Laos II

No go on the Gibbons. Instead, our disappointed group all went our separate ways. I headed west to Phonsavan for the enigmatic Plain of Jars, where hundreds of massive stone vessels are scattered across three historical sites. Historians date these jars back 2000 years ago, but their origin and purpose are only hypothesized. Some propose that they held rice and rice wine, or perhaps bodies for burial. Most curiously, the stone is not indigenous to the region; the massive rocks must have been carried from over 80 kilometers away. I visited the first site just in time for sunset, illuminating the ancient jars with pinks and reds.

Seeking a little more adventure and less white faces, I headed south toward the farming villages on the Bolaven Plateau. I stopped in Pakse, the provincial capital, for some guidance and perhaps to organize a trek. By happenstance, I met San Francisco-native Will, who had bought some land and had since organized a small coffee plantation. Of course, I was fascinated how this ex-investment banker ended up in Laos. He explained the complications of his operation, and how the coffee business was more complicated than he expected: coffee prices are becoming increasingly more competitive, government imposes strict regulations on exporters, and local farmers struggle to meet their promised output. A caffeine-addict myself, Will was glad to show me his operation and small wooden cabin in Po Oi village (pop. 17). We wandered through fields of Typica and Catamore coffee, as he checked up on the growing cherries of coffee. We also visited the local farmers’ homes to ensure the quality and size of the beans, and he took me to his factory where the shelled green beans are polished and sacked for export. The entire day was completely spontaneous and wonderful, although I felt a little incomplete without a cup of Will’s Joe.

From Po Oi, I hailed a local bus to Tad Lo and was pleasantly surprised to reconnect with an old friend from Vanvieng: “Shemor! Shalom!” The guidebook promised two guesthouses, a few waterfalls, elephant rides, quiet native villages, and nothing else. Sounds great to us! We found a room right along the river, with a view of a rushing waterfall. Our spot was just perfect, what else could we need: good company, friendly Lao faces, cheap food, and the rock-aby sounds of the river. We spent seven days at the Sypaseuth Guesthouse, mostly just looking out to the river. To our left, the waterfall poured in varying degrees, depending on the day. On the first day, we could have sworn that more water flowed in the afternoon than it had in the morning, and I soon adopted the habit of keeping watch of the river’s changes. I needed to witness the moment when the dry rocks were splashed from the dam’s noon-time release. Straight in front of our porch, a small grassy island was usually occupied by playful children or grazing cows. On the far side of the island, the water flowed downstream, but the near side current flowed upstream and curved around the island. The water magically formed a gentle whirlpool! To our right, a small village and monastery lined the river. The river was always busy with families bathing together, children splashing about, and women fetching water. From the comfort of our own shady porch, Shemor and I discussed life, love, and heaven all while these natives performed all three.

We were so utterly content on our riverside abode, we didn’t venture out much. However, we did spend an entire day trekking up and around the area. The tribal villages were void of men, who were probably out in the fields or working on road construction. Women and children occupied the cluster of small thatch-roofed huts. Women shelled local nuts and coffee beans, sifted and grinded rice, and wove cotton fabrics for sale. Animals roamed freely: goats, chickens, pigs, and cows. As a baby goat sucked milk from its mother, a woman was similarly breast feeding with the same shamelessness as the animal. Children played naked and elderly women smiled as they carried out laborious tasks. I am in love with these people. What is their secret? They are not religious people. They have no education, no possessions. They seem to have discovered the meaning of life without any awareness. I guess the rice field is always greener on the other side.

Shemor and I continued on. We passed through more villages and enjoyed laughing with the kids. It’s like playing charades; language is useless. Communication is only possible through theatrical performances: animated expressions, puzzled faces followed by uproarious laughs, curious stares. Every child possessed the most beautiful black almond-shaped eyes. As we continued up the road, villages disappeared and we found ourselves carefree and lost in a giant rice field. Birds. The faint sound of the river. Bamboo branches swaying. Quiet. Shemor whispers: “Laos is so peaceful. It’s like the hand of God is touching it.”

We spent a week exploring and experiencing this profound peacefulness. We watched the sunset every evening. Our ears learned to ignore the morning roosters. We forgot to plan ahead. We ate. We slept. We talked and listened to music. We philosophized to the point that our minds ran blank into nothingness. I think the hand of God is touching it.

Shemor headed to Bangkok to meet his girlfriend, and I rode east to Champasak to see a Khmer ruin and then south to Si Phon Don, Four Thousand Islands. I arrived in Dondet and settled into my Mekong riverside bungalow just in time for sunset.

Five o’clock and the sun is still high in the sky.
A strip of sparkling gold pools like lava.
I wonder if this is how water really looks: the human eye only shows us a dull image of the world, while the sun may reveal it’s truly brilliant colors.
The sun falls and the puddle of liquid gold condenses and darkens into a ball of fire.
Currents make patterns of concentric curves and lattices.
Shadows have hues of pink and purple replaces sky blue.
The neon sun peeps into a nook of a treetop canopy and falls behind.
Now only the waves still capture an opalescent outline.
Small patches of grassy tuffets fade with their perfect reflection to black.

I met some Americans, some Israelis, two Australians, a Dane, and a few Brits. We hired a motorboat to drag us down the river in tubes and watched the sunset on the water. A bunch of us organized a bonfire on the beach and listened to dueling bongos under the stars. Still, my favorite Dondet moment was my solo bike ride around the island.

Green pomegranate trees fence native bungalows.
Palm trees bend over the shade the sandy path.
Winding, even, soft, smooth, clean.
No cars, no rocks, no shoes, no danger.
Every stranger greets me with a smile as I pass: “Sabadee!”
Dead ends reveal the most magnificent views.
Monks retreat in colorful monasteries.
Women weaving. Children playing.
Exploring has never been so serene.
My iPod serves me the perfect soundtrack and I fearlessly sing outloud: Bill Withers’ Lovely Day, Van Morrison’s Higher Ground, Frank Sinatra’s I’ve Got the World on a String, Classical, Flamenco, Rap, even Jennifer Lopez.
Time is forgotten.
I only feel the breeze on my face and the sun on my shoulders.