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Published: April 16th 2024
On the 7th of October, just prior to my solo return to Laos, we witnessed Hamas slaughter and kidnap, crazily initiating what was sure to be, and was/is a terrible retribution. As heinous as the Hamas action was the Israeli response has justly seen world-wide condemnation, including many Jewish voices, who simply cannot condone the flippant disregard for the thousands of collateral innocent lives lost and the hundreds of thousands displaced, their livelihoods and homes destroyed, with starvation a very real threat. It is difficult not to view the Israeli offensive as a genocide of the Palestinian people and even harder not to consider the Palestinian scattering an ethnic cleansing. There again, the latter is hardly novel as what little was left of Palestine after the creation of Israel in 1947 (and the subsequent land-grabs of the 1948 war) has been constantly eroded ever since, with the Palestinian West Bank now divided by Israeli occupied territories, leaving it an archipelago of dispersed settlements.
A train, the London underground and flight from Heathrow saw the first twenty four hours of travelling completed and me trying to grab some shut-eye in the pleasant enough Bahrain airport. The next flight, six hours later,
would see me in Bangkok, before another wait, a subsequent flight over to Ubon (with a hiatus for a quick spot of non-Laos-obtainable food shopping) and then a series of buses to the Laos border, Pakse and finally Tad Lo. But what had I been moaning about? The projected 80-plus hour trip came in at 70 (subtracting the 6 hours gained). I did get lucky though as on arrival in Pakse the day's last bus to Tad Lo had already left... And yet my rapidly haggled motorbike/sidecar link chased it down and got me on board. Then as I was bracing myself for the mile walk into the village (laden with 40kg of stuff) up rolled Pancake (13 years old) driving the family's truck. I wonder if, bless her, she had met all of the earlier buses as well?
There was a wonderful reception from the extended family before I was shown to our old - yet majorly re-vamped - stilt-elevated room: a new stained wooden floor had been laid; it was now largely sealed from uninvited insects; there were power points galore and three individual lights (soon to be shaded by rattan sticky-rice steamers) had replaced the previous
strip bulb; there was a new shower a-fixed to the wall, replacing our improvised showerhead-on-a-bamboo-pole effort; and hell... the fridge/freezer was even already in residence. Incredibly, on the balcony the parsley continued to thrive, although the rosemary hadn't fared so well. It was great to be back, the only downside was that Als wasn't here too.
As mentioned in the previous blog, our dogs found their way back to their very grateful deserting parent. And, as Ali oversaw her mum's treatment and recuperation back in the UK, I had plenty of projects to push onwards.
The Laos love a pizza, although such a commodity cannot be bought anywhere near our village; whilst their toppings of choice are grizzly: heavily processed "meats", crab sticks, pineapple, and salad cream all being crowd pleasers. Me turning up with 5kg of real mozerella and 3kg of Italian salami, with the promise of fresh basil (as soon as it's grown) left them non-plussed. Well... the visiting falang would like (and buy) a more traditional product, and so would we. Of course, oven-less, our previous incarnations had all been non-ideal stove-top efforts. I knew that fire bricks could not be obtained in Laos (you'd
have to import them from Thailand, maybe down-the-line care of our friends Andy and Oi) and so my mind drifted towards barrel barbeques (old, split and hinged oil drums); surely I could adapt one to function as an oven? Thus on a trip to Pakse with Puene (how the spelling of her name has morphed over the years: Pon, Pern, Puen... Puene), and having scoured half the city, we finally found one. Modifications with an angle-grinder performed, so began experimentation with indirect heat, the addition of small volcanic rocks to radiate a more even heat, and then a combination of indirect and direct heat. Results were mediocre at best; it simply wasn't getting hot enough. Further testing could wait until Ali's return.
Instead my attentions focused on improving our neighbouring hut (repainting, floor staining, provision of self-made curtain rails and functioning curtains) and to creating a small vegetable garden from the sack of seeds brought back from the UK (could/would such exotics as fennel, beetroot, leeks, rocket, cauliflower, broccoli, a range of European herbs and tomato varietals thrive in such a hot and humid climate?). This necessitated preparing beds from the rock-hard volcanic soil and in-digging some sandy alluvial
soil from the river's edge to improve drainage. I was never to obtain the promised rice husks to overlay/burn as fertilizer, instead - with research - using a slurry of aged cow manure where appropriate. But, most importantly, it needed to be fenced off from roaming cattle, goats, chickens, ducks... and inquisitive children.
