Truck Route to Luang Prabang

The following day, I took the pebbly routes, which rambles eastward from the border through lush valleys of rice padi and up into the highlands beside the Plain of Jars before dropping into the quiet mountain valley where the Nam Khan River joins the upper Mekong. Here the ancient Royal Capital of Luang Prabang reposes as it has for over a thousand years.

There are no actual buses in Laos. Public transportation is by "beemo", a small Japanese pickup truck with seats in the back and canvas over the top. The 'bus' for Luang Prabang left "most every morning" about 6:30 near the Afternoon Market. The cost was 4,000 Kip ($4) -- and it was worth every Kip.

The Frenchman and I arrived at the market in the early morning drizzle and eventually found the only truck claiming Luang Prabang as its destination. It had been raining intermittently for several days and there was some question - mostly among the drivers - as to whether the bus would go that day.

I found a man who spoke a little English and inquired how long the trip would take. "Well, you see, because of much rain, maybe nine, ten hours." This put my mind at ease, but his matter-of-fact tone belied his certain amusement. For no one really knows how long it will take. A day perhaps, perhaps two days or more. One might estimate the number of days by examining the tires. But no one really cares. You leave here, and eventually you get there; in between you enjoy the journey as best you can.

Though the trip is highly uncomfortable, dirty, and tedious, even less intrepid travelers find it a marvelous experience. My first lesson was not to be in a rush, not to even think of the time at all. The lesson was not just patience - the trip was far too much for mere patience to endure - but timelessness.

I lashed all the packs to the top of the truck and piled in with packs of geese, water ducks and chickens, twelve strong, including my young driver. The bus pulled away and drove through the back streets, picking up a young helper along the way. Next the bus stopped while the driver disappeared into his house for some time, then he took on gasoline, and ultimately reappeared at the Afternoon Market to take on one more straggling passenger. Then off again, with a bolt, this time out onto the open road east.

Five minutes out of town we bounced off the last bit of paved road, another five minutes later we stopped at the first in a long string of military checkpoints. The driver collected my passport and identity card and disappeared into the guardhouse. I waited in the truck for what seemed an excruciatingly long time. At last he emerged, all smiles, and we bolted off again, the truck churning and bumping along at an alarming clip, jostling everything about inside. Yet the speedometer revealed his maximum speed to be 40 kph - down to 15 kph when careening around tight corners, with frequent crawls through mud holes and bad road. But the whole road was bad!