An Adventure in the Mountains of Laos

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The other day while dining with a group of ex-pats I met Keith, a well-traveled British man in his forties, in Laos researching and writing for a very popular company’s guide book. He was starting his research in Luang Prabang but would soon be heading west and north to continue his work. He invited me to come along, after learning I was the only at the table not currently working. I was reluctant to leave LPB, having only been in town about ten days, but realizing I could come back anytime, that I’d wanted to check out these same places, that I could learn more about the world from him, as someone who’s been almost everywhere, and that it'd be fun to tag along with a travel writer, I decided to join him. I was also curious to see what it would be like traveling for work, whether it was still enjoyable, or if working while traveling just took all the fun away.

So I packed up my things, left most of them with my friends at the guesthouse, took a small bag of necessities, and left LPB around 7:30 one morning. Keith had rented a private car, which in Laos always comes with a driver, so he could make stops en-route for research. Right away the trip felt luxurious as I‘d always gotten around Laos before in slow and noisy buses. The two of us, not wanting to miss anything from the back seat, squished in to the front bench seat with the driver, leaving ten free seats in the rear of the giant van, the only type of car available for rent. Then we were off.

For seven hours we drove through the thick mountains of Northern Laos, the road constantly twisting and turning, sliding back and forth against each other in the front seat at every sharp curve, which were never more than twenty seconds apart. The views were sweeping and stunning, thick, lush forested green mountains topped with layers of fog. The road was carved in to the side of the mountain, so to one side was the mountain, to the other a cliff going down thousands of feet. Sometimes there was a guardrail. The road was narrow but well paved. Passing a big freight truck or a bus had to be done with care, because some parts of the road do not accommodate two cars. If two vehicles come around a sharp curve at the same time, it could spell disaster. Luckily, most drivers in Laos are very experienced with the driving conditions.

Every few minutes there would be a small, destitute village, built haphazardly on the twenty feet of space between the road and a cliff. The bamboo huts were literally clinging to the side of the mountain. The front yard was the busy road, and it wasn’t uncommon to nearly hit children playing in the road or women walking back from the forests, their heads holding heavy bags filled with sticks upon their backs. We passed dozens of adorable babies and little kids, loads of puppies, bands of children playing or working, collecting sticks, or banging long grass stalks on the road to sell for broom material.

For twenty miles, we drove by locals working digging ditches along the road; hard, backbreaking work, for laying water pipes. Sometimes we saw tarps set up like little makeshift tents near the ditch-diggers, probably the workers rest area but perhaps also heir sleeping area if they had too far to walk home for the weeks digging. Most children were dirty, had filthy, torn clothing and some had the lightened, blondish hair that results from malnourishment. So many times I just wanted to stop, grab some of these kids and adopt them.

The people we drove past worked and lived in the tiny space beside the road, on the edge of the steep abyss, with cars, trucks and busses flying past them all day. We wondered how many children were routinely hit. Late in the afternoon, we saw some villages that had built fences all along the road, allowing them a bit of safety and privacy from the passing traffic. But most of these towns livestock: chicken, goats, cows, dogs, buffalo and pigs were everywhere, often in the road, crossing the road, walking down the road.

We saw people bathing at the village spout by the roadside, some half-nude despite all the traffic passing right alongside, though most covered in a sarong-like sinh, the official and ever-popular long skirt. To me it seems annoying to always have to bathe wearing clothes, but in most villages, the village bathing spot has always been public, so people are used to this.

We made numerous stops; twice to take photographs, a few times to review guesthouses, and sometimes to explore sites. The towns with guesthouses were cross-over stops, bigger towns, nestled away from a cliff, and boasting universally shoddy and dirty guesthouses. Most rooms boasted a worn bed, a tired mattress, a slightly dirty comforter, a single bulb and across a dirt path, a squat toilet and a big container with a small bucket for bathing. Amusingly, the view from behind the bathrooms was generally stunning, as it abutted the cliff, the same one the road twisted alongside. This area usually held the outdoor kitchen, maybe a pigsty and perhaps a garden. Those pigs were in small pens, but they sure had an incredible view of to look out upon.

