Northwestern Laos Nov. 14 – 23, 2008




Luang Prabang – Nong Khieu: from French provincial to spaghetti western

The trip from Luang Prabang to Nong Khieu, through a rolling landscape of rice paddies and palm and bamboo forests, interspersed with small rubber tree plantations, was a little too fast, but otherwise uneventful. As in so many developing nations, drivers are inclined to push their vehicles to the limit, going well beyond what any sane person would consider safe for either the conditions of the road, or the condition of the vehicle. More distressingly, they generally barrel through small villages, where shops and homes are just a few feet from the road. Very little children are often playing in the dirt at the edge of the road, no parent in sight. I wonder how they know not to venture further into the road, given it's not something they can learn through experience. Flocks of school kids on bicycles, women and men carrying large loads on bamboo poles across their shoulders, water buffaloes, chickens, ducks and dogs all retreat to the edge of the road when they hear the blast of the bus' horn – just seconds before it's upon them. None of them seem the least perturbed; our drivers even less so.

As we approached Nong Khieu we drove around, and sometimes through, large tarps covered with rice or corn, set on the road to dry – the flattest, driest and sunniest place. Sacks and sacks and sacks of rice and corn are poured out onto the tarps each day, raked into a thin layer, and stirred from time to time by the bare feet of the growers, shuffling back and forth across the tarps. As we came into the centre of town, the road deteriorated into dirt – at this time dry and dusty, but much of the year a muddy mess. The town itself looked bleak: a string of worn-out wooden buildings, most two stories high, with slatted wooden shutters over the windows. I half-expected to see a few cowboys, their horses tethered to a hitching post. But there was just the usual collection of motorcycles and bicycles. A couple of open-sided 'taxi' trucks were parked infront of the 'bus station,' a delapidated wooden kiosk half-hidden behind a fruit-seller's stall. There were a few people around, but no touts vying for our business. Our arrival appeared to be of no interest to anyone.

Having heard that the best lodgings were a couple of guest houses on the other side of the river, we dragged our bags over the uneven surface of the massive – in terms of the size of the town, and the very few vehicles in it – cement bridge over the Nam Ou River. Although there were a few signs for guest houses, things seemed even less lively over there. We did find a spot – a bamboo 'chalet' attached to a cinder block 'bathroom' (squat toilet and cold water shower, no hand basin) – 'overlooking' the river if you stood in just the right spot on the jerry-built balcony. We stayed one night there, then crossed back over the bridge to another guest house, with chalets again overlooking the river, but this time with a real bathroom and hot water shower. Also a softer bed with nice sheets, and a much sturdier balcony.

There was little to do in Nong Khieu except watch the goings on in town, which were minimal, or walk out into the countryside (or, to use the local vernacular, go 'trekking'). One could hire a guide to go to caves, waterfalls and tribal villages – or one could go on one's own. I came down with a cold, which was enough to dissuade me from any thought of serious 'trekking.' I opted for reading and writing on our sunny balcony. Doug walked to the caves, and we both wandered around the town. As it turned out there was much more to the town than it's 'centre.' We found a 'hospital,' long since closed, and completely shut up on the day we were there, although there was evidence of a clinic still being run from one of its buildings. The whole of it looked dreadfully run-down, dirty and desolate – not the sort of place I would want to be in the best of circumstances, and certainly not if hurt or ill. We also found two schools, one for younger and one for older kids, across the road from one another, and surprisingly full of children. They were all wearing white shirts and dark pants or skirts, playing Chinese skipping games, tag, marbles and badminton in a dusty expanse beside the road. There were so many of them we had to assume that many came from nearby villages, but their uniforms made it impossible to distinguish who among them might be from a 'tribal village.'

In Nong Khieu we also saw a fairly sizable compound with a couple of main buildings, a block of what looked like housing units, and an outdoor basketball court. This was an American institution dedicated to eradicating the cultivation of poppies. So far we haven't found out what the Americans, or anyone else involved in the eradication schemes, is offering up as a substitute crop. It's hard to imagine anything else that would pay as well, and when you see the extreme poverty, the hand-to-mouth existence of the majority of these people, it's even harder to imagine why any of them would agree to trade a lucrative crop for something less lucrative. The compound looked deserted; there was no one of whom we could ask this question. Perhaps they've given up... .


Nong Khieu – Muang Ngoi Neua: by long-boat up the Nam Ou River

The only way north from Nong Khieu, and towards our road east to Vietnam, was by river boat. The Nam Ou is a much smaller river than the Mekong, and there are nowhere near as many tourists, or locals, wanting to travel up or down, so the transport boats are smaller. They're still the same design – wooden flat-bottomed canoe-shaped affairs with crude benches across the thwarts for seating, and plastic tarps stretched over stick-framed canopy rooves. They're powered by noisy diesel engines, usually situated a little fore of the stern, with a long propeller shaft sticking out the back. Interestingly, they often put the bulk of the load in the front, which means that much of the propeller is out of the water, making a great splash, but not generating much forward momentum. Our boat, loaded as it was with a dozen or more foreigners and their back-packs and bags, was heavy enough to keep the propeller well submerged.

