Northern Laos. March, 2005.
Adrian’s face was ashen as he returned to the warmth of our crowded bamboo hut. Bowe and I had been enjoying the comraderie of our Laotian hosts amidst the sampling of lao-hai on a distinctly chilly evening. The second evening of our hill-tribe trek in northern Laos had been exciting and welcoming. But our Swiss friend’s look spoke of shock and fear. We bent forward to hear his tale…Bowe and I had survived our river voyage up the Nam Tha. A long day of multiple boat transfers and a three-hour
saengthaew trip laden with pigs, ducks and a nauseous puppy brought us eventually to Luang Nam Tha in northwestern Laos. We spent a few days attempting to find a hill-tribe trek suitable to our interests and fending off a roving pack of colourfully-garbed Akha women who relentlessly tried to pawn trinkets to the new
falang arrivals in their town. All in all, it was evident that Luang Nam Tha had already appeared on the traveler radar and was beginning its transformation into an alternate Chiang Mai for eco-tourists. Reports of hill villages with lurking trinket-hawkers surfaced through our conversations with other tourists. Bowe and I considered our options and decided to continue onward.
Our departure from Luang Nam Tha came via a washboard road littered with occasional craters. Ample evidence of Laotian road conditions was indicated by the liberal offerings of sick-bags spread out strategically along the roof hooks on the ceiling of the bus. Nevertheless, we survived our journey to Udom Xai, a less-than-desirable transport hub, where we transferred to an open-sided truck and proceeded to Muang Khua in the north of Laos. Our less-than-fortuitous timing had us making this journey on a day where the temperatures had dropped to a rare five degrees Celsius. Bowe and I huddled amongst our fellow passengers in the back, using shared bodily warmth to keep from freezing in the biting wind. Three hours of chattering teeth and shaking limbs later, we arrived at our wee destination, close to the Chinese border. The town was composed of bamboo huts spread out along the dusty road, a central market area, and access to the Nam Ou River, the traditional transport link to other parts of the country. A conveniently placed sign heralded the way to our guesthouse for the evening, the appropriately named Nam Ou Guesthouse, situated looking over the river.
As we settled into the open-air restaurant attached to the guesthouse, we took note that all non-locals in town were patrons of our chosen inn. We were surrounded by a Swedish tour group for the most part, with a few remaining tables occupied by a scattering of independent travelers. It was thus that we met Adrian, a Swiss fellow, looking for possible hiking companions to join him on a Hill-Tribe trek in the Muang Khua area.
A hand-written advert had been posted by Khammane, a local guide, to take visitors to Muang Khua into the surrounding villages on 1-, 2-, or 3-day treks. Adrian had gone down to the house that had been described as the residence to contact Khammane, left a message and was awaiting his arrival to discuss details of a trip. And so it was that Bowe and I fell into a new opportunity to do some trekking after our expectation that it was not going to happen. Khammane arrived, a lean, reasonably tall man (for Laos) with a jaunty cap, soft voice and kind face. It turned out that Khammane was the local high school chemistry teacher who did guide work on the side to help support his family. He outlined the rough itinerary of his proposed 3-day trek, and summarized with a set price of $15 U.S. a day per person, everything included. Who were we to turn down such a stroke of good fortune? A mere five days into our stay in Laos and we were already embodying our appraisal of the country – a laidback, go-with-the-flow attitude. And adventure awaited…
We were up early to get a head-start on the trekking day. Khammane arrived at the guesthouse at the pre-determined hour and introduced us to his aide-de-camp for the voyage, a young man sporting a red baseball cap and yellow flip-flop sandals. We wound up nicknaming him John for no particular reason except that the three of us couldn’t remember his Laotian name (stupid falang, hey?). We set off with full daypacks into the market of Muang Khua to purchase our food supplies. Quite frankly the choice of vendor was how we made our purchase decisions given that each of them more or less carried the same wares. We eventually settled on a wonderful older woman with a big smile and kind eyes. She carried on a very animated conversation with us, pointing randomly to vegetables, Bowe’s long hair (add another Laotian to the list of people who were unsure of Bowe’s gender), my strange pink skin, and so on. We smiled inanely and repeated our “
Sabadii’s” like idiots as we made to leave. The other women nearby looked enviously at her as we loaded up our bags. Our rations included assorted veggies, some chocolate snacks and some pens for the village children we would be visiting. We made our way toward the town centre, about 20 metres from the market, to jump on the
saengthaew to carry us toward the village where we would start our hike. Luckily, I remembered it might be well-advised to take some toilet paper with us. I doubted luxurious, white-enamel washrooms brimming with fancy supplies awaited us amongst the hill tribe villages.
