Morning came early in the misty mountains of Vang Vieng, Laos. A hot orange orb hung low in the sky, pausing to wake the sluggish river water from slumber before sliding up its trajectory in the ripening blue sky. The ceiling fan spun slowly, blowing slight tendrils of cool air through the mesh of my mosquito net. I lay there for a moment, enjoying the silence of the morning before swinging out of bed to pull on my slightly damp swimsuit. I head out into the bright morning light for a bowl of nourishing Lao Pho.

There’s a small group of hedonistic backpackers standing outside a small, squat building when I arrive. They are murmuring excitedly about a sign hammered haphazardly to the door that says, “Tubing Today”.

“Yeah,” I said, “it’s going to be a really good day.” I hand over my kip, grab a massive black inner tube, sling it over my shoulder, and hop into the flatbed of a pick-up truck. It drops me off at the mouth of Nam Song River, a short distance outside of town. After placing my inner tube gently into the current, I paddle out into the middle of the river and I’m immediately swept into the fast moving current. The towering limestone mountains stretch endlessly above me, cloud-covered peaks grazing the sky.

At first I float, as calm as a water lily, face open to the sun. I can feel my skin warming in the sun. I stretch languidly and start paddling again when I hear the faint strains of music. Then I’m swept around the first bend and into a wide stretch of the river. There are bamboo huts built on each side of the riverbank. Garishly painted signs scream BEERLAO $1!! A little boy is perched on the corner of a huge ice chest full of beer, while his dad stands on the bank and extends a long piece of bamboo at me. I grab it and he reels me in, effortlessly flipping me up out of my inner tube before I can even say, “Beer, please.” He urges me to try the zip line, saying, “It’s not that bad. It’s not a far drop. Try. Try.” Standing up on that first platform, I didn’t even look down. I stepped out and off, suddenly smooth-gliding to the end of the line before dropping a neat 5 feet into the water. “No problem,” I say as I grab my beer and inner tube. Then, I’m out on the water again.

Each stretch of river moves you slowly and languidly up to the next stop, where you get out and try a trapeze bar, or a high swing. The further along you go, the bigger the jumps get, until you get to the point where you’re looking at a huge drop between you and the water. By the time you realize how high you are, it’s too late to stop. You might stop breathing for a few minutes, but don’t hold on. You can bask in the glory later when you’re flushing river water out of your nose while reclining on the slightly stained cushions of a tree house, flashing war wounds, and trading water bomb secrets until the fading afternoon light reminds you that it’s time to move on.

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About the Author

Carrie Marshall has been bouncing around in Asia for the past six years and currently calls Planet Taiwan her home.

Her first introduction to Asian lifestyle was in Northern China, where she taught English and moonlighted as a rock and roll singer in the evenings. She has performed in several Beijing television programs and has lent her voice to Radio Taxi Driver English in Changchun. Carrie is an amateur photographer with a vivid and active interest in other cultures. She writes about her cultural observations and travel adventures for several publications in Asia. She spends most of her free time on the road.

For more of her work, please visit myseveralworlds.com. Carrie’s photographs can be seen on Flickr and Taiwan Photographers.