Not again, he thought. He tried not to concentrate on his bowel movements. He desperately wanted to double up into the foetal position because of the stomach cramps: he fought it. Sweat began to seep through the bedsheet. Rick’s bowel rumbled; nausea swept through his mind. Rick couldn’t hold on. As cautiously as he could he moved onto his hands and knees. He tried to stand but a mysterious web tangled him in the process. He had forgotten about the mosquito net. He battled the force, tugging and twisting. Great, Rick thought, a mosquito net that’s useless for mosquitos because it’s so full of holes, but perfect for snaring a human in the dark. He looked down as she shifted position. He finally untangled himself. Ok, this was the hardest part, trying to step over her to get to the door. He lunged out in the dark, managed to contact the edge of the bed twisted then landed, cat-like on the timber floor with a thud. No, it wasn’t actually that smooth. It was more like a stumble, another contact with the mosquito net and trying to stay upright on landing. She looked up with the noise.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
She turned back to sleep. Rick groaned silently. He wondered whether she thought he had just drunk too much water and had a weak bladder. Rick turned on his torch and noticed it’s light was fading fast. He cursed the dodgy Thai batteries. Rick took off his boxers, squatted over the toilet and proceeded for about the fifth time that night to feel like a stormwater pipe in full flood. When he thought he was finally finished he cleaned himself and the toilet and tip-toed across the hall back to the room. He saw the seat by the door of their room. His instincts were telling him that this was a good place to be right now, and not back in bed. He sat down and turned off the torch to save the flickering light: there were still a couple of hours of darkness to get through. He sat there pondering the situation. Here he was sitting in the dark in a town in the middle of nowhere in Laos in which he was one of two foreigners, sharing a bed out of necessity with a spectacularly beautiful Swedish girl whom he had just met, with the second worst case of food poisoning he had ever had. Brilliant. Suddenly another wave of nausea swept through him. This time his stomach heaved rather than his bowels. He knew there was a reason he didn’t want to get back into bed. He switched on the torch and fled to the toilet. He then violently and very loudly orally projected his previous meal into the toilet. He thanked the fact that they were the only people in the guesthouse. Well, if she thought it was his bladder, she definitely knew the truth now. He cursed the ignominy of the situation.
Anne had literally walked into his life. Or perhaps he imposed himself on hers?
He had had a shit day. It was a culmination of little lights of fire that gradually heated his pot to steaming. It started with the fact that when he had returned from the cooking class the day before the bus to Chiang Khong, the travel agent with whom he had organised his Laos visa still wasn’t ready with the goods, despite fobbing him off the day earlier. Finally, on his fourth visit back to the agent that evening her sidekick was waiting, having packed up the shop, with his passport. He breathed a sigh of relief. He then rushed to the Starbucks near Tha Pae Gate. He had told some friends from Pai that he would be waiting there if they wanted to meet up. They didn’t show. He sighed and shrugged, what could you do? He took his things and decided to walk around and try to find a torch, which he had been told he needed for Laos due to the inconsistency of the electricity supply.
Rick then unexpectedly ran into Paolo, an Italian guy he had met on the cooking course that day, and after walking around the night markets to find a torch for himself and some presents for Paolo’s family, ended up heading out drinking the night before the bus ride. After a few hours sleep Rick had luckily managed to wake up himself, as the guesthouse had failed to call him in the morning as promised. Running late, but fortunately prepared for the situation having packed in an exhausted and slightly intoxicated stupor when he arrived home that morning, Rick walked to the café down the soi along which he was staying. They were shut. They had promised him they would be open at seven. Rick glanced at his watch and cursed. He found another overpriced café that had just opened, and after telling the lady at the counter he was in a hurry, hoped that the food would be more punctual than most places he had frequented so far. It was, and he rushed back to grab his bags. He caught a tuk-tuk to the bus station to which he had ridden on his motorcycle the day before yesterday.
After arriving he realised that he actually had about forty minutes to kill. He pulled out a cigarette only to glance over at a no-smoking sign beside him. They are a rare entity in Asia. He glanced over to where he could smoke. It was across the expanse of concrete and tarmac around a little shelter where some locals were hanging out. He sighed again, hoisted his heavy bags, and waddled over. As he lit his cigarette, a local asked him for a light, he happily offered, thinking that he might strike up some conversation. The local hurried on his way. Sucking on the cigarette he realised how thirsty he was for a cold drink, so he walked over to the bus, dropped his bag into the undercarriage and went to buy one from a small store in the terminal. Rick realised he was also busting, and after paying the obligatory 10 baht, walked into the toilet which was filthy. The sighs kept coming. After clambering into the bus he realised that his day pack wouldn’t fit in the above-head compartment and he would have to squeeze it between his legs, and consequently take up his stretching space so that his legs were braced into a single position. Suddenly Rick felt thirsty again. He realised that he had left his drink in the toilet.
The bus trip wasn’t so bad, despite varying neighbours through the ride. Because he was alone the seat next to his must have been a spare seat that locals used to hop on and off. A couple of companions seemed to lack a sense of personal space, but by the last couple of hours he had both seats to himself. At Chiang Khong the bus stopped at a dusty street corner and left the passengers to the mercy of the tuk-tuk drivers. Rick was still a little dazed from dozing on the bus and by the time he had decided whether to stay in Chiang Khong or cross the border he was one of a couple of people left on the footpath. He decided he needed to get out of there. He grabbed a tuk-tuk driver, who was reluctant to take him because he was alone, proceeded to negotiate some extortionate price, failed and gave in, and jumped on a tuk-tuk. It looked rickety form the start, and as it spluttered into life, Rick moaned inwardly. They bumped down the dusty road at snail’s pace to the border, and Rick watched people cycle casually past. He wondered whether at the slightest hill he would have to get out and push. They eventually made it, and Rick went straight to the immigration office, got his passport stamped, and jumped onto a long boat across the Mekong.
Rick got through immigration fine, then stopped at the money exchange at the crossing and produced his Visa debit card. The guy at the counter shook his head and said to him “no electronic”. Rick’s heart sank a little lower. He could tell this wasn’t going to be easy.
“Any ATM?” Rick asked.
“Luang Prabang,” he said.
Rick wasn’t any where near Luang Prabang, he wasn’t going to Luang Prabang, and all he had was 1000 baht to exchange – not enough to get to Luang Prabang.
“Speak to immigration – go back to Thailand.” It looked like Laos might not happen. He exchanged the money he had, then spoke to immigration.
“Go to bank – out of town. Take tuk tuk.”
Rick took a tuk-tuk out of town. He pulled up at the bank – it looked very shut. A man across the street came to help, “Closed because it’s too hot.”
Welcome to Laos. Rick finally managed to speak to the bank teller who was still hanging around. “Come back tomorrow, eight o’clock.”
Rick noticed the guy from the exchange outside the bank, wondering what sort of advice he was getting. He checked with the guy he was talking to that his card would work. “Yes. Tomorrow.”
The tuk-tuk driver was very helpful (probably because as Rick later realized he had been drastically overcharged simply because he couldn’t think straight enough to do the calculations from baht to kip) and looked at Rick apologetically as they rode back into town. He dropped Rick off, and Rick grabbed his bags, sighed what he hoped was his last sigh of the day, and walked down the main street to search for a guest house. Rick had been told that a guesthouse should cost around 60 000 kip. He strode into one that looked quite cosy and popular. The lady at the counter was probably pushing her fifties, and had the knowing smirk of a wily grandma.
“300 baht, 100 000 kip.”
Rick pondered the financial situation he was in. He didn’t know when he would be able to get money, or even whether he could. He needed to be careful.
“That’s too much. I have only a little money because exchange does not work. Do you have anything cheaper?” Rick asked.
The lady huffed a knowing laugh. “Sorry – no cheaper. You have no friends?”
Rick was unsure whether it was a jesting dig at his being alone. “No, I have no friends.”
The lady laughed her hearty laugh again. “You find some friends.”
A Spanish couple that Rick had met on the bus proffered their Lonely Planet, so Rick could use the map to find something cheaper.
As he stood there pondering what to do Anne walked in. She had beautiful tanned skin, an athletic body, blonde hair matted slightly by the sweat of travel, but most strikingly, piercing blue eyes. After spending enough time on the islands in the south of Thailand he guessed her Swedish origin. He eavesdropped as she spoke to the lady at the counter, and Rick guessed that she was in a similar situation.
Rick was at the end of his tether. He didn’t want to walk any further. He didn’t want to have to negotiate anything else that day. All he wanted was somewhere to shower off the grime of the day and rest his head. He looked at the girl. The lady at the counter motioned at Rick and he overheard her saying “…he is in same place. You share room. People come here, share room, then go do everything together.”
