Loving Laos

14 hours on a bus later, I am in Vienne Tian, Laos, snuggled up in the tourist area, munching Scandanavian shortbread after the best pastrami and mustard sandwich of recent years. I do love the colonies.

I drop off my bag at the Mixay Guesthouse, buy a floppy hat, and walk down the riverside. The two square miles that comprise the tourist area has a marked boundary of people not staring at you to people stopping in their tracks to see what you're doing outside your quarter. And the houses turn from brick and plaster behind metal gates to shacks made of corrugated iron and woven bamboo screens tied together with twine.

There are dogs, there are chickens. There are tall temples around dusty corners, and fishermen in long boats trying to find things to eat from the Mekong River. And everyone gets their own hammock.

A couple of hours in, I realise that I've stopped sweating, and dehydration is a pain to deal with. “Could I have some water, ka?” The young couple at the stall selling beer and fizzy drinks look blank. “Water?” I ask in a Canadian accent this time. “Nam plaow? Nam geaow?” I ask in badly pronounced Thai. The whole street is now involved in trying to understand what I want. A woman appears from her door with two bottles of water raised aloft, and invites me inside. It's a small acupuncture clinic with eight beds separated by screens. (Rachel please stop reading here) On one of the beds lies a 15-year-old girl who she is treating for a brain injury two months previously. She has ten needles in her face, under her ear, and a couple in each wrist. There are used needles on the tables. The doctor swiftly but deftly plucks out each needle, which is a little creepy to see. Then she takes me to her house on the river where I meet her son. We start talking, as you do, and he invites me to visit his friend's farm on a river north of the city. Meet you at the temple, tomorrow at 1PM.

We drive and drive, through the city, down a questionable reconstruction of Champs Elisee complete with its own Arc de Triumphe, out past the fruit stalls floor to ceiling with apples and tiny oranges, past the smoking barbeques grilling chicken feet and cat fish, and down the dusty red road. Everything is covered in red dust; the plants, the houses, the laundry hanging outside the houses. An hour and a sore pair of legs later, we are at the farm.

This is very exciting to me, because I have been looking to find someone who will tell me the names of trees. Here is mango, banana, starfruit, jackfruit, bamboo bamboo, and fish. Fish is not a tree. I befriended a cow.

We go across the river on a ferry made of wooden planks with a longtail motor driving it. We are dropped off in a tiny village, and in minutes the rumour has spread that there is a falang in town. Stepping around baby goats and little children, we walk through the dusty streets, saying hello to old women poking at weeds in their front yards, and to children hiding in trees. Some try out their English, “Oh! My gosh! Hello. I like you.” Everyone stares but they are all friendly.

Later, my guide takes me to his counsin's wedding, big honour. I sit with his family, we celebrate with many toasts to everybody's health, and I learn to line dance Laos style.

A fine day.

75 days later

It has been quite a while since I swallowed the lump in my throat as the plane landed on the hazy Bangkok runway, when I sweated at customs praying that they would not ask what my specific intentions were for visiting the country, that IT WOULDN'T BE TO WORK, WOULD IT?

My enthusiasm for noodles has not guttered, though I know what I like, and I know I don't like the thick gloopy ones that all stick together in a shiny brown "gravy" goo. I could eat noodles all day, even just one long noodle, a day-long noodle.

I'd say I've got more streetwise, as in I look where I'm going so I don't fall into huge holes or fight battles with cranky dogs. And I tend not to walk under electric cables.

I miss ale, but I have fresh coconut.

I miss pubs, but I have bamboo huts by the river.

I miss Norwich, Leeds, Brighton, Bristol, Stroud (for the autumn smells), London (ya cunt), I miss watching reruns of Mighty Boosh under a blanket with a mug of brown tea after a chilly walk through a muddy field. And by gum do I miss the mass unemployment, the seething hatred of the establishment, I miss the fight fight fight!

