Nightfishing

The last journey towards the border, heading off to Pak Lay. Not so long ago this would have been a boat journey, following the winding Mekon through the landscape. Now it's a road through the mountains, paved or incomplete depending upon which information you stumble upon. But, regardless, it's both an early start and an escape from the city. 

Off again, the streets already busy, the heat rising from them, heat rising from them, the morning shower a lesson in futility as fumes cling to my skin. The 0800 bus already full when we arrive we get tickets for the 0900, are transferred to an 0730 which isn't full enough, yet, for departure. And we wait. Half an hour later it's packed full and we depart, pausing for a couple of random stops along the way out of Vientiane and then along the highway, smooth surfaced as it gleams in the morning sun. I wish that the windows were higher, the seat lower, better to view the passing scenes. But the river's low, too low for it to be merely seasonal; once again the globe's constrained by dams upstream, the riverbed sitting naked above the flow, small pools remaining as scrubs reclaim the drying land.

And then the road stops, the driver channeling the spirit of Jim Clarke as he moves seamlessly from road to rally mode, racing across the contorted earth, the track beginning its ascent towards the hills, climbing, weaving through a wasteland, quarries littered with heavy machinery, caterpillar tracked diggers, oncoming traffic spilling out of dust storms, earth piled up high obscuring views further. The roadside signs change, detours now interspersed with warnings of blasting, the hillside flattened, scant shelters of canvas for workers stretched out as we wind our way onwards, a glimpse through the window, tree tops far below, the unkempt surface throwing us around as we hit humps and hollows, road narrowing, twisting, slow progress as it becomes dust and pebbles and a long way down, no way to pass abreast up here, no possibility to turn, the only way further into this desolation through the brief glimpses of elevation, wheels clinging to the edges of crumbling slopes. Looking out into the dust I see a distance marker, a single stone tooth, angled and barely visible, Pak Lay, 36km, a random number and oddly reassuring, but how much more of it's like this, how long is that distance when it's translated into time? Two more hours, a little less? It's silent inside the bus now, no chatting, phones in pockets, memories of a journey up to Rekon Peo, that same silence, hands gripping handles as distances and drops appear, the road rougher, still climbing. And then we stop, the asphalt resumed, narrow but returned, we get out stretch our legs, the driver smoking by the front of the mini bus, squirting water upon the radiator, a look given in the place of speech, that was a rough one the polite translation. I burst at out laughing at his facial contortionist, the tension of the last hour released and wander around grinning inanely until the journey resumes.

The road returned we descend, the Mekong shining below, rising towards us and then a bridge, the promise of destination. Arriving at the bus station, attempting to find transport the last few km to town, gestures replacing language once again until a man approaches me, we communicate in stumbling English until he asks me, "Sprechen sie Deutsche?"

"Ja." I reply grinning.

Finding a room above the river we dump our stuff, set off along the road and find a market, a stall selling doughnut with a fluorescent blue filling, my inner child demanding one, thinking of raspberry slush, not disappointed as I guzzle it down. 

The afternoon heat stifling as we wander along the banks of the river, I return to the room and put on my trunks. In the toilet, sitting atop the broken tiles small droplets of shit, a one night place, finding others upon the seats in the communal area. Too late now I take my towel and walk down to the water, clamber into a rock and slowly ease my way into the surprisingly cold water. Eventually submerged, out into the flow, look up and realise that the current is a lot stronger than I'd thought, 20m downstream from where I'd been, in towards the bank and swim up against its gentler pace as a local on the rock shouts encouragement between taking photographs. Returned I allow myself to float, another current catching me and pulling me in towards the shore, to fishing nets set up there, a scramble of kicks to miss them. But the water's cool upon skin and, no longer unaware of the water's flow I return out into the stream, swim upstream and drift back looking around from the water, almost shouting my delight as this new landscape forms around me, as the dust and sweat of the journey are cleansed, once again, by the cooling flow of a river.

Later we walk along towards a night market, the same market expanded, stalls clustered upon wasteground, a couple of fairground rides at the far side, bright colours diffusing in the dusty air, the sounds of children breaking through the music pounding out of underpowered speakers, night fully fallen now, streets dim, scarce cars up in main street, small eateries, almost empty, spilling light and voices drifting out from tables laden with bottles of beerlao. It's the right place for my mood I think, after Vientiane, as I move through the quiet, dim, alleys back towards the guesthouse in search of sleep.