The girl looked tired and hesitant. Rick strode over. “Hi, my name’s Rick. Where are you from? Do you need someone to share a room with tonight?”
That was last night. They had shared a room with two single beds. They grabbed some dinner, went for a walk, swapped some travel stories. Anne had only just started traveling alone as her friend had gone back to Sweden. They chatted amicably for a while about music.
“So what are your plans next?” Rick asked.
“Well, I’m supposed to do this slow boat to Luang Prabang.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. It doesn’t sound so comfortable. I wanted to do the Gibbon Experience, but it looks way too expensive. I heard about this trek in the north here that sounds pretty cool. I have a name I’m meant to ask for.”
“So what’s it all about?” Rick told her what he had heard.
“You’re welcome to come with me if you like.”
“You know, would you mind? I’m not so sure about the slow boat.”
“Yeah sure. The bus leaves at nine, and we can buy tickets here from the guesthouse. That doesn’t leave us much time for you to pick up your visa and get to the bank first, though. If you go straight to immigration and then we head straight to the bank we can probably make it.”
“Ok.”
“Done. Fantastic. I have someone to travel with!”
The words of the lady at the counter in the guesthouse rang in his ears.
They arose the next morning, Anne got her visa, and they grabbed a tuk-tuk to the bank. As they arrived Rick breathed a sigh of relief: it was open. Rick produced his card and took out enough for what he thought would get him through the next leg of his journey. Anne passed her card over.
“Sorry, no work.”
“Sorry, what? It doesn’t work?”
“Yes, no work.”
Rick looked at her card. It was a Visa, the only difference was that it was a smart card with a chip.
“Can you try again?”
The assistant tried again. There was no luck. Rick looked at his watch and looked at Anne. He could see the redness of panic and frustration in her face.
“There’s an ATM in Lum Num Tha,” offered a falang girl at the counter.
“I’ll cover you,” I said. “I have enough to cover us both until Lum Num Tha.”
She looked at Rick, hesitant. He could tell it wasn’t because he was offering, but because she would have to trust a complete stranger whom she had just met in a foreign country to cover her probably for the next week. Rick saw the debate waged internally. She took a punt.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Let’s catch this bus and get out of here.”
Rick looked forlornly at the minibus as it sped off into the dust. He looked around the town. As the sun beat down on the highway on which they had just stopped, as the dust settled to reveal ramshackle houses nestled along a small river and up a hill of red-brown earth, Rick was reminded of a town in country Australia. Only there was bamboo. Bamboo lined the river, and the houses were not made of weatherboard, corrugated iron and the gnarled limbs of gum trees, but planks of odds and ends of timber attached to frames of straight-limbed bamboo with overhanging thatched roofs. There was a sign saying Bornkeoung guesthouse about a kilometre down the road, but neither of them felt like walking so far or being so far out of town. The Lonely Planet mentioned five guesthouses in the town; they saw no evidence of any others. They tried to hail a couple of passers-by, but no one seemed to speak a skerrick of English. Then Rick noticed a sign saying tourist information, so they heaved pack and began walking down the road.
People stared. Rick soon got the feeling that having foreigners walk through the town was not such a regular occurrence. The stares were not unfriendly, just the curious lengthening of a look that you would give to someone who caught your eye as they walked passed you. The signs to the tourist information office kept coming, but the distances they quoted felt remarkably inaccurate. They finally came across a more substantial building that touted itself as a guesthouse. They walked in and called out. As they waited Rick looked around. It had the appearance of a timber building that whoever built it couldn’t quite decide what they wanted to do with it. An area with tables and chairs opened onto the road outside, and some steep, narrow timber planks serving as stairs went up and down to two split levels of rooms. Finally a girl came through. They asked her how much the room was.
“Twenty five thousand kip.”
It was quite a bargain at AUD$1.50 each. They clambered the stairs and had a look. It was quite quaint, with the bathroom outside the room. But then Rick noticed that there was a double bed. He smiled at the girl.
“No, no. We need two single. Do you have two single beds?” He looked hopefully at her.
She looked matter-of-factly back at him, “No. Only double.”
Rick looked at Anne. Like much of the trip so far, she seemed hesitant about the situation. Rick thought to himself, what have I got this poor girl into? I’ve taken her as she has just started traveling by herself to a godforsaken town in Laos to do some random trek into the jungle and to have to share a double bed with some crazy Australian bloke in the interim.
“We will come back. We will go to the tourist information to look,” Rick hoped they would guide them to a new guesthouse. “Can we leave our bags here?”
“Yes, yes.” The girl seemed unfazed that they would look around. Rick wondered if she knew something that he didn’t.
The pair strolled down the dirt road and turned a corner to see a hut separate from any houses in a small field. They walked up. It seemed deserted despite being open. They called out to no avail. Then Rick noticed the sign with the opening hours. They were closed for lunch. Rick and Anne wandered around the room, examining the posters and information on the various treks. Excitement grew in Rick. The images, coupled with the ambience of the town, the fact they were the only two falang around: it all started to have the feel of what Rick had been searching for in South-East Asia. Rick pointed out the Akha three-day trek to Anne. Unfortunately there was quite a high price attached if they were the only two people on the trek. They agreed it would still be ok, after all it was what they were there for. They walked back into town to have some lunch. There appeared to be a little shop around the corner from the guesthouse that served as some type of restaurant. The shopkeeper spoke no English.
“Could I have some vegetables? Maybe fried vegetables? With some tofu?” asked Anne, who was fishitarian.
The man looked puzzled.
“Do you have vegetables?” she asked again.
Eventually through signage and a little frustration giving way to giggling at the effort it was taking to order the food, it became understood that all they served was the noodle soup ubiquitous to Laos. They managed to order one with no meat, and one with some kind of meat that had ears, as demonstrated by the shopkeeper’s wife who pointed hands on her head to indicate an animal slaughtered for their consumption. It turned out to be pork.
After eating they walked back to the information hut, hoping someone would be there. As they climbed the steps, a man rode up the front path to the door on his motorbike. They sat down to discuss the trek. He informed them that there was no-one else in town to do the trek with them. He suggested waiting to see if someone would turn up, but the thought of having to stay in that dusty town with not much to do didn’t appeal to them too much. They paid their money as a few guides walked into the room, and were about to leave when Rick remembered what the British girl who had recommended the trek to him had said.
“Excuse me, we were told to ask for Mr Hong Thong as our guide. Is there any way we can get him as our guide tomorrow?”
The man smiled with raised eyebrows and motioned to a guide in the corner, “This is Mr Hong Thong.”
“Hello, we were told to ask for you by a British girl called Hayley. Do you remember her?”
Mr Hong Thong strode over with a beaming grin that they later discovered was a permanent feature displaying genuine warmth, “Hayley? Ah yes, I remember.”
“Can you be our guide tomorrow.”
“Yes, yes. Tomorrow I can guide you.”
“Fantastic.”
They sat and chatted for a little, mainly reiterating what they had talked about with the office attendant.
“Where you stay?” asked Mr Hong Thong.
“We are not sure yet. Do you know somewhere?”
Mr Hong Thong began to explain the directions to the place they had left their bags. Rick looked at Anne. They made their way back to the guesthouse.
“I guess we just take this place, then,” said Anne.
“Are you sure?” Rick asked.
“Yeah. Why not,” she replied.
They dropped their bags off and Rick looked at the double bed again. It started to get a little late.
“Come on, let’s see this sunset over the river before it gets too dark.” Rick offered.
They strolled around town, trying to find somewhere to watch the sun go down over the town, chatting about their travels as they went. Rick talked about Thailand and where he wanted to go next, Anne chatted about her rock-climbing around the south of Thailand, and scuba diving. They chatted about her science degree and his. As they talked Rick noticed that there was something behind the crystal blue eyes that he could not define. They found a spot on the balcony of an empty bungalow at the Bornkeung guesthouse just out of town to relax and watch the sunset. Rick examined Anne’s features carefully. Rick recognised something in her, an ability to be outgoing without revealing the intelligence that worked overtime behind the scenes. There was something about her smile. It was as if she would almost break into a beaming smile, then purse her lips nervously in defiance of the joy that might escape her. It was as if something held her back. This spread a nervousness through her whole personality. But Rick could see that it was a nervousness that belied a very thoughtful human, and a strength that he could not place. He was intrigued.
