Riding a bicycle is a good way to get around Luang Prabang and there are many places that will hire you a bike for not a lot of kip.
We checked out a few hirers on our first afternoon, and she who must be obeyed chose the outlet where we would obtain our bikes based upon a very limited technical specification, they had a pink one. So the following morning we handed over some kip and received our rides for the day; a pink one for my wife and orange for myself and mother-in-law.
We set off down the street and it was immediately clear that my bike was designed for a five year old. My knees were round my ears and it was almost impossible to pedal. We stopped for a review of the situation. After an inspection of all the bikes, it was concluded that the model that offered the highest seating position was my wife’s beloved pink machine. So I took that and she was stuck with an orange version which apparently clashed with her jacket. Tough.
Still, things were not much improved on the pink bike which I estimated was targeted at the (female) early teens age group. The seat was still too low and pedaling was a real effort. We stopped for another review; except that I didn’t, because it was at this point that I discovered that my mini-bike was somewhat deficient in the braking department. The back brake didn’t brake at all, leaving a risk that applying only the front brake would catapult me over the handlebars; a risk that was diminished by a clever lack of maintenance that ensured that the front brake was almost completely ineffective.
Still, we were just going to pedal round the town and I could probably cope, so off we went. We did a couple of temples and I was thinking about a visit to a coffee shop when she who must be obeyed made an announcement.
My mother has found out where she can buy the cloth she needs.
What cloth? (as usual, and probably wisely, I had been kept in the dark regarding the shopping requirements of my female companions).
The cloth she couldn’t find in the market last night.
I guess two hours looking at cloth stalls is never enough.
Shut up. Anyway, this man has told her where to go and the outlet is only ten minutes away.
One day I will track down the man who said that and punch him in the face. Half an hour later we are in the more robust traffic on what passes as a ring road and there is no outlet in sight. But by way of compensation there is a small drainage channel on the edge of the road which I manage to ride into, unsettle myself and almost fall off. This results in the usual “be careful” dressing down from my wife who then immediately does the same thing, falls off, and bruises her elbow. I restrain the urge to take a photo, laugh and ask “what was that you were just saying” and limit myself to expressing concern. The survival instinct runs strong in me.
While she who must be obeyed is nursing her wounds, we enquire of another stranger as to our whereabouts and he tells us our destination is a kilometre away. Fifteen minutes later I am labouring up a long hill somewhere in the country and adding him to my hitlist. And by “labouring”, I don’t mean cycling, I mean pushing my bike up the hill; I can’t get any power to the pedals with the seat where it is. She who must be obeyed comes whizzing past with a cheery “hurry up!” “Careful not to fall off again darling” is my very muted response.
Several hours later, although it may have been less than that, we arrive at our destination. It’s a tin shack in which sit a dozen or so women surrounded by cloth of many hues; which to the untrained eye (mine) appears to be identical to the cloth we spent a long time browsing in the night market the previous evening. “Ah, but the prices will be better here” claims my wife, a claim that subsequently proves to be untrue.
It is the nature of traders in Laos that they are not pushy. No hard sell here, just sad faced women looking at a sad faced man who is sweaty and has sore legs. I sit down while the ladies peruse the offerings, and I think of all the hills I have come down on the way here which I will have to ascend on the way back.
In the back room there are banks of weaving looms. They look incredibly complex and I imagine how few minutes it would take for one of my cats to totally fuck one up.
We talk to one of the weaving ladies. She started learning when she was twelve. Her dexterity is astonishing and the pattern she is producing on this most complex of machines is detailed and beautiful. I expect she earns almost nothing.
Eventually, the cloth purchasing is finished (although a further trip to the night market is mandated the same evening) and we head back to Luang Prabang. By now the sun has burnt away the morning mists and it is unpleasantly hot to be cycling (or pushing a bike up a hill). So it is with some relief that I finally make it to the top of the steep hill that leads down into the town. I start my descent with frequent application of the front brake, I can’t afford to go too fast. But the brake soon loses what little stopping power it ever had and with both brakes full on, I find myself accelerating towards the T-junction where the hill meets the main road.
“Hurry up” I shout at my wife as I steam past her, although the terror in my voice rather dilutes the comic potential. Approaching the junction I jam my feet on the ground for braking effect and head for the drainage channel and the shrubbery beyond, as an alternative to inserting myself into the delivery truck passing on the main road. I stop in a cloud of dust and swearing. My wife arrives; “I told you to watch out for that drainage channel.”
“Indeed you did sweetheart. Would you like your pink bike back, it’s downhill all the way back into town now.”
Comments 🔗
2012-12-28| Pete saysComments don’t seem to be enabled on the ‘sunsets’ post. I was going to mention how beautiful they seemed, and how traumatised my children were; but I can’t.
2012-12-28| Spike saysNow you can, thanks for pointing it out.
2012-12-28| Grant saysYou were clearly very lucky, this cycling downhill business can so easily result in you becoming a whirling mass of arms and legs…