Advertisement
Published: June 28th 2022
Time rapidly slipped away; flights – flights that were likely to actually be honoured and didn’t necessitate jumping hoops that we weren’t prepared to jump, at a price that we didn’t deem extortionate – were finally sourced and booked, incredibly through a British travel agent who (being a friend of my parents) bent some rules in order to bring their little boy and his girl home.
Thus, on May 15th, after 1204 days on the road, passing through twelve countries on three continents (the last 788 of those days admittedly confined to a magnificent, covid-enforced, stasis in Laos) we once again graced the green and pleasant land. Heathrow’s terminal two was an unmasked chaos (transfer at Singapore’s Changi had been a serene masked pleasure) and our first post-Brexit re-entry saw my (not Ali’s) interminable corralled queuing at the “speedy” immigration automatic E-gates (along with EU, Canadian, Japanese, Sinaporean, South Korean, Swiss and US citizens, all equally welcome to use the fast track system) thwarted when it failed to recognize my UK passport. I did stamp my feet a little and the officious official merely bade me join the back of the “those of dubious origin” line to confront
a human agent. This was, mercifully (bizarrely), far shorter and more efficient than what a British citizen is encouraged to endure, but why in our new autonomous, isolationist, rule Britannia, stance do they not favour the return of their own? Surely our stupidity must have some minor benefits?
However, back in Laos we weren’t quite done yet.
Our last few months of rural idyll centred around the upcoming Pi Mai (New Year) celebrations and dogs. The former were completely cancelled in 2020, whilst last year saw festivities abruptly aborted after only one day as Covid made an untimely (officially recognised) appearance. This year everyone was determined to maximize both partying and profit, with early March witnessing the frenzied construction of wood, bamboo and grass-roofed shops and party gazebos in the prime island and riverside locations weeks before the Mid-April kick-off. As per 2021, Somphone was encouraged to build some tribal (Katu) style huts: they command no greater income than more basic affairs, but they are beautiful (equals more desirable) and Poh – once again roped in by the government as organizer/coordinator of Tad Lo’s revelment (only three locations country-wide had been permitted to hold
public events) – was offering up loaned wood for our builds as long as we de-nailed the stock he had sourced from a deconstructed house. Our efforts would enhance the traditional ambiance he was aiming to create.
Thus Somphone and I began with the erection of three in-water gazebos, the first a monstrous sized beast able to seat a dozen or more. Unlike bamboo structures the weight of wood builds requires nails rather than bamboo strip ties and being so un-environmentally friendly we foolishly intended to employ those reclaimed nails from the wood’s previous usage. On pulling six inch nails (using a steel long arm, don’t try to cut corners with a levered claw hammer: I snapped one) from wooden beams we then had the joy of straightening them. Yes, such a second hand nail may appear straight (and strong) until you then attempt to drive it through two braced beams whilst struggling in four feet of water: it buckles, you straighten it once more, and it crumples again… There was slow progress.
Meanwhile, M&M were about to head off on a jolly and enquired if we would house/dog sit for the heavily pregnant
Pukey: she would surely pup whilst they were away. And so, one subsequent evening, we were sat in their tranquil, dreamily lit garden amidst the serenading insects, free from Namphun requesting a hot shower in our room, or needing a dress to be stitched or scrounging a share of our evening meal, or pot-belly-man materialising to sit, aimlessly, infuriatingly, at our sides cadging cigarettes, when... some drops landed on my head. Sitting under the overhang of the second floor I looked up expecting to see a mighty gecko cocking his leg; but no, just a steady stream of drips appearing from between the planks. A leak? On investigating we found that Pukey had somehow broken into the upstairs room, had ripped up several of the stored mattresses and was responsible for the amniotic shower. We provisioned water and food close to her nest and left her to it. An hour or so later Ali went up to check on the eerily quiet proceedings. Pukey was now accompanied by four or maybe five pups, although two were plainly dead. Retreating for an internet consult it appeared that she should be left to physically reject the cadavers before their removal and so
we waited on. And then an incessant plaintive bleating began. More consults suggested that such protracted wailing was not typical and so we intervened once again. There were six pups, of which only three were alive and none of these were feeding; indeed Pukey, not a novice mother, was showing no interest in her living pups. There was no cleaning, no nuzzling, no prompting to suckle, only a stressed indifference. I removed the dead pups whilst Ali warmed the chill, unfed, neglected against her. My instincts said let nature take its course and simply return them against mum; the disturbing dead had been removed and maybe she'd rally, plus wasn't there a thing about rejection due to premature interference? However, Ali had other ideas and was physically holding the feeble little things against Pukey's nipples (bear in mind that whilst always warm and welcoming to us, this semi-feral bitch is one of the hardest, most territorial dogs in the village; she's previously torn chunks out of our Lola when she was foolish enough to wander into Pukey's territory and all human locals, both child and adult are wary of her). Incredibly they began to latch, and feed, and then, almost
immediately, warm. Somehow this stimulus brought Pukey around and she started to nurse them as they suckled. If one lost grip Ali would reattach it, and so she sat with mum (now being fed and watered periodically by hand) and pups long into the night. Around day break we crashed but our expectations were that maybe only one or two pups might greet us when we finally rose.
