Sausages and late-night bowling.

I initially sat shotgun in the minibus on the way to Luang Prabang, but my conscience forced me to rescind my seat. I donated it to a Korean guy of basketballesque proportions and felt better, even though my knees were touching the seat in front. The driver (somewhat worryingly) kept pouring water into the leaking tank, but we arrived safely at 16:00. I tagged along with some girls from Enfield to watch the sunset from the top of Phu Si – a vantage point from which you can see the whole town. After climbing countless steps we were faced with a wall of people, blocking the view that we’d paid for. The sunset was beautiful through phone screens. We then went for something to eat, before hitting the night market. Stunning embroidery, delicate paintings, gorgeous clothing and ethnic jewellery were on sale. I regretted making hasty purchases earlier in my trip, and resolved to see how much money I can scrimp over the next few days to buy another unnecessary souvenir.

The following morning was cold and grey, but to pass the time, me and the Enfield girls went to a small convenience store to watch a lady make sausages. She minced the fatty pork in a squealing machine, mixing the pink pulp with herbs and seasoning. She then expertly filled the limp casing with a an empty plastic bottle and a wooden club made to fit snugly inside. It was both mesmerising and revolting – an interesting way to start the day. By the time Ana and Cèdric arrived at the hostel on their motorbikes, the sun was shining and the sky was a deep blue. We drove to Tad Sae falls, passing through small villages with smiling children waving frantically. We arrived at the river, and took a boat across. Cèdric engaged in his usual tomfoolery, pretending to surf as the tiny wooden boat swung from side to side, like a bucking horse trying to throw off its rider. We made it across, and were met by a herd of desultory elephants, gazing at us glumly under feathery lashes. We fed them some sugarcane, because that seemed the kindest thing to do, before walking up to the falls. The water was aquamarine, flowing down perfect smooth steps worn into the stone. We shivered in the shade, but as soon as the sun came out I felt my skin tingling from the abrupt transition into warmth. We passed a lazy afternoon, listening to music and reading, before going back to town. I went for a walk as the sun was setting, and watched the last glimmer of reflected light vanish from the Mekong, before returning to the hostel for some very exciting life admin.

The next morning was as cold as the one before. I wrapped myself up and visited a reconstructed traditional house. I learnt about the Liu, Taidam and Hmong people and their customs, and the importance of sticky rice in Lao culture, then went to visit a photo exhibition on meditation. I met Ana at the hostel at 13:30 and we squeezed into a minibus with some fun-loving Londoners to visit the Kuang Si waterfalls. It was even more spectacular than the last, the water tumbling down a series of tiers. We hiked to the top, dipping our toes in the cool pool, got a bit lost, and ended up running back to the bus.

Later that evening, we all met up to have a few drinks at the hostel. The bars close early here, so when it hits 23:30 there’s only one thing to do: go bowling. We fiercely negotiated a price with a tuk-tuk and were soon blinking in a brightly lit bowling alley, the sound of falling pins echoing regularly through the hollow hall. We threw some terrible shots (I was more appalling than usual), but we had a great time laughing and dancing until 02:00, when the alley closed and there really was nowhere else to go.

I spent my last day in Luang Prabang completing some more life admin and chilling in Utopia; a relaxed bar on the river. I also visited the Traditional Arts and Ethnology Centre, where I learnt a bit more about the ethnic people of Laos and their traditional crafts. I met Ana and Cèdric in the evening and we had dinner, trying to forget that it may have been the last time we’ll see each other. I’ll miss them so much; it’s been awesome to share each other’s journeys, and I’m sure that if not in the next few months, at least at some point in the future we’ll meet again.

I’ve sped through Laos in two weeks, and as a result I don’t feel like I understand the country as well as if I’d spent more time here. It is a place of extraordinary natural beauty, and that’s something I didn’t expect. Nor did I realise that Laos harbours a rich cultural heritage, preserved in the divergent traditions of intriguing ethnic groups. I’ve probably seen enough waterfalls for a lifetime, and I’ve definitely eaten enough baguettes to feed an army, but my time here has been really enjoyable, if a bit sedate. I’m ready for a bigger challenge.

Leah hrey, Sába̖ai-di̖i.