The journey up the Nam Ou was scenic, with many small villages of the bamboo and thatch hut variety along its shores. The dry season has finally arrived, and villagers had begun the process of tilling the sloping banks right up to the edge of the river. Every plot was surrounded by a woven bamboo fence, presumably to keep out the water buffalo, pigs, chickens and ducks. We chugged our way slowly upriver, the engine doggedly fighting the water's flow. It was even slower going as we navigated our way through several sets of rapids – we could feel the drag of the frothing water and swirling eddies on the boat's hull. Our captain was experienced, and knew the river well, switching from one side to the other to take advantage of the slightly slacker currents and deeper waters. It was just an hour's ride – short enough to enjoy, and long enough to get soaked.

We landed at an impressively steep set of cement stairs, at the top of which was the little village of Muang Ngoi Neua. There was guest house, with chalets overlooking the river, just at the top of the stairs. The guest house owner was out recruiting, and we were willing recruits. The chalets were very clean, with exceptionally big 'bathrooms' (toilet, sink and cold water shower) and nice verandas. We settled in and went off to explore. The village was much smaller than Nong Khieu – a few dozen houses, most with shops or 'restaurants' out front, strung along the one main road. There was no electricity except what they generated themselves – the generators came on around 6 pm and went off at 9:30. The early nights were a good thing, as the locals were up and at it early, around 5:30 or 6 am, working on their boats, pounding grain, or yelling at their children.

For many tourists, Muang Ngoi Neua is the centre for treks to 'tribal villages.' There were signs everywhere advertising guided tours to all the usual tourist must-sees: caves, waterfalls and 'tribal villages.' Although we had thought, when we came to Southeast Asia, that we might do a trek or two to some 'tribal villages,' once we got here and saw things 'first hand,' our enthusiasm waned. What was once a trickle of more adventurous tourists in the harder to reach areas of Asia has become a steady stream, and in some places a relentless river. Where the trickle may have been deep, with some travelers able to make meaningful contact with some indigenous people, the river is now broad, and predictably shallow. Tourists on tight schedules are 'trekked' through landscapes and villages. When speaking of trekking, it seems most appropriate to use the passive tense – the tourists may indeed walk (although many go in 4-wheelers or on speed boats, or both), but they're being led by 'expert' guides whose main expertise is taking them to prearranged places where they have prearranged encounters, generally culminating in the purchase of genuine 'handicrafts' made by 'tribal people.' While these organized treks are great for many tourists, and may benefit some tribal peoples, they're not for us. We feel too much like voyeurs, traipsing about with a half dozen other tourists, gawking at the 'colourful ethnic minorities.'

There were a couple of tribal villages not far from Muang Ngoi Neua, and a couple of other tourists who felt like a good day's walk, so we set off together up the path and past the little school behind the town. Silly me wore running shoes, thinking I'd be more sure-footed on the rocky bits. But our path went through several streams, so I ended up having to take them off and put them on again, each time trying to dry my feet with the tops of my socks so as to keep the insides of my shoes relatively dry. That notwithstanding, it was a beautiful walk, first through sub-tropical jungle, and then across a valley carpeted in rice paddies. The 'tribal people' were out harvesting the rice and threshing it – by hand of course. The men wore western clothes – pants and shirts or t-shirts; while the women wore slightly more traditional garb – long straight skirts and shirts or jackets. They all wore bamboo hats that looked like oversize limpets. Very pastoral and picturesque it was, and it was tempting to think of their lives as somehow charmed – the honesty of working with the land, the warmth of living in tight-knit families and communities, the simplicity and innocence of being in a place untouched and untroubled by the heavy hand of progress. But any fool could see the hardships of their lives – the endless heavy labour, the meagre diet, the squalid housing.

Whatever else they may be, these 'tribal people' are not fools. They see us well-healed tourists, with nothing better to do than to traipse about looking at them, or worse, taking pictures of them. We crossed paths with several of them as we walked, and the looks on their faces, though not hostile, and not exactly unfriendly, bespoke a kind of weary resignation. They know how unfair it is, this great divide between us and them, and they know equally well that there's nothing they can do about it. For me it made it worse that I was completely unable to communicate with them – I couldn't even say hello in their language – I didn't even know what their language was (there are several hill tribes, all with different languages, and they can't understand one another, or the Laotians, either). I could and did smile, and said 'sabadee,' the Laotian word for 'hello.' Some said 'sabadee' and smiled back, but they are a polite people for whom giving offense is unacceptable. But in some cases, especially with the older men and women, their eyes gave them away. There was a hardness and a pointedness there that pierced my Western shell. I felt small and exposed for what I was: a thoughtless voyeur, deriving enjoyment through witnessing the hardships of others less fortunate than myself. It was a sobering experience.

