Chapter 17. Lemongrass Stains - Muang Ngoi

---

By the time I reached the top of the docks at Muang Ngoi, I was already convinced coming here was worth it. To provide some relief from the bare wooden planks of the boat’s floor, Valérie and I arranged our packs as cushions when boarding in Nong Kiow. The Hmong passengers en route to villages kilometers from their drop off point looked at us with minor curiosity. The scheduled ten thirty departure pulled out of Nong Kiow right on time, at eleven fifteen. Many native Hmong worked as a team to load the boat up with supplies, including those needed in Muang Ngoi: rice, bags of raw fish and the accompanying nails, ceramic basins, tools, water, medicine, paper products, panes of glass, and textiles. The longboats on the Nam Ou just don’t transport people, but are the vessels that bring the industrial modernity of our world to theirs. They are the Hmong tribe’s lifeline. The extra forty-five minutes to load the boat is not considered a delay. It is a necessity.
The one-hour longboat ride upriver to Munag Ngoi through the swift liquid pudding of the Nam Ou is spectacular. The waterway slices through soaring and mountains of exposed rock face. Some of the peaks are enshrouded in light wisps of mist and clouds. It is savagely beautiful and a message to Valérie and me that we are embarking beyond the creature comforts of Nong Kiow.
The jungle vegetation falls from the cliffs directly into the river. In places, there is no shoreline, just long, leafy vines. In others, water buffalo sun on a muddy beach. Behind them grow banana and papaya trees in uncountable numbers. Some of the wild plants spawn leaves the size of a full length tablecloth. With no evidence of habitation nearby, boys jump from thick tree branches into the river, and continue diving long after we are out of sight. Faux islands of sharp limbs and sharp branches surface at time in the middle of the river. The driver knows the turns and currents well. He doesn’t flinch when he pushes the throttle forward into the gurgling rapids and makes a sharp left turn to avoid submerged threats to the boat’s integrity.
One Hmong girl eyed the notes I was taking on the boat journey. She did not hide her curiosity and built up enough courage to stick her chin over my notebook. Since she was so interested, I handed her the notebook, but she quickly turned shy and looked away from me. She and her mother disembarked at a riverbank seemingly lost in a thick meadow of brush. The skies opened a in violent burst of showers. It did not bother either of them. Our boat took to the river currents again as they climbed the muddy bank in flip-flops, then waved the thicket aside as an actor would when going through stage curtains. They silently disappeared into the jungle.
Muang Ngoi is the gateway for visitors to mingle with the Hmong. The dropoff from Nong Kiow is easily apparent: electricity is cut off by ten thirty in the evening. Without generators keeping the stilted homes of Muang Ngoi lit, the village would not be visible from the very docks at which boats arrive. The single muddy road is home to a handful of substandard guesthouses, meager shops, and dirt-floor kitchens that serve whatever meals they have available to tourists. Angry ducks waddle in the street and force pedestrians to swerve out of their way. The restaurant menus may be expansive, but do not indicate how recently pantries have been restocked. Before looking for a bed, I stopped at a very ordinary restaurant. A fourteen year old girl greeted me in very acceptable English.
“I’d like the pork soup.”
“Sorry, we don’t have pork. No meat.”
Uhh, OK, then I’ll-”
“I make you now noodles and eggs with vegetables. Sit down.” I did. She went back to the kitchen and I heard the clanging of pots and shouts for help. I concluded that of the twenty items on the menu, the noodles and eggs was all I was going to get. Then she went out a side door to retrieve eggs from a neighbor. She did the same when I asked for water. At least I knew better than to ask for anything else to drink. I fear how long it would have been for the entire village to work together for a glass of lemonade. The pace of life in Muang Ngoi is painfully slow. My noodles and eggs took a half hour. She could only find a spoon to serve it with. I was pleased; she did not have any chopsticks. What was I going to do, complain? Refuse to pay the few cents for the bill? No, the only route of escape just went downriver. It was the last boat until tomorrow. When it came time to pay, I realized I did not have the exact amount in bank notes. I handed her twenty thousand kip and sat down with a book until she came back with the difference. The P.D.R in Laos’ namesake does not refer to the people’s Democratic Republic. No, the Lao P.D.R. means Please Don’t Rush. In Muang Ngoi, if not for the boat arrivals and departures, there would be no need for clocks or watches. Without timepieces or an option to leave town, what difference does it make if you have to wait for anything anyway?
An Australian told me that if in a hurry in Laos to order a meal because of a bus soon leaving, it is the foreigner that has erred. The foreigner planned his time improperly. The Lao doesn’t need to adjust to someone else’s poor time management.

