It all started when we woke up (obviously thats when the day starts derrrr). Rocking some terrible hangovers and bad breath from the previous nights festivities, we crawled out of our beds and threw on a three day unwashed shirt and pair of skid marked stained underwear, reversed of course. We mumbled a few sentences to the other people in our dorm in a language that somewhat resembled English and hobbled out of the hostel into the blaring sun outside. Two bears coming out of hibernation after eating (and drinking) too much during the cold winter. Except here in Laos its 30 degrees and we're not bears. Terrible metaphor. Anyyyyyyyway... we zombied to the nearest convenience store and bought a few bottles of water to get re-hydrated again. "No drinking today", we say to each other. We both know were kidding ourselves though. We're in a country where beers are $1 so we're definitely drinking its just a question of when. It's like a 200kg guy saying he's not going to have deep fried food today when he wakes up, it's going to happen.
So we venture out onto the main road and see a tuk tuk full of young foreigners fly past, people hanging off the back and sitting on the roof. If travel insurance companies knew what 20 something year olds were doing in Laos at the moment they'd be rolling in their graves and upping their premiums. Then again it's no surprise that the infamous tubing in Laos was cancelled with the amount of deaths and injuries that occur to foreigners here. In a country where few regulations exist, Laos is like giving the keys of a pharmacy to a drug addict, shit's gonna get crazy and crazy fast.
We yell out to the intoxicated guy on the roof of the tuk tuk, "Where are you going?". He looks at us as if to say, have you guys been living under a rock for the last few days before, screaming over the loud exhaust, "Is Justin's birthday at the pool party", in a terrible Spanish accent ala Rafael Nadal. As the tuk tuk gains momentum, Dylan and I look at each other through blood shot eyes and sense the beginning of something chaotic. We break into a stride and throw ourselves onto the back railing just as the tuk tuk breaks away.
Outside, the 'pool bar' looks like nothing more than a house in the ghetto. A dusty road reveals a shockingly painted aqua blue house with a sign saying La Pistoche and 'Justin's birthday'. Whoever was the exterior decorator for this place should have been shot after finishing the job. But as we enter through the gate, all memories of the peeling retro paint are forgotten as a crystal turquoise blue pool reveals itself. An oasis in a sweltering desert. The sounds of Jack Johnson meet our ears and the splashing and laughing of a group of soaking wet Danish girls playing pool volleyball instantly causes our hearts to skip a beat. It's like the scene from Top Gun where they're playing volleyball minus the gayness.
It's around 1pm and there are already some 100 people sitting huddled around the small backyard pool, sunglasses on, tops off and colorful cups in hands. With piercing headaches and turbulent stomachs we think best to take it easy and drink water, rehydrate for the long hot day. After a battle of paper, scissors, rock, Dylan as loser goes to get the waters. As if it was a signal, a large Dutch girl resembling a Teletubby comes paddling over to me in a pool tube. I give short one word answers to her questions, a hint to cut off the conversation. She's drunk and she's annoying and she's only making my headache worse. Just when I'm about to tell her I need to go to the toilet (even though I'd just gone 2 minutes ago), Dylan arrives a night in shining coconut oil with a bottle in each hand. I sigh a breath of relief as Dylan pushes through the dense crowd, reaching out to give me the bottle...of beer. "You're kidding!?", I yell at him almost pushing him in the pool and feeling a deep gurgle in my stomach at the view of the foul amber liquid. Dylan stares back at me with a retarded grin, "They're free man, Justin's put $1500 behind the bar, free drinks all day for everyone!". Unlike in Australia and Canada, we realise that amount of money will go along way thanks to $1 beers and $2 cocktails.
The annoying Dutch Teletubby
Our hangovers from the previous night evaporate instantly, a new found energy aided by the mellow tunes, cooling water and thought of a day's drinking by the pool. I take my golden ticket off Dylan ready to enter Willy Wonka's factory.
3 hours later...
After a day poolside, drinking fruit cocktails and expensive top shelf whiskey our spirits are high, judgment poor and confidence in excess. A small ledge next to the pool catches our eye and we begin discussing the various acrobatic maneuvers we're going to perform. Double back flips, somersaults and perfectly executed dives are the first things that come to mind and flashbacks of Olympic diving off 10 metre high boards fill our heads. However after a few minutes it becomes evident that our expectations and confidence have both exceeded our ability to do any of these things. Even a simple dive suddenly looks like were two mentally disabled people trying to dive for the first time. Back flips become belly whackers, somersaults become somerfaults and dives become face plants. We've quickly became the entertainment everyone's been waiting for.
 |
| 10 minutes before 'the incident' |
I take a massive run up off the platform and launch myself into a David Hasselhoff dive. Flying through the air I crash into the water, and quickly penetrate the water, underestimating the depth of the water. I crash into the concrete bottom of the pool with my skull and rebound back up to the surface with a throbbing head. "Ouch" I groan, staring around at the staring faces with stars in my eyes. I spot Dylan next to me and moan, "I think I hit my head", laughing as i hold an already developed bump. I feel liquid drip into my eyes and taste the bitterness of blood and Dylan looks at me mouth wide open before telling me that I've got blood dripping down my face.
Leaving a trail of blood behind me, I exited the pool and was met by an entourage of concerned onlookers, including the Canadian owner of the pool and a nurse willing to offer her services, stopping the flow of blood from a deep gash.
