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Fred*, an Australian media celebrity, and his wife were in Thailand to Do Good. They’d raised a significant amount of money down under and were here to disperse it to the “poor people of Thailand”. A mutual acquaintance in Bangkok had hired me as their guide.

After Bangkok, the first stop was antique shopping in Chiang Mai, then to Chiang Rai to visit their target village. I got the gig as their guide because I knew my way around the area, and, well, I don’t think anyone else wanted to do it. Hell, I needed the money.

Mountain scenes, Chiang Rai Province. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We caught the day train up—air–con first class—because according to Fred, “local people don’t fly”. I’d never been in a first class car before—it was pleasant and all, but I missed feeling the wind in my face.

It was about an eleven hour trip, so Fred and I got talking. I knew nothing about him. I had never heard of his show in Australia and within 45 minutes of the train pulling out, I wish I’d never heard of him.

Religion was very important to Fred. The village we would be visiting in Chiang Rai were into his faith. With the funds he had raised he was paying for some school materials, a water pump and some medical care. I asked more about the medical care and he pulled out a bunch of photos of sick and injured kids.

Village kids (not from Fred’s village!), northern Thailand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“I’m going to save them,” he said.

I’m not a religious person, and the conversation got uncomfortable pretty fast. He’d never been to Thailand before, but he didn’t hold back from lecturing me on the shortfalls of Thai healthcare. Particularly when it came to people of his faith.

“The Thais don’t care about my people,” he said.

I pointed out that save Singapore, Thai healthcare wasn’t too bad. Even for locals not paying top dollar for international standard care—for the region, it was ok. He pooh poohed me away.

Village kids (not from Fred’s village!), northern Thailand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“They don’t care about these people, they’re not Buddhist,” he said.

I stared out the window. The train wasn’t going fast enough.

Days later we reached the village in question. By this stage Fred and I were talking as little as possible—we were not on the same page on much—not even in the same book. The previous days had been a litany of one upmanships. I’d suggest a restaurant, but no he wanted to go where his “local contact” suggested. So to Cabbages and Condoms we went. Whatever dude.

But he was paying and I was the guide. There’s only so long you try to drag a horse to water. One day you just decide to give up and die of thirst together.

Decent medical care can be a ways away. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The village, was home to a minority group, an hour or so from Chiang Rai in our shiny hired SUV. The mountain scenery was pretty. The village was poor—not grinding—but things could have been better.

The local mover and shaker had set everything up for a presentation. Fred on the stage, about fifty locals sitting before him. No translator. He talked in English about how popular he was in Australia, and about how many people listened to him. Mostly though, he talked about how much money he had raised. About how he was going to make a difference to their lives. About how he was going to make them better.

The crowd nodded and applauded on cue. Fred gave me his camera and I took photos of him, on the stage, with the village headman and a few of his entourage.

Just some pretty scenery on the way back to Chiang Mai. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

After the third round of applause, they wheeled out the kids he was saving. One kid I’ll never forget, he was only seven years old. His leg looked like it had gone through a meat grinder. I never got a clear answer on what had happened to him, but the damage was old and severe.

Wheeled out in a chair, Fred picked him up, cradled him in his arms and lifted him in front of the crowd. Fred was going to save the boy. It was but one in a sad and sorry procession of kids who, yes, deserved far better.

That night, sleeping on the floor of a wooden house, Fred and I got into an ugly argument. I acknowledged that maybe he was doing good, but there was a lot of self–promotion wrapped up in the escapade. The self promo I could deal with but my main issue was the religion, and that really, he seemed to have little idea about the country. Surely the money could be put to work far more effectively by professionals? The only thing he seemed to be an expert on, in my opinion, was himself. I said as much.

Honestly, I wish we’d left Fred in the tunnel. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“Stuart, you don’t believe in God, so you’ll never understand. I’m wasting my time talking to you. These people are of my faith,” he said, then, taking a breath, “You don’t bat for the other side. I am here to save them.”

A few months later I got in touch to find out what had happened to the child with the mangled leg.

“They cut it off,” he wrote back in a two line email. There was not the care required in or near the village to deal with it, so the family opted for amputation.

The kid had been the star of the show (aside from Fred of course). I suggested, if he wanted to change one life, he could have forgone his celebrity and sent more funds to the family.

No, he replied. He’d got so much material out of this trip he’d be able to raise even more money for his next trip—to Laos.

*Fred is a pseudonym.

If you’re looking for organisations doing good and thought–out programs in Thailand, here are a couple of suggestions to get you started:

Thai Freedom House

The SET Foundation

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

I first met Ariel* in Prachuap Khiri Khan, a low key beachfront town on Thailand’s south coast. Robbed recently, he had lost everything and was helping out in a grimy guesthouse for food and board.

Prachuap was an odd place to meet a twenty–something Israeli—but there was little normal about him. He’d been there for some time, waiting for his family to send him money (again). He’d hitched down from Hua Hin (where his last robbery occurred) and had walked door to door asking for work.

By the water, Prachuap Khiri Khan. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I write his “last” robbery because, from memory he’d been robbed at least a half dozen times. The stories all involved too much alcohol and bars—I thought perhaps he was losing his wallet rather than getting robbed. Oh no, he said. He’d often get beaten up in the process. Stabbed twice in Bangkok he said, as he lifted his shirt to show a ghastly groove across his stomach.

“That one hurt,” he said.

He was my age, mid twenties. He’d hated his military service and had no time whatsoever for his country and its policies. He’d never go back, but his family was there, and they kept sending him money, so he would go home between Thai visas.

A not even remotely healthy breakfast by the sea. Prachuap Khiri Khan. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It was difficult to imagine Ariel in a bar fight. He was perhaps five foot ten, of a medium build with a little bit extra to hold on to around the middle. Over the days we hung out together, we’d have a few beers by the sea and eat cheap seafood—with me paying. He was never anything but polite and interesting company—and boy he had some stories.

He walked with a limp—was that an injury from his service?, I asked. No. He’d been smoking weed in a Chiang Mai guesthouse when the police busted the place. Trying to escape he’d jumped out the window and broke him leg in two places. The police scooped him up off the driveway where he was laying in a pool of blood.

“That one hurt too.”

Prachuap has some good hiking. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On his back, near his left shoulder blade, he had two near spherical depressions in the skin. They were from his service, he said, shot twice in the back. I’d never seen a bullet wound in my life—after everything else, I believed him.

He never asked me for money. I was happy to pay for dinner and drinks on the sand—he never ate, nor drank much—and he was good company.

