Let it Rain

Luang Prabang was nice but something was pulling me west. Perhaps it was the thunderstorm packed cold front that I drove into soon after leaving the gentle city.

I made the decision to leave Luang Prabang the night before alighting. Not that I had anything against the town - it was really very lovely. The small market had tons of vendors selling locally made tribal textiles and one vendor selling tobacco. She had five or six huge bags filled with cut and dried leaves. Walking by I saw a man carefully rolling one cigarette from each bag placing each expertly crafted stick atop its corresponding heap of tobacco. I paused to observe. He lit one cigarette, smoked it with a vintor's air, and then moved on to the next. At the third cigarette I asked for a toke. This was tobacco tasting at its finest. I tried three different varieties, which besides being exceptionally strong did not have much else in common. One was very sweet. One was more herbal. The other seemed... I don't know, damp, maybe. In the end the man bought two kilos of tobacco. Damn! But I guess that's probably a week's supply for a guy that can smoke five strong unfiltered cigarettes in as many minutes.

Confident of continued sunny weather, but not one to take chances (heh), I wrapped my bag in a waterproof tarp and stopped by the market on the way out of town for a plastic poncho. That was the best 15,000 kip I ever spent. An hour later I felt the first drops of what would end up being a very thorough soaking. Two hours later I was convulsively shivering, wet through, and barely able to maintain control of the bike. A small village market offered the only hope for relief. I pulled in and immediately bought a pair of white gloves. They were loose-knit cotton jobbies, but they were better than nothing. Next I wandered over to the food area where a pot was set to boil over the single source of fire in the market. Hunched over next to the soup, I feebly wrapped my hands around the stone hearth. The proprietess gave me the same look you'd give a wet cat or perhaps a retarded child who has become lost.

Minutes later feeling returned to my fingers and I was off. The rain was so dense that I had no problem seeing with my visor down. It was as if I was driving through an aquarium - there were no raindrops, only solid sheets of water. I stopped again at a small down located in the crotch of a highway junction. Yearning for a nice bowl of hot soup and hoping for some place with a roaring open fire, I eventually settled for the former. This place, without any sign, was occupied with several men in matching shirts and sunglasses, a woman who could not be bothered, a young girl doing her homework, and a young boy, apparently suffering from Down's Syndrome. David Lynch was in the air. The men divided their attention, in unison, between me and the Thai soap opera playing on the television behind me. The boy repeatedly shouted at me in a punctuated way that closely resembled a bark from a large dog. The woman brought out my soup, duck, right away, then returned to her chaise lounge. I asked her for chili sauce. Her head rolled in my direction and she blinked, slowly and dramatically, then returned to the soap opera, ignoring me henceforth in full. Halfway through my delicious soup, I looked up. The men, in sunglasses, were staring at me, the television was blaring and the boy was barking, siezing up a bit with each effort.

The rain continued, letting up on occasion, until Udom Xai. There, at the market, I bought a long sleeved football (soccer) jersey. This jocko gear is perfect for motorbike riding. It's totally synthetic so it dries quickly and it allows air to flow through. When the fabric becomes wet it still manages to stay warm. The only problem is that I have one jersey that says SIEMENS and one jersey that says FLY EMIRATES. This means very little to you and me, but to the British and select Europeans, these shirts constitute territorial markers which could fertilize or defoliate a potentially budding friendship. Eventually I will own up to the fact that I don't even know which teams I'm wearing (I keep forgetting) and my new friend (or enemy) curses my American-ness.

These roads in northern Laos are just too beautiful to describe, so eventually I'll post pictures to give you a taste of the glory. They are either mountain passes or riverside squiggles. Either way they are surrounded by towering, jungled peaks and dotted with tiny, straw and bamboo villages. The higher I climbed, the more elaborate the costumes of the old village women became. Many of the homes were built on stilts and under the raised floor I could see women operating looms. They weave textiles similar to those of Latin America. Then they embroider the woven pieces, sewing them together in unusual patters to make their clothes. They have silver-scaled headdresses, baby slings, skirts, vests, jackets and everything is held in place through a seemingly complicated array of belts and knotted string. The old women chew something red, maybe tobacco, which stains their teeth as if they've just finished the biggest cherry gobstopper known to man.

Some sixty kilometers before Luang Nam Tha, the sun began to peek through the clouds. After riding for four hours through a monsoon downpour, the sun is like the warmest, most delicious, fresh from the oven, sugar cookie. It tickles and caresses. It chases moisture from waterlogged clothing. It was so good I made up several songs about it.

Maybe I haven't mentioned my song making. Driving for hours on end can get tedious. Sure, there is the beautiful scenery, and sometimes the roads are so bad that I have no extra attention to spare on idle pursuits, but generally my mind is left to wander. And it very often wanders to the set of Star Search. There, I am competing in the combined solo male vocalist/songwriter category. I usually start with some song that I know most of the chorus to. This day, I remember, Ike and Tina's Proud Mary was in my head. I'll sing the chorus and then start making up the rest, inspired by the most trivial events of my trip. Potholes are a frequent subject of my songs. And bus drivers. Slippery roads are popular too. The songs get ridiculous very quickly and I'm inevitably caught singing aloud to myself by some confused village kid, tracking me around a slow corner.

Adima resort, and resort is a oft-abused term in Laos, sits 6km outside of Muang Sing, 3km from the China border. It is surrounded by rice fields and beyond by Yao and Akha hill tribes. I stayed for three days. One day was spent reading. The next was spent reading, with a short trip to a nearby village to smoke opium, followed by a jaunt to town for an herbal sauna. The last day involved a walk to several nearby villages. More on all this later.

Jeez, sorry for the long-winded entry. I guess I just could've said: It rained.