Officially we had travelled on a number of ‘VIP’ buses during our time here in Asia. At least that is what we were sold. And that is what the various signs in the front windows proudly declared. In reality however, there was nothing at all ’VIP’ about them and there were generally more fowl on board than people. Important or otherwise.

This time however, was different. After considering the cheaper, public bus option, that took around ten hours, we tentatively enquired about the ‘VIP’ bus.

“Which one is it?” we asked, scanning the crowded bus station.

The woman pointed over our shoulder and we turned in unison to take a look at it. The ‘VIP’ bus. It was mildly impressive. Half blue, half yellow. It was a coach, no less. From a certain angle and in a good light there was even the threat of a shine in places. It looked, well, road worthy. It also reportedly took eight hours rather than ten to reach Luang Prabang. At 110,000kip each it was a little more than we had planned to spend, and ordinarily we wouldn’t have, but, well, all things considered we thought it was worth it. And so we paid up and climbed aboard.

All was going well until about an hour into the journey. And then we heard it. The clanging noise emanating from somewhere beneath us. The bus stopped randomly two or three times. Each time the driver got out and, from what we could tell, kicked the bus and then got back in. I suppose, in a similar way you might your TV if the reception was fuzzy. This continued for another couple of hours before we pulled over, again, on the side of a dusty road with no signs of life in either direction. That clanging noise was still there. It was, we were soon to discover, the sound of a broken bus.

We climbed off the bus this time to get a bit of fresh air and, hopefully, to see what was going on. As I stepped out of the door and into the blinding sunshine and wall of heat waiting at the foot of the steps I looked to my left, towards the front passenger side. The bus was tilted slightly off the ground. It was jacked up. There were a pair of legs sticking out from underneath the malfunctioning ten tonne machine. I believe they were attached to our driver. And then I noticed the jack. The same ‘jack’ that was holding the bus in its elevated position just above the writhing body beneath. It was none other, than a lump of wood. I kid you not. A piece of wood.

Holding a good ten tonnes of bus in the air.

It looked about as sturdy as a second hand table leg. I could only deduce that the man whose legs were peering out from beneath the bus was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. Or, more likely, both.

As we stood in a small patch of shade on the other side of the road, jaws agape at the potential disaster opposite, none of us were yet aware that we were also, in fact, in the midst of being abandoned. That’s right, ditched. In the middle of nowhere.

Now I know what your thinking. I’m just being dramatic, right?

Wrong.

To explain, here follows a brief rundown of the events that followed:

We were picked up via a particularly shiny new pickup truck shortly after the final break down. All thirty odd of us. In the same, single, black pickup. At a glance I counted six, possibly seven bodies in five seats in the cab and at least fifteen squeezed into the back. Including us. It was cosy. Positively intimate in some cases.

We were delivered, somewhat dusty and dishevelled, to a small shack like structure, baring a slight resemblance to a restaurant, amongst other small shack like structures lining the side of a dirt road, In the middle of nowhere. The words “ghost“, and “town“, immediately sprang to mind. Quickly followed by various horror movies in which backpackers are brutally murdered in similar towns in very similar surroundings. I scanned the area and was pleased to note that there were no chainsaws within view.

We were then reliably informed that they offered edible substances fit for consumption. Food, in lay-mans terms. After brief investigation we discovered that this consisted of noodles in various slimes, a small bowl of fly infested rice and what can only be described as green stuff. After a lengthy debate and much soul searching we purchased two bananas and a packet of crisps.

And then we sat. For about five hours. By this point we had reluctantly accepted our fate. The bus, our bus, was not coming. If it had been a K9 it would have been put down out of sympathy. It was, for want of a better word, b*****ed. The bus company - who had gratefully accepted our fare only a few hours earlier - were also sending no replacement.

We had been abandoned.

Over the next hour the majority of our group did however find their way back onto the road. Some flagged down passing buses and luckily found a spare seat. Others were set upon by the vultures of the public transportation industry (AKA Taxis - sorry dad but its true) and, after paying more than double the original fare, were also on their way.

