Herman steps into a narrow, long-tail boat awkwardly balancing himself across the three walking planks with his one good foot. Somehow the backpack sliding off of his one good shoulder counterbalances the bad foot. As we cross the rocky Mekong between Chaig Khan, Thailand, and Huay Xai, Laos' time seems to retreat like the undulating currents under the long, narrow bow of the boat. Herman's baseball cap is one of the few reminders that we have not flowed back fifty years to a time more simple and basic. Instead, the big Dutch man and I cross the border into an emerging Laos. This is a country that has one foot deep in the timeless rhythms of subsistence farming and Buddhism, and the other in a new world finally freed from internecine conflict and a closed-minded government. Like Herman, the good shoulder is struggling to counterbalance the weight of bad foot.
After Herman and I cross through border controls we are shuffled into the back of a pick-up truck that takes us to an additional harbor where a "slow boat" is docked. The impatient waiting passengers' are temporarily distracted as they wearily watch Herman's six-foot-five body hobble across the bowing plank to the boat. He bellows out in a deep Dutch voice toward the 120 staring eyes, "Hello, are you good toooday?" sounding more like a boisterous Baptist preacher than a visitor from Holland. Any response from the crowd is lost amongst the gurgling start-up of the boat's mammoth diesel engine. Herman and I find seats on the wooded planks in the middle of the other passengers packed onto the boat.
In a few moments we join the Mekong for a small part of its flow from Tibet past China, Burma, Thailand, Laos, and Vietnam. Due to a lack of roads, the Mekong has long been employed for commerce and transport through this sparsely populated, mountainous portion of Laos. For two days our floating cattle car of tourists will join the parade of produce-laden barges, local fishing canoes, and boat people on the main route through northern Laos to Luang Prabang.
Here in Northern Laos, the Mekong is fast as it winds its way through the surrounding jungle and mountains. Our boat captain demonstrates impressive navigating skills as he guides the boat through the rapids and around the exposed boulders that grow taller during this drought-ridden dry season.
Every once in a while he yells something to the handful of Laotians seated in the bow of the boat as he steers the boat with a primitive chain and wheel system. He controls the engine's throttle with his stubby, "hobbit-like" bare feet.
The captain's high voice is one of the few recognizable sounds within the cacophony of diesel engine noise, muffled conversation, and passing water. Due to the constant din the trip becomes more of a visual experience and I find myself looking dreamily at the passing, uninhabited mountains which control and course and direction of the river. I only spot a few Laotians along the banks of the river as we pass. Most appear to live in huts and either fishing or using an elephant work force to roll the trunks of recently cut trees to the water for transport.
After eight hours of river travel and without any explanation from the departing captain, we docked at Pak Beng. Herman and I walk up the embankment past the locals who are lining the bank with offers of accommodation and opium. The bulk of this small, one dirt-street, village consists of two story guesthouses with a balcony on the second floor and family quarters below. The rooms in our guesthouse have particle-board walls, plank floors and a single, uncovered light bulb which becomes lifeless once the town generator turns off at 9 PM. At night there is nothing to do but listen to the low vibration of Herman's voice resonate against the floor planks like a reed in a bassoon. In this cloud-filled, moonless valley with no electricity the night is as dark as black ink.
"Adequate accommodations for one night," Herman and I thought. This seemed to be a reasonable conclusion until Herman arose in the middle of the pitch-black night with a crucial need to use the toilet. With last night's dinner churning in his stomach, he desperately tried to find the toilet which was supposedly located somewhere along the darkened corridor outside our room. After a few minutes of fumbling around blindly the only place he was able to find was the second-floor balcony. Faced with the impossible choice of soiling his pants like a little boy or relieving himself where he stood, he hung his bum over the balcony railing and left his mark on the Pak Beng.
Our next stop, Luang Prabang, with its world heritage, impressive architecture, and beautiful mountain setting, provided a more pleasing experience than Pak Beng. As we pulled into Luang Prabang the Laotian child I had been tutoring along the way could now count to ten in English and Herman's laugh still roared over the diesel engine.
