Where’s the Crazy? Tubing in Vang Vien

I don’t like inner tubes. They have to be the most ridiculous, awkward form of transportation ever invented. The tubing experience in Vang Vien was described to me by a fellow traveler as “crazy, drunken excess”, so I couldn’t leave town without giving it a look.

The tubing business here is quite a racket. A trip down the river will run you 55,000 kip ($7 US), which buys you a 50 cent tuk tuk ride and a $1 tube rental. If you return the tube after 6:00 pm, they take an extra 20,000 kip out of your deposit, despite the fact that they’re open until 8 pm every night. I chafe, of course, at spending more than a night’s rent on such a short trip, but it’s the only game in town — the local Tubing Association sets the price and makes sure everyone sticks to it.

The tuk tuk takes six others, my buddy Stu, and I about three kilometers upstream and drops us off at a nice flat spot by the river. I throw my cheap dry bag over my shoulder and back into the swiftly-moving water successfully — so far so good. The water is surprisingly cold and it’s a cloudy day, so the whole experience is much less refreshing than I’d hoped.

We float just a couple hundred yards down the river before reaching the first bar, where a young man throws a small, two-foot diameter tube with a rope attached and pulls us in. It’s 1:00 pm and the place is packed — the party is going strong, music blaring. It’s just what I expected, a real MTV Spring Break scene, with a hundred backpackers standing around talking or dancing, all clutching cheap whiskey buckets and drinking with abandon. A young American wanders about with plastic sunglasses that have huge pot leaves on the bridge and a handwritten headband that says “I’m your bitch”.

A swing arcs out over the river and there’s a steady line of people waiting their turn to conquer their fears and please the crowd. One guy tries to do a flip but only manages a spectacular belly flop from ten feet in the air, earning a loud, groaning cheer from the mob. The current here is even faster and the river guys have to be quick to fish the jumpers out before they drift too far.

Stu and I grab a beer and find a spot at a picnic table where we can watch the proceedings, eliciting a few looks and whispered comments, since we’re the only ‘old guys’ here. Within the next couple hundred yards, we can see at least a half dozen bars leaning out over the water — this place looks to be just as over-the-top as I’ve heard. I’m psyched.

A couple of French college students join us and explain that they’d arrived in Laos with a ten-year-old guidebook. The guidebook described a tube ride as “relaxing and peaceful” — apparently, things have changed.

After the beers are gone, we decide to hop back in the water and check out some of the bars downstream. The first one we pass is dead quiet, with a single tourist sitting on the deck, drinking a beer and looking bored. The next two are completely empty. It’s low season and early in the day — no one is venturing downstream yet. Bye bye, crazy party scene.

We happily float down the river for awhile, enjoying incredible views of the limestone karst that dominates the river. It’s several hundred feet high and covered in trees and vines, with patches of bare, weathered limestone — we have it all to ourselves.

It starts to rain as we’re rounding a bend, and there’s a bar on the far side that seems to have a crowd, so we paddle our way over. Stu is fished in and I manage to maneuver into place, feeling pretty pleased with myself. Approaching the deck several feet overhead, I find what I think is solid ground with my right foot. As I go to stand up, I learn that the ‘solid ground’ is really just a single, pointy rock — my left foot steps into ten feet of water and I go head-over into the river.

As I surface, the river guy beans me in the head with a tube and I have to choose between grabbing the rope or my inner tube. The rope wins. My right sandal has come loose and dangles from my foot as I try to swim with just my left leg. The dry bag is wrapped around my neck, strangling me — not my most graceful entrance, to say the least.

One of the river guys dives in and saves my tube — I’m so busy spitting water and recovering my balance that I don’t think to thank him. As I finally scrabble up to the main deck, coughing and sputtering, Stu grins and says “Nice dismount”. Thanks, man.

The bar is packed and we quickly buy another round, finding a spot to stand out of the rain. As I’m shaking water out of my ear, Stu says, “I think we’re the only white guys here.” I look around and he’s right — the place is packed with young Lao twenty-somethings and families. They’re all dressed sharply, as if it was a night on the town. And no one is wet. Or drinking…

We don’t feel unwelcome at all, but everyone is careful to avoid eye contact — it’s as if we’re invisible. Afraid to break the spell, we both stand in the same spot without moving for a half hour, just watching and soaking up the experience.

Families have brought their own food and crowd around low tables, sipping sodas or juice they’ve bought from the bar. Kids run about, laughing and squealing, while the twenty-somethings gather in groups and chat or check their cell phones. Lady Gaga blasts out of the speakers.

The place has a high swing and the Lao daredevils make the most of it, swinging out over the river and mugging for the crowd before diving in with a huge splash. After an hour or so, a few more people show up and stand nearby, sipping on whiskey buckets. At last, we aren’t the only boozers here.

One of them is a friendly young woman who runs a hotel and bar in town. She explains that this isn’t the normal scene here — it’s a school holiday and college kids are making the most of the break. They like to come here to “watch the farang,” she explains. She laughs when I say “same same”.

The rain finally stops. As we go to leave, she invites us to visit her at the bar later — only after I’m at the water’s edge do I realize that she never mentioned the name of the place. Dammit. Standing on the pointy rock and crabbing my way into the tube is tricky, but I finally get settled in without further embarrassing myself.

After another kilometer or so, we spot Last Bar and make our way over, unwilling to head home yet. As we get closer to shore, the bar’s ‘fisherman’ shows up to help us out. Instead of a tube, he has an eight-foot length of tapering bamboo that he hurls at me — I’m trying to buy a beer and the guy is attacking me with a spear. I have just enough time to yell “Gah!” and hold my hands over my head before the spear lands several feet away, out of reach. Thanks for nothing, dude.

The bar is as basic as it gets: rough wood planks and bamboo with a thatched roof and a stereo pumping out mellow, funky tunes. They even have a small fire going on a raised bed for ambiance — very nice on a cool, rainy day. And again, we have it all to ourselves. We’ll sit here for a couple of hours, watching the river flow by while drinking cold Beer Lao.

The river traffic is thin and sometimes twenty minutes or more will pass without seeing another tube or kayak. When one of us first spots someone in the distance, we both lean forward in anticipation — things are pretty quiet on this part of the river. The river guy tries to fish for tourists as they go by, but he’s really bad at it and misses several potential customers. I think the spear tends to intimidate people.

Eventually, it’s 5:30 and we have to head home. Just past the next bend in the river, I see several men building yet another bar, to be named, I’m sure, No, Really… This is the Last Bar. We’ve had a wonderful day on the river –hanging out with the Lao crowd was a unexpected treat– but, I can’t help but feel that I missed something. Where’s the crazy?

Maybe next time . . .

Tagged as: laos, party, rivers, tubing, vang vien