Caves

Again, as always, too early. Downstairs and a coffee, the Aeropress offering solace in the chill. I share a cup with the old man, communicate that I'm leaving, off to Vien Xai, am given a smile and a thumbs up, offered a lift to the bus station, cheaper than a tuk tuk. But this morning there's a group of six, four off to Vietnam pausing there up in their way. For me it's a place said to be beautiful, not connecting the politics, caught up in dreams of a mountain landscape to lose myself in for a couple of days, a small place off the tourist highway.

Arriving at the bus station an hour before departure a bus skids to a halt, the semi mythical one to Hanoi, offering seats to Vien Xai for 50000 and dropping to 30000 immediately in the face of refusal. It's 10000 more than the local bus, but it's now. Jumping on we take seats, helped with baggage, welcome. And then, and then, a gathering of insufficient superlatives …

Heavy mists paint the landscape vague, offering no clue as to what's about to open up before us as they break into a series of weathered limestone towers, a karat landscape hauling itself into our eyes, pillars of rock protruding alongside the road. A stop, bamboo shoots for sale along the roadside, a chance to jump out, take a moment and feel the unexpected wonder engulf me. Old memories, Yangshuo in the early morning, the … river winding through old Chinese paintings; a desire to shout, to share my delight with these mute sentinels which have gathered here.

It's beautiful, really just ridiculously beautiful. 

Wandering the hours before I take the tour of the caves a scooter pulls up beside me, Jack on his way home from school before heading off to teach English in the afternoon, a short chat and then he departs, leaving me annoyed that I didn't offer to help for an hour or two, a native speaker. But it's too late today and, instead, I wander back to begin the tour, through the caverns where the leaders of the Pathet Laos lived for nine years beneath the unceasing reign of American bombs. And left victorious. But at such a cost. 

Here a hidden city cut into mountains, winds through claustrophobic passages, the daylight an infrequent guest, almost an intruder, as a guide offers a glimpse into the history of this labyrinth. Outside the houses which were built when the bombs stopped, in one a bomb crater turned into a heart shaped pond, the broken heart of a people who were condemned as enemies by a place that few had even heard of.

Walking back along the road I'm called over to join a gathering, informed that it's a wedding, given a glass of ice cold beer and then some lao lao to toast the day. But it's an odd one, twenty minutes later I'm asked, apologetically, to leave again, suddenly intruding upon the scene but given another glass of beer as a parting gift…

Night fallen, dark streets, little light to see by, shops and restaurants closed. Except for one offering Laos and Indian food, run by Prakesh, originally from Orissa. I order a plate as we talk about Puri, the sun temple, exile. I think once again of Jens, of other journeys and the faces and memories which inhabit them, the ghosts we carry with us as paths unwind and diverge as I step out into the dark of the road, another day gone.