January 24, 2015
Towards the Bolaven Plateau: Monks and monkeys
I spent another two days back in Pakse. I don't know if Pakse has a town slogan, but if I were to give it one it would be 'Pakse - Nothing Special'. However, the guesthouse, which was indeed the very same one that I had spent two nights in the week before, had very good wifi. I could forgive the cold showers, and the hard, lumpy bed, and the rodents that appeared to be even more frequent guests than I - in fact I can forgive most things - for a good wifi connection and a power socket. The blog was finally back up-to-date.
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I left at midday on the 24th, eastwards now towards the 'Bolaven Plateau', a region of high ground famous for being home to many ethnic groups and for being a rich coffee growing region. I was also looking forward to some cooler temperatures, with the nice man from the guesthouse (a resident of Canada for 30 years with whom I was actually able to converse fully) telling me that in Paksong, the main town on the Bolaven Plateau, temperatures were five degrees Celcius. I didn't believe him, because it was 30 degrees in Pakse and Paksong was only a thousand metres higher, but I hoped it would be a little cooler at least.
That thousand metre climb in altitude was, in an unusual deviation from the normal course of things, much easier in practice than it looked on paper. The road climbed gradually all day - a nice, gentle incline that didn't require too much huff and puff. Unfortunately that was all that could be said of it. I imagined it was going to be a peaceful road, but as ever I was mistaken, and it, for reasons best known to itself, was actually the busiest road I'd encountered in the whole of Laos. Throw in the silly Laotian vehicle combination of hundreds of motorcycles and wide 4x4 pick-ups and you've got a recipe for misery. Adding to this were the falangs, who had all rented motorcycles in Pakse to ride up to the Bolaven Plateau (it's what Lonely Planet says to do), and many of whom had no doubt never ridden a motorcycle before. Perhaps their occasional passing presence explained why none of the locals were shouting sabadee and waving to me. But I didn't care about that - I wanted to concentrate on the road.
Finally I'd had enough, and left this road and found a dirt track that was running parallel to it through the mixture of coffee plantations and natural woodland. Suddenly I was in a much nicer world, and could greatly enjoy the cycling, even if it was a little more tricky on the dirt surface. I'd not been on it long but it was getting late and I was thinking I would just find somewhere to camp next to the track, when a man came walking along in the opposite direction. I was a little put out by his army fatigues and the fact that there was absolutely nobody else around, but I was mostly put out by the great big rifle he held across his shoulder blades. 'No doubt just a harmless hunter' (now there's an oxymoron if ever I saw one) I thought, 'I'll just say hello and make sure he's friendly.'
"Sabadee" I said in my most cheerful way. He stared at me with cold eyes, his dour expression completely unmoved. "I'll just be going back to the main road then!"
Now I was in a bit of a fix with regards where to sleep, because most of the land was cultivated, and it seemed to me that anywhere that wasn't cultivated in southern Laos had swarms of men with guns roaming it. Not to mention that this was one of the most heavily bombed areas of the Second Indochina War, and I didn't really want to be trapsing around on uncleared land. Not to mention snakes. No, no wild camping here. No guesthouses in the immediate vicinity either, but fortune favours the stupid, and soon after rejoining the main road I came across another temple. Remembering Son Pot and his wonderful hospitality I pulled in and looked around for a chain-smoking monk to befriend.
There weren't any monks in sights. There were monkeys though, in a cage, and a couple of deer, one of which might have used to be a reindeer. It was like a temple-cum-petting zoo. There was also a couple that were visiting, and the woman spoke a bit of English, and went to ask the monks if I could stay. She came back and said that I could, and then a man appeared who, if he was a monk, wasn't a very convincing one, and he showed me to a building. It wasn't at all like the private room Son Pot had offered me though, it was a big building that might have been used for praying or dining, but was definitely used for storing junk. The young man laid out a thin blanket on the concrete floor and, I think, indicated that I could sleep on that.
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The building was open and the biggest mosquitoes I'd ever seen came to visit me, so I put my tent up inside. A woman was busying herself with some of the junk in the room, and had a most terrible cough. I hoped she wouldn't stay too long; I was awfully tired and hoping to get an early night. Then the man came back, with another young guy who could speak English. His name was Kat, and we spoke for a few minutes over a coffee. During this time an old monk came in, and he had a tremendous robe that had pockets all over it filled with things. It was like a workman's belt slung over his shoulder. I couldn't see what was in the pockets exactly, but most likely cigarettes and I-phones, if I know anything about monks. He didn't stay long, and neither did Kat actually. Before he left I asked about the coughing woman. "Oh, she is sleeping here too."
I tried to go to sleep, but the coughing was really annoying. I think the woman was quite sick actually, Kat seemed to suggest that she had even come here to be cured by the monks. I must admit that her problems in life were much worse than mine and I had a lot of sympathy for her but, on the other hand, I just wanted to sleep. Eventually it got too much and I dragged my tent outside and slept with the monkeys. Where I belong.
Today's ride: 35 km (22 miles)
Total: 36,201 km (22,481 miles)
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