I jumped in the tour operator's van, and as I was driven away I saw both the Swiss couple and the Belgium couple from my nightmare bus ride gathered on the side of the road. They were preparing to leave Phongsali too. I called out and waved goodbye. They waved and smiled, probably glad to be rid of me. They weren't game to take the bus back south either: they opted for the slow-boat.
This monk was wearing a matching beanie!
You can probably imagine my surprise when the van dropped me - and the two others in the tour van - off at the bus station. I shuddered. So, we'd be catching the bus to Boun Neua. It was one and a half hours. On that road.
This would put my stomach to the test.
I spent the ride chatting to my two new companions, Julie and Hanas. They were from Germany, and it was just the three of us on the trekking tour for the next two days. The bus ride passed quickly and eventlessly (to my great relief) and before we knew it, we were meeting our tour guide in Boun Neua. He directed us to a guesthouse near the airport so we could dump our luggage and begin our trek.
Stunning scenery on our trek
Our guide was a 22-year-old local with a hangover. (He admit that proudly.) English was his fifth language (out of seven) and he spoke it quite fluently. One of his other languages was the local language of where we were headed. (In rural parts, they don't speak Lao.) He led us along rice paddy paths and up hills into lush jungle.
A caramel plant (left), and Julie about to cross a creek! (right)
After a couple of hours we started noticing spiders dangling all about the undergrowth. I asked if they were poisonous and our guide laughed. He spent the rest of the trek capturing these spiders in an empty water bottle and, with a smirk, told us, "We will eat these tonight!"
Speckled spider... apparently not poisonous
Some hours later, we reached Phapoun Mai Village. It was heartbreakingly beautiful.
Our first view of the village
Population 300. No electricity. No toilet. No sanitary items. A single outdoor tap with ice-cold water. Houses, a school, and animals everywhere. This is rural life in Laos in the 21st century.
Wooden houses on a steep mountainside
We stayed in the old house of the village chief (he and his family had a newer house 40 meters away). I was pleased to hear that the village only gets two or so groups of tourists per month. In fact, I was quite impressed with Laos's eco-trekking in general. They want a few foreigners to visit remote locations, yet with the goal of maintaining the locals' culture, integrity, and daily life.
So beautiful
That said, two effects of tourism struck me:
1) Our first visit was the local primary school (there is no high school in the village). One class was out the front practising traditional dance.
They got all shy when we arrived
I felt a bit awkward sitting there like a spectator, but I felt even worse when we peeked inside the building at the other two classes. Some of the kids were curious or even excited at seeing us, but all were shy, and all kept giving us uncertain looks. As a teacher, I was very aware that I was a distraction to the class. One teacher had to start shouting at her class in order to regain their attention, and she was seriously scary - even to me. I decided it was time to escape. Even though tourists are no doubt curious about the village's schooling system - and don't get me wrong, I was very interested - we should have no right to invade during school hours. (This is why I didn't take many photos.)
School finished a few minutes later, and kids exploded out of all the building's orifices and scrambled to safety as fast as they could. It wasn't that teacher they were wary of - it was us. A small handful of students remained. I spoke some Lao to them, and either they really didn't understand, or they were too scared to reply. I think it was the latter.
Some boys beside their school
2) The second impact of tourism I observed was when a lady came to sell us some homemade crafts. I was quite surprised by this village entrepreneur, who had obviously spent a lot of her free time to make her wares: beaded bracelets and stuffed toys. There was a humbling homemade authenticity about the stuffed toys that made them really cute, especially the little lizard-looking dragon. But, at the same time, I was crestfallen (and really disappointed) that we were being so singled out as consumers. All the way out here. Let it be known that I don't believe she did anything wrong. She merely tapped into an existing market, and if Phapoun Mai gets more tourists, she will be known as the first person who took the initiative. In that sense, she's inspiring.
I hadn't brought much money with me, and when we all refused her wares, she looked heartbroken. She even looked at one of her stuffed toys as she walked away, as if wondering what was wrong with it. I was suddenly painstakingly aware of how few visitors the village gets, and how few foreigners she gets to show her crafts to. When we bumped into her again later, I was really pleased when Julie bought the little lizard-dragon off her. The lady looked so happy. It was as if this one sale had inspired her with new life. That kind of happiness is contagious, you know?
Evening falls
The sky was growing dark as we visited different homes. Julie and Hanas had brought some supplies (toothbrushes, seeds, pens and paper) to donate to the villagers, and our guide had advised us to give them directly to the locals rather than the village chief, in case he kept them for his own family. We had no idea where to start handing things out, so our guide called over the assistance of one of the school teachers. If anyone knew who needed supplies the most, it was the teachers.
It was almost pitch-black inside the huts. In every house we went to, they sat us down and poured us tea. We chatted through the translation of our guide and learned more about their lifestyle. Just about everyone in the village works on the farms, and they work from daybreak till evening every day. Of course, there are no holidays, and most of them haven't seen much beyond Phapoun Mai Village. And yet the simplicity of their long and hard daily routine didn't seem unsatisfactory to them at all.
Full darkness had set in when we were called to dinner at the village chief's house. He explained (through translation) that his only regret in having us in the village was that we didn't speak the same language and couldn't chat fluently. We ate village food and drank cups of potent rice wine (which magically kept refilling), until suddenly an elderly woman charged through the house, wailing hysterically, and shut herself in the back room. Conversation died at that point. Her screams were so real and so heartbroken. Something was clearly wrong.
The woman was the chief's mother. He yelled a few things at her, and she shouted back, but her crying only got worse. Her raw cries were the sound of utter loss and devastation, and were one of the most haunting things I've ever heard.
Shortly after, we found out what had happened.
Every evening, the women of the village carry their day's harvest back to Phapoun Mai on horseback, as the farms are situated in the hills outside of the village. Like any day, the chief's mother worked the fields, gathered her harvest, and brought it to her horse to take home. Except that today, she returned to find her horse dead.
I can't imagine how that moment must have been for her. She'd not only lost a dear friend who she spent every day with, but her family had now lost an important and expensive commodity. Bearing both sorrow and the day's harvest on her back, the old woman was forced to return to the village on foot.
Dinner ended somewhat hastily. The chief thanked us and we stepped outside into the moonlight, our hearts heavy. In the quiet of the night, I reflected on the material disparity between this world and mine. It all felt so unfair. The loss of a single horse - something most people back home would ignore - had rendered that poor woman inconsolable.
Full moon
None of us ever heard how her horse died. But I'll never forget that it did.
0 comments:
Post a Comment