Back in town, I felt more at ease with the locals, mostly Laotian, almost all of whom are trying to make a buck off the tourist trade – running guest houses, restaurants, guiding and trekking outfits. But even here there are mixed blessings. The guides charge ever higher prices for their services, going for whatever the market will bear, which they have discovered is almost limitless: it's easy to part a fool from his or her money. The young, and not so young, tourists continue to compare the prices they are paying with 'costs back home,' and willingly fork out hundreds of dollars – or more – for a three day trek. For the guides, a trek a month is enough for them, and their families, to live well. The hitch is the alcohol. Most of the guides are young men. Many of the tourists are young too. Most of the young tourists, particularly the British and the Australians, drink beer in prodigious quantities, routinely spending entire nights drinking and partying loudly until they stagger off to their guest houses to sleep it off. The young guides and locals, for whom all things western are by definition superior, and who have no other images than the behaviour of tourists to go by, are quick to emulate the behaviour. Often they're egged on by the tourists, who buy them drinks and include them in the party in a spirit of good-natured camaraderie. As they continue their drinking, both with and without the tourists, the guides quickly empty their pockets of the monies they've earned.

A young Australian couple told us they'd been on a fishing trip with a couple of guides who later took them back to their 'house' where they all started drinking and partying. They were joined by several other young men, all friends of the guides. One of the guide's wives provided dinner, and the partying carried on. The Australians thought all this was great – they were having a really good time with the guides, lots of laughs. But they were not impressed when two of the young men's wives appeared, separately. The first apparently bawled her husband out, but didn't insist that he come home. The Australians said that from that point on he seemed glum and didn't drink any more beer. The second gal not only bawled her husband out, but did insist that he come home. The Australians seemed to feel that she was being unreasonable, ruining his good time. I wondered if they thought about those wives, not included in the revelries (very few Laotian women drink alcohol), at home looking after several children and a baby. I wondered if they thought about the money that the locals were spending on their drinks, especially those who were just 'friends,' not guides, and what that money would mean to their families. This couple, though themselves childless and so perhaps not particularly aware of the exigencies of family life, especially in a subsistence economy, were both well-educated professionals. I didn't have the energy or the inclination to challenge their perceptions.

Tourism is definitely not a low-impact activity. Here as in many poor countries, those who are somehow involved with the tourist trade tend to grow rich relatively quickly. The gap between the newly rich and the remaining poor widens, creating a divide that fractures small communities where everyone knows, or is related to, everyone else. It creates bad blood. Whether or not tourism causes or exacerbates alcoholism is impossible to say. Certainly it does nothing to address or ameliorate the negative impacts of alcohol on these communities. Another sobering experience.... .


Muang Khua: waiting for the bus to Vietnam

From Muang Ngoi Neua we again had to take a boat up the Nam Ou River to a town called Muang Khua (I know, the names all sound the same, and are anyway impossible to pronounce). This was a four hour trip, but we had thin cushions on our seats, and the boat was carrying only four foreigners and two locals, so it wasn't as impossibly crowded as most of the others. We were going somewhere most foreigners don't go – and glad of it.

The first part of the journey went through an almost mountainous landscape, but this soon toned down to more manageable hills. The sun came out. I didn't get wet. There were fewer rapids. There were more small villages, with more bamboo-fenced gardens. About half-way through our journey our captain pulled ashore. We were at a fairly sizable village, and we could see a big wat and another big building on the top of the hill. There was also a large group of school children standing on another part of the hill. But most surprising of all were the four or five tents on the river bank, and the plastic table and chairs in front of them. A German guy who was rummaging about in his tent told us that they were here as part of a larger group that was involved in building a school in this village. When we climbed up to the big building, we met another German fellow who was testing his skills with a slingshot. (The locals are experts with slingshots. There's hardly a bird alive in rural Laos: they've all been killed by roving gangs of kids with slingshots – and eaten, of course.) He told us that today was a big celebration. The school was one of several that have been built, with several more to be built, by a German NGO. They're called “Bamboo Schools.” They can be constructed incredibly cheaply, in terms of our standards, and though rudimentary, at least provide a shelter and a centre for educational activities. The larger and more solid structure, also newly constructed, was a dormitory. He told us it would house 80 children from outlying tribal villages, most of whom would have to come to the school by boat. The children on the hill were waiting for some Laotian dignitaries to arrive – so was he.