Happily that wasn't the case and even the tiniest, Blanco, slowly thrived.
With the first builds completed and the odd restaurant beginning to serve food so local revellers arrived, mainly after the cessation of the school day. As Ali became the unofficial, volunteer, garbage collector - Poh had employed a local lad to perform this function, but, paid in advance as is the local way, he'd done a runner - so she was increasingly frowning at the age of the beer-laden partiers. That said, a falang collecting litter from amidst partying Laos is - evidently - an astounding spectacle and she was regularly persuaded to join various groups for a quick glass or two; either that or passers by would present her with a gift of
a soft drink or a can of beer as they praised her efforts and chastised their littering brethren (before wandering off and jettisoning their crisp packets and ice cream wrappers on the floor). Further, the fruit and veg stall gifted her a selection daily, a bbq stand satay sticks and a lady running a juice stall - rather peculiarly - a party frock. I too, labouring away, was somewhat of an anomaly and equally received small gifts from strangers as well as comments and nods of approval from visiting government officials overseeing developments.
Fortunately there was to be no haunted house with its maddening, endlessly looped, soundtrack this year, although there was a horrendously loud karaoke bar and, directly opposite us across the river, another side-show establishment that belted out Laos trance. And, hell, we were still several weeks shy of Pi Mai.
Our Lulu pupped, although she chose a most inconvenient location to do so, it being under
Sipasert's main building, accessed only via a narrow twisting tunnel. Inconvenient because as soon as the pups could wander, they did. One morning Lulu galloped onto the balcony as we were eating breakfast. She was
jumping up at us, whining, running around in circles. OK, you're hungry girl, we reasoned and tried to feed her. But no, she was uninterested. Instead she began racing away and returning, only to race away again. This was all rather Lassie-like and so we followed. Now we were on the move she immediately led us to the lair where three pups lolled outside the entrance. Evidently she wanted to return them to the safety of the den, but was clueless as how to achieve this. I held one to her mouth by the scruff of its neck. She looked at me aghast. Was I expecting her to eat her baby? We pushed them as far into the tunnel as physically possible but they merely waddled back out. Thus I attempted to crawl in, but my shoulders jammed even before the turn; this left Ali, Mrs. claustrophobic, to attempt the task. And, incredibly, she did manage to squeeze in and then around enough to plop them, one at a time, over a small ridge into - presumably - their nest. Lulu was impressed and, having licked Ali's muddy face clean, followed them in.
Infuriatingly this became a
regular occurrence and finally we decided it could not continue - sooner or later their emergence would be met by an unfriendly dog with grizzly consequences, whilst Ali was beginning to dream of the tunnel collapse scene from
The Great Escape. And so one morning when four pups - the most we'd ever seen - emerged we gathered them up and, with mum in tow, relocated them to where our dogs normally pup: under the stilt-elevated house of their co-parents. Of course we now had to make regular listening checks to ensure that we hadn't deserted a pup at their old haunt. Predictably, horrifyingly, we heard a faint mewing; although, fortunately, a tiny young lad just happened to be passing and with the aid of a head torch (and a bribe of some tangerines) he crawled all the way in and returned with the fifth, and last, pup.