We boarded our mechanical chariot, bound for our starting point in the trek. Khammane had organized our
saengthaew as a sort-of charter bus. Heading south, we stopped at a town Bowe and I had passed through the day before on our chilly journey to Muang Khua. The truck stopped and we hopped out, following Khammane obediently to a part of the village where a large vat of bubbling liquid awaited. Adrian, Bowe and I looked askance at one another with nervousness. Were we going to be boiled alive? No. No such fear about that. This was Laos. Instead, it was fear of what we knew we would be expected to try. At nine o’clock in the morning. Lao-lao. Our stomachs rebelled prematurely. A village woman was tending the distillation of the liquid in preparation for the New Year festivities that would come early in the next month. Pii Mai was the Laotian name for the festival and it typically included three days of slinging water at one another and consuming generous portions of
lao-lao. We got to sample the new batch, distilled through a wonderfully basic, yet elegant, barrel design. With our now-expected gaggle of village children hanging about nearby, amused and curious about the new
falang in town, we dutifully raised the lao-lao to our lips and supped of its power. Ergh. Belly roll. “Fai-mai”, I coughed, a recently acquired Laotian expression referring to fire that Lonely Planet had seen fit to put in their dictionary. No doubt they had used the same term once they had slipped the esophagus-burner down the throat. The woman tending the brew cracked a toothy grin and chortled. She looked suspiciously akin to the woman we had bought the vegetables from in Muang Khua. With warm bellies and a mild buzz (enforced after an obligatory extra shot of demon liquid), we tripped back to the truck. Our couple of extra passengers waited patiently for the grinning
falang to scramble aboard and off we went, leaving the clucking chickens, barking dogs and the waving children in our dust.
Khammane Xayavong
Another half hour on the road brought us to our starting point. It was another small village full of the usual. Chickens, dogs, children and all that. Khammane greeted some of the members of the village and one woman brought us along toward a bamboo bridge that connected the banks of the river and sent us on our way. We negotiated our way across the wooden boards, waved goodbye to the obligatory watchful kids that stood on the other side, and proceeded up a track and a particularly steep hill. Very steep. My Mexican pancho was off in no time. Sweat trickled quickly and in far greater quantities than I wished. I looked at my trekking partners. Bowe was fine, but then again he’s a sprightly 28 years. Adrian looked to be in similar shape to me. Literally and figuratively. John was probably around 16 years old and this seemed to be a walk in the park (well, hills) for him. Khammane, who dare I say was bordering on the forties or older (?) essentially floated up the path. I questioned my choice to have a couple of quiet Beer Laos each night since my arrival in the country. Adrian and I were not to expect it yet, but these three days would entail a number of sharp ascents and descents that would test our mettle. Perhaps this is why Khammane fortified us with the lao-lao before the journey began. Fortuitously, as the sweat became commonplace for me, my fatigue wore off and I started to embrace the cooler temperatures that greeted us as each step gained us more altitude. Cool temperatures were something of a novelty after the first two months in Southeast Asia.
As we ascended into the low-level cloud of the hills Khammane pointed out that the cloud was in fact created from the slash-and-burn tactics prevalent in the region. While not as effective as the Thais had been in recent years, the Laotian government was attempting to cut the supply of the opium trade that still operated amongst many of the hill tribes. Slash-and-burn was one strategy to deal with it, as were more environmentally-sound practices that the many NGO’s and the UN were attempting to implement, namely showing the benefits of planting other crops besides the poppy. Our views across to the surrounding hills and the villages that lay far below were obscured by the smoke that clung to the slopes of the region.
