The Worst Motorcycle in Laos

by Chris Tharp

  The Ueno Hostel was spacious, clean, and quiet as a morgue. And at around thirty bucks, the price was right. Like any excursion to Tokyo, this outing had been brutal on the bank book, so I booked a bed in one the hostel’s dormitory rooms as a money-saving measure… and grinned when I discovered that I was its sole occupant. In fact, I think I was the only guest in the whole place.

  I passed the afternoon by reading and scribbling in my journal, and after a dinner of ramen topped with thinly sliced, succulent pork (The Japanese dial this in. It destroys all other facsimiles.) at a nearby noodle house, I once again put one foot in front of the other and trusted it to lead me somewhere cool. I knew this would be an easy, fruitful endeavor, since pretty much everywhere in Tokyo, so far, had been deeply, satisfyingly cool.

  This part of town was much more subdued than the prismatic mania of Shibuya and Shinjuku. Traffic was sparse and the sidewalks nearly empty. The past couple of days had been like an acid trip, and the comparatively tranquil surroundings were a now welcome respite from the previous madness.

  It wasn’t as if I’d arrived in a ghost town, though, and it didn’t take long before I’d sniffed out a boozer. The place was small and warm, with a large mirror behind a stained pine wood bar. I stepped in out of the biting air, only to be greeted by the Pixies’ “Debaser” pouring forth from the speakers. I liked the joint immediately, sat down, and ordered a Sapporo on draft, which was delivered to me with a thick, creamy head. Beer in Japan is served no other way.

  A couple sat next to me, smoking cigarettes, quietly chatting, and sipping clear liquor on ice. They appeared to be in their late 40s and, judging from their flushed faces and the fact they were both sliding off their barstools, happily drunk. I sipped my beer and dug the music, content to just sit there and chew on my thoughts.

  “Excuse-uh me,” said the man, turning my way.

  “Hello.”

  “Where are you from? America?”

  “Good guess.”

  “Have you evuh drink-uh the shochu?

  “Soju? I live in Korea, so yeah.”

  “No. No Korea soju. Japanese shochu.”

  The man politely got the attention of the bartender, and soon I had a full glass tumbler in front of me.

  “Go ahead. Drink-uh. Is very good!”

  I sipped from the glass and felt the liquor trickle down my throat and warm my insides. It was fresh, clean, and incredibly smooth. There was almost no bite from the alcohol, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. After the first few gulps I knew that this was very strong stuff. And the man was right: it bore little resemblance to the Korean version.

  “You like?”

  “Yes. I like.”

  “Ahhh… good. This is my wife.” The woman smiled and squeaked out a friendly “Konichiwa.”

  “Konichiwa,” I replied.

  “So sorry, but she can’t-uh speak English.”

  “That’s okay… I’m the one who should be speaking Japanese.”

  The man smiled and shifted back toward his wife, who puffed on a smoke while he lovingly murmured in her ear. After a few minutes she snuffed out the cigarette, signaling that it was time to go. He paid the bill and staggered up, helping his unsteady partner slip into her coat. He then zipped up his, swayed my way, and held out his hand, which I grasped in a warm shake.

  “Enjoy your time-uh in Tokyo.”

  I offered my thanks and watched them head to the door. Crisp air penetrated the room as they opened the door and exited into the darkness. When I turned back around, the bartender placed a new glass of shochu in front of me. He nodded to the door and gave a quick, knowing bow.

  After stopping in at an empty sushi restaurant where, along with fatty tuna belly, I was served a thick slice of seared horse meat on a ball of rice (explosively awesome, to my amazement), I strode the streets—which were abandoned like the hostel and restaurant—once more. I could hear some nearby traffic and even caught glimpses of a few cars, but for the moment I was alone—seemingly the only person outdoors in this city of twenty million. The wind barreled through in wicked gusts, announcing the full brunt of winter that was just around the corner. I was full of sushi and through with drinking, yet not ready to return to the empty hostel. Something else pushed me on.

