Travelling Around Britain and the World

Saturday 14 November 2015

South Past Savannakhet and East to Tad Lo: Part 8 of Thailand and Laos

South Beside the Mekong then East to the Bolaven Plateau

Laos

Breakfast of tea, fruit juice, bacon, eggs, toast and jam at a pavement café was the ideal start to the day.

Having failed on our own yesterday, we enlisted the help of Phim to get our postcards sent. It was still not an easy job; the advice of several passers-by had to be sought and several blocks had to be driven round before he announced that he had found the post office, probably. We could not see it, but he took the cards wandered uncertainly into a courtyard and returned without them claiming success [and ten days later they reached their intended recipients.]

South from Thakhek on Route 13

We found our way back to Route 13, the main north-south highway, and left Thakhek, heading towards Savannakhet, Laos’ second largest city.

Today we start at Thakek and head south past Savannakhet and then east to Tad Lo

On the way we passed a truck load of monks....

About to pass a truck load of monks, heading south on Route 13

....and fifteen minutes later we noticed the roadside stalls were no longer selling dried fish or sugar cane, but blue plastic sacks of salt.

Roadside stall selling plastic sacks of salt, near Savannakhet

The Natuay Salt Factory

We were in an area of natural salt water springs and soon turned into the Natuay Salt Factory, opened beside such a spring in 1995 by a Mr Soundara, a local entrepreneur who already owned a plastics factory and a drinking water company.

Welcome to the Natuay Salt Factory, near Savannakhet

It was Saturday so there were few workers around, but everybody seemed happy for us to wander where we pleased. In England you cannot visit a place of work without presenting yourself at reception, signing in, having a ‘visitor’ badge hung round your neck and being escorted everywhere, all in the name of ‘security’ (an industry whose main object is to make people worried about their security, thus persuading them they need more security). In Laos people smile at you, and once you have smiled back you are taken on trust.

Worker at the Natuay Salt Factory, near Savannakhet

As the sign says, salt can be extracted by boiling the brine in large vats…..

Steaming brine, Natuay Salt Factory near Savannakhet

…or letting the water evaporate from shallow pools. Although it was neither rainy, nor cloudy - nor likely to be for some time - the pools were, for the moment, not in use.

Shallow pools for evaporating brine, Natuay Salt Factory, Savannakhet

Salt lay around in heaps, looking strangely like snow, with the grimy edges snow acquires from lying too long by the roadside. I half expected the heat to be melting it into puddles.

Salt piled up like snow, Natuay Salt Factory, near Savannnakhet

Kaysone Phomvihane

Savannakhet lies on a bend in the river and although it's the country's second city, Route 13 cuts off the bend and misses it. In 2005 the city was renamed Kaysone Phomvihane after the Savannakhet born revolutionary leader who became Chairman of the People’s Revolutionary Party in 1955. From 1975 to 1991 he was the first Prime Minister of independent Laos, became President in 1991 and died in office a year later aged 71. I am not sure the new name has caught on, Savannakhet is shorter, simpler and such a pleasing word. Perhaps Mr Phomvihane should be satisfied by having his face on all the bank notes from 2,000Kip up

Kaysone Phomvihane on the 2,000Kip note, worth a little less than 20p

That Ing Hang and Folk Tales

A little to the east of the city we detoured to That Ing Hang, a much-revered 16th century stupa (though locals claim it is much older) allegedly enshrining part of the Buddha’s back bone.

It’s a disappointingly grubby monument and crumbling in places…

That Ing Hang, Savannakhet

… though it does have some amusing carvings. I particularly liked this little demon.

Demon, That Ing Hang, Savannakhet

Lynne was again irritated to find that she was not considered properly dressed until she had put on a local style skirt and even then was not permitted into the stupa’s enclosure…

Boldly going where no woman has gone before can go, That Ing Hang, Savannakhet

…she did not miss much except a close up look at the offerings.

Offerings, That Ing Hang, Savannakhet

The stupa is surrounded by a well-manicured courtyard and cloister, with the appropriate quantity of Buddha images.

Buddha images, That Ing Hang, Savannakhet

While we sat in the shade Phim told us a couple of folk tales, which are worth retelling. A male bird and a female bird met and fell in love and vowed to always be together. Inevitably there were chicks and while the mother tended the nest, the father flew off to find food. One evening he stayed out later than usual. He entered a lotus flower and as dusk fell, the flower closed around him and he was trapped inside. In the night a fire swept through the forest killing his family. In the morning when the lotus opened he flew home, discovered what had happened and remembering his vow flew straight into the fire and died so that he could be with her in the next life. What a happy tale!

