getusoutofhere.net (for the burmese refugees)

Laos (continuation)

Laos is a country whose food can vary between rat flesh roasted on an open fire in the rural outposts to the finest veal of European cuisine in the tourist hotspots of Luang Prabang and Vientiane. Such a comparison also makes a fitting analogy to the spread of wealth in this communist country. 

Two days previous to the great projection I pulled up in a small village called Vieng Pukha, booked into a simple hut, tipped a bucket of water over my head and set out to wander the streets at dusk. The streets were strangely quiet. A couple of kids rolling a bicycle tire in the direction of a stray dog who scampered down a back alley where the sound of music was blaring out. I followed the dog to find a party. A group of men drinking Laos moonshine handed me a drink and introduced me to the father of the bride. A proud man celebrating what may have been the proudest day of his life. 

A crowd of fifty or more sat beneath tarpaulin covers laughing at a couple on stage performing the traditional folk theatre of maw-lam. Behind the dimly lit stage a bloody handed butcher chopped the heads off live animals, skinned and gutted them before pushing red chunks of flesh to the side of his huge chopping board; once done they were scooped up by a burly looking woman who placed them on the barbecue. It wasn’t the most appetizing of sights before tucking into a meal. A bit like watching a cow having its intestines removed moments before ordering a Big Mac. But at least it meant the meat was fresh.

The host made it clear he wanted me to stay, have a drink and meet people. On stage a fat man, a pretty girl and an old woman were falling over each other, shouting in hoarse tones and occasionally breaking into song while the crowd cheered and goaded them on. Maw-lam, the traditional theatre of NE Thailand and Laos reflects the everyday struggles of life in rural communities. The language is colloquial and the scenes can be bawdy. In Thailand Mow Lam can be riotous, in Laos, like everything else, it’s a little tamer.

What most definitely was‘nt tame that night was the food. The selection of meats began to grow as the night went on. The host, sensing my curiosity wasn't going to let me leave before I'd tried a little of everything. Never shy when it comes to food and drink I steadied myself with a large moonshine and plunged my paws into the pile of roasted flesh that lay before me.

In rural Laos wild animals rather than domestic provide the meat in local diets. Commonly found in markets are deer, wild pigs, squirrels, civets, monitor lizards, jungle fowl, pheasants, dholes (wild dogs), rats and birds.    

On stage the fat man fooled with the girl while the old lady walloped him with a stick. A drum role was accompanied by a huge roar whilst my glass seemed to magically fill itself. The feast continued till midnight after which everyone filed off in a very orderly manner.

Two days later and I'm wishing I'd never followed that dog down the back alley. Another splash of projectile vomit transforms my bathroom from white to pale green. Luckily my landlady is kind. Filling up a large jar with hot water and bringing small bowls of glutinous rice. A large cockroach crawls across the stone floor. The thought I was eating fried bugs on the streets of Chiang Mai only nine days ago sends me back to the bathroom; splash, a slightly more earthy shade of green.

Nothing much happens when you're lying on your back staring at the ceiling. Later that night it feels like the rodent flesh I'd gauged on has reformed to make a comeback. His body takes shape, fur grows; eyes, mouth and teeth appear till finally he's complete, sniffing around for revenge in the lower regions of my bowels. Eating out what’s left of my intestines; moving onto the organs, drinking my blood and crunching on my bones. Gauging and growing in size till finally there's nothing left of me but two eyeballs, the final delicacy, protruding from a fleshless skull. 

“The rat’s revenge”

The following morning a beam of light shoots through my window; outside kids play ball and on the balcony a yellow butterfly takes flight, a symbol perhaps that the rat has fled and the good Lord has granted me one more chance. For a while I consider another day of recuperation in the crossroads town of Udomxai. A disappointing town consisting of strips of asphalt and dirt flanked by modern cement buildings set in the middle of a deforested valley. 15% of the town’s population is Chinese; that explains the deforestation. 