  The urban scene opened up as I came to a wide river, the Sumida, Tokyo’s lifeline that empties into the famous bay that shares the city’s name. Black water coursed toward the sea, reflecting the thousands of city lights like stars. A stately bridge spanned upstream, and what looked like a tour boat cut up the current. A couple of seagulls circled above, their squawks mingling with the ripping wind.

  I watched the boat as it chugged its way closer. I could see people standing on the deck, which was lit up by long strings of white Christmas lights. Their laughs carried across the surface of the water and echoed off the concrete. They were celebrating: it was a floating party on the river. As the boat slid by, I began to make out traces of music pulsing from inside the cabin. A band was playing: piano, drums, bass, and horns. Jazz.

  The wind picked up, numbing my face and slicing through my thin overcoat. The warming effect of the shochu had long worn off and I decided I’d had enough. I had seen Tokyo; she had tossed me around and worn me out, but she didn’t disappoint. As the boat slipped away up the river, a saxophone wailed, and then faded. As I turned around, pointed myself toward the hostel, and began the hike back, I finally understood what all the fuss was about.

  THE WORST MOTORCYCLE IN LAOS

  Laos, 2007

  It was a 100cc Chinese make—a glorified scooter, really—the type of four-speed bike ubiquitous throughout Southeast Asia. The horn was burned out, along with the electric starter and both turning signals. The tires were bald. Neither the speedometer nor the gas gauge functioned. The silver-dollar-sized mirrors looked as if they had been ripped from makeup compacts and attached to the bike with safety pins, spinning freely on their mounts like reflective whirligigs. The black paint job was ancient and covered in deep scratches. The handbrake didn’t work at all, and the footbrake felt as if it was attached by a worn-out rubber band. Despite its many flaws, this particular motorbike held one advantage over the one other to be had in town that day: it started.

  Finding It

  I had been traveling for nearly twenty-four hours: a night bus from Bangkok to Vientiane, an overpriced tuk-tuk to the bus station, followed by an eight-hour local that dumped me off in the rotting ex-colonial town of Thakhek. I’d come as part of my greater sweep through southern Laos. I’d visited the northern part of the country the year before, but this time wished to explore its quieter and less-visited southern half. I was seeking isolation, natural beauty, and adventure, and southern Laos seemed just the place to find it.

  I got the idea for a specific bike trip from a certain guidebook, the same guidebook that every Western tourist clutches like a Gucci handbag as they wander along the dusty streets of a new town like a lost pet. The book mentioned doing “The Loop”—a three- or four-day motorcycle excursion out of the town Thakhek. The book said the trip takes you through beautiful and remote country, and that it could be done on a 100cc bike. But was this really possible? Could you actually ride one of these glorified mopeds into the hills of southern Laos? Could you pilot them down rocky dirt roads, through mud villages, across rutted tracks and rice paddies? The book recommended the trip, or at least mentioned it as a possibility. But had the writer actually done it himself?

  Foggy-eyed and hungry enough to eat my own shoes, I staggered off of the local bus and had the rare pleasure of being left alone. No touts swarmed, no children hawked photocopied versions of the guide book, no cyclo drivers chased me down the street shouting “Mister! Mister! Where you go?” A woman and her children, sitting nearby, halfheartedly regarded me, but their attention was better held by the sticky rice and yellowish roast chicken they pecked away on. After a few minutes, a tuk-tuk rolled up; I got in, and the driver took me to the Thakhek Travel Lodge, the one
guesthouse that served the few tourists passing through this otherwise neglected burg.

  The Travel Lodge was a compound of sorts, with a dirt courtyard in front, complete with nightly bonfires. I checked into the shockingly cheap hostel-like dormitory room and proceeded down to the fire, where I chatted with some fellow travelers, downed several bottles of ice-cold Beerlao, and feasted on laap, which is Laos’s national dish of ground meat, onions, and rectum-searing chili. Before I knew it, I was nodding off on the bench in front of the fire, and blearily made my way up to my bed.

