Early the following morning, after a hearty breakfast of delicious pork baguettes and a frustrating half-hour trying to pay our bill (caused by the fact that our ‘Old Dear’ was incapable of delegating the smallest task and, every time something cropped up, instead of settling with us she would scurry around trying to sort it out), we eventually made it down to the boat landing. Here we loaded our bags up onto a long slender boat with bamboo matting on the floor and a makeshift awning to protect our pates from the harsh afternoon sun. Accompanying us were the skipper, his wife and the boat boy and, as we cruised down lazy stretches of the Mekong waiting for the sun to burn off the morning mist, it was hard to see what all the manpower was for. At first we were relatively comfortable - certainly the addition of my inflatable Thermarest to the boat floor was a great bonus in the comfort stakes! – however, in retrospect unsurprisingly, we soon began to acquire further passengers, despite our Old Dear’s insistence that for our outlay we would be chartering the boat privately. There didn’t seem much point complaining about the situation as we came to the conclusion that our boat captain had probably been ripped off as much as anyone else in the deal. So we merely shuffled up a bit closer and settled down to enjoying the scenery. About an hour into our trip with the mist still stubbornly refusing to move, we began to encounter strangely-shaped limestone karsts looming out of the mist. The waters here ran a little more rapidly and the varying depths of the waters surrounding the rocky outcroppings gave our crew some work to do for a short time. At one point there was a steadily growing, syncopated whining coming from behind us in the mist. After a few seconds a dark, aggressive shape began to materialise quickly out of the mist and soon we were being overtaken by a garishly painted arrowhead containing six helmeted aliens and a nonchalant looking local, manning an unfeasibly large engine. As quickly as it had come into view, it disappeared and we surmised that we had caught a glimpse of one of the infamous Mekong speedboats that make the two-day slow boat journey to Luang Prabang disappear inside 6 hours. They rocket along at 30-40 knots, paying little heed to the dangers of submerged rocks and unexpected shallows. Every year at least one of the boats is heard to have crashed causing severe injuries and even death to the foolhardy passengers. The idea of compressing the journey into 6 hours must be appealing to travellers on a tight schedule but, even so, I can think of better ways to travel than holding on for dear life, deafened by the roar of the engine and ass-numbed from the force of the hull smacking down on the water every second or so. Till, Jason and I smiled smugly as our craft chugged serenely through the maze of rocks and sandbars and, eventually, we found our turning for the Nam Tha and powered through the confluence and away from the silted waters of the Mekong.
Not long after the turning, the sun began to win its battle with the mist and we were soon enjoying the beautiful scenery in dappled sunlight. The water of the Nam Tha was far clearer than the Mekong and we could see fronds of river moss drifting in the current and fish darting in the shallows. It didn’t take a genius to see that the water in this tributary was extremely low and we soon realised the importance of our boat boy and the captain’s wife as they punted and paddled the prow of the boat through a series of ever-shallowing rapids. The river valley became narrow and we were soon surrounded by verdant hills with occasional rocky peaks reaching up to the brilliant blue sky, punctuated by lazy clouds. The views were some of the most beautiful, unspoilt countryside I’d seen anywhere on my travels and I was in little doubt as to why so many of my fellow travellers had recommended this country of rivers and mountains. This idyllic river-life was suddenly rudely shattered by an ominous clunking which reverberated through the length of the boat. Suddenly we were drifting back downstream on the current with a lifeless engine and our crew had to work hard to put us in to the sandy shore before we were sucked back into the rapids we’d just negotiated. We clambered out to lessen the load over the stern and found to our consternation that, not only had we shattered a propeller, but we had also severely bent our prop shaft. At first, I had visions of us being stranded for a day while new parts were sought out and brought. The smug, happy traveller smiles disappeared at the thought of not making it to our stopover accommodation. However, I was soon reminded of the nonchalance affected by my pick-up driver in Cambodia on the occasion of my first blow-out. With practised ease the propeller was knocked off the shaft, the shaft removed from its housing and beaten steadily back into a straight line using a large hammer and a stone for an anvil. A new propeller was procured from bowels of the boat and, within half-an-hour, we were back on our merry way up the river.
The miles passed slowly, broken by the ascent of rapids and the occasional toilet-break. In the mid-afternoon, we stopped while our crew sat for a hasty lunch. The three of us wandered up into the village and soon acquired an entourage of young scallywags and demure girls. The boys happily shouting, ‘Sabaidee!’ and running in our wake, the girls hiding behind stilts and in the shadows under their houses, peering curiously at the big strange men. Our crew wasted no time over lunch, anxious to get underway and make up for the time lost on repairing the propeller. The scenery continued to impress and was all the more pleasant for the fact that we were sharing it only amongst ourselves and the occasional local boat. Several long stretches of the river, between steep, towering cliffs had obviously been subterranean at some point in history. The fierce flood waters of the river in the rainy season (witnessed by some incredible log-jams on some of the sandbars we passed) would have needed only time to complete there erosion and destruction of the soft limestone rock. I kept looking at my surroundings and realising that, but for seasonal changes, the view had probably changed very little in thousands of years. This far from civilisation there were still few signs of its encroachment: no polythene bags clinging to trailing branches; no pylons scarring the skyline and no fumes or chimneys darkening the air. One thing that was disappointing was the almost complete lack of wildlife. It seemed that the riverside dwellers of these parts had long-since hunted local bird and mammal populations into extinction. Certainly, in Britain, this far from significant conurbations, the air would have been alive with the chatter of birds and the treetops rustling with the scurrying of squirrels. Of course, most rural inhabitants in Britain are not subsistence farmers or fishermen…and education and unlimited food resources mean that blowing up fish and netting birds are unnecessary when it comes to feeding the kids.
Every bend in the river brought some new and visually pleasing perspective and the fiery heat of the midday sun had soon diminished to a pleasant lounging temperature. We had long since parted with our extra passengers and the three of us were able to stretch out and bask as we wended our way upstream. Later, as the sun began to dip behind the encircling mountains, the air took on a bit of a chill and we all scrabbled for extra clothing as our enforced inactivity ensured that we were all losing heat pretty quickly. Long after the sun had set – and stiff with cold – we eventually arrived at our day’s destination. The riverside village was the home of our captain and we were to sleep at his house. There was no chance of anything as refined as a hot shower to warm our chilled bones and, to add insult to injury, we were surrounded by a crowd of textile hawkers before we were able to chow down on our curry and sticky rice. I’m sure the opportunity to make a little extra money from passing tourists must be appealing to these poor villagers but it should never get in the way of hospitality. Till, Jason and I refused to even consider any of their textile offerings until the morning. All we wanted was some hot food and a place to lay our weary heads.
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