Another afternoon we climbed Khao Chong Krachok, a stubby viewpoint overlooking the bay. Overrun by feral macaques, he’d of course had run ins with those as well. One had bitten him on the ass in Lopburi, though he said he’d deserved it. Another time in Phetchaburi he’d been attacked by a bunch of them—he deserved it that time too, he said.

Today we have seafood. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On both times he’d needed rabies shots, but the Lopburi attack had coincided with another robbery, so he was broke. The doctor leant him the fee and his parents sent the money to the doctor.

And so it went on. Bit by a dog. Hit by a scooter. Crashed a motorbike. Had his scooter stolen. The stories were never ending. Some would say I’m somewhat accident prone, but this guy was in a class all of his own.

Three days in, money from his family arrived. He paid off some debts and took me out for a great lunch at Ao Manao, a beautiful bay to the south. There he told me about how his longtail to Ko Poda had sunk and he’d had to swim to shore. Again he lost everything.

Cooling off at Ao Manao. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

He left the next day, he was heading back to Bangkok, I was heading south.

At the time it was quite unusual to meet Israelis travelling alone. They tended towards groups. Everything about him was strange. In all my travelling, he was one of the only people I’ve met working for food and board out of desperation. And then there were the stories—he could tell a good one, that was for sure.

There was nothing “normal” about him.

A week later I was in Krabi and met a group of Israelis in a bar. We got talking and I started telling them about this strange Israeli I met up the coast. I’d been thinking about the stories all week—there was a story in this guy I remember thinking.

A conman’s speedboat perhaps? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It was a different story to the one I thought.

About five minutes in, one of the Israelis started laughing and slapped the table.

“Did he show you his stomach?,” he asked.

I’d not got to that bit and I stopped in my tracks—yes he did.

The guy stopped laughing and told me I should count my travellers cheques. This was back in the days when everyone used traveller cheques and you’d wear them strapped to your stomach.

Sure enough, I was down at least US$300.

Annoyed at being ripped off? Go eat. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The guy was a con–man and the Israelis had heard of him. The stomach scar was from some operation, the “bullet holes” cancer moles. One of the Israelis at the table had a scar from a real bullet wound and it was anything but neat and tidy. The rest of the stories—who knows—most likely lies. They hadn’t met him, but his name was rife in the Israeli traveller grapevine as someone to watch out for.

I have no idea how he got my traveller cheques. While I wouldn’t say his stories were worth $300—if he’d taken only one cheque, it would have almost been a fair exchange.

* Ariel is a pseudonym.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

Side note: There was no Couchfish this morning and this post is late. Sorry—I motorbiked through a swarm of wasps yesterday. They got stuck under my shirt and stung the hell out of me. As a result I’ve been feeling a little out of sorts. No, this is not the Indonesia version of the dog ate my homework. My apologies. All the photos in this post are from Kep—it is far prettier there than a back room at immigration at CGK.

When keen travellers have their first child, travelling changes somewhat. I’m a firm believer that having kids on this roller coaster of life delivers higher highs and lower lows. The same goes for travel.

Final destination: Kep. Photo: Mark Ord.

My first child, Lyla, was born in Bangkok, though we were living in Jakarta at the time. So her first trip, the trip home, was when she was a month old. Her first real trip though, was to Cambodia, when she was two. Invited to the wedding of friends, we planned to fly up via KL to Phnom Penh, then drive down to Kep for the ceremony.

Simple plan. Well, it seemed simple anyway.

At the time Sam was working for an agency in Jakarta and the firm had an agent who looked after all our visa needs. If you’re lucky enough not to be familiar with some of Indonesia’s visa regulations, let me explain. Imagine if you wanted to design a visa system to justify the need for visa agents, look to Indonesia.

Great digs. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At the time, in a scheme to encourage local tourism, Indonesia had a 1,000,000 rupiah departure tax called FISKAL. Anyone with a stay permit (including Indonesians) had to pay it, in cash, each time you left the country. I wasn’t on a work permit at the time, so I didn’t, but Sam did.

If you were a foreigner on a work permit, you also needed a re–entry permit. Getting this was a separate process to getting the visa, but was often processed at the same time for a extra fee

The agent looked after all this, so aside from handing over the cash, the process was pretty seamless.

Not too shabby. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

So, we hit Jakarta’s Soekarno–Hatta International Airport (CGK), excited for the wedding. We‘re also a bit freaked out about our first trip abroad with an infant. At the time CGK was an accidentally but wonderfully retro airport.

We check in, pay the FISKAL, and go through to immigration with what felt like our 68 kilos of baby–carry–on.

The officer leafs through my passport, then stamps me out.

The officer leafs through Sam’s passport, then stamps her out.

The officer leafs through Lyla’s shiny new Australian passport, and leafs, and leafs...

And leafs some more.

Float in the ocean and forget about re–entry stamps. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

She’s two years old, and has done one flight in her life. What could he be looking at ... or for?

“Where’s her re–entry stamp?,” he asks.

“Her what?”

“There is no re–entry stamp in her passport,” he says, handing it back to me.

I leaf through it. There is no re–entry stamp.

I look at my phone to check the time, as he waves us off to Room 101. As we walk over, we both leaf through the blue book. There is no re–entry stamp.

I tell ya, you want something done, do it yourself.

Bloody awful. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We reach the room—it’s a typically Indonesian airport immigration office (I have seen a few!). Fake leather black couch, glass counter top desk with a half full ashtray. Glass framed leaders on the wall. Air–con on low.

An officer joins us, super polite. He leafs through the passport, page by page. They’re all blank, but still he goes through every page. The clock ticks. He asks to see our boarding passes, we hand them over. Then:

“Your daughter has no re–entry permit.”

“Yes I know,” I say. I explain the agent must have screwed something up, I apologise, and I ask, how can I fix this?

At this point I’m not actually offering a bribe, rather I want to know what to do.

Does a two year old care about the view? Clearly not. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“Oh it is simple, no problem. You need to go to the immigration office and they can do it there,” he says.

Me, thinking it is somewhere in the airport terminal (newbie!), ask where is the office? We’re in a hurry as the flight is leaving soon.

“Jakarta,” he says.

“Sorry?”

“It is in Jakarta. You can go there, get the permit and then your daughter can leave.”

“But we’ll miss our flight if we do that,” I blurt out, as it all sinks in.

“Yes, I don’t think you’ll make it,” he replies. He’s so dead–pan it kills me.

So I ask, is there not an immigration office at the airport? Could they or he help us?

Recovery mode. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

More slow page leafing, then he says

“Yes, I’m sure we can do it for you here.”

We sit, waiting for him to pull out a stamp and stuff, and do it on the spot.

“The charge will be US$200.”

Somewhere a plane takes off.

