I have just spent three very rewarding weeks in Laos, and right now I am
spending a few last days winding down before heading off to Cambodia. In between
runs to embassies to procure visas and enjoying pastries in coffee shops, I have
had time to write up all that has happened since I last wrote while in Bangkok.
My days in Bangkok seemed a blur, and with my Lao visa in hand, I soon found
myself heading off to the sauna otherwise known as Bangkok's main train station.
An overnight train and two taxi rides later, I was transported from the huge and
busy metropolis of the Thai capital to the sleepy little village and Lao capital
of Vientiane.
It was a refreshing change as there is very little traffic on the narrow and
dusty streets, and downtown simply consists of a collection of small general
stores, souvenir stands, and a few restaurants. The one thing that was a little
strange was that in amongst all the local shops were a large number of upscale
wine cellars, French and Italian restaurants, and European bakeries. I suspect
that this is to feed the ex-pat population and the workers that pass through
from the various UN aid programs.
I paused in Vientiane for just long enough to get my bearings, and to get a
plane ticket to a town called Phonsavan in the north-east. While I had hoped to
do all my travel within Laos over land, there is one last little spot of
guerilla activity, and the road from Vientiane to Phonsavan heads straight
through the heart of it. So, rather than brave the rebels, I decided to brave
Lao Aviation's aging Aeroflot hand-me-down twin propeller aircraft for the forty
minute flight.
As in Vietnam, Laos suffers from a little currency schizophrenia. However, it is
even worse here in that there are three currencies you have to worry about, and
few banks to change money at. So, before I left the capital, I made sure that I
had a stack of Thai baht, US dollars, and Lao kip. I changed $200 in traveler's
checks for kip, and was shocked at the stack of bills given back. The largest
bill that Laos prints is the 1000 kip note which is currently worth about 40
cents. I was more fortunate than the woman behind me. Apparently, I received the
last of the 1000's, and she received her money in an even larger stack of 500's.
Armed with five large bricks of kip, I was ready to head into the countryside.
Despite a bit of turbulence, the flight went quite smoothly, and was over very
quickly. The hazy cloud layer obstructed the views, although as we descended
under the layer to land, the mountainous countryside was revealed. As we got
even closer to the ground, numerous little specks I had noticed grew into an
amazing array of large bomb craters. These were sustained during the Vietnam war
years when air raids were carried out to try and dislodge the north Vietnamese
army which was taking refuge in Laos.
The effects of the war were far more visible here than they were in Vietnam,
Little shops on the sides of the road had stacks of scrap metal which included
rusted machine guns and lots of bomb casings. In the hill tribes in the
surrounding areas, the bomb casings were put to use as planters and as troughs
to feed the farm animals. Even the room keys at the guest house I stayed at were
dangling from large rifle shells. Unexploded ordnance (UXO) is still a big
problem in the area, and there are warnings to this effect posted everywhere.
Phonsavan is located high up on a plateau at about 4000 feet, and I had been
looking forward to some cool air. Upon arrival, however, it was still quite hot
and I began to wish for the the cold mountain air I had been promised. This was
a wish I would later regret having made.
The main attraction of Phonsavan is the nearby Plain of Jars. These are fields
that contain huge stone containers with the largest ones weighing about six
tonnes. I visited three sites, each which had several hundred jars scattered
about. Archeologists have no real clues about their origins, but they suspect
they were built about two thousand years ago. As for what they were used for,
theories include funerary urns, fermenters for rice wine, or simply rice storage
containers. Some of the jars have nearby lids, although it is hard to imagine
how they actually managed to lift them.
After seeing the jars and wandering through some of the nearby hill tribe
villages, there was little left to do and I set out the next morning to begin my
marathon bus journey that would take me completely across Laos almost to the
Thai border where I would be able to catch a boat and float down the Mekong back
south.
Calling the public transportation system in Laos a bus system is a little
misleading. It consists of an assortment of trucks (most with hard wooden
benches to sit on) that pick up people from the "bus station" at
random times, and depart for their destination when there are enough people to
cover the expenses. I erroneously assumed that the numbers on the sides of the
trucks indicated the maximum number of passengers, and wondered how that many
would fit in. Soon enough, I realized these numbers actually indicated the
minimum number of passengers before the truck would even consider leaving.
