Sunday: Luang Phabang – Muong Ngoi 9 hours for K6,000
There is some indecision this morning. A fellow asserts that the south road route to Phonsavanh is fine, despite the US couple’s report. So one day only to Phonsavanh? But doubts, plus a desire for a river trip prevail so at 8:45 we’re at the passport control office at the riverside. There is no demur from the officials, so we buy tickets at the adjacent booth and descend the riverbank to board our sampan.
Unlike the bus, we don’t move at the given time of nine so we can worry over whether this is the right boat. Also on board is Owen (UK) who has been teaching English in Phonsavanh; he says that the other passengers say that this boat doesn’t go to Muong Ngoi but to Nambak nearby. That also is on the desired road, so we won’t fuss.
At ten we go, but no, it is only to take on fuel. Argh! Sour amusement at this practice has long since become vexation. Bus and truck drivers wait and wait for hours or even all day before setting off, only then choosing to refuel when they have the maximum number of victims to annoy. They had all day to prepare! And now, I see that boatmen do it too.
Meanwhile, we’re passed by the fast boat to Pakhou. It takes us two hours to get to the Buddhist caves, glimpsing them across the river as we turn off into the Nam Ou just as rain starts. This forces us to abandon the roof for the shelter, joining the other passengers. They are unimpressed by the scenery, dozing steadily as the hours pass, dozing on even as we struggle up some rapids.
This ride would be far more peaceful than anything that ran along the segments of road I glimpse to the left, not that much would be running now, as massive landslides cut it at intervals. We’re well into the mountains. Deep green forest lines the slopes, wreathed in mist and cloud. Or, just rain.
Around 6:20, in failing light, I see ahead what looks to be the start of a gorge: certainly, the valley narrows between steeper slopes and a high bridge crosses the river. But this is the end of the run! And, we’re at Muong Ngoi.
Or rather, at a steep muddy riverbank, with buildings high above us. We scramble up, to find a typical local residence. Cane walls, wood shingle roof, free-flow air conditioning. It is a restaurant/guesthouse, so there is no need to look further. K1,500 will gain us a sleeping space in a booth with mosquito nets and also food.
The proprietor is impressed by both Charles and I scribbling away with fountain pens, and brings forth his own. It turns out to be fed by an ink cartridge, which has of course run out. Our pens however are refillable, so he is further impressed by Western technology, even though it is Western technology’s profit motive that has developed disposable ink cartridges. As reparation, we show him how to get some ink into his cartridge (though it will soon fracture, of course) and leave him some of our ink to be going on with.
Monday: Muong Ngoi – Pakxeng 1½ hours for K2,000
I’m up at seven. Everything is damp, although no rain got in despite heavy falls. Just above the guesthouse is the high bridge across the river with good views. Cloud obscures the mountain tops, but provides a proper Chinese silk print scene of jungle-clad cliffs touched by wisps of cloud at various levels. This is not a cliché, just the normal scenery here.
It is a short walk from the end of the bridge to the far side of the village; along the way there was no sign of any foreigner management office, but a boy on a pushbike informed me that there was a bus to Phonsavanh passing through at ten. Back at the guesthouse we learn that the visitor office is again adjacent to the ticket seller for boat rides. Owen is there also. He wants to go to Muang Xai I think, but would prefer to continue up the Ou, still a respectable river.
Boats go at least to Muang Khua, the river to China it seems, but how far is it navigable? He is also pressed for time, having to return to Phonsavanh to resume teaching English.
We leave him and Pico (of New York) who is going to Luang Phabang on her way to an appointment with a friend in Bangkok, to take position at a café by the bridge to have breakfast and await the bus or other vehicle to Phonsavanh.
None appear.
We reject some short journeys in the hope of a long advance, but this doesn’t eventuate. There is little traffic, about one vehicle an hour, and at one p.m. we agree on a ride to Pakxeng, a short journey previously amongst the rejected offers. A better ploy would have been to go on the first vehicle heading east, despite piecemeal prices. Traffic is so thin that we’d not likely have been passed by a long-distance runner while on a short journey. The prospect of a through bus had been so alluring.
We are soon in misty drizzle on a twisting road through rainforest on mountainsides. Two stretches of a hundred yards plus of road have sagged two feet, a landslide in the making, but otherwise the sealed road is in good condition, with little traffic to batter it. A number of villages are passed on the way, none large.
Pakxeng turns out to be a larger village strung out along the banks of a river with boat service. There is some confusion over onwards travel, the suggestion being a ‘taxi’ for K30,000. This may be a fair price, but we don’t want to pay for a private vehicle, so we are conveyed across the bridge to a café, and advised that the nearby white pickup truck will go to the next town with a hotel, Vien Thong.
So at 2:45 we have some lunch. On the way through the village I’d spotted some vehicles in the street obviously going to convey passengers, but they’d all been empty. Suddenly, a truck, with a payload of people zooms past. We finish lunch, and at about 3:30 a pickup zooms past, ignoring us.
We wait on in growing gloom. All vehicles now are for local destinations only, although we can still hire a ride for K30,000. The nominated white utility heads west, returning shortly with a load of lumber. If we cared to pay K30,000 we’d be away, offers a grinning youth. Later, “Still here?” Yeah. Hilarious.
It looks like we’ll be sleeping on the floor tonight. Our café man is hospitable, inviting us to join him for supper: sticky rice (this is a Laotian delicacy, not bad cooking!) with bean sprouts and chicken. Our audience is amused by the antics of the weird foreigners, such as me being unable to sit cross-legged (due to an ankle bone vs. floor dispute), and they even allow a few photographs of the scene unlike earlier. A change from the morning, when I frightened a water buffalo!
They’re a friendly lot here. We’re no doubt the most interesting entertainment, with strange looks, strange books, and strange script, swiftly scribbled, whereas their normal script is laboriously copied.
Around eight, some uniformed fellows (police? soldiers? officials?) come out from the back where they’d been dining with the family and relatives and friends and join us in order to raise the level of cultural exchange to an adult level. There are four of them and two of us: bottles of Beer Lao turn up along with snacks of chicken bits in spicy sauce. That is too mild a demonstration of strength. A demonstration of chili pepper eating follows: in whole, chew, swallow, swig. Well, I’m not bluffed, so Charles has to suffer too. We decline the cigarettes, even though Laotian, but otherwise get stuck in. The final bottle count is seven to four.
Read Part 4
