There's always a party in Laos

---

Several days before leaving Vang Vieng we rose to find Roger, Dave and Grandma behaving most peculiarly. The pups were lolling in the shade with heavy lids over bloodshot eyes, they had no interest in ongoing events and were, seemingly, unable/uninclined to stand. It appeared for all the world as if they were stoned. And so it materialized: someone had been preparing THC oil and someone else, unknowing of its nature, had dipped some bread into the herbal infusion and fed it to the dogs. They must have had quite some dose. Throughout the morning several of us tried to coax them to drink water, to walk it off; but all seemed happy enough to merely laze the day away, especially when Pink Floyd found its way onto the garden’s sound system.



Antonio’s Spanish friend Marta, a veterinarian here at the Laos Conservation Trust for Wildlife, had turned up for a visit. Whilst she monitored the dogs’ progress fortunately no intervention was necessary and come evening the canine casualties had, save the occasional stumble, regained their usual demeanors. This left us free to sit talking long into the night, something we were more than happy to repeat the following evening. Plus, I now feel confident in my ability to castrate a macaque, if ever the need should arise.



Say proposed another fishing excursion. The location, being twelve kilometers distant, necessitated us striking out on his motorbike (which at least excused Ali the jaunt). Given the short notice I’d only managed to procure some seed maize that, following a rapid boiling, was just about al dente (well, hook penetrable). En-route we stopped at a number of random homestays with livestock: anywhere with suitably non-parched land (dry season was once again upon us) that suggested the presence of worms. “Errr, hello, please could we come dig for annelids in your cow/chicken/pig shed?” Say, fortunately, speaks passable Lao. Nothing, not a solitary oligochaete was to be found. Similarly there were none to be extracted from the accessible river banks. We’d have to make do with corn and bread.



The venue was a pay-to-keep, heavily stocked lake and catching was – apparently - assured. Whilst I witnessed numerous handlings – small snakeheads, cyprinids and tilapia - desperate to sample the locally used meat paste (which Say duly commandeered, employed and caught on), nothing emerged with a mouth of adequate gape to have even contemplated my size 6 hooks. Further, on walking the grounds I sighted nothing showing that I was eager to target and thus was more than content to forego the minnow bashing, endure a (not so) hopeful wait, and merely bask in the late afternoon sunshine.



Then, with the light rapidly failing, Say announced our imminent departure – I was not unwilling – and suggested an alternative route home: we would not take the rutted mud trails of our approach; instead, rather, the new highway. “But it’s not open yet, is it?” questioned I. “Ahhh, as good as” answered he.



Perched on his less than adequate supposed pillion I was not the most comfortable companion as we sped, alone (most sane individuals do not travel on unopened roads, let alone in the dark with a barely functioning headlight), over the recently laid concrete (tarmac becomes a sticky mess in Laos temperatures). Squinting over his shoulder to the limit of our ever advancing “beam” I scoured the surface for treacherous unfinished sections, for motorbike guzzling craters. And then a huge unilluminated shape loomed perilously before us: a massive machine was spanning the carriageway, a carriageway that then ceased to be. At the last moment Say veered off the road – thankfully they had yet to install barriers - and we crashed through shrubby wasteland. Buckerooing blindly through the black wilderness Say helpfully informed that he’d never been this way before. Really? You surprise me.



Our go-to local restaurant, popular for delivery services, was, upon arrival, often devoid of working staff (the ladies) and, regardless, we were now always initially greeted by aged Papa who’d shuffle out from the living room brandishing his finest unidentifiable flotsam-bearing Lao Lao. With several shots down our (and his) throats and a bottle of beer subsequently plonked in front of us he could retire back to his comfy chair and bizarre gameshow knowing that the regulars were suitably equipped for their short wait. Heaven forbid if the lady staff member in question (please let it be the youngest – she’s the best cook) didn’t return promptly enough from her delivery because then he would be on his phone, presumably admonishing her tardy turn-around. And in such cases in would career the moped. Amidst apologies she’d jump off, moving at a beaming pace grab her pinny and, never slowing, begin to fuss after us. As mentioned previously the food is excellent, generously abundant and cheap. I only wish the restaurant had an English name to aid our pushing of the establishment.



Amy, inclined to disappear for days on end without notice, returned from a walk-about, just as there was a new arrival: Norwegian (self-styled) Viking Tom. His affection for brewed, fermented or distilled beverages makes my own appetite appear sparrow-like. His consumption rarely ceases until the sun has risen at which time he retires until it has once again set. One night most of the assembled drinkers had long since departed when it became apparent that we’d drunk the hostel’s entire beer stock. Tom was beside himself, it was barely 2 a.m. Where could he obtain further libation? With little thought of serious consideration I foolishly imparted that we had just bought two wine boxes ready for our return southwards. If desperate he could buy one off us, but surely it was a little late (early) to crack open five litres? He almost bit my arm off and, enthused, bribed Amy and myself (free wine) to join him in his new endeavor. With the first pale rays increasingly illuminating our sorry states Amy and I retired, leaving Tom to, Odin-like, voyage on.



