Chapter 16. Lemongrass Stains - Nong Kiow


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Asia » Laos » West » Nong Khiaw
July 16th 2007
Published: August 8th 2007
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Nestled in the CliffsNestled in the CliffsNestled in the Cliffs

Nong Kiow from my guesthouse....
Despite the bungalow-style accommodations on both sides of town, Nong Kiow is little more than a transfer point for the newest upstream-town-cum-attraction. The most that visitors ever see of Nong Kiow is the bus depot beofre stern light grey bridge spanning the Nam Ou. They load up on supplies and gingerly manage the steep slope down to the docks. Their last image of Nong Kiow is the columns and underside of that concrete span after having boarded thin, noisy longboats. Nong Kiow knows no banks, ATM’s, public Internet connections, or paved side streets. An apprentice monk awaits transport at the bus depot. Nong Kiow doesn’t even have a wat large enough to support clergy. No one ever stays the night in Nong Kiow unless they have to.
The town receives far less sunlight than Luang Prabang not because of the weather, rather the tall wall of green carpeted cliffs below which the town is nestled. Wood smoke billows above hand cut logs on the roofs of A-frame homes. Schoolchildren on vacation carry goods over their backs in straw baskets. Entertainment options are but a seedy unlit pool hall and outdoor clearing for pétanque, a bowling came exported to Laos from the
Interior of BungalowInterior of BungalowInterior of Bungalow

No mints left on my pillow!
South of France. Nowadays, the former colonists play the game better than their onetime occupiers. I learned to play over ten years ago in Avignon. With a refresher from an eleven-year-old boy on the basic rules, I challenged him to a few games, one thousand kip per game to make it interesting. It was like taking candy from a baby…for him. He dropped his steel spheres by the target with the precision of a laser surgeon. If I came close to scoring a point, he would release one his balls, palm down, with a flick of his wrist. It would land with a loud “Crack!” and replace mine, which rolled several feet away into a far corner. About a dozen men gathered to witness my downfall. Women do not participate in pétanque, but have no problem seeing one of the town’s youth beat the snot of an American. About five sat on the edge of the court. Five thousand kip lighter, I bought the boy a Pepsi, applauded his skill, waved goodbye, and walked off to check into a guesthouse. I turned around and he had already begun another match with an older man and scored an impossible shot on
ThoroughfareThoroughfareThoroughfare

How people arrive from upriver villages...
his first attempt.
I think I got hustled.

For as tiny a community Nong Kiow is, it is never completely silent. Cackles of loose hens never cease, nor do the calls of territorial roosters that follow them. Even if out of view, the outboard motors of longboats churn. Unmuffled motorbikes speed across the bridge, some with the front wheel inclined higher than the rider’s head to the delight of the young boys who have encouraged the stunt. The sounds of grinding crankshafts from passing pickups never stop until dusk; it is then too late for any long-distance trip out of Nong Kiow.
My sturdy reinforced straw bungalow comes with relatively clean sheets (only one visible stain) on a mattress with the same spongy consistency of granite. The most important of the porous hut’s few amenities is the floor fan, the difference between tossing and turning all night and actually getting a few hours of sleep. It is even more crucial than the mosquito net, which is not quite long enough to be secured to the corners of the bed frame. The five lizards that share the bungalow with me will keep most of the crawling insects and arachnids at
Downtown Nong KiowDowntown Nong KiowDowntown Nong Kiow

No traffic lights needed...
bay. My bathroom is a cement chamber and a cold water pipe at the end of which dangles a broken shower head.
My notebook and I split the afternoon between the porch of my bungalow and the restaurant deck above, resigned to doing nothing in particular and staring at the dramatic physical setting in which I find myself. Hours pass and I never come close to becoming tired of my surroundings. I study every single tree and its white slender trunk. Some trees even sprout directly out of the cliffside hundreds of feet from any other form of plant life and permanently sequestered from human contact.
A trio of self-loving off road bikers has rumbled into Nong Kiow and has taken a bungalow or two down the hill from me. The very short American, wide German, and tall Briton share a table behind me. They all simultaneously rip off their mud caked pads and place their helmets aside. It is after four in the afternoon. They will not make their next destination before dark and settle in for a late lunch. The American is the unquestioned leader of the three; he has ridden motorcycles all over the dirt paths of Southeast Asia. His proudest accomplishment is the time he traversed Burma with all the difficulties it posed for both man and machine. Most off all, the men are gearheads and love nothing more than to drown themselves in motorcycle jargon incomprehensible to the layman. Each one tries to outdo the other. A typical conversation would be the following:

