The Troll and the Power-plates

Guest blog from number 1 child who is now in Laos. Enjoy her wonderful insight on a Yorkshire lass and a Scouser in this very different world...

Like the good cop/bad cop detective routine, Alex and I have a similar dynamic duo to 

pat.This comes into play when bartering a tuk-tuk ride and so far, the Lao have proved 

our most formidable opponents. But hell hath no fury like a Scouser scenting a rip-off, 

and even though I know it’s coming…it’s impossible not to wince, cower or quake in 

his wake. So, pleasingly, we have managed to mark down most of our rides to around 

a fifth of the price, though the poor drivers look woefully begone when carting us 

around.

Alex can be really scary when he wants to be...

Carrying on with the theme of sharing our adventures, we made the journey from Vang 

Vieng to Vientiane - the capital of Laos. We had heard no raving or blaspheming about 

the place so we had no idea what to expect. I could spend a paragraph or two on our 

take of the city but I would waste a precious minute of your life (if you are reading this). 

It was a dump. 

What was worthwhile was visiting the COPE centre, about 15km outside of the city - 

a rehabilitation centre and museum raising awareness about the 80 million undetonated 

bombs in Laos, leftover from the Vietnam War. Poor children in villages go hunting 

for scrap metal in the forests, picking up tin-cans or the buckle of a belt to sell for a 

bit of money or to remould into a latch on the chicken coop or to fix a handle for a 

frying pan. They see a UXO - unexploded ordinance and have no way to tell if it is 

deactivated. Many have never seen one before. When they explode, they shatter and 

no one knows for the better. A mother is sitting in a hut, rousting the fire for dinner. 

A daily routine that is once too many, for the heat has finally travelled far enough 

through the earth to detonate the bomb sitting two metres beneath her. Over 300 

people still die annually - 40% of them children.

The COPE centre does a number of things. It provides prosthetics to ease the hardship 

of having fewer limbs or being less mobile. They have COPE Connect which is an 

education programme - volunteers travel to remote areas of Laos to let people know 

about the centre - that there is help and spread awareness about the dangers of bombs. 

They also have a large department dedicated to the dismantlement of all explosive 

devices. The museum was moving and when we left we walked past the rehab centre 

where people were sitting outside in a park with limbs covered in bandages, in wooden 

wheelchairs. There was a father holding a baby with bandages on both legs. He stared 

at us expressionless as we walked past. I didn’t know whether to smile and wave, or to 

look away. In the end, I did neither.

We are now boarding the night bus to Si Phan Don - liberally translated to mean ‘Four 

Thousand Islands’ and described as a “travellers’ mecca”. It’s a bloody long way away 

- at least half the country so it had better be worth it. Getting to the night bus 

automatically got the exclamation “like in Harry Potter!” from my mother and “Pfff…

she means Darth Vader” from Alex. Either way, it really doesn’t matter, it has a 

fluorescent grill that changes colour and we have got a double-bed that is situated 

under the engine of the bus. Next to us are two Korean men who are using wipes to 

clean their faces and placing masks over their mouths. We stare at each other wordlessly 

(at least I don’t think they are saying anything). The driver was shouting down his 

phone with a very high-pitched voice and sliding into oncoming traffic. It was a very 

confusing experience and I am still mildly traumatised that I managed to get a decent 

night’s sleep. 

Within minutes of stepping on the boat, Alex had made his mind up that this was the 

very best part of Laos as we motored past tiny dotted islands on the Mekong River and 

entered a sort of Wind in the Willows world where swallows spun threads through the 

air and the river was more of a turquoise-green as opposed to a muddy swamp. The 

boat was taking us to Don Det - one of the 2/4000 islands which is inhabited - small 

enough for it to take 60 minutes to walk all the way around. Mr Tho, whose 

guesthouse was situated in between Mr Pho’s and Ms Mo (no joke) (don’t smile) was 

delighted to welcome us and since the bungalow on the riverfront that we had arranged 

for online was double-booked, we were upgraded to a suite which had a hot shower. 

Bonus. Since I am considered the filthiest of all my family, it will seem amazing that I 

care so desperately about being clean now - but it’s more about the moderate to warm 

heat that comes with it. 

