Shit Happens: Naked farang vs Nam Song in Laos
Imagine this: You're deep in the Laos countryside, far from the comfort of civilization, when your stomach sends out a distress signal—loud, urgent, and non-negotiable. Yesterday’s suspiciously spicy soup is staging a full-blown revolution. If you don’t act now, you’re going to crap your pants. What do you do?
Caption: Laos, 2005 – Visiting remote villages outside Vang Vieng. This photo was taken just before the infamous “Nam Song incident” described in the blog post. Spirits were high, shorts were dry, and disaster hadn’t struck... yet.
Imagine this: You're deep in the Laos countryside, far from the comfort of civilization, when your stomach sends out a distress signal—loud, urgent, and non-negotiable. Yesterday’s suspiciously spicy soup is staging a full-blown revolution. If you don’t act now, you’re going to crap your pants. What do you do?
It all happened in 2005. It was a sun-drenched day in Vang Vieng, the infamous backpacker town best known for tubing down the Nam Song River while questionably sober. I’d rented a scooter and driven an hour outside the town to explore a remote village. That’s when it hit me—one of my worst travel nightmares: the unmistakable, cold-sweat-inducing feeling that it’s happening.
There was no toilet in sight. No friendly bush, no hole in the ground. And this wasn’t a secluded jungle; I couldn’t just drop my shorts and pray. It was a classic traveler’s conundrum: too public to go wild, too urgent to walk away. Panic set in.
Then I saw it. The river.
It was steep to get down there, and the drop wasn’t exactly forgiving. But I was out of options. Either I’d end up scraped and bruised—or I’d be the guy who pooped himself in Laos. I slid down the slope, arms getting clawed by the underbrush, and landed by the water. Crisis still very much in progress.
Now, if you've ever seen the Nam Song, you’ll know: it may not be as massive as the Mekong, but it’s no gentle stream either. It can be deep, swift, and totally uncooperative. Attempting to poop in the Nam Song was—let’s be honest—not ideal. But we were past the stage of careful planning. I ditched my shirt and flip-flops, waded in, grabbed onto a sturdy stick for dear life, pulled off my shorts, and… well, nature took its course.
That’s when disaster part two struck.
My shorts—my beloved last line of dignity—slipped from my grip and took off like a speedboat. The Nam Song had them now. And I was stuck there, half-naked, clinging to a stick in the middle of the current like some confused water buffalo.
Once the worst was over (from a digestive standpoint), I sprinted—naked—along the riverbank in full panic mode. How was I going to get back without shorts? Was I about to fashion emergency pants out of banana leaves or plastic bags?
Then, a miracle.
Just as I was about to give up, I saw it—my shorts, snagged on a small branch poking out of the water like the literal finger of God. Hallelujah. I pulled them in like a fisherman reeling in the catch of the day.
But the embarrassment wasn’t over yet.
Climbing back up the sandy bank, soaking wet, I looked like I’d survived a failed jungle baptism. As my head crested the top, I saw four feet. Slowly, like a cinematic reveal, my eyes moved upward to meet the faces of two local teenagers. Smiling. Wide-eyed. Clearly, they’d seen the whole show.
“Shit happens!” one of them said, laughing.
And honestly, he wasn’t wrong.
Thankfully, this all happened before smartphones were common in Laos. Otherwise, there’d probably be a viral video titled “Naked Farang vs Nam Song.”