‘Hey you! Aren’t you… Fredrika?’
Fresh off the plane from Thailand to Laos I was still comfortably snuggled up in the love bubble that had surrounded my whole being for the last couple of weeks. My family had already landed and gone on with their lives back home in Sweden, but I still hadn’t really felt the need to join my own reality just yet. I was just back at the Luang Prabang hostel that had stored my bicycle while I was away, but before I had even dropped my panniers on the dorm room floor, someone was addressing me. In Swedish?
I turned around.
‘So the bicycle upstairs is yours! I’m Björn. I’m reading your blog! We were actually talking about you earlier today.’
Whoa.
Weird, weird, weird.
I do know that I am keeping a blog. I also do know that there are people out there reading it. But to unexpectedly bump into one of them that doesn’t have their backside glued onto a saddle? That was unexpected. And hadn’t it been for the friendly smiles of Björn and his backpacker companion Johan, I’m quite confident I’d also have been a bit embarrassed.
Excited as I was to reunite with my bicycle, and officially kick off the Southeast Asia leg of my journey, I had anticipated a bit of a vacuum getting back to Laos. Saying another indefinite goodbye to my loved ones obviously includes some heartache, and I had gotten myself ready to take on another battle with the empty feeling I struggled with as I was peddling away from everyone and everything I ever knew on those very first trembling days of this journey.
Turned out though, my new Swedish roomies would save me from – or at least postpone – all that. Instead of pondering on when I’d get to hug my Mom or crack jokes about my brother’s haircut next time – I was sipping fruit shakes at the night market, engaging in sprited and highly scientific debates on what actually is the best Swedish fika (google it).
As it turned out, these guys had both been playing around with the idea of taking the plunge and head out for bicycle travels of their own. But – as so many others – never really gotten to it. When it comes down to it, it simply is too complicated. Too much to organise. Too many decisions to take. Too many unknowns.
Naturally I played my part of the game as well. Dumbing the whole process down to an extent that makes preparing breakfast seem like an overwhelming task in comparison.
‘Buy a 2nd hand bicycle. A tent. Strap it with your backpack to the rack. Pick a direction. Go.’
Johan had his flight home a week later, Björn hadn’t. And even though (at least initially) the whole conversation was a joke and strictly hypothetical, this new glimmer in his eyes was increasingly obvious. As though the big smile on his face hadn’t been enough on it’s own.
Already next day we all parted ways. The guys taking a bus south, and I was strapping my bicycle to the roof of another one – headed north back up to the Chinese border. I had already been excited to get back on the road again, but meeting Björn and Johan had been yet another reminder of how incredibly lucky I am to get to be doing this. Living my dream, all day every day. It would be an insult to those who aren’t, to forget to appreciate that.
Back at the China – Laos border crossing
Right off the bat Laos treated me to a royal experience in the saddle. The lush north is a complete wonderland of rolling hills and steep passes topped off with some quite otherworldly views. I thought I already had appreciated them, as twice before I had watched them with my nose pressed up against the bus window. This one time on the bike though, brought the value of a million bus rides combined. There is really no denying it. Experiencing nature is simply not done through a glass window.
I don’t want to see a view. I want to feel it.
Absolutely breathtaking, and serene but still challenging as it was, there was something about riding the northern part of Laos that didn’t quite resonate. My boxes were definitely ticked, and it was all seemingly there. Except for the feeling of adventure, that had been my constant companion all through the Middle East, Central Asia and China.
I had difficulty pinpointing it at first, but as the days went by it got more and more obvious. Was this… too easy? I knew it is all about mindset, but I still had difficulty setting mine straight.
Now don’t get me wrong here.
Laos is one of the poorest countries in the world. A country where almost half the population is forced to live on less than 1.25 USD/day. The tiny and completely undeveloped villages I passed were mostly made up by a string of small, beaten down bamboo houses, and communal tap of water used for showering and laundry.
With chickens, children and dogs (all equally dusty) running all around, people gather around small wood fires to eat and socialise after long days of working on the rice fields.
For most people in Laos, life is not too easy.
For me though? A well off tourist with budget enough to spend every single night in a guesthouse? I would like to say that it is.
On this journey, helping hands from locals have been essential for me. Being fed by that shepherd in the outskirts of Tajikistan when something to eat simply wasn’t to be found. Or getting invited to warm up and stay in the nomads’ heated tent on the Tibetan plateau, when the cold was making me seriously wonder how I’d ever make it though the night.
I’ll never dilute myself to the point where I’d ever mistake myself for being anything else that a tourist. But the somewhat obscure places I’ve gone to, and the mean of transport which I’ve been using to do so, have indeed given me a sense of – even if only for brief moment – joining the life of the people along my path. Doing so has been completely vital and at times I’ve simply had no other choice.
In Laos though. When being invited to sit down by one of the village fires, taking a bite of a newly grilled piece of buffalo skin. I felt like I was in a museum. What was going on around me obviously wasn’t fiction, but I couldn’t really getting over the feeling of merely being an observer. I was never in it.
As women queued up to wash their hair, I didn’t. I didn’t need to. I was never more than a day away from a hot shower. And buffalo skin? All of a sudden it was my curiosity – rather than hunger – chewing away on things like that.
Zipping up my tent at night, I almost felt like if I’d just be silent enough, I’d be able to hear the beating music from the night clubs of Luang Prabang, Vang Vieng or Vientiane – whichever was the closest backpacker hotspot that day. It turned out Southeast Asia was not only a new chapter in theory. The days went on and more and more I realised that change was here – and there was nothing I could, or should, do about it.
So.
Can’t change it? Embrace it.
And I think that by now I have. I mean, after all I am here. I actually made it to Southeast Asia. On a bicycle! I’ll gladly have a bed and a shower at the end of the day. I’ll have one – no, actually two – of those fruit shakes. I figued I’ve sort of earned them.
Although. And I don’t think I really need to tell you this. Obviously I still prefer the rides in between the cities, rather than the beer and backpackers inside them.
Who wouldn’t?
Making it to Vientiane I was up for a few days of rest in order to get my upcoming Vietnam visa in order. Guess who arrived there the same evening as me?
Björn!
On. His. Bicycle.
Now this guy is amazing. What he did after we said our goodbyes in Luang Prabang a couple of weeks earlier?
Bought a 2nd hand bicycle. A tent. Strapped his stuff to the rack. Chose a direction. And went.
We’d kept in contact as he’d made a big loop through the country, and I was so happy to get to see him as he returned to his starting point in the capital. We spent a few days being super tourists together, and on the morning of us both leaving we rode out of the city like total partners in crime.
I was headed further through Laos, and Björn was hitting Thailand – taking on the 2nd country of his first epic bicycle tour. And he did it like a boss! I’m still so impressed by this guy.
In life – not only as it comes to something as silly as riding a bicycle – making a change, or taking a leap of faith can be horribly complicated. Too complicated in fact. Too much to organise. Too many decisions to take. Too many unknowns.
I think for most of us, if we’re completely honest – it’s too scary. And Björn is a good reminder that it doesn’t always have to be. Sometimes we just got to go with it. Because really – that thing we want, is usually ever only a plunge away.
Obviously – watching him set off for the Friendship Bridge over the Mekong was a total proud mother moment.
Can you really blame me?
Fredrika