Tentatively I push forward; the powerful mid day sun shattered into pieces by the forests upper canopy alleviates the heat but it’s not long before the track rises. Trees recede from the roadside leaving my path exposed to the sun. With temperatures reaching 35 degrees it’s as if some huge being is holding a magnifying glass between myself and that raging ball of gas in she sky, burning a hole into my back like a cruel overgrown child incinerating a spider in a physics test. How could I have been so cruel? First the rats revenge now the spiders. What comes around goes around and it’s not long before the rat returns and I seek shade in a village fighting heat exhaustion and a stomach bug.

The village, nestled on a hair pin overlooking a deep valley is quite simply beautiful. The population can’t number more than a few dozen and the people are semi nomadic from the Hmong Hill tribe. Their location is aesthetically idyllic but their way of life is primitive. The 20^th century clearly bypassed these communities. There’s no electricity; water is collected from a stream and what they eat is what they grow. Homes are made from rattan and bamboo and farming methods are slash and burn. School, if the concept is there at all is a distant dream. Medical care comprises opium to kill the pain and herbal remedies dating back to a time when the average life span was less than thirty.

When the land is exhausted they’ll abandon their homes and wander into the next valley to begin again.  

The fate of the Hmong Hill tribes isn’t so dissimilar from that of the Karen people in Burma. Both are persecuted by their respective governments for supporting the opposition during times of conflict and for having the courage to demand basic human rights.

During the Indo China War (1965 to 1975) the Hmong were recruited by the US to fight pro Viet Cong forces in Laos, namely the Pathet Laos. The US military handed out guns and trained the Hmong with the promise that victory would result in their liberation. After nine years of relentless bloody warfare the Americans pulled the plug on Laos, pulled their troops out of Vietnam and returned home. The Pathet Laos claimed victory in Laos and the Hmong were left high and dry, outcasts in their own country. To this day pockets of resistance remain. Around five years ago, not so far from this village a bus load of Lao citizens were gunned down by Hmong insurgents. Two Swiss cyclists who happened to be passing were also shot dead. Since then there’s been no reported acts of violence. So for now my main concern is to re-hydrate and move forward to the next valley. As with every village I pass through in Laos, the adult’s clock me with curiosity and the children explode with excitement when I greet them or take their photo. This alone is one of the great rewards of traveling through Laos.

As I cycle over the remote tracks I pass several abandoned villages once inhabited by hill tribe people, ghostly wooden skeletons disappearing into the land. Sweeping down a snake like decent the afternoon sun slows everything to a snails pace. Field workers take shade under rattan charpoys while two buffalo’s wallow in a shallow mud bath.  

 

“Two buffalo’s takin’ it easy”

During colonial times the French coined the phrase; “The Vietnamese plant the rice, the Cambodian’s watch it grow and the Laos listen to it grow.” Not far from my overnight stop I pull up in a roadside restaurant. It appears to be open. There are empty bowls on a table waiting to be collected and outside a young woman nods ‘yes’ when I ask her if its open.    

Wandering up to the counter I peer over to see five or six bodies sprawled across the floor, barely breathing in a room adjoining the kitchen. For a moment I wonder if something terrible had occurred, a mass murder or a sudden attack of food poisoning worse than the rat’s revenge. Then I realize they’re simply listening to the rice grow. A young child is flat on his back with his mouth wide open while an old man is snoring softly. For a moment I consider just moving on but they’re open and it’s their job to sell me food so sod it, I grunt loudly to alert a young woman who reluctantly peels herself from the matted floor, yawns and leads me into the kitchen.

There’s no fridge but there’s a knife, a pile of fresh vegetables and a few gas rings. The woman’s motions a tour of the kitchen, yawns again and return’s to her siesta, leaving me to sort myself out.

The following morning I make good time by grabbing the back end of a tractor on the day’s highest climb. By mid day I reach Nong Khai. On the edge of the village a huge roar rises from an isolated wooden hut. In Laos it’s rare to hear anyone shout (in anger or celebration) so I role over to the shack and poke my long nose through an open doorway.