He’s done the calculus, he knows we’re flying AirAsia—so forget about refunds—and he knows the clock is ticking. At the time a re–entry permit was worth around $50.

Sam explodes.

Thanks to run ins over the years, I’m wary of arguing with immigration officers. Particularly in cases when you’re in the wrong—as we are.

That guy clearly has a re–entry permit. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We argue. Back and forward, back and forward it goes.

Wearying of it, he says:

“You and your husband can go to Cambodia and come back. Your daughter can go, but she can not come back on this visa,” his finger stamping on her KITAS stamp (a type of stay permit).

“If you take her, you must get her a new visa in Cambodia.”

We keep arguing. Sam and I are both well annoyed, but we don’t have a leg to stand on. It is our mistake, well, the agent’s.

With all the raised voices, Lyla wakes and Sam holds her while berating the immigration guy. She tells him to go out to the back room, and give us the stamp. We’re happy to pay a “handling fee” to expedite it, but $200 is outrageous, we say.

We keep arguing.

Imagine floating in that, rolling over, and seeing an elephant walk past. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Then Sam stands, livid, plonks Lyla on the guy’s desk and says:

“Ok would you like my daughter? I’ll be back in a week.”

I’ll never forget sitting there at the desk at that moment. Looking at the guy’s face as he eyes off Sam, then Lyla, then me, his eye’s asking “is she serious?”

These freaking crazy bule.

He demurs, “Maybe you can call your agent and I can speak to them,” he says.

Aka: call a sane Indonesian I can deal with.

He’s on the phone with the agent for five minutes, then passes the phone back to Sam. He stands, ambles to a back room, and stamps in the re–entry permit. The agent has negotiated it down to $100. We pay—the agent paid us back later.

There’s always the crab market nearby. Photo: Mark Ord.

Two days later I’m soaking, post celebration, in the garden pool at Knai Bang Chatt in Kep. It is late light and I’ve been floating in the pool, looking at clouds. I turn to watch the sunset, and an elephant walks past me right in front of the pool.

The dusty, smoky, immigration back room at CGK is not in the forefront of my mind.

Always check your visa stamps.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

Last year I was in Phnom Penh and needed to be in Siem Reap in a few days, but I had some loose time up my sleeve. So where to break the trip? I like my ruins, but didn’t want loads of people, and so Kompong Thom was the ideal choice.

The video above is worth the clickthrough to watch. They’ve disabled sharing.

The afternoon bus from Phnom Penh got me in to Kompong Thom mid evening without too much drama. From where they dropped me off it was a ten minute walk to Sambor Village. It is a cute little cottage–style place, with a terrace deck restaurant and plenty of shade. It is of a better standard (and with the price tag to match) than I’d expect in the provinces. Friendly staff and a riverside vibe add to the appeal—the owners also have Villa Langka in the capital.

I do little that evening but recover from Phnom Penh and have a meal by myself on the terrace. There’s a small pool on site, and it is pretty in the evening light. Sambor Village gets a fair amount of tour group trade, but the night I stay, I’m the only guest—and that is fine by me. I arrange with the staff to hire a scooter for the next day.

Meet Sambor Prei Kuk. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The next morning I jump on the bike for the 30–odd kilometre ride out to Sambor Prei Kuk. It is well–signposted and the roads are good, making for easy travel to get there. When I arrive, there are two other visitors there.

Two!

Imagine arriving at Angkor Wat and having it almost all to yourself? Fantasy right? At least pre-Covid19 anyway. I hire a community guide for $6 and we get walking.

People say you need only a couple of hours to take in the site, but we end up spending almost four. The guide is good—and while much of the commentary is rote, over time, more comes out. The longer we walk, the more we chat, her telling me about her family and what it is like living nearby. The guides are drawn from the local community and their stories add that extra element to a visit.

Super busy. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The site is some 1,200 years old and over 100 shrines and temples still stand within the confines. Unlike Angkor, many are of a warm red brick. Sandstone is left for the foundations and some gorgeously ornate lintels.

Towards the end of the wander, my guide asks if I plan to stay nearby. I say no, explaining I have a room already in Kompong Thom. She then goes on to explain that when I return next time, there is a homestay programme here, similar to at Banteay Chhmar. I ask do many people take advantage of it?

No.

I ride back into Kompong Thom and lose the rest of the day at the National Museum and drinking beers by the river. The museum is interesting. I say that because it is deserted—not a live body in sight—yet priceless lintels and other artefacts lay around.

Navin displaying the goods. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The following day I’m back on the bike, riding towards Phnom Penh to visit a foursome of sites. A hilltop temple, a nearby silk farm and them two remote sites that, well, are piles of rocks.

Just before the rise to Phnom Santuk, I pull up at Santuk Silk Farm. The centre provides gainful employment to local women from Svay Kal village. Set us by a US veteran and his Khmer wife, the former has passed on, but his wife Nevin is going strong, and suffice to say, she is no b******t. None at all.

From here I head onwards to Phnom Santuk, and its 809 steps. Take my word for it and aim to climb in the morning or late afternoon—not at midday. The views over the surrounds are terrific, but again, late afternoon or early morning people!

There. I saved you 809 steps. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I fill out the afternoon with three sites which all qualify as obscure. Prasat Kok Rocha and then Prasat Phum Prasat and Tnoat Chum. All three are Khmer period sites, but you’ll need patience and Google Maps to find them. I did. Watch out for wedding invitations and remember you need to be able to ride home.

Wedding sorted, all I had left was a long straight ride back to Kompong Thom and a bus onwards to Siem Reap in the morning. Diversion sorted!

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

Just a quick note—this is a very long issue—I’m actually combining the Friday morning paid post with the Friday afternoon free one, as this forms a part of the itinerary, but is also clearly loopy enough for the Friday afternoon post!

After the Vieng Xai caves the four of us ride back to Sam Neua to arrange transport to Hanoi. The Namsoi Nameo crossing is notorious for scams and rip offs so we ask around. A bus guy we meet in a restaurant—always a bad sign—is insistent he can do us a through bus.

“Leave Sam Neua at 8 am and you’ll be in Hanoi at 8 pm,” he says. Looking back, I guess he didn’t specify which day the 8 pm would be on.

So there we are at 8 am when the bus rolls in. As with the trip from Phonsavan, the bus is a creaker, but we pile in and within the hour are on the way.

We pass through the same scenery as yesterday, picking up a few more passengers at Vieng Xai and then to the border. It is all smooth sailing, though the road is awful (see the video above for an idea!). The others have never been to Vietnam before and are excited about getting to Hanoi. The food, the fun, the madness.

Then we reach the border.

