The Durian Apocalypse

[Written Tuesday, February The 21st, Night]

Arose early to walk down to the bus station. Like to do so (I mean walking to the bus with all my shit on my back, not arising early) when feasible, as it’s often the only exercise I’ll get during the day. After the fortnight, James was sad to see me leaving. Said that when he got to work tonight, he’d be looking around, asking, “Where’s Edward?”

The bus journey from Luang Prabang to Phonsavanh can be summed up thus: twistiest/windiest…mountain road…ever. Oof. The eight hours on the bus felt more like eight hours in a washing machine.

Y’all know how much I love driving like a madman through the twisty-turny mountain passes. Well, our driver for to-day loves it every bit as much – and in a bus, rather that a Geo Metro. And the mountain roads are quite narrow, to boot. Let’s just say that his ding ding (or, more accurately stated, his honk honk) got plenty of work work.

Pretty sure I’ve never in my life contracted motion sickness; but on this day, even my heretofore immune stomach turned over a time or two.

The scenery, of course, was aces.

We stopped for lunch at the crossroads town of Phou Khoun. The menu for the restaurant in front of which the bus dropped us off:

Here’s the view from the town.

And here’s the view of the restaurant across the street from the restaurant in front of which the bus dropped us off.

After lunch, the real fireworks began. I’d been riding alone ‘til then, but we picked up some more travelers in town; including a nice-seeming local gentleman with whom I shared the second half of the ride.

It had already been twistiest/windiest…mountain road…ever. But somehow it now became twistier/windier still. My stomach was in a state of permanent quease. By that point, I’d not eaten for about twenty hours, so there wasn’t anything up for me to chuck. Otherwise, I fear I might well have.

My companion wasn’t so lucky. He spent the entire time bent over, chundering into plastic bags and tossing them out the window. Girl in front of me the same – only she was also hocking loogies and attempting to spit them out the window. But of course, they right-angled and headed back toward me splatting on the side of the bus rather too near my person.

I let cry a, “Hey!” and later a, “God damn it!” She looked at me quizzically each time; but she just would not comprehend the physics of the matter (nor, certainly, the English language), and so I resorted to fashioning a shield out of the curtain.

And it worked!

They weren’t the only two, neither. Seemed like about half the riders were heaving it up. Why will not they learn: eat your Chicken Food after riding the mountain bus, not before?

While stopped in a small town to let somebody off, noticed that these three girls – while very cute – weren’t waving the bus.

So I took it upon myself to wave to them first, which got the ball rolling and how. Their little brother even ran over to join them, performing this odd-looking wave with the outside of his hand facing the bus.

Arrived in Phonsavanh too late to look around much, but did note one interesting concept. The Fresh Market stays open after dark, so the vendors use candles to illuminate their stalls.

Appears that a guided tour of the Plain Of Jars won’t cost as much as I’d feared – $25 for an eight-hour tour (including price of admission to the Jars sites), plus an evening screening of The Most Secret Place On Earth, a great-looking documentary concerning the U.S. bombing campaign.

One possible backfire: this operator’s tours look so interesting, I may end up taking more than one of them! There’s even one on which you can hike a part of the Ho Chi Minh trail.

 [And Now For Something Completely Different]

How if we tie up some loose ends?

First, a few recommendations.

• “Confessions Of A Recovering Environmentalist”, by Paul Kingsnorth. Excellent essay in which he discusses childhood revelations which led him into the Environmental movement, and laments its current state.
• Maybe even better, a complementary podcast with Kingsnorth and two other authors, discussing the essay, its implications, and prospects for the future.
• Another audio file, Episode #297 of the C-Realm Podcast, in which Jon Rappaport calls bullshit on the medical industry; and Andrew Napolitano blows a gasket over the political status quo.

And this, a great new video from Josh Ritter. Josh driving a motor-car with a bull elk as passenger in a construction-paper stop-motion animation video? Count me in!

Next, some more videos from yours truly, which I’ve not until now had time to upload. First, from way back in Udomxai, what I believe to have been a karaoke party down in the valley. After that, two more kids’ boules clips.

Finally, thought maybe the Kuang Si and Pak Ou informational signs would be an interesting accompaniment to the stories and pictures. So, here we go. (Won’t be offended if you don’t, having not been there, find it very interesting.)

[Written Sunday, February The 19th, Night]

Nitzan loves the falls possibly even more than do I myself. He was off this morning to make his second visit. I considered joining him; but instead wished him godspeed, and set about to find a bicycle.

I thought it’d be easy as pie to just grab one from the guest house. But the staffer, when I told him of my plan to ride to the cave, said it’d not be a good idea. Their bikes, he related, would do fine on the paved portion; but after covering the dirt portion (which comprises about a third of the total distance), I’d need to put the bike in, like, a burlap sack, and bring it back to town in a Tuk-Tuk.

So, I found a place in town that had pretty sturdy-looking bikes.

The rental officer agreed that the bike could get me there and back; but was skeptical that I’d be able to pedal that distance (about forty-five miles for the round-trip). I said that I thought I could manage it, and so, he asked me for my passport.

Oops. It was back in the guest-house locker. Crap. Was walking away, considering whether I wanted to hoof it all the way to the guest house and back, and remembered that I’d a copy of my passport on my person. With that, and my driving licence, the rental officer agreed to rent me the bike.

Everything seemed to be proceeding smoothly, ‘til I got a look at the fine print.

Could this really be true – 30,000 Kip to replace the ding ding?? Sometimes, I just can’t help wonder what the fuck this world is coming to. All the same, I signed on the dotted line, and was off.

And do you believe it? Riding an inter-city route in shorts, t-shirt, no shoes, no helmet, no glasses (normally only worn while driving). I would never even dream of trying a stunt like that in the States (nor even Thailand, by a long shot). But in Laos, you just go with the flow.

The motorists, even the truckers, are very good about not running down the cyclists and the pedestrians. Anyways, a few kilometres North of town, the traffic became very negligible. The riding was quite good. Somewhat hilly, but not too much. The weather had cooperated immensely by bringing some clouds, so it was not overly hot/sunny.

Was happy to’ve reached the turn-off, as the “Hobo Map” describes the next section as, “Serene cycling on good dirt road, with some shade, and views of the Mekong.”

“Serene”, I’ll definitely give ‘em. But, dustier than fuck-all; so even though there wasn’t a tonne of traffic, what traffic there was kicked up a tonne of dirt. Luckily, I’d purchased a dust-mask yesterday morning, so this was manageable. And after a few kilometres, the road became hard-packed, and the dust was much less.

Wouldn’t exactly call the road “good”, however; “quite bumpy and rocky” would be my description. Also, very hilly. It’ll be good for me in the end, but my legs will be sore tomorrow! The views of the Mekong, while spectacular, were only few and far between. However, the mountains and trees made up for that with their always reliable awesomeness.

After the dirt road, I was kinda thinking, “You know, maybe I oughta get a Tuk-Tuk for the return trip.” Lo and behold, I’m riding up to the village sited across from the caves, and there’re four or five Tuk-Tuk drivers gathered around. “Sir, you take Tuk-Tuk back?”

“Maybe! How much?”

They wanted 50,000; I wanted to pay 20,000. We got to haggling – one driver offered 40,000 — and finally I just said, “Whatever, I want to see the cave first!” Yes, yes, of course, they assured me. But, come back in an hour, and grab a Tuk-Tuk.

“Maybe, but I’m paying 20,000.” They just laughed and laughed.

Walking through the village to the boat landing, noticed both a captive monkey and a captive owl. Damn, that was depressing.

The caves (an upper and a lower) are a repository for unwanted Buddhas, Isn’t every Buddha beautiful? Isn’t every Buddha loved? Well…I guess not. The place is fucking surreal, man. Who ever got the bright idea to just start chucking all these Buddhas in the damned cave? Don’t know — but I’m glad they did.

Nobody loves the Buddhas!

So many unloved Buddhas!

In a side-passage of the Lower Cave, there’s this killer Naga with its neck broken and turned ‘round backward, and wearing a scarf.

Most of  the visitors arrive by slow-boat from Luang Prabang – about a one-hour journey each way. Don’t know the fare; presumably not cheap. So they just drive right up to the cave, the tourists get out and look around, and when everybody’s done, they drive right back to the city. Well, on the roof of one of the boats…

Weird. Taking the stairway to the upper cave, I realised that the bike-ride had turned my legs to mush. Needed to stop and rest a good two or three times. Did arrive, however; and the Upper Cave’s even trippier that the lower. Some of the figures are just outright freaky.

While some of them are just damned weird.

Plus, unlike the Lower Cave, the Upper is very dark. A Frenchman, not seeing that I’d  brought my own small one, offered to let me borrow his “torch” (AKA flashlight) as I was entering and he leaving. Just wanted to point out the fact, as though I’ve been slagging them for their nasty, ugly smoking the Europeans really are very friendly.

I like these figures for the strange shapes and placements of the hands.

So, it was back down to the boat landing, to catch the return trip to the village. The captain’s first-mate was a take-no-shit badass.

…but a good worker as well.

I think he’s got a future in the hospitality industry, as his welcome-aboard hand-gesture is so good it oughta be used in training films! Kid’s a fighter and a lover.

When we got to the other side, I thanked the Captain, and reached into my pocket to get the 10,000 Kip to pay the fare. Meanwhile, he’d written his proposed 30,000 Kip fare on his hand. Utterly shocked and disgusted, I kept repeating (in my best are-you-kidding-me? voice), “Come on…come on…come on.” Finally, the First Mate began repeating it as well (don’t think he spoke English either; but rather just liked the sound of the phrase) — which, I had to admit, was pretty funny.

It took a good five minutes’ haggling to jew him down to 20,000. But as I was leaving, I gave him a two-ton glare, and proclaimed, “This is not good!” Not that he understood it; but I said it anyhow.

As I was walking up the bank to the village, I began to feel guilty for my little outburst. I had ended up paying double the usual cross-Mekong fare, true. But, the extra 10,000 Kip amounted to…$1.25. Really going to get all upset over that?

Besides, with most of the tourists arriving by slow-boat, the ferry Captains don’t appear to be doing a very roaring trade – certainly I was his only passenger for each crossing (and I was there right in the middle of the day, on a weekend). And which he’d damaged the craft on the way over, trying to squeeze into too tight a spot, and getting part of the railiing broken-in between two other boats.