Inside a group of thirty or so men are crouched down in a circle. A squawk goes up and feathers fly while two cocks battle it out for survival. A curious creature is man who finds pleasure in watching animals rip each other to pieces.

As a traveler Laos is surely one of the safest countries in the world. Comparing its capital Vientiane with London is like comparing a poodle with a pit bull. The same can’t be said in regard to their treatment of animals. Rummaging through a rural market in Laos can be like entering a theater of cruelty. It’s not uncommon to see live frogs in large containers with their legs sewn together; cows with their limbs bound dangling upside down from the back end of a truck (mooing for mercy) or the sorry spectacle of monkeys taken from the wild and chained to a tree in a village center.

In Laos there are few butchers or slaughterhouses. The rural people deal with the messy business of slaughter, transportation and processing of animal protein. As a result everything’s on display. If the process of factory farming were to be put on display in the West then I dare say there’d be a little less ‘finger lickin’ fun’ in KFC. 

The cock fighting crowd welcomes my presence but with food on my mind I find a room in a village called Nong Khiaw, roughly mid way between the Laos and Vietnamese borders. Nong Khiaw welcomes a small stream of travelers who’ll stop over for a night or two en rout to more developed destinations. Sitting beside a wide river that cuts a path between huge limestone rock faces and verdant mountains I check into a newly built bamboo hut and spend the rest of the afternoon sketching the mountains from an open air restaurant overlooking the river.

The dates are shady but Laos was under French colonial rule from the end of the 19^th century to the early 1950’s. However, it may be argued that Laos gained little from the French. They didn’t develop a passion for education or an effective medical service as the Indians did under the British. Their national pastime petanque (or French bowls) can hardly be considered an international sport that sets the temperature rising.

But there is one great legacy the French have left in every country they’ve colonized and that’s food. Where the English introduce milky tea, pastry pies and gravy the French bestow upon the people a taste for good coffee, croissants, fine cheese, pate, baguettes and the drink of the Gods, red wine.

And so it is as I finish sketching the Limestone Mountains from my riverside restaurant I glance at the menu to see a selection of French reds and pate baguettes. It’s time to sit back and toast the road with a bottle of French red wine. 

Shortly before the moon appears and the wine kicks in a stream of hill tribe ladies wander across the bridge and file past the restaurant. Some are carrying huge bundles of foliage while others are on the lookout for callow wayfarers like myself. One of them approaches, opens her knapsack full of hand made craft, ethnic clothing and beaded wrist bands. I tell her no but like any good salesperson she persists. Digging deeper she pulls out a wooden frog. Run a stick along its back and it croaks just like a real frog, a perfect Christmas present for my young niece. But it’s June and I've no concept for planning ahead. 

Finally she gives up but not before burying into the depth of her knapsack and producing a lump of opium. Not quite the size of a matchstick box that Carl used to enjoy and considerably more expensive. The temptation is there and I find myself grappling with the Devil. Not her but myself. Glancing up I catch sight of a middle aged Laos, dressed smartly in slacks and a white shirt loitering on the bridge. 

I keep remonstrating ‘no’ but she won't give up. The middle aged man walks toward the restaurant, his features harden as I catch his eye. By now its plain this guy is a government official. I try to motion her attention to him but she's not interested. The government official just waits till she gives up and when she leaves he burrows into her bag, takes the opium and sends her on the way. 

By law drug possession, let alone selling is punishable with a long stretch in prison but what can you do with an old hill tribe lady in one of Asia’s poorest countries. Had it been me I'd be facing trial for a twenty year sentence. Joining the large and silent number of fools who lose a good ten years of their lives banged up in Asian prisons for the petty offence of indulging their pleasures.

“The rivers in Laos offer respite from the heat. Just don’t challenge the locals to a race.”

The following morning I join the local kids in a swimming race, from the foot of my bamboo hut to the local market. They beat me easily. In the market old hill tribe ladies are hauling huge bags of sand down 50 meters of concrete stairs to the river bank.  These bags must weigh around 20 kilograms and the hill tribe ladies appear to be around 50 years of age. One elderly lady still has the limbs and the lungs of a Columbian mountain goat but the other is struggling. Their employers, a couple of well built young men sit smoking cigarettes and chewing the fat.

