Many of you have asked me what the heck I am doing up here, and I can't really answer that definitively yet, but others have wondered if I plan to stay for a while and a few have asked if there will be a guest room if I do stay.
OK, I think the answer is evolving as YES.
It happened this way....My guest house, the venerable Pa Phai, is a very old and charming building which is falling apart more decisively every day, due to the inexplicable and total neglect of the present lessee, and the staff are scared that they will soon lose their livelihoods and homes if the Tourist Commission shut it down due to non-payment of taxes. Two years are owed at the moment.
So I toyed with the idea of taking over the place, but after due consideration and some terse advice from a well-known Mr.Big of the Toronto property scene, I have stepped back from this rash course and have undertaken to lease a little house by the Mekong which I will renovate and where I will live for part of the year, hopefully visited frequently by as many of you as possible.
My "son', Sommay, will live there and manage my affairs here, his pal Joy will be my Guard and all-round handyman, and Joy's sister, Me, will cross the river in a little boat from her village and do the cleaning and washing and tend the veggie patch we will have in the dry season when the river recedes.
It will cost a fraction of what it would cost to do the same thing in Brisbane and will be lots of fun, especially around 5 PM when the sun goes down in a big red ball over the Mekong and we sit on the big verandah I am having built with G&Ts clutched in our fists.
Various other boys will hang out there and sleep there and look after me, living downstairs in the huge main room, dining room and kitchen and I will have several little rooms upstairs including a spare room an office and a bedroom, which will open onto the aforementioned verandah.
I will provide them with a home, small monthly salaries, computer access, English lessons and basic food and they will call me Mum and take me places on their motorbikes and teach me Lao.
Tomorrow we get the architect's drawings, Wednesday we get the builder's quote, and Thursday we will sign the contract and take the plans for permission from Unesco to make sure i'm not creating a World Heritage eyesore. Then we pay some body a small "fee" and hope the permission comes through in a week or so.
Then we build, hopefully finishing the majority of the work before I come back to Oz.
The expat community are all buzzing with the news and promising to come for the housewarming. Given the proclivities of most of them it will be loud and long and a screaming success. Some have threatened to come in drag, which should be a thrill for my new neighbours.
So it's not time to start packing your sarongs and your immodium just yet, but this is your official invitation.....Oh, you may need to practice your Asian toilet technique and limber up your knees as I'm not sure just how far the budget will extend....But there will be a real shower and it will be hot, not just a dipper and a cold tap.
The house will also be the headquarters for The Bamboo Village, the non-profit I am starting to funnel contributions to my various deserving folks over here. The name is a tribute to the extraordinary universal building material and to the incredibly resourceful Lao villagers who use it for a million things, often creating ingenious and beautiful tools and utensils that say a lot about the essential aesthetic here.
OK, I'll stop waffling and let you get on with finding your atlases and your passports.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
The Visitation
One of the joys of my life is having friends around to laugh with so life was especially joyful for me when not one, but two lots of dear friends arrived to see me here in dear old Luang Prabang last month.
Marion and Lawrence from Australia and David and Grecia from Canada braved Lao Airlines inflight food and came to make sure I haven't gone troppo up here in the land of three dollar massages, five dollar rooms and free Mekong views.
Xieng Thong Temple with its grand and glorious buildings and especially the walls decorated with inlaid bits of coloured mirror fragments depicting a fantastic series of stories about giant rabbits, warriors, princesses, elephants and farmers, is an absolute treat. We wandered the dusty streets, shopping for mulberry paper lanterns, nibbling sweet potato biscuits, searching for cans of cold tonic water and discussing the effectiveness of our respective diarrhoea remedies and preventitives.
In the evenings we tried all sorts of restaurants, Indian, Lao and European; some were delightful, others gave us great material for future anecdotes. Ask Lawrence about the small shrivelled item---rather like an old shrunken shower cap---that he was given when he asked for an omelette. We all agreed that Nisha's Indian was a standout favourite and we loved Toui's for breakfasts, mainly for the position, the ambience and the pancakes. And the rather adorable Toui, of course.
Marion and Lawrence and I went up the Mekong for a day with my mate Mr. Thongdy to the Pak Ou caves, smoky grottoes in a sheer cliff face where people have installed hundreds of Buddhas over the years. We visited the tiny temple and wandered through the sweet dusty village of Pak Ou on the other side of the river and had a meal in one of the rickety bamboo platform restaurants high on the banks of the river, where we watched the fishermen throwing their nets and beating the water and the buffaloes munching and the children playing in the golden sunshine.
And the sweating troupes of tour groups puffing up the banks from their boats, which meant it was time for us to leave. A lovely ride home down the big brown Mekong, where there is always a pleasant breeze. Mr. T let me drive the boat, but I noticed his gnarled little brown hands were never far from the wheel, as the Mekong is a treacherous, fast moving beast in the dry season with rocks and sandbanks everywhere.