I also re-initiated English lessons for the two oldest boys, but my dry teaching methodologies - without Ali's inspiration - and their busy/lazy respective selves soon saw these fizzle out. Nevertheless, their continued abilities in understanding and speech, let alone reading, writing and spelling, after five months of no concerted language practice were impressive. Upon Ali's return, we would be charged with teaching the next generation of extended family and this time we were catching them at a far younger age: five children ranging from six to thirteen, but with two having special needs and most with little or no previous exposure to English.
We were later to be approached by a senior member of the village acting on behalf of the province's assistant governor: would we run a real school? Well... Having no work visas we can't actually perform formal duties, even voluntarily. Would
they organise/fund those? What premises would be provided? Who would supply white/black boards, notepads and other miscellaneous materials? Plus, they were thinking of multiple large classes ranging from beginners to those approaching exams to prove competence for higher education or positions abroad... Maybe we could organise a system of work-away volunteers? Errr... and how would we encourage such mid-long-term stayees? They would expect free accommodation at the very least, and who would provide that? It would be full-time, full-on work, leaving us with no opportunity to perform our other, freely, gladly offered labours of helping around
Sipasert, clearing litter and re-cycling, and the incessant stream of individuals visiting for medical consultations, medicinal provisions and minor ailment treatments. Mathilde upped the ante on the latter by proposing a nationwide triage service; this was certainly jumping the gun.
As the fourth anniversary of the WHO designating the Covid-19 outbreak a pandemic approached so, on the 5th January 2024, Worldometer recorded that there have been over 700 million infections with very close to 7 million deaths, a worldwide mortality rate of just under 1 percent. Among the most "lethal" countries in which to have contracted the virus are a large number of
Eastern European, Baltic and South American nations, although both the USA and the UK make the top 20 of this undesirable list. Meanwhile, the Chinese have recognised a mere 503,302 cases (barely a quarter of the number of their active military personnel), with an astoundingly low declared death rate of 4 per million, some 1000 times lower than that of the USA or UK. Christ... If remotely convinced by these numbers one should be delighted that we received China's seemingly miraculous - totally old-school -
Sinopharm vaccine and wonder quite why the developers of the next-generation mRNA vaccine received the 2023 Nobel prize for Medicine? That said, to our knowledge, we have yet to contract the virus which, given the amount of public transportation we use and the number of random, transient people we associate with, is incredible.
An American friend-of-a-friend of our ours here in Laos - he of the grizzly buboes detailed in
From cramp that kills to bubonic plague that doesn’t, with a potential cancer in between: another dull month in Laos. - having seemingly, delightedly, just adopted a baby with his Laos wife, took his own life. We'd been discussing importing those fire bricks to build our own pizza ovens, he'd just constructed a new house, he was blown away by being a father,
he... just didn't seem the type, nor, more pertinently, had he given any impression that such a desperate recourse was even a possibility. He was always a conspiracy theorist and apparently he had recently met with another foreigner famously of the same ilk; yet any speculation is merely that: suicidal thoughts and actions often strike unannounced. Regardless, he had a lot to give, to live for, and his passing is a tragic loss.
Backtracking somewhat... the 29th of December 2023 saw Tad Lo officially, with much tub thumping, speeches by dignitaries and school girl dancing, become... a city... A city with barely 500 inhabitants... Ahhh, but now we did have several dozen "street lights" (single bulbs with rice basket shades strung from bamboo poles), and... it has been targeted as a touristic hotspot for 2024, designated "Visit Laos year". Sadly, typically, in their wake, the dignitaries left a carpet of plastic bottles and detritus. Sadly, not untypically, most attractions and events were not unfurled until high season (for foreigners) had already long since passed.
There are few places on earth as gentle and safe as rural Laos and yet there are, of course, the odd unsavoury individual and
those with mental health problems and, even in communities such as ours, the very rare desperate homeless or vagrant. I'd detailed one such case in a recent blog, a man who was threatening people with a machete and who had taken to burning houses in the middle of the night. In our absence he had simply... disappeared. Hopefully he did merely wander off, and yet he was proving to be a dangerously severe headache, so who knows? And that brings me on to vagrant number two. Apparently one night, only a month or so ago, he was building a fire in the bush when he was killed by an "exploding stone", no doubt a euphemism for an old US cluster bomb.
