Chapter 10. Lemongrass Stains - Chiang Khan

---

The road north from Leoi can continue no further than tiny Chiang Khan, a community of twenty or so sois supported by three perpendicular roads. It is here where Thailand and Laos momentarily cease their sharing the banks of the Mekong River, their common border for the rest of its southward journey. Ranked among the world’s greatest rivers in importance and length, the Mekong is a mighty, voluminous, but silent flow of mocha to which Chiang Khan clings on its southern edge.
A burst of afternoon showers has zero impact on the lonely fisherman in his longboat. He methodically casts his net to the rear, only to retrieve it several minutes later after the current has gently pushed his vessel downstream. Within shouting distance, unsupervised young Thai boys use a shattered pumping dock as a platform to jump in and out of the silt-laden river. Their screams can be heard from the terrace of my guesthouse where I enjoy an undisturbed view of the Mekong and Laos, only three hundred yards away. Though physically within reach, Laos is legally unattainable for me without a visa, which is only available hours away at Nong Khai. It matters little; even less is happening above the far bank of the Mekong. There are no settlements within view. A cabin, a bulldozed trail to the shore, and palls of smoke from a preset fire are the only evidence of human tenancy. Chiang Khan’s population cannot count more than two thousand. Yet, it must look like a shiny city compared to living in those meager dwellings; it is also a model in miniature of how Laos and Thailand differ from each other.

At first, however, Chiang Khan comes across as forgettable. Its one or two wats are closed today. The only bank the town ever knew closed for the lack of activity. The only ATM hasn’t worked in weeks. If sitting idle at a roadside bench were a sport, residents of Chiang Khan could qualify for the Thai Olympic team.
Nonetheless, Chiang Khan epitomizes the joy of probing beyond the mundane and expected. Upon embracing the boredom, it is effortless to look beyond it and taste an unfiltered Thailand. The front doors and garages of dark timber homes on each side of slender sois open directly on the street. Many of the second floors overhang the first, lending a feeling that one neighbor is living right on top of the other. Street stalls outnumber restaurants. On my return from my first swing through town on foot, I could not shake off a monk, whose non-existent English did not impede him from telling me all he knew about Issan; it was his third week of study in Chiang Khan. What an odd couple we were. We paraded ourselves down the main drag dodging mopeds to the confusion of merchants and storeowners who very well know that this cannot be a normal conversation. He carried only a satchel of the same color as his robe and wore a cracked pair of blue sandals. In the pursuit of Buddha and peace, he had already surrendered all his worldly possessions.
The customs house stands as a center of curious activity, as no boat traffic has come from the other side or is prepared to depart. Boys as young as eleven operate powerful motorcycles at terrifying speed on the side sois, with a recklessness that the three other passengers behind pay little attention to. Two kilometers away on the road to Pak Chom, Chiang Khan’s hospital will never be closed.

I should have been more gracious to the man to start with. His accent pegged him from France as soon as he opened his mouth. But for someone approaching retirement age, he spoke English without the acrimony most of his compatriots reserve for my language. Maurice and I have been the only two registered at this guesthouse. (That is before I checked out for another: the conditions were unjustifiable at any price.) We spoke for two hours in the reception area about a wide variety of topics not worth repeating. Only when he continuously tripped up and could not communicate his ideas did I intervene to help him in French. Most French would abandon going back to English and use me as an interpreter for everything. But not Maurice. The Bordeaux-trained engineer never gave up. While I could never buy into the detail at which he attacked plans for sightseeing, I respected him.
If anything, Maurice is tenacious. He sees no obstacles and complains none. Nothing hindered him from joining me on a morning excursion downriver, where I learned Maurice may have slowed down nowadays. Yet for today, his vigor to unabashedly delve into the unconventional surpasses mine.

