Songkran
was finally over so we could walk the streets without fear of iced
water attacks. We were going to Laos and just had time to drop off
our boxes to be sent home before the bus was due to pick us up. The
trip to Laos was booked through Mr Pooh and the arrangement was to be
picked up there at 12. Waiting we caught up with Mr Tee, hungover
after 6 days of partying and the other guys we had met on the trek.
They were replacing the tourist recommendations and I saw they had
put mine up. One of the guys was very chatty but I had not met him
before. I asked Mr Tee when Mr Pooh last trekked. The chatty fellow
said he hadn't been for a few months but wanted to soon. So this was
the legendary Mr Pooh! I shook his hand and complimented what he was
doing and we had a good conversation about ecotrekking and
sustainability The bus was late and it was the first day of the Thai
year 2552 so we were asked to join them for a traditional jackfruit
curry lunch with a beer. What nice people.
When
the minibus did come along it was nearly full and quiet – I imagine
most people had been partying for a few days and wanted the peace and
quiet. I got a lot of reading in, finally finishing Kenealy's
excellent “Victim of the Aurora” which I had started in Patagonia
and unsuccessfully tried again in Christchurch. I guess I need to be
in the Northern Hemisphere to read about the South Pole. Claire
slept. Lunch was fried rice, the only option apart from 57 varieties
of macadamia nut. (It was a macadamia factory).
We
arrived at Chiang Kong in the evening and was surprised to see a
beautifully decorated modern teak guesthouse awaiting us. Usually
these package deals including accommodation are a bit flaky but this
one was fine. We had a wander around the one horse town with Louisa,
a Bavarian girl who was in the minibus with us. We bought some
cushions in preparation for the boat and had our last meal in
Thailand for a while.
Cocks
crowing woke us early and after breakfast the entire contents of the
guest house was ferried to the river to complete the simple Thai exit
procedures. Not much in the way of information had been forthcoming
from anyone – so not sure what to do next we (2 Canadians, Katie
and Melissa had joined us queuing to get our passports stamped)
walked down to the river and paid 10 baht for the small crossing,
accompanied by a family, the matriarch dressed in traditional Lao
costume.
The
chaos only started once we had stepped on Lao soil. A throng of
confused falang looked at the unclear visa application forms handed
out by a smiley chap in military gear. No-one really knew what was
going on but it seems the process was to fill out the forms (some
people had 1, others 2 some poor people had 3 to complete), and hand
them in along with a photo and your passport. No cash though. Then
the wait for the passports to come back but they don't read the names
out (or couldn't pronounce them) so it's a bit of a game. Although my
instinct was to suggest a little customer-centric business process
re-engineering I wholeheartedly enjoyed the total lack of
organisation, especially most people's reactions to it. When we
spotted our passports coming up in the stack we approached and paid
the $35US fee. Then over to another counter for 10 (ten!) separate
stamps clearing us for entry, our haul of passport stamps doubling
in seconds. Then, unbelievably 2 more stamps to verify the other 10
and we'd made it into Huay Xai in the People's Democratic Republic of
Laos.
The
carnage continued, first we had to put our names down for the slow
boat, although we had already paid. We added our own to a monstrous
pile of rucksacks left by equally confused waiting travellers. Then a
jampacked tuk tuk to a place further up the river. Seemed like a good
time to have a street sandwich - baguettes the first sign of French
colonial past. Then for no apparent reason everyone was asked for
passports. They were handed over, bundled up and once red tape
complete, left on a table for collection. I had a good choice of
potential nationalities but decided to stick with my faded harp as I
collected mine.
The
group was sheep-like as we were ushered to the boats. The handwritten
ticket said boat 74 but when we got there it was full so we boarded
another, lined with little wooden benches not disimilar to ones you
would find in a primary school. At the back was an empty area of
floor in front of a table (the bar) and a few car seats put side by
side. We had found our spot and a lot comfier than the benches it
looked too.