Not wanting to miss what may be the only bus leaving in my direction, I was told
to get an early start and was at the bus station at 6:45am. Within an hour, I
was in the back of a pick-up with a handful of Lao, and we were ready to tackle
the rutted dirt tracks that the Lao call roads. This all seemed too easy. After
sitting for a half hour, the driver told us all to get out, and with no
explanation simply drove away. I sat around patiently with the other Lao for
another hour or so, when a large Russian military style truck pulled up and
everyone piled in the back.
By 9:30, the truck pulled away from the bus station, and we were on our way.
While the road was rough and bumpy, the views kept my mind off the bruises that
were beginning to form. The scenery outside was like watching a National
Geographic special in real life. The road wound between sharp mountains covered
in a thick carpet of lush green forests. The only breaks were the small tribal
villages that we would occasionally pass through.
As we wound our way up into the mountains, we frequently ascended into the cloud
layer and the dripping ferns that thrived in the cool and moist climate. I found
the cold air that I had been wishing for as it whipped through the truck and
chilled me to the bone. It was only after putting on every layer of cold weather
gear that I had with me that I was able to come close to being warm.
In the villages, I was given the opportunity to see what life in the mountains
was like. Little girls carried buckets of water up from the river in a pair of
pails attached to a pole balanced on their shoulders. Younger girls, some only
four or five years old themselves, looked after their one year old brothers and
sisters by carrying them around in a sling on their backs. The little boys
seemed to get off rather easy as more often then not they just seemed to be
playing games and horsing around.
Older women were preparing meat or vegetables for the evening meal, weaving, or
tending to the livestock. The men were often seen walking down the sides of the
roads with their rifles, hoping to catch sight of some wildlife. The people here
seem to eat everything, and I even saw bundles of rats for sale in the markets.
Since there is no refrigeration, animals are kept alive until eaten, and can
occasionally be seen dangling from a rope on the side of the road to tempt some
rich passerby. Despite the pristine forests that I passed through, the animals
wisely stayed away from the roads, and the poor dangling creatures were the only
wildlife I was to see.
While the men were dressed in rather boring shirts and trousers, the women wore
a wide range of decorative objects including colourful headgear, bright scarves,
necklaces, belts, bracelets, and dresses and jackets with various designs
embroidered into them. The clothes were almost always immaculately clean and of
very strong colours such as black, marine blue, purple, or fuchsia pink.
The views of people performing their daily tasks would come to an abrupt halt
when the townspeople would figure out there was a strange creature on the truck
with blond hair and a red beard. The adults would stare with blank expressions
on their faces, unsure what to think of me. The children would either run away
scared and hide behind their parents or else simply join their parents in
staring at me. If we stopped in the village to drop off or pick up passengers,
word of my arrival would spread quickly and within no time it seemed the entire
village was gathered around. When I would smile and greet the people with a
happy "Sabaidee", they would sometimes break out into a big grin, and
other times would just keep staring with continued blank expressions on their
faces.
The villages are composed of bamboo huts with their pigs, chickens, and turkeys
wandering between them. Water buffalo grazed in the nearby fields, and the
children entertained themselves by playing a game that involved throwing sandals
at a pile of rubber bands. Occasionally, I was able to see the bright purple and
white flowers of the opium poppies that some villages still grow as their only
cash crop.
While I had been hoping to make the supposed 12-hour journey to the town of Nong
Khiaw in a single day, this proved to be highly optimistic. Instead, at 5pm, the
truck rolled into the town of Nam Noen (less than half way there) where we would
spend the night.
Nam Noen is little more than a small collection of huts, with one large one
operating as a very basic guesthouse. The running water consisted of the nearby
stream, and evening light was provided by a candle bought in one of the town
general stores.
I entertained my self by wandering through the alleyways, and attempting to have
conversations with the children using the small phrasebook I brought along. This
helped ease their initial fear of me, even though the conversation dried up once
we all knew each other's ages, names, and marital status.
I was up early the next morning, ready for the next stage of the journey.
However, I didn't take it as a good sign when the Lao heading in the same
direction as me told me to stick my bags back in the room. I was told the bus
would be here at 10am ... then 11am ... then noon ... and it finally showed up
at 1pm.
I managed to find myself a seat on a wooden bench as the truck filled up with
Lao and their cargo. I was amazed at how many people were packed in, with people
literally piled on top of each other. While there were no livestock on this
particular bus, there was a buffalo leg and a bag full of various other buffalo
body parts at my feet. Thankfully, most of the people on the truck got off after
an hour, as the extra room allowed some of the circulation to return to my legs.
