Laos: That sinking feeling in your gut, an impromptu concert, and Beer Lao!

So...our boat was sinking.









5 hours into an 8 hour-a-day, 2 day trip, the "navigator" of the S.S. Uncomfortable decided to swing his vessel wildly into the middle of the Mekong while covering his eyes with his hands. At about that time, God (or Buddha in this case) decided that we weren't having quite enough fun, so he put a very large rock right in the path of the boat.

Keraaaaaack!

"Whatthehellwasthat?" asked Mike, my seatmate and new-ish friend. He had been dozing painfully against a wooden bulwark (arr! aren't I nautical?) and the vibrations ringing through the wooden hull startled him awake.

"Umm, I think that we hit a rock."

It was at that point that the owners of the boat, about 20 Laos' (quick aside: I don't know how to refer to anything in Laos. I thought perhaps "Laotian" would be a way to refer both to the language, and the people, but I have been informed that this is not correct. Therefore, apparently the word "Laos" is at once a proper noun as the name of the country (Laos) , a language (Laos), and an ethnicity (Laos). This is really quite confusing) who all seemed to be members of the family which owned the boat, started screaming at each other. As the 150 or so passengers watched in befuddlement, the whole family jumped off of the boat, grabbed a huge 2x4 and propped it up as a plank upon which we were all to walk to shore.

I literally "walked a plank".

So where were we? Superb question. Unfortunately, not one person on the boat who was in charge of our safety spoke English. The best that we were able to manage was that we were somewhere that was not our final destination, and that it would be a very long time before anything happened. That's fine, I've been stuck waiting places before, no worries right?

Right?

It was when I saw them patching the hole in the boat with a bag of concrete that I began to have the sneaking suspicion that this was not your average "breakdown and wait a few hours and then go again." At this point, someone (a Thai girl named Nook) determined that the boat would be remaining there overnight. Woohoo! More adventure! Being the adventure-minded ex-boy scout that I was, I was all aflutter at the prospect of sleeping on the beach, in my nice summer sleeping bag and under my mosquito net. Finding myself alone in my excitement I realized that not everyone else on the boat was so well provisioned.

Backing up a day or so here, let me explain how it was that I came to be on this forsaken beach, in the middle of the sweating, steaming Mekong river, stuck for an indeterminate amount of time and loving every minute:

After the madness of Songkran (see previous post), I hung around Chiang Mai for a few days, knowing that I had to move on. It is simply not possible to take a bus from Northern Thailand into Laos. Roads don't exist that run this route. Instead, the popular (and only) way to go is by boat. Many travel agencies in town sell tickets, and they always give you two options; the fast boat, which is a one day, 7.5 hour rocket-hell-sled ride of fear and terror (I'll get to that in a moment), or the leisurely, meandering peacefulness of the slow boat, which takes two days and (theoretically) stops at a small town along the Mekong that is rife with overpriced guesthouses. As the fast boat costs nearly 3 times as much, I of course took the slow boat.

It is of course the perogative of each traveler to choose their method of transportation. However, more often than not the ironclad "Law of Financial Do-ability" is the primary arbiter in such decisions. That is to say, whatever is cheapest, backpackers do it. This leaves the less explored, and more expensive option to those with the means, who would be disinclined to spend 2 days sitting on wooden benches on an overcrowded boat that doesn't move fast enough to generate a breeze to cool you down. Unfortunately for these rich-type folks, the rules of logic are far more rigid than those of finances. Therefore, if the slow boat is cheaper, then it is less comfortable and safe than the fast boat, is really not a tenable syllogism.

I was unable to take a picture of a longboat, largely because they move so fast as to defy normal refractory properties of light. Instead, I will describe them for you. Imagine a shallow wooden craft, heavily warped, with three rows of wooden benches spaced approximately 5 inches apart. When you sit down in the boat, you are given a helmet. They assiduously avoid using the word "crash" helmet. Since the helmet looked like a plastic mixing bowl with a piece of plastic wrap over the front, I understood it to be primarily to give the naieve and safety minded a strange peace of mind. What make these boats "fast" is at once so unique and so bizarre as to nearly defy explanation. The enterprising people who run the boat companies must have access to a junkyard, as the back of the boat is weighted down with a full V-8 engine, with the drive shaft still attached. For propulsion, the drive shaft is fitted with a propeller. Appropriately, they call these "long tail" boats. One steers by simply pushing and pulling on the entire engine block. These things are not exactly cutting tight corners.

So the people who were in a rush and had money found themselves hanging on for dear lfie as they were rocketed over the river at upwards of 50 mph. If you have ever gone this fast in a boat, you will know that it may be 50 but it feels like Mach 10. Add to this the fact that at least one of these boats either flips, or nearly flips every day, and we can see that the though the hare got near the finish line first, the turtle wil be the one going across (or limping in our case).