But I found a punk show, a tiny room full of Thai boys with 3-foot long mohawks and studs all over everything, jumping around like bingo balls in their DMs. I got some excellent bruises from dancing (shoving and getting shoved about), and I let out all that pent up energy that comes from walking pretty and talking about yoga, noodles, and how cheap coconuts are.

I think I have found a nice balance of activities to keep me sane here for a while, ie sipping wine at the Riverside vs not going anywhere near or even climbing inside abandoned buildings; chatting Chekov at book swaps vs. howling along the street in Critical Mass.

I may be here until March 2013. So book yr tickets, mai?

Megaboom

Loi Loi Krathon, Loi Loi Krathon... The Lantern Festival! Light a kom loi, make a wish! Float a krathon, feed the river gods! Decorate your front door sweetly, be nice to all your friends! Stock up on explosives and whiskey though, you don't want to run out.

The parades are long but they are pretty. See the giant blue glittery cloud decorated with swans and umbrellas that nestles a little girl dressed in red and gold who can hardly keep her head up because her face is so thickly laid with eyelash glue, lipstick, and meters of fake hair. A cable on the back of the float connects to a truck following closely behind, bearing a large generator that cloaks the street in an ethereal diesel mist. The traditional bands carrying gongs, very long drums, and boys who dance/fight with cymbals, are usually drowned out by the 10-speaker sound systems. And so on for two hours. Great costumes, smiling people (how do they smile for so long? Vaseline), epic dancing.

The day after, school has the afternoon off to make krathons, which are offerings to the river made of folded banana leaves and decorated with flowers, incense and candles in the shape of a lotus. The idea is to put your wishes on the krathon, light the candle and push it into the river, where it floats downstream, all the way out to sea probably. My 7-year-old friend Bandok (on the left in the picture) and I struggle through, doing our best to make something beautiful.

Interesting story I heard about the origins of these floating offerings; the original city was settled a few miles downstream of the established Chiang Mai. There was a horrible virus that started killing everyone off, a kind of bubonic plague situation with the sick packed into areas separate from the village. Of course quarantines are tricky when your walls are made of bamboo leaves, so the uninfected people were left with few choices. Those that could, left. They left their families behind and took boats upstream to start a new village. This village was extra clean and healthy, and everyone was happy with their new lives. But they didn't forget their sick relatives, and knowing that they were struggling, every full moon they sent down boats built from banana trees filled with provisions. And so, krathons for our ancestors.

Two days after the first parade, there is another one. They told me, “It's like the last one, but bigger!” Indeed. Now they are driving more elaborate floats with 3-storey castles stuffed with beauty kings and queens, smiling for all of Siam. Even the Night Safari crew rocks up (marketing tagline: you can eat anything you see! They had to keep a low profile shortly after they opened when a pack of wolves escaped and was spotted prowling the streets of Chiang Mai) with horns tied to their heads and feathers tickling the noses of onlookers. I get a very good look at them when the parade stood still for 20 minutes. Then I get a little restless and walk up a little towards Nakorn Ping Bridge. I watch a big-bellied man drenched in glitter rub a gong for another 10 minutes or so. There is a big explosion behind me and everything goes quiet.

But then everyone remembers, ha ha ha, it's Loi Krathon! Explosions are good luck! Then all the power along the river goes out, but they were just kidding because it comes back on after a couple minutes. By this time I am jammed into a crowd of drunken Thai boys, cheek by jowl. Bring on the groping. I'm talking full on free for all grope time. I decide that it's worth heading home at this point, as the only white girl in the heaving whisky-scented mass. This takes a LONG TIME because all of Chiang Mai, and any lucky evacuee from Bangkok, has congregated at this intersection and is trying to get somewhere. Finally I am spat out onto the bridge. Keep eyes out though, they tell me that falang often find firecrackers under their feet.

The next morning, I go for a run. The charred corpses of kom lois are caught in trees, crumpled on street corners. The river is speckled with bottles and firework canisters. I think that if I liked loud noises and dreadful amounts of booze, this would have been a brilliant festival. But, but. I do like things that light up with lots of colours, I like things that float in the sky and in the water.

Bring on New Year's.