As the sun disappeared and the mosquitos came out they walked back to their guesthouse to shower and eat. They showered supplementing the fading twilight with their torches as the electricity had not turned on yet, then headed out to find some food. They discovered there was no more open than the place they had eaten that afternoon, and so sat down to a candlelit dinner of the same noodle soup. They continued chatting, when Anne asked a peculiar question.
“Did I talk in my sleep last night?”
Rick chuckled a little as he thought about the answer, “Come to think of it, you did. I remember waking up to you asking something or talking, and I asked you what you were saying before I realised you were sleep-talking. Why do you ask?”
“Sometimes I have trouble sleeping.”
“Really. How come?” Rick was puzzled.
Anne looked at him hard, as if debating within herself whether to tell him something. She then proceeded to tell him one of the most incredible stories he had ever heard, a story which he wish he felt he had the right to tell the world, but which he knew was told in some confidence. He listened enthralled to a story which truly was about touching the void. Rick was the sort of person who, out of a restlessness and boredom, always wanted to push and prod his limits. Whenever he heard a story of this kind, he felt ashamed of the pushing and prodding, which seemed insignificant and trivial when compared with what others had gone through not out of choice, but out of necessity and coincidence. It was like an image of a child holding a toy gun when a tank rolls passed: that dichotomy between a childish urge to feel tough which pales into impotence and shamefulness in the presence of the truth of the menace that looms ahead.
Suddenly the lights came on as she finished her story, interrupting the train of conversation a little. But Rick still pondered her tale. It explained something of the feeling he had guessed earlier, but he knew well that an entire personality is not constructed on a single experience. There were still many inner layers to discover within her. There was a drive that came from many places, not just this one event. As time ticked on they decided to head back to the guesthouse to get some sleep before the trek. Rick slipped under the doona still thoughtful about the events of the last couple of days.
Then the cramps started, and clambering over Anne to rush to the toilet. At first Rick had hoped that he just needed to get something out of his system, but as he sat back down in the chair for a moment after emptying his stomach, he knew it was more serious. He felt much better, but had a suspicion there would be more. As he sat there momentarily holding his torch and thinking about electricity, he realised his mistake. He cursed his stupidity: well done Rick, eat meat in a place that has no refrigeration. He climbed back into bed.
“You poor thing,” she said sleepily.
“Yeah, I’m not good.”
“Do you think you can do the trek tomorrow?”
“I’ll have to see in the morning.”
The sun crept through the open shutters, fowl crowed, ducks gabbled, cows yawned. Rick had not slept much. He presumed Anne hadn’t either as a result of his meanderings in the night.
“How do you feel? Do you feel like you can trek today?”
“Yeah I feel much better than last night,” Rick said, which was the truth trying to disguise the other truth which was that his head was still spinning, he felt extremely weak, and his insides felt like they had gone through a car wash. “Let’s get some breakfast and I’ll see how I feel.”
They walked up to the markets to try and find something edible. There was not much appetising on offer. There were some plain noodles, some unidentifiable substances resembling food which were being sold in bulk but really didn’t look good for Rick at the moment, some fruit and some fried dough. Eventually Rick settled for some plain stale bread, which he had to hastily stop the woman from tainting with some pork that looked like it had been sitting there a week. They bought a few bananas as well, and began walking back to the guesthouse. By the time they sat down Rick was woozy with nausea. He looked at Anne apologetically.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m going to be able to trek today. Maybe we can postpone it a day, and I’ll see how I feel tomorrow.”
Anne quietly shuffled out of the room. She had been in and out all day, trying to amuse herself and running errands for Rick, trying to find immodium and some electrolyte powder. He felt so sorry for the poor girl. It seemed that there was no immodium or substitute to be found in Vieng Poukha. Rick was in a complete daze. He remembered little of the day as he lay in the bed, sweltering and in agony. They had managed to postpone the trek without penalty. Rick had been roused briefly earlier that morning to try and eat some of the lunch that had been organised for them for the trek that day. All he could do was stare at the amazing food spread out in front of him, sitting unwrapped in their banana leaf packages: sticky rice, eggs, vegetables, bamboo shoots. He tried a little black rice, a sweetened dark purple sticky rice that had a slight aniseed flavour, mixed with coconut.
Through the haze of drowsiness, he overheard voices downstairs. Anne came back into the room and informed him that there was another couple from Australia who would be joining them on the trek if he were able the next day.
“I’ll be down in a minute.”
Rick cursed these intruders, and slowly lifted himself from bed, his body clammy as he pulled on some clothes. He paused for a moment to gather his mind, and shambled down the stairs. He introduced himself to the couple. Jason was a tall lanky individual, his clothes hanging from his frame, and he had long blonde dreadlocks and tattoos down his legs were revealed beyond the length of his baggy shorts. In culmination with his demeanour, he had a very punk aura. His partner Lauren had a similar alternative air, with tattoos peaking from under the short cut sleeves of her top, only much more serene. Rick looked twice at Jason, his brain trying to shift into gear to remember of whom he reminded Rick. Someone famous came to mind, but Rick dismissed the thought: there was no way he would be meeting him in the middle of nowhere in Laos. The guesthouse caretaker brought out some tea, and Rick thanked its soothing influence. They talked for a while about what they did back home, and their travels so far and plans into the future. It turned out Jason and Lauren were doing a world trip for about a year, and that Lauren was a nurse back in Australia.
“So what do you do, Jason?” asked Anne.
“I’m in a band.” Rick’s ears pricked up.
“Oh, what sort of music do you play?” Anne said inquisitively, as she had been in bands herself for a while.
“It’s kind of melodious punk rock,” answered Jason. Rick’s heart skipped a beat.
“What’s the name of the band?” asked Anne.
“Frenzal Rhomb, don’t ask because it doesn’t mean anything!” Jason joked, pointing to a tattoo near his ankle. Rick nearly choked on his tea.
“I knew I recognised you from somewhere!”
Great, thought Rick, not only was he in the middle of Laos in some random town sharing a double bed with a gorgeous Swedish girl, he had also just met a rock star and national radio DJ, and he had to be sick with the second worst case of food poisoning he had ever had. He finished his tea and excused himself so he could wallow in his sorrow back in bed. Rick awoke late in the afternoon to find Anne placing a small rack of capsules by the bed.
“It’s immodium and something else from Lauren.” Rick thanked some unknown being for bringing Lauren to town, and gratefully popped the immodium and metoclor before dozing off again. That night Rick and Anne swapped sides so that if the need arose he wouldn’t have to clamber over her. The need didn’t arise, the immodium had done its job. They had also been told that another couple would join them tomorrow, so a company of six would depart the next morning.
Xavi was a smiling, extroverted Spaniard, and Siri a graceful dark haired Swede who could have been mistaken for a Spanish girl. They had met and fallen for each other two years earlier in Barcelona, Xavi’s home town. Together, the group appeared a mixed bunch, but it was clear from the onset that the mix made a perfect brew.
At lunch Rick once again stood and stared at the picnic feast before him. He had felt copiously better that morning and decided the trek was too good an opportunity to miss, although he was weak from lack of sustenance, and still not hungry. Cool air occasionally wafted from the cave they had just visited. The heat was stifling, though, and the crack and gunshot of the bamboo burning in the fields beyond attested to its omnipresence. They had travelled mainly by sawngthaew that day, stopping at a Lahu village. The distinguishing feature of the Lahu is the bun of hair worn by the women above the forehead, which would possess a comb implanted within the bun if the girl was not yet married. They were also introduced to “love houses”: small houses built by the girls as they approach puberty and leave the protection of their parents. They will occasionally sleep in these houses and a male may come knocking on the door in the hope of “acquainting” himself with her. Apparently the female often knows the knocker and has a choice to let him in or otherwise, and has full say over what occurs in the house, as well as often full say over the number of suitors, which may be several!
Mr Hong Thong attempted to get Rick to eat, but there seemed to be just no room in his stomach, nor a desire for anything to pass his throat. As they talked about caves he revealed that he had been born in a cave in 1966 as his parents hid from the American bombing. The beaming smile and warmth belied the sorrow that flashed through his eyes as he spoke about the episode of Laos history. Rick later asked him whether people held any resentment towards the Americans for their actions, or indeed the French for their earlier indiscretions.
“Some older people, they remember,” said Mr Hong Thong in his heavy Laos accent, “but many younger people, they do not know, they do not remember. The Laos, often we do not like to talk about past, or remember past. We like to think about future, and think about now.” The words were a resounding summary of the attitude that Rick had experienced through Laos. Despite the presence of a one-party state, it seemed the opportunism that Rick had experienced in Thailand was infectious throughout the region, and the Laos people were proud of their cultures, and eager to make the most of the country’s newfound accessibility to the world.