Minutes later, I'm in the back of a tuk tuk flying down the road at breakneck speed on the way to the hospital, blood dripping down my chest onto the road behind. Anyone at the pool wanting to find me would only have to follow the 3km trail of blood on the dusty road leading to the hospital.
As we arrive at the hospital, a group of white lab coated men lead me into a small room where a local anaesthic is injected into my head. "Please be a clean needle", I think. Lying down on a bed I'm explained through a series of hand signs that I'm going to need stitches. Having heard the reputation of Laos hospitals and poor hygeine/quality care, I'm reluctant to continue but don't exactly have any other choice.
I know that Dylan is quite capable sewing buttons onto his pants but for the time being a Laos doctor will suffice. So I'm lying down with a numb head and cloth on my face, awaiting to feel my brain being played with by an ill directed needle. Next thing I hear the sound of scissors and clumps of hair being cut. Im being given an inverted Mohawk. Great. He continues by stitching up my split head, directing each stitch with such precision that I feel each one intensely despite the anaesthetic. I consider asking Dylan to take over with his one pant button of.stitching experience.
Nearing the end of the patch job, and still feeling quite numb I feel liquid running down my leg. "Ey dude I think you just wet yourself", Dylan starts laughing. I feel the embarassment on my face piercing through the cloth on me. I can't believe I just pissed like a 3 year old. Thoughts of me walking back to the hostel smelling like urine send me into a day dream before I'm bought back to reality by a punch in the arm. "I'm joking man I just poured water on your crutch", Dylan cackles, happy that he's just played a practical joke on a guy with a cracked head, who's high on pain killers and with a cloth on his face. Dylan doesn't stop there. Next he's putting sunglasses over the cloth on my face. The doctor doesn't find this amusing.
Having a huge bandage around my head gained me instant celebrity status that night in the small city of Luang Prabang. People came up and expressed their well wishes and admiration of my stupidity, somewhat of a rite of passage for one in Laos. With six stitches in my head, and a cracking headache that matched the one of the hungover earlier that morning, Dylan and myself both agreed that the day had came to an end that was to be the drama for the night, however the night had just began...
As all the bars close at 11:30pm in Luang Prabang, the congregation of youth converge on the only place that can serve liquor after this time, the local bowling alley. What better way to entertain young drunks then to give them 7kg balls to hurl down a slippery wooden alley, whilst selling bottles of $8 whiskey. A recipe for disaster. Things to be expected under such conditions include someone throwing a ball through the roof after getting a finger stuck in the ball and the roof collapsing over the lanes, an English guy bowling with his pants down (to the horror of the conservative Laos locals) and a girl running down the lane sliding on her stomach and crashing through the pins for a painful strike. That was her only strike for the game by the way.
We hopped in a tuk tuk and gunned it out of the bowling alley, with the legal capacity of 6 passengers more than doubled as per usual.
Arriving at our destination we poured out onto the street, all naive enough to believe that someone else had paid. Up the road we heard an echo of drums and tambourines as an early morning parade of Buddhist monks curved around the corner and forced us further up the street ala Running of the Bulls in Spain. Caught up in the crowd we continued dancing with until it had dispersed some 500 meters further down. At this stage we had lost everyone and it was only Dylan and myself who remained standing alone in the middle of the road. From behind us we hear a skidding of brakes and turn around just in time to see an enraged tuk tuk driver shouting at us. "You pay! You pay!", he shouts turning the now quiet street into a thunderous roar. Not knowing what to say, I draw on the famous quote of Entourage's Ari Gold 'deny 'til you die'. "I've already paid you!", I shout back with equaling intimidation, towering over the 5 foot Laos man. The driver runs back to his tuk tuk and returns a few seconds later. "You give me 40,000 kip!", he yells in broken English whilst I stand a metre from him with a smile on my face. "30,000 kip!", I reply with my counteroffer, a normal bargaining practice in South-East Asia. With a dead serious look, Dylan urges me to "just pay him." Sensing something is wrong I concede defeat and give in to the tuk tuk driver's demands.
Dylan's perspective:
I know a crazy look in an eye when I see it and this tuk tuk driver was pissed. I mean who wouldn't be pissed if you catered to a group of loud tourists, agreeing on a set price, before they all scatter away indignantly.
As soon as the driver got out of his tuk tuk, and josh made his first protest, I saw him reach back in and pull out a 6 inch dagger from under his seat and put it behind his back. I still have the image of the blade in my head. It was sharp, curved and looked vicious- almost like a blade he would have sharpened himself. Being on a different angle to Josh, I had a clear view of the rustic weapon. Josh had obvious dulled senses from hitting his head and due to his angle, didn't see the blade. As soon as I saw the knife I slipped off my flip flops, in the event of sudden conflict. I immediately looked at Josh with panic and a dead serious gaze and said calmly but assertively "Josh... Pay him." To my horror Josh made one last protest not knowing a few stitches on his head could be the very least of his worries. As I emptied the money in my pocket, I said "Josh pay him now." Josh made eye contact with me and saw the seriousness in my eyes. Handing what money I had to the tuk tuk driver he rejected it all, except the 20 000 kip we each owed.
I still get flashbacks of the knife, and the fury of the driver. In typical bratpacker fashion, once the driver had left we looked at each other and said "boys will be boys." But for that day, it was fair to say idiots will be idiots.
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