I shot pool with three Lao kids on Friday night. The table sits outside in front of the hostel, and if it was ever in good condition, it’s hard to imagine now. Half of the felt is coming off, four balls are missing, and the remaining ones are scratched and dented all over. I hit a ball down to the opposite end of the table and watched it curve to the left and pause before rolling back all the way to its starting position.
We didn’t mind. Passing the one cue back and forth, we took a turn whenever we felt like it and hit whatever ball presented itself. The Lao guys were more concerned with practicing their English, which was already quite good. They are students from Luang Prabang, all around 16 years old, and they came to the hostel to visit their English teacher, Elias, who is staying here while volunteering at the language center. I’ve never seen more enthusiastic language students. They were genuinely thrilled to have so many farang to talk with. They kept checking with me, excitedly, to verify their pronunciation. Yes, excitedly.
Their names are Hua, Yeng (or Felix), and Her. They are Christian, Buddhist, and animist, respectively.
Hua began talking to me about his dream of becoming a doctor. He grew up in a nearby village and two of his older siblings died when we was young. He told me he was angry at first because they wouldn’t have died if the family hadn’t been so poor. But then he decided that, since there was nothing he could do for his siblings, he would dedicate himself to the rest of the villagers who couldn’t afford healthcare. He would become a doctor himself and open a free clinic in the mountains.
I would later discover that Hua is a huge clown, but my first impression of him was of pure intensity and focus. The fact that he can be the former while retaining the latter should tell you something about his character.
After we had been chatting for twenty minutes or so, Hua invited me to come with them to their village the next day. Elias was going, along with two other guests here at the hostel, Sabrina and Stephen. The plan was to rent bikes, ride the 25k to the village, stay the night, and come back the next day. I wasn’t crazy about getting up at 8 the next morning, but I could hardly pass up on an offer like that.
The next morning, we ended up actually leaving at ten. Hostel-goers aren’t exactly known for being early risers. We followed our three guides through Luang Prabang, bleary-eyed, and in my case, trying hard not to swerve into passing cars and motorbikes. They pointed out the sights, such as they are, including an enormous stadium they said is used for soccer and cock fights. I found it hard to picture the stands packed out for a cock fight, but they repeated it several times, so I guess I’ll trust them.
Elias, Hua, and Felix take a break at the top of a monster hill.
The road we were on is supposedly the main highway through Laos, but you would never guess it based on the traffic, or lack thereof. I could hear the guys clearly as they raced ahead, belting out Celine Dion at the top of their lungs: “I seeee you, I feeeeeel you!”
Her dropped back and we got to talking about Muay Thai. He told me there is a Muay Lao practiced by the hill-tribes. He called it magic boxing. According to him, practitioners of magic boxing can never become rich or they will lose their powers. More problematic, they can’t touch anybody with their right hand or that person will die. This includes their wife and kids. If a magic boxer is attacked, he can take off his belt and it will straighten into a sword. If he takes off his shirt, it becomes a tiger. Her had never met a magic boxer, saying that they lived only among the most remote villages.
Our first stop was at a Kamu village at the bottom of the last big hill. Our guides explained that Lao houses were typically built on stilts, whereas the ones we were approaching had earth floors. We bought water from the store next to the road. The bamboo structure had a thatched roof and a dirt floor, and also doubled as the family’s home. They invited us in, even those of us smoking cigarettes, and sat us down at their table. It was cool inside, and simple but well-kept. Everything was tidy and in its place.
Kamu family who invited us into their home.
As we were leaving, the mother took Sabrina by the arm and gestured toward the snacks on display. “Please, you buy something,” she said. “For my daughter.” Sabrina looked stricken and asked the guys if she was serious. The woman gave a false laugh and said she was only joking. I bought a couple bags of peanuts that totaled about fifty cents.
We continued on, stopping every once in a while to rest. Several of us got stuck with gearless bikes so climbing the hills was kind of a haul. I was fortunate in that I rented a mountain bike. Theoretically, it had 21 gears, but I had to cycle through a few gears at a time before I found one that worked.
We took a photo/donut break in another village that offered a view of the river. I should add that the donut lady who comes to our hostel has acquired legendary status among its denizens.I suspect that this reputation is due more to the amount of week smoked here than to the quality of the donuts, per se, but the donuts are pretty good, I can attest from a perspective of sobriety. Felix tried a donut for the first time in his life, one of many important cultural exchanges of the day, and he approved, as well.
Taking a photo/donut break by the river.
Finally, we arrived at Her’s house. The main structure was built out of cinder blocks and had a metal roof, although I noticed the front of it had been started with red brick. Nearly one whole side of the house was filled with sacks of rice. Her said it was enough to last the family a year. The floor was bare concrete, with a thin straw mat in the corner. Her’s mother sat on this, along with his four-year-old sister and the newly arrived baby, just one month old. We greeted her in clumsy Hmong (“leunong,” if I remember correctly, and I probably don’t), and made the requisite fuss over the baby. We sat on little wooden stools that stood maybe three inches high and were surprisingly comfortable. It’s interesting to think of the amount of wood and metal and fabric we could save back home if we were content to sit on three-inch stools.
Her in front of *his* kitchen.
We went outside to eat sugar cane while Her’s sister prepared lunch. The guys laughed at our attempts to peel it with the big knives before coaching us on how to do it properly. They hadn’t even considered that peeling sugar cane could be difficult, having done it since they were, well, at least four, since I saw Her’s little sister hacking away at it with her own miniature knife.
We asked the guys if it was okay to be gay in Laos. They seemed confused by the question. “Yes, why not?” I encountered this same attitude in Thailand and am told it is common throughout Buddhist cultures. No one makes a big deal out of it one way or the other. None of them betrayed any trace of embarrassment when Hua said he might be gay, because he wasn’t interested in girls. But he also said he would probably like to get married one day.
The kitchen was directly next to the house and had a low, thatched roof which I kept brushing my head against as I walked by. Inside was a fire pit and kettle, shelves, tools hanging on the wall, and a low table in the corner. We carried our stools inside and ate a lunch of noodle soup, rice, and eggs, while the farang among us dripped with sweat from the heat of the fire. Her’s sister disappeared demurely as soon as we entered. It seemed like I only ever caught glimpses of her as she swept around a corner or hurried across the yard to do some chore or another.
Sabrina, Felix, and Hua getting ready to chow down.
After lunch and more sugar cane (I had a horrible suspicion we were eating too much of it, but our guides kept insisting), we struck out across town to visit Hua’s uncle, who had a fishing net the guys wanted to borrow. We, the farang, insisted on walking, or at least, Sabrina and I did. I was pretty sure my tailbone was bruised and the last thing I wanted to do was hop back on the goddamned bike.
It should be mentioned that Stephen is quite an accomplished cyclist. He started his journey in China and rode a bike all the way to Laos, and he talks casually about continuing on to Cambodia. While the rest of us panted and cursed our way up the hills, he pedaled comfortably on, even with his bike weighed down with all of his belongings. People back home keep referring to my travels as an “adventure,” but as far as I’m concerned, that term would be applied more readily to journeys like Stephen’s.
Anyway, we arrived at the house and hung out for a while watching Thai television. The place was packed with kids, most of whom gaped at us and kept retreating behind each other, but some of whom offered a brave “sabaidee” and a smile. One of them, a little tyke still in diapers, took one look at me and burst into tears. If I’m lucky he’ll remember me as the first farang he ever saw: a pale, stubbly ogre in glasses.
And on that note, I will chop this entry in half and post the rest soon. To be continued…
Chopping up some sugar cane.
The Traveling Yokel 