Here we go again...

New country, new language. No more Latin characters either, making all signs indecipherable, and the task of learning twice as hard. Once again the indistinguishable to my ear tonal changes give a word as many as 5 different meanings, a small but crucial example being the word koi, which can mean both I and dick depending how it's stressed-still can't hear the difference. I decided not to leave a legacy behind me, people recalling the mad Greek cyclist who talked about dicks all the time, and not use the word ever, making my conversations less egocentric. The extremely polite officer at the border post snatched my 35 dollars for the visa, taught me my first 10 words-double the daily number I've imposed myself to- and off I went.

Contrary to the other side of the border and the shitty road leading to it, the road here was a two lane fine gravel soon to be tarmac, making my descent to Namnga, the village I'd be spending the night in, pleasant and easy. A sign that won the prize for funniest translation of the month informed me that the project's cost is “USD FORTY THREE MILLION ONLY”.

The second sign was a laugh riot .Give me another month of uncontrolled burning with vistas reminiscent of post-apocalyptic nightmares, and I'm switching to heavy drugs.

Entering the village I asked a young man if there were any guesthouses around and got directions in perfect English. Apparently he studied for a year in Sweden and now works for the ministry of agriculture in Vientiane and also teaches English. His sister was getting married the following day and I was promptly invited to the wedding.

Laotians might be accused of being lazy but they certainly are early birds. By 6 everybody is up and the loud music coming from every other house ensures that even heavy sleeping foreigners will find it hard staying in bed for more. Around 9 the first part of the ceremony started. The groom walked to the brides house, one of his close friends holding an umbrella for him. Everybody clapped their hands and laughed joyfully, the rice wine doing the rounds. Whenever offered, one has to drink two shots, one for the bride and one for the groom. After the third time and as double vision came, I silently protested that maybe it was too early to no avail.

Members of the extended family preparing the very yummy sticky rice for the wedding party. But more on that later...

As is customary, the groom has to knock on the bride's door and wait. The elders will open and ask him questions like “Who are you? What do you want?”. He answers, and if they are satisfied he can enter. Lots of laughter and commotion ensued-unfortunately I didn't get anything- and then everybody got in.

Shoes off! A very typical custom in SE Asia, shoes stay out of the house. The groom was the only one who kept them.

No exceptions. The bearer of a Johnny black that will be offered to guests in the wedding party afterward and finish me off, removes his shoes.

The bride's father, a very modest and well traveled man held a ceremony that felt very informal at times. People came and went, talked here and there, but always in a very joyful manner. The fact that the house served as the village's drugstore and the lack of monks didn't help either- the later not a prerequisite as I found out later.

 

At some point the couple held the table with the offerings in front of them and everybody behind them touched the one in front, reminding me of a similar but completely silly scene in Avatar. Me and my cinematic references...

The ceremony finished with everybody tying white blessing strings to the couple's wrists-sometimes too tight it seemed-which quickly escalated to a tying frenzy in any wrist available, mine included. 

The previous day trucks had unloaded hundreds of plastic chairs, tables and tents, and were set up next to the market, around a-surprise- powerful sound system. Lunch would officially start at 11.30 and tradition kept the two families standing by the entrance for at least 40 minutes to greet the guests. According to Kahmtan, about 1000 people would come from dozens of villages around the area.

I sat with Kahmtan's friends, half of them teachers, the other half working for the ministry of agriculture, and was happy to see that a)there was no rice wine around and b)plenty of food on the table. Two shots of johnny a few minutes ago had almost finished me and was craving for some food. Little did I know, the guys had 20 bottles of beerlao next to them and were eager to empty them. Two things worth noting here, beerlao is among the finest beers I've drank in my life and I always look for it but it is of no value when I'm having it among locals because custom has it that there is only one glass going around, each one drinking fast so as not to keep the rest waiting. The designated “filler” will just keep filling and passing it along. Resistance is futile and drunkenness to oblivion guaranteed.

A bit of dancing was in order, giving me hope that I would sweat out the excessive alcohol. Little did I know that dance here is similar to Cambodia, more of walking rhythmically in a circle, followed by delicate hand movements. It's fun, but will not make a drunk man feel better.

Kahmtan doing his moves...

By 4pm most of the guests were either very drunk and gone, or just gone. The few of us still standing moved to the parent's house for some more eating and drinking-mostly the later. A couple of hours later, when the whole thing had degenerated to incoherent mumblings and weak-from exhaustion-laughter, I decided it was time to crawl to bed. The fact that the rest of the guys were in a much worse condition than I was didn't seem to deter them. I've gone soft...

No, I'm not drunk...

Next day's ride, under any other circumstances would have been a breeze. 40 easy km on my way to Mung Khoa where I'd catch a bus to Luang Prabang and meet with two friends from back home, thus starting a 3 week no cycling holiday. Alas, a massive hangover prevented me from enjoying the ride, and made me wish I was somewhere-anywhere else, doing anything other than cycling. 6 litres of water and two aspirines later the pain was over.

Laos feels like a slightly upgraded version of Cambodia, the main difference being electricity. Equally remote places in the neighboring country wouldn't have any. By slightly, I mean that still there's plenty of villages without. The overwhelming majority of the rural population are subsistence farmers and live with the absolute bare essentials. Rice, boiled vegetables and river fish is the norm, once in a while affording to buy-or trade- a chicken or some buffalo/cow meat. Wooden houses on stilts are once again in fashion, as are half dressed children playing among cows, chicken and pigs, all eager to shout “falang, falang”-foreigner!- when they spot me, thus making the rest of the village aware of me and eliminating the possibilities of a relaxed pass-through.

Laos should be named “Country of the 1000 rivers” or something. Since I got here, not a single day has passed without having to cross some. Apart from providing food-though excessive fishing has decreased the populations to alarming degrees in many provinces- they also serve for transportation. One can literally cross the country up, down and sideways on a boat...

A friend, waiting for the bus.

...but I opted for a dusty, crammed bus for the first leg of the trip.

And one with thankfully law-abiding citizens for the second!