More Buddha Images, That Ing Hang, Savannakhet

There was once a girl who never spoke and whatever her family and friends said or did she remained resolutely silent. When she reached marriageable age her father despaired of finding her a husband, and the village elder decreed that she would marry the first man she spoke to. She was a beautiful girl and many suitors came with hope and many suitors left disappointed. Eventually a poor man arrived and begged for a chance to make her speak. This was not the catch her father had hoped for, but he was desperate and so he agreed. The poor man told her the tale of the two birds, but said that the female went hunting and become trapped in the lotus flower. ‘That’s wrong,’ said the girl, and so she found her husband.

I like this story, it works on several levels – even if all of them are sexist!

Turning East Towards the Bolaven Plateau

Lunch and a Glass of Rice Whisky

Leaving That Ing Hang we continued south along Route 13 and then turned east on smaller roads heading up onto the Bolaven Plateau. We ate at a simple roadside restaurant, with offerings spatchcocked ready for the barbecue laid out beneath a fan to keep the flies off.

The 'menu' roadside restaurant south east of Savannakhet

We chose the usual scrawny chicken and, at Phim’s suggestion, sticky rice and a spicy bean salad. Too late we realised that beyond the chickens were a couple of rats. Paddy field rats are not the sewer rats we are used to and are considered good eating, but even so, there is a psychological problem for westerners to overcome before tucking into rat. We felt we ought to take the opportunity while it was there, but we had already ordered. Perhaps we used that as an excuse, quite literally, to chicken out.

Barbecued chicken, spicy bean salad and sticky rice - but no rat.

When we finished, the woman in charge offered me a glass of rice whisky. She was, I think, motivated partly by hospitality, but few Lao can resist the opportunity to reduce a rich westerner to a spluttering red-faced heap. ‘What about me?’ Lynne asked, feeling she had already endured enough sexism for one day. Ironically the request for equal treatment was only taken seriously when it came through me. Lao women do not drink, a least not in public, so there was a minor taboo to be broken.

When she has finished making the salad she will offer me a rice whisky!

I had somehow acquired a small audience as I sniffed at the brown liquid in the shot glass and took a small sip. It was not strongly flavoured or very alcoholic, around 30% I thought, so I downed the rest in one, to murmurs of approval from the watchers and maybe just a little disappointment. Lynne drank hers in a steady and more ladylike manner.

We drove on through sugar plantations, and past stands of cassava, banana, rubber and teak. The ascent to the Bolaven Plateau was so gradual we hardly noticed it. 600m above river level, it is a cooler land of rice and coffee plantations with greener trees and fewer palms.

On the Bolaven Plateau

Tad Lo, A Hotel and a Waterfall

After a long day’s driving we reached Tad Lo around 3 o’clock. Tad Lo is a waterfall (‘lo’ is Lao for ‘waterfall’), but there is also a hamlet and a tourist lodge where we checked in and said goodbye to Phim and his driver who were returning to Vientiane.

We took a walk round the extensive grounds to view the waterfall above the lodge….

Tad Lo

….the rapids below….

The rapids below the lodge, Tad Lo

…and for me to stand in a stupid position given my recent history.

I don't know why I chose to stand here, but at least I did not fall in this time

We returned to our bungalow and had a cup of tea on the veranda….

On the verandah of our bungalow

The Hotel Elephants Take a Bath

….but were soon lured away to join the small crowd watching one of the two hotel elephants take its evening bath. The mahout had an impressive sense of balance as he gave his charge a good scrub….

The elephant takes a bath, Tad Lo

….and then hopped off to let it enjoy the water.

The elephant bathing

When time was up he gave a single command and the huge beast lumbered obediently onto the bank.

Lumbering obediently onto the bank, Tad Lo

We walked up to the main lodge for a beer and were able to watch the second elephant bathing from the comfort of the bar.

The second elephant bathing

Although all the land we could see was owned by the hotel, this being Laos locals wandered in when the mood took them. Below us one man was taking his bath…

A local man takes his bath, Tad Lo

….while as dusk fell a group of monks arrived for their evening ablutions.