That left just four. Still on the side of the road. Still dusty. Still unsure as to how we were going to get out of this town tonight and, if not, where we would be sleeping. I had by now decided that it would not, preferably, be in a farm house of any description. They, I deduced, were the most likely to be housing inbred, bloodthirsty, psychotic families. Nor anywhere that looks as though the owner may, possibly, have at some stage in their life, operated heavy machinery, such as chain saws. Also, although unlikely in Asia, with anyone named Igor. I’m not sure why, I just don’t like the name. You shouldn’t trust anyone named Igor.

The four remaining were us, and an Aussie couple from Brisbane, named Jake and Atalanta. We were the backpackers in the group. We had refused to pay anything for a journey we had already paid for. We had principles. We were skint.

And then something miraculous happened. A taxi stopped next to us. The driver listened to our tale of woe. He looked almost interested. There was even a slight hint of concern on his face. And then (following discreetly being handed a roll of notes by the restaurant owner, obviously keen to see the back of us) declared that they would take us the rest of the way. Without charge. Well, no more than the plump restaurateur had already given them at least.

We were saved. We purchased a beer each by way of a celebration and drank them in our new - free - transport.

It took a further three hours to reach the world heritage listed city of Luang Prabang. The driver stopped at one stage for a smoke break. Not the legal kind. It was a little after 22:30 when we arrived. The dark blue evening sky was brightened by the glow of the moon and the air was cool. Much more so than where we had come from, further south. It was nice.

We booked into the guesthouse where we were dropped off. It was a good price and the rooms were spacious and clean. We even had a television. Albeit with only the one fuzzy excuse of a working channel. The guesthouse was situated down a narrow passageway adjoining the main road that runs parallel to the Mekong river.

The following morning we headed out for our first look at this wonderful city. Sandwiched between the Mekong and Nam Khan rivers, you will find row upon row of French inspired and beautifully crafted dark wood buildings. Several stunning red and gold watts with orange clad monks wandering silently. Scores of bars and eateries, ranging from the sophisticated bistro’s to the delicious night markets. All set amongst an old quarter made of up of a number of delightful riverside streets and narrow alleys and bathed daily in seemingly ever present golden sunlight. If you could sum up Luang Prabang in one word it would be; stunning. I will admit here and now that, for me, this is easily the most quant, picturesque city I have had the privilege of visiting.

There was in fact only one disappointment when it comes to our stay here and that came at the very end, with our early morning rise to take in the spectacle of the local monks collecting their daily alms. Traditionally, following the sound of gongs, breaking the silence of night and acting as a wakeup call, this ritual would have involved the residents of the city lining the pathway each morning and passing out portions of rice and other foods to passing Buddhist monks as they passed by on their way from their temple homes. The modern day version is somewhat different however and, frankly, nothing like we were hoping or expecting to see.

What we found were a long line of tourists lining the route of the monks, kneeling in front of pots of sticky rice sold to them by the locals. The same locals that, at one stage, used to be the ones in their place but had since decided that profit is of greater benefit to them than preservation of tradition. As saddening as that is, who can blame them either.

Those tourists that were not attempting to ‘experience’ this once sacred tradition were waiting, with blinding flash bulbs at the ready, for the opportunity to thrust them into the faces of the passing monks. And that is exactly what they did.

What we witnessed was a show. A tourist attraction. Not a traditional ritual.

As I said, it was disappointing to say the least.

This one blemish aside though, the remainder of our time here was nothing but amazing. From the serenity of the city itself to the genuine friendliness of the people. Oh, and not to forget the delicious food.

Take our first morning for example. Not just the beginning of a new day but also the period of time in which we were fortunate enough to have stumbled upon the famous Luang Prabang fruit smoothie. For those of you heading that way, they can be found at the sight of the night market. They are there all day. Every day. All the roughly half litre plastic cups are stacked with the generous portions of fruit residing inside. You pick which one you want from an assortment of every different fruit you can imagine. All fresh that day. These are, without doubt, the best fruit smoothies, in the world, ever. Some statement but trust me when I say, well justified. And they cost all of about 30p.

