by Jamie Maslin
My first impressions of Luang Prabang and its surrounding landscape were of the highest order. Sitting regally on a lofty inland peninsula carved by the mighty Mekong River and its sister tributaries, Luang Prabang looked out beyond these surging watercourses to a world of lushly forested limestone mountains, which enclose the town, to varying degrees, from all sides. The historic center was a gleaming jewel, a fusion of colors, exotic scents and architectural styles. Pastel-shaded colonial buildings of the French provincial style sat alongside Buddhist temples of shimmering golds, blinding whites, and fiery reds. Shaven-headed monks strode around with their young apprentices in tow, cloaked in orange robes, while tourists ambled about calmly. Everything was bathed in the cleanest radiant light, to the point where the town itself seemed to glow. Last night’s accommodation had been nice, but it was too far out of town to be practical, especially when the time came to get on the move again, so I booked into a little lodging house out the back of a travel agency on the high street. For 50,000 Laotian Kip (about six dollars) I got a simple room with nothing in it but a bed. Located down the hallway was a shared shower-room and toilet.
I spent most of the day visiting temples and monasteries, drinking fresh fruit juice and coffee at little riverside cafés overlooking the Mekong, and generally recharging my batteries while soaking in the beauty of the place. It was quite intoxicating, with something new to feast my eyes upon around every corner. After climbing a centrally located forested peak with a spectacular view across the region, I strolled along a road high above the river where I happened upon a street stall with an utterly bewildering collection of glass jars. Inside, preserved for posterity in some sort of pickling liquid, was the most bizarre collection of snakes, lizards, centipedes, worms, and other creepy crawlies, all packed in together, probably in the order of fifty per jar. Was this the Laos equivalent of some nice pickled onions or peppers? I hadn’t a clue, but it made for an interesting photo.
I continued along the Mekong, arriving at a section where a smaller river, the Nam Khan, met the main colossal body of water, flowing into it from a gaping cleft in the earth that formed one side of the peninsula’s boundary walls. Upstream was a little run of rapids, where a couple of Westerners swam, purposefully drifting feet first through the flow, then getting out onto the sandy bank and walking back to do it again. It looked fun, and the perfect way to cool off in the roasting heat. I made my way down a little path to the beachy bank, where I took off my T-shirt, shoes, and socks ready for the plunge. Just as I was about to, the two river surfers strolled past, so I struck up a conversation.
They were Bill and Ben, brothers from the United States, traveling with their sister who was currently elsewhere in town. Bill in particular had done lots of traveling and ran a website—mynameisbill.com—detailing his adventures around the world, many chronicled via video blog, something that landed him a job presenting travel shows for National Geographic Channel, after an executive there stumbled upon his work. (I would just like to state for the record here, that should an executive at National Geographic similarly stumble upon my work, then the answer is a resounding “yes,” I’d love to present a travel show).156
“So you’re one of those rare internet success stories everybody reads about?” I said.
“In the flesh,” replied Bill with a smile.
We chatted for a while about the “travel profession,” and how people seemed to be doing more and more gimmicky trips to get noticed.
“I heard a group of Canadians set off with a film crew and a plan to visit every single country in the world in one year—” said Bill.
“What? In a year?” I interjected. “Surely getting visas for every country would take the best part of that.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said!” exclaimed Bill with hearty agreement. “And you wouldn’t get to see anything either. Apparently they got to Central America, Guatemala, I think, and there was a mutiny among the crew and they all quit. Heard of another group who were traveling around the world in tuxedos.”
“Why?”
Bill laughed. “No idea!”
We all hung out for a while and after much cooling off in the water and shooting the rapids several times, strolled back into town together, where the brothers were due to meet their sister for a meal. I wished them well and got onto contacting Mr. Sourisak. Stopping off at my lodgings, I inquired with the travel agency attached to the front of it if they knew the location of a public phone. The woman behind the desk simply picked up the one in front of her and handed it to me. After a quick “hello” to Mr. Sourisak, I marshaled the travel agent to converse with him. A brief chat and she hung up the phone.