When I told the fellow that I wished I'd brought along my Big Brother Mouse books to give to the school he said “Big Brother Mouse was here this morning! They held a book party and gave all of the children a book! This is the first time we've worked together with them, but we hope it's the beginning of a new relationship.” It was so inspiring to see the completed projects, and to hear of the growing connections between organizations who are trying to help the tribal people. This felt more 'right' to me than trekking expeditions. The pride on the faces of the local people who were involved with the project, and the obvious friendship between them and the German fellow, was wonderful to see. I felt very lucky to have happened upon all this – I needed it!

We walked through the wat and into the little town, which was similar to Muang Ngoi Neua in size, but completely different in character. No tourism here, no guest houses, no restaurants. The people, all of whom were eagerly anticipating the arrival of the big wigs, were clearly not accustomed to foreigners. The older ones watched us as we passed; the younger ones gawked openly, some laughing and pointing, but good-naturedly; and the littlest ones hid behind their mother's skirts. We did the usual smile and 'sabadee' greeting, which was returned with varying degrees of enthusiasm. A few of the kids called out 'hellos' and 'how are yous.' It didn't take long to reach the hill where all the kids were standing. Now we knew what they were waiting for. A few of the girls held bouquets of quickly wilting flowers. Boys were teasing one another by tossing dirt in the air so the wind would carry it into the faces, hair and eyes of their friends. There was excited chatter everywhere: this was a big event.

We half-walked, half-skidded down the dirt hill towards our boat. The captain was nowhere in sight. We watched a guy working on his long-boat, repairing boards, gumming up leaky spots. Then we watched a couple of young lads as they carried heavy sacks of rice up the dirt path to the top of the hill – the one I was breathing hard at the top of when all I'd carried was myself. Still our captain did not appear. I was standing alone on the beach when the dignitaries arrived. There was nothing to do but to greet them with my best smile and 'sabadee.' I took a chance that they might speak English, and said: “It's good you've arrived. The kids have been waiting. Two boats of tourists have arrived, and they've ready each time. Congratulations on the building of your new school!” The men (all of them were men) greeted me with 'sabadees,' and one of them said: “Oh no, you're kidding! They've been waiting a long time! We'd better get up there.” It was the most fluent American English I'd heard yet in Laos – fitting that it would be here in this far flung community, the name of which I still don't know as it's not marked on any of the maps we have!

Our captain finally arrived, smiling broadly and weaving along the beach. “Lao lao” he said, quite happily. Lao lao is a local whisky, made from rice. Very potent. Up until then he'd been an excellent captain, navigating the river and its rapids with easy expertise. For the rest of the journey, another two hours or so, he struggled to stay awake at the wheel. He doused his face with river water, smoked countless cigarettes, and at one point got his son, a lad of maybe eight years old, to give him a short neck and shoulder massage. But he got us to Muang Khau, dry and in one piece.

We expected to see a bridge at Muang Khau, as it's on the east-west road that we were planning to take to get to Vietnam. Instead of a bridge, there was a sort of floating deck, which at the time we arrived was being pushed across the river by an ungainly tug-boat. It was spewing water fore and aft with the effort, although it carried only one car. I doubt if it could have managed any more than that. We and our bags were dumped out onto the beach, from which we had to climb a crumbling set of cement stairs up into town. The stairs ended in a lane-way that lead to another lane and then another. All of them were rough dirt and stone – no rolling our bags on these roads. We hefted them along, panting – and I thought of the rice-carrying boys. After going down a couple of dead ends we finally found the 'main street' of town – again there was only one – and a guest house that turned out to be one of the nicest we stayed in in all of our time in Laos. Clean, soft bed and lovely soft pillows (Doug thinks the pillows here are stuffed with old leather jackets), and a shower with hot water – when there's electricity, from 6 pm until 9:30 or so. Our landlady told us that there was a bus to Dien Bien Phu in the morning, at 7 am, and we decided we'd take it as the next one wasn't for another two days.

We spent a couple of hours wandering about town and through the little market. I took a photo of some grilled bats and rats. They looked like they'd be pretty chewy, and didn't seem to be selling awfully well. I tried in vain to find some milk for my morning tea (there were thermoses of hot water at the guest house), and ended up with sweetened 'non-dairy creamer,' the main ingredient of which appears to be sugar, with a little palm oil and some powdered skim milk. We went to a restaurant down the road for dinner, which when we arrived was full of locals. This was the first time we'd been in a restaurant where there were more locals than tourists. Indeed, we were the only tourists. We were not expecting much, and were pleasantly surprised when our meal arrived. We'd ordered mixed veg with chicken, mushrooms with pork, and rice with egg. The waitress brought the rice and mushroom dishes first. One look told us we weren't going to need another dish: the helpings were huge! And the food was by far the best we'd had in Laos. Perhaps more of a Chinese influence – great flavour, perfectly cooked. I went into the 'kitchen' to let the cook know we didn't need the third dish. An older woman, tall for a Laotian, was cooking over an open fire, stirring green onions in a large wok. She was just about to add the chicken. She laughed when I said we were 'too full' (the Laotians can pack away the food), and seemed happy when I suggested that we'd pay for the chicken dish and she could give it to her family, who at that point were all watching t.v. in the front of the restaurant.