And the stats on the unexploded ordinance here are both terrifying and criminally reprehensible: between 1964 and 1973 more than 2 million tons of ordinance was dropped on this neutral country in order to disrupt communist supply lines to Vietnam, making it the most bombed country per capita in history. Since the last bomb was dropped a further 20,000 have died and over 50,000 have been maimed. It is estimated that a staggering 80 million unexploded bombs -
predominantly tennis ball-sized cluster bombs - still remain and it may take another 50 years to totally clear these. As a child, Somphone was playing with his friends (I seem to have an endless catalogue of Somphone stories) when they came across a pile of metal balls and thus a game of petanque ensued. Incredibly no one died that day, but one of the friends was subsequently to carry a clutch of these fun objects away, bundled in his tee-shirt, and duly blew himself up.
As I sit here in Laos at the hot end of February typing this missive, having been joyfully reunited with Ali for close on three months, we enter into a third year of Russia's shameful warmongering (a jolly old blog this one's turning out to be). Some thirty one thousand soldiers have now given their lives fighting for Ukraine's sovereignty and thousands more civilians have been massacred, bombed and butchered. It beggars belief that this grim milestone coincides with the ever more likely eventuality that the orange snake (currently sweeping the Republican Primaries and having had the Supreme Court block Colorado striking an individual such as himself from a ballot) - who would slash
military aid to Ukraine - may well, tragically, once again, be the head of the western world instead of locked up for his treason, sexual and financial crimes. Only last week he reiterated his previous insanity that he'd happily sit back and watch if Russia invaded a fellow Nato member if that nation had fallen short on their contributions to the alliance. Of course those countries that actually border Russia (or allied Belarus) do typically spend more than 2 percent (the required minimum) of their GDP on defense. Notable among those that don't (incredibly that's almost two thirds of all Nato members, whilst the UK only just scrapes it) are France (just below 2), Germany (1.6) and Belgium (little more than 1), whilst Luxembourg provides a trifling 0.7 percent of its in-comings. In times such as these even "Honest Don" (yes, that is his new self-given moniker: you couldn't script this shit) has a valid grievance. I'm intrigued quite how much new member Sweden is promising.
The number of visitors was ticking up and
Sipasert was, seemingly, becoming the hangout of choice for the longer stayers among them. Affable Argentinian cyclist Gabriel (Gabby) was pitching his tent on our
riverbank and using facilities in exchange for his regular patronage of the restaurant; whilst, unbeknown to us, Windy and the delicious Savannah were heading our way and would soon be joined by more fire-twirlers. Their collective performances later provided intermissional entertainment at the live traditional music/dancing nights now held on a Sunday in the open-air community centre.
A flattering irritation regarding those who play with fire was their fondness for French fries that they would only order if... I were to cook my twice-fried variants. Cook Moo was unimpressed that these took considerably longer than her - to my mind totally palatable - efforts. That said, the heathens turned their noses up at my homemade mayonnaise.
Ali finally managed to get control of the long neglected
Sipasert Facebook and Google web pages and thus we were able to reply to reviews and add content ourselves; whilst we were additionally invited to act as moderators on another Facebook group "Laos Backpackers".
Late one afternoon the sun was hanging low (I'd already tied-back the shading curtain on the balcony) when a young backpacker rushed at us. "Please come, people are trapped on the falls". And it was true, the
dam had evidently been opened as it often is at that time of day, the river had risen and the falls had gained a significant volume. Four of us, calling Puene to rouse wise local heads, rushed across to and over the rocky island fronting the falls to find two - predictably Brits - stuck on a large boulder projecting mid-cascade. "We were sunbathing" they screamed across the water, "we didn't notice the water rising". It takes a good thirty minutes for such a flow to develop during which time they could easily, and safely, have retreated. The water would never breech their perch and... really... the level would recede in five or six hours. Stupid people; I was tempted to leave them there. And yet it would be dark very soon and who knows what crazy escape maneuvors they might, terminally, attempt. The local guy who had constructed the bridge to our in-water gazebos appeared and, extremely fortuitously, there were some sizable tree limbs close by. And so we, following his instruction, constructed a crude rail of tree trunks braced behind further projecting boulders. He then lept between horribly slick-looking rocks to reach them before lowering himself into the
water behind their boulder and demonstrating how they'd need to brace themselves against the rail to prevent being washed down the falls. Gabby had his tow rope which we threw to them as a life-line and thus each in turn traversed the powerful chest high thrust. Both were safely hauled from the water just as head torches became necessary.