I spent a day in Banlung recovering from my jungley exertions, before embarking on my voyage to Laos. I had anticipated that it wouldn’t be very straightforward, but the first leg of my journey – the minibus from my hostel to Stung Treng, passed without a hitch, even if I was scrunched into the back with a few chunks of wood and some buckets of something that smelt like wine. I waited in Stung Treng for an hour or so – that listless kind of waiting, with no object, no expectation. Eventually another minibus picked us up, and took us to the border. There, we were met by a lovely man in a white shirt, with a very official laminated badge, who tried to charge $45 for what I knew should have been a $35 visa. Disgruntled, me and a few others decided we’d skip the middle man and do the crossing ourselves. We made it through, narrowly dodging another $2 fee for an unnecessary stamp, but we had to admit a slight concession of an extra dollar on top of the normal fee, because it was the weekend. We met another minibus on the other side, and finally made it down to the dock, where a tiny boat, groaning under the weight of our backpacks, took us out across the river. By this point, the moon was rising in the sky, it’s cool glow softening our weariness. We arrived on Don Det, I secured a single bungalow facing the river – the first private room I’ve booked for four months, and met up with Cèdric and Ana. We sat in a bar on the riverside, watching the rippling moonlight, and a drunken Australian fall asleep in his chair.

The next morning I woke up to the sound of spluttering diesel motors as tiny boats passed my balcony. I hired a bike, and decided to cycle around Don Det. Sleepy farms were just beginning to stir. Water buffalo stared at me vacantly as they ruminated (literally, and perhaps on some of life’s big philosophical questions). Women swung on hammocks, children rode on bicycles, and the overall atmosphere was of a lazy Sunday morning. I later realised that it was Sunday, and that made the whole thing more authentic. I eventually came to a bridge, and crossed over to Don Khon (conveniently not hearing the man I was meant to pay). The dirt track that I was following was deserted, the faint impressions of tire marks in the sand were the only indication that others had been there before. I cycled to an empty beach, my only companion was a man who was painting the wooden shell of his boat a bright royal blue. I spent an hour reading and watching, before heading over to some waterfalls. I inhaled the breathtaking view.

The roaring water was both inviting and terrifying. Fortunately there was no way down, so there was no room for a fatal error in judgement. I then went round to the other side of the island, and stumbled across some more falls, accessible only by a rickety bamboo bridge. Once I’d satisfied my curiosity, I went back round to Don Det, returned my bike (which I’m not wholly convinced was the one I set out with), and spent the evening reclined on embroidered cushions at Peace and Love Bar, playing an elaborate murder mystery game with Ana, Cèdric, and their Spanish-speaking friends.

On Monday I decided, on Ana and Cèdric’s recommendation, to go kayaking. I didn’t really think much about it, but turned up promptly, donned a lifejacket, secured a paddle that still had most of its blades, and teamed up with David and Karen, a couple from the Czech Republic and Austria respectively. Things started out well enough. The Mekong flowed slowly, its wide trajectory occasionally broken by an island of foliage. Soon, however, the course became narrower. Our speed increased as the river picked its way between more substantial islands, changing direction as if it was trying to lose a pursuer. The calm waters became rapids, white spray gushed into our over-laden kayak, dragging us further under water. After an adrenaline-filled almost-capsize we made it to dry land, and visited the falls that I’d accidentally stumbled upon the previous day. We then rejoined our kayaks (we managed to secure a more buoyant vessel on this occasion) and paddled down to open water, where we caught the infrequent glimpse of a dolphin’s fin. By this point the sun was scorching my arms, a dull red began to creep over my skin, tingling as it intensified. I was glad to stop in the shade for lunch (and apply a tonne more suncream). Lulled by a full stomach, we lazily clambered into a sorngtaaou (a truck with benches) and were driven to the magnificent falls at  Khon Phapheng. The water was a mist of white, cascading down rocks that were luminous green at the base, graduating to a sturdy grey at the level the water couldn’t reach. It was unreal, like something out of a film set, and I had to consciously remind myself that what I was seeing was natural, physical, existing.

We then made our way back to the kayaks for the final time, just as the sun was beginning to make its descent. Exhausted, I flopped into a bar, waiting for some sensation or feeling to confirm that I still had my arms.