They continued on foot that day. Despite a late start and a waning afternoon sun, they were all dripping in sweat as they walked. They made their way to another cave, where they were promised the “caveman”. Mr Hong Thong explained it was a rock formation that appeared as if there were two legs that resembled a standing man. Everyone commented on the unremarkability of this and imaginations puzzled as to how much the formation could actually resemble a person, but Mr Hong Thong simply said with a smirk “you will see!”
Vapour issued from the fissure that was the cave mouth, as the cool air from within met the warm humidity of the forest outside.
“Please, be careful. Follow me. And do not touch or hug or kiss, or smoke, or do anything disrespectful. There is she-spirit inside. Some time ago, woman walk into cave and fall into hole. Now her spirit live inside cave. Some Laos people come to visit cave. They get lost for many hours. When they come out, people ask, why you get lost? We do not know, they say. What did you do? They hold hands in cave, disrespectful for spirit. Be careful!” The group had been warned.
As they clambered down through the cave their torches caught gaping black holes in the floor, most of which were so deep that the torchlight disappeared into the mirkiness. They discovered one particular side passage that had no protective rocky edge as it simply disappeared off into what felt like a vast expanse.
“Please, come back, come back. This is where she-spirit lives. Please, dangerous.”
They could see how someone stumbling in the dark might vanish off the precipice into the depths. Eventually they came to a chamber, and Mr Hong Thong announced: “Here is the caveman!”
As Rick rounded a corner, he saw two pillars of limestone standing resolutely from floor to ceiling. They resembled a pair of legs, but they were by no means an impressive formation. Suddenly some giggles emanated from the others ahead of him in the cave. Rick shone his torch at the legs again. He immediately broke out into a wry smile as the light caught what was dangling between the legs. Whilst the legs were ambiguous, there was no doubt that that was a man, judging by the enormous and highly accurate phallic rock formation that hung from the roof of the cave. So that was the caveman!
The sun was spraying its last rays across the hills as they finally rounded a corner to look down upon a village nestled across a hilltop bordering a river. People bathed and laundered their clothes in the river, pigs were making their way into the village for the night after foraging through the forest and smoke drifted up from cooking fires. The thatched roofs and red earth were washed in a golden glow with the setting sun as Mr Hong Thong pointed down at the idyllic scene, “Khmu village, we stay here tonight. Homestay. You can swim in river. Before sun goes.” The thought of the cooling water and a bed made them hurry along.
Once they had entered the village the group congregated around a bench in the yard of one of the huts as Mr Hong Thong went to speak to the village head men. As they sat people, particularly children, began to appear from all corners of the village. They stole up silently. After a little while the group realised they had been encircled by a ring of sentinels, staring unemotionally at the group. It was unclear who was the more curious, them or the villagers.
“Do you get the impression we’re some kind of freak show?” said Jason. “Hang on, I know what to do.”
Jason pulled out his IPod and gestured at the solemn crowd. First the children began to press in, and then curiosity got the better of the adults as Jason began going through photos from home and from his trip so far. Before long there were giggles and smiles and activity was restored to the village. The ice had been broken.
After being shown in couples to their respective homestay huts, Rick and Anne decided to go for a swim in the river. Rick waded in, keen for refreshment. The water was freezing! He lingered at waist deep. Eventually the hovering mosquitos became too much and he plunged in.
“How is it?” asked Anne.
“Cold.”
“I doubt it. It’s more like swimming in summer in Sweden.”
He gave her a wry smile back. Movement in the water in his peripheral vision caught Rick’s attention. He turned to two eyes and two scimitar horns poking out of the water a little upstream. The buffalo seemed unconcerned, which reassured Rick. Suddenly he realised there was a cluster of them enjoying the cool of the river. I haven’t swum with dolphins or sharks, thought Rick, but I can say I have swum with buffalo!
Rick pecked at his dinner that evening, which was more than he had done for forty-eight hours. They sat down to a brew of tea which warmed them heartily as the evening cooled. After dinner the chief and his cousin came and introduced themselves. They also paraded some home-made wares for sale from the villagers. Lauren and Anne couldn’t help themselves. The villagers brought out some traditional costumes, black fabric suits with unusual cuts, and hems fringed by small stripes of multiple colours. They were quite beautiful, and strikingly unique. Xavi and Siri tried on the jackets and the group joked around. The chief’s cousin was attempting to teach Xavi some Khmu, in particular body parts of all things, as Xavi sat strangled by the tight jacket several sizes too small. Suddenly there was talk of a Khmu wedding as the chief commented on the pair and their formal garbs! A little embarrassed the pair struggled out of the jackets as the group laughed.
Before they knew it a bottle of clear liquid and several shot glasses were produced: lao lao! The potent rice whisky flowed in celebration of the sales and the good company, and they talked and Mr Hong Thong translated. Mr Hong Thong explained that when the villagers “cheersed” the falang, they always tapped their glass below the foreigners’. This was because they truly respected the visitors as kings and thought themselves below them. The group soon rectified the situation, thanking the chief for enabling them to visit the village, and explaining that they respected the chief as the king around town. A gong was produced from somewhere in the hut, and Mr Hong Thong, a Khmu man, lead the chief and his cousin into some traditional songs. Each of the nationalities were coaxed into singing a typical song from their country of origin: the Aussies broke into Waltzing Mathilda (surprise, surprise), the Swedes sang what sounded like a nursery rhyme but was in fact a drinking song (again, surprise), and Xavi sang another Spanish ballard.
Soon the chief and his cousin, who were by this stage well happy on lao lao, broke into some more traditional songs. Rick looked around at the assembly. This trek, he thought, was something special. He had come to find a place off the traveller’s path. He had entered a town with no other foreigners. And here he was experiencing true traditional life, and a set of traditions that, despite the villagers’ struggle to keep up with the demands of encroaching modernity, the indigenous Khmu remained proud of. The emotion showed in the way they sang, the pride in the workmanship of the traditional dress shone as they dressed Xavi and Siri, and pride and gratitude beamed from their faces as they had an attentive student in a foreigner who was keen to grasp some of their language.
In between the scratchings and gutteral utterings of the farm animals below and around them and the snoring of one of their hosts they had a fitful sleep. The night soon grew cold, too, despite the dying embers of the cooking fire at their feet. Anne and Rick gradually added layers, as the thin blanket did not seem to ward off the cold. As they groped dozily for more blanket, their bodies met. Rick could feel her warmth despite the long pants and fleece he wore. She moved into his embrace, grateful of his heat, and pulled his arm around her. Rick momentarily looked up and smiled. He pulled her against him, and they finally slept a little as dawn approached.
Culture is the conglomeration of practices and habits that a person uses to conduct themselves through their everyday life. To other cultures, these habits are a source of fascination. They are the reason you travel: to experience the way others live, the way they use their landscape to live their lives, the way they implement their values and knowledge in the course of the days, weeks, months. Sometimes culture, the idiosyncrasies of a people, may seem mildly annoying. The real traveller learns to accept these things as part of experiencing the culture and of travelling, no matter how frustrating they may seem. Sometimes, however, culture can slap you in the face.
They left the Khmu village later than expected that morning, and began climbing along dusty tracks through a semi-agricultural landscape. The hiking was hot work. Eventually they rounded a bend in the road and came to a village at the crest of a hill. It had a remarkably different atmosphere to the Khmu village. The homestay experience had left them with a wholesome feeling. The people were friendly, curious, hospitable. They had been momentarily accepted into the life of the village, obtaining a glimpse of something special. The village they approached had a vibe that made them wary. The layout of houses seemed disordered. The houses themselves were shabby, as if laziness conquered symmetry and the need to create stable structures, and the need to maintain collapsing roofs. The children were unwashed, dishevelled, and had more vacant or menacing stares rather than the bright eyes of curiosity. Rubbish and filth were gathered in patches over the ground.
They strode up to the largest hut to once again introduce themselves to the senior man in the village. The man brought out the lao lao to welcome them. Mr Hong Thong explained to them that in this village opium smoking was a custom. Rick pondered whether this might account for the different atmosphere. Some children began to gather around the entrance, and some older women were hunched over a cooking fire toward the back of the hut. They were told about the curious bedroom arrangement, in which the female quarters were separated from the male bed by thin bamboo walls. In one of the walls was a small hatch. Apparently the men knock on the wall if they want a little attention from the females, and the females can let them in, the male crawling through the hole to the female quarters. Rick wondered why they didn’t make the hole bigger.