“He will meet you here in fifteen minutes,” she said.
I sat outside on a little swing chair, merrily watching the world go by, when, after about ten minutes, the woman came out to speak to me.
“Your friend call back. He has to pick up boss so can’t come to see you now.”
What? This made no sense, so after a quick request to use her phone I called him back.
“I meet minister from airport,” he said, then promptly hung up.
And that was that. There’d be no wedding for me tonight. I was disappointed and confused, but decided to make the most of things. For the remainder of the afternoon I explored a beautiful golden-fronted temple, and when darkness arrived wandered about a vibrant night market that stretched along much of the high street, selling everything from textiles to bamboo lamps, from fresh fruit to silverware. It was so busy that it was difficult to walk through, but served as the perfect way to while away my time.
When I finally turned in for the night, it was with a sense of excitement for tomorrow.
China was calling my name.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Touched for the Very First Time
As a much valued reader, would you feel short-changed if I summed up the next six days in a few paragraphs? I sincerely hope not, because that’s what I’m about to do. You see, China is so damn big a country, and requires so many long highway rides to get from one point of interest to another, often in exactly the same type of vehicle, and almost always with people you cannot communicate with past a few basic gestures, that after a while, in fact after a very short while, you become completely and utterly dazed by the hitchhiking process; and I’m sure more so in the reading of such a venture.
I made it to China after a full day’s hitching through majestic Laotian scenery and arrived at an ultra-modern Chinese customs building nestled in a little forested valley, just beyond the Laotian town of Boten. From here the nature of my journey changed dramatically. For the next six days my life became the road. I covered roughly 1,300 miles along modern highways and experienced much of what it is to be a hitchhiker in the People’s Republic. Soon the landscape shifted dramatically, no longer teetering on the brink of fall, but fully flushed in her brightest emblems. Forests of the deepest reds and yellows embraced the surrounding hills, setting the world ablaze with fiery color. I had reached a new climatic zone. Further north red-tinged mountains drifted in and out of frame, followed by pine forests and deep rain-soaked gorges, where hydrant-like waterfalls tumbled earthwards over huge slick rocks. Peasant farmers tilled away on giant swathes of agricultural land or worked beneath vast tunnels of plastic sheeting. Caramel-colored rivers lined with poplars meandered past, where little wooden rafts were pulled by hand from one bank to the other with ropes. Pagodas and temples rose up near the roadside, and eventually snow and ice appeared.
Having read that hitchhiking was not culturally understood in China, I had come prepared: armed with a note translated into Mandarin—acquired through my brother, a long time resident of China. The note introduced me, described the concept of my trip, and told the driver where I was heading (this section had a blank space for me to fill in with copied Chinese characters as appropriate). It also said that I didn’t want to be taken to a train or bus station, and of course that I couldn’t pay for the ride.
&nb
sp; It worked beautifully, and, contrary to what I had read, I encountered no driver who on stopping for me failed to grasp that I wanted a ride. On several occasions I saw locals waiting patiently by the highway, holding signs stating desired destinations. Although probably expecting to pay for their rides, it showed that the concept of picking up strangers was not an alien one. How hard they found it, I don’t know, but for a Westerner, hitchhiking in China is easy, very easy. The novelty value of a white face no doubt plays a part, as on three occasions I arrived at spots near sign-holding locals, but it was always me who got the first ride out of there. And the rides tend to be in nice cars; lots of comfy SUVs, driven by affluent thirty-somethings, with the better-off seeming more inclined to pick you up than the poor—again, if you’re a Westerner. However, no matter who gives you a lift, just about everyone will want to drop you at a bus or train station, something you have to constantly resist and work your damnedest to avoid. Nearly every driver will nonchalantly throw trash out the window, and most will offer cigarettes your way. Over the course of a day you will almost certainly encounter one driver who insists on stopping to share a large multi-dish meal with you, which, try as you might, you will not be allowed to chip in for. Refusal is rude, and to pay is rude, so you may as well just accept it. Such generosity means that if you’re okay with a single meal a day, then as a hitchhiker in China your only expense becomes accommodation. Sourcing cheap accommodation is an altogether different challenge, not for a lack of places to stay, but for lack of proprietors willing to let a Westerner book in—something I discovered on my second night in the country.
