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Published: January 24th 2007
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Fisherman
This village fisherman taught us how to spear. Although the boat ride up the Nam Ou River was every bit as picturesque as we imagined, we were more than happy to hit the shore in Nong Khiaw. The six-hour ride from Luang Prabang drew into eight and our muscles had cramped accordingly. To our surprise, we were the only passengers to disembark. Everyone else was headed an hour upriver to Muang Ngoi Neua, a small village used as a base for treks into the surrounding mountains.
As the boat departed with our former travel mates, we started to think we, too, should have endured another hour on the boat, as the place was not exactly welcoming. The throngs of locals that had greeted us at other ports throughout Laos were not to be seen. While those welcomes were aggressive at times, they were welcomes nonetheless. Here, the hospitality was one we would have to seek. It was every bit as sincere as elsewhere, perhaps more so, just not as forthcoming.
Our selection of guesthouses relies more on intuition than a particular set of standards, and of the ones we looked at, none of them felt quite right. They did not feel dangerous or seedy or bad, they
Look at the View
The view from our shack. simply did not feel good. We decided to cross the bridge into Muang Ngoi which mirrors Nong Khiaw on the steep southern bank of the river. There we were met by the enthusiastic owner of the Sunrise Guesthouse. “Look at this view!” he exclaimed while pointing to the Sleeping Princess Mountain, as if he were seeing it for the first time himself. He was right. The scoop shower and ant-infested squat toilet were easy to overlook when we took in the majestic views of the limestone cliffs from our modest bungalow each morning.
At night, it was necessary to constantly remind ourselves of that beautiful view. The mountains were in effect a giant amphitheater in which we had front-row seats. The cacophony began with cars driving, dogs fighting, chickens scratching, turkeys gobbling, motorcycles motoring and buses honking. There were snoring Australians and at least one farting German. We heard roosters crowing, frogs mating and when we thought we could not stand another minute, we heard a sound that somehow made it all OK. We heard the sound of the sun rising.
Hungry for exercise, we laced up our hiking shoes and headed down the main road to see
Haircut
The most entertaining cut I've ever received where it might lead. A few kilometers outside of town we came upon a limestone cave called Tham Pha Tok. While showing us to the entrance, a young village boy pointed out a pond created by an American bomb during the second Indochina War. Through his broken English and a few hand-painted signs we gathered that villagers had hidden in the cave and to some extent, governed there in exile. Inside he showed us areas designated for a school, hospital, communications center and kitchen. Our ascent into the cave matched a rise in sympathy for those who had suffered there 50 years earlier. Textbooks have made us aware of certain circumstances and facts regarding this period. However, it is difficult to understand the reason for the tremendous destruction that occurred here when the people of this land have welcomed us, fed us and smiled upon us in so many ways.
After our visit to the cave, we continued down the lone road through a nearby village. One child appeared to be walking alongside us (but keeping her distance), and she was soon joined by another and another and another. We began to feel like pied pipers as we walked through the rural community. Their curiosity soon won over their shyness, and they insisted we go with them to the local waterfall for a swim. We splashed and cooled off in the fresh spring, them teaching us the art of skipping rocks and fishing for minnows; us teaching them the wonders of the digital camera. Two hours and 300 snapshots later, they escorted us back to their village, all of us happily pruned and sun-dried.
As we made our way back to camp, we saw a woman cutting hair in the grass on the side of the road. Needing a haircut and lacking the Lao words to express it, we played a high-stakes game of charades until she agreed to trim my locks. I knew I was at the mercy of the barber, but also figured the experience would outweigh any negative outcomes. As I sat in the chair, a small crowd of women appeared, curious by this unlikely pairing. Soon the local elementary school let out and by the time the haircut was complete, 30 villagers had gathered. While the cut may not have made the cover of Cosmo, I was perfectly content to walk away with the experience and a little less hair for a mere dollar.
Longing for books and Internet, we left this sleepy hamlet after three nights. We rose early to catch our bus and could not help but pause on the bridge spanning the Nam Ou. The rocky crag atop Sleeping Princess was sunlit and appeared to float on the band of mist shading Nong Khiaw. It is a view we will savor for years to come.
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