  After a lager-induced black sleep, I took a cold shower and made my way downstairs for breakfast, which consisted of a noodle soup that had to be ordered twice. This phantom-dish phenomenon plagued me the whole trip, but my patience always endured. It was Laos, after all, where time moves as if it’s encased in a thick gelatin. Laos is also a communist nation that has only recently opened up for visitors, and the people just aren’t used to capitalism, especially in the south, where the tourists are few. Food and drink orders are often met with a panicked look of utter confusion—the proverbial deer in the headlights before it meets its end on the grille of a Mack truck. Bills are glacially tallied with looks of semi-despair, as if the people adding them up are working out impossible calculus equations or attempting to decipher ancient runes.

  The colonial French had a famous saying: “The Vietnamese plant the rice. The Cambodians watch it grow. The Lao listen to it grow.”

  Thakhek is a provincial capital, so despite the ramshackle ambiance, there are some large administrative buildings in town, imposing and looking the part of bastions of communist authority. I walked along the main street toward the big river, past pharmacies, dark garages, and tire shops; past women grilling chicken and selling boiled eggs; past young men lounging on their motorbikes and daring each other to try out their English on me. Most of the buildings were low, with faded paint that was cracked or peeling off. The closer I got to the river, the more dilapidated the buildings became and the more the street became a mixture of paved parts and red dirt patches, as if the town itself was slowly falling into the brown waters of the Mekong. Chickens ran free, and dogs—many with mange so severe that it hurt to take in—lay next to trash mounds and broken concrete on the roadside.

  The guesthouse was currently out of bikes for hire, so acting on a tip from the owner, I tracked down SV Rentals, the go-to place for rental vehicles in this part of the country. The company was located in a massive garage near the riverside. Inside were numerous cars—including two brand-new shiny Hummers—along with some heavy construction equipment, and two sorry-looking 100cc motorbikes.

  “Hello,” I greeted the frightened young man behind the counter. “I want to rent a motorbike.”

  He looked with bewilderment.

  “Motorcycle?” I pointed to the bikes. “Vroom-vroom.”

  He nodded his head and presented me with a note, evidently from the guy responsible for renting out bikes to foreigners: Dear Sir or Madam, Today I family out of the town the go. Rent motorbike to leave passport with man and taking key. Sorry to problem.

  After choosing the one bike that ran, I handed over my passport and around $30 in Thai baht and was off, cruising down the cracked road of Thakhek and joining the locals, most of whom were riding much nicer-looking machines. The bike purred between my legs and shot down the road with confidence. I was certain I had done well, despite the cosmetic challenges of the thing. Sure, it’s ugly and old, but it runs, and that’s all that matters.

  The first thing I did was stop into the nearest garage to get my spinning micro-mirrors tightened. Little did I know, this would be the first of many Lao mechanics’ garages I would pass the time in over the next three days. I would experience a real-life Zen of motorcycle maintenance, emptying my mind while watching Buddhist after Buddhist labor over my sad machine.

  Day 1

  The road heading west out of Thakhek was two-laned and mostly paved—a luxury in Laos—a country with some of the worst infrastructure in Asia. I opened up the bike and took in the scenery. To my left, a turquoise river snaked up the valley—deep cool pools tempted me to stop the bike and have a refreshing swim, but I had just begun the journey and wanted to get some kilometers under my wheels. The road wound through farmland, mainly rice paddies containing fat water buffaloes or groups of malicious-looking black goats. Monumental limestone karsts shot up on either side of me, looking as if they had been crammed through the earth by immense, all-powerful hands. The scenery was stunning; its magic entered through my very pores. I breathed deeply and absorbed the surroundings with joy, reminding myself that this was exactly why I had come back to Laos.

  After about thirty minutes of riding, I came upon two other Westerners on 100cc bikes. I’d met them over breakfast while waiting for my no-show noodles. Their names were Inga and Steve, a couple of Belgian backpackers who had decided to take on The Loop as well. Inga sported tattoos and bleached dreadlocks, displaying a hard edge against Steve’s laid-back and smiling demeanor. I would pass them several times on the trip, only to be overtaken by them each time I broke down on the side of the road or in a village. We became unwitting companions: all out to conquer The Loop on woefully underequipped machines.