But I was too lazy to go back and apologise.

As I’d made very good time on the out-bound leg, and as I was quite tired enough already, I decided to just take it slowly on the way back, and enjoy the scenery. (The Tuk-Tuk drivers had all departed, so this wasn’t even an option, as it turned out.)

Laos is so bad-assed. Even this podunk little bridge out in the middle of nowhere offers up such heart-stopping beauty.

On the other side, a sunken vessel.

Happened to pass by a bumpin’ party. Not sure if this goes on every Sunday; or if it may have been a weddiing or similar. In case you’re thinking that it doesn’t sound very “bumpin’”: the music was much louder in person.

 On the way back into town, I turned off to re-visit the villages I’d enjoyed earlier in the week. There weren’t as many people out-and-about as there had been then; but those that were were of course inordinately friendly and delightful.

In real life, this mountain o’ corn is as orange as orange gets. Huhn, never seen a mountain o’ orange corn before. In fact, don’t think I’ve ever even heard of a mountain o’ orange corn before.

Almost to the end of the village area and back into town, along come the Good Humor Man.

 

I myself declined his offer to purchase an ice cream; but I did see one little girl running down a hill, arms flailing madly, to get her some. It’s not easy to resist the Good Humor Man’s wiles!

Couldn’t wait to turn the bike in and have them check to make sure my ding ding wasn’t broken. But…they never even gave it a second thought! Oh, well.

Got some watermelon, and arrived to the river just in time to see the water and sun playing this fascinating pattern upon the sides of some of the boats.

Back at the hostel, the night-time staffer (name of “James”) was in rare form. This guy just cracks me the fuck up. Always refers to me as “Edward!”. That’s what it says in my passport, and thus on the big board; so it makes sense. But it’s still funnier than Hell.

The best is when he busts meself and others for not fastening our lockers up tight. I could be standing twenty feet away, brushing my teeth, and…pointing to the scene of the crime, “Edward! Very bad!”

There’s an outdoor bar here, and he spins the tunes and serves the drinks ‘til 10:00 in the PM, when he sprays the common area for mosquitoes (“for me and for you”), and hits the sack right there on a long table in the common area. The other night, he had to kind of bring the hammer down on two dudes who were placing their Beerlaos on the table – noting that that was his bed, and he didn’t want it to get sticky; apologising profusely all the while, and pleading with me to confirm that Beerlao shouldn’t be placed upon his bed.

Couple nights ago, he was playing some really great Lao Rock and/or Roll. When I told him how much I was loving it, he threw it all down onto a thumb drive, and let me copy it. No MP3 tags, so I’ve only the file-names to help me figure out tracking information:

He plays English-language tunes, too. Each night he seems to get fixated in a different English-language song, which he ends up playing five, six, seven, or more times throughout the night. Week or so ago, it was a rap song whose chorus goes:

I’ve got hoes (I’ve got hoes)
In different Area Codes (Area Codes)

Best of my recollection, the lyrics are to do with, basically, the convenience of having hoes in different area codes. But it’s the backing vocals on that chorus that really slay me. Nary a day goes by without me walking down the street and spontaneously belting out those two lines over and over again (including the backing vocals!).

One time last week, there had been some sort of problem with one of the other guests, and James called up one of his co-workers (I think it was), and absolutely reamed him a new one (all in Lao). Myself and the aggrieved guest were both laughing our asses off; and when he’d finished with the reaming, he triumphantly declared, “That’s right. I say something!”

Could go on an on about this guy.

Tonight, he served a newly-arrived Frenchman, name of “Eric”, some Whiskeylao, and demonstrated its potency by pouring some in a little cup and lighting it on fire.

Then, after the Frenchman had drunk a few shots, he (James) showed him the bottle. The Frenchman was freaking out, trying to figure out what was in there, and had to hold it up to the light – but still didn’t know.

Finally, James told him: “Centipedes…and vitt-amins.” I can’t, personally, vouch for the vitamins. But, yes, it’s true: Each Whiskeylao comes with a centipede in the bottle.

“What the fuck?” broke in a newly-arrived guest from L.A. (also name of “Eric”), “Centipede and vitamins???” Ah, the magic of Luang Prabang!

The Frenchman was performing a bunch of magic tricks, one of which involved a handful of playing cards each featuring pictures of apples, along with one featuring a picture of a caterpillar (name of “Gigi”). After doing some hocus-pocus on the cards, the Frenchman revealed each of the apples to now be eaten apples, and threw the “Gigi” card face down on the table.

The astonished James asked if he could look at the last card. The Frenchman permitted it; and when revealed, it had now become a butterfly. “What the fuck! Where is Gigi?!?!” cried James. It was a pretty good trick, all right.

Later, he told me he had something to show me, and brought down an, er, anatomical bottle-opener. Wanted me to take a picture, as I’d done with the Whiskeylao fire. I told him I wanted him in the picture too; he refused, but as he was busy setting up the shot, I was able to steal one of him.

Laos is the best!

Nitzan, the Israeli, has also been cracking me up pretty good. His English vocabulary is oddly incomplete (knows “square”, but not “triangle”, for example; and would have called an outlet an “electricity hole”); but the words that matter he’s got down pat.

Eric the Angeleno, also a fascinating chap, has been in Asia for six months’ time, three of them in Nepal. Another vote for Nepal. He, as the Brasilians are planning to do, had hiked up to the Everest base camp; as well as the Annapurna Circuit.

I was looking at some of his pictures, and, gawd damn, I think I need to go there. He says the best times to go are March and September. So, perhaps the latter. Apparently, you can get very good cold-weather gear at very reasonable prices in Kathmandu. The big question will be, fresh fruit? May have to subsist on cooked rice for a few weeks!

Anyways, I was asking him about the Nepal visa situation; which it turns out is not bad at all (he’d paid $100 for the ninety days). He noted that in China, Americans can pay $160 for a one-day visa…but that the price for a one-year visa is the same $160.

Upon hearing this, Nitzan kind of went berserk. “What are they, fucking idiots?”

“That’s just the way they do it.”

“But, who makes a one-day visa?? A fucking retard???

And thus began an hilarious tirade. As you can see, I was well and truly entertained all night long.

[Written Monday, February The 20th, Afternoon]

Hoofed it down to the Southern Bus Terminal to purchase my ticket for Phonsavanh. Very sad to leave Luang Prabang, but also very stoked to see the Plain Of Jars. (Although, it looks as though my pocketbook won’t be very stoked when all is said and done.)

There are watermelons for sale everywhere in the city. But, the quality’s pretty hit-and-miss. Except from this one major vendor at Phosi Market, whose fruits are quite consistently good.

The southern depot is near to the market, so I made a stop by there and got me some lunch, which was schlepped back up to the river. Between the depot and the market: Motorcycle Repairman, but how?

And why is this dude so happy? Because I’m taking his photo, of course!

Ditto these ladies.

Passed a strange scene during the schlep. Two caucasian ladies riding bicycles, each with a young local boy occupying the pillion. And what do you think the four of them were singing?

[…] big disgrace
Waving your banner all over the place

I think the ladies may have been the boys’ English tutors, or something? So strange!

After lunching, stopped by Utopia, which is kinda the hottest place in town. I had never been. It’s pretty cool.

Back early to the hostel, James brought his laptop in to-day, for me to give him a bunch of music, returning his favour of last week.

Also, he brought the bottle-opener back out for another photo-op. Here’re he and Nitzan arranging yet another photo-op.

He also took a picture of me with my face down there and a big shit-eating grin upon it. I dunno, maybe it’ll be in the Internet somewhere…

And my project for the afternoon is to learn how to sew. Popped the button on one of my two pair of shorts yesterday returning from the cave relieving myself at the side of the road. I have a little travel sewing kit; which I’ve only ever used it to dig slivers out of the soles of my feet with its big needle.

Slivers in the soles are fucking murder. Well, not murder really; but the tiniest, tiniest, tiniest little speck of crap, if buried within the sole, causes just enough pain with each footstep to annoy the living fuck out of you. So, if you don’t wanna be annoyed, you’ve got to do whatever it takes to find the damned sliver.

Which I’ve only needed to do once so far in Asia. But now, I’m going to try to learn how to sew this button back on.

[Written Thursday, February The 16th, Evening]

Began the day yesterday, Wednesday, picking up where’d I’d left off on Tuesday eve. In other words, I was yet to check out the temples on the other side of the Mekong.

On the way into town to get the cross-river ferry, I passed by the Buddha Factory.

Departing the ferry-boat, was greeted with yet another method of keeping da flies off da meat.

This is how we do it on the West Siyeede, bitches!

Up next, the Hell’s Angels of tomorrow (cop on the beat’s  already got his eyes on ‘em).

The West side of the river, as you see, is much like the North: small villages, dirt roads, friendly folk. Including this woman, out to sell some riverweed, but kind enough to pause and let me get my photographic kicks.

Walking through the village, yet some more Blair Witch Project action going on. Whoever’s responsible for these creations is sure to wind up depicted on one of the temples’ Murals Of Damnation!

The game of choice for the youngsters was a to-me strange and enchanting horseshoes-esque affair, played with croquet balls.

I couldn’t ever really make out the rules – but did note that cash was not changing hands. Later, Martin – my German dormmate – informed me that this is a French game called “Boules”. Looked it up, and discovered that he’s oh so correct. Thank gods for Germans!

Well, all the temples were right where the map said they’d be. But, problemo: every stinkin’ one of them charged admission. I just can’t go there. That slope is so slippery that I’m quite certain that if I were to even once pay temple-admission fees, I’d within a month be back in Patpong, turning tricks to scrounge up enough cash to visit the most obscure temple in the most obscure village in the most obscure prefecture in all of Asia.

My nearest sniff was this under-construction outdoor-Buddha, overlooking the river.

Hella nice view from this village (what else is new?).

Would like to be able to hike up that hill – don’t know whether there are trails or not. Oh, I just remembered “Hobomaps” — a great resource tipped off to me by the Latvians back in Luang Namtha. Looks like there’re trails around the hill, but not up it. Drat.

If you recall the picture of the boy, from yesterday, with the long jar-on-stick contraption…I had guessed that he must be harvesting Papayas with it. In Hawaii, we used a hook-on-stick contraption, and caught the falling Papayas with the free hand. But if they wanna harvest ‘em into jars, works for me (I was at the time thinking).

