It rained yesterday. It rained the day before that. And again before that. Now it rains heavily for the whole afternoon and evening, the day before we leave for Luang Prabang. Rain hammers loudly on metal clad awnings, and then falls in torrents to the sodden earth. There are no eaves gutters. Westerners, newly arrived by bus, wear colourful ponchos but look forlorn and disoriented by the intense deluge they step straight into; local sellers of a few miserable vegetables carefully laid out in rows on very small low platforms lined up beside the now quiet narrow road, huddle under too small umbrellas. No-one is buying. I buy a meal at Aussie Bar in the early evening and dodge rain drops falling from the imperfect metal roof over where I sit (the day before; the bar owner had told me construction here was better than at home…) I wonder about the condition of the road in the mountains we must soon cross. I am told that a bus recently spent 17 hours on the 260km trip after a landslide blocked the road. Thankfully, it stops raining overnight. But there are no stars, only clouds. The night remans dark.
We drive in rain for much of the next day, and at times in cloud and mist and fog. As everywhere we drive now, animals need to be avoided, or carefully driven around. Occasionally our horn warns off a cocky hen. Locals watch the startled hen with disinterest. Potholes appear at short notice, although sometimes announced by a vehicle ahead swerving onto the wrong side of the road, in avoidance. Every now and then a pile of rocks and earth and distorted tree branches from a recent land slip. Part blocks the road. At one point a dozen men toil in and out of rain to repair the road damaged by a more serious mud slide. Large rocks are shifted by hand, men wield mattocks to dig the earth while others look on, Most stare at us blankly as we carefully steer our way through the deep mud of the narrow gap between rocks allowed by their welcome efforts.
Numerous small villages dot the road, sometimes strung out in a thin uncertain line along a narrow ridge. Here they crowd the road closely, as there is little room to do otherwise. Most of the houses are thatch roofed, with woven wall linings of dried and flattened reeds or bamboo perhaps; poles cut from bamboo are used for the frame. No dressed timber studs here. They are built up high off the often sloping ground with access by a spindly looking ladder, again of rude timber. Adults sit and talk outside houses or huddle if it is raining; many just idly watch the traffic pass. We see a couple of women walk by the roadside with large woven baskets slung on their backs. They wear gumboots. There is not much colour in their work-a-day clothing. Young kids play in the pools of muddy water by the roadside, sometimes naked. A slightly older boy cuts a reed with his short machete and squints along it as he checks for its straightness. He wears a piece of blue coloured plastic to provide shelter when it rains. It provides little shelter. He appears by the road, apparently alone but some unseen animal rummages noisily in the bushes over the road. In the boy’s care? At a small town we stop in the mist and mud and puddles and have thin noodle soup with small pieces of beef for lunch. It has some greens, lots of flavour and is hot. Steam rises from our bowls. It is good to eat it in the gloom of the afternoon mist. While locals eat at other tables, a young French couple sit at our table, just off a bus, are also on their way to Luang Prabang.
On the road Will tries to stay awake, while Lauren dozes in the back. After lunch Will thankfully takes over the driving. We pass faded, flapping billboards by the roadside, depicting, in a stylised way in one, glorious military action; in another the strong features of a young man in military uniform and cap, staring ahead are depicted. This billboard includes a hammer and sickle. They have a cold war feel to them. I cannot read the Lao text. The posters seem irrelevant to the current lives of those people we drive past. Perhaps recent history is depicted, and not forgotten? Certainly there have been enough wars in this country to not be forgotten.
Luang Prabang has a UNESCO heritage listing and is different. The city fathers, or mothers, or perhaps the cadre have preserved the French provincial style of many buildings; the town centre has an 11.30 pm curfew we are told and large buses and trucks are banned from entering this area. Most traffic is on foot, or bicycle, with some micro bussed and a few cars. A central hill, Phu Si, dominates and is a beacon for finding one’s way, even at night, I find… It contains a wat (Buddhist temple), many gold painted Buddha images and oversize dragon form stair handrails no PD Access home should be without. They would probably be a large variation. Near a cave containing “Budda’s footprint” a young monk rests on the sill of a wall opening. I contemplate asking existential questions but settle for a photograph to which he barely nods his agreement. He deigns a faint smile for this lone Westerner upon seeing his image in my camera viewfinder. Phu Si is heavy with trees and greenery and appears reclusive and speaks of a past age. As I wander around aimlessly, I feel only contentment.
The city is set on a peninsula between the Mekong and a smaller river, the Nam Khong. A night market thrives, selling crafts and local produce and colourful Chinese purses and bags. Luang Prabang is a city not difficult to like.
We stay two nights in a guesthouse within easy walking distance of the centre. This has large welcoming grounds and simple, spare rooms, mostly with shared bathrooms (AUD7). There is no air but a pedestal fan. Western style toilets have no cistern but are flushed using a pail from water held in a large black plastic drum. Shoes are not worn inside (the norm everywhere in Laos). In my room I change the power point adaptor again to suit the wall outlet, and wonder if this is what will soon be the norm for us in China. It is comforting to see the small light come on indicating power, in whatever device I am charging. Our plastic bag and box of transformers, leads, plugs, connectors and adaptors seems heavy and overdone but it is gratifying to see it all fit the purpose and keeps communications alive, and blogs sporadically appearing.
Lauren leaves us to resume her whimsical travels by herself while Will and I also continue our journey, alone together again. We are quiet and contemplative of the recent past as well as the near future. Music plays as always.
There is change afoot which, for us, will not be finished with until more than a couple of months have passed …
[Photos: a boy squints down a reed, just cut; a young Buddhist monk contemplates life near Budda’s footprint cave, Phu Si, Luang Prabang; roadside billboard]
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