May 3rd, 2013
I was slow to leave Nong Khiaw, puttering out of town just before
9am. I missed several precious hours of cool and comfortable riding. However,
at least the view seemed to be improving, with fewer fields burning each night.
My eventual destination was Phonsavan, site of the famous
Plain of Jars. I had skipped them in 2009, but recalled decent reviews. This
time, my backdoor route planning took me right by them. I would be zigzagging
though some hilly terrain, winding up and down switchbacks of jungle covered
limestone on towards the famous jars.
Leaving town, I followed the river for some time. Every few
minutes compelled me to stop and take in amazing views of 100 meter plus
vertical sections of limestone in close proximity to the riverbank. Vines, ivy,
bushes, and even full grown trees lead precarious lives in on pock marked faces
of these cliffs. However, I had to press on, having dilly-dallied that morning.
The road was in highly respectable condition; I don’t recall
any potholes. Though narrow for two lanes, it didn’t carry much traffic, and I
often had the road all to myself. The relative solitude of the road gave rise
to dream-like pontifications. Had everything had been put there so for when I
would pass though and experience it? It certainly felt that way.
Had the roads, towns, and people been fabricated and placed
just so; and had the wild and seemingly random universe conspired to make me
think about this or that, creating a perfect illusion of choice, eventually
leading me to ride a motorcycle through Laos? If there was any particular
message, it was lost on me. But, there I was: an isolated and distinct agent
among the many.
I wound my way upwards and attained dramatic views of the surrounding
jungle. Passing through a wisp of a village along the ridge-line, I saw two
dirt-bikers paused at a food stall. I slowed and we chatted for a bit. Laos is
great for off-road riding. An ever-changing network of dirt track connects most
of the countryside; places few tourist get to go. The riders, a Dutchman and
his Cambodian guide, mentioned that they had done some tough off-road riding. I
asked them about how my bike would fare in such conditions.
“If you’re an excellent rider, and had someone to ride with,
I suppose it would be possible, but very difficult with your rig” the Dutchman
explained.
I wanted neither difficulties nor someone to ride with. I
knew it would be years before I could call myself an excellent rider,
especially for off-road. Time and practice alone make one into an excellent
rider, and I was comparatively new to serious riding. The Cambodian guide
exchanged some words with a local guy and got my attention.
“This guy here says you can go back about 2km and take a
right onto a new dirt road. It meets back up
with the main road after about
50km, and it should be easy riding” he said in perfect English.
I had the time, and I needed the practice, so I took a
chance. I doubled back and found the turn-off. I was immediately pleased by
what I found. I turned off the main road at a crest, and so came instantly upon
sweeping jungle views, stretching in all directions. I left mostly deserted
asphalt for completely deserted dirt track.
A slight haze remained in the air, but it did not enshroud
the obvious: I was staring over vast amounts of primeval Asian jungle. There
would be no power lines or paved roads to the horizon in every direction. Several
hill-tribes and minimally contacted people live all over Laos, particularly in
areas like this one. Being so close to the main road, I had no hopes of seeing
such people. However, I could rightfully imagine that within my panorama lay
another world; a raw and untouched humanity; a psychology and perception of
reality is unknown and perhaps unknowable to me, yet the desire to understand
is there.
The road descended and I followed it. At first I rode
perpendicular to the main road, riding away from a more connected world, and
into the tick of the jungle. Within minutes, I was in the shade of jungle
canopy, driving through a natural archway of increasingly dark greenery. I
stopped to have a listen. It was just before noon; the more sonorous creatures had gone to bed
hours ago. Although hot and humid jungle air dampens sound, I heard insects
buzzing in the heat of the day, with a few unseen birds chatting at a distance.
The road maintained its surprising good quality and
continued to burrow deeper into the jungle. Eventually, I came to an
intersection and was forced to make a decision. There were two options: turn
right onto a good dirt road which seemed to exit the jungle and continue parallel
to the main road, or continue straight, burrowing deeper into the jungle and
away from the main road.
I peered deep into natures tunnel and felt the pull of
mystery. “What’s down that road?” I wondered. In the end, prudence prevailed. I
didn’t feel like getting lost, or losing a day to backtracking. The area was
presumably safe, but that the road into the jungle may well have gone nowhere
special. I followed what I determined to be the route the old man spoke of.
