Luang Prabang

It had taken a full day, but it might have been two or three, and seemed like more. (Others stopped over in Vang Vieng and had difficulty making connections. They spent one night huddling in their truck, stuck in the same mud hole I had escaped, and took two and a half days to reach Luang Prabang.) Yet it had been a splendid journey. The scenery was exquisite, the people warm, and my drivers most entertaining.

It had been such a rewarding experience, that after my leisurely stay in Luang Prabang, I couldn't resist going back again by road. The return trip appeared somewhat more promising. It hadn't rained for days, the sky was clear, the tires showed plenty of tread, and the driver was over thirty. I set out at 8 am, the Frenchman, a woman from New Zealand and I, along with four Meo tribes people. We picked up several soldiers and a few villagers along the way. Then, as I was still climbing up into the mountains, a front wheel bearing went out on the truck and I had to stop for repairs. We all looked on as the driver removed the tire and disassembled the wheel. But there was nothing else to do. He sent his young helper back to town for new parts. But what town? Luang Prabang, of course. And so it was that I sat by the roadside, talking, not talking, eating pomelo and sweetened bread, and watching the colorful iridescent insects of the jungle. My driver, a heavy middle-aged man, was quite congenial and somewhat sympathetic. He wanted to talk with me, perhaps to explain, or apologize, or maybe just to chat. But I shared not a word - except my single Lao phrase, "Bo pen yong"... 'It doesn't matter.' It seemed quite appropriate.

Others abandoned ship, catching rides back to town on passing trucks, until only we three foreigners and the Meo people remained. Their fate, like ours, rode with that truck, and I had to stay with it. One woman went into the jungle, cut a length of bamboo, and deftly fashioned a water pipe. She sat by the side of the road in her simple black costume, smoking tobacco in long deep puffs. Time passed, I suppose. At any rate, the sun climbed high into the sky. Five hours later, the boy returned. They fixed the wheel, and I went on once more. At dark I pulled into the same little cafe again. In hand signs, the driver explained to me that I would stay there for the night and start on again at 6 am. I subdued my hunger with some hot noodle soup with fresh jungle greens, more sticky rice, and coffee for the others without filters and sweet Laotian tea for me. The young Meo boys with me were very shy and self-conscious; they spoke no Lao and were not accustomed to buying meals in cafes, no matter how crude. For 300 Kip (30 cents), I spent the night on thatch mats in the back, next to the proprietors. They even provided a mosquito coil. I awoke to the sunrise and started off early the next morning on the long day's drive to Vientiane.