A Fine Meal
Until now, my route through Lao has been flat. As I spin north
from Vang Vien, limestone towers jut from the rice paddies and frame the
newly completed tarmac as it heads for higher ground. While enjoying the
last kilometer of flat ground I expect to see for awhile, I come across an
army patrol. Two teenagers on bicycles with Kalashnikovs slung casually
over their shoulders. I hope their laid back attitude means I have nothing
to worry about.
In Vientiane, I had taken some effort to satisfy myself that the
scary reports about this route are exaggerated. The more excitable
expatriates and embassy types assured me that I'd be taking my life into my
hands. This sounded a bit too dramatic, so I delved deeper to learn that
only three foreigners have been shot in the past year. Of these, only two
were assaulted by the army itself. I also heard an Australian backpacker
rave that the parts considered dangerous would be fantastic for cycling.
So I buy the army guys ice cream from a roving bicycle vendor and
head on to a day of long, steady climbing. Slow climbing. I'm still ten
kilometers from my intended halfway point when singing draws my eye to a
hut perched on an outcropping overlooking an expansive valley. As I round
a corner, the road once again fails to begin the raging descent I feel I've
earned. The reddening sun forms a halo that seeps through the bamboo
walls. I turn onto the path.
A young man, the source of the high singing I heard, watches
bemused from the doorway as I stagger to the hut. After inviting myself to
stay the night, I notice the machine gun mounted to cover the road I've
just climbed. Craggy hills disappear to the horizon, deep blues
progresssively lightening to pale shades of grey. It seems fairly
picturesque as far as army bases go. As the endorphins take control, I
dance around the hut, working the phrasebook, giving the two resident
soldiers a show. I expose myself to the setting sun, washing a day of
sweat onto the dry ground from a jug of springwater. The soldiers peek
around the corner to catch a glimpse of their exhibitionist guest.
For dinner I tuck into their leftovers; sticky rice and a greyish,
spicy stew. In this part of the world, there is no question of eating only
the tenderest bits of an animal, nor is any attempt made to hide the
gristle or sphincters in a sausage. So I'm accustomed to popping an
unidentified hunk into my mouth and chewing the meat off whatever bone it
is. But I pull this one out to examine it when I feel something sharp
poking my cheek. The yellow lamplight reveals the bloody, cracked skull of
a bird which looks decidedly un-chicken-like. Rather than letting it
unsettle me, I decide to face up to this culinary adventure. I pop the
skull back in my mouth and continue slurping the flavor out of the cracks.
Ponsavan is grooving to the rap on my walkman when the other two
residents arrive carrying the results of their hunting. With a flintlock
rifle they have bagged a shrew-like rodent and a plump little bird. The
game is efficiently gutted and impaled on sticks to roast over a fire. In
addition we have a brace of frogs, caught with the aid of a snorkelling
mask and a rubber band-propelled spear gun.
Soon I am invited to a second dinner, each of the three stews much
more tasty than the previous one. Taking an example from what I was taught
in Vietnam, I chew up the frog bones along with the tender, delicately
spiced meat. I laugh when I notice the piles of bones next to their
plates. Thankfully, I have already declared myself full by the time the
entrails are offered up, the guts of each species steaming on its own
stick.
Taking leave of my hosts in the morning, I climb, descend, climb
again. The road is beautiful. It contorts itself to keep elevation,
winding for many kilometers around massive valleys to connect two ridges,
and wrapping around the many folds in the terrain to maintain a relatively
constant grade.
Occasionally I pass a small village perched along the ridge. With
a backdrop of cracked grey cliffs soaring high and fingerlike over a deep
river valley, one dry village seems particularly small. A closely spaced
cluster of wooden shacks sits on a ridge denuded of trees. It is built
around two concrete cisterns. Women wash clothes and people bathe in the
constant spout of water emanating from holes near the bottom of each. The
source is a black PVC pipe which I follow uphill for three kilometers
before it disappears into the forest. Sad looking patches of burned
swidden agriculture appear sporadically.
In the afternoon I'm rewarded for the climbing of the day before by
one of the best on-road downhills of my life. Kilometer after undulating
kilometer of sustained big-chainring cruising, the heavily laden steed
leaning into sharp corners with nothing beyond the shoulder but scenery. I
actually catch myself wondering when it will end, and marvel when it keeps
descending long after even that rare point. After once again paying the
piper with a tired, switchbacking climb over a couple final hills, I relax
into a beautiful campsite where a stream flows into a river. Locals pole
by in longboats as I have a glorious swim in the fading light.
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