Agent provocateur.

Last night I was whisked off to a disco 4 kilometres from the heart of Vientiane. The brother of an excellent friend of mine picked me up at 8 and proceeded to drive dangerously, zigzagging left and right, overtaking on the inside not out, leaning so deeply into the corners that in one instance the footstand grated along the road, spraying sparks. At kilometre 2 we pulled into the dark and ethereal grounds of a monastery "to see my friends". A constellation of 10 sat beneath an enormous aged tree, around a concrete table, smoking, drinking, being unruly lads on a Saturday night, while the monks glided spectrally around them, unphased in orange. The posse followed us to the disco with its glaring neon ornaments, dual-levelled dancefloor, ditzy Laos underagers embracing rap culture: bling bling, pimping, flesh-flashing dance moves that'd mortify their mothers like they did me. Glancing around, noone but the posse and I seemed to be over, say, 17. Time raced by, the room filled out, by 10 the entire place was bouncing as one to the expletives of Snoop, Dre, etc. on a sweat-lubricated dancefloor. Then the fights broke out.

After 6 weeks of backwater hangouts, benign impromptu parties, head nestled cosily amid pillow well before the advent of midnight, all this was a little too much for me, a little too soon. On the way home I ducked into a dingy and unenticing pub for a drink. It was unacceptably dirty. Morsels of dust permeated the air. Over in the darkest corner, 3 old drunkards sung with pride and mirth. They invited me over and did what they could to teach me the words to the song and we sang horridly and launched into jerky dance rhythms and the oldest guy fell over and got up and I felt truly at home again.

(Due to fiscal issues and a need to spend at least 2 weeks at home before resuming study, I've brought my return date forward to February 13th. That should afford the welcoming committee ample time to organise the red carpet, entertainment troupe, etc.)

Compressing an incompressible trip.

Name: Duo of Doom (regrouped remnants of former malicious biker gang, Trinity of Terror).

Aim: Unearth paradise, discreetly.

Where: The very paradisical northern Laos - Pak Mi, Pak Ly, Sayabouli, Hong Sa, Pak Beng, Huay Sai, Luang Nam Tha, Muang La, Phongsali, Hat Sa, Udom Xai, Vieng Thong, Viang Xai, Phongsavan, Vang Vieng, back to dusty Vientianne, again.

Modus operandi: Big motorbikes. *picture pending

Pertinent statistics: Between 2000 and 2500 kilometres traversed, count lost somewhere in between. 2 golden chicks inadvertantly murdered beneath the thick rubber tread of tyre (some hypothesise the chicks were suicidal, informed by their furious dash square into the line of oncoming traffic: me). 1 bloodspilling and mildshock-inducing crash, courtesy of a treacherous rut hiding wide in the 'road,' The Cursed One being Simon. The massacre of 3 wild bores, 4 quacking ducks, and countless swarms of chickens witnessed, the coarse deathcry of the wild bores most unsettling, that morning's pork dishes writhing in protest deep down in our stomachs. 1 key lost in the ether of a tri-terraced waterfall that we had all to ourselves two afternoons running, and soaped and shaved giddily in. 0 reserve keys proffered by motorbike rental agency. 1 new key fit following a tempest of invective from The Cursed One, thanks to the crafty grease-cloved mechanics dwelling in lifeless Xam Nua. 3 absurd Lao house, or hut, parties attended, comprised of barefoot dancing on hardened dirt floors, lewd propositions by young and old and male and female, endless mirth, sweating, and the ubiquitous Laos deejay saturated in alcohol doing a painstakingly subordinate job. The word Falang overheard 269 times in reference to us. 1 Lao stylee brothel-bar unwittingly attended- all we wanted was a peaceful beer, man- which was as interesting as it was saddening. 1 Chinese gold-digging rig boarded, involving an impromptu invitation to, well, a Chinese gold-digging rig in the middle of nowhere, the fluorescent glare of a full moon bathing everything in eerieness , where we ate and witnessed a demonstration of the digging process, huge metal troughs rotating along a vertical conveyor belt ripping up the delicate riverbottom, the noise warlike, the river rippling, the whole thing reminding Simon of a hairy 18th century industrial England construct, reminding me of Howl's Moving Castle, reminding the villagers bathing and laundrying and drinking riverwater now sullied by the rig of the avarice too many Chinese foster. 2 slowboats boarded thence offed, 150kg bikes in tow. 4 men required to board and unboard each bike. 567 balloons distributed to grub-faced Laos kids, one per person, rendering them ecstatic, giggling, jumping up and down, khawp jai khawp jai. 1 picnic held mid-ride on the towering ridge of a mountain, nothing but the soft cackle of leaves in the wind accompanying us. 0.5 cigarettes smoked. 1 email received from a British friend detailing his current status: 'Just left Pai. Kinda ended up staying there this entire time. 4 months. Just like the other time I did that. In Australia now, packing boxes. I'm pining for Pai, Mark. Help.' 1 raft constructed out of bamboo by a local teen, just for me, upon which we steered down a river without falling in, then sunk with rocks. 1 deaf girl befriended, who managed to articulate her entire past-in-a-nutshell to us, which was sobering: abuse, abortion, prison, addiction. Top speed reached: 120km/hr - The Cursed One. 0 verses of 'All you need is Laos' known, thus 0 renditions sung. 2 notable discussions a day regarding the unparallelled magic of Laos people - the bounce in their step, the joy in their hoots, the homely warmth felt each and every time we encountered a Laotian, like we were some revered international dignitaries, or something.

Outcome: We found paradise in a bigger guise than we'd anticipated.

We found paradise in a placed called Laos.

The wheel is spinning, slowly, slowly.

This afternoon, furled up in a threadbare hammock by the Mekong, I jolted awake to the mad clucking of a platoon of sickly looking roosters. Around and into one another in clashing circles they ran, as if missing their heads, through the dirt and under the table, a straggler into a tree bounding back to its feet to catch up with its own. The sun kept sinking and I kept thinking- What strange things animals are. And then a luminescent glimmer writhing amid the roosters, cornucopian legs like augmented eyelashes, a centipede. The roosters squabbled while I wondered, from my hammock- Will this silent dying centipede sting its cagey predators? Like a bee, is it about to hit the ever-clucking roosters with a final crescendoing sting, one grandiose throwback to life as it knows it? To life as it knew it: a single earthbound centipede, a hundred diminutive feet scurrying along the ground under the soles of larger creatures' feet.

Life is simple in Laos. It seeps into your thoughts and guides them groundwards. There is no nightlife. There is no quarrelling. There is nothing but hammocks here, and snaggletoothed smiles, and mosquitoes whose bites invoke mass itchiness, horrid welts, and as such are my greatest concern at the moment, as small a concern as it is, as small a creature as mosquitoes tend to be.