Nam Tha River, Laos. March, 2005.
The dwindling of the oppressive heat in the late afternoon was just the tonic as we motored slowly upstream on the Nam Tha River. Our longboat, piloted by our three Lao boatmen, stirred the breeze on our face as the dense, subtropical rainforest cast its shadow across the increasingly shallow river. We were nearly two hours away from the small village where we were intending to spend the night in our 2 day journey from Huay Xai, border point on the Mekong opposite Thailand. Our destination? Luang Nam Tha in northwestern Laos. It was an exciting day in its novelty versus the well-trodden traveler path that marked much of Southeast Asia. We looked forward to stretching our limbs by the time we got to our destination as we took in the thick foliage, the occasional passing longboat steered by human-and-pole power by local river-goers, and the infrequent cluster of bamboo huts and gathering of tiny children pausing in their daily activities to gawk at we foreigners looking back at them from our transport. It had been a long day, but a rewarding day of relaxation and novelty. Of course, that’s when our boat engine blew up.
The oil seeping from the engine into the river was not what we had pictured for this trip. Imagine that. Our communication with our guides was limited to a few basic phrases in English that our one Lao compatriot had acquired over the years. His name was Seri and he was a very friendly sort and he had spent a good portion of the trip helping us to pronounce the tonal challenges that the Lao language offered to English-speakers. The prowess of the other two boatmen was evident in their steering and poling ability on the river. Unfortunately, we could not offer to return the favour with respect to our current dilemma. It was obvious that they thought we would possess some keen western knowledge to getting this engine up and running again. Although Bowe certainly had a greater ability with mechanical devices, we simply did not have the tools to make a difference, not even if we were to try and MacGyver it. We would thus prove to be a disappointment. Our options were limited. Indeed, it was time to break out the extra oars and poles and use manual power to maneuver our way upstream. I quickly appreciated the strength and stamina of our Lao friends as I found myself regretting my reasonably sedentary lifestyle I had fallen back into upon my return to school. Sigh. What must be thought of the westerners as our (well… my) attempts to coordinate oaring upstream were inept at best. Nevertheless, we were lucky enough to arrive at what would become our home for a night within about half an hour from our engine disaster in a small village called Bam Pet (essentially translated as “Village Five”).
Bowe and I were visiting Laos just as a new census of its peoples was being conducted around the country. Imagine a scaled graph with a very wide base representing the ages of newborns through 10 years of age. Then imagine a quick tapering of that base up through the ages with not too many living beyond 50 years of age. It would resemble many of the “wats” (a Buddhist monastery shaped with a tapered roof) that these Buddhist countries possess. Now imagine a village that indicated that demographic. That is where we were staying the night. Oodles of children were present as were a decreasing handful of adults as the ages increased. We were greeted at the river’s edge as we oared our way amongst the other boats that were stationed off of the main riverside access to Bam Pet. Suffice it to say that two very white men, one with long hair and a full beard, the other with beard and very red nose from his Celtic skin being “blessed” by the exposure to sun in Southeast Asia for the last 2 months, was not a common sight in Bam Pet. Rarely have I considered myself a novelty until that particular moment. The village children in their hordes emerged to see what the river had washed up for their amusement for the evening. Cautious stares greeted us as the children grew ever braver in approaching the strange men that had been dumped on their shore. Bowe and I, a little uneasy with the whole situation that had developed from our loss of “comfort zone”, practiced our newest Lao word “Sabadii!” (translated as “hello”) to the encroaching children whilst our guides negotiated with the village head that for all we knew could involve our first-borns and my (apparently, very novel) bright yellow water bottle. Our cautious greetings were repeated back to us with much appreciation by the children. They obviously took it as a sign that we were fluent in Lao and we flapped around looking for our recently purchased used Laos guide to try out the basic phrases in the back of the book.
The negotiations were complete as the sun started to set. We were staying the night in Bam Pet. We were hustled up the hill with the help of some of the elder village boys who took it upon themselves to carry our packs. The horde of curious youths followed quickly behind as we were brought to the hut of the head of the village. We took in the sights and sounds of grunting village pigs, sniffing village dogs and clucking village chickens. Our entryway to the hut was via a small ladder that led up to the main level. This necessitated a semi-ludicrous balancing act as we were now in possession of our backpacks again. Apparently I’m not as dexterous as I used to be but, to the amusement of our onlookers, managed to scramble up with little consequence. Did this new loft allow us the time and opportunity to survey our surrounds and digest our new situation? No. We were soon joined up on the balcony by most of the village. Our noticeably absent guides were not available to offer insight or translation into what was expected of us, if anything. It was time to wing it…
As we established ourselves on our balcony, our “home-for-the-night”, we realized that the village was in front of us. Literally. We had a wall of children watching our every move and fruitlessly (as far as we knew) attempting to understand our conversation about just how to strategically deal with the evening. Our guides appeared briefly to offer us an opportunity to have duck for the night’s meal. They had this duck in their arms. It was not looking particularly pleased with the prospect of having its life being debated for dinner. In the end, we decided against it. Its life was all of 25,000 kip. That is about $3 Canadian. Not bad, I guess. It was a big duck. In the end, we believe our guides ate it.