The bus pulls up to the side and everyone gets out. That’s not unusual of course, but they take all their bags with them. We ask the driver, should we take our bags? He waves us away, nodding, pointing ahead, he says “bus bus”.

Ok, so much for the through ride.

If only we had had three more kilos of these. Photo: Cindy Fan.

I have a couple of days overstay, so have the US$30 to pay the fee. It is only at this point though, as we’re lining up at immigration, that one of the others, eyeing the sign, asks:

“Stuart, what’s this about an overstay fine?”

It turns out his overstay is two weeks. I tell him the fine is $10 a day, so about $140. He doesn’t have the money.

I think he is joking, but he isn’t. I don’t have that kinda cash on me and before I can say anything, I’m called up, pay my fine and am stamped out of Laos. I step aside and listen as he hands over his passport.

The immigration guy mutters then grabs a receipt book, writes something down, and pushes it to him.

“One hundred and forty US dollars.”

A video showing what the crossing looked like in 2018.

He asks do they take traveller cheques. They don’t.

“I don’t have that much money,” he says.

“No money, no go,” barks back the immigration guy, waving him to the side and calling the next person.

He stands there as the other two in our group, neither of whom have overstays, get stamped through. The other passengers from our bus file past and walk onwards to the crossing with Vietnam.

He asks for his passport back, while the officer serves others. The officer yells:

“No money, no leave. No money, no passport.”

The overstayer says he wants to go back to Sam Neua, he can get money there and return tomorrow.

“No money, no leave. No money, no passport.”

This goes back and forth a bit. The other passengers are all through.

Think peaceful thoughts. Scenery near Vieng Xai. Photo: Adam Poskitt.

While the direct bus is a work of fiction, I start to worry about missing whatever the onwards bus actually is. The others though, want to stick with their companion, so we agree to all go back to Sam Neua and try again tomorrow.

Except the three of us have already left Laos and don’t have new visas. We ask could immigration let us back in by cancelling our exit stamps. They refuse.

Between the four us us we’ve scraped together about US$80 and another $10 in motley kip notes. We ask would this be enough? No.

By this stage we’ve been stuck here twenty minutes. We’re the only people left. Four motley backpackers stuck because of the idiocy of one. We argue but that doesn’t get us anywhere.

The immigration guy couldn’t give a toss. He chats to his mates, ignoring us. He knows he is our only way to get over the border.

Like water off a duck’s back. Noua Waterfall, Vieng Xai. Photo: Adam Poskitt.

A Vietnamese guy walks up, and asks what is going on. He’s one of those typical border operators you meet, always there to help .. for a fee. He says the other bus is going to go soon and the bus we came on has already left.

He asks, “How much do you need?”

I’m immediately wary and say we’re $60 short. He eyes me off and asks where are we going? I say Hanoi.

He laughs. “There are no buses to Hanoi from here. Thanh Hoa ok, but Hanoi no.”

Then, “Ok my brother lives in Thanh Hoa. You give me $100 in traveller cheques and I can pay the fine. My brother will change the cheque for me in Thanh Hoa later.”

We confab and, after much deliberation agree. The guy does a deal with the officer, and the overstayer gets stamped through. We ask after the $40 in change.

“Twenty for you, twenty for me,” he says, handing the overstayer $20. “Now run,” our new Vietnamese friend says, “your bus will go soon”.

The overstayer explodes, and pushes the Vietnamese guy, hard. Things get ugly fast as plenty of non–Couchfish approved language flies back and forth. But we need to be on the bus, so we drag them apart and walk off, abuse chasing us on our way.

Viet Nam–Lao. Ha ha haaaaa. Photo: Cindy Fan.

We reach the Vietnamese border, about twenty minutes away on foot, and cross without incident. Nobody is speaking. We just want to be out of here.

The bus is gone.

One of the others drops her bags and starts crying. I’m having serious sense of humour failure. Bags get thrown to the ground and the other three start fighting, yelling at the overstayer. I don’t know any of them all that well—I’m the new member of our foursome—and I walk back to immigration to ask after our options.

The officer says there is a bus to Thanh Hoa around 6 pm, so in a couple of hours time. He suggests I tell my friends to calm down and that we wait by a coffee shack.

I walk back over and it is pretty ugly. I explain that we have a couple of hours to wait, then a bus to Thanh Hoa should arrive. Our bigger problem though, is money. We have hardly any.

We leave the bags in a pile on the roadside and walk over to get a coffee each—at least we can afford that. We sip instant coffee and watch a bunch of kids kicking a ball around near us. We start to make jokes about our situation—this kind of thing always makes good fodder for stories … much later.

Sam Neua to Ha Noi … the long way. Map: Stuart McDonald.

We go to pay and one of the girls realise her wallet is back in her daypack, so walks back across the road to the bags.

Her daypack is gone.

She screams out for her girlfriend—I thought she’d seen a snake or something—and we all run over. Sure enough her daypack is gone. The overstayer runs back up to immigration and says his friend has been robbed, can they help?

They seem interested and one returns with him. He speaks a little English and seems concerned for our companion who is beside herself. He asks could she have left it on the bus? Or at the Lao border? He says he can’t let us over but if we want, he can go and ask.

My first thought is it was the kids playing football, but they’re still playing, oblivious to us. We thank him and wait while he heads off.

Perhaps we can summon a bus with a conch shell. Cua Lo. Photo: Don Morgan.

She’s sure she left it on the pile, and yes we were all dumb leaving the bags on the side of the road. With all the drama, it is conceivable she has misplaced it. The officer returns, without the bag. He says the Lao side have not seen it.

The overstayer suggests we hitch to Thanh Hoa. The day is getting long and there is no through traffic, so I say I don’t think it is a good idea. He’s been on the receiving end of snark from us all and I get his desire to walk away, but the chance of us getting a ride is near zero.

He’s not deterred. He’s going to walk down the road for a kilometre or so and see what he can find. The three of us say splitting up is a bad idea, but he won’t have a bar of it. It gets nasty. Between the three of them, petty grievances of the last month of travel together resurface as barbs.

He takes his bag and walks off. One of the women yell at him to come back, but he ignores her. The other keeps screaming “you’re an a*****e” at him as he hikes off.

Just keep thinking about pho. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

He disappears. A little later, we hear him yelling, but ignore it. We wait. And wait.

Perhaps an hour later, he returns. He walks slow, with a limp. He reaches us and throws his pack down without a word. He looks like he’s been through a clothes dryer filled with dirt. His leg is filthy and he has a t-shirt, soaked in blood, tied around his knee.

It takes a while to get the story out of him. Walking down he’d seen a pack of dogs. They came at him and one bit him on the leg when he tried to kick it. Karma dude. We’re dumbfounded as he unwraps the t–shirt to show a nasty bite below the knee. The bleeding has almost stopped, but the bite is deep and looks painful. One of the girls stands, walks off a few metres, and vomits at her feet.

