Biking Around The 4,000 Islands

With seven tourists crammed snugly into a narrow barge we set off along the Mekong, rocking and swaying, weaving around sandbanks and overgrown, uninhabited islands, to Don Khon, right on the Cambodia border. 

Don Khon has countless clusters of wooden bungalows built overlooking the river, each one offering beautiful views and a balcony complete with hammock. Ric and I, in search of peace and serenity, managed to book ourselves into the one place on the island hosting a 48 hour party for dozens of the owner’s friends and family. The loud, grainy music wasn’t too much of an annoyance compared to the revolting smell that came from meat left rotting in the sun. By the afternoon of the second day all the cooking had been done and everyone was too drunk to clean away the animal remains strewn around the yard behind our bungalow. The nauseating smell was accompanied by party guests who occasionally joined us on the balcony to spit or vomit into the river, and gangs of small children who thought our room was part of their playground and who tried to steal my ice-cream. To say we chose unwisely is an understatement. The party was in order to bless the house, which had been built exactly one year ago. The only respite from the Laos folk music straining over the speakers was when a group of monks and family elders performed a Buddhist blessing, chanting in a monotone only slightly less offensive than the music, and lighting enough incense to mask the stench of the meat.

Despite the poor choice of accommodation, Don Khon was a lovely place to spend a couple of days; it is a small island with a population of a few thousand people, somewhat overrun with tourists. Palm trees line the river, as do hippy cafes where travellers pass the day sitting on cushions on the floor, sipping fruit shakes and comparing notes on various sleepy destinations around Laos.

Grazing on the Mekong.

A single home perched on a river island (right). Don Khon bungalows (left).

Over a breakfast of surprisingly good omelettes, we joined forces with a girl from Sweden and another from France and set off on bicycles to find the rapids that slice across the Mekong. We found the first set of rapid with ease, 1.5km from the town. Somphamit falls, although they’re more rapids than waterfalls, crash over a landscape of black, volcanic rocks that would look more at home on the moon than on the edge of this peaceful, flat island. The bar overlooking the falls provided a perfect place to hide from the sun for a few hours and eat a local lunch of spicy papaya salad and sticky rice.

Invigorated after lunch, we decided to extend our bike ride and do a loop of the entire island. This proved to be more challenging than any of us had expected. The island had severe storms every night we stayed there and the roads were a mud bath; we were constantly getting the bikes stuck, having our flip flops swallowed by brown ooze, and occasionally falling off. 3.5km from Somphamit we reached the eastern tip of the island where we climbed to a view point overlooking the river. From here it is possible to see rare irrawady dolphins, but we weren’t that lucky.

Somphamit Falls.

Proceeding along the south side of the island the path got narrower and increasingly overgrown until we had to dismount to duck under trees, dense plant life surrounding us on all sides. When it came to crossing a collapsed bridge we were all questioning whether or not we’d taken a wrong turn, but eventually we emerged and crossed a wobbly suspension bridge onto a tiny island, surrounded by more rapids. Ric and the two girls stripped down to bathe in the Mekong and I was feeling a little jealous for I couldn’t bring myself to swim in my thong in front of the curious local fisherman. I had the last laugh though when I spotted a buffalo shitting into the water just meters away.

We made in back to our noisy, smelly bungalow, covered in mud, just in time for sunset. The loop around the island is entirely flat and easy enough to cycle of a bike with no gears, I imagine it’s much easier in dry season when there’s less mud around.

Tour De France; Lucy crosses the fallen bridge.

Across the river from Don Khon is Don Det, which translates as Ghost Island because of all the dead bodies that float down the Mekong from further upriver and get washed up onto the rocks that surround the island. Don Khon and Don Det are home to a curious railway built by the French in 1893. In search of greater colonial power the French wanted to establish a trade route along the Mekong to China, starting in their flagship colony, Vietnam, and traversing Cambodia and Laos. However, the formidable rapids around Si Pan Don made this impossible, so the French built a tiny, pointless railway which crossed Don Khon and Don Det. The idea was to use a special vessel that would be dismantled at Don Khon, loaded onto a train, transported to the north side of Don Det, reassembled and dropped back into the river.

The railway was abandoned at the start of the Second World War and France lost its colonies in Asia soon after. Today the only evidence of the railway is two rusting steam engines on display and a sturdy concrete railway bridge connecting the two islands. I found it very peculiar that the small island I cycled around in a matter of hours had once had a railway.