The transition from Cambodia to Laos has been more subtle than that from Vietnam to Cambodia. The landscape so far has been pretty similar, the people are just as friendly (and have the same wicked sense of humour), and even the bungalow that I stayed in on Don Det could have been on Koh Rong. Cambodia exceeded my expectations, where Vietnam failed to fulfill them. The sheer variety of environments, from the city, to the beach, to the jungle, brought with it a constantly renewed sense of adventure, and a fresh set of challenges. I met some great people (and one terrible one), sat on a lot of interminable buses, and learned how to do nothing. The scars of the recent past are still fresh in Cambodian minds, but so too is the determination to emerge from the ashes, and I really hope that the people can work through the difficulties presented by the current political situation, to rebuild the future that they deserve.

Jungle is massive.

The journey from Siem Reap to Kratie took eleven hours – at least this time I was expecting it. After a slightly sicky bus ride (eternal gratitude to the lady who gave me a plastic bag) I arrived, the Mekong glittering in the late afternoon sun. The hostel was quirky, owned by a young, though extensive family, and set right on the river front.

I woke up as the sun rose, and the sound of cars and motorbikes wafted through the open balcony door with increasing frequency. I joined forces with an American girl called Laurel, and together we hired bikes to make the sixteen kilometre journey to Kampi, to try and get a glimpse of some rare Irrawaddy dolphins. The ride was beautiful. We followed the river north, cycling down a tree-lined track past waving children and lowing cattle. The flat landscape stretched out into fields behind the Khmer houses (set on stilts), and a gentle breeze cooled our faces as the sun rose higher in the sky. We arrived at Kampi and hired a boat, which drove us through the swirling vortices of currents out to a shallow bay. We waited expectantly. We soon caught our first tentative glimpse of a fin. At intervals of three to four minutes, the dolphins would expose their smooth backs to the surface, spurting water before sliding back down into the river. Two started playing, chasing each other along the shore. Laurel and I tried valiantly to get a good photo, but the dolphins were too quick, teasing us with their dexterous changes of direction. It was a breathtaking experience, and we returned to the hostel satisfied and pleasantly tired.

The next morning I left Kratie, taking a juddery minivan to Ban Lung. Yes, it is possible to get nineteen people in a fourteen-seater vehicle, and as we tore along the bumpy track leaving a wake of red dust, I couldn’t help feeing very acclimatised to the Cambodian way of doing things. We arrived in Ban Lung just after 14:00. I hired a bike and cycled to the beautiful Boeing Yeak Laom; a gorgeous blue lake set in a crater. It was there that I bumped into Ana and Cèdric, the lovely (and very well-prepared) couple from Marseille. We took my bike back, and then drove to see the Katieng waterfall. It was spectacular; the the water gushed over the cliff in a thunderous sheet, settling into a deep pool below. We swam under the heavy curtain, blinded by the spray, deafened by the roar. We emerged shivering, drove back to town, and had dinner overlooking Kansaign lake.

I got up the next morning and was picked up to start a trek – literally picked up, in a pickup truck. Me, a forty-year-old Australian called Sonya, and a small, quiet lady called Phil all sat in the back, doing our best to swaddle ourselves against the burnished dust that was steadily coating our exposed skin. After an hour of bouncing along, we arrived at Kachoun Commune, where we took a boat down the wide Sesan river to the beginning of the trail. We hiked through the jungle, the vibrant green bamboo acting as a scaffold, propping up the leafy canopy above. Gnarled roots mischievously rose under my feet, and the fingers of low branches snagged in my hair, but after a few hours we made it to the waterfall where we were to set up camp for the night. This is when the first drama occurred. Sonya, experienced as she is in camping in the Cambodian jungle, wanted to stay across the river from the site which Sat (our guide) had intended for our use. She argued that her alternative was more open, less prone to mosquitoes, and had comfier rocks than the place that Sat had chosen. Phil and I were inclined to side with Sat, recognising him as the true authority in the matter, but Sonya was adamant, declaring that if we didn’t choose her site, she would go home. Goodness knows how she planned on doing that, but that’s immaterial. We set up camp, I went for a swim, calm was restored. We had a traditional minority dinner of meat and vegetables cooked in bamboo, and watched the jungle fade threateningly into darkness. Then it was time for the second drama. Sat asked us what the agency had told us would happen in the evening. Sonya mentioned a night walk, but Phil and I weren’t too keen. Sat warned us that if we were to take part, he couldn’t be held responsible if something happened – which Sonya took as a sign of his reluctance to lead us. She muttered something to the effect of “He just wants to get drunk,” very audibly, to which Sat understandably took offence. Sonya had already been moaning about the camp being dirty (which Sat had previously given as a reason for choosing the other site) and about the number of people at the waterfall (there were a few other groups – the falls are not available for private hire). This was the last straw for Sat, who perhaps partially inflamed by a drop of rice wine, launched a tirade at Sonya, calling her the worst tourist ever and a very bad person. I tried to diffuse the situation, understanding Sat’s frustration at Sonya’s degrading slander, but realising that he couldn’t really talk to a customer like that. I failed, and we ended up going to bed at 19:30. Happy New Year!

