At breakfast overlooking the river, the mist clings to the side of the mountain somehow letting the sun through to bottom, creating layers of light. It's as if it's the first day of the holidays.

We take a wooden canoe with a motor up river, impressively chugging upwards through white water. A tour for the two of us - an "eco" tour no less, though the agency definition of giving back was sporadic donations of pens to one village school, tourists who gave books to the children, and paying the fee for the water fall in the other village. Suspect. As was the promise of Lao food for lunch, which turned out to be a chicken baguette. Fair enough, but stretching meanings.

We walked along a red clay track cut from the cliff the week before and linking the village to the road. At the waterside they were unwinding electric cable from a truck and pulling it over the river on a canoe: these villages go live next week.

After Congo, it's strange not having a clue how to read things - knowing there is more than the idyll presented, but no idea what that might be. There are various ethnic things at play, lots of power games, and changing social dynamics. We met 2 old blacksmiths, both over 90, and their women, both over 70. Young people don't stay in the village now to learn the skills, but head to Luang Prabang and Vientiane. We understand nothing.