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.
