If I kick it will it explode?
A graveyard for larger devices?
Nothing is ever quite what you expect to be in Laos. I'm flat out under my $2 mosquito net in my $3 room listening to my $7 short-wave radio. It's only six in the evening, but I can barely move a limb. Why? Did I hike solo across the Bolaven Plateau? No, I took a lazy option today. I hired a local guide to take me to see the Ho Chi Minh trail, that maze of narrow and ever changing jungle tracks which eluded US bombing during the Indochinese war. Do you picture me then slashing my way through dense jungle with a machete on the constant lookout for ferocious tigers? Well, no again. The stretch of the trail I visited today is entirely accessible by motorbike and I spent most of the day bobbing along merrily on the back of a small Honda.
It was pleasantly picturesque, but the bunkers and tunnels which
I had expected were nowhere to be seen. This was a quiet stretch of the trail. Looking
a bit like the Wicklow mountains after a tree cull and severe drought, this was, basically, a trail!
There is one big difference of course between the trails of Wicklow and the trails of Laos. As far
as I know the only dangerous weapon found in the former was the rusty Elizabethan sword
of Art O'Neill, whereas this parched landscape contained countless mines, bombis and unexploded
missiles only slowly being unearthed by UXOLAO. We stopped to look at a few. Moukham,
my guide, parked the motorbike beside a barren stretch of forest and motioned me to follow him.
'Walk this way', he said, and I took his invitation literally. I put my feel where he put his, keeping
close and occasionally bumping into him. Well, this was a minefield and you can't be too careful!
This minefield had been combed by UXOLAO and they had brought all the dangerous goodies
to the surface. Here and there, scattered about my feet were anti-personnel bombis. Rusty tennis
ball sized objects, they were well camouflaged against the dark brown dirt. I noticed splashes of red
on a nearby tree, which Moukham reassured me were splashes of paint intended to mark the
bombi's locations.
'My I touch one?', I asked.
'Sure'.
I stroked one lightly.
'And if I kick one would it explode?'
'Maybe', he calmly replied.
Further up the road was a graveyard for larger devices. Lying higgldy piggldy in a
ditch were a half dozen five-hundred pound bombs, all live, and awaiting destruction
by UXOLAO later in the week. A few splotches of red on a nearby tree were all that warned passers by
of the danger.
We drove on for about twenty kilometers more of the trail which wound its way around bomb craters and an occasional piece of twisted metal until we came to a river we couldn't cross with the motorbike. It was not the end of the trail, it wound on for another hundred kilometers, but it appeared to be the end of the tour. And it was only ten-thirty. I asked Moukham what else he had planned, thinking in my naievity that for $15 we had an agenda for the day. He mentioned visiting some villages which had been affected by the war and talking to some people. It sounded interesting and I had an interpreter so we were off. By a funny coincidence, the villages we visited were all populated by at least one of Moukhams friends or relatives. He hadn't seen them for a while and they seemed glad of his visits. Sure they all had their story to tell. One was a teacher turned rural development officer, one was a farmer with two wives, but I pretty soon had to let go of my preconceptions of this trip and just go along for the ride.
So why the exhaustion if I had such a lazy day then, you ask? Well, Lao hospitality, that's why. The sort of hospitality that comes in a bottle and is seventy percent proof. Everyone had a wee bottle of this Lao-Lao whiskey sitting on the table for visitors, so you'll forgive me if I can't remember how many people we visited. By fourish we were back in Attapeu at Moukham's house. He invited me to sit down and for once I was glad of no furniture. I took up a stable position on the floor. His children gathered around for a stare. I stared back. I winked. They ran!
After a couple of hours (I think) I was able to loosen my grip on the carpet and mix with the company which had gathered. A couple of friends of the family had come around. Thai television had tempted the children to overcome their fears, and we all gathered around the goggle box. I was able to make some Lego-Lao small talk by now, which pleased and relaxed my hosts and we all felt comfortable that everyone knew everyone's name and the size of everyone's families and all the other useful details my small talk could elicit from them. The inane water-throwing quiz show which had been capturing the children's imagination ended just as dinner arrived and the real entertainment of the evening began. Thailand were playing Finland in the Thai King's cup. For one brief moment a feeling of great relief came over me. I now had another language in common with my hosts: the language of football. Then I remembered that I don't speak football very well. Complex grammatical constructs like 'Offside Ref!' have always eluded my primitive grasp and I never know quite the right time to say them. I decided to keep my language difficulties to myself.
Thailand played rather well. Or was it the fact that Finland were pretty well shagged out after beating Brazil in the
semi-final and Thailand had only been pitted against Estonia? Either way, Thailand kept scoring and scoring and scoring.
And in typical Lao fashion, we toasted each score with a shot or two of Lao- Lao. Having the numbers flash before me
I can remember how many I had at this time. Thailand were winning 5-0. In support of my fellow Europeans and
to make up for my lack of fluency in football-ese I decided it was time to teach them the only song I knew about
Finland. Possibly the only song ever written about Finland, but I am open to correction. So, softly and sweetly from
the back row, I intoned:
"Finland, Finland, Finland,
The place where I want to be,
Your mountains so lofty,
Your treetops so tall,
Finland, Finland, Finland,
Finland has it all."
I think they were more interested in the football than I was. They ignored me. I continued anyway with a few
more verses, or to be honest since I don't know anymore verses I just repeated the first one a few times
until Finland scored! Yippee! I looked so happy at this that my hosts decided to toast this one too!
With more Lao-Lao. (Ouch!) That kept me quiet for the rest of the game.
So that brings me here. Or rather Moukham brought me here and I had enough energy to get into the room and enough coordination to tuck in the mosquito net. For my sins I am now listening to the dulcet tones of the BBC World Service telling me how awfully well Pakistan are doing in the cricket these days. I don't speak cricket any more than I speak football, but my poor fingers just can't find the off button so I'll just have to lie here for a while and concentrate on more important things like not falling off the bed.
"Good night to all who are listening, whether on land, sea or in the air..." (hic!)