Been There, Don Det…

Watcha Folks!

Emma and I walked up the Don Det causeway. The weather was hot, and the weight of our rucksacks was taking their toll. We were greeted by a selection of bars and restaurants, playing a variety of rock and reggae music. So far, so good…

The Mekong idles gently by, and within it are the many islands themselves, scattered out, and positioned around Don Det for as far as the eye can see. Tourists and travellers idled around, some cyclists cycled past us in twos or threes, and there was immediately a very relaxed atmosphere to behold.

Upon walking up into the island, you are presented with an almost immediate right turn full of restaurants and guesthouses, or you can continue up the road and walk further afield. Logic dictated that if we were to walk further away from the hub, where we had been dropped off by the boat, the guesthouses would be a little cheaper. We pressed on.

The first guesthouses we came across were of two extremes – either very cheap and basic, or with all mod cons, and very expensive. Despite the heat, we elected to walk a little further. Eventually, after about a ten minute stroll, we came across a restaurant and bungalows named Mama Mon and Papas.

The restaurant itself stands on stilts and overlooks the Mekong, the guesthouses are in effect a selection of wooden bungalows that stand to the right of the restaurant, although some are located behind, further inland, and to the right of the path which we were standing stood a concrete building, which we were later to discover was a communal toilet and shower facility.

Mama Mon and Papa’s.

As we approached, the landlady popped out quick as a flash and said, “You want room?” We of course out of tiredness said “Yes!” She then proceeded to show us to a brand new bungalow overlooking the Mekong, and cited a very reasonable price, 30,000 kip a night (around £3). The bungalow itself was reasonably basic, but had a brand new mosquito net, a wooden platform balcony overlooking the river, and a hammock outside to boot.

The landlady, who we later learned was named Mama Don, was very friendly and had a smile worth a million dollars. Within a few minutes her husband, Eg, appeared, and was also very welcoming. We checked in immediately thereafter, flopped on the bed, and took a couple of hours well earned kip, having not slept the previous night on the ‘sleeper’ bus.

The truly amazing Mama Don!

Upon emerging from the bungalow later, the scenery was stunning. The brown muddy water of the mighty Mekong meandered past us, and various local people raced up and down the river in boats, either moving freight, providing tourist transports, or fishing. Indeed, we even spotted a fishing boat constructed from the exterior shell of an American cluster bomb, having prior learned from the UXO Centre that such recycling of bomb scrap metal is not uncommon in Laos, albeit a very dangerous pursuit.

Emma and I briefly met and introduced ourselves to our neighbours, a young Argentinian couple who were, by all accounts, travelling and constructing a blog/travel guide on a paid basis, and then visited the restaurant itself. It was a very chilled out affair; the seating was comprised of cushions and low level tables on the floor, and Mama Don and her family actually lived in a room adjacent to the kitchen area, which was situated next to the restaurant itself. Her menu was extensive, and I noted that she had a few ‘Mama Specials’ indicated.

I immediately homed in on her famous ‘Laoquito’ cocktail, a variation on the Mojito, made with Lao Lao and ice, Slush Puppy style. Very potent they were too! Over the forthcoming days I was to indulge in rather a lot of them – Ho Hum. Mama Don’s children came and went to and from school, played together in and around the restaurant, and by the riverside itself at other times. Gradually we came to to know them all, and what was nice about staying with Mama Don, was that it felt rather like living at a home-stay.

The infamous Mama Don’s Laoquito

We came to discover that Mama Mon and Papa were Mama Don’s parents, who had gifted the restaurant to her and her husband, following her late fathers passing away. Her mother is still very much alive and well, but has remarried, and lives elsewhere on the island. Mama Don was employing labourers to construct and extend her number of bungalows, and those guys were all friendly, when busy working in the daytime. There was a really nice vibe to the place.

Mama Don’s restaurant, where we spent a great deal of time while in Don Det

Emma and I took a stroll further inland to check out our surroundings. A bar next door named the Pai in Laos played anything from rock to punk to new wave music of an evening, and another bar further on, named the Crazy Gecko, was also very pleasant, playing ambient techno and reggae. We found another restaurant, noted that the water used was pumped straight out of the Mekong, albeit via a purifier, and ate well. We were immediately enamoured with the island.

