Sunset on the Mekong
The trip down the Mekong was pleasant enough, hangover aside. We passed a lot of small villages, their bamboo houses clustered together and looking over the river. People were engaged in familiar river activities, like fishing and swimming and washing clothes, as well as one or two unfamiliar ones. For example, I saw a number of villagers squatting half in the water, sifting objects through a kind of conical basket. I still don’t know what they were doing.
The only animals I saw were domesticated. Most of them were water buffalo, long-horned with ribs poking out through their sides. Other than these, the occasional village dog would come bounding out to the river’s edge to bark at us and wag its tail. Not a single wild animal made itself visible: no birds, no fish, nothing. My Canadian friend and I wondered why this would be. Hunting on the part of the villagers? Slash and burn agriculture destroying the forest habitat? The latter seemed a likely explanation, considering the dark haze that hung over everything and which we took to be smoke.
Snake whiskey, a Laotian specialty.
This haze grew thicker the closer we got to Luang Prabang. My hangover dissipated in inverse proportion to it. The Canadian and I shared a tuk-tuk to a guesthouse on the edge of the tourist district and settled in for the night. We went out for duck noodle soup and strolled down to the night market. Neither of us being big shoppers, and every other stall offering the same merchandise, we wound up sitting at a table outside of a store, drinking Beerlao and talking about everything from politics to conspiracy theories to religion. Often the boundaries between these topics got blurred.
The next day I moved out of the guesthouse and down the road to a backpacker hostel. I had needed that one more night of a private room, but it was refreshing to get back into a social atmosphere. It’s a big hostel with travelers from all over the world: lots of Brits and Australians and Canadians, as well as people from Argentina, Brazil, France, Holland, Hungary, and the States, even. The other major advantage of this place, called SpicyLaos Backpacker, is that it’s only 30,000 kip a night. If that sounds extravagant, bear in mind that this comes out to just under $4.
I am slowly getting used to the Laotian currency, and the more I do, the more I realize that Luang Prabang is actually quite expensive compared to Chiang Mai. This has been an unpleasant surprise, since I was led to believe that Laos would be cheaper than Thailand. I am told that most of the country is in fact cheaper, but that prices are higher in Luang Prabang and especially in the tourist sector. Food, for example, averages twice as much as it cost in Chiang Mai, and it’s not nearly as good. Still, at $2 a meal, I can’t complain too much.
My first night in SpicyLaos, I met another American from the Bay Area and made plans to meet up for drinks at a bar called Utopia. At dinner that night, I ran into an Irishman and an Englishman who were looking for the same bar, so we all trouped over together. Fortunately, the path was marked with sign after sign; otherwise, we would never have found the place through all the twisting alleyways and private residences. We suspected we were being had, and that the signs were some kind of tourist trap. I suspected we were being led to a godforsaken alley by the river where Laotians waited with knives and ice chests to carve out our organs and sell them on the black market. Okay, an Australian girl we met at the bar had suspected that. I wasn’t as imaginative, envisioning a plain old mugging and making lame jokes about naïve Westerners who believe in utopia.
In any case, we reached the bar without incident, and it turned out to be worth it. Bamboo decks extended toward the river, and the low tables were ringed by reclining cushions and lit by candles. I felt like a Roman general, leaning back like that in the candlelight. There was a sand volleyball court that I could appreciate, even if I wasn’t remotely tempted to set foot on it. Its boundaries consisted of well-made brick walls so that the whole thing was enclosed, although it was easily viewable from seats at the bar. Hookahs were available and I desperately wanted one. I failed, however, to incite the same passion in my drinking buddies — that is, until after we left, when everyone started complaining that we hadn’t gotten one.
I got a lesson in Australian geography from the Australian girl, and even had a map scrawled down in my notepad for future reference. I was put to the test the next night, and I am sad to say that I failed, thinking Melbourne was north of Sydney. It turns out it is south. I did know that it was on the east coast, and that Perth is in the west. I also have it from a good source that the interior of the country is home to more serial killers than aborigines. I suspect these demographics have been slightly exaggerated, however.
Which brings us up to yesterday (Feb 28?), when the American, Australian, and I set out to Kouangsi waterfall, along with the Australian’s traveling companion, who was from England. It was a beautiful swimming hole and had a decent number of trails. I walked along them barefoot, enjoying the coolness of the ground on my feet. There was jungle all around. Pictures to follow once the internet will cooperate.
Houangsi swimming hole
Don't know what the purpose is, but it's a nice touch.
The main waterfall.
Needless to say, we had a great time. As we were leaving, we passed a refuge for rescued black bears. A big, balding Aussie who worked there made an announcement, spreading his muddy hands wide and informing us that there was a separate enclosure with 12-month-old cubs, usually off-limits to tourists, which we could go have a look at. There were four cubs, each of them nearly as tall as me when they stood up on their hind legs and swatted at each other. Two of them wrestled incessantly, and another rolled on the ground and chomped loudly on a huge length of bamboo. The fourth one stood atop a log and gazed down imperiously at the rest.
Black bear cagefighting.
When we got back to Luang Prabang, we climbed the stone stairs up the hill to the city’s most prominent temple and watched the sun set over the Mekong. It was a great view, even if the sun disappeared behind the smoke before it actually reached the horizon.
Sunset from the hilltop temple.
Last night we returned to Utopia, and the Aussie, Brit, and I spent a fair amount of time playing “Would You Rather,” a game my step-sister remains unrivaled at. I held my own, trained as I was by the best. The question I was most proud of, posed to the two straight women, was, “Would you rather sleep with a ladyboy, or a 75-year-old man with an enormous, hairy gut?” I can’t remember the final answer. They vacillated several times, which, to me, is the sign of a good “Would You Rather” question.
As for today, I am going to take it easy and idly formulate some travel plans. North? South? I don’t know. I don’t much care, at this point. Many people are traveling on to Viang Vieng, south of here, which is a place notorious for its hard-partying foreigners. You can float the river there and have ropes thrown out to you from bars on the river’s edge. You meander down it and drink yourself into oblivion and hopefully don’t drown. This is a novel concept to every other traveler I have talked to, but as I point out, the only innovation there are the bars. Back home, we float the river, but we bring our own booze — Douglas County style.
Anyway, we’ll see. I’ll go somewhere within the next couple days and that’s as far as I care to think about it. There are more legitimate trekking operations up north than can be found in Chiang Mai. That sounds appealing. Then again, so does floating the river. I swear the heat is more oppressive up here. Maybe I’ll flip a coin.
(I wrote this on Leap Day, but have been unable to post it until now. The internet only works when I am screwing around and refuses to cooperate as soon as I need to do anything constructive.)
The Traveling Yokel 