The
engine started yammering noisily a few minutes later but we were not
off quite yet. The captain sauntered down to the engine room and
stopped the yammering. A local in broken English explained that 3
people had not paid – anyone who was not travelling with an agency
had to pay (or something to that effect). An English chap, Nathan who
I chatted to in the queues at immigration said he paid the man where
people put their names down. He was asked for his passport and it was
whisked away. As we waited the boat bobbed around, banging into
neighbouring houseboats , their inhabitants getting increasingly
frustrated with having to fend off our boat.
Eventually
the captain started her up again and we pushed off into the fabulous
hazy scenery of the mighty Mekong rover. Slash and burn agriculture
was evident immediately, the hills only barely visible in the
background. Cushions, books and decks of cards started to appear.
People sprawled out on rucksacks and started teaching each other card
games. The bar had cold beer and the atmosphere was great,
unexpectedly so in fact. It was a 2 day journey so might as well make
some friends! The exception was a middle aged German who had moved
seats and then came back to his original place and gruffly indicated
the new occupant back to the floor. Louisa was mortified to share a
passport with him.
I
took a little time to explore the boat. It had a sit down toilet
behind the bar (I had heard about a hole in the floor on others) and
behind that the engine, which looked like something from a sixties
Sci-Fi Movie and was adorned with sticks of incense and a few
biscuits and other offerings, presumably warding off the bad spirits
and keeping us on track. Towards the stern was the family's living
area – I assume the lady behind the table was the captain's wife
and the guy with the big bamboo stick who fended off the river bank
and other boats, his son.
A
few stops were made, including one where Nathan got his passport back
(it had been on the other boat for no apparent reason) then promptly
dropped it into the mud of the Mekong. 5 or 6 hours after leaving we
arrived in Pak Beng and everyone filed off but not before the lady at
the bar table asked me for my cushion – taking a shine to the
elephant design. I started trying to explain that I needed it
tomorrow as well but seeing the disappointment in her eyes I guiltily
handed it over and made for shore. However a climb up razor sharp
stone in flip flops carrying 2 rucksacks while fending off the
multitude of hawkers enthusiastically peddling guesthouses is easier
said than done. Ignoring them we chose the first one on the left and
it was perfect.
After
freshening up we joined the girls for dinner in a slightly bizarre
restaurant promising happy times and free special whiskey. They
seemed to be all out of special whiskey and when the lights went out
at 10pm we figured it was time to head back. A group of guys who had
been sitting beside us on the boat were eating at our guest house. We
left the guys and gals to it and had just put down our books to go to
sleep when our electricity went off and we heard the giggles and
fumbles below as people tried to find their way without torches. No
electricity means no fan though, so it was a sticky night.
Equipped
with a packed lunch we got back on the same boat, and thankfully the
same spot, but there were more people on the second day so it was a
bit more cramped. Claire did manage a good 2 hour nap sprawled out in
front of the bar underneath an animated conversation between 3 loud
English guys. Fair play to her! I asked the bar lady for a loan of my
cushion back and she obliged. More of the same on the second day –
crude fishing nets hanging from craggy limestone rocks, kids playing
naked in the soupy river underneath the rolling mostly blackened
hills. Played a few games of shithead with the guys from the previous
night – 3 tall dutch gap yearers, Vincent, Vincent and Paul and
Wallace from Canada. The group had grown to nine.
An
hour or so before arriving in Louang Phabang we passed the Pak Ou
caves where a large number of no longer wanted Buddha images are
stored. It was a bit of a surprise when we got to the city itself. I
had been expecting just that, a city – cars, mopeds, crowds and
buildings both banks of the river, maybe a few bridges. Nope – palm
trees fraying in the evening sun, not a bridge in sight and only a
few buildings visible on the northern bank. I gave the bar lady back
the cushion and possibly made her day by giving her Claire's too.
As
the slow boat people made their way up the slope to town I could
visualise the hawkers preparing their onslaught. We were the last two
off. “Stairs instead?”
