New Year’s Eve Laos Style
Vang Vien, Laos.
December 30th-January 2nd, 2007
By Dan Murdoch

“Just sit in this, spark that, and float down there.”
Some overheard tubing advice.

I DON’T know if the sport of tubing would be allowed in England.
Mixing one of the world’s great rivers with a bunch of piss-heads screams health and safety. And we don’t really have the climate.
But I can’t really think of a better way to spend New Year.
First though, January 30th: another drive of epic beauty from Luang Prabang to the little river town of Vang Vien. We’d been told it was a haven for Westerners and we had hoped to spend Christmas there. We’re running well behind schedule on our 78th revised Trabant Trek plan, but at least we made it to a party town for the New Year- I may have snapped spending another holiday on the roadside.
The drive through the mountains continued where the rest of northern Laos had left off- awe inspiring scenery dotted with wattle and daub villages and bathed in sunshine. Every corner we turned there was another spectacular view, with plenty of ‘wow’ and ‘look at that’ between the Spaniard and I.
Fez did his best to ruin things, struggling up the hills and eventually breaking down about five kilometres out of town. Carlos and I were so desperate to reach Vang Vien we pushed the car up a hill, hoping to freewheel the rest of the way. It didn’t work, but we got a tow from some laughing Japanese tourists and, in typical Trek style, announced ourselves at our new home by taking apart and rebuilding one of the cars on the main drag.

Fez had chewed up another cylinder, but the warmth in the air, the elation at reaching the town, and the constant attention of tourists added to a party atmosphere around our impromptu workshop.
We heard there was a party at a beach a few kilometres away so headed down. It was more of a campfire affair, a mix of nationalities sitting round and sharing a gourd of moonshine, but it was cool to chat with other Westerners, relax and loosen my tongue ahead of the big day, which Carlos had insisted we would spend tubing.

The essence of tubing is this: you pay an entrepreneurial local to lend you a giant, over-inflated lorry tyre. Then they drive you five kilometres upstream and lob you into South East Asia’s biggest river, the Mekong. You spend the day lapping up rays and drifting through the idyllic riverside, flanked by jungle and overlooked by palm-peaked mountains.
All very tranquil and relaxing.
However, the serenity has been compromised by the building of dozens of bamboo bars along the route. These roar out ear-splitting tunes, which are mostly shite, and provide regular pit stops for refreshments, which are mostly cheap.

As you float along, a boy with a long stick will catch hold of your tube and pull you onto his bar’s bamboo decking, which is built over the river and on the banks. It’s obligatory to down at least a shot of Laos Laos, the local moonshine, before heading to the well-stocked bar for Beer Laos and the lethal Buckets- a combination of vast quantities of rum mixed with the deadly Asian Red Bull and a dash of coke. Depending on the bartender, some of these are knee wobblingly strong, and according to popular myth the Red Bull contains amphetamine. The whole concoction is served with ice and straws in a children’s beach bucket. What a drink.
To add to the pandemonium caused by large doses of sun and booze, many of the bars have built giant rope swings, zip lines and tall jumping platforms. These ensure an acrobatic spectacle is provided for drinkers by pissed up Westerners throwing themselves into the water from great heights. What more could you ask for?

In England, where you’re not allowed to operate a pond without a qualified lifeguard, I'm sure this whole event would be banned. But here in Laos, which according to one guide book has less than 100 written laws, plying tourists with dangerous levels of homemade alcohol and launching them down a major river is a minor industry.
It’s awesome fun, a giant adult water park in the most beautiful of settings, literally hundreds of people laughing, dancing, splashing and playing like kids. And it being New Year’s Eve, all the revelry was attacked to the power of ten.
My favourite bar had multiple decks, an enormous rope swing, two stratospheric diving platforms and a couple of volleyball courts, where I picked up a few minor sprains and some serious grazes (not that I noticed at the time).
Of course I spent far too long at the bars socialising, and not enough time actually floating downstream. So a long way from home night fell, the blazing sun gave way to a brisk chill, and I was lying in a three foot rubber hoop with my arse in the Mekong.
Luckily this is a pretty typical fate and taxis patrol the road near the riverfront to pick up hypothermic tubers and drop them back into town (for a small fee, like I said, this is an industry).

I didn’t get back to the hotel till gone ten, happily drunk, and found the others sleeping off their excesses.
I woke them, showered, and headed down to a large island in the river that hosts most of the late night parties. There we did all the things you’d expect on New Year’s Eve.

But the partying took a terrible toll. This is the longest hangover of my life, I haven’t drunk alcohol since, and don’t feel at all inclined to.
Maybe it’s time for a New Year’s resolution?

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Ends
mrdanmurdoch@gmail.com
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