Purposeful Wandering: Laid back face down

Lounging in the hammock strung across the balcony of my riverside bungalow, I lift my eyes from the copy of All the King’s Men sitting on my lap and gaze down at the dozens of fishermen skillfully tossing their nets from the impossibly narrow boats they stand on. There are no sounds of car horns, blaring music, planes overhead, or even a telephone ringing. Instead, all I hear over the warm breeze rustling my pages is the sound of chickens clucking, conversations of passersby, and the occasional putter of a riverboat cruising by. Besides taking a walk around the islands, there really isn’t much to do down here except relax, lose yourself in a book, and melt into that hammock. It’s too hot to do much else anyway.

Down here, where the Mekong River flows out of Laos and South into Cambodia, the river widens and weaves its way through thousands of mostly uninhabited islands. The slow pace of the river seems to have been adopted by the Lao who live on its banks. The river provides food, bathing, play, and a welcome respite from the heat.

Mr. Tho’s Bungalows, where I settled into on the island of Don Det, is run by the sweetest young Lao family. Mr. Tho himself past away a few months ago and his guest house is now kept up by his daughter Niing, her husband Khamtay, and their beautiful 6-month-old Alek. Alek doesn’t do much except babble and torment the chickens.

Niing cooks delicious meals whenever I pour myself out of that hammock, and Khamtay and I share Beer Lao as Alek bounces in his lap.

Blissful? Yes.

And maybe that can be my justification for the tumultuous last 24 hours.

At lunch, the day before I am to catch my ferry across the Mekong and bus up to Pakse, I ask Khamtay what I should order. He recommended the fish-laap, which I’ve had elsewhere and really enjoyed. It’s a dish of minced fish cooked with mint, cilantro and other herbs in a lemon sauce. Served with sticky-rice, it’s delicious. Niing poked her head out of the open-air kitchen and said she only had pork and beef for meat. I looked to Khamtay with a shrug, and he nodded, “pork.” Per her norm, Niing’s pork-laap was delicious, especially when chased with a frosty Beer Lao.

Okay… lesson learned: in a riverside community with no electricity (read – no refrigeration) it’d probably be best to steer clear of any meat other than fish. By late afternoon, my belly was starting to ache… by sunset, I was groaning and rolling around under the bug net of my bed. Stripped down to my boxers, the mattress was thoroughly drenched with my sweat. Gross? Yes, but that’s nothin’. The rest of the night my only small comfort was the thought that… well, it was bound to happen at some point - can’t expect to travel abroad for 4 months and not get sick once - let’s just get it over with.

Easier said than done. I think I got a total of 8 minutes sleep that night. Probably spent more time at the pit-toilet than in my bed. Watery fluid gushed from every orifice on my body. Sorry, but that’s how it was. At least the pit-toilet is nice to heave my guts into. What’s a pit-toilet? Well, for those who haven’t had the pleasure, imagine something like the Western urinal, but instead of being mounted on a wall, it’s buried flush with the concrete floor. No need to hug the porcelain throne here… just put your hands on the ground, brace yourself, and heave away.

It’s a lonely thing, being sick alone. For some reason I always crave home most when I’m ill. I’ve been away from the ‘rents long enough that I no longer crave Mom’s doting care. That night, all I wanted was a cold air-conditioned room, a couch, a TV, and a stack of my DVD’s.

Niing and Khamtay must’ve heard me, but I didn’t have the heart to tell them their delicious food was the culprit for my restless night. When it seemed that there was nothing left to expel from my exhausted body, I settled into a kind of sleepless trance until the sun rose.

The 3hr “bus” ride to Pakse was perhaps the longest of my life. I rode in a Sawngthaew (pronounced Song-Tao), which is a converted truck with benches along the sides of the truck-bed, another bench down the middle, and a tarp roof overhead. They managed to fit 34 adults, 3 infants, 4 toddlers, 3 live chickens, 2 bags of rice, and assorted baggage into a truck no bigger than a full-sized Ford. The poor kid sitting across from me kept crying… probably because he kept having to see the look on my face. It’s a miracle, maybe my greatest achievement of sheer willpower, that I didn’t crap my pants during that 3hr marathon.

So this is the part where I say “awwww… feel sorry for me,” and you say, “buck-up ya whiner… you can’t boast about the hammock and gripe now.” Well alright, alright.

A day later now, and after 20hrs of lying in my fan cooled room at my Pakse Guest House, I’m already feeling better. Been drinking water like it’s going out of style. I even ate some banana and a baguette a couple hours ago… I think I’ll be able to keep it down. Things are looking up!

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The mighty Mekong snaking its way between the islands of Don Det (left) and Don Khon.