Not-Doing On The Mekong

There is a concept familiar to those who have read Carlos Castaneda's sorcery books called not-doing. Basically it involves a counter-intuitive alternative to activity which is the opposite of our usual goal or task-orientate approach. I have been practicing a bit of not-doing here in Laos. There are many tourist activities to indulge in, and here in Luang Prabag, the tourist is constantly being enticed with offers of every description. There are trips to caves and waterfalls, for example. You can go trekking to a Hmong villag, or even learn how to handle and train elephants. One is always hearing about the two-day slow boat trip up the Mekong to Houayxai, on the Thai border. But from what I had heard, they can oversell the boats and it can end up being two days of misery. That's a long time to go in sweltering heat, with no privacy and dodgy bathrooms. I gave all these things a pass and stayed with not-doing, rather than doing, as my modus operandi in LPB. Easy to do (or not-do) in the late rainy season heat and humidity. My daily routine is as follows: Rise early, get breakfast in my guest house, take a walk before it gets too hot, have lunch. Then it's time for a siesta. Wake early in the evening, take another walk, maybe have a drink somewhere and dinner. At the end of the day, a Lao-style massage ($5) where I am stretched and kneaded into a stupor and ready for sleep. A fairly satisfying schedule, and I have managed to put aside the traveler's guilt of not "seeing" or "doing" enough and just, well, "be".



It was after awakening from a particularly groggy jet lag-infused mid-day nap (you know, the kind that leaves you still tired and disoriented, as opposed to refreshed) that I walked down to the Mekong. One of the boatmen asked if I wanted to take a sunset cruise. I thought for a moment, still trying to wake up. Sure, that would be pleasant. He wanted 200,000 kip. I said I couldn't possibly pay more than 150,000 (about $18.50). He accepted a little too quickly (bargaining has never been my strong point, but there you go).

I reported to the riverside pier at the appointed time. After a seemingly interminable time watching a steamroller being loaded onto the crudest ferry I have ever seen, my boatmen (Phousi was his name) arrived with his craft. These longtail boats are rustic affairs, some more put together than others. This one was a rusty metal hulk with small wooden chairs covered in dirty pillows, bolted to inner rails. The roof consisted of irregular sheets of tin stamped with the emblem of a Bangkok box company. I was today's only passenger. No life jacket was provided. Nevertheless, the beast seemed seaworthy - if barely.

Phousi started the motor and we set out along the wide, brown river. Almost immediately the temperature dropped, a cool breeze wafted through the boat, and a strong scent of jasmine hung in the air. My mood immediately began to improve as I surrendered to the pace and rhythm of the journey. One can really see from this vantage point how the river is intertwined with people's lives. There were fishermen setting out their nets, families cavorted in the water while women washed clothes, groups of boys strutted and played as they dove in and out of the river. Further downstream, a sort of Luang Prabang Beverly Hills has been built by Laotians who have made their money out of the country. There were mansions that would not have been out of place in Napa Valley or the South of France. But mostly, it was people living exactly how they have lived along this river for hundreds of years, through French, Japanese, Thai and Chinese invasions and influence.



Phousi turned off the motor and let the craft drift with the current. The sunset was indeed spectacular (though I just missed photographing this very brief glorious moment). It was quiet, peaceful, and the scent of jasmine hung sweetly in the air. A perfect not-doing.