After a night spent on a rock (my hammock had some issues), I woke up in the dreary light of dawn, having still managed to secure about eight hours repose (I told you, I’m a great sleeper). Tensions were still prickling, when Sonya refused a coffee on account of the fact that the boiling (thus sterile) water, had come from the river. I then had the pleasure, over the next few hours, of hearing about Sonya’s experience “tracking” in “Mainmar”, how “ancient orange” had destroyed all of Cambodia’s avian population, how she had won an international postdoctoral award, how she lived in Bali for two years, how she worked closely with soil, and indigenous tribes, and could speak three tribal languages, and how an NGO should put a drop toilet at the waterfall, and blahblahblah. Eventually I squeezed out a response a bit too sharply, and she shut up. We walked through a rural village, talked, through Sat’s translation, to a few of the local women, visited the cemetery, where Sat explained the minority belief-system, and then sat by the river, watching women rigorously washing clothes, and children playing naked, sliding down the muddy bank. Our boat arrived and drove us back to the pickup truck, back to Banlung.

The jungle trek was a very bizarre experience – very enjoyable in and of itself, but I did, at times, feel like I was on I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here. Over the past few months I’ve developed an overwhelmingly positive attitude. Late buses, long delays, crappy dorms, stepping in crap (literally), persistent illness, dodgy food and getting ripped off are all things that no longer faze me – I don’t even get frustrated, but on the trek I discovered that there is still a limit to my patience. On the boat back I tried to think about how I should have dealt with my troublesome companion, and I didn’t really come up with an answer. Ultimately I guess I shouldn’t have got annoyed, but I’m never going to be a person who sits silently when she sees something wrong. I’m putting this down to life-experience, and am grateful for the exposure of this limitation while I’ve still got time to rectify it. I know I’ll never get on with everyone, but I can’t let someone’s negativity infiltrate my sunshiney bubble of happiness. Here’s a picture of us pretending that we’re friends. Let’s leave it at that.

Don’t go chasing waterfalls.

Dalat was only a four-and-a-half-hour bus ride away. We drove towards the mountains in the distance, past conical hats that bobbed up and down in the fields, stooping to gather crops. The road snaked round blind corners as we got higher and higher, until eventually we were level with the clouds. We then began to descend. I walked to the hostel from the bus stop, met some guys in the reception (one of whom bizarrely works in the same office as my dad) and went for lunch. I then visited the Dalat Flower Gardens. It was a bit disappointing, as I was paying for something that I would get for free in my hometown (Castle Park has beautiful flowerbeds), but the collections of orchids and bonsai trees were pretty, and it was a nice way to spend a hot afternoon. I then traced the outline of the lake and headed south to Bao Dai’s Summer Palace. The art deco building reminded me of a school that needs refurbishing; the dingy wallpaper drooped off the walls, and the furniture was worn, but it was interesting to see where the king lived, and to imagine what the life of his family might have been like there. I then made my way back to the hostel and had a lovely dinner courtesy of our hosts Kha and Chau. It was a great way to meet the other guests, and the food was delicious. I then dragged myself up to the dorm (and my memory foam mattress) to sleep.

