I have spent my last night in Laos in a cabin in the southern jungle. I am sitting on a bench overlooking this waterfall absorbing the early morning sounds of cascading water, humming insects, screeching birds & leaves disturbed by a general, fresh breeze.

Today it is across the Mekong border to Thailand & then home. Memories like this that I take back with me – sunrises & sunsets, lazy rivers & dusty lands, high forested peaks & tangled wet jungles, wriggling leeches & cool water buffalo, the class & sophistication of Lubang Prabang & Vientiane & the relentless challenge of harvesting & working the land elsewhere, modern crew cab trucks & 2 stroke tuk tuks & scooters & small Honda motorbikes, waterfalls & wide sandbanks. Thank you Laos for your tapestry of life in your hard but beautiful land.

Today it is boat, tuk tuk, boat, tuk tuk, boat, bus, walk & electric buggy, followed by bus as the day is spent exploring the Mekong from dawn to dusk.
The sun comes up over the jungle-lined far bank drawing out the first fishermen on the still water and the procession of grave monks, intent on their ant like progress collecting sticky rice from their followers, on the awaking land. The early rays give the river a classic mirror surface, disturbed only by the widening wake of a longtail or the growing circle of a thrown net. The saffron of the monks absorb & reflect a glorious golden sheen.

Then into the longtail boat and downstream to explore the lower part of the river. At its widest point the Mekong is 20 km wide. The area here is called 4000 Islands made up of sandbanks , collections of rocks & trees & larger, inhabited islands several kilometres across, linked by bridges & even a railway built by the French. There must be fish around the arches of the new road bridge as 20/30 thin boats collect there like small leeches wriggling their bodies from a single anchor point on a mirror clear surface. Their occupants twiddle their small paddles to remain stationary & lay out a line or an arching net.

The bank flashes past accompanied by the roar of the longtail ‘s open engine. Jungle, palms, stilted houses, banana trees, satellite dishes, moored boats, fronded shelters merge together in a mosaic of colour & texture. The raised dwellings provide shade & coolness during the day, storage & living space & protection above if the river ever floods.

The engine slows its roar to more of a snarl & we offload into a riverside village of stiled homes, general stores, free standing fridges, farmsteads & the occasional guest house. Children play, women work around the homes & men pull & cut & tug & hack as they harvest the rice & straw in the fields. Conicalled figures make small clusters of animated activity amongst the patchwork of dried paddy fields.

Now a new form of transport is chosen in which to cross this island. This must be the gaveyaard of all large tuk tuks. Lined up, ready to go in order like Oxford cabs down George Street, are the largest selection of rusty, dusty scrap iron vehicles you could imagine could transport people. These would be credible extras in any Mad Max movie. My favourite is this mechanical elephant with one tusk missing – ivory poachers missed one?

Sadly he is not next in line so another beast is chosen – one which crunches & grinds its way through its antiquated gear box. Gear box is a bit of an exaggeration as it goes no further than second where it roars & branches & howls in protest as the engine growls & cranks against the metal cogs. 7 km takes about an hour through the dry countryside. At the end boats await & we take to the water to spot Irrawaddy dolphins (look them up if you interested!).

Lunch is taken in another riverside village. During the heat of the day most locals flop about between the stilts of their homes in the shade as heat & sun beat up the land.

The Khong Phapheng Waterfalls are the widest in SE Asia. A huge, jagged, horizontal lightening bolt slashes its way in the normally glass like progress of the Mekong to the sea. Here, the waters have scarred a drop through 15 metres as they cascade in a crescendo of foam & fury from the tranquility of the top level to regain its peace down below at the bottom level.

Dusk brings down the curtain on the day. The goldness returns to the landscape. The clouds billow in never ending structures of water vapour & the reflected glory of the sun gives the river a purple sheen as it returns to its mirror-like flatness & clarity.

Out come the evening fishermen in their leechlike boats. Paddles doodle, nets curl through the air, lines are set out – the world returns to its proper state of calm contentment.

The day ends, helped by a Beerlao!

Bus, plane, bus, boat, bus, boat, walk, boat, bus south from Vientiane to spend time down on the lower reaches of the Mekong where the river is at its widest and the flow is at its slowest. Heavy with silt from the north and waiting for rain upstream to refresh & invigorate & re-energise these slow grinding waters, the river flows sedately downstream.