In a nearby café I meet a mild mannered young traveler named Peter, waiting for his pineapple slices to cool in the restaurants fridge. A true aesthetic and laconic in his summary of why he loves to travel Peter manages to survive on a budget that would raise the eyebrows of the Buddha himself. A teetotaler whilst traveling the pineapples will keep him going till nightfall, he’ll sniff out the cheapest room in every town he happens upon and he’ll fear no evil as he hitchhikes through Indonesia, Vietnam, Thailand, Burma and Laos.

“It’s a good way to save money,” he explains in a mellow Polish/German accent. “Thailand is very easy to hitch hike but one time I got a lift with a Thai family. The mother asked me for some money. I pretended I didn’t understand and had to leave the car.”

When I suggest he could have given them a tip he shrugs as if he half agrees with me. There are few people who hitch hike through Burma and fewer still who plan to hitch hike through Afghanistan. But Peters one of them.

“Ah, Burma was so beautiful” Peter sighs, “Everything is old. But you know the other side.”

We talk about the situation in Burma for a while. I ask him whether he feels comfortable traveling through a country with one of the worlds worst human rights records.

“Well, I avoid staying in any government run hostels and make sure my money goes only to the local people.”

When I tell him his travel expenses go to the government he reminds me he hitch hiked through Burma and continues;

“If the people are okay in the places I travel through then I am happy. In Burma I was happy because the people were smiling, they were happy to see me and I was happy to be with them.”

“Friendly hill tribe ladies bring their produce into town.”

Peter doesn’t need anything but a few pineapple slices, the air he breaths and good relations with the people he meets. The issue of whether or not it’s okay to travel in Burma is not black and white. Trade with China, India, Thailand and Singapore is what props up the junta. If the traveler is cautious and aware of what benefits and harms those they befriend then it can be argued the locals benefit. Total isolation from the outside world is easy to expostulate by those who’ve never experienced it.

He insists that northern Afghanistan will be safe to hitch through and sites a couple of travelers he’s met who have recently traveled through Afghanistan.

“They were okay,’ he says.

I suggest they may just have been lucky but Peters too wrapped up in the wonders of the world to be put off.

“You know when I hitch hiked through Thailand I met a doctor who gave me a lift to the Khao Yai National Park. We spent a week trekking and camping. It was great, just like a great friendship.”

I ask him about any dangerous experiences.

“No, nothing dangerous, but one night, in my mind I thought I was going to drown. One night south of Phuket on the coast where the tsunami killed thousands I was dropped off at a junction a long way from town. The wind was blowing hard and the sky began to change so I searched for a house. Eventually I found a derelict building next to the sea. There was only rubbish downstairs and upstairs all the windows were broken. I could hear the waves crashing loud against the shore.”

I remind Peter about the tsunami and tell him that the previous inhabitants were probably killed by the wave or abandoned the house for fear of ghosts.

“Yes I know,” he replies in a matter of fact manner. “I tried to sleep in the upstairs room but it was very strange. I only had a flash light. There were books lying on the floor, a strange smell and what do you call those plastic toys, girls with white hair.”

“A Barbie Doll”

“Yes, that’s right; there was a Barbie Doll on the floor, like someone had left it there.”

“Well obviously” I joke but by now even I’m beginning to get the fear. In Thailand as throughout most of South East Asia the majority of people have a genuine belief in the existence of spirits. When someone is murdered or dies in tragic circumstances the place of their death is often left to ruin for fear of restless spirits haunting the property. Wasn’t he just a little freaked out by these circumstances?

“Well, not really. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Neither do I” I tell him, “but I’d rather not spend a stormy night alone in a morgue during a power-cut.”

“Neither would I” he replies without any sense of irony before continuing, “I couldn’t sleep because the crashing of the waves… it was intense. I began to fear that the waves would crash into the house. It was strange because in my mind I became afraid of the wave. It was like another reality.”