They were extremely grateful, as they should be, and back at
Sipasert they duly ordered a number of beers as thanks to their saviours and to calm their shaken nerves. We personally always inform our guests to be wary of the river's varying depth, although where they were staying had, evidently, not. Still, it was a happy resolution and Tad Hung hadn't claimed it's first victims of the year. Roll on Pi Mai, that almost always sees a fatality.
On a lighter note, unless you're an uninclined lady duck... Every evening I spend forty minutes or so watering the vegetable garden, with repeated journeys to/from the tap by the ducks' enclosure necessary. As I depart with a full watering can I leave the hose running into a giant metal bowl that acts as their mini pond (although they are
free to, and do, wander down to the river for a real swim). This they've invariably turned into a muddy mess during the course of the day and now emptied and refilling they take great joy in snapping at the water jet and having a clean bathe. However, amidst the showering - and I don't know if this occurs throughout the day (I'm not a voyeur) - there is always some shagging. Every day, without fail. On mounting a lady duck the male, rather unromantically, nips onto the back of her neck with his bill, keeping her in the position he desires; an act that typically, ungraciously, forces her head into the mud. Nevertheless, there are one pair who always go for a daily river swim together and they are rarely more than a metre apart, so maybe duck love transcends mud ducking?
Mr. Bounchan procured a large, eight-ten seater, tuk tuk for general
Sipasert usage: we could now provide free pick-ups/drop-offs for guests from/to Kourset bus stop, Kita could offer tours to visitors when not at college (thereby earning some money towards tuition costs), whilst we could all use it for shopping trips to Kourset, Lang Nam or
Salavan. However, the beast does have a number of eccentricities: not least that the accelerator and brake are essentially the same pedal - push forwards with your toes for the former or depress your heel for the latter. The clutch for the five-speed gearbox is at least operated by your other foot. There is no working headlight, nor indicators; so we certainly wouldn't be taking it out after dark. And... the single front wheel does wobble somewhat, forcing you to fight the handlebars, although this anomaly appears less pronounced when exceeding warp speed 5. Anyway, Ali mastered it in minutes. My juddering, bunny-hopping, stalling attempts met with much hilarity and ridicule. But, I countered, I've not driven anything in over a decade. Obviously - this is Laos - there is no tax or insurance... nor licence required to drive such a vehicle, although I'm not sure quite what will transpire when we are - inevitably - pulled-over by the police.
Test cricket reared its head and, the Ashes aside, there is no greater challenge than facing India in India. They were last beaten at home in 2013, when we just happened to be there - at the decisive Nagpur
test
"Hello honey bunny, you're my pumpkin pumpkin" - to witness England miraculously do just that. Meanwhile, no one, ever, has defeated India when they as the home side have had a lead of greater than 100 runs from the first innings; at this stage in the first match England trailed by almost double that. Surely there was no hope. And yet... Ollie Pope, to everyone's (probably his own) amazement, scored (on a turning pitch, against the best current spin bowling trio in the world, indeed potentially of all time) a scintillating 196; the rest of the England team, combined, could only marginally double this, leaving the Indians with a seemingly easily obtainable 230 to win. In comparison to India's exemplary, scarily good, bowling force, England presented an experienced yet mediocre - injured, almost one-legged - spin bowler and two others with a single cap (international appearance) between them. And yet, again... Christ, they bowled well, whilst the Indians did capitulate somewhat. Newby, Hartley (who went to the same school - yeah, private - as my mate / Ali's cousin, and now medical triage go-to, John) took 7 wickets for 67. And... we won by a nervy 28 runs. Incredible, really incredible.
The remaining four
matches, during which England were in extremely promising positions at times, resulted in a resounding and quality deserved 4:1 series win for the Indians. Ho hum...Our chum Ashok was, reservedly, delighted.
The less said about the earlier cricket world cup - we were actually the holders - the better. Nevertheless, for posterity, I'll include a graphic from the match between Australia and Afghanistan as my belief was that a 100% chance of an event occurring actually, by definition, meant that it would come to pass. Here, in the craziest, most bizarre of circumstances and brilliance, it didn't.