Turns out, they don’t use the contraption to harvest Papayas; but rather, as I learnt walking through this village, this grape-like fruit.

A young girl was out filling a jar up, and a man (presumably her father) appeared and told her that she’d got enough of them. Luckily, he spoke English as well, and told me that the fruit is called “Munyung” (actually, he didn’t know the English name for it), and allowed me to try one. Tastes kind of like a tart Apple, with a hint of Bell Pepper all up in there. Not bad.

As far as, if you were wondering whether villagers love their Beerlao as much as the city-folk and tourists do: wonder no more.

Even though I didn’t get to see any temples, a thoroughly enjoyable time was had on the West Side. Sitting talking with a very nice gentleman, waiting for enough riders to arrive to justify the crossing back into town; and after some time, he up and says, “Okay, let’s go,” and begins herding everybody onto the boat. Turns out he was the Captain.

The boat-captains and bus-drivers here are just too cool.

So, back in the city, passing by the school, and…another session of Boules! Two in one day.

The citified Boules is a much more boisterous occasion that its village cousin.

A most interesting character was there viewing the game as well.

He never, for even a moment, took his eyes off the game – just watching it like a damned hawk all the whole time. I can only assume that he’s a big-league scout — although I confess to sometimes lying awake at night wondering if he is in fact The Buddha, come back in disguise. Either way, I rather love him…

Look for more exciting Boule footage if ever I’m able to find a good Internet connection!

After wandering around for a while, I sat down on a bench to enjoy some bananas and watch the vendors set up their stalls for the Night Market. Was soon joined by a German couple in their early- or mid-sixties. The lady was over-the-Moon when I offered to share my bananas with them. The gentleman, not so much.

When I announced my place of residence, I was greeted not with hosannahs to Cobain, Hendrix, and ilk; but rather total silence…followed a few minutes later by the gentleman asking me, “What is the name of the town you are coming from?” Ha! Are we sure they’re Europeans?

After the bananas, I turned sideways to watch a kids’ soccer match being warmed up for. The “pitch” was a concrete temple-courtyard, set about ten feet below street-level. One shot on goal had a little too much loft to it, and…

”Oy! Look out!” I screamed as it became clear that the yard would not hold it.

“Oy!” repeated the Germans in unison as it whizzed right between their heads and bounded into a vendor’s stall. The vendor hid the ball under a little stool, and went on about her business.

After a few, a boy showed up looking for the ball; but it was like a Easter-Egg hunt, as nobody would hint him off to its whereabouts. Eventually, he did catch the scent, retrieved the ball, and returned to the game; chortles of laughter trailing in his wake.

Before leaving, I went down to check out the game. These kids were balls-out, mang: barefoot on the concrete, the keepers diving for balls and everything. As far as they knew or cared, it was the god damn World Cup final.

Standing there as night fell, watching the game and listening to the monks chanting their evening prayers inside the temple…

…I fell in love with Luang Prabang for about the nineteen millionth time.

Returning to the guest house, only a few blocks from, an Australian girl stopped me and asked if I knew of any cheap accommodations nearby. “Follow me!” I told her. “I brung you another customer!” I told the night-time staff-person.

Got to chatting with Elisabete, my Portuguese dormmate, about how much we loved Luang Prabang and Laos in general, and that we wanted to stay and stay and stay and never leave, and so on – and done lost track of the Australian girl. I went to check, but didn’t see her name on the big board. What?

I asked the staff-person, who informed me that she’d indeed registered there, in one of the private rooms. He thanked me profusely, but didn’t offer a finders’ fee.

Then, another jolt of coincidence.

Before returning to the hostel, I’d walked the Night Market’s food alley to take in the sights and smells. Chatted a while with a very nice gentleman whom, it turned out, owns a guest house in Nong Khiaw; he’s in town for some sort of tourism conference.

He’d wanted to know if I’d been there, and I couldn’t help gushing like a hepped-up Beatlemaniac. Yes! I love Nong Khiaw! I’m telling everybody to go there.

He wanted to give me a business card, as I’d told him I’m seriously considering a return visit. He was fresh out, however, and kept telling me, “Ling Tong Guest House,” over and over again.

“I’ll remember, I’ll remember,” I kept responding over and over again. He opined that his guest house was a little quieter and a little cheaper than the others.

So, later, I was trying to convince Elisabete to visit Nong Khiaw. Finally, she asked if I had any pictures of “this place”. As I began to show them to her, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

“Holy shit!” I wailed. “That’s the guy! I just met that guy like an hour ago!” Two weeks ago, a random photo-op; to-day, a fast friend. So weird!

This morning, Thursday, Martin, Elisabete and myself arose at 5:20 in the AM to go and see the monks. As they do in Chiang Mai, the monks go out in the pre-dawn stillness and receive alms from their city’s residents.

It’s a really big deal here – considered one of the must-see activities in any stay. There’re even rules of thumb for watching the monks – to do with not getting all up in their britches, nor taking flash photography, nor otherwise causing them discomfort.

It was a fine experience, worth doing. But nothing so Earth-shatteringly cool as one had been led to believe. A difference from Chiang Mai is that here it’s the novices, rather than any full-on monks, out to receive the daily rice; and the novices don’t offer a minute or two of blessings to the alms-giver (as do the monks in Chiang Mai).

After the monkage, Martin and Elisabete went off in search of breakfast, while I headed to the Morning Market, which I’ve wanted to see in the early morning. Dawn had risen, so I expected the Market to be wall-to-wall patronage. But hardly any customers had yet arrive; and, indeed, many of the vendors were still getting their crap all set out on display.

Soon enough, though, the market was in full thrush. Here’s a nice colourful stall.

There were as many onlookers as locals – including, I do believe, an entire bus of Japanese tourists. It’s okay: gawkers can be as much fun to watch as about anything else.

Returned to the hostel for some more shut-eye, to find that my German and Portoguese dormies had beaten me to the punch. After a few more hours’ sleep, and the shaving of my head, and the doing of some laundry, set out for a lazy day in town.

Wandering around some lanes I’d not yet wandered, I came across a temple with Husky colours on its outside!

At the same temple, made what I think may be an important discovery. Namely that I do believe that Dr. J will be required to abdicate his title…

…for, the Ultimate Greatest Afro Ever resides right here in Luang Prabang – being worn by none other than…

Sorry, J. Your rule was honourable, and it was true. But as all things do, it must on this day meet its end.

Later, yet another jolt. Sitting on the wall enjoying the scene on the river below, and from out of nowhere pops the goofy Russian from the dorm in Chiang Mai! The Russian-Facebook aficionado, and newly minted Sapodilla fetishist.

He was traveling with a friend name of “Olga”; whom he’d gone down to meet in Bangkok, before making back up through Northern Thailand, and then down to Luang Prabang via bus.

Small frickin’ world, it is.

Spent much of the afternoon down at the swimming hole (one of many along this stretch of the Nam Khan). The kids were diving off the rock…

…and generally having a splashingly good time.

And they were right, too: so refreshing! I’ve possibly spent too much time seeing the sights and drinking in the culture whilst not enough time lazing it at the swimming hole. Just possibly.

[Written Wednesday, February The 15th, Night]

Christ on a crutch, I love this town! I’m telling you straight: were the air quality a little bit better, and the fruit quality more than a little bit better, I should love to stay here possibly forever.

The plan for yesterday, Tuesday, was to visit some temples East, North, and West of the city. Started out well enough, as there’s one I’d not yet seen located straight across from the guest house.

The next was not too far down the road. But the third, Wat Phon Phao, was a bit of a hike. This temple’s tree-shrouded stupa is one of the highlights of the vista from the top of Mt. Phousi – have been eager to visit since having spied its glory from on high.

So, I battened down the hatches for a walk on a heavier-trafficked inter-city road. No sooner than, I missed two excellent photo opportunities. The first was this girl…

…doing a hop-skip across the street with her little pink umbrella in tow. She was getting air, man – I think she’ll be dunking a basketball in about two years’ time.

The second was these crazy moto mofos and their pane of glass.

Still looks okay from this angle; but from the front was much better, as the glass-holder had an absolutely hi-larious look on his face. You can see it’s not a very pedestrian-friendly thoroughfare.

The Wat is located right near to the New Bridge. Somehow I missed the turn-off, and ended up at the new bridge. I could see the Wat towering on its hill above me, but was hoping I wouldn’t have to walk all the way back to the driveway to get up there.

So I took this one dirt road that I hoped would lead me up to a back entrance, and soon came to an eco-lodge, whose owner happened to be out lounging around with a guest. She explained me of a shortcut to get up to the temple. Following her directions, the trail was much less-well maintained than I’d expected – even had to do a little bit of bushwhacking. I was being extra careful not to annoy any snakes that might be in the area – me in my bare feet and all.

Got in through to a clearing, where a family had a little dwelling. It felt a little awkward, the trail leading right through the family’s “yard”, but nobody seemed to mind. Then it was back into some jungle, for a hearty up-slope, and then a pain-in-the-ass muck through a bunch of downed coconut fronds. Just as I was muttering to myself that this temple had better god damned be worth it, I received my first glimpse, and knew instantly that it’d be all good in the ‘hood.

But, the temple was closed for lunch. With an hour-and-a-half to kill, I set out to explore the temple grounds – whose were far bigger than any other temple I’ve visited. I guess it’s a major centre of the so-called “Vipassana” school of Buddhism – to do with the means of meditation, I guess.

Anyhow, the grounds are very beautiful, set up on the hill, surrounded by woods and jungle. Even gots a public shitter – which is de rigueur in Thai temples, but basically unheard of here in Laos’. As at Phousi, cicadas rule the soundscape, and there are so many lovely trees around-abouts that it’s never difficult to find some shade in which to hide.

Was checking out this cool set-up…

…and was joined for conversation by a novice name of “Sampaeng”.

I told him that there’s a “Sampaeng Market” in Bangkok, but he didn’t really seem to give a shit about that. Nice guy, fairly thick accent.

He asked me what kind of food I liked here, and I named off a bunch of the fruits I’ve been eating. “No, not fruit,’” he protested, “Food!” I tried explaining him that I didn’t eat meat, nor fish, nor fowl, nor rice, nor noodles – only fruit and veggies. I just don’t think he was ever able to accept such a ridiculous notion, however.

