The Mekong is Marvelous

The Mekong River ranks among the world’s widest. By the time it becomes a delta in Vietnam, the river has split into at least nine individual strands, most too broad to see across.

The Mekong is also powerful. As it divides Cambodia down the middle, the river is strong enough to push back against incoming rivers, notably the Tonle Sap, which actually reverses course several months of the year.

But even wide, powerful creatures must start out as kids. In the Mekong’s case, childhood happens in Tibet. The river becomes an adolescent in Laos, absorbing nearly every drop of rain that falls there. Along one Lao stretch, between Huay Xai and Luang Prabang, the Mekong even zigzags just like a teenager.

A boat full of us, 60 or 70 passengers in all, set off along that stretch on a fine November morning. Roughly half the paying customers carried luggage, intending to make the entire two-day journey. The rest carried vegetables, having just come from their regular shopping expedition in Huay Xai.

People from this second group would occasionally rise, tap the boat driver on the shoulder, and say something to the effect of, “You see that young man in a canoe up ahead? That’s my nephew. Slow down a bit, can you?” At which point Nephew would paddle up alongside our long, cigar-shaped craft, and throw a short line up to one of the crew. Auntie would then wriggle over the side, dropping in beside Nephew just ahead of her potatoes or cabbages or whatever else she had instructed us to toss after her.

In a flash the canoe was then untied, our engine revved, and off both boats would go, neither having had to dock or even to slow appreciably.

The wilderness river relished its newfound freedom to roam, within limits. Upstream, it had no choice but to run canyons. Now, among the mountains of Laos, it had the option to take running leaps over previously untouched boulders, as if testing its growing limbs. Perhaps it thought nobody was around to notice when it shimmied and slalomed and snuck peeks at its reflection in occasional mirrors of its own making.

I had expected flat water and lots of other river traffic. Instead we were alone, except for the occasional fisherman, nephew in a canoe, and the daily “express.” This hideous speedboat, designed for travelers who can’t spare two days to cover the 300 kilometers between end points, uses a serious outboard motor to hurtle its victims along at a spine-crunching tempo. Helmets and ear plugs are required on this foolhardy trip.

Having seen the Mekong further downstream, where it serves to irrigate and delineate and satiate, I was also surprised by the lack of commerce. The only outpost of any consequence we encountered on that first day showed up on the left bank as darkness began to fall. This was Pakbeng, a one-industry town that appears to exist mostly because the boat route does. At night the lone street in Pakbeng comes to life—well, at least until about 9:30—feeding and watering and housing the primarily Western voyageurs who will carry on the next day to Luang Prabang.

Among those traveling the whole distance were a Chilean, a Finn, two Germans, two Swedes, two Swiss, and a tour group of a couple dozen Poles. The Polish group’s leader, making the journey for the sixth time this year, pointed out the lack of birds. Also absent from the forested river banks: dogs, schools, temples—any sign at all, really, of Auntie and Nephew’s villages. We weren’t sure where our former companions had disappeared to after paddling away from us, but we suspected the protein in their diet was partly supplied by the birds we didn’t see.

As a few of us ate dinner in one of Pakbeng’s smaller restaurants, a woman approached to introduce herself as the proprietor of the bar up the road. “It’s me or nothing,” she explained, pointing to her wristwatch to suggest that she wasn’t sure how much longer she would stay open that night. Our restaurant’s owner didn’t seem to mind the intrusion—he said the woman made the rounds every night. One can only guess what happens in Pakbeng by day—probably lots of not much.

But not for long. The neighbor to the north is everywhere in evidence. People throw about the word “colonization” to describe the current relationship between China and Laos. Some even go so far as to say, “annexation.”

Within minutes of beginning this journey, our boat passed beneath a hulking, sparkling bridge. Expected to open for traffic early next year, it is a key link in a route that connects Bangkok with Kunming. If the Chinese have their way, the same two cities will someday be joined by high-speed rail. Landlocked, cash-strapped Laos will surely find it difficult to turn down China’s offers to finance most of the construction, despite the many strings that are rumored to be attached to the money.