There is a calmess about this journey. The occasional fisherman doodles with his paddle & plays about with his net. Other than that, nothing disturbs the surface except for a swirl or two which hides an underwater obstacle or a clump of weed or foliage which protrude through the shallow waters, both of which the boatman skilfully avoids. The banks are so far apart that one has to turn ones’s head 180° to observe them both. They are lined with jungle with the isolated flashes of colour to suggest hidden villages or temples.

A sand bar indicates a long island. Don Daeng Island is 7 km long with a Mohican haircut of jungle down its length. The local Low Lao people make a living from fishing & growing sticky rice. The long fishing boats are tethered in the shallows awaiting their owners to take them out in the afternoon coolness, like dogs eagerly anticipating their evening walk.

The cross-river ferry terminal is a wonderful collection of jumbled up timber, rope & corrugated iron – vessels & pontoons & buildings. Several ferries cross the Mekong at this point. Each one is numbered. Each ferry has a superstructure constructed on 3/4 metal boats – a bit like a catamaran but there the likeness ends. From each side of the planked floor a ramp is suspended from two vertical poles so the vessel can dock facing any direction. A shabby wooden hut painted blue seems to offer passengers some shelter whilst the captain drives this contraption from an open, single cabin. When the engine starts up to move away from shore a huge plume of black smoke spurts up from one side suggesting that this is the back and the crab/dragon splurts & farts its way into

movement. Heath Robinson would be proud of the whole enterprise. The shadows lengthen, the silhouettes of hills & vessels & poles & cabins intensify and the Mekong starts to settle for the night. The river will carry on its perpetual movement, gliding past like a mirror reflecting some glassy surface.

It’s now a short flight south west to Vientiane the present capital of Laos. Destroyed by Siam invaders in the 15th century it was only rebuilt by the French colonialists in the mid 19th century when it was used once again as the political capital of Laos. 800,000 people live here on the banks of the Mekong opposite Thailand. Like most capital cities grand buildings, reflecting those who control power, mix with temples, small businesses & international franchises on leafy wide streets choked by traffic, fumes & dust. There are three sights of interest in this functional city.

The That Luang Stupa – said to house a bone of Buddha.

Inside, the monks with their iPads & their colour coordinated iPhone cases are busily clicking away with the stupa in the background. Even the tuk tuk boys are happy to get involved. Cool one, boys.

Victory Gate was built 50 odd years ago to commemorate victory in the war with the US.

Rather than climb up the 190 steps I take photos of the local boys taking photos of the tourists. There are 30 or so of them who, having clicked off a few images, rush to their scoters where a digital printer sits on the back pillion. They print out A4 images and rush back to sell to gleeful Chinese &, I think, Lao visitors. I share my images of the guys with the guys & jokingly try to charge 5000 kip. Great fun. Here are a few.

Others just want to do it themselves. Which pose do you like? Well I will decide for you – this one! I have about 15 different ones but have only posted one to save you endlessly scrolling between them all.

I changed my mind. Here’s a second so you can really judge the quality of the poser.

Wat Sisaket is the oldest temple in Vientiane and houses thousands of images of Buddha. It is a calm, peaceful place, in amongst the embassies & grand houses. He seems completely unperturbed about who is taking his picture.

Buddha Park is at the other extreme, about 25 km outside the capital. Constructed in the 1950’s it houses 200 images of the man himself in a field of glorious tat. The representations are built using brick and cement. Absolutely, tackily gorgeous.

Sorry, folks. My figure of yesterday was over exaggerate. The true figure is still just as appalling. Since 1974 there have been 20,000 casualties from unexploded cluster bombs – children or farmers.

The Plain of Jars mixes the old with the new. Scattered across hillsides & open countryside over 300 of these stone vessels lie at different angles. They date somewhere betweeen 300BC to 300AD. Their original purpose is in dispute but consensus says that these were, in some way, to do with the death ceremonies of local tribes on the trade route north from Vietnam & Thailand. Bodies may have been stored or ‘processed’ in these stone containers which range from 30 or so centimetres tall to some that are over 4 metres.

This area also saw some of the heaviest US bombing of the war. Large craters, about 4/5 metres across punctuate the ground amongst the Jars. Jars have been split apart by the explosions. For safety, locals hid in caves when the bombs started to fall. Some of the statistics are horrifying. During the Indo-China War, as the Laotians call it, 580,000 bombing missions were flown by the US with 2 million tonnes of mainly cluster bombs dropped. These are designed to kill personnel. Between 1964 & 1973 270 million bombies were dropped on Laos and up to 30% failed to detonate meaning 80 million plus bombies remain undetonated.