Concrete gantry on Don Det, once used to lower boats back into the river.

We Stayed At…

Don Khong – Pon’s Guest House: 50,000kip ($6.25/£3.75) for a large, basic double. Has a nice second floor veranda to relax on and the owner is super friendly and helpful.

Don Khon – Bouphane Guest House: 50,000kip ($6.25/£3.75) for a river front bungalow and hammock, avoid during family parties!

The Plain of Jars

The journey to Phonsavan started at the bus station, where the driver and his cronies were attempting to squeeze 13 people into the 12 seats of our mini bus. These seats are made for slight Asian frames, not the big bums and wide shoulders of western tourists, so when the man suggested four of us share three seats, there was outrage. After an hour and 15 minutes of debating, during which nothing was achieved, we set off with the four smallest passengers sharing three seats. For once I was grateful not to be one of the slimmest in the group; they were in for an uncomfortable eight hour ride.

Our minibus whizzed us off around the tight bends of the mountains along highways 13 and 7 to Phonsavan. Even sitting in the front seat I was as green as the surrounding countryside and was grateful for the odd landslide blocking our way, allowing me to stretch my legs and recover from my nausea.

Phonsavan is an ugly, dusty town that lines highway 7; the only reason people go there is to see the mysterious Plain of Jars. The countryside in northern Laos is scattered with these huge megaliths and nobody really knows why they are there.

Craved from a single stone over 2,000 years ago, the jars are thought to have been used as funerary urns by an Iron Age civilisation. Some measure up to 2m in height.

We decided to cycle to the main jar site (site 1), along Phonsavan’s dusty roads. It is possible to visit the jar sites as part of a package tour, but after the horrendous journey from Luang Prabang the previous day, neither of us could face another day as in a minibus. The 7km ride took about 45 minutes and entailed a few hills that took my breath away on my 1950’s style one speed bike.

The jars were interesting enough but in my opinion, not worth the 15 hour detour. What was interesting, however, was the history of the area regarding the Vietnam war. Known as the Secret War as it was never mentioned in US army official documentation until years after, Laos was devastated by US bombs; two million tons of ordnance was dropped on Laos between 1964 and 1973, equating to roughly one bomb every 9 minutes for 9 years. The bomb craters are still visible all over the countryside, including several at the Plain of Jars Site 1. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like for the people living here; planes from an enemy you’ve never seen dropping bombs around you because your country happens to border Vietnam. It must have been terrifying.

It’s estimated that 30% of the bombs dropped did not explode as they were dropped to low to detonate or simply malfunctioned; that leaves 80 million unexploded ordnance (known as UXO) littering the Laos countryside, buried in farmers’ fields, hidden under houses. Every month more deaths and injuries occur as UXO are discovered: farmers digging their land, children playing in the forest, people searching for scrap metal. The bombs are still killing people 40 years after the war ended.

Phonsavan is the capital of Xiang Khouang province, one of the most heavily bombed areas of Laos and the most bombed province in the world per capita. Today the bomb shells are everywhere; used by the locals as decoration, building material, foundations for houses, water troughs and fire pits, even the key ring to our guest house door was a bomb!

The UXO has hampered the development of this country by rendering so much land unsafe to use. Farmers can’t grow enough food, roads can’t be built and towns can not expand as the land needed is full of ordnance that could explode at any moment.

We visited the Mines Advisory Group (MAG) in Phonsavan, an organisation dedicated to finding and clearing UXO in order to make more land available for farming and development. We made a small donation and watched one of the documentaries they have showing.

It seems that where ever we travel in this region we are confronted with the devastating consequences of the Vietnam War, even in the innocent bordering countries, Laos and Cambodia. It’s heartbreaking.

Documentaries about the Secret War in Laos (all available on youtube):

Bomb Harvest

Bombies

The Secret War

How To Get To…

Plain of Jars Site 1 by bike: Follow highway 7 out of town (west) until you reach an intersection with traffic lights and a petrol station on the left hand side. Turn left, continue approximately 4km until you see a sign for the site on the right hand side. Bikes can be rented in town for 20,000kip ($2.50/£1.50) or 40,000kip for a mountain bike.

We Stayed At…

Kong Keo, near the minibus station. A shabby bungalow on a quiet backstreet, with a cosy nightly fire in the communal area. 60,000kip ($7.50/£4.50)