Waterfall

Another slow start to the day, unplanned as we walk towards the centre of town, passing through the waking streets, but there's a waterfall. Last time I was here I'd hired a bicycle, had set out early upon a long days cycle towards it, halted about eight miles out by a puncture, pushing the bike back until I found a repair shop where, sweat stained and dusty, I'd given up. Today a scooter, discounted without any attempt to haggle, a symptom of the drying stream of visitors.

The road's busy on the way out of town, traffic lessening with each mile, winding gently towards the hills, a few detours dropping into gulleys as bridges are repaired, small villages lining the road once again. Travel slowly, concentrate, places to pause on the return maybe, glimpse the unfolding hills rising into the clearing air, the Mekon appearing to the right, small boats, distances stretching out released from the weight of the fug which has weighed them down since arrival.

Up a hill, a conglomeration of eating places, of stalls selling trinkets and souvenirs, turn into the car park enclosed by more places, mostly empty, a gathering of tuk tuks and mini vans upon gravel and dust. It's busy, but only comparatively so. Five minutes to rest, to watch the dance which surrounds us and the through the gate, turning along a path towards the stream descending from the falls to the river and then a deep breath.

There's a pool, the cold water the colour of aquamarine, a series of small falls, the water hoarding bathers, most of whom appear to be carrying phones and cameras as the manoeuvre themselves aground, climbing small rocks into the descending flow. Further upstream a gathering of pools, blues and greens spilling into each other, the tones and clarity of the water entrancing. Calcium carbonate, the source 3km from the top of the main fall, I wonder if somebody has placed a filter across my eyes, whether this is real.

Climbing the steep path up the side of the main falls, flat land, the water gathering before it's descent, woodland offering a path and a signpost towards the spring and the cave it rises within. I walk through the forest, no shortcuts in this place of bombies and their kindred as they hibernate in the unrelated shrubbery and await the unwary. The path becomes a track, red dust spilling from footsteps, the air dry, thirst, climbing and descending. Breaks in the woodland unleashing more improbable peaks, I hear myself release words upon them, comprehension struggling at the gifted landscapes which I'm wandering through, the unfeasable beauty of my surroundings. 

Another sign 1km, a restaurant by the cave, a long kilometer later I emerge into a glade, a small shelter beside a set of steps, a couple of statues visible at their top, white shapes shining through the undergrowth and trees. Approaching, I'm asked to buy another ticket, I show mine, am told to pay again, shake my head and depart, the journey here enough, the source found and no great love of caves and other enclosed spaces.

Back towards Luang Praban, a half constructed place selling civet coffee, I pull in and enquire about the price of a cup, curious to taste it, blanch at 150000 kip, two nights accommodation, and return to the bike, the road busier as fleets of minivans pass in the late afternoon, as a layer of dust forms a drouth  within my mouth.

And then a final stop in a small village between Luang Praban and the waterfall, visiting a temple that had brought a sharp inhalation of breath earlier and finding it so tranquil and beautiful that no photo's were attempted lest such a thing would tarnish the memory of this place...