Laden with western goodies, notably several kilos of cheese, a huge horseshoe salami from a tiny rural German butchers, a miscellany of pastes, tins, oils and vinegars, not to mention an inordinate volume of alcohols we staggered southwards. Minibus, shared rickshaw, sleeper bus, local bus and crazily overladen motorbikes saw us draw into Sipasert some twenty six hours later. Pon and Mo rushed out to greet us with hugs as Lucy and Captain (still going) milled around our legs. The children were all at school, but where were Pak Dam and Lucy’s new pups? And Hoi and Comcan?



Our favoured room was awaiting and only shy of several of our “acquirements” (soon repatriated).



Pancake and Namphun pulled in on a moped: a nine year old riding a motorbike on open roads… with an eight year old clinging on behind… You don’t see that even in India. Then Khamla, Kita and Phuang appeared and there were more hugs all round. “Teacher, English tonight?” “No, no English tonight. We start again on Monday.” Cue relieved looks from the youngsters and, in response to their response, admonishing frowns from their mothers.



Pak Dam and the remaining (six of eight) pups had been rehoused only a few minutes away and we could go visit any time. Hoi had been forced to go to Paksong for work (on a coffee plantation) - with no guests there was simply no way Sipasert could keep her on - and her baby, little Comcan, was now being cared for by a nearby relative. We could easily go see Comcan, indeed they’d bring her round that very evening; but no one knew when Hoi herself could, however transiently, be reunited with her child. Not experiencing any interactional restrictions in our Lao’ lives Covid still has long and malign fingers.



For so long Laos had recorded only 25 cases of the virus (and no deaths, making it the safest country of any real size in the world) but, suddenly, there was an influx of native returnees and foreign work-permit holders some of whom subsequently (whilst in quarantine) tested positive, giving 14 new cases. And then two Myanmar workers heading to China crossed illegally through Laos and, when caught, proved to be carriers. Within several short days our national numbers had soared to 41. Or, put another way, to about the same tally of victims as within the ousted one’s inner circle.



Of course, almost immediately, we sought out Pak Dam. On hearing our voices, and then seeing our approach down his dusty lane, there were several seconds of confused incomprehension before his whole body became one vigorous delirious tail wag. He was not a jumper or a licker, but his joy knew no bounds. The pups, two months further grown, were equally, though unknowing of us, delightful. Our dilemma now was how to remain in contact and yet not overly encourage dependence on ourselves – dogs here merely crash where they choose and we didn’t want to disrupt his current, seemingly content, situation. He looked in good condition and was obviously – as far as any dog in rural Lao is – being well cared for.



On rising the next day there he was waiting outside our room. Dog and Ali were ecstatic; I, trying to focus on the bigger picture (his long term wellbeing), less so. And so the pattern was largely set: he’d arrive pre-breakfast, grab some tid-bits, hang for an hour and then disappear, only to reappear mid-afternoon for several more (ever lengthening) hours of safe lazing. And I say safe because almost on a daily basis he would present with more wounds, predominantly on his back, which we initially thought due to fighting (and I’m horrified to say that he is no Chilo, indeed he’s an absolute pussy). Although these simply did not look like teeth punctures being relatively superficial yet broad U.S. quarter-sized lesions. Cue more worries and consultations with the Salavan vet (and Marta).



This only fuelled Ali to up her research into how he might accompany us when we do, finally, leave. And it does appear totally possible, at a – hefty - price. Personally I’ll still need further convincing that such a future freedom-restricted life is in his best interest. Only this morning he was running up and down the river bank alongside his mum and five of his younger siblings, pausing in a vain collective attempt to dig out crabs and generally having a fine old doggy-interactive time.



On that first night back we needed to collect stored possessions from M&M. Thus we turned up with a few beers to accompany a brief de-brief that somehow – not totally unpredictably – magnified into a protracted session. Eventually departing Ali needed a certain amount of stabilizing and little was actually rehoused.



The following evening Comcan was brought for a visit and, bless her, it took far longer than thirty seconds for her to once again feel at ease with us. Even “little piggy” and “down at the bottom of the deep blue sea” failed to glean their previous joy. An hour in and there was either some deep recognition coming to the fore or, far more likely, she’d simply been won over afresh. A one year old dog is far more cognitive than a one year old child, no great surprise there.



