Sex, Drugs & No Idea

23: Death Vacations Too - Vang Vieng, Laos

No booze and no sex; on doctor's orders.

Hardly what one wants to hear whilst on holiday.

But, really, it could've been worse, and Charlie was all for helping the antibiotics clear him of the bout of thrush that he had been diagnosed with as much as possible.

Thus, in a fairly sunny mood, all things considered, Charlie and Golem made the trip to Vang Vieng. This had been one of the places that we'd heard whispers of before taking leave of American soil; a mythical place in which it had been unanimously agreed upon that we should visit and satisfy our hedonistic glut.

Vang Vieng, a little town on the banks of the Nam Song River, was, by all accounts, a notorious paradise for Western pleasure-seekers. A place simply rife with drug and alcohol-fed depravity of every kind. The chief reason for visiting the place was to rent tractor tyre inner-tubes and float languidly from one riverbank-situated bar to the next, down the river, until you reached the end where, fingers crossed, you'd be able to catch a taxi willing to decant you onto the steps of your hotel.

We got dropped on the main street, right next to the comfortable hotel that Hugo, Will, Dang and Frenchy had told Golem they were staying in.

Typically, there were no direct words spoken about what had happened in Ha Long Bay. Typically, the others were half-cut when Charlie and Golem arrived.

They stood and regarded one another.

"I'm sorry, lads," Charlie said and, he had to admit, the fact that he'd been tee-total for the past three days in Vientiane was doing nothing for the wriggling guilt and unease in his stomach.

"Have you been drinking, bro?" asked Dang.

"No," Charlie said.

As one they looked at Golem. "It's true," he said. "He can't for three––"

"Four," Charlie mumbled.

"Right. Four more days."

"Why the fuck's that?" Frenchy asked. There was the memory of a bruise along his jaw, and undisguised distrust in his voice.

"Well, gents," said Golem with slow relish. "Charlie Green here has managed to get himself one hell of a case of thrush, haven't you?"

Charlie looked up from the floor and gazed around the group. He shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. "It's a real mess down there, lads."

There was a thoughtful silence for a second or two.

"Hah!" Frenchy said, stepping forward, "you fuckin' deserve that, you motherfucker!" He slapped Charlie on the back. "You know it too, don't ya, you angry son of a bitch?"

And just like that, the ice––which had been of the variety that had sunk the Titanic, in Charlie's mind––thawed.

"That sounds horrible, mate," said Hugo, and stepped forward and hugged Charlie.

Charlie thought he was going to hit him. When he crushed Charlie briefly against him, it was only the recollection that he had to get to a loo to apply the iodine to his dick which stopped Charlie from getting all weepy.

"So, um, we can consider the hatchet buried, can we?" Charlie asked, his voice muffled by Hugo's beefy shoulder.

"Sure. I mean, the other night I would've loved to bury the hatchet in your forehead, but shit happens. And I get it, mate."

Relief rushed through Charlie like a drug. He pushed Hugo off him and asked, "What've you guys been up to, then?"

Dang ruffled his hair and said, "The Swedes are here too, bro."