Here is the open casing of one cluster bomb. You can see inside some of the small bombies. Most will contain up to 180 tennis balls from hell. The casing splits open and these balls of doom are released spinning through the air. The force of that spin should denonate each one a few metres above the ground releasing 100 or so ball bearings to tear through flesh & organs. If not denonated on their journey to the ground they may have a soft landing in a paddy field or the grasping fingers of as bamboo. There they can wait hidden by foliage or grasping mud until a child picks it up or a farmer makes contact with a hoe. And they are everywhere.

MAG, Mines Advisory Group, are a charity that trains locals to educate villagers & townsfolk to the dangers of handling these horrors and equip local teams to identify and destroy such bombies. Look them up online and help save lives.

I have come east now to Phonsavan, a town of 150,000 people. I have put up images of the journey through the mountains & life in the rural parts of the country. Hugely impoverished these communities farm small bits of land growing rice or wheat to feed their families

New building is going on in the towns but it is only the 20% who work for the government who cah projects and who receive a decent wage, a pension, free schooling for their children & health care. The rest work hard scraping a living for an average weekly wage of $100. Weaving in a silk farm or driving a tuk tuk are two ways for families to support themselves.

Over here in the east and south of the country there is evidence of the traumas that hit this land during the Vietnam War. The US dropped millions of tons of cluster bombs on this small country in the biggest bombing campaign on any country in history. Muang Khong was the old capital of Laos. The Americans completely flattened the town with only the 18th century stupa left standing. The temple took a direct hit.

30% did not explode and are a real danger to children and farmers who will disturb them when playing in, or tilling the fields. Each cluster bomb contains over 300 ‘bombes’, the size of a small rubber ball and each of these contains hundreds of ball bearings which every day kills of maims people. It will take decades to complete the work of clearing these killers of innocent people. When walking through the Plain of Jars we had to stick within the white markers and were warned that outside these mines and bombs would be hidden. Every year 100,000 injuries & deaths are caused by unexploded ordinance and the farms & fields & homes & streets show relics from this time.

Early morning in Luang Prabang and the monks snakes out in different directions to collect their alms. Their devotees line the streets from five. The alms traditionally consists of a handful of freshly cooked sticky rice supplemented by anything from bananas to chocolate bars to packets of crisps.

At the bottom of the street the river flows, muddy & brown. The cafe on the corner is busy and the tables outside on the street & the small terrace overlooking the waters start to fill up. On the menu is fresh coffee, freshly baked baguettes, fresh sausages & noodle soup. Groups gather to chat about the day or last night’s events. At the bottom of the steps the boats drop off women with empty baskets from across the river and takes off the few with full baskets who have already completed their shopping.

In the market jaded stallholders are still yawning behind their neatly displayed goods & produce. Their customers, at this time of day, are mostly tourists, snapping away, capturing images of local life for private consumption back home. Sadly, I have to include myself in this group. I can engage with the locals if there is an opportunity for a laugh & a bit of humour. But it is no fun with so many Canon & Nikon being slung around. The locals lower their gaze from the clicking lenses, just like the little chicks captured beneath the wicker frames & ready for sale, and wait for us to get tired & go back to our hotels & guesthouses for breakfast so they can get on with their day. I capture a couple of images & slide away to a good cup of coffee and feeling slightly embarrassed.

Some factoids about Laos:
Smoking is not permitted in the streets of Luang Prabang.
All towns & city have a curfew. In Luang Prabang this is midnight with bars & clubs closing at 2330.
Westerners are not allowed guests in their rooms.
It is illegal for a Lao woman to have sex with a westerner unless they are married.
Lao is a one party state. Only party members and their families & descendants are able to vote in local & national elections. The rest of the population are unable to vote.
In the jungle bamboo grows at the rate of 3cm a day.
If you serve a jail sentence your family & friends have to provide all your food.

The phrase on the bottom of the receipt at Utopia Bar. Sums up life really; and Luang Prabang.

