On the Local in Laos: From Phonsavan to Louang Phabang
By Hun Ohm
There would be other moments from the trip to Phonsavan that I would remember in the months to come. After all, we had spent an entire day driving across the Plain of Jars, a moonscape bereft of forest, and yet full of craters courtesy of the unprecedented air raids of the Second Indochina War. For hours, we had meandered around the Jar Sites, opining about the meaning of the immense size of the ancient jars (our musings vacillated between funerary, decorative, and fermentative). It was December now, so while we passed through the countryside of Xiang Khouang province, we witnessed the Hmong New Year festivals in full swing. Every few kilometers, lines of young Hmong women dressed in mosaics of bead and embroidery tossed tennis balls with young men 3m away, each waiting to hear the song that would announce they had fallen in love. At a tiny village, we sampled homebrewed Lao Lao from an old soda bottle, an essential rite of passage for these travelers from Amsterdam, Nagano, and New York. We made a toast to Laos, and then to good health. Alas, my finicky constitution disagreed. Within an hour, I began what stretched into an interminable night of nausea.
Still, it was the next day I would remember most. There was a sharp chill in the morning air as we lugged our backpacks to the bus station. An inauspicious omen on some other day, perhaps, but I was eager to begin and finish the 7-hour journey to Louang Phabang. In my weakened state, I could not object to the age of the rusting, third-hand bus –- 30 years old, if a day. Nor did I pay much mind to our machine gun toting escort, a jean jacket clad youth barely awake behind the uneven bangs that obscured his eyes. In the back, a Lao farmer clipped his toenails onto the floor in a happy scherzo. A duo of Hmong women climbed on board, full of chatter; each clutched a sack of steamy, all-too-fragrant snacks purchased from the metal carts outside. The roof boomed as the assistant strapped our backpacks to the rack, and liquid from an unseen source trickled down my window. Finally, after a few uncertain clanks, the engine roared awake, and the bus lumbered out of the dirt staging area.
I thought I should close my eyes for just a moment to ward off any inopportune bouts of dry heaves. However, when I opened them again, we had already left the rolling plains. How many kilometers had passed, it was hard to say, but the bus had begun the serpentine climb up the densely forested mountains of western Route 7. The world was enshrouded in a sfumato quiet, even when witnessed from the bus’s rattling windows. Indeed, the groaning engine was accompanied by the syncopated hack and retch of one woman who could no longer hold down breakfast, but this duet too was oddly soothing. The bus stopped periodically for the men to disembark to urinate or have a smoke. Our machine gunner’s head lolled with sleep. It went on like this for what seemed a timeless, half-remembered dream, until suddenly we entered the rooftop of this world. Sunlight rained upon the road, and an ocean of clouds stretched for kilometers beneath us. We passed through a thatched roof village perched along the steep road banks. Baskets of chili peppers lay drying in the cool air while the women wove, and in the red Roland Garros yards the children were full of laughter, jumping on a piece of corrugated metal lain across a shallow ditch. They waved frantically, and I cracked a parched but appreciative smile and saluted back.
But all such moments are bound to end, and somewhere between the mountain villages the bus abruptly stopped. A collective mutter rippled through the rows but then all was quiet. Even the bus-sick woman regained composure and replaced her hacking with soft moans. Then, a few authoritative words filled the air, and our young machine gunner, dazed by slumber, rose from his seat and stumbled to the back of the bus. Six men in camouflage climbed aboard. Some had handguns strapped to their waists. Others held automatic rifles in their hands. But my attention was most piqued by that particular one with an RPG. I silently grumbled about our protection, as my already knotted stomach squeezed more tightly. In my delirium, I vaguely recalled our guidebook’s general warnings about bandits and occasional death, but could not remember if this route was flagged.
One man, the ringleader, barked again, and the bus restarted its journey along the winding road. The young men seated themselves throughout the middle of the bus, settling in for the task at hand. They chatted in the brash voices favored by the heavily armed. To my dismay, one sat across the aisle from me and leaned his machine gun against my seat. Barrel up, of course, and I quickly concluded that the angle would pass a stray bullet quite cleanly through my thorax. My wife and I glanced at one another briefly, and our eyes agreed. Just let it stay there, let it stay. Don’t even think about moving it.
The other passengers remained quiet as the bus chugged along. We passed through a few villages without slowing down. The children looked up with anticipation, but we no longer dared to wave. I tried to occupy myself by following the kilometers of spider webs that flanked the road, their existence still betrayed by the glistening dew. But it was to no avail. My neck ached with strain as I endeavored to not gawk at the paint-chipped barrel leaning in the aisle. For a time, the men had been speaking in low tones amongst themselves. All laughter had gradually petered out. Suddenly, the ringleader rose from his seat, machine gun in hand. The others began to rise as well.
"Jawt nee dae," he bellowed. "Jawt, jawt, jawt." And even though my Lao was near nonexistent, I knew what he was saying. Stop right here. Stop. Stop. Stop.
*****
Laos is a country with a long history of war and brutally repressive governments, and its inhabitants live in a state of poverty most outsiders seldom see. But at the same time, it is a country whose people are full of hospitality and deep pools of kindness that overflow. In the sharing of a bottle of Lao Lao, or laughter, or a lift, you will see great generosity in the face of hardship. At every turn, it is there, and it will humble you when you realize the world you come from is so very far away.
And so the soldiers finally stepped off the bus with their cache of weapons, perhaps a nod of thanks to the bus driver. Our still drowsy escort assumed his position at the front. A stomach gurgled. Chatter ensued. And then we continued on our way without delay, as there were still three hours before we would reach Louang Phabang.
Where we stayed
We stayed in a guesthouse named Dokkhoun (tel. 061/312189), which was perfectly functional with a large bedroom and private bathroom with shower for approximately $4 per night. The available breakfast is okay for Phonsavan but not much beyond basic sustenance. Don’t forget to check out the decent collection of old bomb casings and the like in the main building.
How we got there
Our route was a bit redundant—local bus from Louang Phabang to Phonsavan, and then back again to Louang Phabang on the same roads. The trip was roughly seven hours and costs approximately US$7, one-way. There are reportedly daily flights to Phonsavan from Louang Phabang (and Vientiane), which will certainly be faster. However, the local bus takes you through some of the most exquisite scenery in Laos, so if you have the time, we would recommend going the slow route. Though banditry has historically been an intermittent problem along these roads, it has been virtually nonexistent over the past year (2003).
Visiting the Jar Sites
We struck a deal with one of the locals who had transported us the short distance from the bus station to our guesthouse: approximately US$9 per person for a full-day excursion, including lunch. He was amiable and spoke English well enough, and his explanations of the jars, while not exhaustively researched, were passionate, personal, and entertaining. Most guesthouses should be able to arrange comparable tours.