A late start and the propellor mishap meant that we did not reach Pakbeng, where we were to spend the night, until sunset. All the berths were already taken by the main boat landing, however. So our boat was forced to squeeze in between two other boats some distance away.
As we approached Pakbeng we had seen electric lights in the little town high above the Mekong. It looked so inviting after our day of too much adventure. No lights worked on the boat, however, and no light shone around the bow area where passengers began to disbark. Joe had wisely brought along LED camp lights attached to headbands, and we donned these. Other passengers brought out flashlights. It took quite a while for us and the other passengers to retrieve our bags and backpacks from the pitch-black stern area. And then we stood for maybe 30 minutes more waiting for the queue to move forward and off the boat. When we got to the bow we saw what the holdup was.
The boat had parked at the base of a cliff. Passengers were toting their bags across an eight-foot plank, the Mekong murmuring in the blackness below, and then---could this be happening?---we found ourselves clambering up a steep rocky hillside. Joe had his pack on his back and made it across the plank. My bag had been snatched at some point by a "porter"---a guy who rushed on board and grabbed the bags of three people and placed them all upon his slight back and shoulders---and I walked the plank and called for my porter to follow me up the escarpment, which he did do. I felt bad for this scrawny guy, but I wasn't about to carry my bag up this cliff in the dark if I could help it, and in this commie non-paradise I did not wish to interfere with any blossoming entrepeneurial spirit. Joe later said this surreal scene looked like the monkey house at the Whipsnade Zoo, except half the monkeys were wearing backpacks and the other half were holding flashlights and shouting, "You come my hotel! You come my hotel!"
About 50 feet up the cliff, the ground started to level out and Ken showed up. He was shouting, "Sir, let me help you! Sir, sir, you come my hotel. Sir, let me help!" Ken is the guy who, in Africa and Asia, shows up. When a farang is in trouble, or is just standing somewhere looking puzzled, Ken shows up. (He is named after a real Ken who, eight years ago, saw Joe and me looking befuddled in rural Zimbabwe and showed up to help us out.) Ken may be a swindler. Ken may be a good samaritan. Ken may be a poor student eager to practice his English and perhaps collect a small fee. Ken may be an aspiring local businessman. Or he may be a combination of all of the above. Some Kens are to be avoided, though at first you're never sure which ones. Joe was wary of Ken of Pakbeng, but I wanted to throw my arms around him and his low-watt flashlight and let him lead me off this unfortunate cliff and up to a pleasant inn where a nice Penang curry would be served by candlelight. Joe asked, "Does your hotel have hot water?" "Yes, yes, hot water!" Ken lied, as I retrieved my bag from the porter, passing him a Thai 20 baht note, a generous sum in Pakbeng, which he accepted before launching a search for the owners of the other bags he had run off with.
Ken's hotel, at the end of a long, high street lined with perhaps 20 guesthouses and restaurants, looked OK, especially after the Chiang Khong smell-o-rama of the night before. So we checked the room and agreed to his 500 baht ($15 US) outrageous overcharge. "Where's the hot water?" Joe asked. "Ah, hot water!" Ken cried, and brandished a large thermos. He explained that the power went off in Pakbeng at ten p.m. and wouldn't come on again until the next night. So hot water had to be stored. In Ken's thermos.
Ken ran off to gull some other boat people---within seconds he had four Bulgarians in tow---and we tidied up as best we could before venturing out and locating a perfectly pleasant candlelit restaurant, where I had my curry and Joe had his, and we pondered what day two of our boat trip down the Mekong might have in store for us.
As it happened, Ken's bed's were clean and comfortable and kept us warm in the mountain chill air. In the morning, we came upon a street vendor selling baguettes (a legacy of the French in Laos) stuffed with ham, cheese, onions and peppers, and we bought one to share for breakfast and two to take on the boat. We were back on the river by 9:30 for the ride to Luang Prabang. The seven-hour journey was beautiful and uneventful.
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3 comments:
I can hear your voice, Dick, as I read your wonderful narratives, and Joe, I laugh and marvel with you when I looked at the photographs. Some are stunning (I loved the cinders one, was grossed out by the bugs) and others have me in stitches: you two on elephants!!!
You've been gone a month now, and I don't read any fatigue between the lines yet, even though much of it sounds taxing.
Thank you for sharing!
Have you stumbled across any Albany-based private investigators who happen to be on vacation in Southeast Asia?
Did American Express plan your trip? And was his name, Ken?
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