Sans Ferguson III

The ride between Ban Nal Duang and Ban Phayong was tough. On the last rolling kilometer down into the village, I realized it was going to be tougher riding out. I was feeling like an old man. No matter how long I have been here, I am still from the Northwest, and more accustomed to rainy rides and cold.

As I rode I to Ban Phayong, I chewed on a new plan. I would ride all the way to the Nam Ou river and try to hail or hire a boat to schlep me back down river to town.

There was a small village store in town. Iced tea in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, I quickly became the center of attention. It was Lao only, or sign language.

I found the right road to the river, the correct pronunciation, and a vague idea of how far it was. A boat was possible, and a few of the local guys offered extraordinarily high starting bids to take me down to the next village and find me a boat.

We talked, and I drank and showed pictures on my I-phone, which always help communication. Then I saddled up and cast the die for plan A. I did not think I could make it back to town on my own.

You would think it would be downhill to a river, but you would be wrong. Up and over each rise, I just saw another valley and another rise. It was, frankly, an ass-kicker.

Finally, I spotted a cluster of buildings and a real downhill run.