I arrived at the border town of Chiang Khong...


Laos! From Thai side






...and spent the night, then had a moment of panic when I got in this boat...









...sincerely believing that it was going to be my ride for 8 hours. A too-hasty sigh of relief later, I was in Laos.


View from the Laos side






Before entering Laos, it is important to acquaint yourself with the legend and history of the lager there served...namely, Beer Lao. How can I describe Beer Lao? Hmmm..well, if I am your average backpacker-Lonely-Planet-writer, I think that it would go something like this:

"Oh sweet nectar of the Gods! Oh most opulent of pleasures! When the heavens bequeath'd upon Earth all the beauty that were to reside there, surely at the end of their labors they were rejuvenated with this most delectable of ambrosias. As sweet as manna, like licking the sweaty back of mighty Zeus or drinking the spit of Athena, Beer Lao will restore your health, regrow your hair, maintain month long erections, remove suspicious moles, cure your polyps, clean our your constipation, de-freckle the freckled, de-blemish the teenagers, cure strep throat and the common cold, boil water without the presence of oxygen and disinfect your septic tank. Oh Beer Lao! We worship you!"

I think that it is a capital crime to drink any other beer in this country. To be fair, Beer Lao is quite tasty. If I had to compare it to something, it is a bit like a Sam Adams. However, as it is pretty much impossible to get ANY other kind of beer here, one does tire of it. But that is not allowed. Every single restaurant is sponsered by them. Guest houses have cases of it stacked everywhere. When I was trekking in the remote Northern regions of Laos (next post) staying in villages 14 hours from any road, without running water or electricity, the first thing that I was offered when I dropped my muddy pack on the ground was a "Beer Lao?" which I declined, as it was warm and covered in spider-webs. This stuff is an institution here.

That being said, while waiting for the boat to leave (at 9am) about 30 people all decided to have one, me included. Quite tasty.

This picture couresty of multiple Beer Lao's and a REALLY long boat ride






So we beat on, boats against the current, though unlike Mr. Gatsby, we were headed forward into the future, instead of back into a green-lit past.

The boat was a bit...overcrowded. There were people sitting on the floor, people on sacks of rice, people hanging out the sides and anywhere else that they could find a corner to squeeze into. For our part, Mike and I shared a very small cushion on the seat and traded off leaning out the window to try and relieve the painful hardness that the benches wreaked upon us.

That's Mike on the right. And that's his "man was that seat uncomfortable" face






In short, the Mekong river and the Laos countryside that surrounds it are incredible. The river is a fast-moving brown, the color of weak coffee with milk. It bends and ebbs around deep curves. Rock studded and treacherous, each shore shallows to a narrow strip of sand and boulders quickly from the middle, allowing little navigational latitude. The hills rising up on either side add new resolve to my definition of "verdant". The word "lush" kept roaring around in my head as well, though this is less accurate. As in Africa, the lushness is largely a facade, with huge palm fronds covering large portions of the hills and pencil-narrow trees shooting up in-between them. Most interestingly, from each of the boulders, sprouting like the doubled antennae of some fantastic insect, were enormous bamboo poles, all in pairs, that after some careful examination revealed themselves to be supporting nets. The primary source of food in this region is the river, with the fish that navigate its earthy bottom more often than not feeding everyone in a village. As we passed, great scores of men could be seen performing incredible feats of acrobatics to get down to check these nets, and, upon finding some squirming river fish, would haul up their lot to take for the next meal. All of those that we passed were sun-browned to the deep permanent copper of people who labor all day beneath a punishing sun. The workers muscles were sinewy and hard, accustomed to long, arduous tasks of consistent strength, instead of short bursts of increasing power, as to be found in weight rooms the world over.

And as we passed, a friendly wave and a shout were our main means of communication.

Fast-forwarding back to the beach upon which we found our erstwhile hero still stranded...


Members of the "boat-owning" family. I think that the baby was driving





I was in a fine mood, as it seemed to me that instead of "being stranded" we were instead "saving money." Sleeping on this beach would be free. Having resigned myself to staying the night, I fondly waved goodbye to a number of people who had literally flagged down a fast boat and would be traveling on to the comfort of a guest house up the river. For my money, these people missed out.

As the sun set against the rising haze, smeared spots of light appeared in the village above us. Where we had disembarked, there appeared to be a small village about 1.5km away up on top of a hill. Wanderer that I am, I began asking around to find out if anyone had a torch (flashlight) that I could borrow to go look around. A few other people decided that it might be worth a visit, and, torch acquired, we began the short trek up the hill.