As a woman came into the hut and sat nearby, Mr Hong Thong and the chief discussed something in earnest. After a while Mr Hong Thong motioned to the girl, and spoke to the group.
“This man, he say that this lady have sick. They wonder if Westerners have drugs for her, and whether they know what to do.”
The girl hesitantly came over to the group. She did not look ill, and initially was carrying an infant on her back. She wore traditional garb, and she had a look of hopeful intensity peeking through the coins that dangled from her cap. She then lifted her skirt a little to reveal her thigh. On it was a terrible sore. The open pussy wound was about the size of a fifty-cent piece, and the flesh around it was red and swollen. It appeared to be a wound that had become infected, and if left untreated could become very serious, to the point of amputation or even toxic shock. It was something that in any western country would be avoided through simple hygiene or addressed through antibiotic pills or ointments. Lauren took charge and examined the wound. Through half an hour they tried to discover how the wound had developed, and tried to explain simple hygiene regarding caring for the wound. They debated how to treat it, whether to give antibiotics that they were carrying, and tried to find some iodine solution and alcohol wipes in the village’s limited medicine cabinet. They ascertained that the woman believed that she had had no wounds previous to the infection, and that the sore had just appeared and steadily grown. This suggested a parasitic infection, and the doubt made them more and more unsure as to how to treat the woman. They asked Mr Hong Thong as to why she had not seen a doctor.
“Doctor is two days away. She must work in fields, must work in rice. She cannot afford to go to doctor.”
They eventually reiterated how to care for the wound in the interim, but stressed that she couldn’t afford not to go to a doctor. As they stood outside the hut wiping their hands with sterilising alcohol wipes, Rick realised how moved he had just been. It was the perfect example of how a certain level of poverty and ignorance imposed itself on the everyday life of the people. Simple things like lack of hygiene and access to a doctor turned a relatively innocuous problem into a serious issue. He almost felt like heading back home and studying medicine just to come back to the village and rectify the problem. But he knew that the issues were much more systematic and intrinsic.
The walking was hard but satisfying. They climbed mountains along rutted tracks and descended into deep cool valleys sliced through the hills by gurgling streams. There was no river at the Akha village at which they would be staying that evening, so they stopped at one of these mountain creeks to cool off. It wasn’t a nice feeling to put a sweaty t-shirt on a cool clean back. They climbed steadily until late afternoon when they finally appeared out of the jungle into an open space and looked up the slope of a mountain to a village draped across its crest. They looked back over the tree tops. Despite the haze from the fires throughout the region, they could make out mountains rolling upwards into the distance. Rick stood there, examining the scenery. South across the mountains lay Laos, stretching between the Mekong and the mountain range that bordered Vietnam. He turned back against the mountains rising behind him. There, not far away, lay Myanmar and China. He smiled. It would not be long before he would be across those mountains moving onto new adventures. Once again children lined the road leading up to where they would be staying that evening. They arrived at the community hall where two ranks of futons with mosquito nets lined the walls. They gratefully dumped their packs and relaxed, lounging around the hall. Rick walked outside to the small balcony off the main hall, and looked across the village. Just beyond the main village across an open area from the community hall there were many small bamboo huts. Rick raised his eyebrows and turned to Mr Hong Thong.
“Many girls in this village, huh? Many love houses.”
“Yes, many girls,” replied Mr Hong Thong. “Ok. We must go and visit village chief now.”
The group strolled down to another hut and sat down in a circle. The Akha chief and his friend brought out a bottle of lao lao for the ubiquitous local greeting. Rick examined the cup as it was passed around, which had been withdrawn from a locked trunk at the back of the hut. It was a small silver goblet holding perhaps two shots’ worth of alcohol. It had an accompanying shot cup which was less ornate. Rick asked where the cups had come from.
“They are French coins. They beat them down and make things from them. Akha man bring them out for special occasion.” Mr Hong Thong translated.
The chief’s friend took a shot and rolled around on the floor gasping. Well, thought Rick, he didn’t feel so bad about what he thought of the stuff.
That evening they sat around the small low bamboo table to eat. Rick’s digestive system had started to stabilise and he managed to eat a little more of his dinner. A thread had wound its way through the group. The common experiences of the last couple of days had begun to draw them together. There is a solidarity among travellers. Though brief, the relationships one had along the road were always close; not intense, but deeply intertwined. They talked about all sorts of things: joking, debating. Mr Hong Thong entered.
“Ok. Akha girls come to give massage. Please.” He motioned to the door so that they could clean up the dinner and prepare the room for the long-promised massages. Foot weary and sore from walking that day, they hoped the massage might provide some relief from the day’s walking. Rick was a little sceptical, having had a couple of weeks before a terrible massage in Chiang Mai that had left a crick in his neck. They exited the room and waited on the balcony as a series of Akha girls in traditional colourful dress entered the room. They noticed a crowd of young men and teenagers had congregated outside the hall. One had managed to obtain a portable stereo and was blaring an assortment of what appeared to be Laos pop. They swaggered around and some were swigging flasks of lao lao. Rick wondered whether this was a common evening pastime.
They were re-ushered into the hut and took up their positions at their chosen bedspaces. Rick stole a glance at the girls as he lowered himself onto his stomach. They appeared a range of ages. A couple seemed young, perhaps eleven or twelve. A couple appeared in their early teens. He lay down, a little anxious but hoping the massage might relax him a little. It was one of the most excruciating experiences he had ever had. The massage did not consist of gently and deliberately rubbing deep through the muscle like Swedish massage, nor did it consist of the painful but effective prods and stretches of a Thai massage. The girl effectively grabbed chunks of muscle in her strong hands, indiscriminate of muscle group, and proceeded to push it across his frame. It felt like she was trying to tear muscles out of his body. When she reached his hamstrings, he could have sworn that she managed to pull them round to the top of his thigh. But this was not the worst of it. She had nails. Grabbing his muscles it felt as if she were tearing the flesh from a carcass. He wished there was a mirror, because he was sure he was red with nail marks. Mr Hong Thong came around with another bottle of Akha whisky, and introducing each of them to their respective masseuses, they downed a shot each. Obviously they started drinking at an early age in Laos. Rick also wondered whether the shots were an aid so that they might forget the pain and actually enjoy the massage. She turned him over, and proceeded with some of his chest, shoulders and arms. Eventually she finished with his legs. Like the Thai massage, she had cracked the knuckles in his fingers. As she moved over his legs, she lifted his feet. She cracked the small toe of his left leg. Suddenly alarm bells sounded in Rick’s mind, but before he could stop her, she pulled at the next two toes. Rick writhed in agony. The poor girl looked horrified, thinking she had done something. Rick had sprained his foot a few weeks earlier in a drunken incident, and as she jerked her hand grasping his knuckles, he had felt the ligaments re-tearing through the top of his foot. As the pain dulled he intonated to the girl that it wasn’t her fault, but it was certainly the ultimate end to a painful experience.
Rick gingerly stretched, his skin burning. He pulled on a shirt and the group one by one made their way outside to the balcony as Mr Hong Thong continued with his massage. They all laughed as they exited: there were now five girls massaging him at once as they finished their efforts with the falang, and he was loving the attention. They sat around the balcony, and looked out over the boisterous gang of guys loitering outside. Rick examined the throng, slightly concerned. There was a palpable tension in the air. One of the men had come up to the balcony and was sitting with the other young guide. They recognised him from earlier in the village. He spoke some very limited English. He also had a softness about his poise which raised some serious questions about his sexuality. Finally the girls came out, having finished with Mr Hong Thong. They thanked them again. A group of four made their way cautiously to the steps up to the hut. Suddenly they sprinted away down the hill, avoiding the crowd of males. All hell broke loose, and the assembly dashed after them. Shouts broke out amongst the guys, and the girls squealed and screamed as they ran. The trekkers stared, bewildered. The only guy who didn’t move was the one sitting on the balcony, impervious to the commotion. Three girls disappeared over the hill and the travellers couldn’t make out to where they went. The fourth stumbled as she ran, and before they knew it the fastest of the boys had caught up. He grabbed her upper arm, pulling her to a halt, happy with his prize. She half-heartedly resisted, then the boy led her up the hill. Shouts ran out amongst the crowd. Eventually he let go, but she did not try to escape, despite her slumped shoulders showing through the gloom she wasn’t quite complicit. They made their way over to the love houses, disappearing into the crowd of guys who were beginning to mingle around the huts rather than the trekkers’ accommodation. There was a small commotion, but it was too dark to tell what was going on.
