Luang Prabang

The Vientiane Domestic flight had been a long wait - an endless munch through packets of things, sat in uncomfortable warmth with mosquito spray in hand. Now up we bob, in a 12-seater, propelling northward above cloud and jungle, across mountainous Laos, heading for its ancient capital, Luang Prabang, in a knackered set of wings that buzzes cumbersomely like a mossie that’s drunk more than its fill. An airy little craft that has me praying to God for the first time since school. After an hour of splutter and whirr, we dive-bomb and my heart big-dippers. Green flashes up, hills of it. Yet we sail unscathed through a pass layered with jungle on jungle, and the snake of the Mekong - the river of novels, red-brown and wide - comes into view. Descending fast, wobbling like a duck with its undercarriage ready to tread water, we seek tarmac. The great river ribbons through the jungling folds beyond. Not a runway in sight.