OK, after a massive struggle with my own technological ineptitude, I have at last found my way back into my blog!

However, so much time has now passed since my last post that I'll probably be here all night trying to catch up with it all. Here is one story which willprobably go onabit,butI have to tell you about .....

The Village

At my old guest house in Luang Prabang I found things much the same as last year, except that my dear friend Madame is gone, and there's a new young manager called Sommay, who has rapidly becomes my number one protege. Extremely bright and capable, he's the sort of kid that will make Laos into a better place if he gets a chance. For those who know the Young-Murphy clan--he's a proto Jim Murphy.

So when he and his mates Soum and Sith invited me to come with them to their village for a festival, I blithely accepted. And when they asked if I would take some candy for the children of the village, I replied loftily that I wasn't taking candy, but school notebooks, pencils, erasers and sharpeners, which they thought was great. So we spent a few days speeding around town buying piles of books, stocking up on warm clothing (much colder up-country) and having hilarious times in the markets trying on sweaters. (They don't make much that's big enough for me)

Then, early in the morning four of us, loaded with our packs, all the books etc. plus bags of lunch, got on two motorbikes and wobbled down to the boat ramp, where I was pleased to see that the boat was one with lovely padded seats, not the usual hard narrow planks that you sometimes get. I was also pleased to be the only falang on the boat. So for eight hours we dozed, drank in the scenery, ate lunch---this involves spreading out a mat on the floor and laying out a low table and on it all our provisions and those of some others on the boat and all digging in with our fingers into the feast---and I tutored an eager student from a tiny village upriver who was thirsty for English tuition. He was particularly pleased when he checked a couple of points of grammar with me and said, "So my teacher was wrong!"

Then came the unloading of ourselves, the books, the bags and, yes, the motorbikes. Since I was paying, we took them with us.

Now this is the dry season and the Mekong is very low, about 10 metres low, in fact and the only way ashore is up the steep sandy banks by way of a couple dozen lung-bursting concrete steps. As I sat at the top attempting to restart respiration, the boys basically carried the two motorbikes up the slope. I was astounded at their strength, perseverance, and sheer will. It took about half an hour, and a lot of puffing and grunting but then we were off, winding through a tiny village and down a muddy track.

When I say off, I mean off and on and off and on again, repeatedly, because in some places the track was too steep, in some it forded a small river, in some it disappeared into a quagmire, so the bikes surged through somehow, or were carried and we passengers walked, carrying the loads then wiping off the mud. Which is what everybody else bound for the same festival had to do; just walk, for around two hours. There are no vehicles.

Except for the petrol-driven cultivator/tractor, pulling a wagon to carry the supplies brought by the boat, but there was no room for our stuff, so it took us about an hour and a half to get to the village. It was an exhilarating trip through forests and fields, occasionally encountering little wiry, brown hill people squatting by the road with massive loads of firewood on their backs and looks of horror on their faces at the sight of me. We laughed a lot and the village welcomed us warmly as we rode in.

Soum's family killed a chicken and made a special dinner for us, but it was almost too salty and spicy for me to eat. Never mind, I loaded up on rice.

I was lodged in the headman's house (Sith's family) and told I could take a bath, which involves pouring very cold water over oneself while hoping not too many of the villagers are gathered outside the woven bamboo wall or likely to wander in to wash the rice for dinner or whatever.

The next three days were a blur of meals eaten in various houses, sitting on the floor and dipping into communal bowls, drinking far too much beer and lao lao, filthy-tasting home-made rice 'whisky') , and having a whale of a time as the lads sang and laughed and occasionally passed out or chundered out the window. Nobody objected because the entire village was doing the same thing, this being a festival. Everywhere we went around the village, we were welcomed and feted, especially me because I am a falang and because of the schoolbooks.

A special presentation was made and photographed as I handed over the parcels and everybody grinned happily and talked volubly as the boys struggled to translate. Sommay understood little more than I did as they all speak Leu, rather than Lao, in this village, and only a very few had any English, and still fewer were willing to use it. Somehow it didn't matter.