Muang Khua – Dien Bien Phu: smugglers' route from Laos to Vietnam

We got up early, and packed our gear by candle-light. Muang Khua, where we'd spent the night, has electricity only from around 6 pm until 9:30 or so, depending on when someone gets around to firing up the generator. The bus that would take us over the mountains, and through the border into Vietnam and Dien Bien Phu was supposed to leave at 7 am – from the other side of the river. We wrestled our bags down the 'main street,' a partly paved but mostly gravel track ending in a broad cement ramp. A couple of trucks were waiting for the floating 'bridge' – a barge-like affair propelled by an ancient tug lashed to its down-river side. It looked an unhappy and ungainly union. The battered old tug spewed water from both ends as it laboured to push the barge from one side of the river to the other – a journey of perhaps 100 feet. Although the barge was large enough to accommodate several cars, they went one at a time. Presumably the little tug lacked the poop for any heavier load. At this time of the morning, the ugly ducklings were resting quietly on the other side of the river.

We could see a fair bit of activity on the ramp on the other side – a clutch of Laotians, including several tribal women, gathered round something laid out on the ground – a market? It seemed improbable, but we'd seen several markets in equally unlikely places. There was no activity on our side. A middle aged Laotian guy was squatting on the ramp at the river's edge, watching the goings on on the other side. He laughed when my bag, set on the incline, toppled over – towards the water of course – and helped me to right it. A few minutes later another couple of foreigners with heavy looking back and front packs arrived. They were taking the bus too. The squatter said “Vietnam?” and pointed across the river to where, until last night, our bus was parked. It was nowhere in sight now. We nodded yes, and he yelled to a boatman on the other side to come get us. When the little long-boat arrived we noted that it was being 'skippered' by our yesterday's captain. We guessed he'd overnighted in Muang Khau in the hopes he'd find a few tourists today who'd underwrite his trip back home.

Five thousand kip a piece (75 cents) got the four of us and our bags to the other side – dry. I strolled over to see what the locals were up to, first coming upon two large basins of blood – one congealed and cut into blocks like tofu, and one frothy. Beyond them was a fairly clean tarp covered in various cuts of meat, including several legs with hair and hooves still attached. It was a water buffalo, freshly butchered. The beast's head, skinned but still with horns attached, lay upside down by the water's edge. Someone had already appropriated its eyes, brains and tongue, undoubtedly the choicest parts. Several men with big knives and machetes were hacking at various lumps of meat and bones. The hide lay in a heap to one side. A savage fight broke out between two dogs who were waiting for the spoils. A couple of the Laotians actually yelled at them – I'd hardly heard them raise their voices above a soft whisper in the entire time we'd been in Lao. The defeated dog slunk away.

Our bus was still nowhere in sight, and I couldn't resist the opportunity of snapping a few photos of the riverside butchery. No one seemed to mind – they were too intent on their business. A tribal woman with the characteristic big colourful scarf wrapped on top of her head was sitting cross-legged on the ground just above the tarp. She was clearly the buffalo's owner. People – mostly women with equally colourful headgear – were crowded around her, holding out their plastic bags of meat, bones and blood. She hung these from a little balance scale and named her price. She stashed the cash in the folds of her voluminous jacket, pulling out great wads of bills when she had to make change. No one tried to bargain with her – perhaps that's a ritual reserved for tourist markets.

While I took in the gory proceedings, Doug chatted with a couple of Japanese youths. They'd spent the night on the side of the road, just above the ramp. They'd bought a small motorcycle in Sapa and ridden it through northern Vietnam to Dien Bien Phu. The day before they'd tackled the road from Dien Bien Phu, hoping to get to Muang Khua, but the 'ferry' wasn't running by the time they got there. The journey, some 80 kilometres, had taken them 8 hours. Apart from the fact that the 40 kilometres of road on the Laotian side of the border is a rough dirt track, it also involves some very steep climbs, going from around 400 metres elevation up to 1400 metres. Their bike wasn't powerful enough to make the grades with them on top, so they'd had to walk. They'd traveled and slept rough, and were liberally coated with mud. They looked a sight. And they had no Laotian money – only Japanese yen – so the boatman wouldn't take them, or their motorcycle, across the river. We had more Laotian kip than we needed, so Doug gave them eighty thousand kip for one thousand yen (the equivalent of ten dollars), and they were off.