Dedicated to the O'Hara faction of the RSPB

Staying on Don Det is a chance to see the rural Laos without any pretences. The houses 

are bare shacks except for the more successful of the guesthouses. We learn that the 

reason food is ‘so expensive’ here is because very little produce is locally grown - most is 

imported from Thailand or further afield.  The centre of Don Det is arid, barren - there is 

nothing here, everyone is crammed back-to-back round the edges of the island. Naked 

children run amok - dusty, blackened by the sun, muddy amidst the chickens, cats, pigs, 

buffalo that roam freely here. The wooden bridges that cover the banks are on the verge 

of collapse and riding a bike down the lone road through the middle is like giving your rude 

bits a power-plate session. But the locals are genuine - they ignore us for the most part and 

get on with the day-to-day job; whether that’s sitting at a shop, running a guesthouse, 

being a fisherman or carpenter, everything is family orientated and that way of life spills

onto the street. It is charming.

We hired power plates, sorry, bicycles to visit Don Khon the neighbouring island for the 

day. When we arrived at the bridge which connected the two, Alex’s bike broke so we had 

to walk back and hire another bike. Finally crossing the bridge, the troll told us there was a 

toll - a steep 35,000 kip apiece and after obliging him and presenting 100,000 kip, he 

announced to Alex that he had no change. So Alex insisted that we got our tickets for free, 

as this wasn’t his problem. The troll tried to snatch the tickets back. 

Dangerous.

Whilst a loud exchange was taking place, the queue of people lining to pay their toll was 

growing behind me. I went and hid behind a tree. Eventually we proceeded past the bridge 

without our change and collected it from the toll-person who was sitting in a box on the 

other side. Mission accomplished with no blood spilt, just.

            

Taking a road down the west coast of the island, we arrived at the Liphi Falls - the 

largest waterfall in Asia (by volume). ‘Liphi’ means spirit trap and the locals steer 

clear of this place for they are convinced that bad spirits of dead bodies from the 

Vietnam War are trapped here - many got caught in the fishermen nets. Not an 

appealing Surf and Turf. But the falls were stunning. Crossing back to the centre of 

the island, we visited the beach and then headed south to the French Port where rare 

irrawaddy dolphins can be seen, and you can observe the invisible line that indicates 

the border to Cambodia. Hiking up the east coast, we ended up on a narrow track 

past villagers who unapologetically stared at us, climbed under a tree (we did, not 

the villagers) and crossed some barely-there bridges before realising that the path to 

the next set of waterfalls was probably out of action. It was a long long way back to 

Mr Pho’s at this point and our bruised buttocks needed extra padding when we sat 

down for dinner. 

This place is exceptionally beautiful and there is not much to do but to sit on the 

riverbanks and enjoy it. This has been one of the only places in Laos where sitting and 

doing very little has been worth it. As one of the poorest countries in the world, we were 

not expecting a substantial amount from Laos and furthermore, were careful not to 

measure it against the same standards as we did Vietnam. But the whole country - or what 

we saw of it, is…lacking. There is not another word to describe it and it’s mystifying. 

Mystifying as to why there is not more foreign investment, why the country has not quite 

figured out how to capitalise on the tourism it receives. We overheard a conversation in 

Vang Vieng (or I lipread) and apparently the government banning the drug trade and the 

tubing lost Laos a lot of its customers. Apparently the only reason people came here 

originally was because it was easy to get intoxicated by illegal substances. It’s an 

interesting position to consider. So I digress from my opinion on Laos slightly because 

in spite of the harsh sentence it has ended up serving itself with, Laos is now regenerating 

tourism from the ground up. And this is the right way. Being principled is more important 

than wealth, isn’t it? Even if the country suffers a while in the meantime? And I have 

every hope that in a few years time, they will have figured it out. 

This is the Road to Hel...sinki

Sorry, I can't resist a song title and this is a great song by Chris Rea. And surprisingly, in all sorts of ways, Helsinki was a great trip!

First of all, I didn't know I was going until a few days before but my beloved had unwisely (or wisely as it turns out) arranged a business meeting in Helsinki on my birthday and as I am now ok to travel again, having been locked almost exclusively in Burton Leonard for the last seven months, he, sensibly and to avoid a diplomatic incident of Biblical proportions, invited me along. So, dog parked at the O'Kidneys for the duration we set off to Helsinki on my birthday eve.

We were flying Finnair from Manchester and before we were even airborne, I discovered that Finnish bears no similarity to any language I had heard before - apart from Elvish. The only word I recognised was 'shopping' which is obviously universally understood. Having left a green and brown world in Yorkshire, we arrived in a monochrome world in Helsinki. Apart from a few beautiful old buildings painted in pastel shades (think St Petersburg which is, after all, only 150 miles away) everything is white, grey or black. Snow piled high at the side of the road and stunning silver birches with their bare branches laden with snow and frost. The temperature doesn't creep above freezing this time of year.

