Photo. Inga and Steve, the Belgian duo. © Chris Tharp.
Day 1
The road heading west out of Tha Khaek was two-laned and mostly paved - a luxury in road-challenged Laos. I opened up the bike and took in the scenery. To my left a turquoise river snaked up the valley – deep cool pools tempted me to stop the bike and have a refreshing swim, but I had just begun the journey and wanted to get some kilometers under my wheels. The road wound through farmland – mainly rice paddies with bored looking water buffaloes or groups of malicious black goats. Huge limestone mountains shot up on both sides of me, looking as if they had been crammed through the Earth by massive hands. The scenery was both stunning and magical. I breathed deeply and took it in with joy, reminding myself that this was why I had come back to Laos.
After about thirty minutes of riding, I came upon two other Westerners on 100cc bikes. Their names were Inga and Steve, a couple of Belgian backpackers who had decided to take on The Loop as well. I had actually met them over breakfast while waiting for my no-show noodles. Inga sported tattoos and dreadlocks, displaying a hard edge against Steve’s laid back and smiling demeanor. I would pass them several times on the trip, only to be overtaken by them when I was broken down on the side of the road or in a village. We became companions of sorts, both out to conquer this loop on woefully underequipped machines.
It was in the town of Gnomalat, the first real settlement since I left Tha Khaek, where I experienced my initial setback. My foot brake barely worked in the first place, and I noticed it getting even weaker every time I used it. This was of great concern, of course, since it was the only thing which could save me from certain death by water buffalo collision or a nasty plunge into a ravine. As I was crossing a small bridge and leaving the town, it failed entirely. The pedal went straight into the dirt of the road. So I gingerly rode the bike back into the dusty town and stopped at the first mechanic I saw. He was located in a dirt-floored shack at the bottom of a steep embankment. It took both of us to roll the bike down the path and into his shaded shop. The place was littered with grease-covered motorcycle parts, tools, and cigarette buts.
The mechanic did some adjusting on the brake pedal and replaced the actual disk while his compatriots stood around, smoked, and commented in sing-songy Lao. With authority he pushed down on the brake and smiled to me as the wheel actually stopped.
“Okay? Okay?” he said.
“Okay,” I responded.
The garage in Gnomalat.
Fifteen minutes and two dollars later, I was once again crossing the bridge and now blazing out of town, heading down a ruler-straight stretch of road which shot up to the Nakai Plateau. My day’s destination was the actual town of Nakai. So I stopped to check the guidebook map to see how far I had to go, and once satisfied that Nakai was only an hour or two off, I happily jumped down on the kick start to continue on my way.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
Again. Again. Again.
The bike was refusing to start. I kicked down on the starter ten more times with no results. I then ran the bike along the road, hopped on, and attempted a pop start. Again, nothing. After several more tries to pop start it, I cursed the sky and began the long, sweaty push back into Gnomalat.
As I toiled underneath the afternoon sun, Inga and Steve - the Belgian duo - putted up. I informed them of my troubles and they shook their heads and rode on, with promises to see me up the road. A few minutes later a local man rode up and gave me a push by placing one of his feet on my passenger peg. I then popped the bike into gear and managed to get it started, albeit with greatly diminished compression and power. My helper smiled and rode away, and I crawled my bike back into the town. As I came upon the bridge, I pushed down on my footbrake, which failed exactly as it did before, in the same spot, even. The pedal went straight into the ground and then kicked back up, right into the flesh of my leg, leaving a nasty bruise and bleeding gash. The bike then died. Again.
Covered in sweat, dust, and annoyance, I was approached by three Westerners on proper dirt bikes.
“You are having some sort of problem?”
From the sound of his accent, I figured him to be French. Laos is full of French people, smoking, gesticulating, and checking up on state of their former colonial holding.
My savior was indeed French, as were his two companions, and he gave me a push back to the mechanic’s, where we immediately handed the bike back over for further work. As I talked to the French trio, I learned that they were living and working in the area. It seems that a massive dam was being constructed on the Nam Hin Bun, a large river in the area. The three were employed by a French company involved with the project. As we waited for the mechanic to replace my faulty sparkplug and once again take on the evil foot brake, one of the Gallic trio sped off on his bike, quickly returning with two cold and glistening bottles of beer Laos. We passed the bottles around and drank - the cold delicious beer a welcome addition in my parched mouth. One wonderful thing about the French is their ability to enjoy a good drink or bit of food, even in the most uninviting conditions.
Photo. The French!
Before I knew it, the French had departed, and I was back on my bike, which now ran with full force and gusto. I crossed the bridge for what would be the last time, and sped straight up towards the Nakai Plateau.
At one point the semi-paved road gave way to a rought dirt and rocks. According to the guide book and those I talked to, it would stay this way for the next 80 kilometers or so. This slowed my progress, as I had to watch out for large and sharp rocks protruding from the roadway. I had also entered a construction zone, since every two minutes a cement or dump truck, coming from or going to the dam site, would barrel by, kicking up enough dust to bury a small town. I wrapped my scarf around my face and firmly placed my sunglass around my head, braving the huge clouds of dust which regularly obscured my view and took over the whole road. A red and white sign warned me of the obvious hazard in two languages:
I began to climb up to the plateau, switch backing through verdant jungle, punctuated by small farms growing tobacco and rice. Despite the onslaught of trucks I was making good progress and the bike was running well. Even the hated foot brake felt as if it may hold for the rest of the trip.
This article continues in Part 3.
Chris Tharp, 26 August 2007
Additional information
Presentation of the author:
Chris Tharp is a former actor, comedian, and playwright from Seattle, Washington. He currently lives in South Korea, where he teaches at Busan Kyungsan College. He spends his spare time writing, fishing, playing music, motorcycling, performing, hiking, drinking, and eating still-moving seafood, though not necessarily in that order. Check out his blog: http://www.livejournal.com/users/tharp42
Information about Laos:
Laos is officially called the Lao People's Democratic Republic. The country is a landlocked communist state in southeast Asia, bordered by Myanmar (Burma) and China to the northwest, Vietnam to the east, Cambodia to the south, and Thailand to the west.
As Lonely Planet describes it on its website (www.LonelyPlanet.com): Snaking rivers, lush jungle, hectic markets and the UNESCO-listed Plain of Jars. Lonely Planet considers Laos as the highlight of Southeast Asia.
Laos traces its history to the Kingdom of Lan Xang or Land of a Million Elephants, which existed from the fourteenth to the eighteenth century. After a period as a French protectorate, it gained independence in 1949. A long civil war ended when the communist Pathet Lao movement came to power in 1975.
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