Monks gather as dusk falls, Tado Lo

We returned to our bungalow for a shower and heard the disturbing news that 128 people had been killed in random attacks in Paris.

On the plateau the evening was cool and for the first time since leaving Bangkok I put on a pair of long trousers. Back in the main lodge we enjoyed a glass of pastis before dining on fish with lemon sauce and chips (Lynne) and pork with lemongrass and garlic (me).

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Location: Savannakhet, Laos

Friday 13 November 2015

Thakhek, a French Colonial Delight: Part 7 of Thailand and Laos

Tham Pha Buddhist Cave, New Shoes and Pastis

Laos

I did not sleep well, though I was kept awake less by the injuries from yesterday's fall than by my bruised ribs, the victims of an over-enthusiastic Vientiane masseuse.

On the plus side being woken by what we christened the tele-tubby bird would bring a smile to anybody’s lips. Sitting in a tree above us, or maybe on our roof, this creature let out three or four staccato eh-ohs followed by a long drawn out aaaah like a very human sigh of disappointment. The other good news was that all my cuts looked clean.

The rock wall round the plateau, Sala Hin Boun

Sala Hin Boun to Tham Pha Cave

After a breakfast of water melon followed by scrambled egg we discussed the day with Phim. Our itinerary said we would take a boat through the gorge of the Hin Boun, lunch in an unspecified village and somehow end up in Thakhek. Having followed the Hin Boun through the karst country from the hydroelectric station at Na Hin to the far end of the 7km Kong Lor Cave we were not sure where the gorge might be. Neither was Phim. 'We drive to Thakhek,' he said, looking baffled. For the third day of the last four we discovered our written itinerary had elements of fiction, fortunately this would not continue.

Sala Hin Boun to Thakhek

We drove back through the gap in the jagged hills and across the plateau of scrub, cassava and harvested rice to the hydroelectric station at Na Hin where we rejoined Route 8 and retraced our steps towards the Mekong.

Across the baking plateau to Na Hin

Near the river we hit Route 13, the main north-south road, and turned south towards Thakhek. Sala Hin Boun to Thakhek took the best part of three hours and it was a pleasant drive though we saw nothing worth stopping for.

Tham Pha Cave

Nearing Thakhek we left the river to visit Tham Pha cave. Discovered in only 2004 by a farmer hunting bats (the Lao do not turn up their noses at any good supply of protein) the cave contains a stash of ancient palm-leaf documents and 229 bronze Buddha images hidden during the Thai sacking of Vientiane in 1828.

The cave is in the karst hills several kilometres off the highway. We drove along a dirt road through land that is swampy even during the dry season – so swampy in fact we had to abandon our first choice of route for a less direct approach.

The road to Tham Pha cave

Allegedly, when the original discoverer climbed into the cave and saw Buddhas rather than bats he gave in to temptation and tried to make off with some of the choicer items. His arrival at the cave mouth was greeted with thunder and lightning and a storm that only abated when he returned the images. Realising that the heavens were telling him to be honest he reported his discovery to the authorities. The authorities' attempt to move some of the images had the same remarkable consequence, so they left everything where it was and the cave has become a place of pilgrimage.

Karst mountains and swampy ground, Tham Pha cave

Lynne was irritated to discover that her trousers did not conform to the local view of appropriate wear and they insisted on providing a local style wrap-around skirt. My shorts were apparently fine.

Lynne 'more appropriately' dressed, Tham Pha cave

A concrete staircase led up to a slit in the rocks, where we folded ourselves up and half stooped, half crouched into the cave before descending another staircase to two 'rooms' one squarish, the other longer with a rock shelf. The shelf and every other available surface were covered with Buddha images of various sizes and a corridor of stalactites and stalagmites led off to a further area of statues.

Concrete stairs up to Tham Pha cave

It was not the most startling Buddha cave we have seen – it was no match for Pindaya in Myanmar - but it was a serious place of pilgrimage. It even enticed the driver out of his car and he and Phim both took the opportunity to offer prayers. Sadly there were ‘no photographing’ signs everywhere; to ignore them would have caused offence, not to mention a reprimand from the vigilant cave guardians, so I have no pictures.

On the stairs outside were a couple of gongs. Everyone knows that gongs, unlike cats, respond well to being hit. Cats, of course, respond to being stroked and so, we were surprised to discover, do gongs. Lynne managed to get the resonance going by working hard with the flats of her hands on the central boss. Then Phim showed us how it should be done, conjuring up a resounding booming noise that filled the valley - a far louder sound than could be made by merely striking it.