The second day of moseying down the Mekong unfurled just as uneventfully as the first. Two or three times we paused to let off passengers who had joined us in Pakbeng. They carried no bundles from the upstream markets. Also, this time we could see the settlements they were heading for. Our eyes simply followed the line of kids and cousins who came running across the mudflats that grew increasingly wide and frequent.

By mid-afternoon all but the Westerners had abandoned ship. We trudged up the steep path at Luang Prabang city, bearing the backpacks and rolling luggage of the globetrotter class. Ahead of us, beyond the smallish World-Heritage-Site-protected zone, waited a ring of newly minted Chinese hotels. Behind, the Mekong churned on, gathering strength to push aside all challengers on its way to the South China Sea.

Chae Son is Spontaneous

Plenty of daylight remained at Chae Son National Park—certainly enough, I thought, for a leisurely saunter up to what sounded to me like the park’s star attraction. (How can you not love a waterfall named “Wet Mother”?) The falls were described on displays at the visitors’ center, but they didn’t appear on any of the maps. I asked directions.

“Where’s your friend?” answered the uniformed personnel. I confessed that I was by myself. “Better not go alone. Might get dark.” Behind the smile seemed to be information that I would not be offered until we had formed a weightier relationship.

Which was fine, because at that moment I was still navigating the day by feel and planning to be back in my own bed before Sunday became Monday. It was easy to convince me to take the path more traveled by.

And that, of course, made all the difference. No, I didn’t slip and break my leg or run out of gas or steer the truck into a ditch. All I did was follow the well-trodden and well-signed track to the top of a nearby six-stage set of baby falls—Wet Mother’s young daughter, if you will.

I came across singing insects and hot springs and goofy trees and massage mats and any number of other delights that served to sharpen my appetite for ChaeSon. The place was simply too nice to drive away from. By the time I had tracked the cicada sounds and soaked the feet and photographed the epiphytes, the decision was made: Gotta stay another day!

Earlier that morning, I had left Chiang Mai planning only an afternoon jaunt to the countryside. It was just me in a borrowed truck—no toothbrush, no fresh undies. The owners of the wheels had asked that I give their burly ride a bit of exercise while they were away.

I figured I’d only make it as far as the next district, where I would sample a bowl or two of the local specialty before circling back to the barn. But somehow each new ridge kept crying out “find out what’s behind me!” until I found myself at the entrance to this charming mountain park that I recalled somebody saying once had lots to recommend it.

The proprietor of a funky country inn was glad to see a customer on a Sunday night. He had a map that gave a few hints about how to find Wet Mother. In the morning I was on the trail just after the playing of the national anthem. I reached the base of the falls by 10. The rainy season had washed away a couple of bridges (maybe that’s what the park official had hesitated to tell me?), but I got across the stream every time without risking life and limb.

Made it home for dinner Monday with a wide grin that I’m still living off of!

France is Fraternal

France, always a destination très belle, becomes even more attractive in the company of old friends. The espresso at the outdoor café tastes somehow existential when sipped across the table from pals of decades long gone by. Strolls through outdoor markets alongside long-standing chums stimulate many sentiments agréables.

Inspiration for this trip came from my goddaughter, someone I haven’t known especially long, or even well. What better excuse to deepen our connection than her graduation from high school? This lovely kid comes, naturellement, from a lovely family of four Americans who now live in St. Germain en Laye, one of Paris’ royal suburbs.

Even a tarnished country would be brightened by these fine folks. But France! In May! A time of year when that oddest of traditions—sculpting trees into lollipop shapes—feels perfectly appropriate. A season of cloudless skies and obscure public holidays.

Another godfather, coming from the States, arrived around the same time. His godchild is the other daughter, who was both celebrating a birthday and appearing in a play at her French school. On top of the family fêtes, then, and the dinners in the Latin Quarter, and the bicycle rides past places that photographers are forever putting on picture postcards, France also offered up the joys of a godfather reunion.

We all go back a long way but rarely cross paths now, living as we do on three continents. All of the adults had spent time in Europe as students. Our conversations, multilingual and abounding in time-capsuled references, began outdoors with the croissant course. My generation discussed solutions to the world’s ills—at least, as far as we understood such things. (The goddaughters gently brought us up to date about what was really important.)