Lulu pupped, thankfully in a more suitable location this time (under her other parent's, Pon's - that really is how she spells her name, and there is no other Laos in this village who has such a way with dogs: even cranky Pak Dam adores her) and, heavily food-subsidised by us (this Pon has little of anything), she managed to raise five. And yet she was latterly to think it a good idea to lead them, several hundred metres, in the dead of night, to come visit us where they would whine until we rose to feed the now weening pups
more mashed rice and banana in water. And... maybe let them join us on the bed for a mass snuggle until dawn.
One French family, staying with us for a week, had a young daughter in-tow who adored her time here playing with the massed ranks of family, associated and transient children. During a discussion on such matters, Mum Nelly, suggested that we needed several further signs (in addition to those I'd created and erected before Ali's return): apparently it wasn't readily apparent to wandering strangers quite where the restaurant was, or that it overlooked the river and falls. Meanwhile, septigenarian Mr. B had me staining a miscellany of prepared, sanded, wood for his latest construction projects. He'd already completed 20 bed-side tables that we'd stated were required for rooms, five relaxing (one a rocker no less) chairs for the viewing/chilling veranda and so I pushed him towards renovating "the big bungalow".
A month on and I am less impressed with my suggestion as yesterday he had me lifting dozens (and dozens) of floorboards with long-arm and hammer in a supersaturated 42C degrees that was a sopping, endless, five litres of water consuming, torture. The tepid (no such
thing as cold water here - even the river is warm) shower was almost as wonderful as the ice cold beer that followed.
Out of the nowhere there was a festival at our little temple. We were never to learn quite what it was in honour of, although it coincided with the arrival of a new Budha statue. The grounds abutting three sides of the wat were provisioned with extensive canopies from which really rather beautiful, elaborate networks of string were hung. There was a procession in the afternoon and then as darkness descended so did hundreds of village folk all bedecked in white robes. Puene, Pancake and Namphun made up our contingent. On arrival each party laid a reed mat on which they sat, amidst candlelight, in vigil throughout the night whilst the monks chanted. At the four corners of the wat young novices continually burned banana leaves resting on a length of bamboo atop an oil drum. The harmonious chanting coming from within the temple filled the night with a dreamy serenity. It was one of the most atmospheric ceremonies we've ever witnessed, anywhere. And yet... Periodically the chanting would cease and a speech was made, evidently
bidding the devotees to come into the building to make a donation. Many of those present struggle to feed themselves and yet here they were giving away cash that they could little afford to do.
Ali continued to be inundated with medical-related visits, although there have been two notables with whom she could only staunch the blood flow before sending them, rapidly, onwards to Pakse and hospital: potential expat, French Alex, almost sliced his finger off with a circular saw ("yep, that's bone"); whilst poor little three year old Phut, riding on a scooter with his mum Joy (these risks are simply seen as unavoidable), had a collision that left him with a horrific compound fracture of his left humurus. Its never pleasant to see bone projecting through flesh, particularly when it's a child.
Per chance, I had to do a visa run to Thailand - transiting from Pakse, literally an out and in again trip of a few hours - and thus we were in Pakse whilst Phut was having various temporary metal rods inserted into his arm to stabilise the fractured bones. Apparently the letter we'd obtained from the Nai Ban (chief of our village) would
ensure free treatment. Maybe... There's certainly no way his family could afford to pay for his care (and the surgeon with whom we remain in contact with hasn't sent us a bill... yet). A Laos hospital, even in its second largest city, is only too reminiscent of those we've experienced in rural India: the "wards" (rooms) are filled with co-inhabiting family members there to oversee the well being (and feeding) of the admitted. They're a bit like a doss house, although a doss house probably has better access to drugs.
And then, whilst cleaning our own room, Ali misjudged stepping over the 20L, rather sharp rimmed, plastic ex-paint receptacle that serves as a bucket and duly split the webbing between two toes. Actually it was unpleasantly deep and even made us blanche, whilst the wound's location made steri-stripping (possible by us) or stitching (two hours away if you could find transport and performed by Laos medics... nahhh) rather problematic. Fingers-crossed, our - just avoid infection at all costs - approach appears to be working, just markedly slower than we'd like. Mario, Mui and Mi are less than impressed as Ali's daily English/swimming lessons in the river have been cancelled
until it heals. I could substitute, but as the nippers are largely/totally naked (save their, Mr. B provided, life jackets), I am less than comfortable in engaging with their clambering, intimate behaviour, so they'll just have to wait.