Then Marion and Lawrence and I and my new friend Francine, the indomitable nurse from France with many hair-raising tales to tell about her missions with Medicins sans Frontiers,
went off to Siem Reap in central Cambodia to penetrate the mysteries of Angkor with Lawrence as our intrepid guide, he having read all the books.
Siem Reap was a dreary, hot, dusty little place, but it is mushrooming with obscenely grand new hotels plus the usual assortment of cheap guesthouses and extremely persistent tuk tuk drivers and street vendors.
The real reason to be there is of course the vast temple complex of Angkor, ancient city of the Khmer and others who participated in the bloodthirsty pageant that is the history of SE Asia.
For $40 Usd., one got a 3 day pass to wander all over the place and marvel at it all. We hired two tuk tuks and made a feeble attempt to see what we could, but it would take months to do the place justice because you need to keep taking breaks to let it all sink in. And have a shower and a cold drink.
The heat, the incredible crowds, the crush of traffic and vendors of knock-off guidebooks, scarves, t-shirts, you-name-it make it harder to have the serene experience that you might like, but all in all I'm delighted to have had the experience and will mull over the images of the tall blackened temples, statuary and carving, especially the one where nature has been allowed to grow over the ruins for a truly powerful picture of nature and civilisation quietly, inexorably trying to strangle each other.
There were tears when I had to say goodbye to M. and L. as they headed for BKK and home, and then Francine went off back to Luang Prabang and I decided I'd better see some of southern Laos, since it was right there and all.
Pakse, on the Mekong, well....you can keep it, thanks. I guess I'm spoiled after the delights of Luang Prabang, but it's hot and dirty and flat and there's very little attractive architecture. It is, however, the jumping off point for the Bolaven Plateau, high and cool and covered in coffee plantations, national parks and waterfalls.
I went up to an exquisite little resort called Tad Fane which is named for the twin waterfalls across a deep gorge from the resort, and the waterfalls are named for the deer or fane which apparently went over the falls at some stage.
That would have been a dramatic way to go as the falls are 120 meters high and thunder refreshingly in the background as one lounges on the verandah of one's fetching little timber cottage or perches up in the high main verandah where meals and incredibly cheap and generous gin and tonics are served.
One stares, fascinated, at the falls, one a delicate veil of white droplets the other a thumping great gout of water that hits a rock outcrop halfway down and then crashes to the bottom of the sheer drop.
If one isn't recovering from a bout of persistent bronchial discomfort one goes off merrily for long hikes with a guide into the forest. I decided to try it anyway, and it was a great walk, wandering through coffee trees, then scrambling up and down vertical hills, clinging to tree roots and vines and climbing over rocks with Marco and Julia, young Germans from Singapore, who were gasping for breath just as much as I was, I am happy to say. Our fleet-footed local guide, the cheerful Sack, with very good English, wearing rubber sandals, basically skipped up and down the track without any difficulty.
It was worth the burst lungs and hours of coughing that followed later, however, for the thrill of standing at the very top of the falls and looking across the gorge at our accomodation, where people were trying to take beautiful photos of savage natural beauty but had to include us sweaty hikers as well.
One the third day I rose and walked down the dusty (I know I say that a lot but it IS dusty) road hoping not to have to wait too long before I could flag down a bus, only to have it arrive at precisely the moment I put my foot on the pavement. One seat left next to a small gnarled forest-dweller with amazing tattoos with whom I would loved to have talked. An hour and a half later I was in poor sad little Pakse with a beer and a huge Masala Dosai for lunch and by the evening back in cool, lovely Luang Prabang.
Thus endeth the lesson. I'll be back with news of the house I'm about to rent and renovate....I can hear Peter's blood pressure surging upwards from here at THAT news, but at least it means that the curious will log back on to find out what it's all about!
Marion and Lawrence from Australia and David and Grecia from Canada braved Lao Airlines inflight food and came to make sure I haven't gone troppo up here in the land of three dollar massages, five dollar rooms and free Mekong views.
Xieng Thong Temple with its grand and glorious buildings and especially the walls decorated with inlaid bits of coloured mirror fragments depicting a fantastic series of stories about giant rabbits, warriors, princesses, elephants and farmers, is an absolute treat. We wandered the dusty streets, shopping for mulberry paper lanterns, nibbling sweet potato biscuits, searching for cans of cold tonic water and discussing the effectiveness of our respective diarrhoea remedies and preventitives.
In the evenings we tried all sorts of restaurants, Indian, Lao and European; some were delightful, others gave us great material for future anecdotes. Ask Lawrence about the small shrivelled item---rather like an old shrunken shower cap---that he was given when he asked for an omelette. We all agreed that Nisha's Indian was a standout favourite and we loved Toui's for breakfasts, mainly for the position, the ambience and the pancakes. And the rather adorable Toui, of course.