Our bus arrived, but parked up the road, which mercifully was paved, so we rolled our bags up the incline. The bus was small – perhaps 40 seats in all – and old, though not a relic. It was well used – pretty beaten up around the edges, but the tires looked decent. The top, which had the usual metal racks for luggage, was already loaded with big bundles of woven bamboo mats encased in clear plastic. Underneath these were around forty Laotian barbecues – metal buckets with a thick lining of cement. I thought about the weight of these above our heads and hoped the roof was strong – but what about the topple factor? That didn't bear thinking about. In any event, there was clearly no room for our luggage up top. The outside compartments of the bus were similarly full – stuffed with various coloured plastic burlap sacks – of what? We'd half to stow our bags inside.

We climbed aboard, hoping to get half-decent seats in what we'd been warned could be a very crowded and uncomfortable old bus. We commandeered the seats right by the door. There were no seats in front of them, so lots of leg room and a great view out the front windscreen of the bus. We were lucky. The rest of the seats were so close together that only the short of leg could sit with any degree of comfort. Furthermore, the inside of the bus was also already heavily laden with bags and boxes. There were large striped plastic carry-all bags piled up on all of the back seats, and cardboard boxes under and in front of almost all of the seats, decreasing what little leg room there was even more. The boxes contained Red Bull drinks, electric rice cookers and motorcycle helmets. Several fifty kilogram bags of Thai rice lined the central aisle. Doug hauled our bags over the rice road and stashed them in the back. We sat down to wait, and more importantly, to safeguard our seats.

Outside the bus, a number of Vietnamese women, all with different coloured head-scarves, were milling about. A few of them boarded the bus, crammed yet another bag under a seat (a few of them filled with chunks of buffalo meat), and set down another on top of a seat, presumably to 'reserve' it. As we were waiting, a large canvas covered transport truck drove up and stopped alongside our bus. Men, and a few of the women, began unloading more sacks of rice from the truck, and into the bus. Now the rice was two layers deep. Then came two huge dirty white sacks with lumpy contents. There was some uncertainty about where these were going to be stowed, but after a brief discussion, one of the women pulled a blunt-ended knife out of her bag – it was obviously a commonly used tool – and broke open the stitching at one end of the bag. Out came bag after bag containing a dozen or so pairs of Thai made black plastic sandals. We helped pass the bags from the front of the bus, where the woman pulled them from the sack, to a guy in mid-aisle, who passed them along to a guy at the pack, who stuffed them under the coloured carry-alls. Our luggage was well and truly buried by now. Still it was not over. On came more bags and sacks and boxes until the bus was chock-a-block. It was by this time 7:30 or so, with no sign of imminent departure.

Eventually the lorry pulled away, heading down the road in the same direction we would at some point take. For all we knew, it was now empty. The women started to board the bus. They picked their way over the sacks of rice and folded themselves up into seats behind us. A youngish man, also Vietnamese-looking, got on the bus and sat in the other set of 'front' seats, just behind the driver's seat. He looked to be somehow connected to the women, but not a husband. He was better dressed than the others: my mother might have called him a 'snappy dresser.' When I got out my camera to take a picture of the overloaded bus and all the passengers – including now five 'farengi' (foreigners) – he yelled “no” at me. He seemed not only angry, but quite agitated, anxious about something. I asked “why?” a stupid question as no one spoke any English. Predictably, he just yelled “no” again. Doug said he'd also tried to stop him from taking a picture of the outside of the bus. I decided not to be intimidated, and none of the passengers appeared perturbed (if any of the women had said “no,” I would have desisted), so I snapped a couple off. The young man scowled, but said no more, showing us only the rigidity of his back and the tension in his neck muscles.

And we were off – very slowly, with a great deal of grinding of gears and groaning of springs. The bus was too heavily laden – well over its capacity – and it's engine and body were already so tired from years of similar abuse, that it laboured as it climbed even the slight incline leading away from the river. Amazingly, the road was paved for the first few kilometres, and relatively level. We passed several 'villages' – mostly picturesque but very rudimentary bamboo huts on stilts lining either side of the road, with the odd ugly, but definitely more solid and serviceable cinder block bunker in between. It wasn't long before the paved road ended at a small river where women were washing their laundry. We lumbered through it, muddying their wash-water, and heaved our way up onto the narrow dirt track that would be our road for the rest of the 40 kilometres to the Lao-Vietnamese border. Not only was the road narrow and rough, but it was also almost entirely up-hill, with some very steep grades. We climbed steady for over two hours, from around 400 metres to over 1400 metres – first into and then well above the clouds. The scenery was of course breath-taking, especially the straight drops from the edge of the road, not more than two feet (or less) from the bus' wheels down into the valleys, several hundred metres below. We crossed several more rivers, none of them with bridges, and passed through a few desolate-looking villages. Small children played in the dirt at the side of the road. One wonders how many are killed by buses like ours that roar through their little villages, generally speeding up rather than slowing down.