Luang Prabang is host to the upper & lower echelons of the international travelling public. At one end of the scale young, long-limbed, tanned girls & guys wander around the streets killing time until the next excursion leaves to dote on baby elephants or to frolic in the waterfalls just out of town or darkness falls to get to the next bucket of cocktails or the next plate of chicken fried rice. At the other end of the scale classy, more mature travelers sup their breakfast lattes in banana leaf shade beside the rivers around the edge of town, writing postcards home or checking their iPads & discussing how they will get to the airport to move on to their next port of call.

Luang Prabang was the original Lao capital before the French colonised the country and then the Communists took over after the Vietnam War. The royal family were shown the door and the capital moved to Vietiane. It is an elegant city with a neat centre reflecting its colonial past. Wide boulevards & shadey gardens provide a warm backdrop for smart hotels & guesthouses, restaurants with crisp white table clothes & tall glasses for wine. Bijou boutiques stand beside tat shops but both seem at home catering for their particular class of traveller.

Evidence of a long, impressive past is found in the numerous Wats that exist in the city. The Vat Visounnarath complex also houses the Thad Makmo Stupa.

Wat Xiergthang, the Golden Temple was built in 1559. The outside of the temple buildings are decorated in brilliant red & gold designs depicting Lao life. One golden fronted building houses the royal barge and mosaics abound on every surface reflecting the sun and adding to the glory of the place. What a spot to have your wedding photos taken.

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It is a 350 km drive south east from almost the most northern part of Lao near the Chinese border to Nong Khiaw on the Nong Ou River, which we will follow downstream to where it flows into the Mekong near the Vietnam border. Much of the road is under construction. There are occasions when the road is closed for an hour or so to enable work to be completed. This will range from gangs of men & women picking through rocks or shovelling shingle to huge lorries tipping mountains of hardcore for tag teams of Mad Max road rollers to crunch & grind it to flatbed fitness. At times the lines heavy traffic have to negotiate its way through the work gangs & machines, winding between tippers & rollers & landslips & root banks. Inevitably progress can be painfully slow. It is such a good spectator sport for the locals when this road show reaches town. The plastic chairs come out, groups assemble outside homes with refreshments and families giggle & laugh & point & smile as these gigantic beasts pound their new high street and tiny tourists buses try to get around them in an attempt to make up lost time. Yep, this is our road through town. Fun & games!

Arrival in Nong Khiaw is compensation for the trials of the journey. In the evening dullness stilted cabins can be seen from the bridge, gazing out over the river & town through the mist & drizzle.

Underneath my mosquito net, just before dawn, the sounds of the day starting penetrate my sleep & I go with it: a cockerel in the far distance faintly begins a progressing chorous that gradually gets closer until the cacophony hits, dies down & then is started up again, probably by the same darn cockerel; a couple of dogs reenact duelling banjos for a while before returning to silence; cicadas constantly rub their back legs chirpily; a longtail engine splutters & splurges into life & potters up the river, any silencer long expired; a motor bike croans across the bridge; the sound of metal pots being scrapped across ranges adds an extra touch of humanity to the dawning of a new day. Then the darkness lightens and from the gloom of dawn, rooves, limestone hills & foliage appear from the low shroud of cloud & swirling mist. The sound of longtail boats becomes more frequent – a paddle monotonously dragging the surface, a light engine whirring its propeller, larger engines gunning their power to hit the downstream current. A radio comes to life with a broadcast of language & military music. Dawn has broken & the day begins.

We board our boats on the Nam Ou and roar out of town towards the Mekong. Halfway there were have to leave the river at the recently constructed dam and travel by bus to the Pak Ou Caves on the Mekong. Sacred Buddhist shrines are housed in two caves in the limestone cliffs and thousands of Buddhist images are crammed onto loads of rock shelves.

So today it’s a trek through the jungle around Luang Hamtha passing into several tribal villages on the way. The day starts with blue skies and yesterday’s rain is a distant memory. First it is down to the market to buy lunch which we will cook in the jungle – fish, vegetables, bananas & omelettes.

Then, in large took tooks, we travel to the first tribal village of the Lantern people. Dressed in black with white bandage leggings, they come out to sell us their embroidery.

Then it is on to the jungle. The trek starts at the site of an old stupa that was bombed by the US during the Vietnam War. A new gold painted one has been constructed in its place. As we explore this, a party of 50 or so officers from the Vietnamese High Command, with hats & medals & glossy uniforms appear. They start taking photos of our party of white Europeans and we do the same. The boot is on the other foot as they turn their screens to show the pictures they have taken of us as we reciprocate with them. Both groups laugh together at this random meeting of two cultures in the middle of the jungle.