German: What bike are you looking at for your next ride?
American: Let me tell you! My next bike’ll be a 654 XB.
German: Really?
Brit: I thought they stopped production on those because of a faulty titanium pan screw above the brass modulator. How about the 829 R with pneumonic tractor feet in the piston whoppers?
American: No way, man. It’ll be the 654 XB, like I said. But I’m gonna get it with chrome ergonometers and alloyed sound shields in the super-charged rear discombobulator.
German: But that just isn’t really practical.
American: What do you know? I might even get the limited model with preset valve adjustments in the crank case.
Brit: Yeah, but be careful. I heard you can do that only if the CRQ 50 component has been adjusted for the proper amount of pumpkin particles in the atmosphere.
German (very dismissively): Nah! Not with that kind of torque! You’ll blow the whole endemical power chamber.

Chew finally interrupts and informs the three men that their lunches are soon arriving. Owner of the Phanouy Guesthouse and adjoining restaurant, his story is a fascinating one. He revealed it to the bikers in intelligible English when one of them commented:
“Where did you learn to speak such good English?”
Chew shrugged his shoulders. Truly, he did not know how to answer. “From a book.”
“No, seriously” said the American.
“Yes, I need to know good English to run a guesthouse.” The sixty-year-old said.
“Are you sure you didn’t have any in school?” the biker egged on, hinting at the possibility.
“No, you see, the French were here when I was a child. So, I learned French, of course. Then the Socialists took over. We had to learn Russian. So, I learned Russian. I went to Russia for five years.” Wow, A Lao surviving a Russian winter. Ouch. He went on, “Now the tourists come. So, I speak English.” He shrugged his shoulders at the simplicity of his thought process. In addition to a stint in Vietnam, it would make Chew easily a member of any polyglot club. It was if he wasn’t given any choice.
Their lunch arrived. The slender young woman wore deep red lipstick, dangling pink earrings, and a long white skirt. She is the sole object of every man’s eyes. At no more than twenty-three, she is an absolute beauty. She pays little attention to Chew except to follow his instructions and count the accumulated wads of cash patrons have paid for accommodation and meals. To the contrary, she sends me long, arresting smiles every time I stare at her, though I try not to be caught with my eyes on her too long for prolonged moments. She sets the varied dishes of vegetables and rice in front of the three men and returns to the kitchen. Out of curiosity, I asked Chew, “She is your daughter?” Assuming she was out of range or her English was not sufficient, I added, “She is very beautiful.” Pretty Lao women outclass the Thais because they convey a reserved elegance that Thai women have surrendered for more modern pursuits.
Without the slightest hint of offense taken or emotion, Chew said, “No, she is my wife.”
Whoa! That comment even forced the bikers to stop filling their faces and digest this unexpected scenario. Noodles dangled from the German’s mouth as he snapped his neck in our direction. None of us knew whether to accuse Chew of being a dirty old man or go over and pat him on the back to congratulate him.

Dusk has fallen and the teenagers of Nong Kiow meet on the bridge to text message each other, gossip, or drag race their mopeds. Out of the quiet whispers and laughs, a cell phone rings with the most unforeseen pre-programmed tone. Because the fellow has buried his thin phone in an unfamiliar pocket among other objects, he takes almost a minute to take the call. All the while, I have the pleasure of listening to almost all of The Star Spangled Banner on a bridge over the Nam Ou River on a quiet evening deep in Northern Laos.


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