Midnight Laos Reverie

by Reed Resnikoff

I am writing this sitting on a tree stump, way past midnight, beneath the radiance of a blazing star canopy. In the immense bowl above, a spray of astral dots stretches in every direction towards infinity and bathes the countryside in a frosty glow. From the star shine alone on this moonless and cloudless night, my shadow is knife-sharp against the ground. I have never seen an evening sky like this before and probably never will again. This is the kind of night that sets a mind a racing. Big questions are posed, the answers pondered, as I sit here mesmerized by the cosmos.

It is exceptionally brilliant out tonight because I am literally in the middle of nowhere - Northern Laos to be exact, one of the least developed regions on earth. The nearest city of any note, Chiang Rai, is in another country 200 kilometers and four mountain ranges to the west. I and six others have arrived in this small village of Viangphoukha by motorcycle. We are on the wrong side of the Mekong River, as deep into Southeast Asia as it is possible to go, and loving every moment of it.

Northern Laos

Viangphoukha is a particularly clean and tidy cluster of split-bamboo and thatched-roof huts nestled in a crook of a river. Tiger and bear still roam the surrounding jungle. There is no electricity, telephone, running water, or jobs to speak of. But there are a few simple sundry shops, food stalls, and businesses, like the nameless guesthouse we are staying in—two bucks a night for a lumpy tick mattress in a Spartan cell, outhouse out back.

The food is nondescript and we consider ourselves lucky when we find ourselves eating something other than packets of instant noodles and tasteless, bony river fish. Several times, though, we happened upon a local delicacy—vendors selling skewers of barbecued porcupine. Unlike its thorny exterior, the flesh is succulent and sweet—the very reason why the animal needs such intimidating outer protection. The fried eggs in the morning are always fantastic, still warm from the hen, the yolks brightest orange and bursting with roundness. Yet, with all our personal discomforts, I wouldn't trade our surroundings for a five-star hotel suite or a table at Delmonicos.

Along our route from the Thai border to Luang Prabang, Viangphoukha is considered a metropolis of sorts compared to the numerous hill tribe settlements we have been passing and visiting. Indigenous groups, like the Hmong, Lisu, and Akha, still live much the way as their ancestors did twenty-times removed. Most of them could not even tell you what century we are in— life here follows the ancient rhythm of nature, before numbers became important.

They feed themselves with what they grow, raise, gather, and hunt. Their clothing and nearly all their everyday implements and utensils are crafted from what the forest provides. Chickens, ducks, mongrel dogs, pigs and piglets wander freely underfoot, scavenging for scraps.

First Contact with the Locals

The one cash crop in these parts is popaver somniferum, or poppy, from which is made opium. Due to government and NGO pressures, the poppy fields are now hidden from the roadside but are only a short walk beyond the first hills behind a village. Eliminating opium from a hill tribe culture is as absurd as denying a Frenchman his glass of wine. Opium for local consumption is mostly used by the old folks to chase away the aches and pains of a lifetime of toil. To forbid them this is both futile and cruel.

The motorcycle riding up here is nothing short of phenomenal. Our big riding dilemma is this; do we ride hard and fast, the way our motorcycles were designed to handle off-road conditions, and which also happens to be a hell of a lot of fun? Or do we drive slowly, taking time to smell the roses, to experience the jungle, and to enjoy the vistas? We end up doing a combination of both, but leaning more toward high performance riding — boys will be boys.

Fording a River

Your eyes must be peeled every second on that slice of road directly ahead or you will lose control of the bike and fall. Such prolonged concentration is difficult because the scenery, so breathtakingly beautiful in this rugged and virginal terrain, fights for your attention. It's a shame, really, but we must drive with self-imposed blinkers on.

The trails we travel are ancient trading routes as old as history and closely follow the jagged contours of this primeval landscape. They hug the spines of mountain ridges and corkscrew down the steeps, then burst out into verdant, picturesque, paddy-terraced valleys lost from time. Not an electric wire or telephone pole is to be seen, nor a scrap of litter.

Most of today's ride was on a horrible stretch of jungle trail that climbed up, over, and down two mountain ranges. From the top of one pass we could see Burma, and from the other one into Yunnan Province, China.

Cruising on a Mountain Trail

Our convoy, so far, had three falls that damaged motorcycles and bikers to varying degrees. Even with limps and bruises and bent rims, this hardly slows us down. A fall is just a wake-up call to pay closer attention. If you walk away from one and can restart your machine, count your blessings. After the toolbox and first aid kit are stowed away, we can hardly wait to jump back into the saddle to see what surprises await beyond the next curve. There is usually something there we have never seen before, and this trip is no disappointment in that regard.