Opium Seeds Drying in the Sun
(Village Name withheld on request)
Our first stop of the day was for lunch, our first experience of visiting a hill tribe village in Laos (Bowe had participated in a hike in Northern Thailand). Khammane greeted the people as we entered our increasingly familiar set-up of bamboo huts, some raised on platforms, others on ground level. Excitement brewed amongst the local children and we heard the now familiar refrains of “
falang” and “
sabadii” echo through the dusty lanes. Khammane guided us through to a hut, ostensibly the abode of the village elder. Preparations were quickly made and we were shown where to drop our packs and to sit down. Food was brought out and cooking began. Khammane acted as translator as the elder and his family asked us our names and where we were from. For some reason, the fact that a Canadian was present seemed (and would continue for the trip) to be quite a novelty. Inquiries into where Canada was and how far it would take to get there invariably followed. Evidently they already knew about Switzerland and the States. We were asked if we would be able to treat a malady that was suffered by the village elder. Adrian and I bowed to Bowe’s knowledge of first aid on the matter of the growth the elder suffered from, but it was insufficient. The village had had some experience with westerners before, and they had been doctors. There was some expectation that we would know too. Alas, we could not help.
Our meal began after a rattan table was placed in the middle of our haphazard circle on the floor. Bamboo containers full of sticky rice were placed within fingers reach of each twosome and communal platters and bowls of an unrecognizable food were set upon the wicker platform. We were prompted to dig in, using the sticky rice in one hand to pick up the vegetable-like morsels on the one platter, and soaking up the broth-like victuals in the other. All of it was really quite tasty and fortifying. Energy seeped back into our tired muscles. Our sweat-soaked backs that had grown chilly with rest warmed to the satisfying fare. We still had no idea what we were eating. Until Bowe picked out a wee paw of bone from his broth, that is. Hmmm. A broad grin from Khammane greeted our discovery. He searched his knowledge of English for a moment and then said, quizzically, “I think it is what you call… squirrel?” Bowe shrugged, took some more and said “Not too bad!” I’d have to agree. It was quite tasty.
Our meals complete, our quintet of trekkers bade our farewells after many thanks to the elder and the other villagers. We gave out some of the pens that we had purchased that morning in Muang Khua. The children who had been watching us eat with much intrigue surprised us with a cleverly designed mask that they wore for us, taking turns, before we departed. An extra bit of cardboard had been cut away to form a face and some kind of text marker had been used to make a beard and moustache on the mask. Bowe and I had some admirers for our facial hair! The kids laughed and giggled as they swapped wearing the mask as we made our way to the outskirts of the village. We laughed with them, taking some photos and showing them the results with the digital cameras. The children squealed with more delight. Leaving then on a high note and full of yummy squirrel lunch, we headed further up into the hills.
“Clever Mask!”
In the village of the “Squirrel”
As our trek took us further into the high country of Phongsali province, it struck us further how much of a difference Laos was compared to the other nations in the Southeast Asian region. Thailand and Vietnam were made up of 66 million and 81 million people respectively. Laos had roughly 6 million people in a similar area of land as the other countries. Now that we were far above the toil of the river towns, we were alone and soaking in the vastness and isolation of the hills. I found this very soothing. To paraphrase a parable I had heard previous to my trip in Southeast Asia, if you wanted a field of some sort built and maintained in Indochina, you would get the Thais to finance and construct it, you would get the Cambodians to watch it and you would have the Laotians listen to the flowers grow. I had yet to visit Cambodia (by this point), but I could see the truth to the other two.
Our afternoon of hiking through the upper reaches of the hills was much easier once we had reached our high point. We made quick time along the paths that cut through the thick growth of plants on either side, excepting where we broke out into a wide swath of previous slash-and-burns. As the sun cut across the sky toward the end of the day, we descended into a burn in the side of the hill that had been formed by water ages ago. The river still ran its way down the burn to the valley below. The river was still obviously used by the nearby village as its source of bathing. We caught a number of villagers bathing in the buff. Surprise!
Falang alert! We made our way toward them after the women had a chance to conceal themselves. There was a mixture of embarrassment and curiousity. The newness of the foreign element brought out the friendly nature of the villagers and we were soon being shown their recently captured pygmy slow loris, a small mammal with big eyes related to the primate family that, incidentally, had a natural defense mechanism of poisoned claws. The villagers had trapped the creature and managed to tie it to a large bamboo stick using a piece of string. The big mournful eyes of the loris looked back at us. We were alternately curious, excited and saddened by yet another fascinating animal that was kept tied up by Laotian captors. Khammane told us that the loris’ were captured by the villagers in hopes of being able to sell them to a zoo, but for the most part, they would be used for their tasty livers (no – not that we tried). My concern for animals had to take on a bit of a thick skin whilst in Laos.
