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Published: January 24th 2007
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Still Smiling
Taking a breather in the front of the boat. We set sail from Luang Prabang with Nong Khiaw as a destination. Technically speaking we boarded the craft, as we did walk a plank from shore to boat. Stuffed, jammed, rammed, tamped, crammed; these are more accurate descriptions of what occurred. The canopy was low, the aisle narrow, and getting from our seats involved a flat-footed, butt-to-heel, knee-to-shoulder, elbow-to-elbow, duck-waddling sort of shuffle. Fine. But the seats . . .
The seats were fashioned in two rows of four, the sliver of space between rows serving as aisle. The sturdy wooden chairs were originally manufactured for the pre-school market and thus they were small, not extra-tiny as the constraints of the boat dictated. Some creative shipwright had since modified them in the following fashion; the aisle-side legs were truncated by half, and their outboard kin were removed entirely and replaced by the hull. The result was one square foot of wooden slab suited for a five-minute rest by a three-legged Dachshund, so long as it was comfortable with its knee in its chest.
Our discomfort was further enhanced by our having purchased stand-by tickets (a whopping $4 in savings), and the resulting inability to get two consecutive seats. Under
Petrol Station
Stopping for gas on our way upstream. these conditions, compatibility with one’s seatmate is of the utmost importance. Previous knowledge of this person, in the biblical sense, allows for valuable seating positions that are not necessarily appropriate with strangers. Immediately struck from our repertoire were classics such as head-on-shoulder, shoulder-on-chest, and arm-around-shoulders. The more obscure but often useful back-on-chest and legs-across-thighs were ruled out as well.
Something had to give, and before conversations succumbed to the engine’s roar, we became as physically comfortable with our respective seatmates as one can in a platonic relationship. Knees bumped thighs, elbows knocked forearms, and the accompanying ‘pardon-me’ was dropped after the initial infractions.
With social tensions forgiven and gone, acute physical tensions rose within each of us. Feet shuffling and torso twisting provided short and progressively ineffective respite. The discomfort was reaching a fever pitch when, about an hour into the ride, a quiet young Japanese woman shuffled her way to the captain, perched in the bow. They exchanged gestures more than words, and as a result we changed course. It was apparent the woman had to relieve herself and the captain took care in selecting an appropriate spot.
Which appropriate spot was another matter.
Beaching a
The View
Wonderful view to be enjoyed later. boat and relieving oneself (in private) often have quite disparate geographic implications, as was the case at hand. Boat bottoms appreciate deep waters (none present) or soft, gently sloping beaches of sand. People bottoms appreciate thick, tall bushes, large boulders, or any number of modesty-affording objects. The interests of the boat were clearly in favor as the captain gently landed the craft in the middle of the longest, widest, flattest expanse of nothingness we had yet to see. The woman hopped ashore and trotted downstream toward some scrub that was just high enough to make a full squat uncomfortable. The rest of us popped off like Champaign corks, with parts of our bodies making similar noises. The respite was welcomed but brief, as Ms. Japan returned and again we set sail.
Our boat’s draft, while shallow, seemed incongruent with the river’s depth. Gravel and rocks were thrust perilously close to the surface by lack of rain, and it was an Escheresque phenomenon that someone did not stub a toe in the rapids. It is during this season that the river cedes sandbars to local fisherman and banks to village farmers. Steely blue and grey limestone cliffs dramatize the throw of a cast-net and deepen the hue of verdant crops. Mind you, this beauty is not to be appreciated on the boat, but subconsciously recorded and fondly recalled at some later date, preferably from the comfort of a rocking chair while puffing a meerschaum pipe.
The minutes ticked by and I secretly hoped that Ms. Japan’s bladder was indeed small and not just conveniently full. I wondered how long I should wait before I feigned the need for a pit-stop. As the minutes pooled into hours, a strange thing occurred in my head. I now realize that it occurs with varying intensity and success on all impossibly long and uncomfortable journeys. The pattern begins with the excitement of new adventure and the promise of exotic lands. Physical discomfort slowly creeps in, gnawing at this shiny optimism and undermining its foundations. When sufficient erosion has occurred, huge masses of sunshine and happiness and joy are cleaved from my soul, crashing into the cold waters of despair, discontent, and misery.
To hell with the beautiful mountains, how about 10 square feet of my own god-damned space? How about some air? How about a boat that can move faster than I can swim, I mean move? Panic set in, and I briefly entertained actually swimming next to the boat. I fixated on giant wind-milling arms and legs pumping free of all but the water. In addition to simply not being on the boat, it would have been a fantastic workout. But I began to doubt myself.
Are there piranhas in this part of the world? I should have worn my swimsuit. How many kilometers was it again? How many miles is that? Can piranhas really kill people? And hypothermia . . . the water isn’t cold but it is cool. Maybe I could do that barefooted skiing thing? No, too slow . . . I settled into an even if not precarious state of resignation. It is this resignation, this vague sort of nothingness that keeps the pain at bay. It was as if somebody had my arm behind my back, twisting it and demanding submission. While mouthing the word ‘uncle’ the sound of ‘Nirvana’ escaped my lips and hung in the air.
Suddenly time had no meaning. We could have been on the river for 15 minutes or 15 years, it did not matter (actual time elapsed, eight hours and 10 minutes). Dusk arrived with us in Nong Khiaw, and we disembarked without enthusiasm. We soon realized that this was not the final destination for our fellow passengers. To them it was a mirage of sanctuary on their journey into the Lao heartland. But it was apparent that they had come to terms with their sentence. They, too, had entered some backward state of travel Nirvana, untouchable by pain or sorrow. We muttered a few parting words and watched them set sail into the night.
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