And then after another strenuous day of toil, just as we were sitting on our contented arses, finally with a beer to hand and the pork bbq marinaded and ready to go, in rushed Somphone. Had we heard? What? A small boy had just been pulled out from beneath
the waterfall, long since dead. Us westerners of a certain age all passionately reflect on our carefree unsupervised childhoods and cringe at today's nannying restrictions... Health and safety causes our heckles to rise. And yet not many of us lived by rivers, rivers with not inconsequential waterfalls - especially when the dams are releasing. Our children here - many of them tiny children - play with gay abandon, but not without risk, risk that, way too often, results in tragic consequences. Last year was the first, in many, where there wasn't a death within view of our balcony. Really, maybe our time would be better spent as life guards. Something needed to be done.
In fact the authorities did take some note and several signs were rapidly erected stating "Do not allow jumping for who can't swim". Less importantly, but equally ignored, were additional signs that implored "No Literring". An official asked Ali if the latter were "good". "Errr, yes the sentiment, but not the spelling"... Laos does not translate easily into English and we presume - we're not reading it yet - that the Laos versions were better phrased/correctly spelt.
Unseasonably it had
been raining, heavily. Somphone and I had swelled our portfolio with another Katu-roofed hut set back from the main body of the river in the parallel tree-shaded stream and, around this, added five seating platforms. He had been staying over for the odd night, but was mostly commuting by motorbike* or rotivator between his village or the farm and Tad Lo. Now, however, his wonderful indefatigable wife Duc desperately needed his help to harvest the remainder of the coffee crop before the rains really (potentially, still prematurely) arrived in force.
* This motorbike deserves a mention in its own right. Horrendously oversized for Somphone's hobbit-like stature it was donated to him several years ago by a departing falang. Riding pillion with him, especially carrying a crate of beer on your lap is... nervy. Equally, because of its atypical size it is readily noticed by the local constabulary who have on several occasions - given that he has no official paperwork for the beast - confiscated it from him until suitable bribes are received for its return.
With the dams closed our in-river huts sat three feet proud of the river and when open, beautifully,
sexily, just six inches above the flow. Yet one night, after a particularly heavy downpour, multiple gates were raised and we awoke to a miserable scene: two of our huts, plus many other in-water developments, as well as the bamboo walkway fronting the waterfall had been washed away. Our giant construction floundered, semi-submerged, obliquely wedged against the pilings of the old derelict road bridge, whilst the river raged, offering no possibility of a salvage operation. Collectively the grass panels had cost over a million kip and the plan was to - post-celebrations - use them to re-roof Somphone's homestay. We really couldn't afford to lose such a large proportion. But, until the flood subsided, there was little I could do and Somphone really did have to head homewards.
Luckily, the following day was dry and the river had receded somewhat which enabled Ali and I to retrieve the valuable grass panels, lay them out to dry, and then slowly dismantle enough of the build to haul it to the bank in pieces. Sadly there was no way I would be able to reconstruct it on my own and, regardless, Pi Mai was almost upon us.
Up until this point a rather jolly and not too forceful - yet uniformed and seriously official looking - individual (employed by Poh) had been able to oversee the distribution of gazebo tickets, the collection of their fees and coordinate their cleaning upon a departure. Now though it was hectic and he needed some help, particularly when certain groups were less than inclined to pay. It's not a complex equation: you want to utilise a resource - for which there is a fee (given that it cost money and time and effort to produce) - so you either pay, or you don't partake. Incredibly - and I'd have thought the opposite: "what the **** has it got to do with you?" - a falang requesting payment is, seemingly, never refused (even by the most drunken calcitrants) and so.... Ali and I became the primary ticket allocators/fee collectors/fund distributors for all of the dozens of establishments. Jeez...
Masses were descending and funds were rolling in; and we were all - amidst the work - partying ourselves. We knew Omicron must be among us and, sure enough, just as everything was looking rosy, our household and neighbours began
to fall sick. Grandma was "rushed" to hospital in Pakse, almost three hours away. Happily, she returned several days later much improved.