Just as we were settling into our restored, isolated lives in wandered Mr. Bounchanh. Born in Laos he is a seventy-odd year old gentleman who has lived for the last thirty years in Canada. He’d come to Laos to visit family and – join the club – become stuck. Eight months in and he was still paying rent, utilities and taxes back in Canada: he needed to get back and organize his affairs before planning to return permanently, with Sipasert being his retirement destination of choice. Oeerrr…. Less than ideally, with seventeen to choose between, he took the room directly next to ours. A week in and he, sensibly, no doubt influenced by the adjacent incessant stream of dogs, children and middle-aged drunkards blighting his peace, relocated three doors down to the far end of the shared balcony.



Regardless, here-in lies a tale of woe. There was a flight exiting to Vancouver on the 26^th of December, but… His English is only passable, he owns no computer and his mastery of his phone (WhatsApp? Skyscanner? Maps Me? On-line banking?) makes Ali’s ability appear savant-like. He was completely ignorant of how to actually make his escape possible: there are people to notify of your intention to leave, documents to submit, lists to be added to and the Covid test to be taken (and passed) strictly within 72 hours of departure. Fail to complete all necessities and you are not boarding your (very rare) flight. Fortunately there are several social media chat groups offering excellent advice that we were able to pass on. Indeed, the most knowledgeable of these protagonists was prepared to escort him through everything for a relatively nominal fee (not that we consider $100 that trifling). He didn’t need aid with booking his flight (we could easily do that), but for the terminal logistics he definitely did. Long story short he engaged the individual’s services and all was going swimmingly, even with us as reluctant middlemen. They would meet up in Vientiane on the 24th, two days prior to the flight. And then on the 14^th we received a call: the fixer had just been invited to spend Christmas in the north and would no longer be able to meet Mr. Bounchanh… unless he could reschedule and arrive in the Capital a week earlier than planned, two days hence. But, we reasoned, that is not what you’d agreed; he’s paid for a stated service and he deserves for that to be honoured. Cue all manner of unpleasantness. The fixer belaboured how he had booked the flight and surely that merited his fee? I begged to differ. A hundred dollars for ten minutes work that we would have happily performed for free. Really? It was the in-situ guidance Mr. B desperately sought. Eventually a refund of the fee was offered, although the old man would jolly well (not the phrase actually employed) have to pick it up himself from the travel agents. The only reason the individual concerned remains unnamed is that we are expecting that he will be true to his word (this time). As for us? We’d “stabbed him in the face” (I didn’t have the heart to correct his metaphor) and he never wanted to hear from us again. That’s no skin off our noses, or… backs for that matter.



One afternoon I’d nipped to the kitchen – yes, no doubt to gather some beers – when upon emerging back into the dining area I witnessed Ali and a gaggle of strangers supporting a hobbling and clearly disorientated Pon. What the hell? She’d been hanging a cable from the lower extremities of the main building’s roof when she’d toppled through last year’s flooding-resultant breech in the balcony… onto the jagged concrete debris of the once-present stairs ten feet below. Had she hit her head? Christ, she could have killed herself. Satisfied that she wasn’t concussed and had no broken bones Ali went about treating her many abrasions and seeing to her patently sprained ankle. Here the concept of icing and elevating is not that prevalent. Yes, she let Ali clean and sterilize her scrapes, but a suitable lady in the know was summoned for her ankle/foot. An hour later Pon was lying on an elevated bed frame positioned over several piles of glowing charcoal upon which an assemblage of herbs emitted a billowing aromatic smoke. No judgement, but her foot was still a black and swollen mess ten days later.



The adopted manioc (cassava) has largely been harvested. Most of the distasteful tubers have already made their way north to the primary market of China, although, shredded, a significant amount now lies out on giant tarps to dry before being ground into cassava flour; this, apparently, will predominantly head to Thailand. And, potential soil fertility/erosion/foreign dependence (there is little fondness for the product here) aside the crop is obviously profitable as there are new builds and paused builds (increasingly in concrete and brick rather than the traditional stilt elevated wood constructions) now progressing apace.



Mr. B departing necessitated, the Saturday before, a farewell – it goes without saying, boozy – lunch. Of course there was the usual pre-journey ritual of “safe travel/friendship” bracelets to be tied and he informed that they are known as Su k’wan. Our wrists are, and have been for almost the whole of our stay here, covered in them.



Meanwhile, there is a lady in the village who has had nineteen children (she’s currently pregnant with number twenty). Of these she has retained a random three. Martin jokes the most attractive ones as maybe she can get a better price when they are grown? Because, yes, the remainder were sold, mostly within the village. Is this legal? I have no idea. And yet these actions are not perceived as being that outrageous. Indeed our dear friend Fa once mentioned that she had considered buying one. You simply cannot place western sensibilities or conceptions on many things that occur in rural Laos.