Lynne strokes a gong, Tham Pha cave

Thakhek

We drove into Thakhek (sometimes Tha Kaek), the capital of Khammouane Province. According to the latest census this pleasant, relaxed riverside town has a population of 85,000, but the French colonial centre has a small town feel, and I suspect much of the population lives in the straggle of outlying villages.

Phim chose a restaurant for our late lunch. I enjoyed my slices of marinated duck with rice and broccoli and Lynne commended her pork with noodles and vegetables. Phim started off with pork, broccoli and rice, but half way though decided he needed a big bowl of noodle soup as well.

Well fed, we headed for the town centre and checked into our hotel. Right in the colonial centre, it described itself as 'Thakhek's first boutique hotel'. I cannot say our room was the largest or best designed we have stayed in, and I am unconvinced that a window opening onto the stairwell was a brilliant idea, but otherwise it was very pleasant with a large open bar/restaurant in dark wood occupying most of the ground floor.

Thakhek's first 'boutique hotel'.

Lynne finished writing the postcards we had bought in Vientiane and we took some advice on where to post them. The streets were quiet as we waded through the heat of the afternoon, but despite following our instructions as best we could, we found neither the post office nor anything resembling a post box.

New Shoes

I had been wearing trainers all day; they were the only alternative I had to the sandals I destroyed falling in the river yesterday, and I needed to buy more appropriate footwear.

We had no difficulty finding a shop that sold shoes, we had passed a row of three in our fruitless search for a post office – though they were clearly shops that sold shoes rather than shoe shops. The problem was finding a pair the right size.

Shops in Thakhek selling just about anything - including shoes

The first had a plentiful supply of cheap slip-ons, but none came close to fitting. My feet are a relatively dainty size 10 (in UK, Ireland and Australia, 44 in the rest of Europe, 10½ in North America, 28.5 in Japan and anybody’s guess in Laos) but either my toes would not squeeze in the front or my heels hung over the back. The second shop had a pair that almost fitted, and I hesitated, but ‘almost’ is not good enough with shoes. The third had one lonely jumbo sized pair, though not perhaps in a design I would have chosen. Beggars cannot be choosers, but even as a (relatively) rich man my options were limited to take them or leave them. I took them. Made in Taiwan, they cost me 55,000 Kip - about £5 - and I suspected they might fall apart in a few days, but at that price....

Lynne decided to rest until the heat abated, but I needed to road test my new shoes, so I went for a stroll. The Rough Guide told me there should a line of small restaurants on the riverside road, just round the corner from the square. And so there were. With tables across the road on the river bank, here some three or four metres above the water, they looked ideal for our evening meal.

Line of restaurants on the riverside road, Thakhek

There was also an ad hoc restaurant setting up in the main square.

Restaurant setting up in Thakhek's main square

A Pastis and a Good Dinner in Thakhek

Night fall, which in those latitudes happens with a rapidity which always surprises me, is aperitif time, and our hotel offered pastis at a very reasonable price. Sitting at an outside table on a town square sipping pastis was just like being in France, except for the heat and the darkness of the tropical night. It was a surreal experience but one we enjoyed; indeed we enjoyed it so much we had a second glass.

Then we walked round the corner to the line of restaurants. There were no other customers, which is always worrying, but undaunted we selected a riverside table and sat down. A menu was transported across the road and by the time we had made a decision four or five tables had been occupied, largely by the town's small tourist contingent, as though our arrival had been some sort of signal. Lynne went for the noodle soup option, while I had pork laab, a salad of minced pork with onion, holy basil - and the inevitable bowl of rice.

Nakhon Phanom, Thailand, across the Mekong

Twinkling across the water was the Thai town of Nakhon Phanom. When the French were here Thakhek had a casino, and ferries from Nakhon Phanom brought the punters to the bright lights of sophisticated Thakhek. Now it is Thakhek’s turn to be the quiet country town while the lights of Nakhon Phanom appeared to shine much brighter.


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Thursday 12 November 2015

Kong Lor Cave and a Minor Disaster: Part 6 of Thailand and Laos

An Underground River and How Best to Fall in it

Morning at the Auberge Sala Hin Boun

The gentleness of the early morning sun made our wooden balcony a delightful place, with the Hin Boun flowing lazily below and the jagged cliffs standing proudly behind. As we gazed at this idyllic scene, Phim came paddling past.

