Through Laos

‘What do you mean there’s no bus to Vieng Xai today? The Lonely Planet says there should still be one...’ I was getting fidgety but not really that surprised.

‘If no one go to Vieng Xai then sometime no bus...’ the information officer said smiling regretfully, as if the sawngthaew drivers who ripped off tourists with 150000 kip fares for the 30 kilometres from Sam Neua to Vieng Xai were under his direct command. ‘Tomorrow morning 7.30 first bus, but if you want to rent a private sawngthaew...’

‘No way, man!’ a distressed Mike shouted at his normal decibel mode.

‘No, no, thank you’, I echoed Mike. I was upset, totally outraged by the blasphemous things the Lonely Planet advised: sawngthaew to Vieng Xai leave five times daily, currently at 8 am, 10am, 11am, 2.30pm and 4pm. Why would it have so bluntly lied to us? Why would it make us spend the night in Sam Neua? What would we do with our time there? It’s not like it’s a place where there’s anything to do. And then there’s the cold... The sheer late autumn rainy dark weather that depresses Swedish people and makes them commit unthinkable deeds (in the case of Mike, it’s just talking gibberish but, then again, that’s his everyday behaviour). We relented, found the cheapest room in town and proceeded to take turns in surviving the lukewarm shower ingeniously positioned in the two-in-one bathroom and toilet so that you’d have to stand right under the open hole in the wall, through which gusts of ice-cold winds tumbled in. The hole might have once doubled as a window but now it was just an overlooked mishap with a real cold inflicting potential.

We tried to find a place to buy some stuff, mainly munchies for the next day but the concept of a general store eludes east Laos: they only have markets, morning and night ones but even the night market was, by then closing up, as it was as late as 7 PM. Damn, I thought; we’ll just have to do nothing, not even drinking a beer, as it’s way too cold to have one right now. Also, the prospect of waking up in the morning to get the earliest bus is as unappealing as taking one more shower (just out of boredom)...

6.30 AM and I was awake. Even if I had slept enough I was longing for the sweet morning slumber, especially since the new day promised the same enchanting weather as the previous one. Why do I travel in Southeast Asia when I can have this kind of weather back home, I moodily asked myself while towing my backpack down the stairs.

Conveniently, a city the size of Sam Neua (14000 people) has not one, but two bus stations so, together with two German girls and a Dutch one we shared a slightly less greedy tuc-tuc to the other bus station and, by 7 AM we were waiting for the minivan to depart. Of course, this new ‘bus’ was only supposed to leave at 8 (in spite of what the guy at the Information Office told us) so we had a whole hour to shiver mildly in the cold morning air while watching the locals heave bags and motorbikes on top of other buses, impressed by their technique of getting anything on top of the bus.

‘I think it’s bes to lent a bicycle, so it’s easieh to get flom one cave to the otheh’. Hmm, I thought; bicycle? Really? But I hate cycling, even if it’s just around the block on a downward slope. And look at the sky: what if it starts raining again? But I gave in. It surely was the best way to see the caves in which the leaders of the anti-French invasion movement Pathet Lao hid and lived for nine years, all the while being bombed by US aircrafts in their ‘Secret War’ against Vietnam, which dutifully imparted bombs and landmines, even if it was in the wrong country. So we did what the tourist officer said and rented bikes. As the only other tourists – a Thai couple – did the same, we were blessed with a guide to show us around (on his own bike) and complement the audio guide we received from the tourist office. I guess that for locals five people peacefully cycling around their houses while, apparently, intently listening to music in their oversized headphones is a normal sight and they didn’t seem distressed by it; on the contrary: completely ignoring the headphones, the concentrated faces and the impossibility of waving, holding on the handlebar and balancing the audio guide at the same time while negotiating curves and potholes, the kids insisted on ‘sabai dee’-ing us with grinning mugs happily waving their arms at us and, probably, feeling a little hurt when we didn’t respond. But we were on a mission. To see the caves in which the political head figures of Lao lived for a decade. Not completely without comfort, mind you! As soon as they felt safe (roughly nine years after the bombing started), they moved outside the caves, carrying on living there for another couple of years. The caves themselves hold little to remind us of the difficulties people had during that period but it’s still impressive to see how they managed, having to walk to the school cave or the hospital cave, mostly by night or through passage ways carved out of the sides of the mountains.

‘Okay, now that that’s over with, what’s next?’