There’s a question for you: What can you buy for 30p at home these days? These being the days of penny sweets that actually, and shockingly, cost two pence. I mean seriously, have peoples wages doubled since those bygone days of the humble one penny sweet costing exactly that? No, of course not. Then how is that justified!? Inflation of 100%. False advertising if you ask me. Its appalling.

Anyway, where were we? Right, the smoothie. So, following on from those magnificent smoothies, as if that wasn’t enough, we also made the monumental discovery of quite possibly the worlds greatest chicken baguette. And both purchased from the same market, on the same street, in the same city. What are the chances?

Now, before we move on I feel it necessary to expand a little in relation to the aforementioned chicken baguettes. They require a more in depth description in order for you to fully appreciate the wonder that these crusty golden French inspired snacks entail. I’m talking succulent chicken breast. Crisp, fresh lettuce. Juicy tomato. Crunchy onion. Generously sliced cucumber. A smidgin of salt and pepper (not too much you understand, just enough to taste). Possibly a light helping of creamy mayonnaise and, if your feeling exotic, topped off with a slither of sweet chilli sauce. All contained within a freshly baked baguette and hand made to order. It was glorious in its simplicity and stunning in its delivery. Oh yes, it was divine.

So, does anyone care to guess how much they cost? Anybody?

Well, roughly, give or take a penny or two, about 60p. So to summarise, that was about half a litre of pure fresh fruit and a chicken and crisp, fresh salad baguette - for around 90p.

Now can you see why we loved this place?

Understandably, this quickly became a morning ritual during our time here.

It was also during this first morning that we ran into Jake and Atalanta, also with baguette and smoothie in hand, and arranged to visit one of the local waterfalls with them and two of their friends, Paul and Stella, a little later. Paul, so you know, was a Puerto Rican currently residing in Ney York City and Stella, like us, hailed from the green and pleasant shores of England.

The waterfall itself is situated amidst an area of national park about a half an hour drive away from the city centre. It really is stunning. Cascading turquoise waterfalls dropping the height of a small office block, filling a large oval pool at the foot before continuing down a number of other small falls, beneath wooden bridges, and into a number of sedate swimming holes. One of which is decorated with a rope swing. Another with a fully functioning miniature water wheel. We spent most of the day here, climbing up the side of the hillside to the top of the falls as well as taking the time to have a - very quick - dip in the icy blue waters. And it was indeed freezing.

Also contained within the national park and well worth a visit is the relatively small bear sanctuary. All of the bears housed here are rescued from the numerous bile farms located around the country and beyond. I hadn’t heard of bile farming prior to our visit but, trust me when I say, it can only be described as horrific. Look it up and you’ll see what I mean. On that score the work that is done here at the sanctuary can only be applauded, not only in rescuing the bears but also in highlighting this barbaric industry.

The following two days passed by with us doing nothing more than relaxing and enjoying the sights and tastes of the city. We visited a few of the Watts, sampled some more of the local cuisine, including a coconut dumpling purchased from the man with the beaming smile. He can be found each day along the side of the street that plays host to the night market. He will be the one in front of a small white cart and sporting the infectious ear to ear smile. With a smile like that we simply had to try one of whatever he happened to be selling. I even asked for a picture with him. As expected, he offered his agreement by way of a smile.

In the evenings we visited the impressive night market that, by around six o’clock, takes over a section of the main street and offers some really nice handmade local crafts as well as the usual collection of tourist tack. More often than not we emerged with bags in hand and a touch lighter in the back pocket.

“When in Rome”, as they say.

And then there is food alley.