We stop at one village, and investigate a knot of people surrounding a man in a tree seesawing up and down on a low springy branch. It was turned into an ingenious but rudimentary pressing machine. His helpers were pushing sugarcane stalks in between the branch he was riding on and the one below it. Juice is crushed out between the limbs and drips into collecting bowls on the ground. They gave us a taste and it's delicious. Then they let us take a go on their press and we reciprocate by letting them sit on our bikes and try on our helmets.

Impromptu meetings like this, between members of such two, disparate cultures, are one of the great joys of motorcycle touring through an undeveloped country like Laos. On a bike trip, we can stop whenever, wherever, and for however long the fancy strikes. Without having your own transportation in northern Laos, there is none. And no means of locomotion is more exciting or exhilarating than a motorcycle.

Entering the Village

The sugarcane pressers were speaking God knows what. None spoke a word of English. Still, we were able to converse using the elemental human language that is deep within us all: facial expressions and body gestures. We truly enjoy each other's brief company and encounters like this will be remembered and talked about by both sides for many years to come.

The motorcycles are the greatest icebreakers. None of the locals in this part of the world have ever seen a big bike before except in photos. Few have ever seen Westerners for that matter. So when seven of us, out of the blue, pull into a village in a cloud of dust, we indubitably draw a crowd of these gentle people who are as curious about us as we are about them. We become their entertainment and they become ours, which is a pretty fair exchange.

I admire an intricately embroidered vest worn by a wisp of an old woman with blackened, betel-stained teeth, and she is transfixed by my four-buckle, red plastic, steel-toed, motocross boots. I touch here hat. She tries on my gloves. She feels my thigh and is shocked by its girth. I then feel hers and am amazed by her toughness, earned from decades of climbing up and down the steep slopes of her valley with a fully loaded pack. We smile at each other warmly, happy for our acquaintance. I give her a hug and she breaks into girlish giggles.

The Motorbike Expedition Team

We are giants compared to the hilltribe people and frightened children hide behind the legs of their parents, peeking out when they think we are not looking. I am twice their size on average, and that is fodder for a lot of questions directed at our Laotian guide, Lat. Lat is always being asked “What do they eat and drink to get so large?” He answers them, “A lot!” Then it is usually, “Where do they come from? Where do they go?”

They invite us into their huts for tea, and inside is another world again.

The windowless interior is dimly lit and hushed, the packed-earth floor radiates a damp coolness. Thin beams of sunlight seep through the slits in the bamboo wall panels and slash across the interior in shards of brightness. Entrails of smoke from an open fire float nearly motionless through the air. It takes a couple of minutes for my eyes to adjust to the dark, but once they do, everything I take in is fascinating.

A bundle of leaves and feathers covered in cobwebs—a spirit shrine—is lashed above the doorway. Animal traps and snares fashioned from twigs and fibers, in all shapes and sizes, hang from the beams and central post. An ancient long rifle leans against a homemade loom with a half-finished cloth in progress. I wander around the hut trying to guess what each item is used for, items essential for their survival. They are amused by my inspection, and when I seem puzzled over an article, they demonstrate its purpose.

Everything is functional. Nothing is decorative except for their clothing and jewelry.

Viangphoukha Villagers

I try to imagine their reaction if one of them entered the glaring brightness of my Western domicile—plush carpeting and climate control, tiled bathrooms and gourmet kitchen, Beethoven in surround sound. Would they be able to fathom my microwave oven—cooking without heat, something I can't even, for the life of me, understand.

After spending time with the hilltribes, one soon recognizes that an alien species of human being they are not. They are simply another component branch on our family tree.

I cease paying attention to differences, and instead, savor our similarities. We both have to work to eat. We both have to get along with our neighbors, and we both share love with family and friends. We get hot, we get cold, we get sick and get better. We get old, but ever-present youth keeps the culture going. And both of us enjoy, more than anything else, to laugh and to have a good time.

I'd even bet that occasionally, on a sleepless night, the hilltribe people think of questions and look for answers under the same starry sky that started me on this reverie.

We would love to linger longer in Laos, but our time is limited. To do a tour like this exhaustively, we need double our allotment. Move on we must, and after warm and bittersweet goodbyes the next morning, it is back on the bikes for more motorcycle adventuring through the wilds of Southeast Asia.

Reed Resnikoff

Reed Resnikoff is the owner of our partner Asian Motorcycle Adventures. His company runs motorcycle expeditions all over Asia. This season he will be conducting motorcycle and 4x4 trips down the Ho Chi Minh Trail.