In the middle of nowhere we'd see 'tribal people' cutting bamboo, carrying impossible loads of firewood on their backs, or just walking – no 'homes' in sight. These were not the 'tribal people' one visits on a guided 'trek,' wearing colourful costumes and fabulous headgear, selling weavings and wood carvings. These people eke out a living on the mountainous slopes, growing whatever they can, and bartering that for whatever they need. In the last few years the Chinese have convinced the people to deforest whole hillsides and plant rubber tree saplings. The environmental consequences, in terms of erosion, soil depletion and the impacts of mono-culture are already evident, and will likely get worse. Sadly, it's the poorest among us who seem to suffer the worst of the environmental, social and economic impacts associated with 'progress' and 'development' and who benefit the least. Still I noticed that most of the tribal people we saw had shoes, and looked reasonably healthy. Living on the edge of subsistence, only the strong survive. The rest die at birth, in early childhood, or giving birth.

We saw several people on mud-covered motorbikes – they'd pull over into the grassy verge to let us pass. And we encountered a few small trucks and big lorries. These encounters required everyone to stop as the drivers figured out (independently – no words were exchanged) who was going to back up until they found a spot in the road wide enough for the two vehicles to pass. The clearances were measurable in inches.

Just before we reached the border we came to a sizable town where we stopped. It seemed a little early for lunch, but most of the passengers got out, glad of the opportunity to stretch their legs. As we were standing there I noticed some activity in the bus. Looking in, I saw a couple of people slipping new bags over the bags of Thai rice. The new bags were red, with Vietnamese writing on them. They worked very quickly and efficiently – clearly they'd done this before. A few minutes later, the truck that had originally unloaded the rice into our bus drove up alongside us, and the newly covered bags of 'Vietnamese' rice were transferred back into the truck. I was beginning to get the picture, and also the reason for the young man's anger and anxiety. He stood at some distance while all this was going on – no dirtying of his hands – but now appeared more clearly in charge. And when we started up again, now minus the rice but still with all of the other goods on board, he was the driver.

It was another hour before we reached the Lao-Vietnamese border. It was at the very top of one of the many mountains we climbed. Our German friend, who had a watch complete with thermometer and altimeter, said we were at 1600 metres. There was a very large cleared area with a considerable amount of chip-sealed pavement, and a very new customs and immigration building. Large plaques on either side of the building indicated that it had been built courtesy of the Vietnamese government. Laos, like Cuba, is a welfare state – almost all development projects, physical and social, are paid for by countries such as China, Japan, Germany, France and England. (Considering the devastation wreaked on Laos by the United States during the Vietnam war, its contributions to such projects are shamefully small. The same applies to Cuba. On the other hand, both the Laotian and Cuban governments want little to do with the US, so it may be a two-way street.)

It was around noon when we arrived, and the customs and immigration building was completely deserted. We wandered inside. The building was huge – much larger than could possibly be needed for such a remote and small border crossing – perhaps an intimation of great things to come... . We wandered back out again. Our German friend noted that his guide book (not the Lonely Planet!) said that the customs and immigration officials did not work during their lunch time, from 11:30 until 1 pm, and that travelers were not to interrupt their lunch, presumably on pain of being sent back down the dirt road. There was nothing to do but wait. The Vietnamese women were evidently old hands at this. They had brought a large lunch, which they unpacked and laid out on a small table in the shade of the building. They tied into it with gusto. Several of them pulled cell-phones out of their bags and made calls, presumably home. It seemed incongruous watching these women, eating sticky rice from banana leaves with one hand and manning a cell-phone with the other.

As all this was going on, the lorry with the 'Vietnamese' rice pulled up and parked right beside our bus. A couple of the men started transferring various goods from our bus back into the lorry. All this happened in plain view, had there been anyone around to see it. I gathered the timing of our arrival at the border was not 'by chance.' These Hmong women and their male Vietnamese partners were a well organized team of smugglers. And we were watching (and photographing) the whole shebang. Shortly after the transfer of goods was complete, the Lao customs and immigration officials, wearing smart military uniforms, appeared. They came from another new and equally fancy building, likely also built courtesy of the Vietnam government, around 100 yards away – living quarters for the remote border staff. They were very jovial, and greeted the truck driver and our bus drivers with broad smiles – nudge, nudge, wink, wink. The drivers were the first to go to the wickets with their passports, and great wads of cash. Great wads of cash. The truck driver was off within minutes.