Wet & damp from the rain of yesterday we slip & slide along a narrow path avoiding Tarzan vines, hanging caterpillars, thin grasping creepers & large dripping leaves & fonds. Hot, steamy & overpowering, warnings of leeches are at the front of minds. The path scrambles up & down steep valley sides and meanders around tree root & holding branches. After two hours of hacking through this luxurient vegetation the goodies are prepared, the bar-b-q lit from forest litter and the table laid. Only then is the first leech found as blood appears on my foot. Quickly that is treated and lunch is started. The sky darkens. Torrential rain falls soaking everyone & everything. Lunch is abandoned as we slide out of the jungle to cross the bridge to the tribal village only to find the rope banister along the twin bamboo bridge over the stream to have been cut. of course it is Sod’s Law that at this point the sun comes out and we steam contentedly. We have to clamber 100yards upstream & wade across the stream. Then we group together & like gorillas in the mist pick the leeches off each other. Only six have drawn blood! What a bizarre day.

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Ban Houie Sai at dawn is quiet & serene. At first sight Main Street is deserted. But then I spot groups of kneeling women hidden amongst the parked scooters. The sound of bells & drums comes closer and two lines of saffron monks come down the steps from the monastery and split at the bottom. One group leads off to the left down Main Street and another right. As they pass the kneeled figures sticky rice is placed in their bowls, a prayer is given and the saffron line moves along to the next group.

The town then slowly comes to life with doors & shutters opened and stalls arranged on the pavements. Mothers pack their uniformed children off with satchels & lunches carried in plastic bags, some walking and some, as young as ten, riding motorbikes & scooters to school. The Mekong lazilly shimmers through the haze and small eddies swirl and gurgle around sandbanks. Fishing families splutter their longtail boats into the current & disturb the stillness.

After breakfast the bus takes me up into northern Laos up to Luang Hamtha near the Chinese border. This is jungle country with high, sharp peaks & ridges covered in a tangle of groping trees and strangled vegetation. The empty road crosses rivers & streams through luxurient countryside of greens and emeralds. The Lao locals keep to the numerous ethnic minority villages which are an architectural expression of corrugated iron & banana leaf structures mixed with modern constructions of cement and tiles. As the bus crawls up sharp cornered roads, up & over peaks and down, the watching vegetation is hidden by mists, then drizzle through to torrential rain. These clear to reveal a velvet green landscape of small harvested fields of tobacco & rice & wheat surrounded by the tangled jungle before the rain cycle starts again.

At the town market the locals are shy at first and hold back. A friendly approach from the white strangers and the sharing of photos quickly brings down barriers and giggles & laughter can soon be heard echoing across the stalls as the locals cackle in glee at their own image on the screen. They love it even more when you try local delicacies – tapioca is not so bad; frogs legs, sparrows or various bits of offal are an acquired taste!

From the glisty lights & the fuming traffic & the high risers & the noise & heat & humidity of in-yer-face Bangkok I fly north to Chiangrai. Here I step out into rural Thailand, take a bus to the Lao border passing date palm & rubber plantations, fields of rice & wheat with colourful, God painted combines swirling their blades like Mississippi river steamers ploughing through their waters, mango trees, palms, coconuts, bananas & coffee. There is the bridge across to Laos and the first sighting of the great Mekong, SE Asia’s greatest river. A short journey brings me to Ban Houai Sei & my first night with the Lao people.

Let’s sort one thing out. The country was names Laos by the French & is inhabited by numerous tribes of the Lao people who speak Lao. OK? Got it?
Ban Houei Sei is a one-horse town with a single main Street. Homes open out onto the street on either side and punters walk through front rooms & past families eating to use the bars, eateries, hostels, hippy tat shops & general stores. How any if them make any money is unclear. A family member sits at a low plastic stool at the entrance to each waiting for the occasional young backpacker to wander in for a beer or a packet of crisps or yellow noodle soup. Occasionally a large Toyota cruises by driven by what looks like a 14 year old or a couple of scooters, whole families on board, gently disturb the peace of main street.. Everyone seems so young but all have smiles & welcomes.

Through a narrow opening steps lead up to the monastery where dusk welcomes the young monks to prayer & the Mekong carries on its glide down to Vietnam and the ocean.