We clean the wound as best we can, and wrap it in a cleaner t–shirt. There is nothing else we can do—none of us have even a bandaid.

At this point I’d have hitched a ride on this. Ha Tinh. Photo: Don Morgan.

About thirty minutes later, “Oh salvation”. The sound of a bus. A handful of others have gathered by this stage and we don’t even ask after the destination as we get on. It’s small and cramped, but we don’t care.

The bus doesn’t wait long and as we get going, I look out the window at the crossing as we pull away. Staring, I see one of the Vietnamese officers waving. It is the guy who crossed the border for us earlier. He seems a nice guy and I’m touched that he makes the effort to wave us off.

We figure Thanh Hoa is six to eight hours away and settle in. There is however some confusion when we pay the ticket guy. He’s confused about where we are going, but we keep saying Thanh Hoa and in the end, he takes our money.

Our spirits rise. We start being civil to one another again. The overstayer is in quite a bit of pain with his leg, but we nod off to sleep.

Instead of getting angry at dogs, think about peaceful rice fields. Photo: Cindy Fan.

It is on midnight when we arrive in Thanh Hoa. I’ve slept much of the trip and am groggy as we pile out of the bus. I’ve been here in the past but don’t recognise where we are. The grotty parking lot of a bus station has a small group of xe om drivers hanging around. They look at us like we have walked out of an alien spaceship.

Our plan is to get to the train station and then to find a hospital for the overstayer. I ask about getting a ride to the train station, but they don’t understand what I’m asking for. In the end I mime a train and then they get it, laughing.

“No no no. No train,” they say.

I say there is a train, Thanh Hoa is a major city on the main north–south train line. I walk back to the others. They look shellshocked and one is sniffling again—she’s about to lose it.

“We’re not in Thanh Hoa,” she says.

The sign we wanted to see, but never did. Photo: Photo: Sarah Turner.

“What do you mean?” I ask, not understanding what she means.

She lifts her arm and points to a small shopfront. The address signage above it reads “Thai Hoa”—not “Thanh Hoa”.

The Vietnamese border guard wasn’t waving at us to say good bye—he was waving at us because we were on the wrong bus.

I’m the last one to have this revelation imparted to me and it hurts. I’m exhausted—we thought we would have been in Hanoi by now. We have almost no money left, the overstayer is nursing a dog bite and none of us have eaten since the breakfast.

I go back to the xe om guys and ask about getting to Thanh Hoa. Not surprisingly there are no 1 am departures but I establish that in the morning we can get a bus to the train station.

Hello Vinh. Photo: Don Morgan.

We’re so short of money we decide to sit at the bus station until morning—what’s another eight hours? There’s a small seating area and we set up shop there. The xe om guys lose interest and by 2 am it is us alone. We’re all annoyed but too tired to argue anymore. The dog bite is looking bad and he keeps picking at it, making it bleed. We yell at him to stop.

We sleep a little, and wake with the morning light. What a sight we must be. A bus station guy surfaces who has some English. Yes, there is a morning bus to the train station. No, it is not to Thanh Hoa, rather it is to Vinh around 90 km further to the south.

Just before midday we arrive in Vinh. There’s a night train that will get us into Hanoi in the wee hours. The rest of the trip passes without event. The overstayer’s leg is fine.

We part ways in Hanoi.

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Most first–time visitors to Hue set up camp south of the Perfume River, crossing it only for the occasional bout of sightseeing. I suggest doing the opposite, making the Old City your diversion—don’t be surprised if you don’t cross the river at all.

For years just about all downtown Hue’s hotels were south of the river, meaning tourists had no choice in the matter. In recent times though, homestays have opened in the Old City, providing a chance for those looking for a more “local” experience—take the chance.

Eat everything. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I arrive on the overnight train from Ho Chi Minh City. Yes, it’s a long haul in one hit by train, but the late afternoon 20 minute walk to Tam Family Homestay is the perfect way to stretch my legs. I take the narrow bridge alongside the railway, then walk along Lê Duẩn, with the river on my right.

It is about 4 pm and the shade trees along the riverbank let me enjoy my ramble without sweating to death. Then it is a sharp left, through the outer city wall and there it is, the homestay on my left.

View over the rooftops (yes there are roosters) from Tam Family Homestay. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Tam Family Homestay is the real deal—this is the family home—but the rooms are smart and private so you can choose to mingle or not to. I go for the rooftop shack they’ve added which has huge windows wrapping two sides of the room. There is a shared deck as well, with lazy chairs—the perfect spot for sunset.

Tam is one of a cluster of homestays in the Old City. Another good one is Le Robinet which is just around the corner—though it is more of a guesthouse than a homestay. There are plenty of others to choose from.

If the place is open and there are people eating there, it is probably worth a try. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Hue is famous for its eating, so I grab one of the free bicycles and ride across the Old City. This side of the river has less traffic and a near limitless selection of back lanes to explore, so I take my time. I try to get lost—and I do. The rear of the Citadel is dotted with ponds and small parks, and is great on two wheels. Kids swim, old men fish, people drink coffee on red plastic chairs everywhere.

My target is Nem Lụi Bà Tý near the northern end of Đào Duy Từ. It is a bún thịt nướng joint and the food is delicious, but the street itself is also a beauty. Lined with lovely old and restored houses this is a favourite among Hue’s canoodling couples Instagram set.

On Đào Duy Từ. It takes a while for the Instagram crew to clear out. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Afterwards I ride down by the Đông Ba canal to the Perfume River, then along the front of the Citadel and back to the homestay. Just in time for a sunset drink on the roof with the friendly family who run it.

Another advantage of this side of the river, is that the Citadel is five minutes away on foot. So the next morning I walk up Lê Huân and pick one of the coffee shops along there for a primer. If I wanted something more substantial I could walk up to Chợ Đông Ba or cross over the canal to Bún Bò Mệ Kéo, for, you guessed it, bún bò huế. The latter came recommended on my last visit, but every time I went it was either full or had run out—both good signs!

Hit me. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

After a morning exploring the Citadel, I grab my bicycle and ride west along the Perfume River to Huyền Anh. Another bún thịt nướng place it is ideally positioned as my lunch stop before riding on to Thien Mu temple.

After Thien Mu, I’d coast back, and pull up for a lazy hour at one of the sugar cane juice stalls in the shade along the river bank. These each have a few lazy (often red) chairs and make for an ideal spot to lounge away the last of the afternoon watching the tour boats glint in the sun.

Signing off another day. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

And that’s just 24 hours down—Hue deserves at least three days. Slow down and eat everything!

