How **not** to travel through Laos on a motorbike — a cautionary tale told many years too late

When people ask me if I ever went to Laos, I buy them a coffee, or a beer, and say, ‘um, well, yeah, I did go once, but…’ And then I tell them this story.

TWO FRIENDS IN HANOI had just travelled to Laos and back. They’d rented motorbikes in Vientiane, rode up and down a ‘stupidly - ridiculously beautiful country’, and only crashed once (when drunk and trying to ride back to their guest-house with two backpackers also on board). It all sounded good to me, so I decided to fly from Hanoi to Vientiane and give it a go myself. The year was 2001, or maybe 2002.

Now, no one can say I was completely unprepared, because I did bring a screwdriver. I also had that yoke you use to remove a spark plug. And maybe a couple of spare spark plugs. And a spanner.

See, in the Vietnamese countryside, that was more than I ever needed when riding around on a two-stroke biped (either a Minsk or, less wisely, an MZ). I’d broken down in most provinces north and west of Hanoi and always managed to ride triumphantly back into town, as if I’d known what I was doing all along.

But I’d never known what I was doing. Whenever I tried and failed to re-start my stalled bike, somewhere deep in the sticks, I would just stand there, either scratching my head, or with my hands on my hips, until a countryside man — also on a two-stroke — rode up the road (usually within minutes) and slowed down, as if he instinctively knew the clueless foreigner needed a hand.

They’d always start a diagnosis by knocking their knuckles on the side of the tank to see if it was empty (yeah, um, more than once it was). Sometimes, if I’d changed the spark-plug, I’d pump too much petrol into the carburettor and flood it, so the local man would open it all up and put it all back together within a few minutes (a near magical feat in my eyes). Sometimes, after the engine had ‘rested’ a while, the local man would just do the old ‘turn the engine off - kick twice - turn the engine on - kick once’ routine and lo, behold… the sound of a rumbling engine would break the silence, and after a heartfelt apology-slash-thanks, and a solid two-handed handshake, I’d be on my way again, spluttering to the next breakdown/town.

Laos, I assumed, would be no different — I could be just as useless, mapless and clueless but with a little help from helpful locals, I’d surely find my way back to where I began…

So, I booked a ticket with Laos Aviation, an airline which had — according to one barstool scaremonger — been banned from flying into Bangkok as “they tend to crash planes more than most airlines”. Then on the day of departure, I took the airport bus to Noi Bai International, where I didn’t bother checking in a bag, as if I was just riding to Mai Chau valley and back.

When I went through security, the staff asked me why I had a screwdriver. I told them it was because I had a Minsk khù khờ – literally, and very appropriately, a naive or stupid Minsk.

Everyone had a good chuckle about that.

But then they remembered their professional duties and, after briefly conferring, they told me I couldn’t take it on board. To demonstrate one of the reasons why I couldn’t, one male security took the screwdriver and mimed stabbing himself in the neck.

Everyone also had a good chuckle about that.

When I protested my innocent intentions (just a little), they told me they’d check my ‘toolbox’ (a generous term for a plastic bag) as baggage, and sure enough, after I landed, a young woman from The Lao People's Democratic Republic was standing under an umbrella, somewhere between the runway and the terminal, holding a cardboard box (that looked like it might ordinarily be used for a packed lunch) with my name on it.

In Vientiane, I killed a couple of days walking along one (minuscule but grand) bank of the Mekong, admiring its somnolent vibe, and sitting in mostly empty cafes wondering if I would find anyone to drink with in the evening (I didn’t). On my second afternoon, I’d found a motorcycle rental place owned, as it happened, by two Vietnamese brothers. I told them I wanted to ride to Luang Prabang and down through the Plain of Jars. All the bikes they owned were much bigger, more modern machines than the clunky relics I’d ever ridden. In essence, there were two options: Ones with an electric start, ones with no electric start. Fatefully I chose the latter as it was slightly cheaper.

I suppose now would probably be a good time to tell you (confess) that the only footwear I had were a pair of soft leather sandals, purchased at a Vina Giay™️ store in Hanoi. The Vietnamese brothers gave me a very brief introduction to the Yamaha bike I’d selected as if they were confident that I knew what I was doing without there being any evidence to suggest that I did.

They probably also assumed I had a proper pair of sturdy shoes in my hotel.

Anyway, the next morning I set off on my fancy Yamaha in the direction of Vang Vieng, a town well known for its river tubing, limestone caves, centuries-old monasteries and… happy herb pizzas.

Whenever I stopped, I was having trouble restarting the motorcycle and the further I went, the more trouble I had. I soon started to reflect on my ill-advised footwear strategy, but I pressed on in the hope that somewhere in the sparsely populated Laotian countryside, I’d find a pair of size 45 shoes… 

That first day, when on the move, I remember being relaxed enough, exchanging a greeting of sabaidi to any bunch of umbrella-wielding kids I passed, and convincing myself that I’d get better at starting the bike along the way. In Vang Vien, things were soon looking up — I found a pleasant lodge down by the river. A young woman — the daughter of the owners, I think — manned reception. She was attractive and spoke pretty perfect English with an Australian accent I was willing to try influencing for the better. In the afternoon as I wrote in my notebook, and tried to look poetic as I gazed over the Nam Song River, she sometimes strummed a guitar and quietly sang (the Hepburn to my Peppard in my mind), and I wondered if I should just stay in Vang Vieng…

But in the evening, I went to the town, where clusters of backpackers sat looking comatose in cafe-restaurants that sold the town’s signature snack (happy herb pizza) and played episodes of Friends, Seinfeld or Hollywood films like the Matrix. I bumped into two friends from Hanoi and as there was nothing else to do we succumbed to all of the above and drank at least 10 bottles of beer each. In the morning, I decided the sooner I left Vang Vieng the better..

So, after I got the bike started, I set off toward Luang Prabang. I was still convinced things would get better not worse but clearly my kick-start technique had not improved overnight. Every time I had to stop it seemed to take longer and longer to start the bike. Maybe because my right sandal was also now falling apart. And maybe because my right foot was bruised and raw. On more than one occasion, when I saw local men on the road, and gestured toward the stalled bike, and smiled desperately, hoping they could quickly solve all my problems, they stared back at me — as if to say, surely you, the man with the expensive Yamaha motorbike, riding through a sparsely populated land where no one has an expensive Yamaha motorbike, should know how to start/fix it?

At one stage, I tried in vain to get to the spark plug — hoping that, like with my Minsk, if I could change it the bike’s mood would be transformed — but it was a different size to the Minsk spark plug, so my trusty remover was of no use. At some stage it began to rain. I had a poncho but I was still soaking wet. There were also less and less people passing me on the road. I had no idea how far it was to the next town. And, it would soon be dark. A sudden thought hit me. 

That thought was: What. The. Absolute. Fuck. Was. I. Doing?

So, I turned back and rode all the way to Vang Vieng without stopping. I checked in at the same riverside joint, but I was too tired to talk to anyone, and the next morning, having taped my sandals back together, I got the bike started and rode back to Vientiane… 

The two Vietnamese brothers looked puzzled — and a little disappointed — when I turned up at their shop and told them the motorbike had been giving me trouble so I had had to cut the trip short. One of them walked up to it, held one end of the handlebars with one hand and eyed it up as if it to get the angle just right — and then he did the old ‘turn engine off - kick twice - turn the engine on - kick once’ routine, and, of course, it started up straight away. It was only when we all stood there listening to the engine purr like the proverbial cat that one of them noticed my taped up Vina Giay™️ sandals, which he pointed out to his brother, and other family members.  

Everyone had a good chuckle about that. Well, everyone but me.