The travellers were shocked into silence. They looked at each other, everyone displaying a disbelieving face, slowly shifting into comprehension of the unfolding drama. There was an animal electricity sparking amongst everyone, fear churning with excitement made them wide eyed. They hardly noticed that the last couple of girls had exited the hall. The girls dashed past the seated trekkers. Lauren cried out and jumped up from her seat, reaching out in exasperated panic. With the element of surprise demolished the girls stood no chance, and they were quickly enveloped in the clutches of the waiting boys. Rick’s heart raced at what he had just witnessed. A normally placid demeanour had been shocked into rage. Thoughts raced. Here was culture at its most real. Here was the grating friction of values mashing against each other. The very values of liberty and equality, of rights, of choice, however contorted they might be in a western culture, had just vacated the scene.
“I can’t believe what just happened,” struggled Lauren.
“It’s like a meatmarket,” said Rick.
“Mr Hong Thong,” Lauren turned to their guide who had walked out onto the balcony as the commotion began, “do the girls have a choice? Can they say no?”
He looked puzzled at her, miscomprehending. “They go to love houses.”
“Yes, but when the girls go to the love houses, can they tell the boys to go away if they want? What do they do in the love houses… surely not, you know… the girls, they’re too young…” Lauren trailed off intonating the exasperation they all felt.
Mr Hong Thong seemed either to not understand their concern or was trying to avoid the emotion of the issue.
“It’s just not right. The poor girls, I feel like I want to go and rescue them.” Lauren stared out at the throng of masculinity.
“What we have effectively witnessed is the precursor to rape, and the rape of minors.” Rick looked at the boys out in the dark. They were generally older teenagers, boys turning into men through the testosterone coursing through their veins. They were boys coming into the prime of their strength, a strength they probably underestimated and misunderstood. Rick couldn’t help but realise that the petite frames of the young girls would stand no chance against the rippling muscularity of these young men. No seemed like an answer that would go unheeded. What was worse was a lingering guilt. Would the girls have been in this position had they not given the falang massages? Or would they be safe in bed by now?
“It’s just so ignorant. It’s so wrong. It’s so, I don’t know… primitive?” said Xavi, struggling through his English vocabulary to vocalise the feeling. “You know, if they had education… Once Westerners were like this, but we changed. They need to understand that it’s wrong.”
“Can you understand that this is very disturbing for us? That we feel that this is very wrong? That we don’t like this at all?” Rick addressed Mr Hong Thong.
He paused thoughtfully for a moment, then replied, “Yes, this is what I say before. This is their culture. Laos and Khmu like me, we have one wife. We do not do this. I say before many things about Akha culture that Khmu do not like. But this their culture. Foreigner, they have to understand this.”
Indeed Mr Hong Thong had thrown in comments frequently about how much he preferred his own culture to the Akha, particularly how unclean the Akha were. It seemed to Rick that here was an epiphany exemplifying the collision of value systems. It couldn’t be more poignant a demonstration of how a foreigner might approach an issue with their own values as a premise for judging the world. Before Rick lay the dilemma that is the cause of so much conflict, from the friction of friendly disagreement between acquaintances, to the tragedy of full scale massacre. Here was the dilemma of whether a person is able to let go and accept another’s values, however repugnant they may be, without compromising their own value system. Is it imposing and ignorant to desire to inform and persuade a person that their value system is, or at least appears to others to be, inferior? Or is it betraying one’s own value system to not believe in the values enough that they are seen as the only model for living one’s life?
Tied in with this dilemma is the concept of socio-economic development and modernisation in poorer countries. There is an inevitable conflict between modernisation and education, and traditional lifestyles. Educating people who live traditional lifestyles even about basic things like hygiene inevitably leads to sacrificing practices that were traditionally integral to their culture and defined them as a group. Trying to improve standards of living inevitably creates a focus on materialism and individualism as opposed to the crucial social networks that weave through these traditional societies. So it’s a catch-22. You degrade a culture by improving their socio-economic status, but leave a society in inevitable poverty and suffering by trying to preserve their culture. The most confronting thing is that these arguments are based on the premise that something needs to change. From the comfort of the air-conditioned offices and techno-filled surrounds of a wealthy western society, people preach the virtues of charity with the undercurrent of moral superiority. Journalists perpetuate the frenzy of pity, touting it as news and awareness. Pity is the most evil of emotions. It is the ultimate insult. It starts with the premise that one cannot help themselves. It is the most insidious condescension.
Take a country like Laos. Small, overlooked, inconsequential to most, Laos is real. Rick knew little about the country prior to arriving. He had only seen the news stories talking of corruption, danger, unrest, undemocratic social systems. Laos is beautiful. The people are beautiful, the country is spectacular. And Laos is not some helpless society oppressed and writhing in a cycle of poverty. Whilst it was clear to Rick from talking to other travellers that it does not suffer from the levels of poverty that other nations like India are mired in, the people are poor. But they are not helpless, or ignorant. The ultimate frustration that Rick had seen so far on his trip were the attitudes with which many travellers (or should he say tourists?) approached the locals. They would demand and protest if their demands weren’t met, barter and negotiate ridiculous sums, but most importantly not out of need or principle, but out of disrespect. The look in these people’s eyes would be one of patronisation, of complete disregard for cultural sensitivity; their eyes would be vacant of any thought process approaching empathy. These people are real, just as you walk down the street of your home town, so too in a Laos town you find an array of personalities: the idiosyncratic, the leering and aggressive, the generous, humble and friendly. And they are real people finding ways to survive, and in many instances prosper. They may need a helping hand to pull them up to the position they need, but they don’t need pity.
These were the thoughts that ran through Rick’s mind as he sat, oblivious to the debate that bounced around the group on the balcony. He could not decide how he felt. He did not know whether he was able to accept what he had just seen as another culture, or base a judgement on the premise of his own values that this was just too repugnant. Eventually the conversation died down as people were left to their own thoughts. One by one they crawled beneath their mosquito nets to drift to sleep with the noises of the village in the night.
The hills never seemed to end. There was no relief. They had climbed steadily the day before on their way to the Akha village, clambering up hills and down valleys, but this time there were no valleys. They were completing what was meant to have been the first day of their journey. Rick thanked Mr Hong Thong and his wisdom for making it the last. There was no way he would have survived this on his first day after being ill. Even now, as the cramps faded and he was able to trickle sustenance into his system, he felt weak. They were on a climb that seemed infinite. The heat, the heat, Rick thought. It was a heat he had never known. It was neither humid nor parching. It did not bear the laden humidity of a summer’s afternoon in far north Queensland. Nor did it possess the dry oven heat of central Australia that sapped the moisture from your core. This heat, which seemed common to SE Asia, was a heat that felt like a padded cell slowly and inextricably closing in on them with a stifling inescapability.
Rick had given up enjoying the scenery, although it only entailed the occasional glimpse of a forested valley through the tangle of jungle along the path. He concentrated on one foot after the other. Usually he revelled in taking stride after stride on a long walk, but this was a matter of surviving. Sweat streamed from his features, his super-saturated t-shirt dripped its excess moisture. He looked up. Surely the ground must level out with the next bend, Rick pleaded. The next bend came and the slope continued. Rick began fighting the black spots that appeared in front of his eyes. He refused to call a halt. Stubbornness was a feature of his personality. But his knowledge also made him very aware of heat exhaustion and the way in which it could quickly spiral into something very serious in these circumstances. Yet another bend and the climb continued. Just as Rick was about to surrender and call a halt, the black spots beginning to join into a veil of exhaustion, Mr Hong Thong announced, “If you want break, you say so, ok?”
Lauren piped up, “Yeah I think we should break.”
Rick paused on the trail and turned back to Mr Hong Thong, “Yeah, I would like a break.”
There was suddenly a chorus of agreement, and they collapsed alongside the track, which disappeared down the slope behind them and into the jungle ahead. A group of Akha girls carrying loads via a strap placed across the forehead came up behind them. They shuffled alongside the track to let them pass, but they collapsed alongside the group, exhausted, too. It made Rick feel a little relieved, the hills were a struggle, though the girls were carrying disproportionate weights to their size in possibly the worst way Rick could imagine.
Eventually they rose and continued, and finally the climb stabilised into the rolling of a ridgetop. The heat continued to beat their bodies, all of them sweating rivulets. They appeared out of the jungle to an open tangle of scrub. Vines scrambled over half-collapsed huts, formerly decimated trees sprouted hopeful shoots, weeds clambered over each other, competing for light that would soon fade with the return of the jungle. They paused for a while, finding some shade in the shadow of a dilapidated hut.
“Is this an old village?” asked Rick.
