Massage Techniques of Indochina Comparative Test: Laos

As an extension to the easygoing way of life on the slowboat, staying in Luang Prabang is not what you would call demanding nor stressful. A sleepy province town of 16,000 inhabitants breathes an air of tropical sleepiness mixed with some remnants of French colonial influence, which makes it a very uncomplicated place for Westerners. It is like a hotspot for hippies, but then without the hippies or their mellow take on life. Far out dude.


After seeing a few temples – I already suffer from temple overkill, and’ve seen more buddhas than toilet paper in this country, which is a worrying notion (don’t panic, I’ve got my own stash) – having a fresh fruitshake on a patio overlooking the Mekong, strolling the various marketplaces (coming up: a new series of ‘Tastes Good On The Bun’!), there is only one thing left to do: having a nice, one hour long massage in one of the many parlours in town.

Before I start describing my experimental findings for this comparative assessment, I may need to clarify a few things for the sake of good science: so-called massages with the proverbial ‘happy end’ are not included in this research. They have nothing to do with the ancient art of muscle kneading (that ain’t a muscle, you know), and although undeniably pleasant, it is a perverted crossbreed with the oldest profession in the world, which would discolor my scientific results in an unforgivable way.


Anyway, back to the massage. My two fellow researchers and I chose the 1 hour body massage and were appointed three matrasses on a dark teak platform (even the woodworks in the muckiest of places here is made from the finest homegrown teak) and given pyjama-like outfits. Three ladies greeted us shyly but friendly and got to work immediately. Despite being small with slender features, they managed to apply a surprising amount of pressure on every muscle in legs and feet. Our local guide had taught us that we could change the force of the manipulation by uttering the words ‘bao bao’ or ‘nak nak’. Unfortunately, I had forgotten which one meant ‘harder’ and which one ‘softer’ and I did not want to sacrifice the feeling in one of my legs by finding out.
While working on legs, back or arms, the three ladies engaged in softly spoken conversation in the wonderful, bubbling Lao language or local dialect (note to Belgian government idiots: this country has 46 minorities who all speak different languages. Please do not pretend that you’ve got a big puzzle to solve). We wondered what they were talking about and if they were talking about us, but since we were chatting away ourselves, they probably asked the same questions.
Time passed by like a coked out cheetah with its ass on fire. I got up on my feet feeling a bit wobbly, but everything was still in its place. I felt slightly tired in my limbs, but that was just the last acid leaving my muscles. One should know that a mattress is the Laotian idea of a good practical joke.
Legs were twisted, toes cracked, spine pummeled, arms battered... it was pretty tough, and even though it was not painful, I cannot say I thoroughly enjoyed every touch. It all went a bit too fast, it was like she needed to churn me within the hour and then sell me as butter on the evening market. Not quite like the way of life in Laos.
Altogether it was a fun experience and satisfying, but it did not make me step out on the streets reborn. An interesting benchmark for future experiences in Vietnam and Cambodia though (and I can disclose already that it gets even more interesting). So, tally-ho, on the bus for 3 days of travel, after which we reach the city of Hue in good ol' 'Nam.

”Ich Plane Etwas Geografisches”

Making this two-day trip on a slowboat suddenly brought a great movie to mind. Fitzcarraldo by Werner Herzog also features a riverboat, tropical forest with steep hillsides, local tribes and crazy Europeans. All I need to make the analogy complete is a white suit, an opera sung by The Great Caruso and an urge to build an operahouse in the middle of nowhere.

I've Seen That Face Before

You take a plane to Thailand. You take another plane to the north of the country. You drive for two hours until you reach the border. You cross that border, the Mekong river, in a small boat.

You take a tuktuk taxi until you reach the point where you embark on a slowboat. You spend nine hours on that boat, after which you reach a tiny village against the steep hillside bank, deep in the middle of the Indochina subcontinent.

And what is the first thing you see?

A day after this odd encounter, I am still puzzled. How does a plaster cast of Brussels’ most famous inhabitant end up in this tremendously beautiful but godforsaken place. Anyway, it made me feel welcome.

Airports of Bangkok, Unite!

