Options were three, I chose adventure. That’s why I’m sitting on the bend of the road now, wondering why insufficient food portions and excessive effort are holidays for me. It’s yet another day when I push my bike up on a way too steep and dusty mountain road. I should consider this as ‘trekking’, not ‘cycling’. However, I’m also very happy that I got here.

I put my tent in a classroom. I manage to squeeze it between the blackboard and and askew wooden benches. The school building contains three classrooms in a bamboo shack with hard earthen floor. There’s a forgotten English book on the rickety teacher’s table. Metal doors won’t close. Outside there’s an empty water container and a hole in the ground which serves as a toilet. It’s quiet and peaceful around because the school is just outside the village situated on a hill. I can see it and hear it from here because there’s loud music coming from one of the houses. I guess that it’s accompanied by the national drink – Beerlao. Just before sunset schoolyard becomes busy. Locals come back from their little fields on a path nearby. They stop, smile and walk away. Three girls were so deeply immersed in their conversation that they only noticed unusual shapes in the classroom when they almost have passed it by. They run away screaming to the fence. However, they are curious to know who inhabited the old building so, holding their hands, doing two steps forward and one backwards, heartening one another, they crane their necks. I go out and wave to them. Encouraged, they come closer and examine my tent. We can’t communicate in any language so we just sit there smiling broadly to each other. Only after half an hour they will decide that they’ve seen enough. I go to sleep among lone shots of poachers and squeaking of bats which took the schoolyard in their possession.

At 2 a.m. I’m waken up by the sounds of a quarrel in the village. The music isn’t playing anymore but now I’m certain it was accompanied by the Laotian beer. After a while participants of the fight calm down and I fall asleep again.

I sleep like a baby until I’m waken up again by some strange noises near the school. I wonder what animals are making them but I’m too lazy to check it. I get out of my warm sleeping bag only because I reach the conclusion that these must be some kind of Laotian wild boars. I don’t know whether there are wild boars in Laos but I’m in the mountains, there’s a beautiful forest around me and near the building something snorts loudly with its snout by the ground. And wild boars have good sense of smell. And I put cookie crumbles and orange peels in the bin by the door. And the door doesn’t close. And I don’t want to have a wild boar just outside my tent. So I get up and check the situation. In the dim light of my torch I can only see gleaming eyes and the shape of the nearest animal. It looks like a big cow. When I take a couple of steps to take a closer look, the little herd retreats warily. I have no idea why a herd of cows (if they were cows) came to the schoolyard in the middle of the night and why they graze so loudly but I go back to my tent. A cow won’t come into the classroom. The doors aren’t wide enough. Besides that, I have to turn off my torch because I can see lights of another two torches on the hill nearby. They pierce the slopes covered with trees and I have a guess that those must be poachers and I don’t need their visit right now.

After 6 a.m. I hear people’s voices. I get out of my tent promptly afraid that in a minute all the village kids will jump on my head but it turns out these are only locals going to their fields.

I pack and go to the village. The red sun rises over the mountains and I stop by a shop for a canned coffee. Three boys without panties and one black pig stare at me. The boys are without panties because all the kids, that in our part of the world wear diapers, here in Laotian mountains just run around half naked. Morning ablutions take place by the well. The village is made of stilt houses. They are built chaotically and close to each other. There are little fires outside of the houses where the food is prepared. Chickens, dogs and pigs roam around. Where the houses end, there are little granaries closed with metal padlocks.

Locals spend their time mainly outside. They sit by the road, cook, talk, carve something, louse, make brooms, wash their clothes, drink beer. And if they don’t sit by the road, they go to work in their fields or in the forest. They walk in groups carrying machetes and some food.

‘Falang, falang’, children shout behind me because a foreigner is a real sensation here.

I push the bike. I get on it. I cycle several dozens of metres. I get off. I push. There’s another village. Kids scream: ‘Falang’ and wave at me. Grown-ups smile and greet me. Teenagers help me to push the bike uphill. I get on it. I cycle several dozens of metres. I get off. I push. I meet a guy with a rifle. He asks me where I’m going and checks my bike. He says it’s a good bike. Then he disappears on a tiny forest path. I get on my bike. I cycle several dozens of metres. I get off. I push. There’s another village. Kids scream: ‘Falang’ and wave at me. Grown-ups smile and greet me. I get on my bike. I cycle several dozens of metres. I get off. I push. I meet locals going to or from their fields. They smile and greet me. They help me to push the bike uphill. I get on my bike. I cycle several dozens of metres. I get off. I push. There’s another village. Kids scream: ‘Falang’ and wave at me. Grown-ups smile and greet me. I get on my bike. I cycle several dozens of metres. I get off. I push. I rest. I eat something. I get on my bike. I cycle several dozens of metres. I get off. I push. I meet a small clan of locals. A man with an ancient rifle walks in the front. Women carry bundles and babies. Older children also carry bundles. A grandma has a cool, metal pipe in her toothless mouth from which she exhales puffs of smoke. They smile and ask me questions. I tell them where I’m going. They nod their heads and we wave goodbye to each other. I get on my bike. I cycle several dozens of metres. I get off. I push. There’s another village. Kids scream: ‘Falang’ and wave at me. Grown-ups smile and greet me. There’s no place to have lunch. I push. I get on my bike. I cycle several dozens of metres. I get off. I push. A car passes me by rising big clouds of dust. The dust settles on the road, trees and on me. I get on my bike. I cycle several dozens of metres. I get off. I push. I take a break to eat cookies and oranges.

I’m sitting on the bend of the road thinking that, damn it, I can’t call a taxi here. But I’m also thinking that if someone offered me an immediate teleportation to a 5-star all-inclusive hotel and relaxation by the pool, I would never ever accept it.