"We stay here. Ya, this good," Herman said emphatically after seeing accommodations that included a bed big enough for him and an easy-to-find toilet with lots of lights. As we exit the beautifully, brick-lined street in front of our guesthouse, one Laotian after another stares and inevitably laughs at Herman's towering height. "Are you happy tooday?" he would ask, bending over to make eye contact with the gigglers. The girls covered their mouths in respect, then uncontrollably burst out in a group laugh and rapid conversation. This continued on the way to dinner as we walked past the open-air market containing thousands of silks, jewelry, and other Laotian goods that lined the entire main street.
We found that evening's dinner in a narrow street, lined on both sides with food merchants."Ben, no spicy, no spicy food tonight, ok?" Herman said as we walked into a place that charged about 50 cents for a plate full of ten or so choices. "This good? What can I eat?" Herman asked, uncertain about what lay in front of him.
"You can eat the fried noodles, the green beans in soy sauce, fried tofu without the curry sauce, mixed vegetables without chilies added, and that green stuff," I responded, mapping out the non intestine threatening food.
"You're a good boy," he said to me. Then, with a big smile that made his glasses cockeyed, he reached out his good left hand to the merchant and said, "Are you good tooday?" The merchant looked up and down scanning Herman's appearance and then reached out his right hand with hesitation. The merchant's hand was swallowed by Herman's huge hand in an awkward left to right hand shake. "Ben, they want to charge me 5000 Real. That is too expensive! No, I pay less. 4000," he said to me, shaking his head after they handed him the food. After realizing 5000 Real is only fifty cents, he laughed and joked about being "Dutch" with his money and ate his meal.
The next day we left Luang Prabang and its ornate temples and wide streets full of school children in long blue silk dresses and matching blue pants to visit the Kung Si waterfall. We made the journey in the back of a truck which carried us over narrow roads that winded through stilted villages and terraced, flooded rice patties. Eventually we arrived at the Kung Si waterfall which drops several hundred feet and divides the surrounding lush jungle into tall walls of green. As the white water falls, it calms momentarily as it passes through the multiple terraces and crystalline blue pools along its path. At the top of the waterfall is a rope swing that carries the brave and foolhardy out on a giant arc out over the water.
Returning from a day of play, Herman and I pay the taxi and start to cross the two lane road towards our guesthouse. As Herman steps onto the road I suddenly notice two Laotian girls' approaching on a motor scooter. Their eyes become white in a terror and they let out a high-pitched scream as they apply the breaks hoping to avoid a collision.
Herman doesn't even budge when struck by the combined weight of two girls and the moving scooter. Stopped but still upright, the girls plead fearful apologies. Unfazed, Herman shrugs his shoulders and says, "No problem," he smiles and asks the girls loudly before walking away,"Are you happy tooday?" The girls look at each other confused about what just happened, let out a nervous laugh, and take off.
Herman and I leave beautiful Laung Prabang for Vang Vieng. Unfortunately, the only route between these two cities - Route 13 - is called "the most dangerous road in southeast Asia." by the US State Department. Rebels, once trained and supported by the CIA, apparently now present a terrorist threat to foreigners. Route 13 winds through and around the jagged peaks of forested limestone mountains. In many places, the road follows the mountain's spine and as we pass through villages grain and broom straw are being tried on the flat sun warmed asphalt.
Stopping for lunch at Phoushioo, one of the villages on Rt. 13, the poverty of the poorest countries in southeast Asia is unescapable. Hordes of children, some without pants, some slung with smaller infants, some with hunger-aged cheeks, beg passing tourists for food. When a tourist gives food to one child, the tourist is soon surrounded by many others reaching up with small hands and sad eyes.
Beyond the sight of the tourist the children fight amongst each other for scraps. Social Darwinism is alive and well as the stronger overpower the weak, stealing the food from his/her hands. Sometimes the strong child shares the miniscule portions with his/her younger siblings who are too weak to fight. Herman learns of a man who had his parents cut off his hands and feet when he was a baby so he could earn more while begging. "Stupid Communist country!" he exclaims trying to make sense of this incomprehensible absurdity.