Phim paddles down the Hin Boun in morning sunshine

We had a good breakfast….

Breakfast at the Auberge Sala Hin Boun

… and spotted this spider while returning to our room. It is one of the garden orb-weaver spiders, Argiope Anasuja, I think. Common, unaggressive and with only a mildly toxic bite (I read that, I did not put it to the test!) they are commonly known as Signature Spiders; the characteristic stretches of reinforced web allegedly resembling a signature, though our spider has only initialled her web (the squiggle below the lower right legs).

Garden Orb-weaver, Argiope Anasuja

Kong Lor Cave

Getting There

Our itinerary said we would stroll through the woods to the mouth of Kong Lor Cave; Phim clearly intended to go by car. We suggested walking and he looked aghast. ‘You can if you want,’ he said, ‘it is 6km along the road with no shade.’ ‘Through the woods,’ I countered. ‘What woods?’ he asked. We got in the car.

The road through the valley was built five years ago, but beyond the auberge much of the surface had been washed away by floods. We bounced along for six kilometres past fields of cassava, the stubble of harvested rice and much scrubland but no woods.

No travelling in this post - we stayed within a few kilometres of the hamlet of Sala Hin Boun

We paused beside a small restaurant. ‘I will book lunch,’ Phim said. According to our itinerary we would eat at the other end of the cave. ‘There is little there,’ Phim said ‘maybe noodle soup.’ ‘That’s all we want,’ we told him.

We eventually reached a small patch of woodland, parked beside it and finally walked through woods - for about 100m (is that what the itinerary meant?) - to a kiosk where Phim paid an entry fee and engaged a boatman.

Equipped with head torches and life-jackets we descended to a pool on the Hin Boun. It looked placid, but the river emerged from Kong Lor cave at the far end white and frothing.

The pool on the Hin Boun, the river issuing from the cave at the far end

Into the Cave

The boatman paddled us across the pool in a leaky canoe and we followed him and Phim down the bank and into the mouth of the cave. Half a dozen canoes with long tailed outboards were moored inside the entrance just above the rapids.

Following Phim into the mouth of Kong Lor Cave

Once settled into a canoe the boatman launched us into the darkness, the beams from our head torches playing weakly on the roof and rock walls. Even using flash there was nothing to photograph except Phim’s ears. There is little remarkable about them, but the photo clearly shows that he wore no life jacket – nor did the boatman. This annoyed me. Firstly there is the discomforting thought that our lives were being regarded as more important than theirs. Secondly the tourist industry too often treats representatives of rich western countries as though we were strange, nervous, delicate even childlike creatures. I am not a cut glass decanter, I am a pint pot and should be treated as such. If there is no danger, do not pander to a perceived timidity by supplying unnecessary equipment, if there is danger, then give everybody a life-jacket. It was impossible to gauge the depth of the inky black water, but the rock was often a smooth arch rising straight from it and probably we should all have worn life-jackets. Warning: this is part of an ongoing rant, it is not over yet.

Phim's ears

We soon ran aground. Lynne and Phim got out and splashed over the shoal, allowing the boatman and me to float across.

Further on the river passed through a wide cave where we could get out and walk among the stalactites and mites. I misjudged a sandy bank and slipped as I walked up it. ‘Do be careful,’ said Phim his tones suggesting that as a cossetted westerner I might never have encountered sand before.

Stalagmite, Kong Lor Cave

As we walked Lynne observed that my backside was wet from the water in the boat. At her suggestion I removed my wallet from my back pocket and put it in her nice, dry bag.

Limestone curtains in Kong Lor Cave

We re-joined the boat and continued our cruise.

It was only in the 20th century that the locals discovered that the river that disappeared into a mountain in a remote valley was the same river that appeared from another mountain 7km away. The story goes that an upstream villager lost his ducks, and found them when visiting a downstream relative. They could not have flown, they had not been abducted, therefore, he reasoned, they came down the river under the mountain.

That story may or may not be true, but we had to admire the bravery of the people who first made this trip. We knew it was a single stream and you cannot get lost, they did not. We knew no dragons lurked down there, they could not be sure.

