Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Vang Vieng: A World Closing In

The river swept my kayak gradually downstream, bumping its hull on the litter of rocks exposed in the dry season shallows. I was lost in a dreamy haze of solitude; serenaded by nature’s whirring ambience of crickets and trickling rapids, my quest for peaceful isolation seemed fulfilled. A glimpse of civilisation dragged my gaze from the enchanting karst terrain; two Laotian fishermen who peered from beneath their conical hats as I passed. Their curious stare lulled me into momentary obliviousness, and the sinister echo from Vang Vieng went unnoticed. 



But it wasn’t long before the thud of westernisation totally absorbed the tranquillity. Dance music dictated a storm of carousal, as the hordes of skimpily dressed tourists indulged in the cheap alcohol and backpacker comradery. I was swept with disheartenment. In the space of a few minutes, this famously mellow country had shown me its bipolarity, from an enviable natural rawness, to a nagging proximity to the cultural vacuum that is all too familiar to South East Asia.

But this lush, land-locked nation is an infant in the tourism market relative to its developed neighbours, having only recently embraced the industry to broaden its means of income beyond agriculture. Like its thriving communist counterpart to the north, Laos has seen monumental progress since embracing open-market principles and the subsequent surge in tourism. The phenomenon torments local traditions, yet it serves as a platform to cure the poverty that has plagued the Laotian populace since the disastrous collectivist era that followed the communist seizure of power in 1975.

Yet it was rather difficult to fathom the existence of a functioning tourism industry during my transfer from the capital Vientiane, which itself features an archaic ‘small-town’ vibe. Weaving among tractor-led tuk-tuks that overflowed with hitching locals, our minibus bounced on the fragmented bitumen, passing scores of shanties with the communist hammer and sickle dangling proudly from their rusted tin rooves. Evidence of wavering infrastructure was everywhere, and as dilapidated urbanity quickly turned to rural expanse, the prospect of a touristic boom seemed increasingly unfeasible.

The “two hour” trip was prolonged by unrelenting obstacles: dirt roads that narrowed at precipitous bends; single-land bridges that rocked in the breeze; and a laid-back driver that passively navigated ambling livestock, which was particularly impeding as the frequency of farming villages increased closer to Vang Vieng. Eventually, the hindrance of rural isolation vanished, replaced by the hindrance of civilisation, as groups of barefoot children scurried across the muddy surface, each wearing buoyant smiles. We had arrived in Vang Vieng.

My bungalow was nestled against the Nam Song River, boasting large windows that framed the limestone cliffs beyond. The reputation of the town’s visual allure was widespread, but as I soon discovered, a prominent spot on the backpackers’ circuit requires more than enticing landscapes. 
 
As I set out to explore the town centre, I was interrupted by a voice from a neighbouring balcony. 

“First time in Vang Vieng?” A man in his thirties sat blissfully slumped in his chair, eyes glazed in front of his open laptop.

“Yes it is, it seems beautiful” I replied, slowing down to engage in conversation.

“That’s why I’m here. Officially anyway…” he said with a smirk, raising his hand to reveal a bulging joint. “I’m here taking photos for a travel brochure. But I’m happy to just indulge in Laos’ finest. I’m Dennis anyway…”

I scarcely saw Dennis’ balcony vacant, he was constantly attached to his laptop as he overlooked the riverside panorama. He always seemed to be toying with the prospect of terminating his assignment to just be consumed by the nonchalant lifestyle for life. But that was Vang Vieng. The town of just twenty-five thousand people has been transformed into a backpacker refuge, streets lined with bars, pancake stalls, day-tour agencies, and restaurants with ‘happy’ menus and Family Guy marathons. Yet, it maintains an enviable complacency. Without the stretching resorts and bustling business districts, it preserves an aura of seclusion and exclusivity, despite the large presence of western partygoers. 



Vang Vieng is known for its “adventurous” activities, including caving, kayaking and tubing, and I was swiftly lured into participating by a persuasive tour guide named Kham wandering the main street. I was herded into a decrepit truck that carried twelve kayaks on its roof-rack, and after driving just five minutes from the town-centre, the rural expanse reasserted itself. Manoeuvring livestock and potholes, Kham drove me to a small rice-farming village called Ban Tham Sang, before a woven bamboo bridge led me on foot across the river and into the modest commune. A civic game of bocce continued undeterred as I passed through the decrepit village, stepping between poultry and litters of piglets as the curious eyes of children peered from lattice windows.



Proceeding across sticky rice paddies, I followed the winding trail to a lagoon-like pool at the foot of a looming precipice. Pointing to an opening that hung ajar to the crawling stream, Kham proclaimed, “Tham Nam cave, we go”. As I climbed into a tube, a group of local boys sat on nearby rocks, snickering as I jolted to the unpredictably cold tributary that oozed from the cave mouth towards the Nam Song. 



The confines of the cave were illuminated by our head-torches, though navigation was difficult as they flickered closer to an untimely death. With no others to share the cave with, despite being peak season, we were able to paddle at a comfortable pace, focusing on dodging the hazardous stalagmites that got lost in the dark without a steady light. Such preoccupation meant that the journey was a scant one-kilometre, and before long, we were walking back through the village on our way to embark our kayaks.

“Do the locals mind us coming through here?” I guiltily asked Kham.

“It’s not a problem”, he responded with a smile, “they don’t even know we are here”.

Whilst this was perhaps an exaggeration, it was clear that the residents had become accustomed to the tourist trail interjecting their lives. But there is a cardinal condition for this tolerance.

“Only if everyone shows respect”, Kham continued, “Lao people are proud of our culture”.

And such values are overtly encouraged throughout the town. Signs that outline the expected behaviour for tourists envelop the walls of hotspots throughout the main streets. From appropriate, conservative attire and the discouragement of begging, to the prohibition of shouting, public affection and photos without consent, the explicit guidelines aim to reduce the drunken revelling in the streets that is synonymous with cultural erosion, preserving the values and dignity of the Lao people and facilitating a harmonious co-existence with tourists. Of course, being notoriously known as the party town of Laos, Vang Vieng certainly hosts its share of drunken revelling. And so as my kayak came upon the roistering riverside bars that thorn Vang Vieng’s cultural integrity, I decided it necessary to get a taste for the infamous tubing to avoid criticising something I hadn’t done. 



The next day, as the sun reached its highest perch above a cloak of cloud, I hired a tube and headed for the ‘starting point’ several kilometres upstream. I guiltily immersed myself in the growing crowd, chatting to a Canadian backpacker who was working for one of the bars. He introduced me to his local counterparts, some describing in broken English the enjoyment they get from a days work. By the time the fiery red sunset had saturated the landscape, I found myself floating away from the concentration of bars with a beaming grin, surprised at how easily my traveller’s conscience had relented to the lure of western fun. 



I still had an underlying fear that this majestic location would further kneel to the fruits beared by deep-pocketed foreigners, abandoning what raw culture remained. But as it stands now, Vang Vieng offers a complimenting bipolarity, with a face that accommodates rustic lifestyle and uncultivated landscapes, and another westernised face that helps to temper local poverty. While there is a fine line being walked, the solution to preserving this land of virgin jungles and laidback smiles is not to stem the influx of tourists, but rather to ensure that foreign visitors arrive without imperial tendencies, and demonstrate the respect for the Lao people that they deserve.

 
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