Green trees, brown water, red and blue boats, jagged, moist rocks poking up from the riverine depths. More Mekong sights, but this time–on the river, churning and chugging through the calm muddy currents. Engine grumbling behind, people spread out on used minivan seats, fires ashore. Trees like stars, uncountable and mesmerizing. Light rain, coldest air I’ve felt in 2 months, cruising speed.
Houses disguised as 3 sided shacks balanced on tenuous mud and sand slopes. Construction is not a paramount for river dwellers. Water buffalo striving for honor of laziest draft animal stand at the banks and pretending to chew gum and blankly stare at their reflections.
Beaches made of wonderfully light white sand, surrounded by hills, no footprints.
The river rapids slow us to a crawl. Whitewater rising and bubbling from the murky, mercurial depths, swirling in a pulse of surface energy. Some haggard man, teeth brutally stained from betel-nut rests on his haunches atop a black rock and barely even acknowledges our presence.
What dank fish live in this water? What muddy-eyed salamanders crawl beneath these smooth stones? What type of predator is here? No crocs, no barracuda, no sharks, no teeth, it’s like a river meant for toe dipping. Fish throw themselves into nets, bite unloaded lures, lunge past the tides and crawl ashore onto the grill. They are giving fish. The peaceful and fully edible Mekong.
The clouds are thick, obscuring any rays save the glimmer of sunshine. Fresh Rain smells mixed with parched boulders begin to permeate the aerated boat. Hours later, I have the answer to that great American bard of rock n roll, John Fogarty, I have seen rain coming down on a sunny day. Sun out, fisherman fishing, rain drizzling, rocks shining in the wet glare, we push on. Rivulets have carved tiny meandering hollows in the sandy shore.
Slowly, we approach shore. The old woman seemingly made entirely of sinewy muscle and old skin goes ashore on some dangerous rocks with a young boy dressed nicely. We leave them squatted on the rocks figuratively but almost literally, in the middle of nowhere. Rocks still drying, resemble wet, unmolded clay with a bumpy texture.
The scariest part of the Mekong is its opacity. No knowing the depths. Only wonder of the life below. It’s like the Mississippi, just a polite, helpful old river. Nothing to worry about here.
We finally pass some kids about dusk. They sit like friendly gargoyles upon the rocks, legs dangling, waving, most likely completely unaware of another world beyond the river and her murky wealth. Further on, we see a deeply tanned statue posing as a boy holding a net within a small cave like hole, ensconced by rocks.
Started rainy, now sunny with puffy cottony clouds. Hills closer and higher, we pass a copse of singing trees. The peculiar little black birds tweeting a morning chorus to the river. Dense engine sound obfuscating the rich jungle din. Vines growing upon vines, branches hugging each other. The birdsong and frogs making an orchestra out of the shoreline, with me in a front row. Birds on flutes, frogs on horns, cicadas the drum and rhythm section. A leaf barren tree teems with black birds sitting, posing and chirping. Wifi towers planted on hillsides otherwise devoid of life hint of things deeper in those forests. Quarry, bulldozers, trucks, cranes, terraced hills, new bridge construction.
Nasty yellow foam bubbles swirling beside plastic rubbish and scattered debris. Styrofoam floating in sad circles in gentle whirlpools.
A woman in classic long Laos skirt and silky pink shirt spits phlegm wretched from the bowels of her gullet over the side of the boat for the sixth time in two hours. She spits as well (and as loud) as an outfielder. Cows and a fat pig sit on the beach dreaming calmly.
Journey complete and back on terra firma, legs twitchy for exercise, body sticky for shower, ears ringing from the incessant engine roar, I feel a sense of completion. Mekong will be behind me tomorrow, replaced by new Thai surprises.