Confessions of a Backpacker

For better AND worse, I chose an author by the name of Charles Bukowski to fill the position of strong male role model left vacant when my single father chose the bottle over me. "Find what you love and let it kill you" is an incredibly attractive turn of phrase to adopt as a personal mantra, and thankfully is equally difficult to accomplish when youth is in your corner. I have spent the majority of my adult life scouring the planet in search of that "Bukowskian bullet", but despite finding my fair share of them, every time I pull the metaphorical trigger, the chamber's been empty. The following tale is but a taste of my findings from a career of world wandering.

It was a sweaty day in May, 2013. I woke up to find myself in Vang Vieng, Laos. I was currently in month 2 of my South East Asian "journey of self discovery", and I was becoming increasingly concerned about my choice to reduce my life to a backpack, ditch my cushy career as a trained killer (soldier) and buy a one way ticket to Thailand with no plan beyond "let's see what happens". I found myself trapped in the backpacker loop, travelling a road that had been paved by countless youngsters before me, from your standard gap year Brit, to your shoestring budget vagabond, trying their best to see how many years they could stretch two thousand dollars. Viewed from afar, Southeast Asia can be easily mistaken as the kind of place that a doe-eyed Dicaprio was consumed by in "The Beach". In reality, what you find is a carefully constructed trail spanning 4 countries that aims to keep round-eyes both inebriated and contained. It seemed like truly unique experiences had gone the way of the dodo, and it made me sad. Didn't keep me from trying though.

Vang Vieng is known for 2 things: tubing and mushrooms. Unluckily for me, the former had recently been neutered on account of too many Australian tourists behaving like Australians do and getting themselves killed after consuming lethal amounts of alcohol. Suffice it to say my options were limited.

Vang Vieng is a surreal set up. The main drag is lined with restaurants containing nothing but pillows, knee high tables, and flatscreen TVs that play nothing but Friends or Family Guy. At eleven o'clock, consuming alcohol becomes illegal on account of the Communism, but there is a bowling alley located just outside the city limits where you can congregate, smoke opium, and try your luck at not breaking anything while you hurl a 20 pound ball of pure destruction every which way but the right one. While drugs are technically illegal (on account of the Communism), the local government understood that the only reason you can even find Vang Vieng on a map is because they have a lot of cows. Those cows produce copious amounts of cow patties. Those cow patties produce copious amounts of magic mushrooms. Westerners have copious amounts of cash (comparitavely), and love magic mushrooms. So while it's frowned upon, getting your hands on controlled substances was as easy as winking at the bartender or simply ordering off of the menu. I was both hungry and in the mood on this day, so after an intense debate with my dutch travel mate, we chose the Friends restaurant and ordered an "extra special" ham and mushroom omelette with toast. Mushroom trips are a slow burn. Personally, I am prone to forget that I've even taken anything until halfway through the trip and I find myself wondering why I'm so fascinated with waving my hand in front of my face. It's because of this fact that when a parade of pickup trucks full of drunk, cross dressing Laotians with thousand pound rockets protruding from their trays suddenly filled the street, I had reason to doubt my reality. I jumped into the fray trying to figure out what exactly was going on, but to hear English spoken by a local in Laos is a rarity (French is their go-to), so I had to rely on my astute travel mate, who was well versed in their version of communicating. From what he understood, we had unwittingly stumbled upon a famous event called Rocket Fest. Evidently, at the end of every summer, the locals perform a ritual to bring on the rainy season and ensure a good crop yield. They do this by constructing highly explosive rockets that they fire into the sky in order to piss off God and convince him to bring them torrential rain for their crops. Before I continue, it has to be stated that these people, as fine as they may be, are NOT rocket scientists. They are noble farmers who are in the business of growing rice, not producing explosives. Fast forward thirty seconds, and we have been kidnapped by wild-eyed cross dressing hooligans, and instantly made complicit in their sinister scheme to enrage their deity. I donned my trusty Mexican wrestling mask, and decided that I was completely pot committed to assist in any way I could to make their plans come to fruition.

Fast forward three beers, half an hour, and a bottle of non-descript home brew, and we had arrived at our destination. The muddy trail that we ended up pushing our makeshift mobile rocket launchers upon finally opened up to a pristine view complete with pebbles under our feet, green mountains over yonder, and platforms meant for explosives. In a manner that can only be described as Lemming-like, the locals went to work. Each metal tube of death was to be dragged onto the rocket stilts, danced around, kissed for good luck, and set off on it's merry way. At this point, my brain was still aware of it's own existence as well as my body's mortality, so I remained at what I thought was a safe distance and assumed the role of enthusiastic spectator. After a few ceremonious rounds, I concluded that each of these homemade bombs was destined for one of two fates. Once the fuse had been lit and reached it's destination, the payload would begin to vibrate, accompanied by a very peculiar noise. After 10 seconds or so, the rocket would either launch successfully, spiraling into the air before gravity took over and brought it crashing into the mountains to our front, or it would simply explode in place, producing an experience not unlike the first twenty minutes of Saving Private Ryan, albeit without the Oscar-worthy performances. It was after a few of the latter happenstances that I came to realise 2 critical facts: The people involved in Rocket Fest would not let death or mortal injury get in the way of a good time, and more importantly, the people involved in Rocket Fest would not let MY death or maiming get in the way of their good time. I placated my newfound concerns by taking a few calculated steps back, trying not to trip over a hunk of smoldering shrapnel, and occupying myself with a rogue caterpillar that I found clinging to a burnt out shrub. Not too long after my tactical repositioning, I witnessed a successful launch, rare as it was. The missile launched itself into the sky, spiraling out of control for what seemed like an eternity, before coming crashing down back to earth, into a hillside miles away. I found myself waxing somewhat poetically about a tribe of humanoids, having no contact with civilized(?) society, living their lives and solving their problems with a combination of voodoo magic and cannibalism, only to have a metal tube of death drop from the sky every year, obliterating their humble abodes and reaffirming their beliefs in an Old Testament deity. I found the thought of imaginary neanderthals perishing by way of fire and brimstone for my entertainment thoroughly overwhelming, and decided that my immediate course of action would be to remove myself from any and all participation in the ritualistic murder of fictional beings. I waved an Irish goodbye to anyone who cared, cradled my newfound caterpillar friend, and proceeded to stumble my way back to the 2 dollar a night hostel that I was holed up in. Did I mention that I was on mushrooms? I can't quite remember... All I can say for certain is I bowled a turkey that night, and found myself vomiting over the side of a hot air balloon 20, 000 feet above those very mountains the next morning. I felt like a God.