When a gap in the conversation arrived, I asked if he’d been painting (you’ll notice the paint on his shoulder and chest)? He didn’t know what in Hell I was talking about, so I pointed to the blotches. He was completely shocked, and had no idea from whence they’d come. Then, he politely ended the conversation and ran off! I guess showing one’s face in public with a paint-splotched body is a major no-no.

Went to visit the auxiliary temple, which was also closed; but whose outside is almost as beautiful as the main temple’s.

I set myself to photographing the temple’s many murals – you can see some of them there – and was soon joined in another conversation, this time by a civilian. He asked me where I was from, and I told him, then returned the question. He said he was from Laos, and I tried to get from him which province in Laos; but his English wasn’t so good, and I was unable to find out.

He offered to let me listen to his mp3-playing device; which I was quite glad to do — always want to know just what it is the kids are listening to these days. Turns out this kid was listening to, as nearly as I could determine, the audio track from a porno movie. In which language, I know not – possibly Thai or Lao. I silently returned to him his ear-buds, and went back to the picture-taking.

He left, returning about five or ten minutes later. Noting my still-active camera, he whipped out his johnson, and requested me to take a picture of it! I mean…I guess I could have done – I can’t deny that his was a fairly good-sized specimen. But right there on the steps of the auxiliary temple?? I respectfully declined, and he went back to his listening.

After making the grounds’ rounds, I had about fifteen minutes to chill out and enjoy the view. Finally, they let us in, and…it was much more understated than I’d expected.

But the airiness and the open windows gave it an incredibly peaceful feeling.

The murals cover the walls in matching pairs. The top set, I believe, is a numbered catalogue of the glories awaiting the devout. The bottom, meanwhile, is entirely filled up with more shocking scenes of violence: impalements, sawings-of in-half, cleavings of skulls, the pulling out of nekkid ladies’ tongues with calipers, and so on. Many of the victims are man/beast half-breeds.

The implication, of course, is all too obvious. And this is precisely what I detest most about organised religion: the preying on of people’s fears of hellfire and damnation for power over them (and let’s not forget money from them) here on Earth. But I, personally, love all the hellfire imagery; and the artists’ abilities – and their imaginations! – are the tops.

It’s kind of a quandary: without all the fucked-up religions, we’d have missed out on so much wonderful architecture and so many wonderful artworks – and yet, there’d have been so much less pain and suffering in this world. The one is clearly not worth the other…but it’s too bad we couldn’t have the artworks without all the bullshit.

Anyways, continuing on around the perimeter, and, what’s this?, a stairwell? Wasn’t for-sure it was a public stairwell, as I’d not yet been to a temple with a second floor. But I trod on up, and…the second floor was a delight to behold.

The many open windows – and two balconies – afforded a great 360-degree view of the environs.

The space itself featured many more beautifully depicted murals, as well as objets d’art (vases, carvings, antiques, and cetera), with a more modest Buddha set-up than even the first floor’s.

Also, a wooden staircase up to a third floor. Wow! On up we go, the third floor’s rather small interior’s murals are all stupae from (I’m guessing) different parts of the world. You can see some of them in the background here.

And then, crapping you negative, another wooden staircase, up to a fourth floor. On the way up, you can stop and check out the little Buddhas lining the third floor’s windowsills.

The fourth floor is a small dome – getting right up to the tippy-top now – with murals depicting scenes of Buddhist bucolia.

You see it there, don’t you? The ladder/stair to the fifth floor! All up in that motherfucking stupa, I’m talkin’ about!

The top’s murals are portraits of what I’ve come to realise are Luang Prabang Buddhism’s five most important animals – the chicken, the buffalo, the turtle, the naga, and the griffin – as well as tastefully rendered capturings of The Buddha in repose.

And so there it is: my favourite place in the city. If these are the digs, I think I could go in for a life of monasticism.

But for this day, it was onward, across the New Bridge, to the North side of the city (had not yet been). Where, visiting a small market, I came to a realisation.

This blog would perhaps be better titled “The Barefoot Farang”. For, nobody fails to notice them.

I said before that that Laotians don’t give me shit for them the way that Thais do. But here in Luang Prabang, many are, without being vocal about it, fairly openly hostile. These (usually smartly dressed women) make a big show of looking down at me feet, then back up at me and not returning my smiles. Most of the rest just think I’m a nutter.

But the old geezers love it. When I motion to them that I’ve shoes in my backpack, it’s all they can do to keep from crapping in their pants, such is the gaiety of their laughter. At the market, a young shop-owner even pointed out to me a stall at which to buy flip-flops.

So long as they don’t deport me, I’m okay with it. I’ve noticed that the soles of my feet have adjusted to the egg-fry pavements much better that my scalp has adjusted to the hot glaring sun. Funny thing is, in Bangkok it was just the opposite: I don’t think I once put on a hat, but I frequently had to dance to and fro’ in waiting for the light to change.

North of the city is a more laid-back, village-like atmosphere. Then, as one works one’s way west, and then north as the Nam Khan makes its confluence with the Mekong, it becomes literally a number of villages, dirt roads and all.

On the map, there’re four or five temples along this route. The first featured a leaning stupa.

One may in the back of one’s mind be wondering, by the way, “Why taking so many pictures of the Naga? Can’t it be given a rest?”

But, here we go, north of the city, not only first Naga with a wafer-thin tongue; but also first Naga with a rice offering on its tongue.

Another first: Naga under construction.

This temple appeared to be on the receiving end of a general makeover, as it was also, at the time of my visit, getting’ a fresh coat of paint.

Found the first two or three temples in their advertised locations; but apparently either took a wrong turn or the map was wrong – as I never did find the others. Found, however, a shitload that weren’t on the map. Every little village heading north along the Mekong has its own temple. Must’ve passed through eight or ten of them.

At one such, stopped to take a pic of some novices splashing away in the river below…

…and was treated to an impromptu riverside jam session.

One temple’s stupa’s ruins are like something out of Close Encounters (or what).

Walking through the villages of a late afternoon was, of course, a delight. The people are just the best. Here, as everywhere else in the country, the children love to vamp for the photographer’s lens.

Not only the children, however. As I was busy taking a picture of this boy…

…up the road a piece, these dudes were urging a bicyclist to take their photos. I was able to horn in on some of that action as well.

Name of “Nadia”, the bicyclist was born in Russia (retains a slight accent), but has lived most of her life in the US of A, with a brief time in Japan as well. Living in Chiang Rai, Thailand for two months to help a friend of hers working (for five years now) in a Montessori school there, she had a week to spare, and decided to take off to Laos.

Like everybody does, she’s totally fallen in love with the country and its people, and laments the all-too-brief time she’ll be spending here. Tried to convince her to include Nong Khiaw in her itinerary, but it doesn’t look like it’ll be in the cards this time around.

One of her ports of residence has been San Diego; which, I was keen to know a bit about her experiences there, as I’ve considered possibly relocating to as well. Particularly, I wondered whether the military presence didn’t bother her. Of course, it does, she says. But she lived in a hippie-commune type of neighbourhood, right on the beach, with very low rents on account of its right under the airport’s flight-paths. Well, might be worth checking out.

I feel much the Stranger In A Strange Land here, but after a week’s time, I was able to give her any number of tips and suggestions in re travel in Laos; so that was pretty cool.

Like me, she’s in thrall with the village scene, so we walked up north for quite some ways. At one of the temples, some riverweed had been put out for the drying.

I explained that it’s on all the menus here – but always cooked. We decided to try a little bit, and…it’s pretty decent! Taste and texture a bit like spinach.

Down a little side-lane, this family was even friendlier than most.

The father spoke quite good English.

Eventually, Nadia decided to bike it back down to the city, hoping to be able to get up to Mt. Phousi for the sunset. Meself, I took it in on the river.

Then, climbing back up to the village, seen my first gobbler of the tour.

Also seen this little kid mis-applying the faucet’s pressure – and paying for it in spades.

This lady was happier than you could imagine to be having her picture taken.

Back down to the confluence, loitered around at the beautiful scene for a while, then hoofed my ass across the bamboo footbridge.

Back in the city, nightfall had not prevented this youngster from practicing, with his older brother’s aid, his goaltending skills. The ball is there in the left-center sector of the image.

Felt much better Sunday, but still very tired; so decided to take another day of resting. The good part was that my dormmates were very cool.

On Saturday, it was just myself and a fascinating Italianess name of “Roberta”. Aged mid- to late-twenties, at a guess, she’s hitchhiked her way throughout more less every continent. She said that locals in Thailand were begging and pleading with her not to do, saying it was far too dangerous — but she found it not to be so.

The only dicey place, she’s found, for hitchhiking is in South America, where she got robbed, including her passport was stolen — but no way would she let that stop her from her (it seemed to me) somewhat maniacal cause.

Here in Laos, the locals told her that it would be impossible; but she’s begged to differ. She arrived to Luang Prabang in with a Korean expat living in Vientiane, heading here for a little holiday with a Korean friend of his unseen by him in the last four years.

They’d apparently brought their own little camp-stove with them; and at one point, the three of them pulled over and asked a family if they could use their outdoor table. She said that the family considered them absolutely crazy: two Koreans with very poor English skillz, and an Italian, cooking up Korean dishes with the camp-stove, right there on the lawn.

They did the same at their hotel, inviting her along both nights they were here.

She’s also a bit of an exotic-cuisine fanatic, having sampled anything and everything she could find — including dog here in Laos. Which, it’s illegal to be eaten here, so they had to go way out in the sticks to some bootlegging operation which serves it. Only time she’s really gotten sick was from some Mexican iguana she’d eaten.

Also scored many points with me for not having drunk the Obama Kool-Aid. She figured that he was maybe a teeny bit better than Bush; but I assured her that they were exactly the same — no difference whatever.

I told her she should write a book; then tried to convince her to take the slow-boat up to Nong Khiaw, but I think she went ahead and went back down to Vientiane with the Koreans.

Sunday eve, a buncha Europeans arrived from the two-day Huoay Xai slow-boat. In our dorm was a Portugese girl, a German, and a Frenchman. They’re all very cool and interesting as well.

In other guest-house news, wish this sign were more assertive; as I done, on two or three different occasions, bumped my head (real good one) exiting the pisser.