Technically a part of the night market, and located just off the main street, food alley is literally that. An alley that is home to a collection of food stalls. It is sometimes uncomfortably crowded. There’s also more than a suspicion that if health and safety from back home got a look at it, well, it wouldn’t be around for too long. Despite that though, It is seriously amazing. You wont need me to describe in any detail where it can be found. Just thrust your nose in the air and follow the sweet scent of fresh barbeque that fills the market of an evening. If you happen to be a vegetarian - fear not, for Luang Prabang shall provide. One of the ridiculously cheap, ‘all you can eat’, vegetarian buffets will ensure your love affair with this place continues.

It was also here at the market that I happened upon a very interesting man. He was a local. A few inches short of six foot. Slender in build and with short, jet black hair. He was a market trader and, as I wandered innocently around, perusing the various offerings, he began talking to me, offering me a number of his items for a “good price”. They were, he pointed out, “cheap cheap”. At this point all was well. And then the following conversation took place and that all changed…

“Where are you from?” He asked.

“England”. I replied, courteously.

“Ahh…” Beamed the market trader, “…I have boyfriend from England”.

Well, this was definitely different. I stood there, trying to look passive, frowning and nodding my head slightly. ‘Fair play to him’, I thought, ‘at least he’s open about it‘.

And then he continued, whilst smiling at me.

“I have many boyfriends, from Thailand, Australia, England”.

“I have many boyfriends everyday”.

Everyday? Wow.

He was still smiling at me. Nodding his head at the same time.

That had to be lost in translation, right? I mean, surely? Whether it was or not though, that was enough for me. I was off. On my bike. I looked back once, I’m not sure why, maybe acting on some sort of instinct, you know, to check he wasn’t following me or something. He was still smiling.

That particular evening also happened to be Jake and Atalanta’s final one here. They were moving on first thing the following morning to a small village north from here where Jake had arranged to do some volunteer work in rebuilding the local school. As a result we had arranged to head to the Chinese bowling alley for a few drinks and, well, possibly even a spot of bowling. In case you are unaware, there are strictly enforced curfews on all businesses here in Luang Prabang. As a result, all bars, restaurants and everything else, close their doors at 23:00. The only place that remains open, and importantly, serving alcoholic beverages, is the Chinese bowling alley a ten minute tuk-tuk ride from town.

Legend has it, that the Chinese gentleman responsible for establishing this mythical watering hole has, on many occasions, been ordered by the authorities to adhere to the general curfews and close down in line with everyone else. Each time, however, he has given them the proverbial finger and remained open. To this day. Sticking it to the establishment. What a guy.

There is an amusing sign above the cocktail bar inside that states:

“Best cocktails in bowling”.

Not, ‘the best cocktails in the world’, oh no, just the best ‘in bowling‘. And not ‘all bowling’, either. Just this one. In this particular building.

Wow. Now that there is a daring statement. They must struggle to live up to that weighty claim. I was impressed.

And that, my friends, is pretty much the tale of our visit to this fair city. Before we wrap up this particular blog entry however, there was one final activity that we had the immense pleasure of partaking in. One that we had both been looking forward to since leaving home over ten months ago.

Ill give you a clue: The name of the city, ‘Luang Prabang’, translated literally, means ‘land of a million elephants’.

Any ideas?

Uh-huh, that’s right, we were off to ride elephants. Well, more accurately we’d signed up to a one day Mahout elephant training course at the Elephant Village, which is located around half an hour drive out of town. It was quite expensive in relation to our budget at around $50 each, but to be honest, we simply couldn’t come all this way and not do it. Budget or no budget.

It didn’t disappoint either. The day involved three main activities:

1. An elephant trek through the jungle, riding on the elephants back in one of those throne-like seat things.
2. Learning some basic Mahout commands and then applying your newfound knowledge to an actual - live - elephant. Today, our elephant was a female named Mau Pua.
3. Taking your elephant down to the nearby river and washing it by way of a reward for its days efforts.

Before we got started we stood and read the bullet pointed list of the various commands used by the Mahouts. The same commands that we were now set to be using ourselves. At the very bottom of the notice however, in bold lettering, one particular sentence struck me. It read:

“No matter what - DO NOT TRUST AN ELEPHANT”.