  I hit my initial setback in the town of Gnomalat—the first real settlement I came across since leaving Thakhek. My footbrake barely worked in the first place, and I noticed it getting weaker each time I pressed down. This, of course, was of great concern; that brake was the only thing between me and certain death by water buffalo collision or a nasty plunge into a ravine. Just after I crossed a small bridge while leaving the hamlet, it failed entirely. The pedal went straight into the dirt of the road. I gingerly guided the bike back into the dusty town and stopped at the first mechanic I saw, located in a dirt-floored shack at the bottom of a steep embankment. It took both of us to work the bike down the narrow path and into his shaded shop.

  The place was littered with grease-covered motorcycle parts, tools, and cigarette butts. The mechanic did some adjusting on the brake pedal and replaced the actual disk while his compatriots stood around, smoked, and commented in sing-song Lao. When he was finished, he demonstrated his handiwork with authority—pushing down on the brake and smiling at me when the wheel firmly stopped.

  “Okay? Okay?” he said.

  “Okay,” I responded.

  Fifteen minutes and two dollars later, I was once again crossing the bridge and now blazing out of town, heading down a ruler-straight stretch of road which shot up to the Nakai Plateau. My day’s destination was the actual town of Nakai. So I stopped to check the guidebook map to see how far I had to go, and once satisfied that Nakai was only an hour or two off, I happily jumped down on the kick-start to continue on my way.

  Nothing.

  Again.

  Nothing.

  Again. Again. Again.

  The bike refused to start. I kicked down on the starter ten more times with no results. I then slipped it into neutral, ran the bike along the road, hopped on, and tried a pop start. Again, nothing. After several more attempts, I gave up, cursing the sky and beginning the long, sweaty push back into Gnomalat.

  As I toiled underneath the afternoon sun, Inga and Steve—the Belgian duo—putted up.

  “What is the problem?” Inga asked.

  “The bike died on me. Now it won’t start.”

  “Have you tried to push start it?”

  “Yeah yeah yeah. I’ll take it back into town to get it looked at.”

  Steve smiled. “I’m sure they can fix it there. Everyone rides motorcycles in this country.”

  “We’ll see you up the road,” said Inga.

  They beeped their horns and rode off, leaving me to my long haul. Luckily, just a few minutes later, a local man rode up and gave me a push by placing one of his feet on my passenger’s peg. I then popped the bike into gear and managed to get it started, albeit with greatly diminished compression and power. My helper smiled and rode away, and I c
rawled the bike back into the town. As I came upon the bridge, I pushed down on my footbrake, which then failed exactly as it had before, in the same spot even. But this time the pedal went straight into the ground and then kicked back up—right into the flesh of my leg—ripping open a bleeding gash, rimmed by a nasty bruise.

  The bike then died. Again.

  Covered in sweat, dust, blood, and vexation, I watched three people roll up on big, well-outfitted dirt bikes. They appeared to be Westerners.

  “You are having some sort of problem?”

  From the sound of his accent, I figured him to be French. Laos is full of French people, smoking, gesticulating, and basking in the ever-fading glow of their former Indochinese glory.

  My savior was indeed French, as were his two companions, and he gave me a push back to the mechanic the bottom of the hill, where we once again handed the bike back over for further work.

  “What are you guys doing in Laos? Traveling?”

  “No… we are working here. You know, up the road they are building a large dam. You will see the trucks if you ride up there. We work for a French company that is helping to make this dam.”

  “Oh, really? I just thought you were checking up on the state of your former colony.”

  “Yes,” he smiled. “There is that too.”

  As we waited for the mechanic to replace my one of my sparkplugs and once again take on the pesky footbrake, one of the Gallic Trio started her bike and shot off down the road into the town, quickly returning with two cold, glistening bottles of Beerlao. We passed the bottles around and drank, the cold delicious beer a welcome addition in my parched mouth. One wonderful thing about the French is their ability to enjoy good drink and food, even in the most uninviting conditions.