From the courtyard of my guest house I watch Luang Prabang's magical almsgiving ceremony one last time. A pick-up truck transfers me to the longboat 'pier' outside of town (just a dirt path down a steep river bank, really) for the start of my two-day boat journey up the Mekong to the Thai border.
I'm all clogged up and sick still, with a runny nose, a sore throat, and blocked ears, but I'm trying to avoid any drugs.
On the truck out to the pier I have a moment of doubt. 'Shit. Do I have both my passports?', I suddenly think to myself, aware of the possibility I may have left one passport with the guest house when checking in. But my heart resumes its normal beat when I reach into my valuables bag and feel the shape of two hard passports with my fingers. I've had half a dozen or so of these heart-in-your-throat moments on this trip. There are many things which you can lose with not too much of a bother, but your passport or your credit cards are not ones. One time, in Sihanoukville, I had slid my credit cards between the pages of a book before going out to a bar with Nic, just to be safe, but had forgotten this by the morning. This led to a half hour of frenzied searching through every single thing I own, before locating the rectangles of plastic.
I'm used to it being cold by now, and this morning is no exception. As we put out into the muddy river, the clouds hang low on the dark green mountains, reluctant to budge, defying the hot, rising sun.
I had read that some boats on this route have hard seats, but I'm glad to find myself in a soft upholstered chair (make-shift, taken out of a bus, nonetheless), and I pull out my book in preparation for an 8 or 9 hour ride ahead. Next to me a daddy-complex Australian couple are French kissing and heavy petting, disturbing the sensibilities of the modest Buddhist locals which staff the boat. But they're oblivious to the Lao, and the stunning countryside passing by them as they suck one another's face.
We pass great folds of jungle mountains, riverside houses and tiny villages with no electricity or land access, fishermen tending to nets, and giant teak trees emerging from the forest canopy.
A talkative Malaysian family is seated in front of me, the husband is napping and the wife and who I assume is her sister are holding his head upright so he can snooze while they chat away. That is love, I think to myself.
We're in the middle of the dry season – you can see the high water mark on the banks and the rocks – and large, treacherous rocks stick up out of the brown current, and it's not a simple course up the river for the boat. I had imagined a wide river casually flowing down through Laos, but there are whirlpools and currents, rocks and eddies.
I finish Stephen Fry's 'Moab is My Washpot', and, most likely through my vanity, can't help but see similarities between him and me. He's very analytical, possibly to a fault, like I am.
The old Malaysian man is awake now and we happen to make eye-contact.
He asks me a number of questions - “where you from?” “what you doing here?” “how long you travelling?” “when you go home?” “which city in Australia?” - to which I answer briefly.
He tells me how he “has a student” living in Perth, studying pharmacy.
I stare out at the thick steep jungle which angles up from the banks of this big river and I wonder what each of the trees are. I wonder how many plants and animals and insects are in there which are not even known to science. This, I feel, is very remote countryside.
The old man turns to me and asks “where you from?” “how long you travelling?” and tells me how he has a student studying pharmacy in Perth.
He suffers from dementia.
“What's that called in English?” he asks me, pointing.
“Forest”, I say.
“Very beautiful. Very beautiful”.
His wife strokes his head, and he closes his eyes. She covers his ears while her sister props his head up so he can snooze some more.
I can see locals walking along the river's edge, up on the steep sand, wearing sarongs. And buffalo bathe where the water is still, and kids play and men go past us in their small fishing boats.
We put in at Pakbeng, a very small one-street town which only really exists as a half-way point for the boats between Luang Prabang and the Thai border.
It's a quiet place with not much to do. I buy BeerLao's dark variety, forgetting that I can't taste anything due to my sickness. I find the town's only pharmacy and buy a decongestant and pain killer.
Pakbeng is in the golden triangle, and on my short three minute walk back to my guest house from the pharmacy I'm propositioned several times.
“Marry-warna sir? You wanna smoke opium?”
Opium?! Opium! Did not realise people still smoked that stuff.
I'm hoping for a decent sleep as it's another 9 or 10 hours on the river tomorrow.
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