The last village was called Muang Khua, for the record.
So, we float up to the village like any other. The trip had been a few hours, and included me being told off by a caustic German tourist for, I was told, taking photos with my limbs positioned on the outside of the boat. I apologised profusely, then redoubled my filming efforts in much the same manner as before. Flabbergasted she spent the remainder of the trip complaining to my friends about my limbs and occasionally glaring down her camera lens in my general direction.
I had to chukle as I cast my mind back to this years royal wedding. Despite rising early I could manage 6th row at best to view the procession. Being tall this didn't bother me in the least. That is until there was anything to see, at which point ten thousand cameras shot up directly in my line of sight, completely obscuring any view I previously had. I can only imagine how my favourite German would have reacted to such insolence. Perhaps by beating the offending crowds down and then requesting the royals perform a second drive past. And a bit slower too, if you don't mind.
So, the boat arrives and we promptly split to locate lodgings. Beachy shacks are dotted around the place, all near the three awesome restaurants/bars which line the waterfront. And we soon retire to lunch at one of these, enjoying cool Bia Laos and watching the sun sinking slowly over the mountains. The water lapping below the bar, with the occasional boat shooting off to the sunset, enjoying a small unspoiled haven in an otherwise hectic corner of the globe.
This place is so unspoiled in so many ways. Electricity is available for three hours each day. The lodgings are bamboo and walls are weaved. Waiters trustingly ask you what you ordered then calculate the bill from your recount. Monks rise at 6am to gather food offerings. Bread is baked weekly. Markets are every ten days. Roosters nestle in every nook and cranny, rousing you with cries of oo-o-ooo-oo-oooo throughout the night (I loathe to write cock-a-doodle-doo because it doesn't really sound like that and whoever made that up was just being silly.) There is nothing but shacks along one dirt road with food stalls and dogs and shiny happy people laughing.
Our adventures were few but significant, in between hours of eating, drinking, and socialising with the group (which increased beyond size 13 on one or two occasions).
The first thing you notice from the village is a steep mountain towering over you. So the decision was made to climb the thing. After an hour of unsuccessful false starts we returned to the village in search of a guide. We found and hired 'The Teacher', whose confidence at tackling this little hill inspired me to harden up. We set out with Teacher plus Hunter towards the starting track and it wasn't long before Teacher was gasping for air and asking for a rest. We stopped a few times for his convenience and to be repeatedly asked whether we were sure we wanted to carry on despite the dangers ahead. "I'm not worried about me, it is you that I am worried about" was Teacher's mantra. Pushing on he confided in us: "I am very unfit as I have not done this in three years". And then later on still, after a fit of hysterical laughter, he exclaimed that he had never been this high up the mountain before. Ever. The confidence he had displayed earlier in the day still stuns me. Perhaps he truly expected us to balk. Straddling cliffs, scaling trees, sliding along waterfalls of dirt, we eventually stumble out at the top. We were greeted with an amazing view over all the lands around.
Ecstatic, Teacher exclaims "I should build a concrete platform here." We turned on him in unison.
Once lunch was completely devoured we began the down climb, hindered slightly by Craig's barely recovered MCL. Teacher's earlier cries of concern over our safety were clearly redundant as he was the only liability present. On two occasions he bumped in to me whilst I was precariously balancing my mass down the hill, warning me of his instability. A warning well deserved as he soon tumbled completely and righted himself by grabbing on to my backpack, knocking me considerably off balance also. Less than amused I regularly informed him to clear off whenever hand holds became too sparse.
The climb was amazing. About 4.5 hours in total, and well worth the sweat and aching limbs. Teacher looked equally ecstatic to have reached ground level again, bless him.
Our reward for the march was one of the tastiest Indian meals I can recall. Delicious curries (only chicken) were all winners.
The last day was spent walking through three different caves, the best of which was located en route to a nearby village. We stumbled, crawled, clambered our way through dark ravines with 30 ft drops off in to nothingness. The gentle trickle of an underwater stream being the only noise. Rest easy Mum & Dad; I, as per usual, took no risks, and abstained from progressing on two occasions.
The village we finally reached on foot was cool. The lead in was over waterless, sun crusted paddies. Cows grazing. The village was small. Dusty. Full of dogs and happy kids laughing. And roosters. And more dust. We turned and marched back the hour or so to a pub, where we were met by everyone, as per usual. We spent the evening drinking and laughing under the bright night stars before hunger led us to dinner. Indian again. Superb. Leaving a town has never been so hard.
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