- Much like in America, where ambulances are of prohibitive cost to all but the best insured, she was driven by car. Now, as we've witnessed upon our return, back in the UK (where ambulances are free) their arrival times are currently so long that you are forced to do the same. The west - the worst of the west - is rapidly descending to levels we'd previously call "third world". -
Our eldest student Kita, examined locally, was on a drip. No, we were assured, he didn't have Covid; it was malaria. Malaria? I, knowing something about this disease, having researched it for the best part of twenty years, asked a myriad of questions and concluded that it certainly wasn't malaria. Fortunate, because the treatment he was receiving wouldn't have helped a jot if it was. Phuang did test positive for Covid - wow, there were actually lateral flow tests available, who knew that? - and upon her return from the docs she provisioned us with a couple with which to
test ourselves. They were negative. Surely it was only a matter of time until we did succumb.
Bees were the latest addition to the snack menu. There was honey to squeeze from the comb (and spectacular it was), but this wasn't the primary target, that being the grubs, chrysalises, and un-emerged dead adults that we ate along with the entombing comb. It (they) were not well received, to which Pern announced "Ahh, they're much better barbequed". They weren't.
In between all the Pi Mai organisation there had also been a wedding, this being for Pern's nephew to a rather pretty girl whom we knew/know as "pretty girl". The betrothed had been living together within
Sipasert for several months and she was already pregnant. We'd previously attended other weddings yet had never been so privy to the workings of such an event, although, maybe, given the circumstances, it wasn't a particularly typical union? As darkness descended we were all ushered towards and then up and into her parent's stilt-elevated house. Already there was quite an assembly, the chief and elders sat to the rear of the room, with other groups dotted about, the latter mostly
focused on the lao lao or beer before them. As everyone crowded in and either sat attentively or, more commonly, partook in the libations available so the negotiations began. Money was counted out, bottles of lao lao and cartons of cigarettes were presented, and even cuts of chicken offered. Initial offerings were apparently insufficient and so more bills were forthcoming. Presumably this constituted some form of dowry, although here it was to the bride's family. Eventually all was deemed acceptable and we departed... Temporarily... Back again at
Sipasert we gathered some potted banana plants, a new mattress, quaffed a few bottles of beer, armed ourselves with more to drink on the the fifty yard walk back and then returned in a great raucous candle-lit procession. Now all was (heightened) merriment. The plants and mattress were carried above amidst claps and cheers, the latter folded and forced through the door's orifice and received with huge gaffaws (hmmm, a bit late in the day for that sentiment thought I). There was a brief (wedding) ceremony and baci money-entwined bracelets were tied as mountains of food appeared and the drinking continued with even greater vigour. Somehow, much later, we found ourselves among the
last revellers who were still dancing barefoot in the dusty yard as the sun threatened to rise.
Other extended family members residing at
Sipasert, the lovely Nok and her charming husband Toy became doting parents. It was a particular joy as they'd been trying for a number of years. Upon the onset on contractions she, like grandma, was "whisked" down to the hospital in Pakse. Fortunately she made it in good time. The vast majority of Tad Lo's expectant mothers have no expectation/option of the luxury of a such a venue for their deliveries. The baby girl was named Bel, coincidentally our surname (almost). Whether it is standard practice we know not, but the babe spent the first few weeks of her life in a tight swaddle, complete with woollen hat and mittens... in an ambient temperature (un)comfortably over 100F. Phew...
Pi Mai passed by successfully and without further incident, although a monstrous amount of previously inaccessible litter remained in its wake as numerous vendors failed to honour their pledge to remove their accumulated detritus. Poh and Ali had a conflab and several of the worst offenders will not be granted a pitch in
2023.
So, after all the celebrations, thoughts turned to our departure. We will be back we assured and yet there were many long faces, not least our own. The children began to show less interest in their studies that would soon cease; our shadow, little orphan Namphun, perhaps realising she was about to be deserted again, became more independent and distant; Kita, now a young man, took a step back; whilst, conversely, blossoming seventeen year old Phuang became more clingy and demonstrative. Pancake, bless her, was more focused on transiting from tom-boy to teen, whilst Mi and Mui were too young to realise what was afoot.