“Yes, this village, they practice slash and burn. They cut down forest in protected area. The government, they move the village on, to lowland.”
Rick pondered the dilemma. Here was a village that had payed the price of wanting to survive. Here was the real price of environmentalism, of the protectionist approach, an approach he advocated every day. Here was the sharp end of the policies debated, probably by delegates of western countries sitting in leather seats at mahogany desks in some conference room at some precocious summit. He stared as the jungle began reclaiming its territory. Here was the victim of a population that required more of the world than it could give: one less culture, the slow dissolution of peoples as the world intermeshed in ever-increasing connectivity. Rick felt no sorrow, nor a pride in a policy applied to the letter. Just a quiet nod of acknowledgement that this was probably a sad inevitably of the world as it stood.
Finally they began to descend, and the jungle gave way to scrub and cleared land. Buffalo appeared in the river they crossed, and a few local villagers sat by the wayside. They were nearing the end of their trek, which in Rick’s mind had been an epic experience. Finally they came into some grassed level land by the side of a river. By the track side a sign had collapsed into the tangled scrub, its inscription stating the commencement of the term given by the tourist bureau to the walk they had just completed, the “Akha Trail”.
Arriving back in the village, they had all taken bungalows in the Bornkeung guesthouse. The guesthouse was perched at the confluence of two rivers, and the bungalows had small balconies overlooking the flowing water. They were all glad to have a shower and wash the sweat and dust of the last couple of days. Clean clothes rubbed on clean skin, and they were refreshed as they sat drinking Beerlao and musing over what had happened, and what they were planning in the next leg of their journeys. They made their way to a covered picnic table in the grounds, where they were served some vegetarian noodle soup and, once again eggs and sticky rice, as a meal. Maybe it was the beer, but Rick struggled once again to stomach the meal. Perhaps it was also some involuntary reflex against the odours, tastes and textures of the meal that had made him so sick in the first place. He wished he could eat, he felt weak and drained.
They had invited Mr Hong Thong to dinner, but as time passed and they finished what they could of their dinner, they did not hold much hope. Suddenly they heard down the track the spluttering of a motorbike, and a headlight appeared in the gloom. Mr Hong Thong stepped off his bike, apologising for his lateness, explaining that his mother had been sick the last few days they had been away, but was now on the mend. They bought him a Beerlao and they sat down to talk and while away the evening.
They had sung “If you’re happy and you know it” to Mr Hong Thong on the trail, and, liking the tune and the simplicity of the English, he had requested that they might teach it to him. The Beerlao flowed and they set about writing down the lyrics to the tune. Some variations were thrown in apart from “clap your hands”, like “punch your face” (typical Frenzal style), which were deemed suitable for a drunken expose but not for young kids who might want to learn it. Jason pulled out an MP3 recording device he had been carrying, and they set about recording a contorted version of the children’s song, in the hope he could burn a CD and send it back to the village for Mr Hong Thong.
“Could you sing something for us, Mr Hong Thong?” asked Jason.
“Yes,” he paused thoughtfully for a moment, trying to decide on a tune. “I will sing a happy and sad song, a song about the meeting of friends.”
After a couple of false starts, Jason clicked on the recorder as Mr Hong Thong sang. Though no maestro, Mr Hong Thong’s voice rang out confidently into the night air, the rolling notes of a Khmu song, hopeful yet mournful, reverberating in their consciousness. It seemed to echo the hills they had passed through, the jungle encrusted mountains, the cool caves. The voice sounded the voices of the peoples they had encountered, the wave of tones of the villager’s voices as they entered their sanctuary, the smiles and cries of the children who ran alongside, curious at these white-skinned intruders. The song stopped all too quickly, and the group gradually applauded, each lost in their own thoughts.
“I work for a radio station in Australia, is it ok if I play this on the radio?” asked Jason.
“Yes, yes. I would be very happy. Laos people, they would be very happy to hear this. I think, they would hear this and cry tears, and remember their home.” They noticed that Mr Hong Thong had a twinkle of moisture in his eyes. “Perhaps even…” he trailed off.
“So Laos people would know this song?” intonated Jason.
“Yes, especially Khmu. Perhaps even my sister might hear this.”
“Your sister?” asked Lauren.
“Yes, she is in Canada.”
“Oh, I don’t know whether it will reach Canada. Maybe if I put it on the website,” said Jason.
“Do you see your sister, do you speak to her often?”
“No, no, I don’t speak. Fifteen years ago, I find out I have sister in Canada. I no speak.”
There was an intense sadness in his eyes. Once again the beaming smile and eternal optimism had hidden a past which lay beneath the surface of Laos’ present, and once in a while would glint its ugliness as a reminder. They ascertained little more from Mr Hong Thong about his sister, the language barrier once again preventing them from learning the full story. However, they gathered his sister might have been part of the repatriation program during the Vietnam War where many children were taken form their war-torn homeland to Canada or the US in order that they might have a ‘better’, communist-free life. He had not even known about her until fifteen years ago.
Eventually they said a sad farewell to their guide. Mr Hong Thong was truly touched by their kindness in inviting him to dinner. They could not understand that no one had done the same for him previously. He was truly someone that you could not help but appreciate as a human being. They retired to their bungalows, the next day promising a parting of the ways.
Rick and Anne lay under the mosquito net, the air laden with humidity. The bungalow was closed and promised little hope of ventilation. They spoke a little. Eventually their bodies touched. Rick propped himself up, and looked at Anne. She lay looking strangely at him, once again thoughts running through her mind that he could not guess, and knew he would never be imparted with. He stroked the golden hair out of her face, strands sticking to her feature as sweat beaded on her brow, and held her face in his hands. Their lips met, a long-delayed kiss.
He collapsed beside her. He tried to hide the fact that his limbs trembled, his muscles gasping for every last molecule of glycogen. The last month had taken its toll on his body. It remained a shadow of its former self. The toxins of the copious partying, the unusual food, the lack of exercise he had been able to maintain due to the travelling, the unusual sleep cycles he had entertained, and finally the food poisoning followed by a draining trek. His body was rent. The thoughts he was dealing with also did not help.
Suddenly lightening flashed through the cobwebbed window. They had not noticed that the humidity was foretelling a storm. Spatters sounded on the roof above them. Rick remembered some of his things scattered around the room, but he was too tired to rise and tidy them to avoid any possible leaks. Anne raised her head in response to the crack of thunder and the increasing intensity of the raindrops. He gathered she thought something similar as she lowered her head back onto the pillow and rolled over. He embraced her, and she pulled his arm around her as they slipped into sleep.
That morning they woke to find puddles across the floor. The storm had been intense, and raged through the hills around them. Luckily no drips over their bed had disturbed their sleep. Their things were generally dry, too, although a couple of Rick’s travel guides lay in a pool of water. The group had managed to rise at the same time that morning. Jason and Lauren had packed early, and after a lean breakfast of stale baguette and bananas they readied to depart for the first bus to Lum Num Tha. Rick and Anne said farewell to the pair, promising to catch up in Luang Prabang if they could, although they both knew that travel encounters were never surefire. Rick and Anne quickly packed to catch the next bus, and they farewelled Xavi and Siri. As they jumped on the minibus to the next major centre, the farewells seemed anticlimactic to Rick, a strange parting.
As it turned out the group ended up meeting again at the bus stop in Lum Num Tha waiting for the next bus onward. As they got on the bus, they soon realised that the leg space Laos people required was obviously far less than that of falang. The group struggled with cramps on the bruising ride through the northern mountains. The ride was made even more painfully slow by the poor condition of the roads in the area. They made it as far as Oudom Xai before having to stop overnight for the next bus to wherever they were headed. Xavi and Siri decided to head east from the town, whereas Rick, Anne, Jason and Lauren decided to head south to Luang Prabang. Rick and Anne made it onto a bus, but found no sign of Lauren and Jason. It seemed they had finally also parted company. Once again, the locals seemed capable of squeezing into a space much too small for Westerners. The small bus wound its way through the hills. Rick placed his IPod in his ears, and Anne nestled against him, trying to find some comfort in the ride.
The bus station at Luang Prabang was unremarkably Laos, a chaotic mix of buses and sawngthaew. They jumped on a sawngthaew with a group of girls who turned out to be a mix of Austrian and Israeli. They informed them that there was a guesthouse they had found earlier that was reasonably priced. Dusk fell as they made it into the centre of Luang Prabang, a golden glow reaching through the ubiquitous haze. There was a hint of the provincial in the buildings they encountered, but they were more concerned with finding some accommodation than viewing the sites. The place they strolled down to had only one room available. The girls moved on as they needed more space. Rick and Anne decided to take the room, too tired to look further, and resolved to check out more places the next day if they weren’t happy. Rick glanced around the room. It didn’t feel quite comfortable. The room seemed an annex to the front of the guesthouse, the bathroom like a country outhouse adjoining the room, a makeshift roof seeming to provide a veneer of shelter. He shrugged, it would have to do for one night.