Kang Kud Ku marks a wicked bend in the Mekong where its gentle flow hiccups over sharp rock outcroppings. The setup is typical: vendors put up temporary stalls in order to sell junk made in China for tourists. Maurice and I are lucky, having rented bicycles and pedaled the five or so kilometers upstream. No one has arrived but us. Wavering dragonflies far outnumber the human presence. The rapids provide a diversion from the tedium of Chiang Khan and also the chance to observe details without any distractions. No commercial traffic continues north of the rapids, although a high-powered and deafening speedboat traverses them without so much as a bump; its inboard motor does not come in contact with the rocks. The watercraft disrupts the calm only for a short time. Maurice and I are happy to see it disappear and the humming of the motor soon becomes a faint echo.
The butterflies are as diverse in shape and color as the dragonflies are numerous. I have never really seen a butterfly before I came to Thailand. Some of the insects reach a wingspan of five inches with symmetrical designs on the wings that rival Dalí paintings. “Regarde celui-là, Maurice!” , I emphasize without raising my voice too much.
He stabs for his camera. “Where? Où?” By the time I point, the yellow and blues lobed creature had taken to flight and fluttered away aimlessly. Maurice tried in vain to take a photo of it. and I laughed it the ineptitude of his moving the camera around in circles in front of his face. I wasn’t successful, either.
We passed an empty gazebo beside which read a sign: Foot Massage - Self Service. As the gardens were empty, I pointed this out to Maurice. Just how does this work? Is this the area where you’re supposed to sit down, remove your shoes and rub your feet at no cost? The docked longboats at Kand Kud Ku are tethered residences for the vendors and fishermen’s families. One lone fisherman has taken to a dinghy of sorts and has casted the same net multiple times. Both Maurice and I remark that we have not seen a single fruit of any fisherman’s labor appear from the Mekong. They may as well be casting their nets in an Olympic swimming pool.
We seated ourselves and ordered a cucumber salad, a slivered mix of that and other vegetables in a peppery marinade. It set Maurice aback and he immediately began to perspire. I gobble it up and revel in the stinging sensation on my tongue. Once recovered from the salad, Maurice jumped out of his seat and gingerly ran to a tree. He peered up and his mouth gaped open. He waved his arms at me to join him, but did not speak; I took that as an indication not to either. I tip-toed behind him and posed my eyes where his were already fixed. I saw nothing but a branch.
“Richard, là! And then it twitched.
Because its skin matched the blue-grey of the branch I could not make it out at first. But the fat lizard noticed us and planned its escape up the tree. It was just short of nine inches long. It dwarfs its thousands of tinier cousins that scale the walls and projection TV screen at night after joining dining on the buffet mosquitoes that assemble near light ballasts in restaurants.
Before setting off, I commented to Maurice, with the rapids to his back, “This is the first day I have breathed fresh air since I arrived in Thailand. We thought back to the frenetic pace of Bangkok, and then turned our necks to the Mekong. The only thing the two had in common is that the color of the former unsurprisingly matches the air of the latter.
Maurice dried himself off, not from a spill or the humidity, but from the effects of the cucumber salad. He observed a sandy footpath at the bend of the river, well below our vantage point. I thought, no, the river floods too often and too high for there to be anything permanent down there. Where most tourists would have wrapped up their excursion, Maurice was just getting started. “Let’s go and see to get to over there”, he muttered in English. But there was no route, no trail, no signpost. I could not see how we would arrive there or if we would manage to reach the shore at all. Nor did Maurice. Unconcerned, Maurice set off. After his sixth step, I joined him.
Robert Frost writes about the road not taken. Maurice is a natural admirer of Frost even though he has not read a single stanza that the American poet ever etched. If it weren’t for his incessant need to sightsee and plan his days with too much detail, he would be the perfect traveler. With fifteen years of experience as an engineer in Mali, Gabon, and Burkina Faso, a few grassy fields, ponds of lotus blossoms, and barbed wire fence do not begin to form any sort of barrier for him.
We take to a path behind the parking lot and disappear from the parameters of any guidebook. The trail is suited for rice farmers and we come across a wide, lime green stage of moist paddies. Maurice hands me his camera and wants a photo of him ankle deep in the mud. “It is my first time to see this. It is beautiful.” I concur and snap the photo of a Frenchmen with a wide smile among fields of verdant rice shoots. He is also very observant about plants. He shows me a tamarind tree, and explains that the fruit can be ground with water to make a sweet juice. Further on, we leave the security of the trail and stomp over dry grass and very soft earth into which my shoes are pressed ankle deep. I try to step where he does. The field and dirt indentations are ripe to cause a turned ankle. His pace is relentless. Up on a hill he climbs and beckons me to join him. “See? Tu vois?” He told me the word in French for the tree, but it did not register. “It is made for furniture in France, America also.” Then it hit. It was a teak tree. I had never seen one before. Then I realized, I was in a forest of them. Maurice walked fifty yards farther by himself, looked up and left then right, and just listened. He wanted to know what a teak forest sounded like. Afterwards, Maurice said we had already walked through mango and papaya groves.
A rude metal-roofed shelter clings to the side of a terraced his of vegetables. “See there?” That is where farmers rest. They do not go home all day, but cannot work in the afternoon heat. So, they rest there.” Upon closer inspection, a makeshift fireplace and black kettle hide in the shade created by the rusty overhang. “It is just like that in Africa.” Maurice skipped ahead and then told me that you have never seen a lagoon until you have been to Gabon.
We mounted our bicycles in the parking lot and began our journey back to Chiang Khan. Maurice’s age began to show and each revolution of the bicycle pedal became more difficult for him. The next time I turned around, he wasn’t there. I U-turned and found him at a roadside cabana where a family was peeling coconuts and cooking the flesh. There was Maurice with a coconut to his face. The milk spilled onto his shirt and he did not care.
“Délicieux!”
Yesterday, Maurice asked me why I came to Chiang Khan. I told him something like it was quiet and boring with nothing to do and I wanted to-
“No! No! The simplicity,” he said in eloquent French, “of everyday life is not boring. If you look closely there is so much to see. It is beautiful here.”
We never reached that footpath on the banks of the Mekong.

---

Photos

Boys Frolick in the Mekong
The water is not to my liking, but they don't care....

Absorbing Sunsets...
Right from the window of my room...

Dips Below Horizon
Gets even better...

Small Rapids
The Mekong trips over a few rocks...

Very Inquisitive
Marcel amid of forest of teak trees