Vang Vieng: Part Two

Vang Vieng by night – buckets ahoy and flaming asses

Once we left Banana we figured it was about time to scope out the nightlife. Turns out we didn’t need to look too hard for it – it came to us. And by ‘it’ I mean young, athletic Westerners in tank tops and shorts, holding little plastic drinks buckets (which we were soon going to be seeing a whole lot more of) approaching us in the street and asking us where we were going. This was novel in itself. Thus far, we’d become accustomed to automatically zoning out any randomer on the street asking us questions like “Where you go?” or “Where you come from?” because it usually came from a local and it could, pretty much, almost always, be translated into meaning: “Give me money.”

Sure, these guys were touting for business, and the people they worked for totally wanted our money, but their methods were much more palatable because they basically involved giving us flyers entitling us to a free whisky bucket (between a certain time). Huzzah! And I’ve never been one to turn down free drinks…

We crossed one of the rickety wooden bridges connecting the mainland to the informally titled “Party Island”, a little islet in the middle of the Nam Song river. The fliers we had were for “Bucket bar” – free whiskey bucket (plus mixer) between 9.30pm and 10.30pm.

How to describe Bucket Bar? Imagine stumbling through the dark, the air still pleasantly cool, and following the footsteps of the revellers in front of you, fellow pilgrims, towards a giant wooden archway, decked out in fluorescent neon lights, proclaiming proudly: YES, I AM HERE. NOW GET READY … TO GET WASTED!

Arriving into Bucket Bar was a bit like arriving at some kind of post-apocalyptic rave. At the entrance, someone thrust a free shot into my hand. I downed it. It was foul, but effective. Extremely loud dance/dubstep beats thumped and whined all around, as a throng of Westerners, covered in doodles and scribbles, some inane, others profound (one guy had “I LOVE COCK” emblazoned on his shoulder blades – I’ll let you decide whether that’s the former or the latter), bounced energetically on the central elevated dancefloor deck, or pushed their way through to the front of the queue at the bar, demanding their free buckets.

Next to the dancefloor was a large fire, which was being prodded periodically by men eager to demonstrate they knew what they were doing when it came to the elements. For me, it just heightened the feeling of rituals and tribalism. To make matters even more surreal, there were two guys dancing round the fire wearing nothing but their underpants. Swedes, it turns out, and completely off their heads. One of the dudes, a small chap with a mop of unruly, tangled blond hair and his royal jewels packed tightly into a tiny pair of bright green Y-fronts, bounded up to us at one point and kissed us eagerly on the cheek, before bounding off again and sort of leaping semi into the fire astride a giant log. We were to see more of him later…

***

At 2am, things started to wind down at Bucket Bar, but the party was not yet over. The high priest DJ, from atop his tower, issued forth the commandment to continue on to a place called Limbo Bar. So off we trudged, through the dark once more, not really knowing where we were going but using the far-off glimmer of neon lights to guide us.

More neon lights, more buckets, more deafening beats, another wooden dancefloor deck… but this bar was different. Firstly, there were toned, half naked young men doing fire poi at the entrance. Pretty cool. Secondly, Limbo bar was appropriately named. In a small clearing in between the bar and the dancefloor, the bar staff set about assembling the limbo pole. But this was no ordinary limbo. This limbo pole … was on fire.

Yes. Flaming limbo. About to be attempted by a lot of very drunk people.

“Health and safety” – not really a big feature in Laos! Tom and I exchanged a quick glance and shook our heads. Neither of us saw this ending well.

The first few limboers approached the pole with a certain amount of caution but craned their necks and easily cleared it, escaping shame, or third degree burns to the face. We looked on, sipping another bucket and chewing our straws nervously. A couple of girls shimmied under with confidence, others arching their backs in an impressive display of gymnastic athleticism.

The guys however, were simply not content to approach the limbo the traditional way. No. Going under the flaming limbo pole was just too easy. They had to liven things up a bit, you know, make it more interesting.

Two guys readied themselves for a dual approach. Suddenly, one had sort of mounted the other and then flipped upside down in a sort of pretzel Kama Sutra move. You couldn’t see where one ended and the other began. What you did see were exposed bums and feet in the air, coming perilously close to the open flames as they frog jumped their way under the pole.

They made it through, also without being barbecued, much to the cheering and applause of their mates and spectators.

Not be outdone, however, by this novel manoeuvring, the Swedes stepped up. They weren’t going to go under the pole. They were going to launch themselves over it.

By this point my face was practically behind my bucket. I peeked round to watch the Swedes paw the ground with their feet, like prize bulls, and put enough distance between them and the pole to ensure they could make a running jump.

The flames were starting to look a little sad and meagre so one of the guys from the bar poured a bottle of alcohol over it, reviving it and returning it to its former flaming glory. I dunno, it looked pretty intimidating to me, even from a safe distance, but clearly the cocktail of drugs and/or alcohol had eroded away the fear centre of these guys’ brains, taking all sense with it.

Tiny little Green Pants sprinted towards the pole and hurled himself over, almost setting his ass on fire. He barely cleared it and sent the flaming pole hurtling to the ground. We flinched, but it was ok – he was ok. For now.  

Some choon came on, though I don’t remember which one, and I was off, a woman possessed and the only one on the dancefloor – a whirling dervish, a Tasmanian devil, though slightly stumbly from my Lao-Lao whiskey intake – but others soon joined me.

While I was getting my boogie on, Tom was having an interesting conversation with one of the limbo jumpers, a shaven-headed Aussie chap who had just promised his British mate to sub his trip to Indonesia if he successfully cleared the next pole. He told Tom how he had once been in a fight with four guys who had tried to steal his motorcycle back home, and took a knife to the shoulder for his pains. We could see the scar for ourselves so chances were his story was 100% true. I figured a flaming limbo pole was child’s play compared to that. He also pointed out one of three girls – local Lao ladies with perfectly straight hair and very tight outfits, who were laughing and dancing near the limbo pole.

“I know her,” he said. “Yeah, she’s a real tease.”

 We quickly learned that our new friend was a connoisseur of prostitution as well as limbo and fighting.

“Yeah this one girl the other night, I gave her one million kip. That’s like 125 Australian dollars, man.”

“Wow,” we said, raising our eyebrows but trying to keep any surprise or disapproval out of our voices – we were both keen to keep the conversation going.

“Yeah, guess I was feeling generous,” he said, though shaking his head at the stupidity of his own largesse. “I’m actually waiting for another girl. Yeah, she texted me saying she’d be out tonight but I haven’t heard from her.” He shrugged his shoulders. If not tonight, clearly there’d be another.

Aside from prostitution being illegal in Laos, it’s also illegal for a Lao national to have any sort of sexual relations with a foreigner unless they are married. But I don’t think this perturbed him in the slightest, if he knew it. I also don’t think he was a Lonely Planet reader; if he was then maybe he would’ve seen this, under the section titled “Responsible Travel” in the Laos directory:

“Finally, sex tourism is driving a thorn into the country’s villages with many young girls being sold into the flesh trade. While Thailand may have lost control of this, Laos hasn’t and we should endeavour to help it by not supporting prostitution.”

Somehow I didn’t think protecting young girls from being “sold into the flesh trade” was high on his list of priorities.

It wasn’t the first time Vang Vieng would raise conflicted emotions, and it wouldn’t be the last.

*

To be concluded in Part Three: Vang Vieng by day - tubing without the tubes, lesbian kisses and bare breasts, moshing, and journalists