A test of humility

During National Holidays it is highly discouraged to engage in any form of travel within Vietnam for 80 million people all pack their bags and peregrinate around the country cramming all possible modes of transport like cans of sardines. Thus, we opted to leave Ho Chi Minh's stronghold and escape to its more modest neighbour: Lao People’s Democratic Republic (PDR).

Luang Prabang is a sleepy little town comfortably huddled at the foot of lush, tropical hills and enveloped by the Mekong and Nam Khan rivers. The city is best known for its high volume of beautifully decorated Buddhist Temples and their young monks wandering the French colonial streets in bright orange habits. The rhythm of life goes with the pace of the heat - everything moves in slow motion from the waitresses in the charming little cafés, to the schoolchildren exiting their classrooms. The thing that struck us the most was that none of the drivers, be it a taxi, a tuc-tuc or a motorbike, made use of their horns. Unlike Vietnam, where honking is a national sport practiced regularly and unemotionally in all custom-made sounds and volumes, Laotian streets are reigned by silence and a heightened sense of orderliness.

Little Hmong children in first village

Aside from enjoying the pace, the silence, the fresh air and the abundance of greenery all around town, we were all set on truly exploring the surrounding natural landscapes. Thus, after spending the first day kayaking down the Nam Khan River, splashing around the refreshing sequence of natural pools replenished by crisp sparkling waterfalls and riding imposing Asian elephants at the speed of the Laotian lifestyle we decided to continue the adventure hiring the same guide for a two-day trek in the jungle.

Departing at 9:00 in an old Hyundai van we were dropped-off on a little dirt road 1.5 hours from Luang Prabang. The air was hot and muggy, but thankfully not too sunny for our Western skin. After four hours of making our way through dirt trails over rivers and streams, through leech infested mud and beautiful rice paddy terraces, we reached the first minority village: a true introduction to utmost poverty. What lie before us were shabby little mud houses protected by dried palm leaf roofs. We proceeded to the central plaza equipped with a few wooden benches and a tree to give us shade. Kids slowly but shyly began to approach us with inquisitive looks. They were followed by some women, but mostly very young or very old ones. We were told that all the adult men and women were out in the fields, and that the kids were left with the elderly and some younger ladies responsible for the children during their parents' absence. The kids were poorly dressed, most of them minimally covered by ripped t-shirts with no undergarments or trousers to cover the lower portion of their fragile bodies. Little girls under ten years of age were carrying their younger brothers or sisters tightly wrapped on their backs. What struck me the most was their visible dirtiness, rotting teeth and a number of easily curable eye infections.

Young Hmong girl carrying her sister

After a final hike up a steep hill, we reached our "home" for the night. We were to stay in the biggest of the three minority villages which housed two ethnicities, the Khmu and the Hmong. The villagers were slightly better off than the first, made visible by a number of scattered tin roofs, two public showers (that had been built just three months before) and a sufficiently well equipped shop. The house we were to sleep in (a large room for the six of us with thin cotton mattresses neatly laid on the floor and protected by huge mosquito nets) was elevated on hardwood stilts to avoid unwanted creatures from entering it. We had to take turns to shower with the villagers fully dressed as the facility was devoid of any structure for privacy. At nightfall, the town was swallowed by a thick cover of darkness abruptly reminding us about the lack of electricity. Obscurity brought all sorts of unimaginable sounds: some familiar like chickens, pigs and frogs but others were to remain a mystery to our untrained ears.

In the depths of the night heavy rains prevailed over the swines' screeches and the mystifying chorus' lullabies, waking me multiple times not only for the force with which the weighty clouds expelled the raindrops, but also because of the irregular escape of a few of them ending their journey down my cheeks like teardrops.

Young Hmong girl carrying her brother

The sight of the village after such forceful rains infected our spirits with a deep feeling of sorrow. Everything was transformed into a large, mushy mud box oppressed by intimidating clouds. At this point it was useless trying to identify mud from feces as it all displayed the same brownish taint. Getting to the shower or to the bathroom was an incredible test of balance and grace as the sludgy mix was not only gluey but slippery. The situation didn't improve on our return route. The expectant skies didn't hesitate to discharge their heavy loads at the most crucial moments of our hike: slippery slopes galore! The challenge of a clean and proper descent was so great that we even made a generous bet for whom would make it to our destination free of mud stains on his/her behind. It goes without saying that we all miserably failed. Half of us ultimately opted for an entirely barefoot hike, as the weight of the mud under our soles added an additional stress to our untrained thighs and a feeling of instability in our already goofy movements.

As soon as we reached the foot of the hill, the sun vigorously pressed its way out from behind the vaporous barrier and cast its warm rays on our shoulders: the worst was over and only a last flat path awaited our sore selves. We made a quick stop in the last village for a quick snack. Sitting at a rudimentary table. The villagers stood and stared from a distance at this group of muddy, sweaty and barefoot tourists and a thought crossed my mind: "they certainly look and smell better than we do".