After about eight hours the road flattened out, and the forest was less lush with no more mountains and loads of cows in the road plus stunning cloud formations. There were a few beautiful big lakes, the likes of which I’d never seen in this country. We stopped to look inside two big caves that were used by locals to hide in during the Vietnam War. One featured a dirty, large locked glass case and a sign saying, “ Please Look. Antique Valuables Inside.” You looked and saw two empty shelves. If you looked closer, you saw that the very top shelf was filled with tiny Buddha statues, barely visible because it was dark.

Another cave, just next door, was used as a hospital during the war, and the dirt floor was still littered with tiny medicine bottles. This area is believed to still be cursed with many unexploded bombs, dropped by the American army during Vietnam, trying to attempt to disrupt the Ho Chi Minh Trail, the Viet Cong supply route, which ran through this area, as well as to stop the Communist takeover of Laos. Hundreds of Lao people a year accidentally stumble upon these bombs, blowing off arms, legs, going blind or dying. Organizations are working in Laos to clear away all these leftover bombs, but the work is costly and time consuming and it will take many more years before Laos is fully safe. So in this area, its important to stay on marked trails. Walking in the hospital cave, I was nervous as it didn’t seem well visited, and I imagined little bombs falling in through the holes in the roof of the cave, and lying uninterrupted until my foot pressed down upon them.

Driving on, safely out of the cave, we stopped to look at a few bamboo huts, as the sign said guest house. An introspective older man, with eyes that suggested he had many stories to tell, told us the huts were available for rent. How much I asked? In response he held up all the fingers on his right hand, which were four, as his thumb was missing. Oh, forty thousand I said, not even thinking that maybe he was trying to include his thumb. Then he held up his left hand, all the fingers, which were five, and I said, oh 50,000. He nodded yes.

The huts were very simple, with just a bed and a little table, plus a bathroom with a squat toilet and a bucket shower. They looked like they hadn’t been used in years. The bed was covered with an old sheet to protect against dirt, as there were big gaps between the roof and the walls. The view was peaceful, over a medium sized lake, with nothing around but a few other homes. Though the lake was unfortunately brown. It was a bit sad to get the man all excited that we might take the room when we were only just researching for a book. But I told him that in Laos, and I think he shook it off, slipping back somewhere deep in to his thoughts as we walked away.

Our destination for the day was Phonsavon, a famous place to visit in Laos because of what is called the Plain of Jars. 91 sites have been found thus far, scattered around town, each possessing ancient stone jars, ranging from 6 inches to 18 feet tall. These jars are believed to be ancient urns used for burials. Once the bodies decomposed, they were taken out and their bones buried surrounding the jars. More details about this later. The town itself is quite ugly, as I guess are most Lao towns that do not possess old French Colonial architecture. Modern Lao building is extremely unattractive, with a style modeled on Soviet utility, all cement, with unappealing color choices.

Arriving in Phonsavon, we had time to visit one Site One of the Plain of Jars. A large sign at the entrance to the jars gave us the “Admission rules for visiting the Plain of Jars”. Some of these rules were very amusing.

“No planting vegetables, rearing animals or organizing any activities at the Jar site, without permission. (Remember this is an area still possessing many mines.) No overnight stay, trouble making or inappropriate behavior allowed on the premises of the plain of Jars. Do not take weapons, knives or big luggage to the Jars Site. Anyone who breaks any aforementioned rules will face serious consequences.”

Site 1 is believed to be the biggest of the known sites, though a half dozen more sites are currently being excavated. Only 9 of the 91 have yet been cleared of mines and are open to the public. Only about three of those are easily accessible. The sign told us 225 or so jars were here, though I’d estimate about fifty. The place felt like a peaceful graveyard, but instead of square-shaped stone markers, there were jar-shaped stone markers. It was nothing too thrilling but it was a lovely spot, just next to the airport by chance, and when we were there, the sun was setting and a beautiful rainbow had just emerged.

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Comments

[Tracey]

Unexpected road trip
Well done for taking the opportunity placed before you!! What a wonderful chance to travel around Laos and have some company also. Keep safe gorgeous girl XX

[Dorie]

I am really loving your travels! Thanks Britt!! oxoxoxox