So, this morning, Monday, I was feeling quite good, and decided to head into town. Now…

…what possessed this gentleman to bring his fricking crossbow to the Morning Market? Does he use it as an aid in the haggling? Is he some manner of city-wide vigilante, taking a little snack-break? Don’t know. But I do know this: I was not gonna fuck with him.

Broke my sixty hours’ fasting with a nice, juicy watermelon. While doing, managed to photograph a butterfly. I feel for those who take up butterfly photography as a hobby, as it seems to me deuce difficult. Photo is lame, but it’s a first.

After walking around some, began to feel very tired again. So, took a bit of a rest, before heading to visit the National Museum. On whose grounds sits the Buddha-less temple I love so much. So I first went in there again and soaked up the goodness.

On the way out, an European couple requested that I took their picture. After doing, the gentleman asked if he could return the favour? Okay…why not?

The Museum knocked me on my ass, then stomped my throat in ’til almost my very last breath. Alas…

…no photos. Just gotta trust me when I say that’s it’s a must-visit if ever you pass through.

Later on, visiting a temple I’d not yet been into, was engaged in a conversation by a seventeen-year-old novice name of “Bounlanth”.

He’s from Bokeo province, which is about a fourteen-hour bus ride from here. Has not seen his parents since arriving about a year ago, but thinks he may next year. I think he’s the best English-speaker yet; hardly any accent at all, too.

Says that life at the temple is very difficult, as the novices are required to do an assload of chores; not to mention gots to arise at 4:00 in the AM for the morning meditation session.

Nearing evening, and still quite tired, decided to sit and watch the bicyclists. The two most absolutely essential accessories in Luang Prabang are the bicycle and the umbrella (maybe better termed a “sunbrella”). Very often, the twain doth meet.

It’s great fun to watch the cyclists, ’cause the bicycles here are like snowflakes: never see two of like design. (Odd, seems to me, given how many of them are rentals.) Best of all, cycle and rider are quite frequently ridiculously incongruous — especially good is the big dudes riding kids’ bikes for which they’re about four sizes too large.

Difficult to get a photo of this phenomenon, for some reason. A bit like hunting for Snuffleupagus, in fact: one may sit without luck, camera poised, for hours on end; then as soon as the camera goes into the pocket, twenty-five in a row ride by. Did finally manage to get something approaching half-way decent (though the rider-to-bike ratio here is not as large as is often seen).

This tuk-tuk driver perked right up when I stopped near him, thinking he’d reeled in a fare. I only wanted a picture of him and his bare feet, though. If ever I see him again, must be sure let him know that it turned out really great.

Thanks Buddha there’s at least one restaurant in this world which helpfully illustrates, for those mystified as to what might possibly be included in such an exotically-named dish, what it’s all about.

This lady is setting up her Night Market stall. I had earlier seen her having some difficulty in pushing the cart up an incline, and was about to offer my assistance (depleted though I’d felt); but she bore down and sealed the deal all by herself.

And speaking of four sizes too large, check this guy’s suit of clothes.

Whoa, 6,000 Kip for these adorable loaves? I’m sure you can recall how batshit-insane I used to be for the Banana Bread…

Speaking of batshit-insane, though not in a good way: the greatest annoyance in Laos (if not the European smokers — though I must confess that they’re generally very nice folk) is these god damned shoes many of the toddlers wear. They loudly squeak with every footfall; making me want to catch a rocket-ship to the moon, that I might escape the nuisance.

Lastly, I do believe that that’s just what the Hebrews thought:

Hopefully back at full strength tomorrow!

[Written Friday, February The 10th, Night]

This city is…some kind of a something.

Had intended, to-day, to do some relaxation; stereo on and cooking bacon (AKA the dangling of one’s feet in the Mekong whilst catching up on some reading), yeah yeah. Can you guess what I ended up doing instead?

Yes…that one was too easy: Temples! I’ve got it bad, my Droogs. It’s interesting about Luang Prabang. There aren’t nearly so many temples per block as in Chiang Mai, they’re not nearly as well maintained (though many are currently undergoing restoration), many of the temples are closed even while the grounds are open, many of them charge admission. But somehow, the temples here are possibly more awesomer even that their Chiang Mai cousins.

I’ll again point in the direction of my Luang Prabang Temples Flickr set for all the serious damage. Here are the most fascinating goings-on at one particular temple, which actually was closed, but which had some great mural action on the outside walls. Including panels that seem to suggest that the Buddha was hatched out of a egg. Possibly egg of chicken…

…possibly egg of turtle, naga, or buffalo…

…or possibly egg of some sort of griffin.

Me, I vote for the chicken! Natch!

But around the corner from this whimsy is where it gets shockingly grisly. Don’t know exactly what’s going on in these scenes…but that it ain’t good is all too clear.

At a different temple, the first Standing Buddha I’ve seen. (Well factually, I’d thought that such was against the protocol.)

In addition to visiting temples, also checked out quite a few galleries. Yep, wicked-good artists may be added to the ever-growing list of this town’s charms.

Got into a conversation with a local name of “Pheng”.

When he met me, he was headed down to water the garden – hence the pail. The banks of both rivers are lined, far as the eye could see, with veggie gardens. I think it’s probably like a P-Patch kinda deal, where whosoever helps to take care of an area gets to reap the bounty.

Pheng is twenty-two, arrived two years ago from Nam Bak. In addition to studying English, he also works in a nearby restaurant. He’s an intensity to him suggesting a world-weariness; and he chooses his words with some deliberation. I liked him quite a lot.

His father was killed eleven years ago, I think from some sort of head injury, but not quite sure. Very interesting and genuine fellow. But soon the mosquitoes came calling for pints and pints of blood, so I had to let him go. He requested my e-mail address, which was happily given; so perhaps I shall hear from him again.

Walking down the street, I done passed his restaurant.

I’m planning to head to the Plain Of Jars, east of here, after leaving Luang Prabang. Found a little bit of back-story along a street.

Love the bit about “the evil chieftain, Chao Angka”. As long as we’re into informative signage, here’s a general Luang Prabang Q&A, posted outside the Lao Lao Beer Garden.

“Bike! Bike! Rent a bike; it’s the perfect way to explore the city.” So says everyone. They’re out they minds. Walking is the only way to go; and my pace is measured in blocks per hour.

Other sights from another fantastic day walking about the Old Quarter included this set-up, reminiscent of Bangkok’s “Brain Power Center”.

These kids are totally righteous, I think you’ll agree.

Passed some other kids in the schoolyard, just as they were moving the goalposts into place for some down-home barefoot soccer.

Santa Claus made an unexpected riverside appearance. (The walk down the Nam Khan river at dusk is pretty special, as all the riverside restaurants, galleries, bookstores, cinemas, and whatnot are all lit up to kill – and in the perfect natural setting.)

Still on the Xmas tip, been seeing this hairdo around town; I call it the “Heat Miser”.

The bit of blurriness seems only to make better this outrageously great wheelie-pop.

And…to say again: I just love, love, love, love, love my camera. This is maybe my favourite photograph that I’ve ever taken, but ever:

This city…

 

[Written Saturday, February The 11th, Evening]

A day of relaxation, by dint of circumstance: woke up and began poring over the map to see what to do on this fine morning; but then gradually began to fall under the weather. Low-grade fever, slightly upset stomach, a general bu-larhgh.

I don’t think it’s anything I et, as yesterday I dined only on one quite-tasty Watermelon, and two kilos’ worth of quite-tasty mandarins. If I were to guess the cause, I might name out an over-abundance of sunshine this past week; or I might select the country’s poor air-quality finally catching up with me. As I say, by my reckoning, Luang Prabang’s is about on par with L.A.’s. A stay in the latter will certainly give me a scratchy throat – maybe LPB’s air is a little worse, or maybe I never really got a chance to flush out my system from Luang Namtha’s and Udomxai’s disastrous breathing experiences.

So, I retired to bed for a bout of fasting/resting/hydrating. Hopefully the morrow will have me once again prowling the streets and alley-ways of this insanely wonderful city.

On the bright side, ’twas not an entirely an unproductive day; as I did manage to upload more than four hundred photos to the Flickr account; and I did score a nice little 4-0 sweep in the day’s hockey wagers. This last was keyed by the Sabres having netted an equalising goal with fewer that thirty seconds remaining on the clock – which event almost completely making up for Ottawa having yesterday surrendered, with ten seconds’ time remaining, a to-them meaningless goal, eighty-sixing a big, fat puckline chicken which was that close to hatching.

Best of all, I think I’ve solved a riddle which’s been wracking my innards for now near-to a week’s time. Viz.:

Know that on the bus from Udomxai to Nong Khiaw, I did make witness to three or four of its opposite (i.e., an all-blue background with a white bugle pasted in, and without the red slash). What could it possibly mean?

Something to do with one’s radio. Something literally to do with bugling or marching bands? With ungulates? What???

I think I’ve got it! (If you desire to puzzle it out for you own self, do not read on…)

That Is To Say: Spoiler-Alert

No blowing-of the horns on city blocks (or at least this particular city block) – perhaps because of a nearby schoolyard? Meanwhile, do sound the call when driving ‘round and ‘round narrow, windy mountain roads – so as to alert oncoming traffic (including there’s a lot of foot-traffic on the mountain roads) of your approach.

I guess all y’alls figured out immediament what took my little pea-brain for near-on to a week’s time. But I’m pretty happy with myself.

[Written Wednesday, February The 8th, Night]

Oh shit, I love this city. A World Heritage site, it’s a hold-over from the French occupation. It means way cool European architecture, narrow tree-lined streets, winding brick alleyways, more bicycles than motor-cars. And right on the banks of the mighty Mekong, surrounded by mountains.

It does sort of feel that its Heritage status is in some sense a celebration of Colonialism. But, really, despite all the pretty buildings and charming streets, it’s the Lao people and culture that give the city its oomph. A marriage of convenience, maybe; the result is lovely.

Need to add the perennial Lao caveat of poor air quality. I’d say it’s about on par with L.A.; though I’ve heard tell that later in the dry season it can be essentially zero visibility for the entire day! I’m lucky to have arrived when I have. The other problem is that the fruit — while plentiful enough — is fairly expensive, and decidedly mediocre.

Oh, Laos, why must you torment me? You fill my soul with wonders to beggar this poor sucka’s comprehension; and yet you won’t allow this poor sucka to breathe, nor will you allow this poor sucka to eat.