“It was irrational” I suggest.

“Yes, it was irrational. Like it wasn’t me thinking.”

“You mean like a Ghost.”

Peter starts laughing, “Yes maybe, like a ghost.”

My progress through Laos has been slowed by a number of factors. Firstly, a predisposition for sitting back and listening to the rice grow when I should be making time. Secondly because of an attack of bad guts and thirdly because old father time has finally worked his sinewy claws into the fibers of my anatomy, sucking out the strength and pulling me back. With there being no cash machine between the north Thai border and the first major city in Vietnam my funds have also become seriously low. After splurging out on two bottles of red wine I’m now down to living off the bare necessities, noodle soup, water and banana’s. Drastic action is called for if I’m going to make Vietnam before emptying out my wallet.

In a small valley town 60km’s on from where I met Peter I concede that the only way to save my bacon is to wave down a bus. On this lonely road they pass by once every 24 hours and according to Ong, the only English speaking local for miles it should come by; “at around 2am, or 3am, or maybe 4am. But sometimes it doesn’t come at all. But if it doesn’t come today it will come tomorrow.”

It’s going to be a long wait. Luckily I’ve got Ong to entertain me.

Bare chest-ed with a round belly and short legs Ongs as pleased as myself to have someone to talk with and once he begins he doesn’t stop.

The river adjoins a steep bank that falls from the back veranda of his house. His wife’s weaving material that she’ll sell on the market. The sight of fishermen pulling in their nets sets Ong off on a long litany of complaints about the state of Laos.

Up until ten years ago the rivers were full of fish. Today there’s hardly any left as a result of battery explosions. The forests in this region used to be rich with wildlife; wild elephants, bears, rare species of monkeys and even tigers wandered the forests in abundance but now there’s hardly any left.

“The army hunts the wild animals,” Ong states, “they’re killing everything and nothing can be done because government officials are all corrupt.”

Educated in Hanoi and Vientiane shortly after the communists took power Ong’s bitterness at the government is palpable.

“At first they tried to help people but now all they care about are themselves. The only people driving good cars in rural Laos are government officials. No one else can afford them. They just want money for themselves. They want girls, drink and bigger houses.”

A group of teenage school kids ask to buy some moonshine from Ong’s modest shop. They’re celebrating because today each one of them received their exam results and each one of them passed. According to Ong there’s a 100% pass rate because the teacher took bribes in exchange for results.

“Everything is corrupt in Laos,” he repeats.

“The teachers down there,” he points in the direction of the school: “Every one of those teachers is corrupt. Each of the students gave the teacher 10 USD to get a pass.”  

Suggesting ways to stop the corruption is met with a laugh. “The local General and his officials are the most corrupt of all. Every one who doesn’t profit from their corruption hates them. They take money off people and keep it for themselves.”

“So why doesn’t someone make a petition, get everyone to sign it and send it to the central government with an explanation of what’s happening.”

Ong nearly falls off his chair laughing at the naivety of such a suggestion.

“No impossible. The person who began the petition will be sent to re-education camp. No one will see them again.”

So keep the protagonists identity secret.

“They will find the person who began the petition. Lao people cannot keep a secret.”

Ong, a well educated man who used to work in a Vientiane University sees little hope for the future of his country.

“If young people learn English well they can make good money in tourism but the school won’t teach English. They say it’s not important. I think it is, I think they’re too lazy to teach anything. Nobody reads in Laos. Nobody makes anything.”

Ong paints a bleak picture of contemporary Laos. It would be easy to dismiss him as a disgruntled old man but what he says is probably closer to reality than the impressions travelers like myself garner from skimming the surface on our travels.

The bus lights wake me from a doze at 4am. Jumping to my feet I have to wave it down, tie my bike to the roof and sit amongst the chickens and assorted junk at the back before pulling up (9 hours later) 40km from Vieng Xai, meaning Victory City. 