Hotel Kamp was lovely and luxurious and fortuitously not like camping at all. Outside on the street the Finns are dressed in monochrome but inside it was very ornate and apart from the chizz of wifi being charged for (outrageous in my view) the rest was marvellously decadent.

The morning of my birthday was solo sightseeing as my beloved was talking about carbon neutral stuff with Finnish guys which, if I'm honest, is as incomprehensible in English as it would be in Finnish. So I set off to view the two cathedrals of Helsinki via the harbour. Now here's a thing... it is a port, this is the sea but people are walking on it, it doesn't smell like sea and there are no seagulls. Yes, the sea is frozen, as are the sightseeing boats, fishing boats, tall ships and cruisers. Only the ferry makes its way along a narrow tract of water to the other islands. I did consider a trip but thought it might make meeting my beloved easier if we were at least on the same landmass. Fishermen take their camping stools, fishing rods and enormous cork screws on to the ice and fish - with some success. It's all most surprising.

The two cathedrals - there's the one the Russians built which is on top of a steep hill in very un-Finnish red brick with immense amounts of gold leaf inside and the Lutheran one built by the Finns which couldn't be more different. Seemingly, the Russians built their's first (because this city has been occupied by the Russians on more than one occasion). And then the Finns found a higher hill and built their beautiful white Lutheran cathedral so that it stood above the Russian one. There's no question that the Lutheran one is far more beautiful - inside and out - and the minimalist, stark, pale blue interior lit by the glass dome and candles is stunning. I listened to an organ recital (yes me!) whilst I was in the cathedral which was unfortunately disturbed by a group of Japanese tourists who got themselves right in front of the altar, took selfies and stamped out. Off, I imagine, to take selfies of themselves in front of other landmarks to prove they had been there. Bizarre.

I, and later, we, did lots of walking, stopping for hot chocolate and general indulging ourselves. I wanted to buy a reindeer skin rug - no, he said - and although there is the biggest selection of headgear here, I did not want to buy another hat. Not least because in the marvellously well-lit hotel bathroom mirror, my hair looks fabulous. Very short, grey but nonetheless fab!

The other fascination was the love locks. I remembered seeing these on one of the bridges over the Liffey in Dublin but it is such a romantic sight. Had we been able to find a padlock shop we would have added our own. I think they clear the bridges every few years so folks would have been mighty impressed if they had seen our's with our wedding date in 1984. There were a few love lock bridges near the harbour and I couldn't help but wonder how many romantic locks would lead to marriage.

Without a Paddle

I've been running a long way behind with number 1 child's travel blogs which I love to share so there'll be a few popping up in the next few days - plus, yes!, a travel blog from me! Because I have actually been allowed out of the country for the first time in seven months. Obviously not somewhere hot...

 "Look, there's a wat!"                     

                                                                         "A wat?"

     "A wat!"

      "A what?"

     "A wat!"

This current running joke would suggest that our sense of humour is going down the plughole, the longer we spend away from home. (But please suspend your judgement to the end of this blog as I may have redeemed myself by then).

The gates to Luang Prabang should have a warning sign above them 'Beware Falang Falang!' as tourists swarm to this town armed with guidebooks and cameras. You can almost hear a battle cry in the air as the people clamber for the 'most authentic experience'.

                                                Alex's favourite picture - the 'baby monks'

At 6am when the sun rises, the monks descend onto the main streets for Tak Bat receiving alms from local laypeople whom receive blessings in return. This sacred ritual is a beautiful one - the persimmon flames of the robes worn by the monks who walk in file from old to young against the backdrop of golden wats alit by the rising sun. Then minibuses descend and out jump tourists - mostly Korean and silence is disrupted by flashing cameras, peace signs and loud chatter as tourists run amok the suffering monks. What was a rare privilege to see has become an embarrassing mockery of what observing local and real culture is about. It brings a new meaning to the word 'culture vulture'.

Luang Prabang has a touch of the charming traditional architecture that we observed in Hoi An, local and authentic - shops, galleries, cafes and guesthouses tidily adjacent to one another. A peninsula is formed by two rivers - the meandering Mekong and the smaller Nam Ha and it takes but two minutes to walk from one side to the other. Luang Prabang is also infamous for having the largest number of temples - wats, within a square mile radius and these all run through the middle of town. There is a risk of getting temple-fever though, because they all start to look exactly the same. A house of mirrors.