The processing of our passports, especially the six foreign passports, took somewhat longer. It was a tedious process, all of our details having to be entered, by hand, in great ledger books. The fancy building was devoid of fancy equipment, such as computers. The process was made more tedious, and time-consuming, by the officers' complete lack of organization. They'd pick up one passport and look at it, begin entering information into their ledger, then pick up another and start entering information from that, then go back to the first, or perhaps pick up another. It all seemed very random. And there was a lot of back-and-forth discussion among them, one telling the other what he should be writing, the two of them peering at a passport, trying to make out names, dates and nationalities, and to get all of the required information correctly transcribed into the appropriate column in their ledger. Then there was the stamping ceremony, and the making out of receipts for the 'stamping fee' we were all required to pay – 4000 kip, or 50 cents a head.

We drove on another few kilometres, climbing even higher, until we reached the Vietnamese customs and immigration building. In contrast to the grand Laotian buidling, this was a mean little cement structure – more what one might expect in a communist country. But the officials were much more efficient, and we were processed and stamped and out of there within a few minutes. Back on the bus the mood seemed more relaxed – the smugglers had made it through – no doubt, once again. Now they were laughing and joking. The cell phones came out again. From here the road was paved, and we were told that this 40 kilometre stretch would take only one hour – but it was also almost entirely down hill. We'd only gone a few kilometers when we came upon a cube van that was stopped in the 'oncoming lane' (the road was still pretty much one lane wide). I noticed that the lettering on the van was the same as the lettering on the lorry that had taken the 'Vietnamese' rice. And sure enough, our bus pulled over behind the van, the back doors of which were open, and waiting.

Now both women and men went to work with a well-oiled efficiency. The plastic mat over a bench seat in the front of the bus was pulled up, and the planks underneath it removed to reveal more than a dozen more boxes of Red Bull drinks. These, and all of the boxes of Red Bull that had been stashed under the seats of the bus, were passed from hand to hand in a chain linking our bus to the cube van. Then out went the bags of Thai sandals and the motorcycle helmets. Several other bags and boxes went too – we'll never know what was in them. They worked very quickly, and seemed somewhat nervous, especially when they heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. A few trucks loaded with rock and a few motorcycles passed us by, their drivers certainly looking at the spectacle, but revealing no particular emotion. I suspect they'd seen it before. Within minutes it was done. The van's doors were slammed shut, and it pulled away We carried on down the road. Minutes later the van passed us – it would reach Dien Bien Phu long before we did.

Now the mood in the bus became positively jubilant. Louder laughter and much bantering back and forth. We foreigners were all laughing too. Despite it's Mickey Mouse simplicity, it was a great smuggling operation, and represented the continuation of a long long history of smuggling in Southeast Asia. This time it was Thai goods through Laos to Vietnam. I wondered what these gals had smuggled from Vietnam into Laos. And I admired them for manipulating the system to their advantage. Tribal women have traditionally been shrewd and savvy entrepreneurs, almost always getting the best of the bargain. We had felt uncomfortable with the notion of going on guided treks to see the tribal villages – well-healed foreigners traipsing through their villages, the heaviest burden they carry their big digital cameras with telephoto lenses slung around their necks. As Doug so aptly put it, these tribal people have become no more than 'camera fodder' to the rapacious armies of tourists keen to capture images of 'real tribal life.' It felt so much better to have witnessed – even to have been a part, in our own small way – of their successful smuggling escapade. Who is to say which of these experiences represents the 'realest' of 'real tribal life.' The one we had was definitely more fun!

And it wasn't over yet! Our route into Dien Bien Phu was circuitous – through several outlying villages and 'suburbs,' as we dropped off each of the women – and whatever particular goods they had decided they wanted, either to keep and use, or to sell. One took most of the bamboo mats, another the motorcycle helmets and rice cookers, and another the Laotian barbeques. All of them lived in modest houses, but not huts. It looked like they were doing alright with their business. One can't help but wish them well. It's a dog eat dog world!

Vietnam deserves a Nomad Note of its own, but first impressions are of a much more crowded country than Laos (which it is), more prosperous and developed, with much more sophisticated agriculture. The Vietnamese garden almost everything – even the narrow planters that divide the boulevards on one of the main streets of town were planted with vegetables, in between the more formal, but decidedly inedible, shrubbery. Dien Bien Phu is a frontier town, and one that has seen endless wars and been repeatedly bombed. There is almost no tourism here, which perhaps accounts for the exuberant friendliness of the people. Almost everyone yells out the only English word they know - “hello!” - and waves enthusiastically. They are all the more amazed by us, the impossibly tall man and the white-haired woman. A few of them have actually touched my hair to see if it is 'real.' As we have heard much about the unfriendliness and aggressiveness of the Vietnamese (from tourists who have only been to tourist centres), it is tempting to stay here in this little back-water town. But we have miles to go, and only a month on our visa... .