Photo Essay: Slow Boat, Take It Easy

“Make sure you bring a pillow, and buy lots of Valium,” was the constant ominous refrain I heard when soliciting advice from fellow travelers regarding the slow boat in Laos. Horror stories of cramped quarters and painstaking journeys abounded. Many people suggested I take the speedboat while others tried to convince me to fly straight from Chang Mai, Thailand to Luang Prabang, Laos. I cast off their foreboding warnings, for they had forgotten one of the cardinal rules of traveling, that the experience if often worth the pain. Suffering through uncomfortable and downright dangerous transportation practices in developing nations serves as a rite of passage, and I wasn’t about to acquiesce to the recommendations of the less adventurous.
Though Laos is slowly starting to develop and tourism is experiencing fantastic growth, the slow boat remains one of those rituals that refuses to become outdated. The boat serves as transportation between Huay Xia and Luang Prabang, with a nighttime stopover in the tiny river town of Pak Beng. Those that have undertaken the journey share a special bond, and later on in my travels, when encountering others that had similarly partook, we shared a knowing smile and fondly reminisced about our experiences.
Prior to setting foot on the boat, however, I had only heard negative reflections and was gripped with some slight anxiety. After spending the night in the Thai border town Chiang Kong, I crossed over into Huay Xia and secured my Laos visa, then made my way to the infamous vessel. A few friends I had made the night before opted for the speedboat instead, which would prove to be a calamitous decision, but I was soon to meet a group of ten or so random travelers who would end up accompanying me for the next few weeks.
By the time I arrived at the boat, the entire seating area was occupied and crowded with unkempt backpackers and Laotian families. The ship itself was a rectangular-like shape, long and thin with an open air seating area. It was reminiscent of a decrepit, elongated houseboat and it was quite evident that it had seen better days. The wooden floorboards creaked as I made way to the engine room located at the back of the boat.
There, I encountered a motley crew of mostly solo travelers ranging in age from eighteen to fifty. We made up a UN-like smorgasbord of countries: Kiwi, Irish, American, English, Danish, Canadian, Laotian, and German. Introductions were made over the roar of the engine. A bottle of cheap, Mekong whiskey was procured. Someone rolled a joint. In relatively no time, Lao Lao Beer was flowing, and drinks, cigarettes, playing cards, books and stories were being exchanged like foreign currencies.
Lush, undisturbed green hills and forests rolled past behind the heads of my boat mates and soon blurred together as the whiskey bottle slowly drained and the boat’s speed lent credence to the theory that the engine was just for show. Once the initial excitement wore off, we settled in for a few hours of good conversation, book reading, writing, and scenic gazing. The frantic atmosphere of Bangkok and Chang Mai dissolved, and we happily embraced our new identities as men and women of leisure.
I awoke as darkness began to set in and the boat docked at Pak Beng. Despite the deafening roar of the engine, I had somehow passed out on top of a large pile of backpacks. If I were a detective I’d wager that the main culprit was the Mekong whiskey, with the engine fumes acting as an accomplice, but there was no time to investigate as I had to climb up a steep hill and find a hostel with my recently acquired group. The night itself proved to be uneventful, as the town’s curfew of 12:00 AM was strictly enforced and our efforts to locate a speakeasy were unsuccessful.
The next day brought more of the same, except our group had relocated to the front of the boat. Occasionally, we docked in a riverside village to drop off cargo or a couple of Laotian passengers. Villagers, farmers, and children dressed in tattered rags stood at the banks of the river, waving enthusiastically and making me regret not being able to hop off the boat and spend the day. At one spot, a group of naked children splashed around next to the boat, having the time of their life. In another, a group of young apprentice monks, no more than 12 years old, stood by completely engrossed with the spectacle, standing and staring at rapt attention.
Midway through the day, the boat pulled up at what we thought was another routine stop. I was surprised to see Shawn, one of the aforementioned friends who had elected to ride the speedboat, making his way down the pier. “Have I got a story for you!” he called out. Their speedboat had hit a rock and pulled a titanic. As Shawn, a former lifeguard, swam around gathering everyone’s submerged baggage, the other members of his party held on to overhanging tree branches along the shores of the river. After a good hour, they were rescued by another boatman and dropped off at this particular village to spend the night.
The passengers all sat listening intently to Shawn’s story and commiserated with him regarding his soaked clothing. Within no time, he had a beer in his hand and a smile on his face. A few hours later, we docked at Luang Prabang and emerged from the slow boat only a little worse for the wear.
Our group stuck together for the next few weeks, as the bonds formed on the slow boat were quite strong. While some people describe it as the boat ride from hell, I remember it as two of the finest days I spent in Southeast Asia. Sometimes, it’s better to just sit back and enjoy the scenery and present company than to rush through to the other side. Also, try to avoid any boat, no matter how fast, that requires you to wear a helmet.