Vang Vieng would give us a similar, uncomfortable feeling but for different reasons. Vang Vieng is a small town situated along a beautiful river valley with picturesque, distinctively Asian, limestone mountains. A once sleepy village, with an amazingly beautiful backdrop, Western hippies in the 1970's started staying in Vang Vieng and tuning out the rest of the world. Now, the main street is lined with pizza restaurant after pizza restaurant showing pirated movies and selling "happy" pizza and "happy" shakes. Large numbers of tourists from Israel and other developed countries come and involve themselves in a made-to-order drug culture. Even the activities outside of town, like tubing on the river, are replete with riverside stands selling opium, marijuana, and beer. The consequences of life in drug/party culture society becomes apparent when Herman and I rent a scooter to see the outlining villages.
Herman's good hand is on the throttle-less left leaving 5'7'' me to drive with 6'5'' Herman on the back of our 100 cc scooter. We drive for about an hour outside of Vang Vieng. Holding on to the scooter with his good hand, Herman waves his atrophied, crooked arm and limp hand at the villagers we pass. The further we move from Vang Vieng the more the villagers yell back hello with a pleasant wave. Stopping for breaks villagers come over eager to speak with us and share what little English they know. When English words were not available they draw pictures in the dirt. During our return into Vang Vieng Herman yells “hello” and waves at everyone he sees, exaggerating his smile to coax a response. At times people walk by without even looking. Later that night at dinner we watch as foreigners and Laotians interact without pleasantries or even eye contact. Many seem to only mind his/her own space and condition. The only authentic interactions we see are by the children who play in the river, freely nude, unaware of the conservative culture they will soon wear.
Vientiane with its monuments and wide, clean streets was interesting enough to wake us from our rooster-induced, sleep-deprived stupor. My goals for the day were to see the monuments and get a massage at the herbal sauna run by monks in one of the monasteries. Herman, on the other hand, desired one thing of Vientiane.
"Ben, I'm horny. Are you horrrrrney tonight?" Herman asked as I walked into our room in Vientiane.
"What do you mean?" I asked, a bit concerned as a prison nightmare scenario with the big Dutch man flashed into my thoughts.
"I want to go to the disco tonight," he said swinging his hand in the air over his head to the imaginary, techno, quarter note, Euro thump.
"Whew, that's what I thought you meant" I said. I paused to consider the offer. I told Herman that I was still a bit miffed at what had happened earlier in the day when a lady boy grabbed my bum in the herbal sauna. "Man, that herbal sauna and massage would have been so good if it wasn't for him grabbing my butt... it was run by monks, that lady boy who said he didn't do it when I confronted him!”
Herman interrupts my rant, “Ben! Do you want to go or not?"
"Yeah," I say realizing that getting out again will be good for me.
This is the third disco Herman has brought me to in Laos. Unlike the others, the Laotians did not leave the dance floor after every number. Here they actually danced closer than an arms-length distance and played slightly modern music. Herman stands above the crowded dance floor like I do in a kindergarten class. The floor laughs and points as they watch him dance above them.
When the disco closed at midnight Herman and I rode away on our tall, granny bikes trying to maintain as much masculinity as possible. The Laotians laughed as Herman rode off with his knees almost hitting the handlebars with every peddle stroke. Ringing the bell as he peddled along, Herman continued his ongoing conversation with the Laotion public by yelling "Have a verrrry good night!" to everyone he saw. On the ride home he tells me, "I'm a very lucky man."
I wonder to myself how he can say this given his accident in Kosovo that severely injured him and killed everyone else in their UN vehicle. When I ask him why he is lucky? he replies, swerving back and forth on his bike like a child, "Of course I’m lucky. I’m happy. Why not?"
As we ride back to our guesthouse along the wide, silvered Mekong reflecting the full moon, I realize that I admire Herman and Laotians for the same reason. Their happiness is found in the moment and does not seek the unnecessary. They are blissfully uncomplicated.
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