Vieng Xai  (Victory City)

“Saturday night in Vieng Xai (Victory City)”

The ripe valleys leading to Victory City (60 km’s from the Vietnam border) are riddled with bomb craters from the Indo China War. From 1964 to 1973 the US military rained down on Laos, on average, one plane load of bombs every eight minutes, 24 hours a day for nine years. By 1973 1.9 million metric tons, or over half a ton for every man, woman and child living in Laos was dropped, making this the most heavily bombed nation, on per capita basis in the history of warfare.  

Over 30 years on and the entire country is riddled with unexploded ordinance. Mine Tech International estimate that at least one person a month in each of the countries 17 provinces is killed by a UXO. The victims are usually farmers working the land or young kids searching for scrap metal that they sell on to merchants for a pittance. Deaths aren’t recorded in Loa so there are no official figures to illuminate Uncle Sam’s blood legacy.

You don’t have to look hard in Loa to see reminders of America’s nine year secret war. Such is the abundance of war junk it can be spotted in unusual places. One point five meter long cluster bomb casings can be transformed into attractive pot plants if turned onto their side. Stood upright they can be used as fence posts or pillars for rice barns. Others fashion scrap aluminum into items of everyday use such as spoons and cooking pots. One report has it that a man made limbless from a mine explosion melted down the aluminum from an exploded bomb to fashion a false leg.

Vieng Xai meaning Victory City is a grand term for a village that emerged like a cripple from the trenches after enduring 9 years of continuous bombing. The limestone cliffs riddled with caves surrounding Victory City gave shelter to the Pathet Laos, their army and the civilians during America’s secret war. In total there are over 100 caves in this region. For nine years these caves provided a permanent shelter for over 30,000 people. Up until a few years ago the caves within Victory City were guarded like a state secret. Today the paranoia has receded so for a small fee I’m led through a few of the caves by a local tour guide. 

“The tunnels even the Americans couldn’t penetrate.”

Tham Than Keysone was The Pathet Laos chief for the duration of the US led war on Laos. When the war came to an end he held presidency from ’75 till his death in ’92. My tour guide leads me 140 meters into a cave that for 9 years was his home. Inside the air is cool. Long narrow tunnels connect the various rooms which include a political party center, reception room, bedroom, recreation room, meeting room and a library. In the office area there’s a bust of Lenin as a gift from the Russians and a gold gilded vase as a gift from the Chinese. Apart from that there’s little else; a washing bowl, wooden beds and a huge, iron oxygen filter in a sealed room for when the fumes from bombs outside became overpowering. 

“From Russia with love; Lenin”

When the war ended the leaders built houses in front of their caves. Today the houses are adorned with wild flowers, fruit trees in full bloom and fish ponds. Between the rock faces the view is of lush green rice fields being worked by the people.

When the tour guide stops talking the only sound is the rustle of leaves from a gentle breeze and the occasional sound of birdsong. You wonder the reason for Laos peoples love of silence when you consider that every single day from ’64 to ’73 the bombing was almost relentless. Caves would be stacked full of thousands of heavily armed soldiers, taking aim at the US fighter planes streaming in from their bases in North Thailand, racing toward the sun and returning at dusk.  

“Anyone who was out in the fields when the Americans came would be a target.” My tour guide tells me. “A rice farmer in my village was shot dead whilst working the land. A US pilot gunned him down. After that his family only worked the land at night.”

Cycling up to the Vietnamese border you don’t have to look hard to recognize bomb craters. They’re harmless enough. Ponds have formed in many of them and vegetation fills others. What do remain a threat are the UXO’s. The land leading up to the border is worked by rural people, each of them running some degree of risk.

Under the laws of the Geneva Convention Laos was a neutral country in the indo China war. As such the US bombing campaign against Laos was labeled “The Secret War” by the Americans who must have viewed Laos as a lower form of life. Like an ugly wart best operated on in silence. They failed but the only people who are suffering now as a result of their failure are the Laos people whose land is riddled with American UXO’s. As I pedal up to the Vietnamese border I’m left with one last thought; the Americans put these bombs here, shouldn’t they be the ones to remove them?

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