VJ_AB-0821.jpg
VJ_AB-0910.jpg
VJ_AB-0001038.jpg
VJ_AB-0950.jpg
VG_AB-0000283.jpg
VG_AB-0000477.jpg
VG_AB-0000220.jpg
VJ_AB-0000643.jpg
VJ_AB-0759.jpg
VJ_AB-0000717.jpg
VJ_AB-0000663.jpg
VJ_AB-0000764.jpg
VJ_AB-0000846.jpg
VJ_AB-0000913.jpg
VJ_AB-0000838.jpg
Laos_AB-2206.jpg
  In the loneliest bowling alley on earth, the employees wait for you in the dark. Barefoot, groggy from napping on vinyl coated tabletops, conserving power to a soundtrack of feral cats tearing one another apart in the surrounding bushes. You arrive at 9, 10, 11pm— it hardly matters. You will always be the first, and almost assuredly the only customer. A bottle of tragic whiskey costs five dollars, a sweaty generator in the corner kicks the house music on, sending a litany of ruinous techno pulsing into the night. A lane lights up for the equivalent of $2.18, you pick from a lot of hopelessly battered, chipped excuses for balls, and roll— barefoot, if you dare, as deep and drunkenly into the infinite night as your wild little heart desires.   It might be the greatest place on earth.  Welcome to Luang Prabang Bowling, an establishment so farfetched and improbable to exist that it defies even fundamental understanding. Nestled into the darkest and far flung neighborhood of wild roosters and foot-deep treacherous muddy potholes, this sixteen-lane Titanic of what can only be of Chinese design sits in waiting, a monument to strangeness in rural, communist Laos. Pounded by monsoons, operated by small armies of listless, confused teenagers otherwise huffing on yellow balloons, supported primarily by screaming, drunk Korean tourists— it appears to be, aptly to the land it is built on, marvelously un-killable.

In the loneliest bowling alley on earth, the employees wait for you in the dark. Barefoot, groggy from napping on vinyl coated tabletops, conserving power to a soundtrack of feral cats tearing one another apart in the surrounding bushes. You arrive at 9, 10, 11pm— it hardly matters. You will always be the first, and almost assuredly the only customer. A bottle of tragic whiskey costs five dollars, a sweaty generator in the corner kicks the house music on, sending a litany of ruinous techno pulsing into the night. A lane lights up for the equivalent of $2.18, you pick from a lot of hopelessly battered, chipped excuses for balls, and roll— barefoot, if you dare, as deep and drunkenly into the infinite night as your wild little heart desires.

It might be the greatest place on earth.

Welcome to Luang Prabang Bowling, an establishment so farfetched and improbable to exist that it defies even fundamental understanding. Nestled into the darkest and far flung neighborhood of wild roosters and foot-deep treacherous muddy potholes, this sixteen-lane Titanic of what can only be of Chinese design sits in waiting, a monument to strangeness in rural, communist Laos. Pounded by monsoons, operated by small armies of listless, confused teenagers otherwise huffing on yellow balloons, supported primarily by screaming, drunk Korean tourists— it appears to be, aptly to the land it is built on, marvelously un-killable.

