On a bicycle trip through the mountainous terrain of southern Laos, a traveler navigates undeveloped jungle roads in search of water and a place to sleep, but must first negotiate his way past a gun-wielding militia.
He handled the gun with jerky motions, the barrel’s end swinging at me from side to side–and the bike between us. Surely not…I held my breath and reached back into my pocket.
It was just my luck that after a week of riding across the country, the first people I’d see on the road (if you could call it that) were grassroots LPAF (the Lao People’s Armed Forces).
I was coming to the end of a full day’s climbing, about halfway into a 6-month tour, and in the middle of nowhere. Up until now, it was just me, four full panniers, and my dad’s second-hand Genesis Croix-de-fer for company. I was too cheap to buy a new bike. The valley walls were steep the entire way as I wrestled with the bike that afternoon to escape them. All around me, the green softened by the first signs of evening and the resulting breeze, while a relief, did little to detract from the fact that I was still lost, with nowhere to stay.
All told, this leg of the tour was proving challenging. I left Ban Tang-Alai-Xoukoutoua after an unsuccessful supply run. Despite the insistence of the shopkeep, it didn’t seem entirely appropriate to bungee a live chicken to my panniers to take with me. I was now counting–fool-hardedly–on an offline Komoot map to navigate the unmarked uphill gravel tracks to find somewhere safe to sleep.
One tin of spicy mackerel clunked about amongst the 50 kilos or so of cycling detritus rocking about between my legs, and I had enough water tablets to keep me going, I hoped, provided that I could find, well…water. It would be downhill once over the lip of the valley at least. Who knows, maybe the perfect spot would present itself in the near distance, preferably with a big neon sign decrying free local beer for the passing weary traveller. I strained out of the saddle. Wind raw and salt-licked. My hands, slipping on the drop handles, all but dragged the bike up behind me from below.
“Nearly…nearly…nearly…” *Whooooof* “Nearly…”
The trail was completely undeveloped. Fern and rattan framed a corridor, carpeted by light cinnamon-like soil and rock. The November sun–marking the start of the dry season–dappled its way through, forming hazy beams that hung in the air like something solid. Each time the branches snapped their fingers, the birds seemed to mock me.
Suddenly, picking my eyes up from the front wheel, I sensed a break in the surroundings. Could this be? The road was flattening out; the green tunnel had opened its arms. I had reached the lip and let the bike clatter and thud to its side. The jungle unfurled in a messy way for miles before me.
The light was fading. I was usually quite useless at remembering to take photographs, but this moment begged for it. I breathily propped the bike back up against me and got my phone out. It was then that I noticed I was no longer alone and turned to smile at the two men moving quietly towards me.
“Sabaidi”, I bowed and flicked a slight wave with a smile, “beautiful day.” The two men continued to approach me but said nothing. “I don’t suppose…” I continued and gestured a few movements to imply the taking of pictures. It was at this point that the two men became responsive.
“Yud! Yud!” the taller one barked, still approaching while his stout friend pulled a brick phone from his pocket and retreated swiftly back to the edge of the tunnel. I noticed, while stepping back and following this retreat with my eyes to a camouflage hut, that these men may not be altogether enthusiastic about photography. The hut would have ordinarily appeared to me a bird watcher’s den, well placed at the mouth of the valley, had it not been for the two Kalashnikov rifles leaning on its side. The rifles that the stout man now retrieved.
“Ah, oh…” I managed to stammer, putting the bike between the men and I with a perhaps ambitious optimism of its ability to do anything whatsoever in the way of defence. “I wasn’t going to take photos of you two! I meant, er, could you take one of me, but, of course, I mean absolutely no, er, no need at all. All good! Sorry for the mix-up”, I quickly slid the phone into my pocket as I tailed off…
The two-man militia, now both armed, considered me for a moment. Both were dressed in black tracksuits and tattered neck-scarves, possibly in their 40s or 50s, and a good week or so shy of a razor. The tall one was chewing betel and, at this point, spat red at his feet. He said something to his friend. Behind them, a green pick-up had chugged into view, pitching up at the space where a three-pronged track met. Three more men, similarly dressed but for full-face fabric masks, sat with red eyes, nursing guns of their own. The stout one approached me. I inhaled sharply. At least I wouldn’t have to find a camp spot.
The short man swung his rifle by the strap onto his back and proffered a hand. It took me a second to realise that he was asking for my phone. I pulled it out and handed it over. He stood back, gestured for me to move…another sharp inhale…His friend nonchalantly treaded footsteps beside him, the AK poised lazily under his shoulder at my belly.
Like a man feigning surprise at a fire in his match factory, I hadn’t really a leg to stand on. I’d been aware, if only peripherally, of the militia’s presence in this part of Laos, but had still chosen to venture into the valley because I’d heard it was beautiful. I took mental stock of the trees, the sun, and the last of the birds. Then I waited.
The tall one began speaking gruffly in quick mono-tone bursts, semi-automatic sentences, as he pointed at me and then at his friend. He seemed to be directing me towards the edge of the hill. I backed up.
After a moment, a very long moment, the short one took my photo. He then handed me the phone.
Had that really just happened? Were they letting me on my way? I quickly stashed the phone on the bike, spluttered a confused bundle of thanks and apologies before making short work of an escape…Clambering back onto my mobile home, I continued shakily along the road, passing the two men and the truck of honed eyes as I went.
It was about 4 km before I realised that I’d taken the wrong track. There was nothing for it but to roll back the same way–only this time it was past two trucks, the second having turned up in the interim. Three more sets of eyes glinted like the barrels their owners were straddling as I awkwardly pedalled through.
“Hey mi!” my photographer called with a tossed arm over his head, “hey mi.”
I reluctantly slowed to a standstill as he approached with a small carrier bag outstretched. Fried bananas. He hung them from my handlebars and showed me red teeth. With a gruff pat and a laugh, he sent me off.
“Phouphasuouk”, the taller one was saying. He gesticulated with some mid-air line drawings, then pointed at a spot on my Komoot. “Camp”. He made a tent shape with two lanky fingers pulling down at diagonals.
I thanked them, somewhat over-enthusiastically, and set off again to a chorus of goodbyes and curt waves from my new friends in the trucks. I reached Phouphasuouk at the very end of the day. The incoming night had robbed the setting of its details, but I found a clearing by the river where the sound of an upstream waterfall offered a sort of aural blanket to sleep under. Poles, tarp, tent. Mackerel on the flame. Sleeping bag unrolled.
I sat, the next morning, by the water’s edge with my fried bananas and considered the photo. The image showed a slightly sweaty young man, pale and gripping his bicycle with veiny hands while forcing a smile. It wasn’t entirely comparable to the sort of picture you’d get from a hostage taker looking for a ransom, but it wasn’t far off. Travelling, you make friends in the strangest of places, I mused. I made a mental note to stick to the main roads until the border.
