I’m still working on some notes on Luang Prabang in Laos so please excuse the chronological drift. We visited Laos much more briefly than we had intended. We were geared for some eco-touristic escapades but Soph soured on the idea of ziplining through the canopy so we’ve reworked our sked.
The bus trip up to Huay Xai, which is the border town between northern Laos and Thailand was another classic. In fact it starts to read a lot like the nailbiter from HCMC to Dalat except this one was worse in all respects. Instead of eight hours we were in the bus for thirteen. The driver opted to stop once at the halfway point – at the side of the, what we will for storytelling purposes, call a road. There was no building, we just squatted and squirted into the blackness.
It started well enough but within about half an hour the legendary roads of Laos were fact for us. There are more curves on this highway than a Marilyn Monroe calendar. There are more curves on this road than a no-hitter pitched by Mordecai "three-fingers" Brown. Based on a count on a typical stretch I guesstimate that there were in excess of 4000 hairpin curves. It was like watching a bullrider’s trip through the eyes of the bull – except the bull never tires and the cowboy never tumbles off. It is like experiencing what a butterfly must see when it flits through a garden except it is through inky black ravines and defiles with the occasional glimpse of a sheer brown wall or a fathomless abyss of space past sheer cliffs. Thank God we couldn’t really see what we nearly hit or nearly missed. Within an hour several occupants were retching their guts out. We were feeling ok until that point but it brought our attention to our own internals. In the end neither of us lost our food. Bonus round!
As you might imagine, thirteen hours straight of driving the crankiest arcade game ever invented has a soporific effect on the operator. After slapping himself in the face for a while he started sponging cold water on his neck. Soon the tourettish ticks started showing up: cocking of head, twitching and jerking his hands on the steering wheel. At about hour 9 he stopped the bus and went outside. There were few others awake on the bus. I saw him pick up a little kit of something and disappear behind the bus for a moment. He returned sniffing and knuckling his nose, miraculously brighter looking. I was glad for whatever he had inhaled because he was more intense and focused for a while. He repeated the routine about an hour later and soon thereafter the sun rose and he seemed more relaxed. The death-by-bus soundtrack this time sounded like an Asian take on Rush. Maybe played backwards. Discordant and arrhythmic, it seemed the perfect theme music. I was remembering though that drug use carries the death penalty. I guess it’s a crapshoot – die driving or die using. Roll the dice.
I am going to go out on a limb here and suggest that no one reading this blog has ever travelled on a road like this. Most of the trip was on potholed gravel and dirt. Huge piles of dirt and rock litter the roadway that, at best, is only a narrow two vehicles wide. The bus driver has to swerve not only to navigate the curves but also to avoid the rock obstacles, truly a gamer’s wet dream. The bus, from where I was sitting seemed more like POV an insect sitting on a compass needle in an iron mine. The driver was spinning the wheel like a mad Ahab or the way we did in bumper cars when the steering wheels had virtually no effect on direction - while illuminated jungle and torn bush, pampas and bamboo and corridors of small thatch houses elbowing up to the highway seemed to whirl and reverse like an arcade experience. But the funhouse operator left the ride on and I couldn’t get off. Scary as hell. Again. Ever since I had my Iboga experience I have been able to feel a short way into my future. I knew, absolutely, that we were going to be ok but objectively it did not look good folks. Did I mention that for about an hour we were in a peasoup fog? Icing on the cake. After the fog disappeared he started really driving fast. I couldn’t decide whether I preferred the uncertainly of a grey curtain or the hellish wrack bursting out of the stygian dark.
Kayla, pretend I just wrote that the trip up was really fun.
I recommend the river ride to or from Luang Prabang. That would take two days but it would probably be quite relaxing.
When the sun rose we could see the countryside. The road improved somewhat, the piles of rock were less frequent and they didn’t rise suddenly out of the dark. The houses are mostly rush walls and thatch roof on six or seven foot log supports. Some houses had board and batten walls but all were dirtcaked and sunbleached. Occasionally a glimpse of an unlikely looking solar cell on a post. The locals were performing their morning ablutions, squatting, combing their hair or washing their face - an ancient sitting by a small cauldron while a charcoal fire burnt under her steaming iron pot. All this takes place outside the home within large unwalled rooms defined by heavy logs. Some of the house stilts were terribly akimbo. The bungalows looked like stiff-legged insects about to launch into a race.
The people in northern Laos are darker than in Luang Prabang, quite beautiful, with strong cheekbones, mahogany skin and dark eyes. One fellow by the roadside was wearing a black balaclava, looking like a modern day Pathan. A group of dusty labourers, already tired, looking at the break of day - in a wagon towed by a motorcycle. But during the entire journey I never saw a grader or a caterpillar; I did see dumptrucks but no heavy roadbuilding equipment – were the entire hundreds of kilometres being built by manual labour?
It is very dry here. The ubiquitous hills are sere and brown. The rice paddies are fallow and straw-coloured; the land looks cracked and parched. There are signs of logging everywhere, hillsides denuded and burnt. Only 10% of Laos is old-growth but they say they have a strong ecological mandate. Hard to say, we saw so little. The Nam Khoung (?) River is almost dry, the shores are exposed to sandbanks many feet high. We saw a photo of a flood dated December 2008 that placed the river level maybe 50 feet higher!
Tonight we are in Thailand. An uneventful border crossing and a short ride in a large jitney type bus to Chiang Rai because we missed the bus to Chiang Mai. Off to seek noodles.
I’m thinking of you. Please write if you have time. I miss the connection.
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