Seeing the sunset at the summit of Phu Si, after 100 metres and 192 step climb was lovely - particularly as it was a shared experience with a herd of people all jostling for the best seats and views. But a tickbox is checked as far as seeing the sights go. Next comes the night market which is a spectacular array of red canopies stretching as far as the eye can see down the main street of town. Here Alex purchased some slippers, his only consideration for fashion items decorated with elephants.

As far as Luang Prabang goes - the culinary experience scored top marks. The Tamarind, where Alex and I braved Lao cuisine for the first time - an array of jaew (dips) with sticky rice and a plate of stuffed lemongrass chicken. Khao Khad Sen Bad - a small local restaurant on the riverfront where we had 'BBQ Soup' - a kiln built into the middle of our wooden table, hot coals poured into it and a sieve on top where boiling water is added. Our food is given to us to cook ourselves - raw beef, pork and chicken along with an assortment of vegetables and vermicelli. We even poached our own eggs. Delicious.



Given that we are living on a budget of £30 a day (including accommodation), it is difficult to enjoy Luang Prabang for all of the treats that it has on offer. A quick luxurious weekend away here and you would probably have me weaving rhapsodies into this blog. Vang Vieng on the other side...

Unglamorous, unpretentious and smacking of the ridiculous was the experience we had in Vang Vieng. This party town, which all the guidebooks led me to believe I would hate, was probably the best part of our trip so far. In spite of staying in a hostel room of which the entire decor was laid out in Alex's favourite colour - pooey brown, and with a suspicious looking double padlock on the door, we had our first hot shower since Phuket and all at a cheap £8 a night.

'Friends' is an extremely popular programme here and all the bars screen it with subtitles which makes a perfect antidote to a hangover. Making our way to the Jungle Restaurant, we dined on Beer Lao and some Laap (minced meat made with coriander and mint) before I continued my losing streak at pool. Making our way down to the river front, more Beer Lao was enjoyed whilst watching the sunset and the last of the tubers and kayakers making their way in.

The next day, we too bravely faced the famed tubing experience where our arms were tattooed with a number so they could go out hunting for our dead bodies if we did not come back by dark. With other convicts, we were lined up in a rickshaw like caged hens and sent 4km upriver to a bar where music was played at full volume and we were greeted with free shots. Buying a beer at 11am was a necessary hardship so we did not appear to be complete nancies; as was the jumping off the jetty whilst people stood by watching you play chicken. My beer was then thrown to me, which I missed, and ended up sipping an entirely new concoction which I have named 'River Beer'.

(Knocked out by my new concoction)

As we floated down the river in our tubes, even my pitiful ears could hear the booming base of dance music as we passed bars and staff would stand on the riverfront throwing plastic bottles tied to ropes to try and capture us and lure us into their bars to buy more beer. Evading these pirates, we slowly passed a place called "The Last Bar" where a comment to Alex -

"Surely this can't be the last bar?"

He responded with typical logic and manly aplomb:

"If you were going to name a bar on this river, what would you call it?"

We did not see another bar on the river for two hours.

Particular highlights of this lazy float down the river, asides from feeling rocks scrape on my bottom and admiring the limestone karsts was observing the Korean paddling technique.*

Every ten minutes or so, a troop of kayakers would descend upon us and it was a privilege to be able to admire and learn from the extraordinary antics we saw. All of them appeared to be Korean, wearing oversized lifejackets, fishermen hats and surgical masks. Those that had locals paddling on their behalf quickly passed us, but others were going down the river backwards, sideways, crashing into banks, bridges or capsizing altogether. Here are some useful tips we learnt:

"Korean paddle" - place hands as far apart as possible on paddle whilst dipping the thinnest part in water. Wear confused expression whilst jerking body from side to side and observing no increase in pace.

"Capsizing" - maintain confused expression and then do one of two things:

a) Immediately check all belongings are intact and start to wring clothes. Observe that your kayak has continued to go downstream and attempt to wade to catch up, whilst waving at your kayak and ayone who happens to be watching.

b) Tip kayak back upside down to pour water out. Peer head in, see more water, get confused, tip two or three more times before climbing back in head first and drown in kayak.

During one particularly spectacular capsizing incident, we were sunbathing on a wooden platform on the riverbank listening to 'You Sexy Thing' by Hot Chocolate. You just had to be there.

On our last night, Alex and I decided that we were going to lash - be hard core party travellers and stay out really late. We managed three beers before going to bed at 10pm.

So - Luang Prabang and Vang Vieng are probably worlds apart when it comes to the experiences on offer and the sights you see. And Laos so far just hasn't managed to reach the expectations that Vietnam did or that Cambodia potentially has to offer, but with Vientiane and the 4000 islands ahead perhaps this will change. And we're starting to feel like proper backpackers now.

