Lazing in Laos - Thursday, Dec-3

6:15 am. For the second morning in a row, a tiny songbird came into my bungalow in Ban Sop Houn, perched itself on the roof beam above my bed, and sang me awake. When his morning melody was done, and after he had gently brought me out of my dream state into the waking world, he dropped a very tiny turd, a dry inch of brown and white, onto my mosquito net before flying away. That was my alarm clock.

This song-and-turd routine was followed by a brisk, invigorating shower that promised to be hot but managed to be tepid at best. I am never completely satisfied unless I step out of the shower or bath resembling a steamed crab, red and glistening. Breakfast at the Sunset Guesthouse consisted of an onion and tomato omelet, thick coffee with condensed milk, and a crusty baguette. Peps, my neighbor, joined me for breakfast, and let me know he was checking out today and traveling north by boat to Muong Ngoi.

I headed out alone along the banks of the Nam Ou, on a rutted and narrow dirt road that wound along the river’s edge, steadily climbing uphill, past the morning mist. The teak trees multiplied alongside the road, now little more than a path, until the trees finally yielded to the sovereignty of bamboo, their stalks as thick as an elephant’s leg. Butterflies fluttered about in the sunny clearings where the road left the mountain’s shadow. There were more butterflies than I have ever seen at any one time, but I find them impossible to photograph. They stop only long enough to tempt me, but never long enough to allow me to compose and shoot. Springs issue forth out of the limestone karsts, some but a trickle, and others gushing forcefully. For nearly two hours I walked lazily, passing a man and woman on their way to the village to sell their vegetables, and later a rickety truck that hardly seemed to manage the ruts and potholes in the road.

I arrived at a Hmong village, a cluster of bamboo shacks around an open yard where chickens pecked and scrabbled and where laundry flapped in the breeze like faded flags. A few women waved at me as they went about their domestic business, offering comical sabaidees that sounded like contestants in a hog-calling competition. A few young children, the youngest sans culottes, rushed out to meet me with emphatic greetings, and I paused to take their photos. One little girl grabbed my digital camera and expertly handled the controls, flipping forward and back to peruse my images. She examined them with a critical eye and grinned when she saw herself and her playmates.

I pressed on down the road and reached a small schoolhouse. In one classroom, a circle of little ones no older than four or five were singing a song with their teacher, a pretty, well-dressed woman in a sweater set and sinh, the typical Lao long skirt. I hardly spoke any Lao at all but could ascertain that they were learning a song about personal hygiene. The children copied their teacher, who mimed washing her face and brushing her teeth, before putting joined palms against her cheek, the universal sign for going to bed.

There was another village further up the road, but it was nearly one o’clock. I had a good hour and a half walk before I arrived back in Ban Sop Houn, so I headed back. Along the way I met an elderly woman, bent forward at the waist from decades of harvesting rice. She looked up at me and asked me a question, and I could see her mouth stained black from betel juice. She wasn’t asking for money, so I smiled confusedly and shrugged. She continued on her way, muttering to herself.

Back in Ban Sop Houn I paid a return visit to Mekara’s Restaurant for laap khai and ginger tea (23,000 kip = $2.70 USD) and chatted with the owner. He was working on his motorbike, a Russian Minsk painted dark green with a solid gold star on the tank. “Good moto; break a lot,” he said. I pondered the contradiction.

The afternoon was spent in the hammock, with the added bonus of listening to a man sing in Lao in the near distance. In the evening, I headed back to Mekara where I met two Dutch travelers, Tinneke and Rob.

“I’ve traveled alone,” said Tinneke, “and I always liked to have someone to dine with. May we sit with you?”

I pulled out a rickety chair and motioned for them to sit. I think I have one of those faces combined with an easy-going demeanor that encourages people to chat me up. It happens often, and I’m usually grateful for the fellowship of other travelers. Once in a very rare while I have an undesirable encounter with someone I’d rather not engage. And worst of all, I am unable to see the moment as a slice of absurdity. On one particular flight from Chicago to San Francisco I met Ivan, a Bulgarian poet, who was such an overbearing bore my eyelids started to droop with sleep. I can only surmise that, after many years living under a totalitarian regime in his home country, the taste of democracy finally allowed him to unloose his self-importance. From time to time, he took out a packet of antibacterial towelettes and vigorously scrubbed his hands and wrists, and then proceeded to lecture me at length about fine arts.

“So, what is your area of expertise?” he asked, finally allowing me to get a word in.

“I have a degree in fine arts from a prestigious college in Washington DC. I work as a creative director in interactive design. Technology is my passion.”

“Do you draw?”

“I do, but photography is my avocation now.”

“You should draw. You should draw on your photographs.”

Eventually, I had to put a stop to Ivan’s irksome ramblings by pretending to sleep, and failing that, by doing some calisthenics in the rear galley while eavesdropping on the flight attendants’ gossip. But I digress. Tinneke and Rob were not Ivan the tedious poet, but an affable couple whose company I enjoyed until my eyelids started to droop. But this time, I really was sleepy.