And here are some random thoughts/stats: apparently 2% of the world's populace holds a doctorate (a PhD), the highest academic qualification recognised (really, that many?). Yet, the exact same proportion of us are prostitutes or are lucky enough to have ever travelled internationally. Left-handedness equates to having a Masters degree, 10% both. Whilst only 0.2% of Hungarians have a third nipple, yet some 6% of the United States' population, seemingly, do.
A very common question on the various SE Asian, and our mediating "Laos backing", websites relates to "burning season": when farmers "burn off" those remaining stalks and waste, post-harvest, creating a great swathe of unpleasantness. "Is now a good time to come?" "How bad is the smog currently?" And here lies a bitter truth: I am a cigarette smoker and those here are cheap in the extreme, yet crude; Ali doesn't smoke, but both of us have constant hacking coughs, as do most locals. The air quality is shit,
countrywide, almost year round, yet worse during these protracted periods. Yes, burning season is a thing, but equally so is the lack of organised waste disposal. Outside of Vientiane and the other largest cities (maybe) everyone is largely forced to burn their waste personally, horribly much of this plastics. There are no refuge collections and the access we used to have here to a (away from habitation) land-fill (where burning still occurred) has, for a year now, been rescinded. So, people have simply reverted to sweeping a pile outside their house where they set it alight. I might remind you that our village has now been designated "a city" and that Tad Lo is meant to be a principal component of luring tourists to visit Laos... And yet we burn plastics, nappies and... well, everything bar plastic and glass bottles, and tin cans (that we can and do recycle) in the street. Here, we (family, not us) often - much to our chagrin - even light our charcoal crucibles with plastic. Charcoal burners in confined spaces are similarly carcinogenic, but you do have to eat. We, along with Poh, are recycling as much as we can from all those around
us, but year-on-year the air quality is getting worse. Meanwhile, Laos is slaughtering its trees (then burning the stumps and surrounding foillage to clear the land) for the easy buck of manioc (the cultivation of which is actually taught in schools), yet is ignorant to the magnifying effect this is having. Coincidentally? This March / early April are the hottest on record. Ignoring greenhouse gases, the biggest problem with burning something, even wood or charcoal, is the minute particles that are projected into the air. Of these the most hazardous are PM2.5s (particulate matter smaller than 2.5 micrometres in size) that can penetrate to the deepest recesses of your lungs. Worldwide, long-term exposure to these is believed to have contributed to 4.1 million deaths in the year of 2019 alone, due - in prevalence order - to stroke, heart disease, and the more obvious respiratory infections, chronic lung disease and lung cancer. Here in Laos, the top three causes of mortality are: stroke (mind bogglingly the country has zero qualified neurologists), heart disease... and respiratory infections... Back in the UK the leading killer of women is dementia and Alzheimer disease; these come nowhere near the top ten for women here
whose life expectancy is some 13 years less. They don't live long enough for these conditions to develop. Cancer is responsible for around 25 percent of all deaths in the UK, in Laos it (apparently) accounts for about 10 percent which is remarkably low given that there is little/no screening (remember the difficulties Ali had in obtaining a mammogram
From cramp that kills to bubonic plague that doesn’t, with a potential cancer in between: another dull month in Laos. ), no radiotherapy units, whilst chemotherapy is rarely available. There again, most cancer-related deaths occur in the over 70s... and the life expectancy of a Laoatian is... 70. Oh, and that life expectancy actually dropped between 2020 and 2021 (the most recent data available). We are, potentially, going backwards.
Only too often on our Laos blogs viruses raise their ugly glycoprotein spikes: corona, dengue (some lists have this as the fourth largest killer here, accounting for 9 percent of deaths) and rabies have all featured. Now, however, we have a bacillus scare: bloody anthrax no less. In our neighbouring province of Champasak there have been 53 recent deaths and rumours are rife of its spread. Originating in soil, grazing ruminants, mainly cows, are the primary carrier and rare, let alone raw, beef is totally off even our menus. And we'll
not be risking the inevitable ("it makes you strong") goat's blood come Pi Mai that draws - increasingly noisily - ever closer.