‘Well, it’s either finding a place to sleep here or go back to Sam Neua. But did you hear what the guy at the tourist office told us?’ and, for that matter, everybody we’ve met so far: ‘There are no buses if there are not enough people who want to go back. But, if the Thai couple wants to return to Sam Neua, maybe they know something we don’t. Let’s follow them.’ And with that in mind, we shadowed the Thais from afar and, once we got to the bus station, we started exploring our options. There were, in fact, no buses back, or, better yet, no affordable buses, as the only guy around wanted even more than a night’s accommodation’s worth for taking us back. ‘No problem’, I say; ‘We can walk back and I’m sure we’ll hitch a ride at some point. People around here seem nice enough and, hopefully, they’ll take us with them’. If only there were any nice people around but, contrary to what I’d hoped, not many cars drove by. And the ones that did seemed to think we only wanted to wave at them.

‘Are you doing this right?’ Mike asked, slightly getting uncharacteristically concerned.

‘Well, I’m trying to wave them down. It used to work... at least in Europe. But, then again, I’m not sure they know the international wave of hitch-hiking. But I’m also waving like I need some help and maybe that’s why everybody seems to just wave back.’ In fact, more than one driver held up an open hand, just holding them back in the air, maybe saying hello or maybe explaining that their cars are full. ‘It’s all in the expression. So, I’ll stop trying to look un-menacing and friendly and start looking distressed. It might work better.’

‘Yeah, well, you’re a girl so I hope it works...’

And it did work, after we’d been walking for some kilometres. A small battered pick-up truck stopped and three ear-to-ear grins were directed at us. They signalled us to get in and explained they can only take us some kilometres but it was better than nothing. We got down further and started walking until an actual local bus picked us up and took us to the city. But we did get to do some light hiking to prepare for our huge plan for the next day: hiking to Hintang.

A new early wake-up call made me shiver with dread and cold. But we had a new bus to catch and, hopefully, leave the cold behind for some better weather and some sunshine. But first to find the right bus that would take us 50 kilometres away and leave us at the main road from where only 6 kilometres stood between us and an archaeological site, where huge slabs of stones were arranged by some Lao forefathers for no apparent reason, except for sacred rituals that have lost their meaning for contemporary Lao people or researchers. This is going to be a nice ride, I thought while jumping a little off my seat on the Lao roads; we’re going to get off at Hintang, pleasantly walk there and be back in time for the evening bus. I smiled, feeling really good with my plans. And then I jumped some more.

In ancient times Laos was inhabited by the Kha Yeui. Their Chief, Ba Hat, was a great giant possessing amazing powers, to whom the gods also gave three magical objects: a double-headed drum – one face struck to make enemies disappear and the other to call help from the gods; an enormous awl which pierced the stoniest ground and made water gush out; and an axe which could cut hard rock like wood.

Ba Hat felt himself no less strong than the Luang Prabang Kingdom thanks to these marvellous instruments, so he decided the Kha Yeui were no longer subjects of the King, who soon declared war. But the victory went to Ba Hat. Later, believing the enemy king intended to return, Ba Hat called on the help of the gods. The chief of the gods descended in person and on seeing no enemies anywhere, he flew into a rage and seized back the magical drum.

Ba Hat still had the two other tools given him by the gods. With the magical axe, he set his people out to cut blocks of stone along Nam Peun, and bear them to the top of San Ang ridge to build the new city of Kong Phanh. This aroused the King of Luang Prabang’s fears and he decided upon a ruse to keep that city from ever being founded. He succeeded in marrying his son to Ba Hat’s daughter. Misplacing their confidence in the Prince, the Kha Yeui were induced to lay the magical awl and axe onto a white-hot brazier. The two instruments immediately lost all magic power.

So the Kha Yeui had to abandon their project and they just left the stones where they had been raised up along the crest. These later on became the menhir fields of San Kong Panh and the neighbouring countryside.

That’s what greeted us at the small site, where some stone slabs erectly stood around some other round, tabletop-like stones with mysterious, unknown uses. I was heaving groans of happiness after ‘pleasantly walking’ what seemed like 60 kilometres but which, I’m sure, was less than the six promised. Still, my back was damp and aching. Fortunately, the way back would be easier on my back (‘pleasantly walking’ downwards) but what will my knees think? Uf, there’s never an easy way to travel...

In all fairness, it took us about two hours to walk the whole six kilometres on a dusty dirt road, more upwards than otherwise and, having to carry the backpack all the way, I seriously started to list all the stuff I had with me: do I really need all my panties with me? Could I get rid of some? What about soap... do I really need a whole bar of it...? Fortunately, despite the red colour of my face nicely assorted to my beloved pants, and the overall sweatiness of my person, this quest was also fulfilled and we got back to the main road in time to wait around for another bus (a minivan this time) to take us to Phonsavan. And this was the part that consolidated my faith in the amount of luck I carry around, as the minivan – the only one leaving for Phonsavan that day – had exactly two seats available. And so we proudly filled them and smoothly rode to Phonsavan.