There was nothing to photograph in the darkness, so here is another picture from the cave we walked through

For the best part of an hour there was little to see, or if there was it would be too dark to see it. The boatman kept his torch beam on the water to avoid the lumps of rock loitering like icebergs in the shallows. Most of the way the cave was 20m or so wide, effectively a tunnel through hard rock with no ‘land’ at the edge, but we passed through one cavern so big we could not see the exit until we were half way across.

An 'iceberg' loitering in the shallows, Kong Lor Cave

Into the Water

After the blackness it was a relief to eventually see light at the end of the tunnel. Less than 100m from the light we ran aground again and this time it was everybody out. The water ran ankle deep over a formation of hard rock and Lynne, who hates water of any depth, inched carefully forward clinging to Phim's arm. I clambered laboriously from the boat and strode confidently (or over-confidently) after them, my camera in my right hand, a small bottle of water in my left.

My right foot caught on a rock. After several paces of staggering and stumbling I was beginning to wonder why regaining my balance was proving so difficult. Then the same foot found only water beneath it. It continued downwards and, with Newtonian inevitability, the rest of me followed. I struck the water on my right side and with horror felt my hand holding the camera plunge deep below the surface. My fingers struck something painfully hard but I clung on, turned onto my back and stuck the hand holding the camera vertically upwards. It was too late, the damage was done, the camera would never work again, but it seemed sensible at the time.

Hearing the splash Phim spun round, his face, according to Lynne horror struck. It is considered bad form among the tourist guide community to lose a client in an underground river. Feeling he had to do something he grabbed my up-stretched arm and pulled. He was a slight man and there was no possibility that he could pull my distinctly unslight self vertically from the water.

I found myself floating in a gully of pleasantly warm water. I stayed still while I mentally checked out my physical condition and then, having decided that nothing was broken or dislocated, I tried to stand up. I failed because Phim was still heaving on my arm.

Attempting to introduce some British sang froid to the situation I said, 'Stop pulling, it doesn't help.' For reasons I do not understand, the intended voice of quiet calm came out as a peremptory command. Phim promptly dropped my arm.

I stood up carefully and used his offered hand to raise myself out of the half metre deep gully. As I stepped up I noticed its rocky edge, jagged and sharp.

Once out I felt annoyed with myself about the camera, or rather the camera card, the camera was cheap and replaceable, the contents of the card were not. Otherwise I felt fine but the expression of horror remained on Phim's face. Looking down I realised my legs were covered in blood, most of it from a small but deep cut on my right knee. That bleeding would stop soon, but the hole below my left knee and the deep gouges running down the top of my left shin looked more serious and swellings were already forming. The top of my left big toe resembled red meat, the skin having been neatly sliced off.

I splashed water around and cleaned myself up the best I could and with Phim and Lynne hobbled towards the waiting boatman. I hobbled, not because of my injuries, but because the toe strap of my right sandal was no longer attached to the sole – which explained my earlier unexpected inability to regain my balance.

Back in the boat for the last few metres, Kong Lor Cave

Back in the boat it took but a few minutes to reach the open air. Only then did I realised that my head torch had stayed firmly attached the whole time and was still working, but the bottle of water that had been in my left hand had disappeared.

We re-emerge into daylight, Kong Lor Cave

Reflection and Recovery

Up on dry land was a clearing dotted with stalls/restaurants, benches and rough wooden tables. My appearance caused a small stir among the locals and the two or three other foreigners present who expressed sympathy but had little practical to offer.

A clearing with some huts and rough tables and benches

I sat on a bench and Phim acquired a large bottle of drinking water so I could wash the wounds thoroughly. Then, as we had nothing else, I slapped on hand-sanitiser. That stung.

I suggested to Phim that I would like a cup of tea, how else would the British deal with a crisis?

At this point Lynne raised the subject of what we, for some reason, refer to as my 'inner being' – a second wallet I carry inside my waistband attached to my belt. My regular wallet, snug in Lynne’s bag, contained only ‘little money’ for immediate use while my inner being held the proceeds of our last visit to an ATM, our emergency stash of US dollars, credit and debit cards, passports and a reserve week of Lynne's blood pressure pills - all the stuff we cannot afford to lose. It was not, as far as we knew waterproof. Plastic cards don't mind the wet, money will dry, the pills were sealed in plastic, but our passports? When our daughter worked in China a friend visited Hong Kong for the weekend and while there contrived to drop his passport in the bath. Once dried, the document was good enough for the Hong Kong authorities to let him out, but not good enough for the People's Republic border guards to let him in. He spent the next ten years in the Lo Wu border station. [Not really, he returned to Hong Kong, acquired a new passport and visa and arrived back in China a couple of days late for work].