Having showered they strolled out onto the streets. They found the night markets and had some dinner, bumping into the girls from the sawngthaew. From the moment that Rick had begun to mend on the trek he had had three cravings: baguette, hot chips and pizza. In some remarkable stroke of luck they had found a cafeteria at the bus stop in Lum Num Tha which proffered baguette and chips, which he greedily consumed. Here in Luang Prabang, on the menu before him, was proffered pizza. The pizza was by no means the best he had had, but the crispy base, the melted cheese, the tomato base, they satisfied a hunger that had grown within him but could not be satisfied by sticky rice, bamboo shoots and egg.
They strolled around the night markets. A plethora of souvenirs, many handicrafts of remarkably good quality, were laid along one of the mains streets. In the balmy night air, with the warm glow of lights washing their facades and a bustle of foreigners in the restaurants and wine bars, the stretch certainly had a cosy French provincial feel. Many of the old buildings were being given a new lease of life, rescued from decay for the pleasure of the tourists that thronged to the city. Strolling to the end of the markets Rick noticed a couple of nice restaurants. He checked the prices, which were quoted on US dollars. The restaurant was quite expensive for Laos, but cheap nonetheless. Rick thought to himself that he could do with a little luxury for a change. They debated whether to head out to one of the nightclubs, but decided to head back to their room to rest. No sooner had they lain in bed when a drone caught Rick’s attention.
“Is that rain?”
“Yes,” replied Anne.
The drone quickly descended into a dull roar. Rick rushed out of bed and opened the door to look through the front entrance out onto the street. The roar was no longer dull but drowned out voices with its intensity. Lightening flashed, thunder rumbled, and suddenly the wind picked up, lashing the front of the building. The street had turned into a river of its own, water lapping at the front steps of the guesthouse. Rick returned to the room. Rain splashed in the open window of their room. He prised the screen open and stretched out of the window to reach for the shutters. Wind pummelled the house, and Rick fought the force, trying to pull the shutters closed. He finally managed to close the barrier and bolted them closed, collapsing onto the bed.
“Phew.”
He walked over to the corner where he had hung his towel. The room consisted of a lower section where the bed lay and the window looked out over the street, and a raised causeway that ran alongside the bed to behind it where the bathroom stood. Between the bedroom and the causeway was a dividing beam running the length of the ceiling. As he stood beneath it drying himself so that he could return to bed, he felt drops of water splattering his naked shoulders and running down his back. He glanced upwards. Droplets beaded along the length of the beam, gradually gathering momentum. Great, he thought, more leaks. He gathered some spare towels and placed them on the floor along the length of the beam. He jumped into bed, hoping that that was the extent of the problems for the evening. The rain continued to pour down. It was rain like he had never experienced. He had mentioned that he had wanted to see a south-east Asian storm, now he had two within a couple of days. That’s what you get, he mused. Rick looked up at the beam. The rain seemed undivided, not a myriad of droplets but sheets of water dropping unrelentingly onto the earth. The droplets along the beam soon became rivulets trickling form the ceiling. Rick glanced at Anne, apologetically though he didn’t know why. Eventually the rain eased enough to hear themselves think. Anne sat studying her Lonely Planet.
“You know, I don’t want to force you to do anything. If there’s anything you want to do, you go ahead and do it,” said Rick.
“Yeah I know. I have actually been thinking…”
Rick braced himself.
“I have only so much time left, I think I will leave Luang Prabang soon, maybe the day after tomorrow.”
Rick paused, understanding the unspoken meaning of her words. “Hmm, sure. I think I want to stay one more day in Luang Prabang. It’s quite nice here and I feel like I need to stop for a couple of days before moving on.”
“I will spend tomorrow trying to sort out my finances and buying a ticket onward, and maybe we can do something after that? See something here?”
“Sounds good. I think we should change guesthouses and find something nicer. I don’t mind spending the money just for a night. Treat ourselves. You know what, why don’t we see some things and head to Phu Si tomorrow to watch the sunset, and then my shout, we’ll have a nice dinner and a bottle of wine to celebrate the journey and the last night together.”
“Hey I’ll probably see you in Vien Vieng!” she laughed.
Rick looked at her, smiling back, but something told him that an end was drawing near. He could not understand what it was about this part of his journey that had touched him so much. Rick tried to dissect the experience. But it seemed to be just a culmination of so many things, things that slotted together to make a whole, a beautiful, pensive, memorable whole. The people, he thought. The people. Mr Hong Thong; the crew that he had travelled with: Jason, Lauren, Xavi, Siri, and not least Anne; all the Laos people: the Akha, Lahu, Khmu; these people had fleshed the experience into something special. Coupled with the landscape they traversed and the idiosyncrasies of the places they had visited, it was something Rick would not forget.
The day flew trying to get things organised for Anne, and it was late afternoon before they got round to any sight seeing. That morning they had found a cosy guesthouse a couple of blocks from where they had been originally. Its dark varnished timber, whitewashed walls, crisp white sheets and clean bathroom were well worth the money for a night. It also had the solidity that suggested it would survive a storm. Most of the attractions were closed by the time they reached them. They walked up the many steps to the top of Phu Si, a hill in the centre of Luang Prabang that featured a temple at its summit. They clambered around the crest, avoiding the rest of the tourists who had made the pilgrimage, dripping in sweat from the climb and the lack of shade at the top. The sun began to descend lazily towards the hills on the other side of the Mekong. Its light diffused as it slipped into the haze from the fires that were lit by the locals all through the country. The sun gradually turned from a glaring orange to red to hot glowing black as the haze distorted its shape. Rick and Anne left the crowd before the sun disappeared, stopping at a terrace briefly to observe the sunset’s final throws, and then made their way back to the guesthouse to shower before having some dinner.
Clean, refreshed, free finally from the gag reflex of sickness, wearing a crumpled white shirt, but a shirt nonetheless, Rick relished the moment. They sat on the balcony of the restaurant. Anne had similarly put on a dress for the occasion, complemented by a shawl and a bracelet she had bought at the markets that now lay stretching off down the street before them. The echoing polished floorboards, the high ceilings and the formality of the table setting gave them a feeling of luxury. Rick sipped on his glass of red wine, a product of Chile, the first time he had tried any from that country. Its welcome warmth relaxed him. He looked off into the distance. There was still a restlessness that edged under his skin. It had grown since leaving home, but was still not crystallised into a definable thought. It was different, too, from the restlessness that had forced him to leave his country on an undefined quest. He sighed, placing the thought aside to ponder at another time. He looked at the blood red liquid sitting plumply in his wine glass and glanced up at Anne’s sparkling blue eyes. He longed for the day when he could truly feel he deserved moments like these.
They had ordered two fish dishes, a French style pan-fried fish and a Lao style fish stew, both of which they shared. The soft flesh of the Mekong fish and the delicate western flavours were miles from the Bangkok street stalls and crude but wholesome cooking of the villages they had passed through. After the main they shared a crepe suzette as Rick sipped on a coffee. The wine, liquor from the desert, and caffeine intoxicated him to a level of content sensuality. They were the last ones to leave the restaurant, savouring the experience, and walked through the remnants of the markets that appeared and vanished every evening. The white sheets and soft luminescence of the low-watt lighting made the perfect ending to a sumptuous evening. Rick’s exhaustion remained, however as their lips met, their forms curled in the expansive bed, Rick’s senses tingled.
Anne arose early the next morning to catch her bus to Vien Vieng.
“Thanks for travelling with me. I had a great time. Take care, ok? If you are in Australia and I’m there, I’ll be happy to show you round.” Rick said as Anne packed.
“I’ll see you in Vien Vieng!” Anne laughed again.
Rick walked her out of the guesthouse, sleepy and still in his boxer shorts. He waved goodbye, watching her disappear up the street, laden with her backpack. Rick climbed the timber stairs, entered the room, and locked the door behind him. The feeling of emptiness, a solicitous quiet that had entered the room when his friends had left him in Chiang Mai, descended, too, upon this room. He knew that even if they were to see each other in Vien Vieng, the invisible strings that had connected them over the last days had detached themselves. A chapter in his journey had ended. Rick pulled out his laptop. But what a story that chapter was going to be!