At one point, the bus was overtaken by a small pick-up truck, and everyone on
the bus told me I should change trucks to get on the smaller, faster, and more
comfortable pick-up. When I asked the price, it was about twice the price of
staying on my current bus (about an extra $2), and I opted to stay on the
cheaper bus. Even though the $2 was not really a big deal, the locals on the
current truck made the journey much more colourful, and the other truck driver
seemed a little slimy.
Sticking with the slower vehicle won me the respect of everyone on the truck,
especially the truck driver. Unfortunately, I had to pay for this respect by
sharing a shot of rice whisky with the driver over a snack of sticky rice and
grilled fish (eaten while everyone else on the truck patiently waited).
At around 5pm, the bus driver pulled in to the town of Vieng Thong, still a
considerable distance from the destination I had hoped to make the day before.
Not content with stopping just yet, I flagged down a large cargo truck that was
heading in my direction and promised to take me to Nong Khiaw.
This option was the least pleasant of the various forms of transportation that I
ended up using. The diesel fumes wafted back into the cargo area where I was
sitting on a bag of rice with a few other Lao passengers. The truck seemed to be
a dust sponge as it would soak up dust while traveling over the dirt sections of
the roads, and then re-distribute it as we passed over the bumpy paved sections.
Around 8pm, the truck stopped in a small village where it was announced we would
be staying for the night. When I got into the guesthouse and saw myself in the
mirror, I was shocked at what I saw. I was completely coated with a thick layer
of dust and you couldn't even tell the colour of the bright blue shell I was
wearing. To make things worse, this village didn't have running water and it was
too cold and dark to head down to the river to bathe. Instead, I had to be
satisfied with using a bucket of water to clean off my face and hands, and
banging my clothes against a rock to try and get as much dust out as possible
(huge brown clouds formed from each item of my outer clothing).
After a breakfast of sticky rice (I passed on the meat of unknown origins), we
were back on the road at 7:30 the next morning. I was told we would be at our
destination within an hour, and I was already making plans about the next set of
busses I was going to be taking. I should have learned by now to not take
anything for granted.
A few miles outside of town, we stopped to pick up a few more passengers heading
to the same place that I was. A tribal woman got in the back of the truck with
her two sons aged about one and maybe six. The elder son stared at me with eyes
like saucers and his jaw dangling on the floor, and when they lifted up the gate
at the back of the truck effectively closing him in, he went hysterical. He
started screaming in fear and franticly tried to climb out of the truck. His
mother pulled him down, and it took about five minutes to calm his nerves. I
felt really bad about it all, but the other Lao thought this was one of the
funniest things they had ever seen. Whenever we came across other Lao, they
would re-enact the scenario, causing who knows what sort of psychological damage
to the poor boy.
At 8am we stopped in a little village where there was a market going on. At
first I thought we were stopping because the market was blocking the road.
However, the people parted as other vehicles went by, so clearly there was
another reason. After about a half hour, the truck driver told me "it was a
holiday", and we would be spending the night here.
Not quite understanding what this meant, and not wanting to stop at such an
early hour, we flagged down a pick-up truck and myself and a few other
passengers from the other truck got on and resumed our travels. Things seemed
like a turn for the better as the smaller truck was much more comfortable, and
even had a thin layer of padding on the benches.
Around noon, I made into the town of Nong Khiaw in a scenic location amongst
limestone cliffs on the banks of the Nam Ou river. The third straight day of
truck travel made me reluctant to push on any farther, and I opted to spend the
night at the guest house I was dropped off in front of. From this village on, it
seemed to be a little more on the tourist track as I began to see other white
people, children knew how to wave at a foreigner (although still didn't know the
word hello), and the various shop owners spoke a word or two of English.
It took two more travel days to finally make it to the port town of Pakbeng on
the Mekong River. At this point I would not have been able to take any more
sitting on wooden benches and riding over dusty, bumpy roads. While the first
four days on buses passed by quickly as I stared at the scenery, the last one
dragged on as the bruises accumulated over the previous four days made things
painful.
The five days of bus travel did mean that I was slowly figuring out how the
system worked, and it was clear that the drivers would do anything possible to
make an extra kip or two. One morning I was told to get off a bus and onto the
next one so the truck driver could fit two Lao into the space that I had been
taking up. On that next bus, three Lao were told to get off to make room for
three foreigners as I suspect that the Lao were only traveling a short distance
and therefore paying a lower fare.