After a full day on the road I arrived, just after dark, in an odd little town, whose name I never discovered, set a couple of miles off the highway. I trudged my way through several long and darkened back-streets, where random piles of garbage burned and stray dogs roamed, creating eerie silhouettes against the fire’s dancing orange flames. My arrival at a budget hotel caused quite a stir, with a little boy in the lobby literally jumping and letting out a high-pitched yelp at the strange sight of me. A guy in his early teens at reception was more composed and even spoke a tiny bit of English, unlike his older colleague who looked like his brother. Between them they booked me in—for now at least.
The room faithfully matched my expectations—or lack thereof. In a low resolution brochure photograph it might have actually looked rather nice, but on closer inspection it was falling apart. A plug socket hung off the wall exposing suspect wiring inside; its ceiling light shone with a remarkably dim and dirty-tinged yellow light, and the carpet was stained beyond the power of any known detergent. A lamp by the bedside should have been in a dumpster, and the bed itself was ready to join it, with nearly every spring in its bumpy mattress long since broken. The bathroom continued the cesspit theme and was swaddled in a damp and musty odour. Here were several striking features, including a sharp-to-the-touch crack running down a mildew-grimy mirror, and an interesting little complimentary by the sink—a plastic cup sporting a fresh red imprint of lipstick. But the real challenge was the door, which was self-jamming when closed, to the extent that it required a powerful shoulder barge or a tug of war just to get in and out. Not that I was particularly bothered by any of this, for the bedroom had a functioning kettle. I could have a cup of tea. And promptly did.
I headed out soon after in search of an internet café, entering a dark and noisy establishment lined with rows of computers in little booths. It was clearly the haunt of guys in their mid to late teens who packed it playing shoot-em-up video games. Officially I was not allowed to hire a computer without a government I.D. card, but after a bit of coercing I managed to persuade a local to briefly lend me his. With email open, I sent Emily, who was now back in London, a quick message, telling her that I was in China, and passing on the telephone number of my hotel on the off chance she could give me a call.
Back at the hotel, I tried to convey to the older non-English-speaking brother at reception, who was now by himself, that I might be receiving a telephone call from an English speaker, and therefore to put it through to my room. Twenty minutes later, when lying in bed writing up my diary, there was a knock at the door. Standing there was a rather worn-looking middle-aged woman in high heels, a low-cut top and short skirt; classic mutton dressed as lamb. She handed me a card announcing herself as a “masseuse,” which listed the services she offered, including “Whale body massage.” She didn’t look like a big girl, so I assumed she got a friend in for that one. I kept the card but sent her packing. Moments later there was another knock at the door. She was back, this time with the reception guy who looked most confused. With his thumb and pinky finger outstretched he mimed calling someone on the telephone, then pointed inquisitively at the girl. I shook my head with a smile. He shooed her off down the corridor, throwing her a look of indignation as if for having the temerity to respond to his call in the first place. With a gracious nod, he disappeared.
At 11 p.m., when happily tucked up in bed, things took a turn for the worse. I received a knock on the door. Standing there was the English-speaking guy from reception, this time accompanied by a much older man.
“You must come police station,” said the young guy.
I tried to protest but the older guy was steadfast.
After throwing on some clothes, we marched on down there. On the way the young guy conveyed two bits of information. “Father,” he said, pointing at the older man; and “no problem,” which he repeated several times in an indiscriminate generic kind of way, as if commenting on the situation at large.