I rose bright and early to tackle the biggest challenge that Dalat could throw at me; canyoning in the Datongla Falls. I’m terrified of heights, and I hadn’t abseiled since I was on Brownie Camp, aged ten, so I was feeling a little shaky as I slurped my breakfast pho. Eleven of us in the hostel were all booked on the same tour. We were greeted by Loc, who radiated enthusiasm like the star on his T-shirt (emblazoned with the Vietnamese flag). We hopped into a minibus, and about fifteen minutes later arrived at the falls. We were then strapped into damp life vests and harnesses, and topped off our look with bright orange helmets and dingy gloves. We were ready. Loc gave us a practice run of abseiling down a hill, and then we were thrown into the first dry cliff. Well not literally into it, that’s what we were trying to avoid. We nervously peered over the top of the precipice, unable to see the bottom. With the click of the hook that Loc attached to my harness, my anxiety dissipated. I slowly leaned back and began to walk. After a couple of steps the rock face became perpendicular to the water. A few jumps was all it took to hit the water. With a sense of triumph I swam across to the other side and watched the rest of my team bounce down the cliff.

I felt more confident, and as a result the second abseil was even better; it was sheerer than the first, allowing more courageous jumps. We then leaped off a rock into the base of the waterfall, the force of the water pounding the air out of our lungs as we posed for photos. We floated down the river à la Baloo, and then hit some rapids, which pulled us backwards down towards the calmer water. We scrambled up to the bank, our sodden jackets and puddled trainers weighing us down, and hiked up to the top of another fall, where we had lunch. As we were eating, we saw another group gradually diminish as individuals disappeared into the torrid waters. Nerves began to prickle in my stomach, and I regretted having demolished our picnic so effectually. It was our turn. Loc and Tiger explained in acute detail the potential difficulties that we could face, and showed us how to position our bodies in case we slipped. When someone asked what to do if we accidentally let go of the rope, there wasn’t really an answer. I took off my shoes and carefully shuffled in to the water to get harnessed up. I took a deep breath, smiled, and then began the descent. The water gushed at my body, spraying up in my face as I squinted to get directions. After a couple of metres I couldn’t hear anything but rushing water. The current got stronger as the cliff dropped. I couldn’t do anything but go down. About four metres from the bottom my rope ran out. I counted to three. I jumped. Swept under the water, I eventually bobbed back up. Shaking, I clambered up to dry land, beginning to understand  the gravity of what I’d just done. The whole team did a great job, cheering the most impressive leaps, offering enthusiastic encouragement to moments of hesitation. We all made it down safely.

Then it was time for the free jump. This was the part that I’d been dreading most. I opted for the seven metre over the eleven, because of the necessity to clear a good two metres of jutting rocks with the latter. Feeling prudent, I hurtled off the rock, bombing into the pool below, and then watched with a mixture of awe and disbelief as the bravest members of our group launched themselves, suspended for an age in midair, before plunging down to comparable safety.

The last obstacle was ‘The Washing Machine’. The explanation was slightly rushed as the sun was beginning to creep behind the mountains. Not completely certain of what I was going into, I was hooked up for the last time. I abseiled down some large, awkward steps, and then the rock was gone, curving away from my outstretched legs. I lowered myself down with the rope, and then was churned around by the force of the cascade. The root of the nickname became evident. Drenched, jittery, and drained, we faced a steep climb back up to the bus, the relentless dirt steps showing no sign of ever ending. Just as we were about to give up, we heard the road.

The group had become close over the day. We all went out for dinner, along with the rest of the guests at our hostel, and then hit the karaoke bar next door. At this point, my energy reserves had completely emptied. I crumpled into bed, overcome by the satisfying tiredness that only comes from strenuous effort.

Dalat has been fantastic. The town itself is nice enough, but maybe not worth a trip in itself. The canyoning was the essence of my whole experience here, and it was incredible. I’m definitely getting over my fear of heights, and I’m learning that I do actually enjoy the whole ‘physical activity’ thing – a pleasure that school P.E. lessons had completely thwarted for the duration of my childhood. Experiences like this are going to be more of a priority for the rest of my trip. I’ve become, what one might term, a ‘Thrill-Seeker’, and I’m already wondering where I’m going to get my next fix.