My inner being turned out to be more waterproof than expected and our passports, though slightly deckled would recover completely.

Bloodied but unbowed - and in need of a cup of tea
Update May 2016 - I now know I gained a few (more) permanent scars to my left leg

This exploration over, I spotted Phim astride a borrowed motorcycle about to set off for the nearest village. He was off to find some antiseptic cream, he said. Lynne explained that we had dealt with that problem and would really like a cup of tea. After a trip round the stalls he approached us apologetically with a bag of tea in his hand. 'There is only this,' he said. It was black tea, larger leaves than we are used to maybe, but ordinary black tea. 'That's perfect' I said. He looked surprised, pampered foreigners, he thought, needed tea in neat, sealed bags. I insisted it was fine, glasses were produced, tea tipped in and boiling water added. Lynne and I now had 'cups ' of tea - and much appreciated they were.

Once we had our tea Phim informed us there would be no noodle soup, the stallholders had just returned after the rice harvest and were still setting up. 'I will cook something,' he said, re-borrowed the motorbike and whizzed off into the distance.

A passing youthful fellow-countryman paused to sympathise. His camera took the same card as mine and we found that my photos were undamaged, which made me feel much better.

Injured I may have been, but I was still capable of schadenfreude. A boy tasked with minding his small sibling had been carrying him in a sling. The nappy-less infant urinated, as infants do and the look of disgust on the older brother’s face as baby pee cascaded down his legs was memorable.

Phim returned with noodles, eggs, chillies and greens, borrowed a wok and set about producing lunch for three. It was remarkably good, and if the stalls had failed on noodle soup, Beer Lao was, as always, available.

Phim rustles up lunch in a borrowed wok

A Walk to a Village in Remotest Rural Laos

After eating I felt up for the two kilometre walk to the village which had presumably supplied our lunch. Having made the effort to arrive in this isolated valley, we ought to have a look at it.

Coping with a flapping sandal required care and I soon discovered a cut on the sole of my foot which made walking painful, but I persevered. We strolled through the harvested rice fields and past stands of cassava (tapioca), an important crop locally.

Limping along behind Phim

There was nothing special at the village, it was just a remote, unspoiled Laos village....

Typical Lao village house

....and that made it worth the visit.

A remote, unspoiled Lao village

Back thropugh the Cave and to the Auberge

After a good look round we headed back to the clearing and then to the cave.

The boatman was adamant that I would not get out at the shallow section by the entrance. Lynne and Phim stood in the water on the rock shelf while he backed up, opened the throttle and charged at the obstruction. With a frightening scraping noise we bounced over. I was surprised by the quantity of water in the bottom of the canoe as our bouncing sent it rolling from one end to the other like a mini tsunami.

We approach the end of the journey back through Kong Lor cave

The rest of the return journey was uneventful. We saw a bird flying through the cave, just above the water and bats hanging from the ceiling, and I kept an eye on the water seeping up between the planks of the boat. The leak looked mildly alarming to the untrained eye, but we arrived back safely enough.

We are paddled back across the pool

Back at the auberge there were still no other guests. We sat by the river and had a beer while Phim, our driver and the younger men of the owner’s family went fishing. They caught nothing, so had a swim instead.

Back at the auberge
The slightly dilapidated guides and drivers accommodation

Dinner was pleasant, if unremarkable. Afterwards I felt suddenly very tired; delayed shock, Lynne said. It was dark and there was nothing to do anyway, so I went to bed.

Part of me wanted to blame Phim for my mishap. If he had worn a life-jacket, or allowed me to stumble on the sand without comment, or made tea without fussing (even if that was after the event) I would not have reacted by becoming so over-confident. In fairness, though, he was a decent man, trying to do his best. Bad luck was the main cause and such fault as there was, was all mine.

If Kong Lor Cave was in a developed country there would have been a concrete walkway with a handrail and signs warning of a wet floor, but this was rural Laos, only a handful of tourists venture this far and it remains gloriously unspoilt. I cannot guess how long it will stay this way, but I am very glad we saw it when it was still almost pristine and if that means you occasionally have to fall in the water and cut your leg, it is a price well worth paying.

Thailand and Laos
 
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Location: Thakhek, Laos
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