Wouldn't like to be stuck between these two...

*Any racism observed in this blog was not intended by the writer. 

Machine Seven and the Radio Stars

I have been getting a fair amount of stick for not blogging of late and as I have to sit upright in a chair for 30 minutes having taken my new and exciting (not) drug to increase my bone density (of which more later...) I thought I could at least make a start. It's either that or start writing an article for a client's newsletter about Leeds City Varieties - actually I'm quite looking forward to that.

The last time I blogged it was at the end of what was not the greatest Christmas ever and the beginning of the three week block of radiotherapy. Part of my difficulty with Christmas - apart from still feeling ill and tired and the enormous pressure of trying to be jolly when I felt anything but - was that I knew that the final block of hospital treatment awaited me in the New Year. Fear of the unknown is a big thing for me now having had a very unpleasant experience with chemotherapy. There are few things in life which, having dreaded them beforehand, actually turn out to be worst than I could have possibly imagined and chemo fits right into that category.

So fearing the worst, radiotherapy turned out to be absolutely fine. Tiring yes, but pain-free and most importantly, nausea-free. Every day for three weeks I was chauffeured to St James' in Leeds (a 50 mile round trip) by two of my lovely children and some entirely amazing friends. The process takes place in the Bexley Wing which is modern and airy and chocker with people with cancer. As you go in, there is what looks like a bus shelter outside the main door where folks in dressing gowns and slippers sit in wheelchairs with drips attached to their arms and smoke. This is my daily moment of silent rage. Hundreds of nursing staff, doctors, radiographers, administration staff and goodness knows who else are trying to save you AND YOU'RE HAVING A FAG?!

The process inside runs like a well-oiled machine - a superbly well-oiled machine. Waiting times are short once you've checked in and whilst I am getting undressed (and admiring my hair growth in the mirror!) someone else is being zapped. And then whilst I am being zapped someone else is getting undressed and into their gown. And so it goes on. The process takes the form of lining up the machine with the dots tattooed on my chest and then the radiographers leave the room whilst I am zapped before manhandling me gently into position for the second lot of zapping. Then it's "See you tomorrow" and off I go. Twelve minutes from leaving the waiting room to returning which is, apparently, not long enough to read the Sports Section according to one of my chauffeurs, Skip. Actually Skip gets the prize for doing the most hospital trips - apart from me and my family - as he has taken me to three different hospitals multiple times. And he took me for a celebratory cream tea afterwards which was utterly delicious.

The Machine 7 team are fabulous and always friendly - thank you to you all for saving my life (fingers crossed). Radiotherapy is the second most effective treatment for cancer - after surgery and well ahead of chemo. The only time I went on a different machine, I looked up at the laser machine above my head and saw it was surrounded by children's stickers. They zap children here too - heartbreaking for them and their parents. It made me want to cry.

So on to my radio stars - the wonderful team of friends who took me to radiotherapy in Leeds, giving up their time, arriving cheerfully on time and entertaining me to Leeds and back. Thank you to children numbers 2 and 3 who did a third of the trips between them and one thing we do know now is that number 3 needs to practise his parking skills in the multi-storey. Not even an attempt at parking but "Mum, would you park please?" and being extra pleased when I reversed in so he could drive straight out. Number 3 also took me for my bone density scan in York on the same day which turned out to have not the result I had hoped for - hence the new drugs (nearly the size of a suppository - but not one, obviously).

Then I have my Thursday girls, Mrs O'Polo and the singing doctor, who decided we should make a whole girly day of it and go out for lunch as well. They made the day such a treat which was most surprising all things considered. And they wore woolly hats so I would not feel conspicuous! And thanks to Ali - we lost the car in the car park because we were chatting so much - especially entertaining. Thanks too to Declan O'Kidney who talked rugby to me throughout the experience - something I miss now my boy is away. To Louise and Gilly, two of my oldest friends - we had a great catch-up. Who would have thought you could cover so much gossip in the space of a couple of hours! And lovely Nige who came on the day of the snow and still got me there on time though it was somewhat stressful. I had been worried that radiotherapy was like snakes and ladders and if you missed one, you slid down the snake and had to start again. I needn't have worried.

So that chunk of treatment is over and apart from nice nursey coming to the house to give me my herceptin injection every three weeks and the daily drugs, the worst is definitely over. Yes, there are scans and oncologists and all that jazz but spring is coming and with that ... hair!

Some of my lovely friends who have absolutely been there for me when I needed them most.