A captured Pygmy Slow Loris in Kiawkam village
After exploiting the captured loris with plenty of photographs we followed Khammane onward to the village of Kiawkam, home to our encountered bathers. The entry to the village was over a basic wooden fence that surrounded the main huts. Short wooden ladders were the access points to clambering over the fence. The imminent arrival of the falang had been broadcast by the bathers who had arrived before us. The children of Kiawkam were giddy with anticipation of their new guests.
Kiawkam Village
It was already late in the day and we were led to the hut of the head of the village to put down our packs, rest our feet and be welcomed by the elders. But as in so many other similar occasions, we had barely hauled off our packs and positioned ourselves toward the back of the hut when we were besieged by the children. Time for magic tricks and digital camera fun! It turned out that we would be the first
falang to actually spend the night in this village, so the novelty for the kids was overwhelming. Before we knew it, we had the Great Wall of Kiawkam children in front of us. It was very amusing. Although we had some concern that the floor of the hut was going to collapse from the weight, the children did their best to not actually make contact with us, in spite of the growing weight of the children from behind. By the time that the digital cameras were being shown, the wall was wavering back and forth, imminently ready to tumble down resulting in a pile of thrashing Laotian kids and surprised
falang. Surprisingly, this didn’t actually happen.
Kiawkam’s Wall of Children
Entertaining the children with our emerging grasp of Laotian took its toll on our fatigued minds and bodies. As food was prepared and brought in, the children gradually stole away to their own huts and supper times. We were joined by our host, the head of the village (whom appeared somewhat younger than the three of us) and his mates. A robust meal of
khao niaw, chicken (?), and vegetable matter similar to burdock root was followed by
lao-hai time. We were now quite familiar with the process of gathering around the clay pot full of fermented rice, filled with water, and sucking furiously on the four or five bamboo straws that poked out of the vessel to try and empty the liquid as quickly as possible.
Sampling “lao-hai” in Kiawkam village
Now having three
falang come and stay in your village for the first time is pretty exciting stuff. The topping up of the lao-hai got faster and faster. Soon, everyone seemed to be having a merry old time. It was somewhere around this point that Adrian excused himself, making his way out into the darkness outside to answer a call of nature. We continued our frivolity as our Laotian and English conversations seemed to become much more understandable to everyone involved. Thank you
lao-hai! And then the door to the hut burst open as a panting and mortified Adrian returned, ashen-faced. Our sudden silence and wide-open stares obviously said: What, pray tell, had happened?
Simply, this: Adrian made his way out beyond the primary fence-line of the village to the animal enclosure – well, really it was the pig enclosure. We had been assured that if the need to urinate were to come up (as we had undoubtedly done already) it is easy to find a spot to empty your bladder and feel a lot better. However, if you were to have a bit of trouble with your stomach and bowel as a result of, say, ingesting some bad squirrel, you needed to make your way to the pig enclosure. With impenetrable darkness surrounding him, Adrian hunched down to go about his duty when the sudden snorting of pigs that knew the sound of an upcoming meal was pending caught him by surprise. The snorting became a harrumphing and the harrumphing became a general sound of melee as the scrabble of a drove of pigs honed in on Adrian, hunkered down and sorely exposed (as it were) to danger. Let’s just say that Adrian made like a Swiss train and was off over the fence before the pigs had a chance. Mind you, the pigs weren’t after Adrian, but he wasn’t about to risk being caught in the feeding frenzy. Wide-eyed and heart thumping like a bunny, Adrian burst into the hut to our quizzical stares and this was the story that spilled out of him like something else so recently noted (oops, sorry about that one).
Adrian finished his tale and we greeted it with about three seconds of silence, whereupon Khammane, Bowe, a couple of others who understood the gist of the story, and I broke into huge fits of laughter. We would try to stop the tears streaming from our eyes to tell the others, but we had to wait until Khammane was able to translate. Of course, once he managed there was another general outbreak of mirth from the Laotians. All good times really, all aided and abetted by
lao-hai…
So potential Laotian trekker, heed this warning! Bad squirrel can lead to voracious pigs! (Bet you’ve never heard that used in a sentence before).