For Ali's birthday (we tried to let it ride, but Phuang never forgets a date) there was a family meal and afterwards, quietly chatting and drinking with Pern and "sister" (grandma), as Khamlar hovered, there were tears. Matriarch "sister" explained how her grandson, thirteen year old Khamlar (who has never known his absentee father), was particularly distraught at losing the closest thing he'd ever had to one: me. As his bottom lip trembled so older eyes filled and there was the first of - across the coming days
- many rounds of hugs. Leaving Japan and America (twice) there have always been sad farewells, but never have we had to leave family (OK, the Stetson's come close, but we didn't live with them), let alone children and dogs who we consider as our own.
Inevitably there would be a leaving party, and we did, with effort, manage to provision the liquid fuel for the event, although Pern insisted that
Sipasert would - at least - be catering the "jolly". Across those last few days we were hauled into numerous houses to have baci bracelets tied as we expressed our profound thanks for how, over the last two-plus years, we had been so warmly embraced by those individuals and the community as a whole.
Rising on the morning of the party - not due to start until the tawdry, falang-indulgent, hour of midday - we were shocked to see the communal room bedecked for a ceremony, indeed the Buddhist venerable was already present. And so, incredibly, beautifully, we were honoured with a real, mass ranked, Laos blessing. That we were deeply moved doesn't come close.
And so, two days later
(we had predicted hangovers) we departed for the capital Vientiane heading - hopefully, covid asymptomatic allowing - shortly thereafter, to Blighty. But this was not to be, as planned, by direct bus. Even with the recent easing of restrictions such buses were still not running and Pern insisted - she is a delightfully forceful lady - that a contingent would run us down by car to the transport hub of Pakse. Thus, matriarch, matriarch-in-waiting and Khamlar drove us; and, on dropping us off after a last meal together, there were further misty eyes all round.
And here I misquote that renowned philosopher, Winnie the Pooh: "How lucky were we to have had something that made saying goodbye so hard".
We will, as promised, be back - soon. Indeed we plan on spending a great deal of whatever time we have left to us in Laos. We envisage renting a house (building a house?) and creating a smallholding with a market garden (a myriad of seeds - many new to the Laos norm - have already been purchased) along with chickens (and goats and...?); running a free English language school and maybe - as suggested
to us - even a shelter/mid-week home from which we can ensure children are able to partake in the school system. With all this in mind we do still need to gain a couple of TEFL qualifications with which to earn a few on-line bucks on the side; but, currently, given the - necessary - chores our parents are needing us to perform, this will have to wait until we are on the road once again.
And where will that start? With a wedding in Rajasthan in January, and the trekking season - potentially, if the British passport agency ever feel inclined to issue me with a new one: Ali's, submitted simultaneously with mine, was returned anew in five days; but, as I type, it has been thirty seven days and counting for me - still optimal we may well head back to India in September. Our ideal would be to revisit Uttarakhand for the previously unseen Valley of the Flowers, the Kuari pass and Pindari glacier treks, before heading over to one of our last unvisited Indian states, the mega remote Arunachal Pradesh for... more mountains. Oh, and then a quick catch-up with a young masseuse
friend or two in nearby Mizoram, a revisit to our (weekly face-timing) pal Datta in Bangladesh, before a scoot over to Om beach and finally a zip up the coast for the nuptials...
Then, in February - shit, just before the build-up to Pi Mai - we'll return to Laos, to Pak Dam, Lola, Lulu, Namphun,
Sipasert and Tad Lo.
It's not unusual for me to gush at the end of a blog as so few destinations, however briefly visited, don't merit it. Yet this time, Laos, specifically Tad Lo, under the most unusual and trying of circumstances, re-defined acceptancy, hospitality and love.
We can't wait to get back.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.258s; Tpl: 0.037s; cc: 13; qc: 27; dbt: 0.0484s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.2mb
Rachel Please
non-member comment
Thank you!
I’ve so enjoyed reading your blogs.