I moved to a different guest house this morning, ‘cause the one last night was really loud with partiers (not so bad, thanks to ear plugs), and the bed was tiny and the mattress warped. This new one is a few dollars more, and the Internet connection sucks, but at least I’ll get a good night’s sleep. It’s too bad about the first place, ‘cause I really like the community of travelers it’s attracting with its great prices – but those beds and mattresses are just too much to take.

Thought I’d start out visiting the Chinese Market and Phosy Market. The former ‘cause…Chinese Market! The latter ‘cause it’s supposed to be the best market in the city. Both were a waste of time, though the Phosy did have some decent veggies.

The couple of hours schlepping out to the markets and back was made totally worth it when I passed by the Badminton Stadium (!):

Do the Laotians love their chickens, or do the Laotians love their chickens? Don’t know if that cup lights up like the damned Olympics Flame when there’s a Badminton tournament in effect – but I sure hope it do!

In addition, passed by a temple with a very long Naga regurgitating a multi-headed Naga. Had not seen that before.

Took luncheon at the river, and was amazed to see the number and variety of butterflies around-abouts. Beautiful, too. Have been seeing them all over Laos, in point of fact. After lunch, I put up the god damned weather vane, and it told me to go exploring the Old Quarter.

Which, I decided to first trace the route of the river, which heads North, then makes confluence with the Nam Khan, which heads east and bends back down south; peninsulating (guessing) about fifty square blocks’ worth of land, thereby defining the contours of the Old part of the city. Near the confluence, I became involved in a very long conversation with a Schooling Monk, name of “Bick”.

He’s from Nam Bak, same as Misai (c.f. Udomxai post), and wants to eventually be an English teacher. He’s been studying English for only five months, but it seems to mine ears as though he’s better at it than the other Laotian students with whom I’ve conversed – and they’ve all been studying for a few years. He may be a prodigy (although his accent is a little on the thick side).

He asked me which religion I “respect”; and I went on this big long philosophical rant about not respecting any hierarchical institution, and not respecting the preying-on of people’s fears for acquisition of power and money, and so forth.

Turns out, however, that he meant by “respect”, simply, “follow”. He said that Laotians only “respect” Buddhism. I was somewhat incredulous that there aren’t any Laotian Hindus or Muslims; but he insisted it’s true.

During the conversation, he kept complaining about his lumbago. Eventually, though, having noticed my headphones, he asked me if he could listen to some music. So I spun up some Florence + The Machine for him.

If somebody would ever tell you that Buddhist monks know not how to rock it to Russia, you’ve my permission to poop on them. Just look at him loving the groove! By the way, that’s a schoolmate of his in the background, engaging another foreigner in a similarly lengthy conversation. Practice makes perfect!

His initial reaction: “Oh, this is in French…no, English!” He then explained that he’s only got Western music on his phone, before pausing for several seconds with a look of deep concentration, and then bursting forth with, “Oh, this music is very fun!”

I agreed, and he continued, “Female singer, you know? Female singers. Female singer; this is very fun.” He wanted me to send him the song via bluetooth, but I’ve not the slightest idea how to work it (not to mention my device isn’t equipped). Imagine that: a Laotian Buddhist novice making me look like a utter techno-nube. Generation gap knows no bounds, I guess.

Finally, he needed to return to the temple, south of Phosy Market; but urged me to walk with him so that he could show me his school. Once there, he requested that I take a picture of it, while he departed. Don’t know why the request, but here ‘tis.

Continuing on my tour of the old quarter, I noticed the Hammer-And-Sickle flying all over the place.

Makes sense, of course, if the Commies are still in the saddle. But I’d not noticed it anywheres else in Laos.

As far as the famous architecture is concerned, yes, it is very gorgeous. The guidebook says the city is “a dream location for any travel photographer.” Couldn’t disagree. But (as the man said), “When I got the pictures back, none of them came out.” See here.

Just looks stupid, or at best, “Whatever.” But when you’re standing in front of it, it’s superb. So, I stuck to photographing the old tried and true: temples, and Laotians going about their daily lives.

Not that I can do Laotian temples any better justice than I can Thai; but that don’t stop me from trying. This is one of my faves on the outside…

…and on the inside, proving that the Thais don’t have the corner on the drop-the-tourist’s-jaw-to-the-floor-and-shatter-it-into-four-billion-shards-to-be-eaten-up-by-all-the-crows market. It looked like the inside was going to be maybe my most favourite of all. Except…

…no Buddha! What gives? Not sure. But the cart in the front is used to transport a Buddha (in point of fact, the Prabang Buddha, after which the city is named)  during some or other annual festival, which process requires the labours of sixteen strapping young gentlemen. But, really, this temple was lights out. See more evidence at the Flickr page.

Who gets to go up there? My vote would be for the ghost of John Lennon; but I never seen a ballot-box. Here’s a view from the outside.

It’s interesting to note the different iconography from the Thai temples. In addition to the chicken mania, here they’ve got this Cheshire-Cat-with-elephants’-hooves thing-a-ma-deal guarding many of the temples.

And for my money, the Laotians have it all over the Thais in the Naga Artistry deptartment.

Telling you, this god damned Templemania is as insidious as.

As far as Laotians going about their business, again, see much more evidence at the Flickr page (when I finally get some Laos pictures uploaded, that is). They’re much friendlier/cooler even than they look!

Laos is crazy with kick-assed trees; and in “LPB”, they’re everywhere you turn. This one on the bank of the river is maybe the kick-assed-est of them all. I know, it looks from this image like little more than turd salad. But if you see it in person, you’ll agree with me!

Later became involved in yet another conversation with an student in English needing fresh meat on whom to practice, this one name of “Jin”. That’s him on the bike. I didn’t know, at the time of shooting, that I was going to be a subject of his. I just liked the composition.

He’s from Vientiane, and has only been here since Saturday, and thus needed to ask me directions to the Night Market. I suspect he may have used this pretext simply as an entrée into the discussion, as he was a bit shy at first.

He says that I’m the first foreigner on whom he’s practiced, even though he’s been studying for two years. Found it a bit difficult to believe, but it’s what he said. I think he said that if I had a bicycle, he’d invite me to his house.

All these long conversations with the local English students – they’re usually quite fun and interesting at first, but can get a bit boring after some time. It’s okay, though, if they’re happy to be helped, I’m more than happy to help. Karmically, I suppose it’s an obligation; but even if it weren’t, it’s cool to be able to interact.

Getting towards evening, the riverside was lit up real pretty-like.

And passing this place…

…my ears were flooded with the sounds of a too-right band just throwing the fuck down. Couldn’t resist having a look-see.

Turned out to be a birthday party (or similar), I think. There was a ceremony underway, in which the Guest Of Honour received this flower arrangement.

After that, they eventually all gathered to eat at that big long buffet table in the background there. But not before the band cut loose some more, and the ladies remaining sitting down on the rugs busted into some impromptu singing and hand-clapping.

Listen along with me, won’t you? Luang Prabang Party.

Walking through the Night Market, The Coconut Kid here tried to make me purchase from him some beads in exchange for him having let me snap a photo; but I was able to get away scot-free.

Walking down any market’s Food Alley is always money in the bank for inneresting sights.

That bag-on-stick is how they de-fly the meat here in Laos. They’ve got a buffet set-up here for the night market: one plate, piled as high as you dare, 10,000 Kip (about a dollar-and-a-quarter). There are probably six or eight different tables this size.

Around the corner, wonderful décor at this outdoor restaurant.

Who knew the Communists could be so fashionable?

Moon made an appearance (I guess the other night wasn’t the Full Meal Deal after all…).

And then, a visit to maybe the best-kept secret in all of Luang Prabang: night-time badminton! Similarly to the Chiang Mai foot-volleyball scene, these kids take no prisoners. This is real sports right here: no fucking commercialised stop-and-go crap; just full-on killing that god damned shuttlecock until it’s dead and buried.

The Aussie next to whom I’d bungalow-ed in Nong Khiaw showed up to watch as well. He’s off to Vientiane tomorrow, then flies home out of Bangkok next week. Talked to him for a while, wracking my brain trying to remember from where I’d known him. Only figured it out a while later. Felt like a schmuck, but I don’t think he even noticed…

[Written Thursday, February The 9th, Night]

I did get a good night’s sleep last night; but I need a decent Internet connection to get some pix uploaded! So went off in search of better lodging. There’s an old wooden bridge across the Nam Khan (called “Old Bridge”), open only to pedestrians, bicycles, and motorcycles. Here’s the view of the morn from the middle of the bridge.

The motorcycles are only allowed to go in one direction at a time, and during the morning rush hour the lineup of those waiting their turn is almost Bangkok-esque.

Returning to the city side of the bridge, I received one hell of a jolt, after having written last night about the Olympics torch and all.

Wow! Didn’t purchase, ‘cause I always get light-coloured shirts so damned dirty. Still might do anyways.

Also found a new hostel, with dorm rooms for 30,000 Kip (just under $4) per night. Looks like kind of a party-property as well, rocking the Jetsons barstools and all…

…but it’s a half-way decent Internet connection, so maybe I’ll actually stay here more that one night… Got me name on the Big Board, and everything. The more to whom I speak what’ve been there (including two Americans staying in the dorm tonight), the more convinced I become that a visit to Southern China need be added to my itinerary. Will have to have a look into it. It’s about a 24-hour bus-ride from here.

After checking in, it was off to the Morning Market (different from Phosy Market; which, you’ll recall, is located south of the Old Quarter). On the way there, I tried a little experiment; to wit, walking out into the middle of the street to see if any motorists would respect the sidewalk, and then making a big show of pointing it out to them if they didn’t. Conclusion: motorists didn’t give a flying fuck about my “big show”, not a one of them slowed down even a whit.

Markets are always great photographic subjects.

The live-fish tank, however — while likely not at all unusual – seems awfully cruel.

The dead fish look quite beautiful – though I’d wager they’d rather be alive.

Much like at the Udomxai market, one may purchase live ducks – but here one may purchase dead ducks too. Hooray for carnivory!

Frog kebabs, too, were available.

I was able to find some pretty good Watermelon, so hopefully this will bode well for my stay here. Lunched along the river again, overlooking a little gully where half a dozen cocks were pecking around for food, and more than occasionally fighting with one another. So very entertaining! Every day in Laos is a day in which the tourist loves chickens just a little bit more than he or she had done the day before.