I exited the jungle and went through some very out of the
way villages, waving to surprised locals as I moseyed through town. I stopped
at a river crossing to have a look, laughing at myself when I discovered that
the water was only a few inches deep and two meters across. A scooter could
ford it without hesitation. I was stopped on the outskirts of a tiny village,
perhaps twenty houses in all. After a drink of water, I convinced myself to go
and say hello. I grabbed my Polaroid camera to make some easy friends, and
sauntered toward the village.
As I approached town, a middle aged man came to greet me. I
assume he thought I was lost, or had broken down, but I shook his hand, said
hello, and motioned to have a look around. Seeming to understand, he acquiesced
and lead me to his doorstep where several children gathered. I raised the
digital camera I had slung around my neck and took some photos. With the
children laughing but cooperating, I took out the Polaroid and took a photo. We
all watched it come to life, and I left it with the man who greeted me. A
confounded look never left his face.
I took a quick look at the village and snapped some photos.
I left under pressure of mounting awkwardness. I had no idea what I was doing
there, but it was interesting if nothing else. I rode on, bemused by my ten
minute tour of a random village. Some minutes later I passed through another, slightly
more extensive village. A chorus of hello’s came ringing from a blue and white cement
school-house. Still unsure of myself, I made another impulsive pit stop. I
waved, said hello to the children, and grabbed my cameras. Again, I had no real
plan, but decided to check out the town.
Lao people are extraordinarily friendly, both to foreigners
and each other. I suppose community breeds cooperation – a trait which crosses
over socialization. I strolled into the unsuspecting village, and was met by
innumerable jovial gestures. I can’t possibly imagine what they thought I was
doing there. I can’t possibly imagine what I thought I was doing there. Having
practiced, I felt somewhat more natural this time around. Judging the faces of
the people, the event seemed to be understood for what it was: an innocent and
capricious coming together of two cultures. Why seemed pretty irrelevant.
The village was set squeezed between the main road and the
bank of the river – currently shallow and slight at the very end of the dry
season. In close proximity, and in every direction, the village was hemmed in
by steep hills, a few hundred meters in elevation. Wandering large livestock
and light forest surrounded the village. The houses were clustered in an array,
perhaps three dozen in all, where the smaller livestock felt safe. Little did
they know.
The homes were much as you’d see in developing countries
everywhere: simple, cheap, and largely built by hand. Asia’s village homes have
their own unique functional and aesthetic qualities. Generally only one or two
room affairs, the houses sit elevated a few meters in the air, supported by
four to six thin pylons. Crossbeams are laid across the tiny pylons, creating a
frame for the floor. The floors are often made of bamboo, thin strips of which are
tacked close together, splaying the cylinder into smooth, tiny, floorboards. The
walls are usually woven, reed-like material. The roofs are made of either corrugated
metal sheets, or natural materials like bundled hay or palm fronds laid like
shingles. From indoors, the pitch of the roof is perceptibly steep, which helps
deal with the heat. Being elevated, most homes have wide and substantial
ladders leading into the entryway, or perhaps up to a landing.
I approached the first house I came to. An older women
cloaked in conventional garb sat outside with a younger women who was one of
the few people dressed in clean modern clothing. The younger woman spoke the slightest
bit of English, and I offered a Polaroid with her and the child that she had
slung around her neck. She smiled and attempted to get her young son to look at
the camera. She made eating and drinking gestures and waved me up to the house.
I eagerly accepted the invitation. I was hungry and thirsty, and it was becoming
clear to me that something like this was exactly what I hoped to have happen.
Leaving my muddy shoes at the base of the stairs, I climbed
up and into the kitchen – a tiny space adjoined to a one room house. In the
kitchen, there wasn’t much space to stand and everything was set on the floor.
I took a seat on a miniature stool, and looked up to see an increasing amount
of children looking in through the doorway. Another woman with child entered
the kitchen and one of the children dutifully stoked the fires of the ceramic cooking
chimney.
Innocent curiosity hung in the air. I had no idea what to
do, say, or expect. I suppose they didn’t either, but they seemed to be on
autopilot. I was given a glass of water from a teapot which had a red tinge to it.
