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.