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You know the story. You’re sitting around in some traveller cafe and you get chatting to another traveller who has met so and so who was working for so and so as a travel writer. The tales are often not complimentary. This story is a little different.

About a fifteen minute walk north of Khao San Road, just over the khlong where the road name changes from Chakrabongse to Samsen, on your left, walking north, you’ll find Adhere the 13th Bar.

The night I met a fabulist. He’s out of shot. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At this point I’m just going to pass the wand to one of our past writers, Brock, who sums up the place perfectly:

“Sometimes discovery happens the hard way, requiring a lifetime of slogging through a city, measuring and weighing and comparing to see if you’ve found the one true thing you have been after. And sometimes it happens the easy way. Possibly when you are just the tiniest bit tipsy after drinking beers and complaining about live music options, a friend leads you to the one true thing you needed. And it’s perfection. It’s Adhere the 13th.””

Less eloquently, I’d describe it as a hole–in–the–wall good bar with interesting people.

So there I am, with some of the the crew from a now vanished travel magazine that I’ll call Bule, and a few people from other publications. The bar is walking distance from the Bule office and we’ve been there all afternoon. Bule are on the edge of the precipice due to one of Thailand’s too–frequent dramas, and I’m there with a mate from The Nation blathering about what we think could be done to assist.

A highlight of Dong Xoai. Photo: Don Morgan.

At the time, Travelfish is small. A niche site catering just to backpackers. There is a lot of crossover though between our and Bule’s readership—how can we scratch each other’s backs we wonder?

Unlike me, they have real overhead, and the challenges are punishing. Just like today, publishing is so often people wanting to do great things, but the world working against them.

Adhere the 13th is small and crammed, and once the music gets going it is too loud, so we move down to Soi Rambuttri. There we settle into a street side place, chug beers, eat too much, talk shop and watch the circus.

Unite against fabulists. Phuoc Long. Photo: Don Morgan.

A guy walks up, recognising the Bule editor, and asks if he can join us. He introduces himself as Joe* and he’s a travel writer, just back from Vietnam. Attention is devoted to my Nation mate, who is telling everyone a hysterically insane story about him spending a night hiding in a stormwater drain on Sukhumvit Soi 38 to dodge his partner’s family. My Nation friend, exhausted with his own tale, pivots to Joe and asks after his story.

Joe jumps to the podium and starts raving about his trip to Vietnam working for an Australian publisher. The publisher is online, and the work is hardcore he says. There were no foreigners at all where he went, and he was almost arrested by the police. He rattles off the names of little known destinations with confident ease. It was “real travel” he says.

On the road to Binh Long. Photo: Don Morgan.

I’m half listening, half in another conversation, but the place names get my attention. Provincial capitals between Ho Chi Minh City and Da Lat that no traveller in their right mind would get off the bus at. About a year earlier we’d had a writer go through the same area, and his experiences were similar. He saw no other foreigners, and was almost arrested—as with Joe, he found the research demanding. Joe’s zeal however, leaves me thinking perhaps our writer missed something.

So I bite the bullet and I ask, who were you writing for? Lonely Planet? Rough Guides?

He laughs. No, he’d never write for them, he writes for Travelfish.

Somewhere a dog barks. My Nation friend bursts out laughing.

No horizon pools in Gia Nghia. Photo: Don Morgan.

Travelfish is a company run by an Australian couple who live in Vietnam he tells me. They’re trust fund babies, now embassy staff in Hanoi, and run the site to “keep in touch with their roots”. He has nothing but praise for this Australian couple, and talks about how much freedom they give him to work as he wants—and the money is great.

I’m not often lost for words, but I’m utterly speechless—I have no idea who this person is.

On he goes with a mish–mash of truths, half truths and complete garbage. My Nation mate eggs him on, knowing full well Joe is making the whole tale up. Our writer was almost arrested in one of the provinces he talks about, yet Joe recounts the story as his own. His attention to detail is uncanny—he even mentions the type of motorbike he got around on—a Fuzeko—a make of bike I’d never heard of till our writer sent me a photo of the bike as a part of a feature we had published.

Downtown Gia Nghia. Photo: Don Morgan.

As Joe rolls through the arrest story, the Bule editor leans over and says “we’ll take that, can you write it up? Do you have pics?”

Photos, it turns out, are a problem. The police confiscated his camera, but he’d be happy to write a piece with more generic Vietnam pics. What do you pay? he asks. The editor says he’ll think about it.

The whole time I’m sitting there thinking who the hell are you?

By the time Joe gets to his Laos trip, my Nation mate has caught the Bule editor’s ear and told him he’s a fabulist. As word spreads around the table, interest fades.

Don’s chariot. Photo: Don Morgan.

Towards the end of the night, in a lull in the conversation, Joe asks me what I do. I say I’m an online travel publisher—I don’t know what else to say.

And at that, he pulls out a Travelfish business card (something we don’t have) and hands me one.

“I’m headed to southern Thailand next month, if you’re interested in a feature or two on the islands, let me know. I’m allowed to do freelance.”

* Joe is a pseudonym.

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After all the riding yesterday I end up at Cranky T’s. The cafe/bar is Phonsavan’s best nightlife option—or the best karaoke–free one anyway. It attracts what few travellers are in town on any given evening, so is a good spot to meet others.

I’d hoped to catch up with Poon and Heather who I’d met in Luang Prabang, but they’re nowhere in sight. Instead there’s just one occupied table, hosting an older western guy and three travellers. I join them.

This is how you do it!

He’s an American returned veteran, and looks like he’s been around the block way too many times. As I sit, he’s telling (not suggesting mind you) the other three Europeans what they need to do in Phonsavan. They’re on an open–ended trip, while he’s on a break from a veteran–funded aid gig in southern Laos.

I think he thinks he’s being helpful, but, as with the competitive traveller I met the other week, he’s all commandments rather than suggestions. They’ve only arrived this afternoon and are bamboozled by the raft of village names and attractions he rattles off.

Shady jars at Site 2. Photo: Cindy Fan.

We all keep drinking and he’s getting more and more frustrated with their desire to just get scooters and go exploring. I agree with them—hell it’s what I’ve been doing—and as the four of us start inching towards travelling together the next day, he interrupts and says:

“Ok screw it. Let’s do this. I’ll drive you all. We’ll go to Site 2 and Site 3 and then to Ban Naphai. Ok?”

None of us have suggested he drive us—nor that he even join us—but he’s so matter of fact, in the end we agree. If nothing else, it will save us cash from hiring scooters.

That’s a modern jar in the foreground. Photo: Cindy Fan.