Muang Ngoi and I are never going to spend weeks on end together. Nevertheless, my bungalow removed any doubt this would be a prolonged stay. I am sure there were others in the village; some must have been better. Of the ones I inspected, they all seemed to be in the very same deplorable condition. Mine leans a good ten degrees to the left. The door rests on one hinge and the dark, damp, interior is just large enough to fit the bed. The sheets saw detergent when it snow last came to Muang Ngoi. The lumpy pillows were not visibly moldy, but my nose convinced me otherwise. The interior of the shack came lit, not by a light bulb; none of the bungalows are connected with electricity. Rather, the space between each of the wall boards permitted much of the sun to reach the straw floor. My mosquito net had rips in it. I can’t find tape in any of the shops to repair it. The girl who showed me where I would be trying to sleep at night checked in with me. “You like?”
I was appalled, but knew others were no better.
“It’s wonderful. How much?”
“Those two over there are less. Yours expensive because of the view.” The Nam Ou flowed in front of me with deep jungle mountains that framed a picture that belongs as the centerpiece in most living rooms. It was absolutely fantastic. The girl finished her thought. “Yours, you pay one dollar, fifty-cents.”
“Good.”
“I show you toilet now?” Could I hold it back until tomorrow morning and not see it?
“No, I know where it is. Thank you.” I didn’t know, but outhouses are not hard to identify by sight or odor.

I caught Valérie wandering the street like I was. The fancy place in town is Ning Ning, with a good view of the docks. She and I settle in for four hours. Ning Ning is quite a find: they serve drinks two or three degrees below air temperature. But in only minutes does the condensation on the glass of my fruit juice evaporate. There is no ice in Muang Noi and the expiration date on the few machines with freon attachments has long since passed.
Valérie has come to Laos to pursue her interest in Buddhism. She is reading a book authored by the Dalai Lama. She also dresses the part: her top is a loose red linen woven mess. The orange pants of the same material are equally loose but are tight around her ankles. She dons a few beaded bracelets to complete the outfit. She, like many I meet in Southeast Asia, has quit her job to travel. So did Anita from Toronto and Oscar from Caracas. Aimee, who hails from the Irish county of Sligo, has just completed six months in India after working as a chambermaid in Englewood, New Jersey. Aimee has no intent of ever holding an office job. She is compiling a list of U.S, military bases overseas to strengthen her argument that mine is a country hell-bent on spreading immorality. Little did she know that I was soon to challenge her assertions until she became fatigued with my point so many times that she had no idea what she was talking about. The five of us chatted until the darkness extinguished the scenery we had been admiring all day. Of all at our table, my stay away from home was by far the shortest. When they learned about my life in Connecticut, none of the four envied me. They were relieved that I managed to escape for as long as I could. Moroever, Anita and Valérie tried to see if there was some way I would not go back to the United States and travel with them instead.
“No, those days are gone.” I told them.
“But why?”
“Sometimes, life gets in the way. I have had my fill and I am never truly content. Yet, I have it pretty good. What I have and what I do permits me to be here with you.” In spite of the contradictory conditions in Muang Ngoi, I honestly declared, “There is no there place I’d rather be than here at this table. Many I know do not understand.”
My last sentence sparked Oscar into a monologue. His long flowing brown locks and thick beard could have him pass as Jesus back home “Exactly! I told my parents that I was going to Laos. The problem is they did not know where or what Laos was. I showed it to them on the map and they said, ‘Why there? What’s wrong with you?’ I say to them, ‘What’s wrong with you’?”
All five of us concurred silently. Oscar finished up while slapping at a wasp. The rest of us were constantly tapping parts of our body with our palm and fingers despite the prevalent odor of insect repellant at the table. “It is not that I want to be here right now. It is that I NEED to be here. This is something I need to do.” All of us nodded. The Venezuelan’s words rang so true, it felt as if were in group therapy to combat the symptoms of some deeply rooted psychiatric disorder. It was a pleasure to be enjoying the company of like-minded individuals.
I felt a nick on my heels and had Valérie carefully remove an engorged leech. It must have taken a few pints by the size of it. Valérie inspected me up and down. That leech was the only one. I was relieved though they cause no discomfort or illness.
“Don’t worry, Rich.” said Aimee. I got seven of them today.” My eyes scanned the table. Oscar held up three fingers, Anita three, and Oscar four. I had nothing to complain about, I was told.