Marion and Lawrence and I went up the Mekong for a day with my mate Mr. Thongdy to the Pak Ou caves, smoky grottoes in a sheer cliff face where people have installed hundreds of Buddhas over the years. We visited the tiny temple and wandered through the sweet dusty village of Pak Ou on the other side of the river and had a meal in one of the rickety bamboo platform restaurants high on the banks of the river, where we watched the fishermen throwing their nets and beating the water and the buffaloes munching and the children playing in the golden sunshine.
And the sweating troupes of tour groups puffing up the banks from their boats, which meant it was time for us to leave. A lovely ride home down the big brown Mekong, where there is always a pleasant breeze. Mr. T let me drive the boat, but I noticed his gnarled little brown hands were never far from the wheel, as the Mekong is a treacherous, fast moving beast in the dry season with rocks and sandbanks everywhere.
Then Marion and Lawrence and I and my new friend Francine, the indomitable nurse from France with many hair-raising tales to tell about her missions with Medicins sans Frontiers,
went off to Siem Reap in central Cambodia to penetrate the mysteries of Angkor with Lawrence as our intrepid guide, he having read all the books.
Siem Reap was a dreary, hot, dusty little place, but it is mushrooming with obscenely grand new hotels plus the usual assortment of cheap guesthouses and extremely persistent tuk tuk drivers and street vendors.
The real reason to be there is of course the vast temple complex of Angkor, ancient city of the Khmer and others who participated in the bloodthirsty pageant that is the history of SE Asia.
For $40 Usd., one got a 3 day pass to wander all over the place and marvel at it all. We hired two tuk tuks and made a feeble attempt to see what we could, but it would take months to do the place justice because you need to keep taking breaks to let it all sink in. And have a shower and a cold drink.
The heat, the incredible crowds, the crush of traffic and vendors of knock-off guidebooks, scarves, t-shirts, you-name-it make it harder to have the serene experience that you might like, but all in all I'm delighted to have had the experience and will mull over the images of the tall blackened temples, statuary and carving, especially the one where nature has been allowed to grow over the ruins for a truly powerful picture of nature and civilisation quietly, inexorably trying to strangle each other.
There were tears when I had to say goodbye to M. and L. as they headed for BKK and home, and then Francine went off back to Luang Prabang and I decided I'd better see some of southern Laos, since it was right there and all.
Pakse, on the Mekong, well....you can keep it, thanks. I guess I'm spoiled after the delights of Luang Prabang, but it's hot and dirty and flat and there's very little attractive architecture. It is, however, the jumping off point for the Bolaven Plateau, high and cool and covered in coffee plantations, national parks and waterfalls.
I went up to an exquisite little resort called Tad Fane which is named for the twin waterfalls across a deep gorge from the resort, and the waterfalls are named for the deer or fane which apparently went over the falls at some stage.
That would have been a dramatic way to go as the falls are 120 meters high and thunder refreshingly in the background as one lounges on the verandah of one's fetching little timber cottage or perches up in the high main verandah where meals and incredibly cheap and generous gin and tonics are served.
One stares, fascinated, at the falls, one a delicate veil of white droplets the other a thumping great gout of water that hits a rock outcrop halfway down and then crashes to the bottom of the sheer drop.
If one isn't recovering from a bout of persistent bronchial discomfort one goes off merrily for long hikes with a guide into the forest. I decided to try it anyway, and it was a great walk, wandering through coffee trees, then scrambling up and down vertical hills, clinging to tree roots and vines and climbing over rocks with Marco and Julia, young Germans from Singapore, who were gasping for breath just as much as I was, I am happy to say. Our fleet-footed local guide, the cheerful Sack, with very good English, wearing rubber sandals, basically skipped up and down the track without any difficulty.
It was worth the burst lungs and hours of coughing that followed later, however, for the thrill of standing at the very top of the falls and looking across the gorge at our accomodation, where people were trying to take beautiful photos of savage natural beauty but had to include us sweaty hikers as well.
One the third day I rose and walked down the dusty (I know I say that a lot but it IS dusty) road hoping not to have to wait too long before I could flag down a bus, only to have it arrive at precisely the moment I put my foot on the pavement. One seat left next to a small gnarled forest-dweller with amazing tattoos with whom I would loved to have talked. An hour and a half later I was in poor sad little Pakse with a beer and a huge Masala Dosai for lunch and by the evening back in cool, lovely Luang Prabang.
Thus endeth the lesson. I'll be back with news of the house I'm about to rent and renovate....I can hear Peter's blood pressure surging upwards from here at THAT news, but at least it means that the curious will log back on to find out what it's all about!
Thursday, March 1, 2007
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)