And true to prediction, seconds ago on the 12th of April (one day before the official start of Pi Mai), I've just witnessed a very large billy goat - halal style - having its neck slit. As I type they're still collecting its blood. Horrifically, the cutting of it's jugular did not finish the beast off quickly and a significant number of hefty blows to the head were necessary to put it out of its misery. Not a land for the squeamish is Laos.
De-furred - thankfully I was not required to partake this time - and crudely butchered (equally I escaped) an hour or so later we were consuming barbequed hunks of flesh amidst an endless succession of beers.
Today, the 13th, the in-river gazebos are heaving and the techno, from multiple competing sources, thumping. Small mercies,
Sipasert has rented out their huts and so, unlike last year, Ali and I are not running the mid-river bar, nor collecting rents, which given the scorching temperature is a true blessing.
In a month we
have to return to the UK, specifically to Scotland, as our cantankerous old house is in desperate need of some loving care and a sizable injection of cash. Thus, we need to find paid employment whilst overseeing its renovation and our plans for a largely Laos-based life stutters once again. At least we'll be home for Ali's mum's 90th that, apparently, I am now catering. I do, however, feel quite sick at the thought of deserting Pak Dam and the pack once again, and for who knows how long.
And just to round off this rather dour entry I feel compelled to update on the situation in Gaza. The Palestinian people really are now starving and aid relief is constantly being thwarted: as of the 5th of April more than 200 humanitarian aid workers (mostly Palestinian, but also a fair number of media-attention-meriting westerners also - yes, that is sarcasm) have been killed whist performing their life-saving services. Deconfliction (reducing the risk of friendly fire) is not being adhered to, indeed on several occasions informing the offensive forces of aid movements has only seen them targeted, and obliterated. Again, the Israelis are in contravention of the 4th Geneva convention.
Happy times, not.
We have no idea when we'll be able to travel again or what path we'll take to inevitably bring us back once again to Laos, but at least the coughs should have abated by then...
Oh... And a last caveat: lettuce and rocket grow like mad here, but the former bolt quickly and the latter do not persist for long. Fennel and beets also take easily but their size are poor. Tomatoes, all varieties... who knew that it could be too hot and sunny for tomatoes? Again they grow like billio only for the leaves to fry and crops to be pathetic, even when positioned in semi-shade. Bell peppers grew into healthy plants and yet only yielded shrunken pathetic fruits. Cucumber and carrots do grow, just beware of the orange bug (I call them Trumpites) that love the young leaves of the former. We have thriving rosemary and basil, but chives and thyme are proving elusive. We didn't get round to trying cauliflower, broccoli or leeks. And yet a resounding, unintentional, success have been two rogue passion fruits that I am now training to - across 7ft raised supports - cover much of the beds,
thereby providing some much needed shade. And these, in a year or so, should provide magnificent fruit for both smoothies and Lao lao cocktails... If Puene keeps them alive...
One more point: Namphun now has a birthday, a falang birthday, randomly chosen by us. She has no idea when her actual birthdate was and her purchasing "father" (yes, she was bought) has never seen fit to designate one. We, finally, have. Fortunately we had a rather nice silver bracelet to give her for her first, ever, birthday present: she's, maybe, thirteen or fourteen. Shit... She is also an incredibly beautiful and vivacious young girl and we quake at the thought that, in our absence, she may well become one of the 2 percenters not so far along the road... and we do not project that she'll obtain a PhD...
And.... Christ... We were actually downriver taking advantage of a free thankyou night's B&B at the considerably upmarket, beautifully landscaped, and techno distanced
Bolaven Garden: Ali having recently run a five hour cleaning master class for them, whilst owner Poh wanted our further feed-back on potential improvements when, only too predictably, day three proper of Pi Mai saw a
fatality. We were informed that a thirteen year old girl had drowned at the foot of Tad Hung.
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Iain Sorrell
non-member comment
Real World Views...
As always I thoroughly enjoy reading your blogs and getting a 'real world view' of life in Laos and beyond. It stands in stark contrast to the refined and privileged (?) life here in SW Florida. But then again it also highlights how this so called civilized lifestyle has plunged us ever deeper into environmental ruin, financial excess and social dystopia. Safe travels and wrap up warm for Scotland!