Whilst we are in the realms of miscellany I’ll mention one of our favourite Laos dishes: Khao soi. This is essentially a spicy ground pork and white noodle soup although it is served with an assortment of salad leaves and herbs that are assembled into packages before dipping into the most spectacular nutty sauce. Sadly it is a northern speciality that we have now left behind us. There is a front of residence establishment with a wonderful hostess/chef tucked away down a little alley in Luang Prabang that does an amazing incarnation for 10,000 kip – that’s a dollar… and it will feed two.



OK, back to some form of chronology.



Christmas was approaching. The previous year we’d been lording it up in beautiful Pokhara, Nepal where there was every opportunity to splash some cash on a turkey and trimmings dinner, an impossibility here in Tad Lo. Not that we splashed that cash, although 2020’s New Year’s Eve was a French onion soup/French cheese/baguette delight with our French friends Enora and Paulo Nepal and the lonesome Yeti. Nevertheless, Po, Tim, Mathilde and Martin, with new visitors present at Palomei (like us for Sipasert, Mathilde had also advertised a seasonal promotional rate), had organized a “family” meal for Christmas Eve (we, somewhat recklessly, had already committed to cooking a barbeque on the 25^th for the massed Sipasert ranks). Thus two days of drunken feasting ensued. There was no turkey, but there was duck (roast and soup), schnitzel, barbequed marinaded chicken, garlic bread, coleslaw, braised red cabbage, dressed green salad, potato salad (incredibly the latter incorporating my first ever attempt at home-made mayonnaise) and more, not least Mathilde’s brownies and Chantilly cream covered cake – the latter two particularly appreciated by the children.



The 26^th was blissfully, restoratively, uneventful. On the 27^th (a Sunday so no teaching) we expected more of the same. Think again. We rose, late, and were just downing our first coffee when a smartly dressed Pon emerged on the balcony. “Come we go” she stated, pointing at Ali’s wedding ring. “A wedding? When?” Enquired Als. “Now”. “But it’s only nine o’clock in the morning?” Pleaded I. Ali, following the most rapid of showering, combing, brushing and dressing routines was soon heading off whilst I… drank more coffee.



Thirty minutes later Phuang materialized and implored that my presence was required. Thus, by eleven, I had also joined the ever swelling beer-guzzling throng. The village chief was there as was another Mr. Bounchanh our go-between with the chief for trying to expand English lessons to all of the village’s interested children, plus many of the respected elders. There was a live band and much dancing, that, given the hour, our current sobrieties yet enforced participation, was/is thankfully extremely genteel: think stationary swaying with accompanying hand gesticulations. Of course our lucid states were soon less so as the incessant “nok noks” signalled yet another downed glass.



The bride, dressed in gold, wore her hair – traditionally? – in a manicured cone. But the big difference between a Laos wedding and any other we’ve ever been privileged to partake in was… the absence of a ceremony. Seemingly you announce your intention to marry, hold a party and that’s it. Equally, with no formal documentation, it could explain quite why there are so many single parent families. If you’re not happy you simply walk?



Among the hundred or so guests I did spy the occasional face mask, but no one here – currently – truly fears Covid. Forget social distancing, the absence of handshakes or hugs. Indeed two elderly gentlemen took a particular shine to me and I was regularly presented with big smackers on my cheeks.



In Laos the government are, in Boris’ parlance, very alert: our borders are closed to all but a few, whilst those who can enter go into a strict two week quarantine and are tested throughout its duration. Things are currently as bad as they have ever been in Thailand, but here we merely roll on.



Oh, there’s a wedding tradition here whereby the bride and groom, plus a money receptacle bearer, cruise the festivities donning shots of a local spirit: you swig your allocation and subsequently donate some kip. A single unwashed glass tours the whole party. Phew… That ain’t happening in London, Paris or New York.



Of course there's a party planned for New Year's Eve. Today we and the youngsters were charged with bedecking the infant trees on our river bank with tinsel and baubles in preparation for the waterside festivities. Tomorrow we must complete our homemade pinata that will hopefully prove a hit with the children. And then on the 5th we head south to Champasak with M&M to visit our mutual friend Fa in her village. It will be wonderful to spend time with her and her family again, not least her bubbly sister. There is zero chance of this being a sober excursion.



What will the New Year bring? Will we get to roll out a more extensive teaching program? Will we be offered a vaccine shot? If we do no doubt it will be that of our Russian friends. Will a (second skin condition now thankfully on the mend) chipped, rabies-vaccinated, wormed, registered Pak Dam become a British citizen? Will we make it back for my parents' (already panicking) 60th wedding anniversary in September? As ever, only time will tell. Regardless, our thoughts are with all those out there for whom 2020 has been so unpleasant, or far worse. Here's to a far brighter 2021.

---