Globe Gallivanting- motorbiking across the world

In Vang Vieng, one is apt to scream ‘Frikkin Awe-some!’ while hurtling oneself  down a river, inebriated on rice whisky.  One is apt, apparently, to scrawl marker-pen slogans all over one’s semi-naked torso.  But only, luckily, if one happens to be a Spring-Break-aged US citizen with a healthy American zest for life. For the rest of us, Vang Vieng was a bit of a shock.  To deal with said shock, we helped numerous bottles of whisky to empty themselves, thereby possibly saving various unseasoned US drinkers from an untimely doom, and ensuring their further economic support of the local beverage industry.  The highway on the way there didn’t have signs screaming ‘This Way To East Tijuana’, or tequila-swigging donkeys swaggering to a latin beat.  It didn’t even have dodgy looking Gringos wearing inappropriate headgear … oh no, wait, it did have those.   So nothing had warned us.  In fact I thought it might be a nice place to unwind in...

 ‘The king of Vietnam just invited us to his house. ‘ ‘Eh?’ ‘That man was the king of Vietnam. And he just invited us to his house.’ ‘Bollocks.’ ‘Really, ask him.’ The retired king of Vietnam was a fairly unassuming chap, in a sunhat.  We found him at the border.  His compadres cheerfully boasted about who he was before he had a chance to get a word in edgeways.  He invited us to his house, but we were too shocked to ask him for his address.  Afterwards I was a bit upset about that. If we can find his address we will go and see him when we get there.  (Thinking about it, maybe its polite to courtesy-call the king before a visit.  Especially as pretty much the only thing I could say at the time was “Is it nice being the king?’.) We’d just been in to customs to get our papers sorted for the border. It was a nice relaxed border.  The guy behind the desk had told us in a laissez-faire sort of way that the carnet stamp was locked in the...