Well that did it, if I wasn’t a touch apprehensive before, now, as the magnificent creature we were to be training with approached, I was on the cusp of soiling myself. I was rigid with fear. Right then and there I made a brave decision to let Aimee go first.

Unlike a horse, with an elephant you ride at the back of its head, with your knees wedged in behind its huge, flapping ears. Your hands, if needed, use the top of the head for support. The hairs on an elephants head are like those of a wire brush as well. In case you were wondering.

In order to mount an elephant, it first kneels to allow you to use its front leg as a step before arching your other leg over the back of its neck. Sounds simple enough right? Aimee didn’t think so as she stood on the huge beasts graciously extended leg and attempted to thrust her other leg over the back of its neck. I have to admit, it was a valiant effort on her part, but ultimately an effort destined for failure. The Mahout accompanying her, having witnessed this decidedly un-elegant attempt, then decided to give her a helping hand - or shove in this case - from behind. And that was it. She was up and sitting, a little awkwardly, on the back of an elephants head.

It was a sight to behold. Mahout Evripidou was born.

And then it was my turn.

With happy thoughts. Thoughts of nice elephants. Elephants like Dumbo, I ambled over towards the kneeling beast. It seemed even bigger close up. Although remarkably gentle.

Surprisingly, after some deep breaths, I managed to climb up pretty easily and before I knew it I was nestled tightly in behind the head. Knees extended to the backs of the ears, feet wedged against its shoulders and hands clawing tightly at what I believed to be the elephants forehead. Poor thing. What had it done to deserve having me thrust upon it, clinging desperately to its perfectly innocent skull.

My Mahout training passed by in a blur. Whereas Aimee had attempted to practice the basic commands whilst, as the time progressed, at least looking a touch comfortable, I, on the other hand, was completely rigid, staring intently at the back of the elephants head, as if to read its thoughts in case it was planning a daring escape, a dash towards the jungle with me captive perhaps, clinging like a baby monkey to the back of its head. I was, as far I was concerned, clinging for dear life.

That initial fear did subside, if only slightly, as the day progressed. It was an amazing experience. To ride on the back of such a magnificent creature, whilst feeling its giant joints moving beneath you was something hard to describe and even harder to forget.

Without doubt, the highlight of the day came at the end as we again mounted the rears of the various elephant craniums and guided them down towards - and then into - the nearby river. This must be something akin to the elephant toilet. That is, judging by the fact that a number of them, at this point, decided this was a nice spot for a ‘number two‘. As such there were more than a couple of elephant sized floaters hovering with intent nearby, just waiting to advance, along with the current, towards those unlucky enough to fall into the murky waters.

Well, ill tell you now, that was not going to be me. Again I was clinging as if my life depended on it, whilst at the same time attempting to scrub the huge mammal down with the scrubbing brush I had been handed by the Mahout riding shotgun with me.

Besides the fear of swimming alongside floating lumps of poo however, again it was a surreal experience. Ambling along the wide, flowing river, sitting atop of the largest mammal in the world today, casting fleeting glances left and right, at the various villagers out fishing in the shallow waters, or washing their clothes. It was an insight into the history of this amazing country. Of another time. A time long since passed. There were no sounds of car engines. No sounds of anything manmade in fact. Not here. It was, well, peaceful.

What we were lucky enough to experience today ranks favourably with anything else we have done up to now and, I would expect, will also hold its own with anything we may do in the future. If anyone due to visit here is having doubts about doing this due to the money involved, which to be fair, by normal standards is not a lot, but when you are backpacking, it certainly is, then I would say - just do it. You won’t regret it. If you do indeed press ahead with your own elephant encounter however, bare this one warning in mind:

NEVER TRUST AN ELEPHANT.

And with those words of wisdom I will leave you all to proceed with your day. That was, sadly, the end of our time in Luang Prabang. We departed the following morning, heading towards a small village named “Muang Ngoi” a few hours north of here.

This particular village is only accessible by boat and has no electricity. It is a glimpse of what I would consider to be the ‘real’ side of Laos.

We were looking forward to it…