Laos_AB-2659.jpg
Laos_AB-2523.jpg
Laos_AB-2195.jpg
Laos_AB-2380.jpg
Laos_AB-2581.jpg
Laos_AB-2538.jpg
VG_AB-0000524.jpg
VG_AB-0000491.jpg
_BP_4191.jpg
_BP_4179.jpg
_BP_4131.jpg
000043210018.jpg
_BP_4269.jpg
000043210026.jpg
_BP_4294.jpg
_BP_4112.jpg
_BP_4510.jpg
_BP_4339.jpg
_BP_4479.jpg
_BP_4330.jpg
_BP_4472.jpg
_BP_4527.jpg
_BP_4359.jpg
_BP_4503.jpg
_BP_4351.jpg
_BP_3047.jpg
_BP_3037.jpg
_BP_3054.jpg
_BP_3090.jpg
_BP_4801.jpg
_BP_4759.jpg
000064770007.jpg
000064770012.jpg
000064770017.jpg
000064770018.jpg
000064770023.jpg
sarfin_ab-6727.jpg
000069650011.jpg
sarfin_ab-6747.jpg
Confidants_AB-5108.jpg
000069670008.jpg
Confidants_AB-018.jpg
000069680023.jpg
000069670004.jpg
000069680028.jpg
VJ_AB-0821.jpg
VJ_AB-0910.jpg
VJ_AB-0001038.jpg
VJ_AB-0950.jpg
VG_AB-0000283.jpg
VG_AB-0000477.jpg
VG_AB-0000220.jpg
VJ_AB-0000643.jpg
VJ_AB-0759.jpg
VJ_AB-0000717.jpg
VJ_AB-0000663.jpg
VJ_AB-0000764.jpg
VJ_AB-0000846.jpg
VJ_AB-0000913.jpg
VJ_AB-0000838.jpg
Laos_AB-2206.jpg
  In the loneliest bowling alley on earth, the employees wait for you in the dark. Barefoot, groggy from napping on vinyl coated tabletops, conserving power to a soundtrack of feral cats tearing one another apart in the surrounding bushes. You arrive at 9, 10, 11pm— it hardly matters. You will always be the first, and almost assuredly the only customer. A bottle of tragic whiskey costs five dollars, a sweaty generator in the corner kicks the house music on, sending a litany of ruinous techno pulsing into the night. A lane lights up for the equivalent of $2.18, you pick from a lot of hopelessly battered, chipped excuses for balls, and roll— barefoot, if you dare, as deep and drunkenly into the infinite night as your wild little heart desires.   It might be the greatest place on earth.  Welcome to Luang Prabang Bowling, an establishment so farfetched and improbable to exist that it defies even fundamental understanding. Nestled into the darkest and far flung neighborhood of wild roosters and foot-deep treacherous muddy potholes, this sixteen-lane Titanic of what can only be of Chinese design sits in waiting, a monument to strangeness in rural, communist Laos. Pounded by monsoons, operated by small armies of listless, confused teenagers otherwise huffing on yellow balloons, supported primarily by screaming, drunk Korean tourists— it appears to be, aptly to the land it is built on, marvelously un-killable.
Laos_AB-2659.jpg
Laos_AB-2523.jpg
Laos_AB-2195.jpg
Laos_AB-2380.jpg
Laos_AB-2581.jpg
Laos_AB-2538.jpg
VG_AB-0000524.jpg
VG_AB-0000491.jpg
_BP_4191.jpg
_BP_4179.jpg
_BP_4131.jpg
000043210018.jpg
_BP_4269.jpg
000043210026.jpg
_BP_4294.jpg
_BP_4112.jpg
_BP_4510.jpg
_BP_4339.jpg
_BP_4479.jpg
_BP_4330.jpg
_BP_4472.jpg
_BP_4527.jpg
_BP_4359.jpg
_BP_4503.jpg
_BP_4351.jpg
_BP_3047.jpg
_BP_3037.jpg
_BP_3054.jpg
_BP_3090.jpg
_BP_4801.jpg
_BP_4759.jpg
000064770007.jpg
000064770012.jpg
000064770017.jpg
000064770018.jpg
000064770023.jpg
sarfin_ab-6727.jpg
000069650011.jpg
sarfin_ab-6747.jpg
Confidants_AB-5108.jpg
000069670008.jpg
Confidants_AB-018.jpg
000069680023.jpg
000069670004.jpg
000069680028.jpg

In the loneliest bowling alley on earth, the employees wait for you in the dark. Barefoot, groggy from napping on vinyl coated tabletops, conserving power to a soundtrack of feral cats tearing one another apart in the surrounding bushes. You arrive at 9, 10, 11pm— it hardly matters. You will always be the first, and almost assuredly the only customer. A bottle of tragic whiskey costs five dollars, a sweaty generator in the corner kicks the house music on, sending a litany of ruinous techno pulsing into the night. A lane lights up for the equivalent of $2.18, you pick from a lot of hopelessly battered, chipped excuses for balls, and roll— barefoot, if you dare, as deep and drunkenly into the infinite night as your wild little heart desires.

It might be the greatest place on earth.

Welcome to Luang Prabang Bowling, an establishment so farfetched and improbable to exist that it defies even fundamental understanding. Nestled into the darkest and far flung neighborhood of wild roosters and foot-deep treacherous muddy potholes, this sixteen-lane Titanic of what can only be of Chinese design sits in waiting, a monument to strangeness in rural, communist Laos. Pounded by monsoons, operated by small armies of listless, confused teenagers otherwise huffing on yellow balloons, supported primarily by screaming, drunk Korean tourists— it appears to be, aptly to the land it is built on, marvelously un-killable.

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