Tags: Ban Sop Houn, Hmong, Laos, Nong Khiaw

Lazing in Laos - Wednesday, Dec-2

My head was pounding all night long, made worse by a case of indigestion. I felt awful, and hoped this was only a temporary discomfort and not a prelude of worse things to come. My headache was making me nauseous; my upset stomach was aggravating my head. Sometimes the best medicine is to force whatever’s making you sick out of one’s system, and that’s exactly what I had to do. After the initial unpleasantness had passed, I felt much better. I slept fitfully until the roosters woke me. I have no idea whether it was the food or not, but I won’t be eating at that restaurant again.

It was cold in the early hours of the morning, and the massive limestone karsts were completely veiled in fog. I am reminded of that Zen koan made popular in that song by Donovan, “First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.” I snuggled under my blankets, and while the Sunset Bungalows will never be the Four Seasons, my large bed could not have been more inviting under its diaphanous mosquito net, like really swanky camping.

The shower was hot, but not hot enough to ward off the morning chill. I dressed in layers and headed to the main house verandah, my empty stomach growling for food. Breakfast was thick Lao coffee with condensed milk and banana-honey pancakes, eaten out of doors on the large deck overlooking the river and the village of Nong Khiaw on the other side. I was actually quite hungry. Whatever ailed my stomach last night has passed. When I returned to the bungalow Peps, my next door neighbor, was already gone. I hung out on my hammock and simply enjoyed the spectacular scenery.

Peps returned in a short while, and we set out on a trek to the Pathok caves, a short 2.5 km walk east of Ban Sop Houn. It’s a pleasant walk along teakwood forests on Rte 13, the same road that leads to Vietnam. We passed tractors with farm workers, and occasional bicycles parked by the side of the road, the handlebars and seat kept cool under a camouflage of leaves. The fog slowly burned off by 11 am, and we are down to our t-shirts, slathering sunscreen on our faces. We passed children on their way to or from school, offering a greeting of sabaidee to anyone who looked our way. Soon we were surrounded by limestone karsts and found a sign that pointed toward the cave, a short walk off the road and across a bamboo monkey bridge.

The caves known as Tham Pathok were used as a hideout and headquarters by Pathet Lao in the Second Indochina War. To reach the caves, Peps and I scrambled up a few dozen wooden steps, and finally up a set of rickety bamboo ladders. There was enough natural light inside the cave that our flashlights were unnecessary. A few chambers inside the cave were marked with rudimentary signs as the General’s office, the armory, and to our surprise, an arts hall. With no guide to inform us, we moved along until we reached a interior precipice accessible by a flimsy ladder. Neither one of us felt brave—or foolish—enough to scamper down and see where the cave might lead. Retracing our steps, we ventured back outside and met a Canadian couple, Steve and Shirlene, who had been on the road for four months. Together, the four of us followed a secondary trail along the face of the mountain to another cave, but this time our flashlights were absolutely essential. The passages were dank and narrow and when our lights were turned off, there was nothing but pitch blackness. Neither Peps nor Shirlene wanted to press on. My flashlight was not up to the task, either. It barely illuminated 2 feet in front on me. If I had rope, a headlamp, and a backpack instead of a shoulder bag, I would have jumped at the adventure, and I’m certain Steve would have loved to venture further into the deep cave. Instead, we all doubled back, relieved to feel the fresh air on our faces once we exited the stifling cave.

On the trail back we met three young Lao men, one of whom spoke excellent English and told us about yet another cave, but we were unprepared to explore it. Peps and I bid goodbye to our Canadian companions and made our way back across the monkey bridge. I spotted three young girls and a boy playing near the river, using rocks and pieces of wood and pretending they were talking on cellphones. They would run behind trees, hollering “a-lo!” into their flip-phone rocks. They are trilled to have their photo taken, and I taught them how to sing “Twinkle, twinkle, little star.”

“Now your turn,“ I motioned to the girls. “You teach me a song.” Even though they spoke no English at all, they understood right away and proceeded to do a song and dance for me, making sure their male friend did not steal their moment in the spotlight while I videorecorded their performance.

Back in Ban Sop Houn, and after a lunch of laap and BeerLao, it was time to get cozy with my hammock. I notice Peps attending to his ankle.

“Are you hurt?” I asked.

“No, but I found the inside of my pant leg covered in blood.”

Leeches! The leech had already dropped off, but the tiny puncture wound, injected with anticoagulants, was bleeding profusely. After treating it with iodine and applying pressure to the dressing, we both snoozed out in our respective hammocks.

In the early evening, we took a walk around the dusty back streets of Nong Khiaw and changed money at the local hardware store (there’s no bank in town,) heading to Merkala’s Restaurant for dinner and shots of laolao, the local firewater, with our spelunking Canadian friends. This is Nong Khiaw—it may be slow-paced, rugged, and full of unexpected blood-sucking surprises, but it will be one of the most enjoyable stops of my journey.

Tags: Laos, Nong Khiaw