Having been to China before, I can attest that it is a wonderful and varied destination to visit, but that’s not to say every cultural oddity of my previous trips left me flushed with affection for the place. One particular Chinese habit that I am less than fond of was about to raise its ugly head on the way to the police station. With an almighty hacking cough, the father heaved some unpleasant green muck off his lungs and unceremoniously spat it onto the floor. It was a sound and sight I would get to see plenty more of in the coming days.
We reached a little police station off the main street filled to the brim with cops, none of whom spoke any English. Sitting behind a counter, lounging around looking decidedly bored, were about ten cops. My arrival perked them up, and a rapid-fire conversation commenced between them and the father and son. All of a sudden, at what seemed an arbitrary moment, the police demanded my passport.
“You can’t stay in cheaper hotel. Foreigner must stay in other hotel,” said the young guy.
“Which hotel?”
“You must stay at Red Apple hotel instead.”
The Red Apple was across the road from their place and seriously expensive.
“Why?” I asked.
“For your safety.”
This rule was a new one on me. During my previous trips to China I had stayed with my brother, so had no need to source cheap accommodation. On the couple of occasions I had stayed in hotels, it had either been with him or Emily. Since the former was a namby-pamby corporate type, he had always booked something upmarket, and since the latter was a delicate little flower, her sensibilities had deserved, and indeed demanded, better than the proviso for my current trip permitted. The night before I had inadvertently avoided this problem by staying at a nicer centrally located chain hotel in the city of Kunming.
I wanted to explain that I was happy where I was, that this was bureaucratic nonsense, and that the guy’s father should have kept quiet once I’d booked in. Why he didn’t just let me sleep out the night unnoticed in my room, I don’t know. But in the interest of being understood, I kept it short.
“I can’t afford to stay at the Red Apple.”
He passed on the message. More debate followed before an interesting, and wholly unexpected, solution was posed.
“They will make for same price.”
Mmm. I wasn’t about to argue with a much nicer hotel for the price of a dirt cheap one. I confirmed that, yes, this arrangement
would suffice. Off we marched up to the Red Apple with several cops in tow. Stepping inside its plush marble-floored interior, the main cop handed my passport to the girl behind reception and began to explain the situation to her. She listened respectfully and intently and then, when the cop was good and finished, let rip at him, shouting as if scolding a little schoolboy. All the while she yelled at him her frustration got worked out on my passport, which she bent back and forth against its spine with increasing angst. She looked about to tear the thing in two.
I nudged the young guy from the first hotel.
“Passport very important,” I said, shaking my head in dismay while pointing at her antics.
He went over and reprimanded her, snatching the passport from her hands. I breathed a sigh of relief and expected him to hand it back but instead he proceeded to demonstrate exactly what she shouldn’t do, now bending it back and forth himself. The situation was turning into a farce. By now it was midnight and all I wanted was bed, no matter where it was, but the woman, it seemed, wasn’t about to get on board with the cops’ program any time soon. More debate followed and then, suddenly, out of the blue, it seemed an agreement had been reached between all parties.
“You can return,” said the young guy.
And so we did. Minutes later, when back in the same bed I had been kicked out of over an hour before, there was another knock on the door. I got up and yanked it open. Standing there was the young guy holding a note. He handed it to me sheepishly. It read:
Sorry, only for your safety to the police station. The result foreigners can only stay at the Red Apple. Because this is a designated place to stay. Delay your time really sorry. I hope you can understand. Sweet dreams.
I thanked him for his help and finally crashed out.
* * *
Temperatures plummeted the further north I pushed, but also fluctuated wildly throughout the day with altitude until, by mid-afternoon of the sixth day, when on my way to the town of Tianshui, I encountered a small frozen waterfall on a minor back-road whose base created a thick glistening sheet of ice across the asphalt.