. This turquoise cushion was my pride and joy. It was extra padding to place between my bony knees every night, to sleep against bus windows, to add meat to my fat less butt on bus and airline seats, and to support my back in moments of pain. The loss of this cherished item along with the realization that it would remain an MIA mystery prompted a re-dedication to my resolution and I vowed that this latest loss, with god as my witness, would be my last.

Everything from that point on was going well. I had made it through an entire week in the region of Bicol of the province of Luzon in the Philippines, through our over night camp at San Miguel Island, the hours of bus riding through the winding mountain roads on Jeepneys, and in Noah's Bamboo hut house without losing a single item. Then came our last real full day. I don't know if it was the three or four whale sharks we saw and swam with while snorkeling in Donsol, the brutality of the cock fight we witnessed, the rain, or our participation in the favorite Filipino past-time of videoke (Karaoke but with backgrounds of girls in Bikinis on the screen), but as we were whisked towards our bus to Legazpi on a motorized tricycle Shula asked me to retrieve our newly purchased 1- time-use-camera that had photographed the second half of our stay in the Phils in the wake of our Digital Camera's funeral.

"Shit, it's not in my bag," I responded as I dug feverishly through it. A look of disappointment crept across her face. Then, at that moment, the mean part of myself, the part that makes me make ridiculous resolutions and then purposefully sees to it that I don't accomplish them, jumped at its chance and dug into me. "Are you kidding? Again? What the hell is wrong with you Nathan? You can't hold on to anything you incompetent fuck-up, get a life, you want to be a filmmaker? You can't even keep track of a 1-time-use-camera, yeah you're really the next Spielberg. God what's wrong with you? What are you going to lose next? A wallet? A passport? Maybe Shula should carry your entire backpack so that nothing else goes missing." Needless to say my mood had taken a sudden turn.

A few minutes later, once we got off our tricycle ride, Shula asked me if she could look at some advice from the bible. In my defeatist attitude I chucked my pack that housed the mammoth Lonely Planet Southeast Asia Guide Book to her feet. She shook her head at me and poked through the bag. After about three seconds of scrounging she surfaced casually with the guide in one hand and the "lost" one-time-use-camera in the other. My eyes lit up instantly and I fought the unfoundedly harsh side of my ego right back putting it in its place. "You genius Nathan, you absolute genius. You are truly a Chacham V Tzadich, of course you put it back in your bag, even with all the commotion, you made that resolution and you stuck to it, way to go. Our greatest thinkers have taught that the human race must learn from its mistakes, that history is the greatest guide, and that lessons are to be taken from the past and used for the present. You Nathan are the embodiment of human evolution in the making, you are so capable when you put your mind to it, you can do anything, you are the next Spielberg, maybe even the next Kubrick."
And with that incident I've proven my earlier hypothesis to be fact by way of the Scientific method: There are few greater feelings than the one derived from the recovery of a lost item. I'm happy to report that I found my lost red journal just the other day buried in my pack. My karma has been restored. I promise to lose more.