I was never able to figure out, however, what made trucks start and stop.
Seemingly full trucks would sit for an hour, even while turning away other
prospective passengers. Other times, trucks would turn around, backtrack to the
previous village, and announce that they weren't going any further. You
definitely would not want to be in a rush while traveling in Laos.
Pakbeng was a pretty stop, although as in most other villages I had visited,
there really wasn't a lot to do. So, the next day I hopped on the slow boat for
the eight hour journey down the Mekhong to the historic capital city of Luang
Prabang. The ride passed through more forested mountains and limestone cliffs,
and was infinitely more comfortable than the truck option. I actually had leg
room, and could even get up and stretch when I needed to.
Once in Luang Prabang, life seemed extremely luxurious. My musty hotel room had
a foam mattress on the bed, a sink with running water, electricity, and even a
hot shower! There was a decent bakery in town and a couple of French
restaurants. This combined with the laid back atmosphere made it a great place
to kick back and relax for a while.
I took advantage of the settings to have a fun though uneventful day on my
birthday. After a day of leisurely strolls through the town's ancient and still
active Buddhist temples, I joined some friends I had made in Laos for a great
dinner. The pate, pizza, garlic bread, and chocolate souffle were washed down
with a nice bottle of Bordeaux.
After having spent a few bus free days, standing whenever possible, I decided I
was ready for yet another bus ride. So, the next morning I climbed on a bus
headed towards Vientiane. This time, it really was a bus. While there was no way
my legs would fit behind the seat in front of me, a padded aisle seat with room
for my legs was pure decadence. The road was recently paved, and the bus glided
along the smooth and even surface.
Again, there were spectacular views of the mountains on the journey southward.
Unfortunately, the region has historically been much more densely populated, and
as a result the majority of the slopes have been deforested. The huge blazes
witnessed at night indicated it was at least partly due to slash and burn
agriculture.
I broke up the 11 hour journey by hopping off the bus in the small scenic town
of Vang Vieng. There, I enjoyed a few days of hiking and visiting caves before
getting on my last Lao bus for the journey back to Vientiane.
I have had a few chance encounters during my trip where I have run into people I
first met months before. In Laos, I had two especially fun encounters.
The first was in a small village between Luang Prabang and Vang Vieng where I
met a Swiss cyclist I had last seen two months earlier just north of Bangkok. He
is in the process of a cycle trip that will take him from Singapore to
Switzerland through Malaysia, Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, China, Tibet, Mongolia,
Russia, and eastern Europe. It was good catching up with him and seeing how his
journey was progressing.
Back in Vientiane, I was flagged down by two Lao that I had met while
hitch-hiking on the dusty cargo truck in the north. They saw me walking down the
street from the Indian restaurant they were eating in. This was convenient since
the Indian host was able to act as a translator. My 50 words of Lao and their
several hundred words of English and French had made communication a bit of a
challenge. Their sentences to me were often composed of 10% english, 10% french,
and 80% lao.
On my second to last evening in Laos, I joined an Australian friend and a Lao
bartender for an evening of Lao food and draught beer. I figured I had tried all
the Lao specialties while touring the north, so I didn't really think too much
about what I was getting myself into. The fish paste salad and boiled vegetables
were spicy but otherwise tame, and I had no problems with the ground up beetles
eaten with sticky rice. However, as the dinner started, the Lao friend asked if
I liked eggs. Boiled eggs seemed pretty boring to me, but I answered that
"yeah, I like eggs". When I took one of the eggs and cracked it open,
liquid poured out and there was a completely formed baby chicken inside. When I
informed him that this egg was "bad", he laughed at me and sucked the
baby chicken out of the egg and declared it was a delicacy and good for the
health. The literal translation for these eggs is something like "egg with
child". This was a little too much for me, and the best that I could get
myself to do was to eat out the yolk with lots of chilli sauce after the host
had eaten the "chicken".
While news of the Olympics and Clinton's sex life are completely missing here in
Laos, I have actually managed to connect to send email through a friendly
shopkeeper in a computer store. He lets me use his phone line, trusts me to keep
track of the minutes on-line, and then charges me cost for the connect time of
the reasonably priced long distance calls to Bangkok.
I will be here in Laos for a one last day before heading to Cambodia on Feb 20
and then on to India on Feb 27.