The water purifier

This restaurant had a feline visitor who was often shooed away by the landlady

That night was New Years Eve, so we returned to the front, purchasing a bottle of Lao Lao (a traditional local spirit from Laos) on route, found a bar, ate and proceeded to drink it dry of Beer Lao Dark (standard Beer Lao is golden, and much more commonly found). We then proceeded to the Reggae Bar, which was absolutely rammed with people. It was heaving – people dancing the night away, drinking, smoking etc etc.

The reggae bar

There does exist a strict curfew for the bars on the islands. Last orders should be at eleven, closing time midnight. Mama Don later explained to us that the police enforce fines for the bars that exceed the limit, with a fine of 300,000 Kip (around £25-30) for a first offence, raising to 700,000 Kip for repeat offenders. As it transpired, on New Years Eve, the Reggae Bar served last orders in plastic cups as 11.30 approached, and then ushered everyone in the bar down to the beach, where there awaited a huge fire and a sound-system.

Thus it was the beach where Emma and I saw in the New Year, standing round a bonfire, and wishing the other revellers present the standard New Year best wishes – a collective countdown, and 2014 was well and truly upon us all! In truth, I found some of the flash-packers in attendance somewhat stand offish on the evening. But I guess I should put the whole flash-packer thing in some sort of context.

When on the road, you meet regular back-packers who are down to Earth, of all ages, and many are seasoned veterans of travelling, with extensive histories, stories and good advice. Flash-packers on the other hand are primarily very affluent young European people, who I’m (albeit subjectively) guessing are often on their parents pay roll. How else could someone so young have the cash, time and inclination to travel to faraway and exotic places? There might be a bit of jealousy on my part here, but there was absolutely no way I could have ever self funded a trip of the type Emma and I were undertaking at their age.

Not that I am an advocate of, say, class war, in of itself. I’m the first to admit to the fact that despite enjoying affiliations to the punk subculture, I was raised in a middle-middle class family, and benefited hugely from the educational opportunities that that bestowed upon me. But my parents threw all their cash at raising my brothers and I, and there were no fancy cars, posh holidays or substantive free cash hand outs, that’s for sure!

None the less, Emma and I did find that many of the flash-packers were quick to pass negative subjective judgements about other people (often our foreign hosts), and also looked down their noses at us somewhat. I suggested to Emma that perhaps we were ‘Punk-packers’ – Ho Hum. My 42nd Birthday was fast approaching, but I still identify with punk music and its associated subculture. Why not? UK Subs vocalist, Charlie Harper, is 70 this year, and he’s still going strong. Harper has a damned sight more hair left than I do though. I’ve been reduced to an obligatory skinhead style, due to baldness, for years, or, as I came to call it in South East Asia, a ‘Monk Cut’ – LoL!

Anyhow, returning to the beach, I ambled around trying to locate people who wanted to indulge in a shot of Lao Lao, but there wasn’t many takers. As a result, I drank too much myself. Eventually I encountered a random guy who was doing the same with a bottle of Laos’ infamous Tiger Whiskey. We traded shots; I discovered the two drinks don’t mix, so, maintaining my punk credentials, I promptly threw up at approximately fifteen minutes past the hour. “Well, may as well start 2014 as I mean to continue” I remarked to Emma, and with that, we polished off our remaining booze, and returned to our bungalow.

We awoke on New Years Day to the sound of the boats, and cyclists chatting, as they rode past our bungalow. It didn’t take us long to enter the restaurant, and we proceeded to indulge in one of the most relaxing days of our entire travels; we consumed Laoquitos, I ate Pumpkin Soup and Baguettes, we drank more Laoquitos and smoked, as we watched the world go by. It was bliss.

In the evening we strolled back to the Reggae Bar, but it was deserted. All of the flash-packers had zapped in for New Years Eve, and zapped out again. We thought it was funny. The beauty of travelling is that you can slow down and relax when you arrive at a really nice location, not dash in and out for the sake of it. It’s a bit sad to travel like that really.

Relax we did – we were to stay for a week and had a grand old time.