It was a fairly dense, higgledy-piggledy collection of bamboo, timber and concrete houses, some more solid than others, but the ground was just sand or packed earth, so there was constant dust, and they all cook over open fires and warm themselves the same way, so it was pretty smoky as well, and very cold at night, but lovely and warm in the daytime.

The only light at night came from the fires and a few wan lightbulbs powered by a tangle of cords just overhead that led from little turbines in the fast flowing creek, which was carefully dammed and channelled to create duck ponds, bathing ponds and water supplies.

The village exists on rice and sesame seed farming, and some people sell a bit of rice as well as the sesame seeds and that is the ONLY income. Some people don't actually have money at various times of the year, but they make what they need, mainly from bamboo, and grow veggies, collect fruit and raise various animals, which skitter around underfoot most of the time. Miraculously, none of the dogs or cats were snaffling any of the chooks or pigs, and seemed happy to exist on rubbish and bits of sticky rice that fell their way.

We, on the other hand feasted on a large buffalo that spent my first night tethered outside munching hay and the next day being cut up into various chops and things and distributed to all the families. I'll send photos soon of all the men gathered around this vast exploded beast, slicing and dicing away, and sorting the bits into various piles, none of which was wasted. I saw every villager arrive with a bowl in which he or she carried away a cup or two of fresh blood for the making of a sort of spicy jelly which everyone ate with great relish at the drinking parties.

Unfortunately that was the only tender bit of the big fella, but I couldn't bring myself to have more than a taste. Lao don't eat hot food, they serve it hot and just keep on eating it even when it's stone cold. And they love to scoop up spoonfulls of stuff and pop them into one's mouth in a gesture of caring hospitality, especially for me, the friendly falang, so I had a varied diet for those three days.

There were ceremonies at the temple giving food and to the monks and novices, and there were special little parades, which we were hauled into, that shuffled through the village under a shower of rice and tiny lollies, and which culminated with the setting up and blessing of tall bamboo pagodas draped in material goods and lavishly decorated with coloured paper and tinsel, that were being symbolically sent to departed family members. To the sounds of drums and cymbals and chanting and general mayhem, five of these were erected , about five meters tall, in the temple yard for three days before another ceremony was held at each one, praying for the loved one and then pouring a small glass of blessed water slowly into the earth in remembrance of that person.

I distinguished myself by weeping pretty much right through one ceremony because I discovered that one young man had lost his mother, and more recently, his bride, due to pregnancy complications. In 2007!!! These people need a proper road into the village and I'm not going to stop until I collect enough money to build a few simple concrete fords over concrete pipes to make sure that they have at least a chance of getting down to the Mekong and getting a boat into Luang Prabang to the hospital. Can you hear the rattling of my tin from there?

Then there was another parade to the edge of the village, clapping and drumming and crashing cymbals to welcome visitors from the next village, dancing at various houses along the way, everybody fairly legless, but utterly happy with life, and then a procession to edge of the creek, a blessing from the monks and the firing of ancient guns as a prayer for rain. (used to be rockets).

The final night was pure magic, with all the young people of the village gathered in the temple by candlelight as the monks and novices chanted, sitting cross-legged and impassive in their brilliant orange robes. At one point we all got up and went out to circle the temple three times while the monks blessed us and then back in for more chanting. What struck me mostwas that this was a joyous fun night out for the teenagers,some of whom giggled right the way through, while some older folk were obviously deeply engrossed in learning a new chant, but seemed completely unperturbed by the hi-jinks in the far corner.

The next day we left, despite entreaties to stay on for a big all-village picnic, because my body couldn't handle any more e-coli and smoke and dust and becasue I was invited to a wedding back in Luang Prabang the next day. So we trundled backto the river village, this time catching a cargo boat which we shared with eight rather reluctant buffalo and one pig, plus a massive load of firewood and a half-dozen people. We sprawled on a mat and dozed our way back to town where I had to have a very good wash before stepping out in my splendid new Lao fancy dress among all the equally splendid burghers of Luang Prabang, smiling and trying to dance Lao style ---which I can't do---and glowing with the memory of my village days.

OK, you can go back to your normal lives now. I'll leave you alone for a bit and write more when I get a chance.