INTO THE DEPTHS OF THE LAOTIAN MEKONG
This is Northern Laos, a mountainous, remote and hard to reach place. A land of few visitors, and even fewer roads. The mighty Mekong snakes its way through the deep-cut empty gorges, almost defining the term “remoteness”. All you can see are few remote enclaves populated by colorful hill tribes, few tiny fishing boats and a couple of water taxis commuting up and down the murky river. Is this the real heart of darkness?
It sure looks the part. You can almost hear US Army helicopters playing “Flight of the Valkyries”. Apocalypse? Perhaps later.
A taxi ride to nowhere
We are leaving Northern Thailand behind us and board a taxi in a tiny and remote Laotian hamlet called Huay Xai. The taxis here have no wheels as there are no roads around. This is a water taxi, and the Mekong is its highway.
In “taxi” we mean a family-operated long boat that runs the length of the Mekong from Yunan, China all the way down to Cambodia. It is a small narrow vessel which acts not only as a mean of transportation, but also double ups as home. In a way, we are both passengers and guests. The wife controls the mobile kitchen at the stern, the husband at front manning the wheel. Kids in the middle of doing their homework. Everyone is friendly, and so are we. This will be our floating residence until we reach Luang Prabang, the ancient former capital of Laos, couple hundred Kilometers downstream.
Leaving the world behind us
The Captain lifts anchor and fire up the old and rattling Diesel engine as he steers our boat taxi southeast into the mountains.
The thick jungle surrounded us, undisturbed and dotted only by few and far remote fishing villages. We occasionally stop to hobnob with the locals, walk around, and take a few pictures. We are, after all, tourists, not American GIs on duty.
Tranquility sets in as the river taxi heads into the deep gorges of the upper Mekong and the hot, humid day gives way to cool afternoon breeze. Night falls as we hit Pak Pang. A remote – almost desolated – trading post that looks like a scene taken from a Francis Ford Coppola movie.
A cold day in the tropics
If jungle was indeed the hell depicted in war movies, then the following morning hell froze over. Nobody told us Northern Loas could be cold in mid-February. The locals were not as baffled. All had warm sweaters.
As the boat set sail eastward under dark grey skies, we found out it huddling in the noisy, smelly, but warm engine bay was better than suffering bitter cold, painful drizzle, and wind chill in the quite, panoramic (but completely open) passenger compartment. We were only too happy to stop for a break in a lone village four hours later.
I don’t recall the name of that small hamlet. I do remember many of the houses had rusty tin roofs instead of straw, and our local companion explaining that tin roofs mean that the owners are prosperous. Nothing seemed wealthy about the place, which goes to show that wealth is a relative thing. In a country where GDP per capita was at that time lower than $1,000, having a tin roof means you’ve made BIG. Go figure.
So, we took a few photos, one of them of the elderly lady at the top of the post, another, of her dog. We stop to play with few of the kids down on the river edge, and we moved on.
Every good river journey has a destination. Ours was Luang Prabang. And, as we came closer, the weather has turned better. Then we saw it, like a Shangri La at the end of a long, arduous trip.
We bid farewell to our family hosts, disembarked the taxi and went into town.