Sunset on the Mekong









That was when we heard the singing. It is a well understood phenomenon that sounds carries well, and far, at night. It does so especially well near water (for a story with a very different outcome, check out the night that Yeah Yeah, my India traveling companion, learned this very lesson here). As such, the singing came to us very clearly, and it sounded happy and glorious. I resolved to find it. As we muddled our way up a very muddy slope and into the town, the wisdom of my plan began to seem a bit suspect. However, as I had now led (despite my assertions that "I'm going up there, anyone that wants to can come along, but I don't know what I'll find and I'm not in charge") about 10 people up into the village, I felt somewhat obligated to soldier on.

Imagine, just for a moment, the following scenario:

You are at home. Your whole family is there and you are eating dinner. Someone has cooked up a bunch of food and everyone is sitting around and enjoying it. Then the doorbell rings. Everyone looks at each other wondering who it could be. The doorbell rings several more times. Finally, someone gets up to answer it. When the door is pulled back, it reveals a large group of Chinese tourists, gesticulating wildly and speaking v-e-r-y- s-l-o-w-l-y in Chinese. Since you don't speak Chinese, you try to communicate with them through hand signals. When this doesn't work, the tall, blue-eyed one simply walks up the steps to your house, sits down at the table with your family (the 10 or so people behind him tramping up the stairs as well) and immediately requests that you sing for him.

Songslao! Songslao!







That is basically what we did. We found the house that the singing was coming from, got the attention of those inside who were singing by candlelight, and after a few minutes of confused jabbering, we were ushered inside, given sticky rice and vegetable soup, and then we sang.

We made it understood that we had heard their singing and wanted to hear more. The family obliged us for a few minutes, then one of the rascally younger ones insisted "now you song!" which I interpreted to mean that it was time to fulfill our part of the unspoken bargain.

I believe that it is a fairly well known fact that I do not have a "great" singing voice. Nor do I have a "good" singing voice or even a "passable" singing voice. No, instead I have a bad singing voice. Nobody cared. As I launched into "Let It Be" none of the 9 other people who had chosen to come with me also excercised their adventurousness by singing. So I sang solo. Then I sang "Puff the Magic Dragon," "River of Dreams," that song that goes "...in the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight" at which song everyone in the room actually did manage to sing on the "ah-OOOOHHHHHHHHHHH a-wee um-um-ba-waaaaaay", capping it off with a crowd pleaser; Happy Birthday. I don't know if it's the simplicity of this song, the reptitive nature or the festive implications, but EVERYONE knows happy birthday and so, sung along.

The rest of the choir, though a silent choir they may be...






I then requested more songslao (which was my primitive way of saying "songs in Laos") and thus we traded songs back and forth for a good two hours.

I fit right in...







At this point, I was thinking about getting back down to the boat in enough time to claim a good spot on the beach. It was not to be.

"Okay," said one of the younger family members, thinking hard "7 (holding up seven fingers) sleep here, 2 (more fingers) there." When I looked where he was pointing, I could see that the mother (I think) of the family and some of the daughters had set up 7 thick mattresses on the floor of an empty room a short ways away. There were also blankets and pillows. I didn't know what to say.


Who even has this many extra mattresses?






These people, none of whom spoke more than the most basic of English pleasantries, upon whose hospitality we had massively imposed, were now insisting that we sleep in their home for the evening. After ascertaining the eager smiles and nodding heads of my companions, I agreed.

As we 7 lay down to sleep (the two girls with us were led to another house by two other girls from the village, apparently despite their remote address they knew a thing or two about how to keep everyone on their best behavior) the family brought in pitchers of just-boiled water for drinking and several glasses.

We spent the night in wondrous comfort, the humid evening air blowing through the open room (which only had 3 walls), the sounds of pigs grunting below us and dogs out baying at, what I imagined, was a full moon. We woke with the roosters (annoying damn birds) and found our way back to the boat. We listened patiently to the stories of those who had slept on the boat and beach, sympathized with their sore backs, cramped knees and bleary eyes, and inwardly grinned at our comfortable night of repose.


Where we spent the night as seen very early in the morning. Damn roosters.





The girls were able to divine an address for the village from one of the women there, and as I don't have it with me, I'll write my letter here:

To: Family that Sang with a Bunch of Farang,
7th Stop of the Slow Boat on the Mekong River,
Laos

From: The tall one with the blue eyes and the terrible voice

Dear family,

Thanks for the food, drinks, songs and beds. If you ever get electricity, computers, and internet, please book a ticket to Minneapolis, Minnesota so that I can attempt to repay your hospitality

Sincerely,

The tall one with the blue eyes and the terrible voice.

Next: Luang Prabang is just like they say it is, the perfect waterfall, and a decision to break with the crowd.