Decided to continue my exploration of the Old Quarter by taking in many alleyways. It’s great, ‘cause the structures fronting the streets are all the guest houses, and restaurants, and travel services, and cetera; but down the charming brick alleys are all local dwellings (when they’ve not been converted into ad hoc markets).

Became entranced by some children playing a type of bowling game. They’d each ante up a note of currency, which was piled onto the street. Then they’d lag flip-flops to determine order of play; then skid their flip-flops along the ground, attempting to hit the pile o’ cash. Anybody who did so got to pocket one of the notes.

When all the money’d been claimed, they lathered/rinsed/repeated. Once in a while, the kind-of chubby kid tried to hit the pile with a rubber band, but I never witnessed him succeeding in doing so.

Didn’t actually finish the exploration of the Old Quarter, but decided to head up to Mt. Phousi, a hill located right in the middle of the peninsula. It’s 20,000 Kip to go up the four hundred or so steps.

Before I arrived to the bottom step, I was again flummoxed by the beauty of Luang Prabang’s trees.

Passed a barefoot European, pointed at said bare feet, and smiled; he pointed back at mine and, in a French accent, declared, “Same same!” Cracked me up no end. I almost bought me a “Same Same” t-shirt in Bangkok. Maybe someday I still shall. From the Urban Dictionary:

Used a lot in Thailand, especially in an attempts to sell something; but can mean just about anything depending on what the user is trying to achieve.

Q “Is this a real rolex?”
A ” Yes Sir, same same, but different.”

Approaching from the western steps, about a third of the way up the hill, one arrives to Wat Pahouak.

The “picture” is actual a mural covering all four walls. And “wonderful” is one helluva understatement. It’s practically the Great Asian Novel, told pictorially. Here’re a few of my favourite scenarious; I’ve uploaded a to the Flickr page a set dedicated to Luang Prabang temples, that one may easily view a slideshow of all the pics.

Moving on up to the top of the hill, the temple, Wat Phusi, is quite unremarkable. A commanding view of the city, however. Here’s the Old Bridge.

Coming down the steps on the eastern side, one reaches this Big Bad Garden Of Buddhas.

A little further along, is a Big-Fat-Buddha Garden.

Thence to a cave, at the back of which this Geriatric Buddha (or what) holds court. Not even one hundred percent for-sure that that’s The Buddha – but I think it probably must be, given the posture.

Then you get to see a very, very long Naga. Nagarrific, baby!

The so-called “Saturday Buddha”…

…totally looks like he’s baked. Huhn, maybe Saturday was “J-Day” for Buddha? Buddhas gotta have fun, too, right?

Finally is a small cave with The Buddha’s foot-imprint. I dunno, I guess it’s in there somewhere?

Near here, I was having a rest, listening to the cicada symphonics repeatedly rise to crescendo then fall again, all whilst watching the distant coconut palms swaying in the breeze.

Then, natch, I was joined for conversation by an eighteen-year-old novice, name of “Saen”.

There’s a place in the Old Quarter, called “Big Brother House”, where tourists can drop in and let the locals practice their English on them. The Russian-Visa-process-hating Englishman had been there a few times, and found it to be a great experience. I’ve been thinking to go there meself; but am finding that it’s not necessary: just sit and have a rest for a bit (or even slow your walking pace somewhat), and the learners will find you.

The conversations cover more less the same ground: family, travels, religion, food, and the like. Saen did ask a few out of left field.

For example! After having asked whether I’d attended pre-school, he asked what subjects I’d studied while there. I was fairly speechless for a bit, attempting to formulate some sort of sensible response.

For another example! Noticing my headphones and asking if I liked music (and declining my offer to let him listen to some), he asked if I liked Justin Bieber. Bick had asked the same. I shamedly confessed I’d not heard him. But, uhm, is there something I’m missing here? Isn’t Justin Bieber just, like, bubblegum boy-pop, or its like? Why are all the Laotian novices asking me about him???

He asked about my hobbies, and didn’t have any idea what I’d meant by naming off juggling. Happened to have the ol’ bean-bags in my pack, so took them out to show him what it was all about. He was pretty astonished, but too shy to give it a try.

A friend of his happened to come running up the steps while I was demonstrating; and he wasn’t too shy to give it a try. He even took the balls up to a covered area where a bunch of novices were hanging out, and showed them what’s what. He’s only using two balls, but he has a nice looking follow-through, there.

Saen asked me to spell out the name of the hobby; and once I’d done, excitedly looked it up in his English/Lao dictionary – but it was not to be found.

He took me to his school, and let me hang out in the classroom for a bit.

After this, I headed back up the hill to gawk the sunset. It was already a bit of a madhouse when I did arrive; and they just kept a-comin’ even after that – it was akin to the crowds gradually building in anticipation of an Old Faithful eruption.

Something of a horror-show, as most all the gawkers were these god damned Europeans smoking their god damned cigarettes to the last of them. That’s one fucked thing about Laos, is all the cigarette-smoking Europeans.

In Bangkok, they’ve got the scourge pretty much fully eradicated, from what I could smell. Much more so that in the US of A, that’s for sure.

Another Laos bummer is in a lot of places there’s a fuckload of litter on the ground. It’s ironical, too: in Thailand, you can’t find a public garbage can to save your life, but there’s no litter anywhere; while in Laos, there’re public garbage bins everywhere, but nobody wants to use them (least of all the fucking smokers).

Sunset was quite gawk-able, all right.

Nevertheless, having read so many books about the Vietnam war, it does feel odd to have now set foot in Indochina.

On one hand, I feel as though I ought to be here, spending money, doing my very small part in paying reparations. On the other, I feel somewhat shameful having the audacity to visit these lands which my country did everything it could to wipe off the map (a greater tonnage of bombs was dropped on Vietnam, for example, than was dropped by all sides in all of World War II; while the Plain Of Jars in Laos was the victim of history’s most intense bombing campaign).

Having said all that, here I am in Udomxai…and I can’t wait to get out – just as I couldn’t wait, last night, to get out of Luang Namtha.

The morning of Friday the 3rd, I wanted to get to “Passport Control” bright and early, so as to avoid the lines. I was the fifth person in line, and, sure enough, when they opened up at 8:00 in the AM, we were ushered through lickety-split, and quickly shuttled across the river.

At the other side, we filled out our Visa On Arrival forms, and handed them in; to then be told that they couldn’t be processed yet, as the person in charge of doing so had gone to breakfast. By the time she’d returned, the place was a fucking zoo of new arrivals waiting to get stamped through.

Happily, they processed the requests in the order received; so, after exchanging two million kips’ worth of greenbacks, I was soon on my way. Missed the “9:30” bus anyhow, despite arriving to the bus depot at 9:15. So, purchased a ticket for the “12:30” departure, which ended up leaving at Noon.

Used the extra time to bone up on the guidebook’s Laos (the “s” is silent, so I’ve now learnt) introduction. Did you know that there’s a sect of Christians here who believe that in his second coming, “Jesus Christ will arrive in a jeep, dressed in combat fatigues”? Nor did I!

A Japanesian name of “Tomo”, with whom I’d shared a dorm the previous night in Chiang Khong, showed up as well, headed for the same destination. I’d had a fun conversation the night before, with hisself and a black Frenchman who’s been at the guest house in which we were staying for now two months’ time (I think he’s on to something!).

The latter — name of “Taylor”, although the Thais call him “Telo” – had been slagging off the guidebooks, saying they impel everyone to go to the same places, which doing causes these places to lose any unique personality they may once have had, turning every place into a carbon copy of the last. I’d found them both to be quite nice and interesting gentlemen.

The topic of “Air Asia” had come up, both of them beaming with delight at this carrier which apparently offers outrageously low fares if booked several weeks in advance – Tomo had flow from Kuala Lumpur to Chiang Mai for $40! – while lamenting the fact of charges for checked baggage.

I’d asked if knives could be carried on, and Taylor’d kind of shrugged, of what size? I’d pulled out my coconut-cleaver, and they’d both busted up laughing. “It’s for opening coconuts!” I’d kept protesting over and over. But they just couldn’t stop laughing, the fucks.

Finally, Taylor had sobered up a bit, and allowed that, “Yeah, maybe in Southeast Asia, that would be an acceptable explanation.”

The bus ride was some wacky fun. No sooner had the bus been put into gear that the driver started blaring a steady stream of Lao (or Thai?) pop music. En route, more people boarded the bus, so that it was standing room only. We stopped at, like, a farmhouse, and picked up some plastic blue chairs, which were deployed down the aisle for the new-comers to sit in. Later, after the bus had emptied out a bit, the conductor stacked them all up and sat in them like he was King O’ The Bus.

The ride took us up and over and down and through and around and around and around the beautiful mountains of Northern Laos. Most dwellings were raised huts with thatched roofs. Animals seen in and near the road: chickens, dogs, goats, cows, buffalo, hogs.

People called out their stops as needed, and the driver acknowledged the request, stopped, and sent them on their ways – sometimes seemingly out in the middle of nowhere.

No shitter-refund; but we got something even more better: at the top of a mountain pass, the driver stopped the bus, got out, and went across the road to take a leak. Everybody else who wanted to (women included) did the same. There were a good ten or fifteen of us lined up — right there on Route 3, in front of The Buddha and everybody – doing our business. O, but those were the days!, weren’t they?

Later, we stopped in a village to deliver some tiles. When the conductor couldn’t find a string or cord to keep the door of his compartment open, the driver ran across the street, broke a stick with his knee, and, cackling, used it to prop the door open. They stacked the tiles all up right there on the side of the road, and off we drove! I think the driver thought it was kind of a bullshit job; and maybe figured they were going to do the absolute minimum work required to complete the task.

Finally, the end of a most enjoyable journey, we arrived in Luang Namtha. Exited the bus, and: disaster. Could not believe my nose. Everybody, in both cities and villages, burns wood (and I think coal) for heating and cooking. See all the firewood stacked up here.

In addition to which, there’re all manner of mining/trucking operations, as well as road construction everywhere (Laos is in the process of improving its roads, so that it can serve as a transport link between China and Thailand). Motor-car emissions regulations appear to be non-existent. Pretty sure everyone burns their trash as well.

