Looking For Bandits

“That road has bandits Miss,” said the local.
A respectful silent laugh is my response to this familiar warning.

Squeezed against the tenuous security of the woven bamboo wall of the little hut, I seek refuge from the monsoonal rains. Rivers form at my feet; muddy swirls beneath my tires. Looking up at the dripping, flimsy grass roof, I wonder if anyone is inside.

Tentacles of self doubt creep in. "I should be here in 'the dry' ''.

The door opens and I am beckoned inside. Entering the dark space inside the bamboo hut, I am wordlessly invited to sit down on a tiny wooden chair, barely raised off the ground.

In the sparseness of the dark room, I can see an idle loom in the corner; brightly coloured threads the only cheer within the drabness. A mosquito net hangs knotted above the double bed. Swirls of smoke spread out from the small smouldering fire. Under the shelter of the grass roof, the monsoonal thunder continues to boom and I watch the puddles darkening the dusty floor.

As I sit down on the tiny seat, I remove my helmet and greet her rather too energetically with, “Sabaidee.” She turns to me in a prayer like stance, her smiling face barely visible behind her joined hands. The rain continues.

The Hmong woman in her hand woven sarong squats alongside a small bundle on the floor. I gasp as I see the beautiful, tiny baby asleep on a thin and dusty mattress. Our eyes meet above the precious little boy and, as mothers, we share a pang of tenderness. We have an understanding.

Warmth and safety begin to envelope me.

The rumble of the traffic through the thin, bamboo woven walls makes me shudder and I ponder upon our vulnerability. Route 13N weaves snake-like around the majestic karst ridge tops, enveloping little villages perched precariously on a precipice. They know little yet of foreign visitors, Falangs. No-one stops at Ban Konoy. The baby continues to sleep. The buses slip by.

I step outside to calm skies. Tourist eyes behind foggy windows flash past me. Looking for bandits.

I rumble towards Ventiane; baguettes and coffee.

In a years time, if you choose to take this road in beautiful Laos, watch for the same little boy shyly peering out of his bamboo doorway at the many buses bypassing his village. He will be running in the rain with friends, laughing at the joy of the water, but when he sees you on your motorbike, he will wave with a big smile whilst his mother whispers quietly, “Falang.”

I hope it rains for you.