Off-piste in Laos

A Weekend in the Green

By the time I'd arrived in South East Asia, Laos had established a strange space in my mind as a location I was most looking forward to but knew the least about.

I'd heard terms like 'lack of infrastructure', 'plenty of off-road trails', and 'particularly large bugs' thrown around before and while they sounded like the ingredients of a sufficient adventure other details remained mostly a mystery.

Arriving from Cambodia the most obvious change was how lush everything was. With the border crossing so close to the massive Mekong Delta river system the world was painted green again, and the scorched shrubbery that had defined so much of the previous month was transformed by torrents of water and some of the largest waterfalls in South East Asia.

After a couple of weeks though i was aware of how little I'd really strayed off the beaten track, and the big green splodges on my map remained largely unexplored.

The route north revealed I was close to Dong Phou Vieng national park, and while Komoot's suggestion of a rideable trail through the area seemed generous, it seemed like a good opportunity to see another side to the country

Armed with a loaf of bread, eight packets of super noodles and a seldom used water filter I was quickly absorbed by greenery. After around 20km the forest trail led to a collection of huts, mostly on stilts, that occupied the space in a large clearing.

My interactions with locals in South East Asia at this stage had been limited to yelling 'Sabadiii' (hello) as I cycled past, usually trying to politely decline offers of fruit and water while attempting to stay upright riding through a gauntlet of high-fiving children. However these interactions were different.

While I was met with nothing that resembled hostility, it was hard to ignore the combination of confusion and surprise that (understandably) defined so many of my interactions in the more remote areas of Laos.

With midday temperatures reaching up to 38 degrees in the shade, Laotian life under the afternoon sun is usually spent horizontal, and the space beneath elevated village structures provides a perfect shaded area for hammocks.

Riding past one particular group i stopped and waved, offering the most enthusiastic Sabadii I could muster. Eyeballs drifted towards me, eyebrows were raised, and in typical hospitality found from strangers the world over I was offered some water and a place to rest.

Over the following few hours the trees became denser, the humidity increased and the horizon melted away behind walls of green. My plus-sized 2.6 inch tyres had a rare opportunity to justify their existence as the dusty gravel gave way to loose boulders and greasy rock surfaces.

Working slowly uphill, the atmosphere had become heavy and the proximity had a stifling effect, yet it was the noise of the place that was most striking. Insect choruses, specifically cicadas, rang like chainsaw motors through the trees, stopping and starting in sync to the rhythm of their mating displays (so i'm told).

After a few hours of climbing flat ground was still at a premium, and as the shadow world of the forest floor started to grow darker I pitched my tent directly on the trail.

By 4:00pm the following day the horizon had reappeared and huts began to emerge in the distance. My approach to the village was met with a familiar combination of 'Sabadi's' and bewilderment, and as I slowly arrived at a river over a hundred metres wide I found it's crossing had been made possible by a bridge constructed entirely out of freestanding bamboo. Children played noisily in the water and men waved from their hammocks, cigarettes lolling from their mouths.