Our hosts, having provided us with mats to sleep on for the evening, then took it upon themselves to provide us with our Bam Pet, duck-free meal. We were presented with a large bowl of sticky rice (khao niaw), a staple of Lao dishes that we quickly learned to appreciate, and a hearty broth of mixed vegetables, and more than likely, bits of meat of some nature. With now approximately half of the village looking on, we nodded and voiced our appreciation of the fine meal presented to us. We were also presented with a carafe of tea and shots of what we soon would discover was a local fermented rice drink that could, more than likely, strip paint. It was called “lao-lao”. We would quickly learn that this had a kick like a mule and it was also expected for us to shoot it back at a reasonable pace and then have it topped up again upon finish. Oh oh. What were we in for? I admittedly had a fairly strong tolerance to alcoholic beverages, but Bowe was starting to feel the effects after a few shots of the demon liquid. We also thought it prudent to keep our wits about us. We observed that we were the only ones partaking in the drink. The rest of the village looked on, as we believed, with anticipation. It was, after all, a new country and we were just starting to get our bearings on the nature of the country and its peoples. We had a wealth of belongings in our packs compared to what this village would ever possess and the government officials did know we were out here, right? We heard the grunting of the pigs nearby…
Turning yet again to the Laos guide to attempt communication was our first step to try and win over the curious villagers as we ate our dinner. We struggled through the tonal language in introducing who we were and where we were from. This became easier after the lao-lao started to take effect. The subject matter of marriage and children came up quite quickly, obviously a subject of great interest for our hosts. Indeed, its placement in the small talk section came shortly after name exchange and where we were from. Suffice it to say that the guidebook had little mention of a philosophical explanation about how people in the western world were a little bit more reticent about leaping into marriage with the first available mate and start breeding. Alas, we had to turn to magic tricks and our digital cameras instead.
If there is any advice I can give to the aspiring Laos-bound traveler, it is to learn magic and card tricks and to possess a digital camera. These are as good as gold. You would find that most of the Laotians love to have their photo taken and will excitedly push themselves forward to be the centre of attention (not everyone is so eager however, and will retreat to the background, so it is wise to show them that you are taking a photo before going and doing so). Upon using the cameras, the children soon found themselves in hysterics. They quickly warmed to the fact that they could see themselves in but a couple of moments and were soon falling over themselves in order to crowd around the camera. One particular little boy was able to position himself in order to be front and centre in practically every photo. He of the faded zip-up jacket, big smile and partially-patched hair: a star is born. The one front-and-centre child would prove to be a common experience in Laos, possibly due to their parents’ social standing within the village.
However, our long day and the warmth of our lao-lao soon caused the eyes to droop and we indicated we needed to go to sleep. Reluctantly, the children made their way down the ladder and our hosts started to prepare everything for sleep time. Quickly the village slipped into silence. The sleep I was so looking forward to would not come for some time though. At first, the heat was the first factor, as I tossed and turned, a little unsure as to exposing skin to any lingering mosquitoes (such as the obligatory mozzie that was taking up residence, noisily, in my ear). A dose of natural citronella took care of that problem but proved to be too cloying as the cloud clung to my head. But then the serenade of the village began. The time-challenged roosters began crowing five hours early, the village dogs barked and growled in a rising baritone crescendo that was matched by the operatic wailing of a disgruntled baby, and even the pigs maintained a low grunting that added a bass resonance to the chorus. Blearily, I took all of this in and even found grim humour to it all. Until the stirrings of the fisher-folk for the four o’clock morning castings, that is. The hubbub continued for some time. I believe that I eventually got a good 20-minute sleep.
Our guides woke us from our brief slumber at around 5:30 in the morning. The temperature was distinctly chilly at this time of morning. We carefully descended the darkened hillside to the riverbank after a quick but fumbling packing job of our belongings. The Nam Tha was shrouded in mist rising from the water, obscuring the blackness of the opposite bank like a gray blanket. Our borrowed boat awaited us, obscured by the dark and fog until we were at the bank itself. After loading up the gear, we settled in for what would prove to be a rather frigid journey. Our motor cut through the silence that had been enhanced by the heavy mist. We moved out into the current and journeyed northwards toward our next destination, the original village we had meant to stay in the night before. The darkness, the fog, the silence and the lack of sleep all contributed to a sense that we had been transported into the film, Apocalypse Now. Silhouettes of fishermen in their boats casting nets into the river drifted past us as we continued upstream. Bowe and I were both trying to soak it all into our memories, aware that this was one of those special moments that would creep up into our consciousness for years to come. We huddled under our jackets as the cold from the wind and the temperature crept into our bones. The sun’s warmth would soon be much appreciated.
A couple of hours passed as we made our way up the river and the stiffness of crunching ourselves into a narrower longboat soon took its toll on our joints. We bypassed several minor villages very similar to the one that we had stayed in the night before as we went. We waved greetings of “Sabadii” to the village children who excitedly waved back to the falang in the boat. Bowe and I were starting to feel like we were cutting through the cultural wall that had been somewhat present in our other travels in Southeast Asia to this point. That brought both a sense of contentment and of brewing excitement about the adventures that awaited us in Laos. Indeed, those adventures would prove fascinating and would instill a sense of longing to return again before tourism could grow into a well-oiled machine like many of the other neighbouring countries. However, I suspect such a machine would take quite a while to implement in the “Land of the Lotus Blossoms”.
No comments:
Post a Comment