We meet the next morning at 9 am out front of Cranky T’s. I’m the last one to arrive and everyone is standing around an enormous pick–up truck. Gleamingly black, there’s not a spot of dirt on it, and I joking ask if it is new. It’s not—he says it is his and he drove it here from Attapeu. We pile in—the interior is likewise immaculate. To me, the car smells brand new. Weird.

Site 2 and 3 are around 25 km south of Phonsavan and I have to admit, it is great to not be on a scooter. The American is a careful and very slow driver, but we still make good time reaching Site 2.

Both Site 2 and Site 3 are smaller than Site 1, but we’re almost the only people save a bored ticket seller at each location, and it is lovely having them to ourselves. The American drones on, explaining the different theories on what the jars were originally for, but we scatter, each exploring in their own direction.

An enduring mystery. Photo: Cindy Fan.

An archeologist friend of mine who has worked on digs in the area has told me the true use of the jars remains one of the great mysteries of the region. He believes there are still plenty more to find, and perhaps some time in the future, a mother node will surface that will hold all the answers. With much of the surrounding territory still perilous to even dig a hole in, patience is required. To be honest, I like that we simply don’t know for sure what they were for.

We hop back into the shiny vehicle and drive onwards to Ban Naphai. Supported by Swiss NGO Helvetas, the village smelts left over munitions back into their liquid form before transforming them into everyday utensils. Spoons are a particular favourite—hence the village’s nickname, “the spoon village”.

Spoons anyone? Photo: Cindy Fan.

There’s something deeply satisfying about seeing war weapons repurposed into something to eat with, and we watch while the molten metal is poured into wooden moulds. The workers are used to tourists and are happy to show us around. They’ve also diversified into trinkets to sell on the side, but we all go with the spoons, each buying a few.

The American then suggests we go eat at a small noodle stall he knows, and, to be honest, it is a great tip. The older woman cooking clearly knows him, and there’s plenty of genuine friendliness at play as she slings out our simple lunches on plastic plates. Each comes with a locally made spoon.

Defused bombies at Ban Naphai. Who invents this stuff? Photo: Cindy Fan.

Mid afternoon is upon us by the time we jump back into the car and return to Phonsavan. We’re all chatty and upbeat—in part due to the generous number of Beerlao we put away at lunch. More importantly though, in a region where so much ongoing misery is on display, the spoon village is a far more upbeat experience, full of hope rather than despondency.

Then it all comes crashing down.

He pulls up outside Cranky T’s and we get out, ready to head back in for a few more icy beers. Before we can go in though, the American calls us together and says:

“Ok, that’ll be $15 each.”

I assume he’s joking—we all do—but he’s not. Before I can say anything, one of the other travellers pipes up, half laughing, pointing out there was never any discussion of payment—he just offered to take us.

Just a bomb, in the garden. Ban Naphai. Photo: Cindy Fan.

“Look, we can fight about this, or you can each pay. I drove you, guided you and took you to my favourite lunch place. You each need to pay, and $15 is the standard price.”

One of the Europeans points out we had all been going to hire scooters, which would have cost a fraction of the price, and he offered to take us. Again he points out there was never any discussion about payment. He’s not being rude or aggressive, and I’m still not sure if the American is having a laugh. We’re all just standing there a bit dumbfounded.

“Look, if you want to fight over it, I’ll fight you all. Girls too.” He’s not joking, he’s mood suddenly dark and deadly serious.

None of are in the market for a street fight with someone who is clearly unhinged, so we grudgingly hand over the money. He counts it on the bonnet of his shiny car, then, like the exchange never happened, says “nice doing business with you”, gets in and drives off.

Nobody is home. Photo: Cindy Fan.

We head into Cranky T’s and start drinking, talking about what the hell just happened. The money is an annoyance, but it was a fun day, even if it did finish off on a bad note. We talk about onwards plans and agree to head to Hua Phan together the next day.

Later, after a few too many Beerlao, we’re making our way back to our guesthouses when we spy the shiny black car parked on a dirt side street. Without a thought one of the girls runs over, scoops up as much dirt as she can, and throws it all over his car.

We’ll be getting the early morning bus to Hua Phan.

Tomorrow: Laos’ hermit kingdom.

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Lembata resembles a flying dog in Indonesia’s Lesser Sunda Islands. The island is home to a “traditional” whaling village on the south coast and Ile Api volcano on the north. It also has glorious beaches and that laid back vibe that makes Indonesia so great to travel in.

Despite this, it attracts few foreign tourists. Jim, the owner of the long–running, though now closed, Ile Api Homestay explains to me why. When Lonely Planet removed Lembata from their Indonesia guidebook, travellers just stopped getting off the ferry.

“I’d watch them on the ferry at port, them looking at me, me looking at them. Not in the book—don’t get off.” says Jim.

Doesn’t look too far. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’m bunking down at Hotel Rejeki, run by the affable Richard, in Lewoleba, when I first meet the arms dealer. Well, to be accurate, re-meet. We’d first met a week earlier on Kepa off the west coast of Alor. Travelling with his girlfriend, he’s a sub–breed of the competitive traveller species—a volcano counter. 

I can’t recall how many he’d climbed, despite him telling me over and over, because, well, I don’t care. I know there was a chance we’d meet as we’d both left Kepa aiming for Ile Api. I’d stopped at Pantar to climb Gunung Sirung—he wasn’t bothering with that one as it was “too small”. Whatever dude.

Enjoy the shade while you have it. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

So it isn’t a complete surprise when I walk into Rejeki, to find him arguing with Richard about a volcano guide. Richard has covered most of a wall with a huge map of Lembata, and they’re standing in front of it.

I’ve just returned from the ride out to Desa Jontona, the starting point for the climb. There I’d met Elias Lusu, Richard’s recommended guide. We arrange to climb the next morning at 6 am. The deal, was, to my mind, sealed.

I can’t remember exactly what the argument was about. Looking to assist Richard, I say I have a guide already arranged, so why not come with me? Does 6 am work? It does. Sorted. 

Getting steeper. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

They’re staying elsewhere, so we agree to meet at the village at 6 am. I show them where it is, and fatefully, give them Elias’ phone number—just in case they get lost.

Later, we ride out to the port where there are a few seafood shacks with iced beer. We eat and drink and watch the sunset. It isn’t till then he tells me he’s an arms dealer. A sales agent for a French weaponry company, he lives in Jakarta and climbs volcanoes in his spare time.

Leaving the trees behind. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

He whines about the job while boasting about how much money he earns selling instruments of death and misery. The corruption in Indonesia gets him down—worse than Africa he says. We start to argue and I call it a night, riding back to the hotel alone, annoyed I’ve invited them to join me.