The women in contemporary clothing picked up a skinned piece of wood,
pantomiming that the stick was boiled with the water, causing the coloration.
She raised both of her arms and flexed her biceps.
“Strong” she grunted with a smile.
The explanation was good enough for me, and I drank the
water down. It only had a slight earthy flavor; the stick colored the water more
than flavored it. I couldn’t readily think of a way to test for an increase in
strength, so I took it on faith that I temporarily possessed the strength of
ten men. I remained seated. A large circular tin tray was placed on top of an
upside down pail, creating a low table, and that’s when the feast began.
The glass of water was very welcoming, and I thought that
there might be a light snack and I’d be on my way. But, more women began to
gather in the kitchen, perhaps five in all, with various children taking turns
to peer through the door and giggle. A family sized basket of sticky rice was
taken out, and the table was soon set with various bowls filled with main
dishes. The women prompted me: “Eat, eat…” as women will do. For a while I was
the only person eating, but gradually they joined in – much to my relief.
The dishes were vaguely familiar to me, though they tasted more
pungent than anything served in restaurants. There was a bowl of minced pork
with a sour flavor, a briny bowl of potherbs and fish parts, and a bowl of tiny
steamed potatoes covered in oil and chili. The basket of sticky rice was passed
around continuously. Chunks of rice were pulled away from the main ball, and were
pressed into smaller orbs which were used to scoop food. The largest hunk of
fish was pulled out of the main bowl with a spoon and unquestioningly placed in
front of me.
“Eat, eat…” They causally implored.
It was then that I began to slide into a detachment so
relaxing it was divine. I felt at home, but not in the literal sense. I felt at
home as a human being. For once, I understood the depths to which the brethren
of human-kind belong to the Earth and to each other. To accept and be accepted
is bliss. All my cares floated away, and I noticed a dissolution of reality as normally experienced. It lasted for some time,
and my fellow Earth-bound compatriots perceptibly shimmered with pure intentions
and lack of pretense. There was no need for the moment to be anything other
than what it was.
More food was being cooked, more tiny potatoes were being
peeled and then plunked into boiling water. I answered what questions I could,
and kept saying ‘thank you’, ‘I like’, ‘very good’, and I imitated riding a
motorcycle – complete with sound effects. A sweet dish was placed on the table:
a bowl of potatoes and rice thickened and sweetened by condensed milk. The
relaxation remained, but my sense of presence was waning.
“Sleep?” the young mother who knew a bit of English asked. She
motioned towards the back of the house, indicating where I could lie down and
take a nap.
“No problem” she added.
Post lunch napping was a necessary custom in Asia, which I
was vaguely familiar with: wake up early, eat a bunch of rice in the heat of
the day, take a nice long nap. Indeed, I felt very tired.
“Tonight stay here?”
The offer was so natural, so spontaneous, so casual that I
longed for confirmation, but she walked into the adjacent room. I was still
enjoying the sweet course, and cold not follow her. Her husband walked into the
kitchen, also well dressed in modern, business-like clothing. We shook hands,
exchanged a few words, and he nonchalantly swaggered back into the main room.
It was as if my presence was the norm; like I was supposed to be there.
I stayed in the kitchen with women, and began issuing Polaroid
photos by request. I was quite pleased that they felt comfortable asking. The
asking was as natural as the giving. Exchanging tit-for-tat was not the goal,
but an incidental.
Lunch was tidied up; the table deconstructed and cleared. I
had been there almost two hours and didn’t feel like pressing on for the day.
In fact, I had forgotten all about my bike which sat alongside the school. My backpack
containing the bulk of my valuables was loosely strapped on top. Although I
admonished myself for lack of prudence, I wasn’t really worried.
I went searching for the young woman whom I thought had said
I could stay there for the night. She could not be found, but most people in the
house motioned to an area for me to nap. I was confused. Had I been invited to
nap, or to stay for the night? Practical concerns were returning, which gave my
perception of reality of different texture. What was happening with the bike? Where
was I sleeping that night? Where was I? That sort of thing. Ultimately, they
could wait a few minutes. Certainly, there was no harm in taking a thirty
minute cat-nap. So that’s what I did.
To be continued…