When the sun grew warm, we moved underground to le Métro. There we listened to our fellow passengers expound with Gallic certitude on vital issues of the day. An accordion player sauntered through the subway cars, passing the hat after each tune. Now and then we got off and shopped for cidre, fromage, and other necessities.

Our wanderings tired us out by evening—no twilight boat rides along the Seine or midnight plats du jour in Montparnasse for our age bracket. (My goddaughter, by contrast, didn’t even start getting dressed to go clubbing until around 10pm.) We made an exception on the night of the school musical, a unique fusion of “Picnic at Hanging Rock” and “The Mikado.”

Set in Australia, and peppered with songs supposedly sung in Japan, the production wasn’t aiming for a French connection. The director’s program notes explained that she wanted to explore “liminal space”—in-between places like geographical borders, transoceanic flights, and adolescence. We all had experience with such places. Watching the ambitious efforts of the young actors, flanked by my time-honored mates, I felt a véritable source d'inspiration.

Ethiopia is Eccentric

You gotta love a place where the alphabet, calendar, and cuisine are all unique. These Ethiopians are different, and they’re proud of it. They may not say that they’re the best (in the main language, Amharic, it’s hard to form a superlative). But stay a few days and the confidence shines through.

It doesn’t take long before somebody mentions that Ethiopia is the birthplace of the species, or the capital of Africa, or the only country on the continent never to be colonized. Any of these claims can be disputed, but the truth doesn’t matter as much as the self-belief. This is a place with big plans: “middle-income country by 2020”; “Internet subscribers quadrupled every year”; “HIV incidence cut in half by 2015.”

This last statistic explains why my colleague and I were there on a work trip. I was enthralled enough that I’m sure I’ll be back as a tourist some day. The place may look very different by the time I get there again. We were told that government planners are taking the South Korean economic miracle as their development plan. Landlocked and without any oil, Ethiopia still managed over 7% growth in its economy in 2011, much of that thanks to livestock and coffee exports. Neighboring Kenya currently exports three times as much with just half the population. So if Ethiopians really get their plan implemented, then watch out.

Whether or not the country improves its GDP, it already contains lots to like. I enjoyed the gracious, welcoming people. They appear to get along well with each other despite the jumble of languages (more than 80!), ethnic groups (ask people here where they’re from, they tell you their tribe first), and religions (majority Christian, one third Muslim, a handful of Rastafarians).

Their time-telling system seemed quirky at first, but after somebody explained that they begin counting at around sunrise, it made more sense than what I’ve been using all these years. Our 9:00 morning meeting, for example, took place at 3:00 Ethiopian time. All of the months have 30 days, leaving an extra five or six days at the end of the year to be bundled together as the 13th month. Somehow over the years this calendar has gotten out of sync with other Christian ones— in Ethiopia, this year is 2004. People joke that they feel younger as soon as they get off the plane.

The food, dominated by a tasty sourdough pancake called injera, matches any fare anywhere. I’m convinced it’s the secret behind the success of the country’s famous marathon runners. We downed it with an equally distinctive and flavorful honey wine known as tej, and finished meals with the traditional course of coffee and popcorn.

We had some free time for sightseeing over a weekend. The flight we thought we had booked to an upcountry tourist town turned out not to be real. Instead we wandered around some dirt-poor streets in the capital. As in many developing places, plenty of people wouldn’t leave us alone until we paid them. We wondered why we see so many dogs in Thailand but so few in Ethiopia. Signs everywhere suggested that outside support from Cuba is being replaced by investment from China.

It didn’t take long to figure out that coffee is central to relationships in Ethiopia. Following our nose, we made our way to a shop we’d been told has been the best in town for more than fifty years. Tomoca Coffee’s lone room didn’t look anything like a Starbuck’s. We had to ask how things work there.

A handsome, friendly student explained that customers order at one counter, pay at another, pick up at a third, and then stand at one of the high narrow tables, waiting for somebody to come through with shakers of sugar or salt. The little cups of strong coffee last as long as you have. An hour after we arrived, my colleague was still talking to the student. Something tells me that whenever I return to Ethiopia, not much else will look familiar, but Tomoca will be unchanged.