A BEND IN THE ROAD
In The Big Bike Trip, New Zealander Freddie Gillies writes of the 23,000km cycle journey he and two fellow Kiwis took from Bali to Buckingham Palace. In this extract, he tells of their trip to Luang Prabang.
An extract from The Big Bike Trip, in which three Kiwis cycle the world
There are times when things take us by surprise. There are also times when we feel change approaching, a rising tide rendering us powerless to alter the course that has been set. I’d suspected for some time that Sean’s relationship was falling apart, courtesy of a gulf of distance that the odd message here and there could never bridge.
Helplessness was all any of us felt. There was no silver bullet, no redeeming act that would ease the pain that followed.
A week had passed and the mountains reared up in front of us, each with their own horrific gradient and unforgiving surface. As we’d cycled towards Laos on our way to Myanmar, it was apparent that the highest of peaks were in our own heads — the doubt that could creep in, the fear of failure that sometimes knocked on the door.
It’s going to be hard, I thought, as the skies darkened above the tall peaks surrounding the valley. But it was never supposed to be easy.
At the Laotian border post at Pang Hoc, we waited patiently while our documents were checked. The smiling border guards marched around the place, demanding fees for various things, until our passports were handed over.
The road to Luang Prabang, we were told, was in terrible condition.
We’d climbed a gravel road up to the border and were pleasantly surprised to find a gloriously paved surface carving its way around the mountainside and into the valley below.
The border crossing had taken time. The sun was getting low as we rode through dense jungle. It was clear we weren’t going to make it to the Muang Khua, as it lay on the other side of the pass.
At a bend in the road, Arthur and I stopped momentarily to wait for Sean. The view out over the valley was spectacular. “We’re not going to make it to the town,” Arthur said. “We’re going to have to find somewhere to pitch the tents.”
I stared up the road, which cut into the mountain and climbed higher and higher above the valley.
“Right, let’s do it sooner rather than later,” I said, apprehensive about the lengthening shadows.
Our chances of finding a campsite were low. The mountain slopes were too steep to pitch tents on. There was nowhere that would conceal us from the road. I thought of the landmines and unexploded ordnance that covered the countryside.
Around another bend, there was a flat plot of land behind a small, worn fence. An old lady was working it with a hoe. There were plots of corn planted beyond her and a small, thatched hut a short way up the hill. I approached her. “Suh-byedee!” I said with a smile on my face.
“Do you mind if we pitch our tents here?” She replied with a greeting then spoke in Laotian. Arthur hurried to get his phone on which he had a photo of a tent saved. The lady looked at the phone then back at us. She laughed then spoke again before pulling an old phone out of her pocket and making a call. She looked serious when she spoke and it was clear she was discussing our presence on her land with someone else.
An old man with a creased face and dark eyes came down from the hut. He smiled with a warmth that immediately put us all at ease. He indicated to the hut and invited us to stay in there with him and his family. We smiled and graciously turned down his offer but accepted the patch of grass out the front of his house. Kids giggled and played around us as we set up the tents. We shared sweets that we’d brought across the border and smiled as their faces lit up.
“Well, this isn’t half bad!” I said to Arthur and Sean as they unpacked their bikes. “Not at all. The view is insane,” said Arthur, pointing out to the hills.
A scooter roared past down the winding road. “I honestly thought we were going to come unstuck there. I don’t know what we would have done,” Sean said.
I was priming the stove for a camp meal of noodles and canned beans when the old man wandered down the path and gestured for us to follow him. Inside the hut, a single light bulb hung from a cable in the roof. In one corner, an old TV flickered between static and a local news programme. The children sat cross-legged on the bamboo floor. They began to practise their English on us and even got out their homework for us to help them with.
The old man re-emerged from the shadowy corner of the room with a plastic bottle and a few shot glasses. He poured four shots and gestured a toast. We had no idea what was in the bottle but drank it graciously. The liquid burnt my throat and soon the light softened and my body relaxed.
He immediately refilled our glasses. The family sat around us watching our every move as the food came out. A steaming pot of sticky rice arrived with smoked tapioca and steamed vegetables. The food had evidently been grown on their small plot of land.
The kids held back until we had filled up our plates and then tucked in. The elders stayed back altogether. The old man poured more shots, so we drank more. By the end of the meal, we were all rather drunk.
“How are you holding up, mate?” I said to Sean. “It’s pretty hard not to think about it,” said Sean. “When you and Arty ride up the road and it’s just me by myself, all I can think about is Amy, to be honest. It’s awful.”
“Ah, mate, all we can do is keep going,” said Arthur, clasping his hand on Sean’s shoulder. “We’ll have a beer when we get to Luang Prabang.” “Ha yeah, that would be nice. Maybe 10,” said Sean.
Two days later, we arrived in Luang Prabang and found a small guest house that offered the softest beds I’ve ever slept in. We sat around the table that warm night and opened a Beerlao, clinked glasses and took a moment to exhale and stare up at the clear night sky above.
Abridged extract from The Big Bike Trip published by Penguin Random House NZ, RRP $45. Text © Freddie Gilles, 2020. Photography © Sean Wakely, 2020. At alert level 4, an ebook version is available from penguin.co.nz