The 5 am ride out to Jontona is gorgeous. The last stars fade as the sun rises—ideal climbing conditions. I get to the village and knock on Elias’ door. 

No answer. Strange.

Superfluous directional hand signal. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I keep knocking, still no answer. The French couple are also nowhere in sight. It’s now 6 am and I start to wonder if I’ve mixed up the day. Another villager wanders over and asks who I’m looking for. I say Elias, and the villager says, oh this is the wrong house, and he points me across the road.

I’m sure I’m at the right house, but I cross anyway, eventually managing to wake Ilius, who has nothing to do with Elias.

More people show up and someone calls Elias’ wife.

Hello beautiful. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Elias is on the mountain.

What?

He left as 2 am with two bule—they wanted to see the sunrise.

B******s!

Eventually another guide and his son are found. They’re hardcore and do much of the climb barefoot, but they’re not of the calibre of Elias.

Some panting at this stage. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Ile Api comes in at 1,449 metres, so it is a baby by Indonesian standards and the climb starts easy. I’m so annoyed though, it takes away from the hike. Once we get above the trees and into grass, the beauty takes my mind off the French. 

We’re halfway though the grassland when I see Elias and the French coming down. Elias sees us and speeds up, leaving them behind. Words are quickly interchanged with my guide who rushes ahead and waylays the French out of earshot.

Steamin! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Elias spills his guts. The French had shown up at his house at 2 am and demanded he take them. When he refused, saying he already had a customer (me), they threatened to report him for unlicensed guiding (he is licensed). They also sweeten the deal by offering an extra 300,000 rupiah to leave immediately. 

Bloody arms dealers.

I don’t know how much is true, but Elias seems contrite in his apologies and promises to make it up to me when I get back down. We shake on it and I pass the French without saying a word.

Zafo is a moron. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We leave the grassland behind, and climb through gravel and scree—it is like a moonscape—not a single living thing save tiny tufts of grass that wouldn’t look out of place in a Dr Seuss book. The climb is hard work, but then the trail veers to the left and I get the reveal.

The caldera is enormous, the true peak sitting on the far side, spewing sulphurous gas. Steam rises from crevices everywhere—even alongside the trail. We cross the sandy caldera—other trekkers have laid out their names in stones on its sandy base.

Not a Frenchman in sight. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The true summit is too dangerous to climb, but we make our way up the crater rim. From there we get a fantastic view along the coast of Lembata. Elsewhere on the rim you can see Gunung Batu Tara on Pulau Komba—a peak which erupts every twenty minutes. The French are totally forgotten.

Three and a half hours later, I’m back down at Desa Jontona. Elias and his wife have prepared a seafood meal and we eat together by the water’s edge as the sun sets. 

All is forgiven.

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Another day another boat ride—or so it seems in northern Laos anyways. I grab the morning public boat from Nong Kiaow to Muang Ngoi and it is, for reasons unknown, jammed with locals. Jammed. A couple of hours later I uncurl my body and head to Nicksa’s. 

These guys stayed at Nicksa’s too!

One of the signs out front reads “Bungalow River View Nice Garden” and if you had to sum it up in five words, that works. I go for one of the fancier and sturdier wooden bungalows for a whole 90,000 kip (about US$10). You won’t be reading about Nicksa’s in Elle Decor anytime soon, but it has all I need. In particular a decent–sized deck with a pre-slung hammock. The view is straight out over the river. Perfect.

I could get a room for as little at $5 in Muang Ngoi, but the town has had a persistent problem with theft from cheaper huts. If there is one village in Laos you’re going to have something nicked from your room, this is the one. Why? Who knows, but this has been going on for decades, so I guess someone has an entire warehouse of cameras.

The view from Nicksa’s. Photo: Cindy Fan.

The hammock is the perfect antidote to the boat trip. I grab an icy beer and lounge back with a book, losing a couple of hours. The river slides by. 

The son of a French family in a nearby family bungalow has a complete meltdown. Dad is sitting by the river taking a break while Mum is inside trying to calm the boy down. No luck, his wailing and screaming slices through the bungalow walls like butter. No secrets in Lao budget guesthouses.

Meet Muang Ngoi. Photo: Cindy Fan.

Dad walks over to apologise for the racket. The son hadn’t wanted to leave Nong Kiaow as there were some other French kids there his age. Mum and Dad had promised there would be more here. There weren’t. Ops. Turns out they’ve been on the road for three years and this is their fourth time to Muang Ngoi. He’s a well paid consultant and works online, but Muang Ngoi is a good spot for offline time he says.

Sure is.

The son falls asleep and Mum joins us. Travelling with kids can be great—but it can also be awful, and she’s definitely at the latter. Dad scurries off to get some beers and we spend a few hours chatting.

A village so relaxed even the restaurants have hammocks. At Gecko Bar. Photo: Cindy Fan.

When I tell them I run Travelfish, they’re effusive in their praise. They wish there was something similar for India or South America (where they have also spent a lot of time). Why don’t I cover there too?

Drinks please!

Later, the four of us climb Muang Ngoi Viewpoint. It’s a far easier peak than the one at Nong Kiaow, and the son climbs ahead of us, his sixth time he says proudly. Along the way we talk about travel writing and travel guides and I explain how the sausage factory works. 

Read the instructions. Photo: Cindy Fan.

As is the case often when I meet Travelfish readers, they have suggestions, some good, others impractical. As is common, they use the site in conjunction with a raft of other sources. A French translation of a Lonely Planet guide, TripAdvisor and travel blogs. On the later, they’ve found two blogs by French travelling families particularly helpful. 

You should have more material for families they say. I agree to a point, but then note if they were divers, they’d want more for divers, if surfers more for surfers, and so on. I’ve a small team and can’t cover everything. It’s a guide not a gospel, I say.

Muang Ngoi from above. Photo: Cindy Fan.

When I ask them what they like about the site the most, they answer together. “We know you’ve been there.” When I confess it isn’t all written by me, they wave that away and start talking about pieces and destinations they’ve enjoyed. The conversation dovetails into their own journey—the fun times and the bad. We swap tales, laugh a lot, and drink too many Beerlaos. They’re the antithesis of the Australian competitive traveller I met on the slowboat. 

Often the pleasure of travel is part the destination, but also the people you meet. If we were neighbours, we’d most likely be close friends. Instead, an upset child in a random village brings us together and we spend a single afternoon by the river.

We swap details but never get in touch.

Tomorrow: Decisions! I’m thinking I’ve got three options. To Vietnam via Muang Khua, to Vieng Xai and Sam Neua, or perhaps looping south to Phonsavan and the Plain of Jars. Let me know which you’d prefer in the comments!

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