Laos: the Gibbon Experience by Richard Waters

Cast a glance at Houay Xai, a Lao border town of languishing mongrels and dust-blown monks, and you could be forgiven for passing swiftly on. Many do then later, watching a wide-eyed traveller retell of his experience at The Gibbon Experience, come to regret it. But what is this Gibbon Experience, and why is it so often described as the quintessential experience in Laos?

In short: an ingenious series of navigable zip lines, criss-crossing the canopy of some of Laos’ most untouched forest; home to tiger, clouded leopard, black bear, macaque, migrating wild elephant and the black crested gibbon. Five years ago poaching in the area was replacing the gibbon's soprano with a funeral dirge. Cue The Gibbon Experience who convinced the poachers to perform a volte-face and become the forest’s protectors. By acting as guides to falang (westerners), they now make double the money of their old predatory days. Visitors scatter the word and bring an ever-revolving yield of much needed income (at £135, it’s not cheap). Genius!

As a visitor to the park, you get to live out your Neverland fantasy, gliding hundreds of feet above the treetops. Jack Osborne, eat your bungee cord, this is adrenalin Lao-style; and even more heart-pounding than it would be anywhere else as most things in this country have a way of suddenly not working. Not a comforting thought as you a careen down a 500metre zip-line, your brake a primitive strip of bicycle tread, squeezed upon to slow down. And another thing- you have to be pretty fit, for in the zen of zip what whizzes down, has to walk back up again on the other side of the valley.

Starting Out From Base Camp

After watching a pre-trip safety video, we're summarily dispatched to the jungle 3 hrs away. Two choices: the Classic Trek – a three day excursion into the Bokeo jungle, spending two nights in a tree-house; or the Waterfall Trek – same time-span but a seriously increased amount of trekking. Against my better instinct I choose the latter. I try not to notice the recruits of the last trip sat waiting to intercept our ride as we arrive at base camp - a Lammet tribe village - the burned-out glaze of their eyes, the crimson tattoos of leeches’ work around their ankles.

An hour into our hike, lunch arrives in the form of a baguette and pot of sticky rice. By then we've left the padi workers far behind, the secondary forest thickening into brooding jungle; a sinewy chaos of creeper vines and muscular banyan roots. Our guide - his name sounds like Nietzche - has a mournful face and heart full of song. For most of our ascent he’s a human iPod of Lao folk tunes, and we swiftly christen him ‘GuyPod’. For three hours we slog our way up sodden trails, passing giant snails and banshee rags of dead palm fronds. We even spot some fresh tiger waste, its claw marks mercilessly etched into a tree. And then, just as I sense revolt in the legs of our party of seven – GuyPod self-pauses and smiles, ‘Now it time to zip.’

Secured by a safety line – and a little faith and adventurism – push off into the jungle abyss; aerial neophytes exploring your new element. The first time you zip it feels like you’ve stolen the gift of flight and traded your stomach in the bargain; whistling along at high speed, the jungle canopy unravelling below, the distant mountains an endless green amphitheatre. Each ride lasts about 30 seconds, but airborne it seems considerably longer. Initially, some of our company are roaring with so much testosterone and enthusiasm that the chance of seeing any animals above the din is impossible. But two hours and six breezy zips later, exhausted by our exertions, we catch sight of our home for the night and fall to silent wonder.

A Night in a Tree House

A fabulous tree house fantasy, 200 feet up in the branches of a mighty Strangler Fig tree, awaits us via zip line. It took a month to build – the main structure constructed on terra firma then gradually slid up the tree trunk and secured at its zenith. It even has a rainwater shower! Just don’t look down through the wooden fretwork as you douche off the day, soapsuds falling to the forest floor. ‘It’s like a Timotei ad!’ swoons one of our party, still wearing her hockey socks to deter the bloodsuckers.

Grinning ear to ear, we settle down for the evening sipping hot chocolates and wiping our leech-ravaged shins. As the light fades to an inky jade, the prelude of cicadas defer to crickets and the groans of our stomachs. Through the darkness a spinning sound and into our treetop-Dorchester flies Nietzche, armed with freshly prepared food. ‘Tiger meat and gibbon.’ He says wickedly, disappearing into the twilight like a mahogany-faced monkey.

Swiss Family Robinson or Lord of The Flies? By the time you’ve devoured your candlelit fare of beef and cabbage and recounted your worst traveller story, it’s time for bed - there are no separate rooms here - a mattress and duvet shielded by a mozzie net. Lie back and take in the pulsing intensity of the jungle below. I can’t resist one more peek with my flashlight, scanning the dark sea for life; it falls on a nearby eucalyptus – a mass of green glowing eyes. Unless they’re cyclopean gibbons they must be fireflies.

Second Day in the Jungle

Come dawn I wake to a Babel of accents and jungle noises, shafts of sunlight painting the canopy’s leaves in glistening jewells. As a horror movie mist tumbles toward us, we gather excitedly to wait for our first funky gibbon. First, a giant black squirrel streaks up a lightning-struck bough, followed by fluorescent orange birds and black drongos on the same tree. Then it's time to fly.

As you cast off again, your morning zip feels like a virgin flight, stomach knotted in revolt of the fact you’re again tossing yourself into the unknown. Mid-glide, the sub-tropical breeze on your cheeks, you’ll be too busy choking on endorphins to overly worry. But what of those gibbons? So far we hadn’t seen any, though to be fair our party did happen upon a tree viper, heard what may have been a leopard mating and found some shed cobra skin. That same morning, we were later to discover, the hirsute ones had made a brief cameo right beside the group doing the other trek.

On your second day it’s yet more trekking and zipping. Then, just as your kneecaps are buckling, you hear the welcome tinkle of a distant cascade. Wading into an Edenic pool below a menthol-cool waterfall, is the perfect antidote to a hard day’s slog. By night two, you’ll be so bushed the ghost stories barely trickle out, the last of the candles burning down to usher your exit from this fantastical Lost World.

And if you don't get to see the gibbons? Of a party of seven not one of us penny-pinching travellers could have given a monkey - either we were too bushed or the experience of being plunged in the wildest of jungles had left us thoroughly at peace. I'm sure it was the latter. This is definitely one to add to your playlist, whatever your genre: adrenaline junkie, eco warrior or free spirit.