Proud of having remembered to bring my flashlight with me, I closed my eyes and retraced the route I would need to make to get back to my bungalow. Which right turn is it? By which cistern and faucet? I also knew that I didn’t need to go beyond one of the shops with a veranda. My bungalow was right before that. I’ll be fine, I kept telling myself. I bade the other four a good night and faded away into darkness. With the safety of Ning Ning’s candlelight out of sight, I took to the main street with my flashlight. It struggled to produce a beam strong enough to reach the ground. When I put it up to signposts, I could not read them well enough. It had been at least an hour since the last light went out in the village. I walked the gauntlet of the full length of the street in blackness. Surely, something would trigger my memory. But with no light and only a passing villager with his own flashlight unable to speak English, a stream of panic overtook me. Oh no: I cannot find my way back. Even worse, I did not memorize the name of the bungalows. A passing villager couldn’t help me if he wanted to. I kept walking with my eyes peering to the right side of the street. I sought out that veranda, but saw four or five where I swore there had been none in the afternoon.
The second stage of panic struck when flashlight no longer served me any good. I was facing the realization of being homeless until sunrise. I decided to go back to Ning Ning and regroup before they closed up for good. I left my towel there and I needed it. Sweat gushed more from the distress than the tangible humidity.
Back at Ning Ning, the others were gone. The wait staff could not help me since I could not give them enough information. I took a deep breath and a large branch as I blindly set off up the dark hill. I swerved the branch back and forth in front of me as I walked. It branch served as my eyes, as I could no longer make out any figures. I picked up my pace. Fear was now part of the equation. My pulse raced. Any sudden sounds frightened me and forced the injection of high doses of adrenaline in my system. Maddened dogs ferociously barked as I approached them. A few escaped, dashed towards me, and growled at me. But I could not see the threat, just hear it feet away. Shooing them away did not work. As one dog became more aggressive, it sensed my fear and snapped at my heels. That nearly provoked urine to seep down my leg. I turned around, eyes wide open and in self-defense grabbed the branch as I would a baseball bat. Imagining a low outside fastball one the way, I took a long, low, and violent swipe at the mutt where I saw the white of its sharp gritted teeth.
I connected. The impact was so solid I heard the shattering of its jaw well before its undignified yelp. I heard its body roll over about twice until it stopped. The dog’s crying never ceased. It whimpered, but did not move. I figured it was no longer a threat. My teeth also grinded. My breathing was heavy and all my primitive self-defense mechanisms were on high alert. I awaited the next attack. But none came. The other dogs had taken notice. Not only did they cease their pursuit of me, but the one whose yelping turned into incessant whimpering had sent a message to let me go unchallenged form now on.
I put the branch up to my face and could detect that the lower quarter of it had split upon contact with the dogs lower teeth. I ran my fingers across the grain to feel the texture of my club. It was not rotted away or hollow in the middle. I must have seriously injured that dog. I felt zero regret. I’d do it again.
Ahead of me was a candle lit pavilion beyond some shrubs. I do not recall how the shrubs got there. Like seeking an end to a hellish nightmare, I recognized that such a structure was across from the gate I need to enter to get to my bungalow. Could this be it?
From the shrubs came a whirl of activity, the cracking of thick vegetation, and a deep grunt. Still blinded in darkness, this spell of fright involuntarily sent me back. I tripped over an exposed water pipe in the street and fell sideways into an oval puddle of lukewarm mud. Motionless after the fall, whatever was in the shrubs came out and it was not a tiny canine. A few feet from my view but hard to determine, I studied the beast’s outline. It let out a low-pitched grunt and started towards me. I had two choices: take off, or sit there. The thud of its legs pounded into the ground shook my entire frame. I saw it pass me and it turned around to scrutinize what it had nearly missed. It lowered its head to my eye level. Not knowing what to do, I keep still in the mud; it had already seeped through my clothes to my skin. Its eyes came to mine. It blinked. It exhaled through its wet nose and the mucous sprayed my face and glasses further worsening my already limited vision. We looked at each other for five seconds, it with curiosity. Inside I was screaming for Mommy but did not make a sound. I gently removed my glasses and was close enough to the sharp horns and the head of the wide beast to begin to see it retreat. It stomped away and left me in the puddle too exasperated and distraught to move. I was in tears and had never been so frightened. If that water buffalo had been any closer, it would have easily broken my leg had it stepped on me or inadvertently ripped a part of my face open with its horns.

The pavilion was indeed the clue I needed to get back to my bed. I lifted the net and fell face forward. I never really slept at all. Rats were having too much fun in the leftover food one of my neighbors had left out a few yards away. I flinched at any sound that was not a chirping insect. At dawn, which I thought would never arrive, I washed up and headed for the docks. A man greeted me there, but there were no boats. The first boat would be at Muang Ngoi at nine thirty. It was just past seven.
“You want ticket?” he asked.
“Yes. For Nong Kiow.” I gave him the money. Over his left shoulder he was carrying a skinned porcupine. I had tried some porcupine for dinner the night before. It tastes like chicken.
I paid him and he gave me the ticket. Three steps up from the dock, the porcupine’s carcass swung back and forth; its four legs had been tied to a long stick. The man turned around. “Three hour you wait. You go back to village.” He motioned up the hill to Ning Ning and the other bungalows.
“No, I’ll wait right here.”

---

Photos

Preparing for Departure
No, she is not actually praying. She needs to look acceptable for the trip.

Downtown Muang Ngoi
Very angy ducks. This is a shot of Muang Ngoi when overworked and busy.

Leaving Into the Unknown
Just the boat ride to Muang Ngoi makes it worth it.

Looking back and downriver
I sat at this restuarant for the day and just stared. Amazing.