Off The Trail

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…