Arriving at Suvarnabhumi airport in Bangkok was not exactly what I had expected. In the concise travel information provided by Shoestring Travels – I should have known that name would come back at me sooner or later – there was one paragraph written in a rather panicky tone. It told me I had to pick up my luggage asap and move towards the exit, where a bus would be waiting for the whole group (which at this point was still a bunch of indistinguishable individuals that did not know each other) to drive to the other side of this vast city. There we would take a domestic flight to Chieng Rai, the start of our three week journey. Hurrying was of the utmost importance, even though there was a six hour layover between the flights.
I have always been a responsible, obedient young fellow, so I rushed off the plane, scooped up my backpack and trotted towards the exit. That exit revealed itself as a four-storey maze of exits to bus stops, taxi stands, tourist desks and foreign exchange bureaus. Lots of grinning people holding signs, but none of them mentioned Shoestring. At this point, a slight sensation of worry nestled behind my right ear. I scratched it away and while humming Theme from Rocky, I continued to look for a bunch of people that looked like fourteen Dutchmen that were looking for one Belgian dude. The closest I came were five Germans haggling with a local over a minibus fair. Uh oh.
An hour later, I called the telephone numbers of Shoestring’s travel agent. ‘We are closed on Sunday’. Rats. Meanwhile, my backpack was getting heavier. I checked if there weren’t any little old Chinese ladies entangled in the straps. There weren’t. I did bring too many books however. I texted the Dutch emergency phone number: I did not want to wake anyone in the middle of the night for doing a booboo, at least not yet: it was clear I hadn’t paid enough attention during the trip. All the other ones had gathered and decided not to wait for me. As much as that was obvious.
After almost two hours, I decided to take a bus to Don Muang airport. Bloody Dutchmen. It this was their sense of humour, it could be a long three weeks. During the 50 minute bus trip, I thought of different ways to get rid of 14 Dutch people ànd make it look like an accident. One in the Mekong river. Another one trapped in an old Vietcong tunnel. One choking on some strange looking indigenous fruit. One arrested for smuggling contraband, the old opium trick. Yeah, that should work. With still plenty of time left, I arrived at Don Muang airport and put my luggage through a security check before dropping my luggage next to the check-in counter.
‘Oh but sir, you mistaken. This flight take off from Suvarnabhumi airport.’
– …What? Excuse me? No, no, this flight take off here.
(It damn well do or else I’ll release some of that deranged Belgian apeshit separatism on the limbs of the next one who says it don’t.)
The friendly lady convincingly pointed out to me that she was not mistaken. But there was nothing to panic, because superspeedy van could take me back to Suvarnabhumi in no time. Besides, I still had three hours and counting.
I decided to chill out, not have a cow and take ‘er easy in one big shrug. Slumped under my luggage, I went to seek the superspeedy van which turned out to be indeed superspeedy, racing back to my original point of entry in less than 40 minutes.
I got checked in and could not help but notice a slight sense of irony when thinking how the hell I was going to spend another two hours. If you ever end up in that situation, I have a tip for you: reading Douglas Adams is a splendid solution. Then again, reading Adams is always a splendid solution. There is hardly a better way to spend free time. I suppose lying in the sun on the deck of a slowboat on the mighty Mekong river drinking Laotian beer could top that. But not much else.

In fact, I am lying in the sun on that boat while I am writing this. But I’ll tell you about that tomorrow, when I arrive in Luang Prabang, a Unesco-protected village, about which I’ll enlighten you the day after when travelling to Vientiane, possibly the first time I’ll have an internet connection to actually get this story on-line. Which means it actually doesn’t make an awful lot of sense to write about past, present and future in the according tenses. But why am I telling you this? I have totally cocked up my chronology now. Probably it’s because I don’t give a rat’s ass, given the unmistakably mind-boggling fact that I am lying in the sun on a slowboat, gliding down the Mekong river in the direction of what all fifteen Lonely Planet guides on this boat describe as ‘the most laidback place on earth’. Bring it on.

Een koe.

'Vrije tijd is de tijd die er over blijft
wanneer men zijn werk gedaan heeft
en waarmee men geen raad weet.'

Marten Toonder