Luang Namtha’s air is a toxic soup; to my nose (and eyes and throat) unfit for consumption by human, beast, or fowl. Yet everyone acts as though there’s nothing strange going on! It’s like a scene from a sci-fi movie, with all these fires burning.

But I was walking around, trying not to choke to death, and crossed path with Tomo, the Japanesian. “What do you make of this place?” I asked him. He said he quite liked it, and I spluttered, “But what about all the smoke?!?!”

“What did you expect? This is a developing country! You’re not in Thailand any more!”

Okay, so I guess I was naïve. But that doesn’t mean one has got to like it. We went to the night market, and sat down for dinner. Tomo asked about the fruit. I said that I’d had some kinda-okay Longans, and was going to try some bananas on for size. “What about coconuts?” he wondered.

“Didn’t see any.”

“But you have…a very good knife!” There’s one in every crowd, I guess…

We were joined by two Latvian guys who’d also been at our same guest house in Chiang Khong. They didn’t seem to mind the air quality so much either. Having arrived a day ahead of us, they’d already spent the day exploring the area via bicycle, and were planning to spend a few more.

Tomo wanted to do the same, then head northeast to Phongsali via southern China (his Japanese citizenship allows him to enter China without a visa).

Me, I justed wanted out. My vision of an idyllic back-to-nature getaway in the mountains of Northern Laos had vanished in a morbid haze of toxic smoke.

The Hell of it is, the town is actually very nice! In a beautiful setting, ringed by mountains; with some cool architecture and friendly people, music bumping out of every street corner, and lots of nice little outdoor cafes. And it’s, ironically, the main jumping-off point for “eco-trekking” tours into the nearby protected wilderness area.

But if I can’t breathe, it’s kind of a deal-breaker. So, another fun bus ride, through even more beautiful scenery, landed me in Udomxai. And…I could more less breathe. And there was actually some visibility.

It’s more of a stop-over place than anything, at a junction of three different through-roads. But I wandered around a bit, and found it an interesting little burgh. Doesn’t have the hippie cred of Luang Namtha; but the setting is probably even more gorgeous, and the locals are incredibly friendly. Plus which, at the market, one can buy both dead rats and live ducks. Top that, Luang Namtha!

There are public address speakers set up all over town – Communist propaganda outlets, I’m guessing. They play music, which is interspersed with monologues. The weird, and fun thing is, though, that they’re not all playing the same recordings – and you can hear multiple different recordings while standing in one place. I don’t think anybody really pays attention to them.

Walked up to this temple at the top of a hill – kind of like the Lao version of Our Lady Of The Rockies, you might say.

The monks were walking around with big smiles on their faces, and cellphones in their hands. Huhn, you may recall I made a joke before about there being a “Headphones Buddha”; but I’ve seen so many monks carrying cellphones, it seems to me a “Cellphone Buddha” would actually be rather appropriate!

The monks-in-training were doing some kind of arts and crafts project. Maybe for an upcoming festival?

While up there, a bit of a breeze kicked up, and I think I was able actually to take in two or three gulps of real live fresh air.

Got into a lengthy conversation with a very nice local, name of “Misai”. He’s from Nam Bak, where his parents are rice farmers; arrived here in Udmoxai two years ago to live with his Uncle and complete his schooling. His Uncle’s an English teacher, so he gets special tutoring in English for an hour each evening.

Only two years speaking the language, but he’s (in my estimation) far, far ahead of where I was after three years of French classes. Later got into another conversation with a local, name of “Thonganh”. He, too, was very nice; though he battered me with questions at such a furious pace that I never got a chance to learn anything about his own life and times, as I had Misai’s.

As it got on toward evening, the people down in the valley began to light their cooking fires, and the air quality began to deteriorate. While waiting for the sunset, I bumped into a German with whom I’d shared a dorm in Chiang Mai (the same guy I told about before, to whom I’d given a Sapodilla – although I at the time mistakenly categorised him as a Swissman). Asked him if the smoke was harshing his mellow as much as it was mine; and he said that he’d only just arrived, so hadn’t had a chance to notice.

Uh, dude, just look down there (I didn’t vocalise)!

The air quality continued its southward march, until it was almost comparable to Luang Namtha’s horrific haze of death. As I write these words, Saturday night (Internetless since arriving in Laos), I’m so disheartened by this dichotomy: the friendliest of people, the most beautiful of countryside, but the most unbreatheable  of air. (Also, the quality of the fruit is quite poor.) It’s so strange that there’s not a peep from the guidebook about this problem – although, granted that nobody else, tourists included, seems to have noticed.

So much I’d like to see and do here, but I don’t know how much more I can take. Will give Nong Khiaw a try, and then Luang Prabang. If no improvement, I think I shall have to get out of Dodge. Which I hate to do. But, dammit man, I like to breathe!

 

Sunday, the morning after having written the above, I hopped a minivan for Nong Khiaw. It’d been overbooked, so two young Laotians were cajoled into taking the minivan to Pak Mong, where, I suspect, they were to catch a sangthaew to Nong Khiaw. They didn’t seem terribly happy about the situation, but they did go get on the van to Pak Mong.

That left me, the driver, and nine French speakers. One couple were from France itself, while the rest, a group, were from Switzerland. The lady seated next to me, name of “Celia”, was actually an English expat now living in Switzerland. “But you don’t have an English accent,” I protested.

“I know I don’t,” she confidently agreed, then related that she’d lived all over the place, including Canada.

The pall over Udomxai was even more disgusting than had been Luang Namtha’s the previous morning. It was like a thick fog had rolled in overnight – only it weren’t fog, of course. As we got underway, we traded smoke for dust.

The bus rides, when we’ve got away from the cities and villages, have been the best time to get some fresh air. But on this one, we were traveling on a lot of unimproved roads, and the improved roads were riddled with huge potholes. So it was a dusty, windy, bumpy ride. And the best scenery was out the other side of the van to mine.

Moreover, as there wasn’t any pop music playing, and there weren’t any Laotians carrying on, it was less of a party atmosphere than had been the previous two days’ riding. Everybody was speaking in French, except for Celia and myself did converse in English. We talked of organic farming, and the bee die-off, and whatnot.

Long story short, this bus journey was not as much fun as the others; although we did get to stop and piss at the side of the road again – so it wasn’t a total loss.

Arrived in Nong Khiaw, and walked the length of the village, a dirt road with rocks piled up on the side. I guess they’re getting ready to pave it, or put in sidewalks, or something? Very nice breathing here!

Checked into a bungalow with an outrageous view overlooking the Nam Ou river. Paid $7.50, which is the most I’ve paid for lodging so far; but damn, what a view!

The is the first place in which I’ve stayed that’s been equipped with a mosquito-net over the bed. As I write this, on Sunday evening, it doesn’t appear as though it’ll be necessary. Was able to sit on the veranda and watch the sunset, making witness to only one, which was easily shooed away.

The Australian in the bungalow next to mine had taken the slow boat from Houay Xai to Luang Prabang, and said that the first day had been great; but that the second day, riding on barely-cushioned wooden benches, had been a bit much. That’s kinda what I’d feared, so I’m glad I didn’t partake. Hoping, if I can afford it, to catch a boat from here to Luang Prabang, which is just one six-hour trip.

Here’s the view from a bit further upstream. Please believe me when I tell you that these pictures do not do this place justice, nor even close.

After checking in, I bought some un-inspiring bananas and oranges. Not horrible, but certainly not delicious. After lunching on the bananas, I set out to visit a historical cave near here, where the Pathet Lao had hidden away from the American bombs.

Was soon joined by a Vancouverite, name of “Nicole”. She’d rented a bicycle, and had initially passed me by. But as the trail got steeper, she got off to push the bike. Told her that I loved her city, and she told me that she loved mine. She began waxing a little too enthusiastically about Woodland Park Zoo; and for some reason seemed to think I’d not have known about it.

I assured her that, yes, I’d taken many a field-trip to the zoo as a young schoolboy; and had even, a few years back, seen a Josh Ritter concert there.

A Marine Biology student on four-month holiday, her proposed path through Southeast Asia is similar to mine. After leaving off with a friend in Thailand, she fell in — somewhere near the frontier, I think — with a group of Brits and Belgians whom, she says, do nothing but complain all the time. So she’d rented the bike to go exploring by herself and get away from them.

After walking for a couple of miles, we reached the ticket booth to visit the caves, staffed by two quite friendly Laotian gentlemen. Paid the 10,000 Kip (about $1.25), and hit the trail. Little did I know that we still had quite some way to go to reach the caves. But this was in point of fact the most interesting part of the hike – even moreso that the cave itself.

We passed through a small settlement where this young gentleman was hard at work.

You see this going on everywhere. The Laotians harvest this grass, beat the hell out of it on the side of the road (or, as here, the side of a tree), and then lay it out to dry. I had thought, having seen these goings on from the bus for three days, that they were going to use the grass to fortify their roofs for the rainy season.

But Nicole explained to me that they sell them to the Chinese, at 60,000 Kip to the Kilo, to make brooms with. (She’d taken a three-day guided trek out of Luang Namtha, and had learned a bunch of cool shit about life in Laos.)

We also passed through rice growing areas, and a bit of jungle, before arriving at, like, an ante-chamber to the real cave.

From here, it was up many steps (yes, I’m well and truly out of hiking shape) carved out of the hill and reinforced with bamboo, before arriving to the cave. There was a family up there, just hanging out. The father warned us of snakes and spiders, but we gave it a try. An immense structure it was, which forked off into two different main areas. A bit creepy down there, but also serene.

The Pathet Lao were fucking hard-core living in this place for four years, able to go out only at night in search of food. But it appears to have kept them safe.

On the way back, we passed by many more locals; including this lady, who was sweating like no tomorrow (hard at work, surely)…

…this youngster, whose name I can’t recall…

…and these two, returning with their grass harvest looking like a couple of young Sasquatch (or what).

As we arrived back at the village, near sundown, the air was still of pretty damned good quality. There are fires burning…

…so it’s not exactly gonna be a walk in the park. But this place is so beautiful, and so peaceful, and the locals so friendly that I may try to stay awhile. The big problem will be getting enough quality fruit in me. Perhaps I will resort to eating some “sticky rice” which, I’m told, is prepared without any salt or seasonings – only soaked, then steamed.

Hi! Internet access, where it can be found in Laos, is very slow indeed. So updates may be few and far between.