Travel Journal

I started getting ill in Phonsavan, a fever accompanied a throat ache that was so bad it left me unable to eat anything for several days. My condition deteriorated during the long 10-hour busride back to Vientiane, on an ancient Korean bus that sounded more like a large Russian helicopter. Along the way, we had to stop several times for on-the-fly repairs to its engine, but eventually reached Vientiane in the evening.

In Vientiane, I went to the International Clinic, part of the Mahosot hospital. The only difference between the two is that at the Clinic, prices are higher, and the doctors and nurses speak a little French or English. I was examined first by a nurse, then by a doctor, in a room filled with mosquitos. The doctor quickly diagnosed me with tonsillitis, and then prescribed three injections and a one-week follow-up course of antibiotics to battle the infection. The intravenous antibiotics were stored in those glass vials that I only recognised from movies and reminded me of World War II and morphine. Tap-tap-tap of the finger against the top of the vial, then the breaking of the top. The beautiful, friendly Laotian nurse took the better part of a half hour to administer the drugs, while commenting on how handsome I was, which admittedly helps the recovery process quite a lot. After two more days of injections, I felt a lot better. I started eating a little bit again, and soon had completely recovered.

Through a chance meeting, I had been invited to attend a village festival, in the small village of Song Pueai, a half hour from Vientiane. Every village in Laos has such a three-day festival, although on different dates, and all the villagers work together to organise a number of parties at the homes in the village, the community hall, or the local temple. I was staying at the house of the mayor of Song Pueai, a pleasant man who spoke no English, and I was once again humbled by the friendliness and hospitality of the family and the many friends, neighbours, village officials and policemen who came to visit. The mother and daughters in the family had prepared two dozen different kinds of dishes, delicious Laotian food. One glass of beer went round and round, and in between I was offered many glasses of Lao lao, or the very strong Laotian rice whiskey.

In the evening, we all went to the local temple, where in the field behind it a stage had been set up. A band was playing Laotian pop music, which did remind me of sixties Rock & Roll, but then with Laotian singing and melody. As soon as one song started, the area in front of the stage was filled with the 100+ people, young and old, who had come to the party, dancing in that conservative Laotian style where both women and men wave their arms and hands a lot, and move a little with their feet. As soon as one song was finished, the dance area was seemingly evacuated, as everyone rushed back to their tables and chairs to enjoy some more Beerlao. Some announcements followed, another song started, and the dance area was filled again. Meanwhile, some soldiers who had assumed a policing role walked around carrying their AK-47 rifles, while their platoon commander was being offered many drinks and cigarettes.

Several times, there was a traditional opening of the dance, when the names of three women would be called out by the announcer, and they came forward to the dancefloor. Then, the names of three men, who came forward to invite the women to dance, after which the rest of the crowd filled the dancefloor. As a guest of the mayor’s family, this happened to me as well, my name announced as Mr. Pleesot from prathet Hawlen, or The Netherlands. Together with the platoon commander and a son of the mayor, I went to the dancefloor and invited one of the three women, a friend of the mayor’s family called Pheng, to dance with me, by making the traditional wai gesture, placing your palms together while bowing your head slightly.

I stayed that night in the house of the family, on the first and only floor of the house, and was awakened very early the following morning by the now familiar sound of chickens, roosters, buffaloes, dogs and cats. After breakfast and saying many thanks to the family, I went back to Vientiane by songthaew.

From Vientiane, I continued on towards the town of Savannakhet, over 450 kms southeast of Vientiane. It’s a provincial capital that functions as a trading post between Laos, Thailand and Vietnam. Again the French influence, as you walk past old colonial villas that are so badly maintained that they now resemble ruins. A group of boys is playing jeu de boules in the small town center. Nearby, the Laotian red, blue with white flag is posted next to the everpresent red and yellow hammer-and-sickle flag. The Vietnamese influence is most visible nowadays, however, with signs in both Laotian and Vietnamese, and many of the locals speak both. There is a local Vietnamese school, a Mahayana Buddhist temple, and even a Catholic church. While in Savannakhet, I visited That Ing Hang, the holiest religious site for the Laotians. It’s a nine meter high tower with a traditional Lao stupa, built in the mid-16th century, and has a large collection of Buddha statues.

But soon, I was on my way again, to the town of Pakse, and the Laotian New Year was about to start.

On the way to Vang Vieng, a small town on the banks of the Mekhong, it became more clear how poor most Laotians are. The bus drove through tiny villages, with rudimentary huts, built from wood or flimsy boards of woven banana leaves, with thatched roofs. Children playing along the side of the road, a group of villagers working together to built a communal hall. Patches of ground had been set on fire, leaving the red soil bare, to prepare for the planting of rice once the rainy season starts, in a month or so.

Vang Vieng is a small, sleepy town, roughly halfway between Luang Phabang and Vientiane, and I spent several days here. From the veranda of my bungalow, I enjoyed the scenic view of the Mekhong river, and a rugged green mountain range behind it. Interestingly, a lot of the restaurants in Vang Vieng have now completely adapted to the tourists, and continuously show episodes of the US television series Friends.

Vientiane, the capital of Laos, still has somewhat of a French feel about it, with a number of wide boulevards, and Patuxay, a Laotian version of the Arc de Triomphe. Vendors on the streets sell pate, or baguettes with corned beef and vegetables, and there are many small bakeries with croissants and pain au chocolat. Many of the signs in front of government buildings, hospitals or university faculties are in both Laotian and French, and there are still a number of colonial villas, in various states of disrepair. Also here, some stunning temples, and That Luang is an impressive stupa on the east side of Vientiane, with a gilded structure that is almost too bright to look at in the sunlight.

From Vientiane, a ten hour busride on very winding roads, brought me to the town of Phonsavan, in Xieng Khuang province. For security purposes, a man sat in the back of the bus, armed with an AKS-47 assault rifle, not an unusual sight in Laos. Over the past years, there have been some occurances of robberies by bandits along the main routes leading through Laos. Along the way, I admired the stunning scenery, rugged mountains and deep valleys with palm trees and rice fields. Occasionally, the bus had to slow down for crossing buffaloes. Apart from that, traffic was minimal, with a truck or bus coming towards us every half hour or so.

In the area of Xieng Khuang province, thousands of stone jars are scattered around the plains, several thousands years old. Although their origins and purpose still are a mystery, one of the predominant theories is that they were used as funerary urns, placed on auspicious locations, so that the spirits of the dead could watch over the living. If this theory holds true, the jars in this province of Laos are the earliest remaining examples of Asian funerary customs. It is a beautiful yet strange site, seeing hundreds of jars in various sizes, some nearly two meters in diameter, some with their large lids next to them. The area had been bombed extensively by the American forces during the 1970s, causing great damage to landscape, vegetation (defoliants were used) and jars. The landscape is still quite visibly pockmarked. And then there is the invisible danger, with the paths leading to the jars clearly marked with white and red stones. White areas had been sub-surface searched, but red areas only visually searched, and therefor might still contain landmines.

Unfortunately, it was soon after my visit to Xieng Khuang province, that I found myself in need of medical attention, in one of the last countries I had hoped this would happen in.