Southeast Asia, northern Thailand

I had been invited to join a small party of tourists who were about to embark on a rather unusual adventure. I accepted readily. It happened to be an excursion that I had dreamed of for many a year: a firsthand discovery of the Mekong River by boat. From the coast of Thailand’s Golden Triangle, close to Chiang Rai, I looked out across the sludge-brown, fast-flowing river to the gold-domed casino dominating the frontier between Burma, (today known as Myanmar) and the banks of Northern Laos. The Mekong had long held a fascination for me, as it had for the 19th century French explorers, Lagrée and Garnier, who between 1866 and 1868 had beat a brave path north in small dugout canoes in search of this mighty river’s source in Tibet. Today, we know that the river tumbles from glacier streams within the Tibetan Plateau into China’s Yunnan province, south to Myanmar (meaning Land of Paradise); on to Thailand and Laos, then Cambodia and Vietnam where it empties its waters into the South China Sea. Six countries flank its banks on a trajectory south that covers more than 4200 kilometres.

Beyond the tiny customs checkpoint at the boat pier of Chiang Khong, I said my farewells to northern Thailand where a six-seater ferryboat transported me east on my first brief crossing of the Mae Nam Khong (Thai name for the Mekong) to Huay Xai, northern Laos. There, I boarded an elegant teak and mahogany galley, The Mekong Sun. We were a dozen passengers plus captain and crew. Our itinerary was to take five days, south to Vientiane, the modern capital of Laos.

On the Water

Nosing gently southwards, the water was the colour of hessian sacking. I had heard stories of the river’s pollution but this tint was caused by the free standing mud and sandbanks we were to discover all the way along our journey. Laos was on our left and Thailand, right. The Mekong, swirling and eddying round the formidable tobacco-brown boulders planted at the water’s edge, was a living force. The twelfth longest river in the world. The Laotian littoral presented a picture of dense virgin forest. We spied occasional solitary houses constructed out of woven palm leaves erected on wooden poles. Handfuls of farmers were growing vegetables along the sloping mudbanks.

Across on the right riverbank, the Thai farmers, traditionally rice-growers, were switching to soya production, our guide told me. Soya required less irrigation and, incredibly, a water crisis was at play. This season had seen the lowest water levels in 140 years. ‘Dams built in China are draining the Mekong. It is both an environmental and commercial catastrophe, depriving millions of Asians of their livelihoods.’ The Mekong Sun had been out of action for the past 27 days having run aground. ‘There had been nothing for it but to wait for the water to flow again.’ We were travelling at a time when the levels were naturally low but heavy rains elsewhere in the mountains could drastically change sailing conditions. At every stage a member of the crew was sounding the sludgy depths with a long cane, always probing for the navigable channels. At some points, it was a mere metre deep.

Although, because roads within the forests are little more than dirt tracks, the river is the main highway, traffic was minimal. Small diesel-powered boats carrying everything from pigs to rice sacks and cement putted by us and occasionally a lengthier vessel rounded a river bend, packed solid with passengers. These were the waterbuses from which the people waved or stared. Hefty tree trunks floating downstream can be a sign of the extensive logging taking place in both Thailand and Laos, but I saw few. Our vessel’s pace was steady, ideally suited to discovery. It was the ‘slow boat from China’ that I had always dreamed of and offered me the opportunity to absorb plenty, to stare at mile after mile of pristine jungle, as we chugged serenely along our way.

Laotian Village

After three hours sailing we dropped anchor, boarded flat-bottomed dinghies and headed inland along a narrow tributary. From a tiny wooden landing stage we followed a winding dirt track. There was only silence and the high-pitched whisperings of dense rainforest; an absence of planes, motors, urban shrill. The only sounds were the bird calls high above us in the trees’ canopy and our footfall. We arrived at a traditional Laotian village where the villagers, particularly the children, greeted us eagerly, though from some there was hesitancy. I asked our guide, Wolfram, (the boat was German-Laotian owned), how frequently these inhabitants encountered foreigners.‘Tourism does not really exist here,’ he replied. However, the Mekong Sun made this journey perhaps five times a year, dependent upon the water conditions.

The village, whose name I never learned, was being fitted out with electricity in return for making itself available to excursions such as ours. Aside from the electricity cables, there were few signs of modernity. Conditions were basic. I was told there was a school but I did not locate it. In any case, the children were obliged to assist their parents. There was little time for education. These villagers earned their living by cropping long grasses, drying them in the sun and weaving them into brooms, which were then sold at markets further inland and frequently exported. Otherwise, they reared poultry and a few pigs. Their farm work was achieved by hand, during long hours with few tools. The crops – rice, maize, peanuts, a variety of vegetables – were grown in neighbouring fields. Flax was cultivated to make clothes. From the age of five, the girls were taught weaving.

This woman lived alone. She was less certain of the foreigners walking through the dusty streets of her natal village.

Approximately 200 inhabitants lived in what I sensed to be a bonded community. Men lounged on porches, smoking cigarettes, deep in discussion while the womwn cared for the babies. The older children played in groups or followed us as we took photographs. They were tactile and loving with one another. I even observed them picking nits out of each other’s hair.

Once we departed the Laotian village, we saw no signs of modern life at all, not a single electricity cable or pylon. Nature and rurality existed side by side as they must have done for centuries, if not millennia.

Images and text by Carol Drinkwater. Her latest book is The Olive Tree by (Phoenix, £7.99); www.caroldrinkwater.com

Show One Response

Hide comments

1. Nibbles: GIPB, NPGS, Dogs for conservation, Harare gardens, Goat milk value added, Equator Prize, Humanitarian relief, Peruvian maize, Pseudo-cereals, Katine, Vavilov goes web 2.0, Travel, Haggis ban says:

   January 27, 2010 at 10:47 am

   [...] and other assorted musings along the Mekong. Can’t help thinking that if you somehow aggregated all similar observations and [...]