Slow Boat Down the Mekong River

Travel Story by Aaron Smith

Laos

Five hours north of Chang Mai in Northern Thailand on the Mekong River, bordering Laos, is Chang Kong. This is the Golden Triangle which, in its heyday, was the black market capital of opium production. The black tar is still here and offered to tourists on whispered breathe on street corners by predatory tuk tuk drivers. Those curious should tread carefully, as the police are often not far behind. Hefty fines, bribes or worse still, the hang man's noose, await those fallen to the fold.

I rise early and cross the Mekong to Laos by canoe. Completing my immigration paperwork I board my slow boat to Louangphrabang. It is a long narrow barge-like vessel sitting low in the water, with a loud rattling diesel motor and wooden benches that are hard on the backside. An overhead canopy provides some respite against the already oppressive heat of the blazing tropical sun. The jungle is thick, lush and impenetrable, full of mystery. Steam curls up like wisps of smoke from a forest that extends from the top of a ragged skyline of steep mountains down to the water's edge. Its tendrils finger the waterline as the river laps against its banks. The captain of our boat expertly maneuvers the vessel through rapids and around precarious crags of limestone jutting out of the river. We pass a Buddhist monk meditating on a large boulder at the river's edge. Deep in his experience he seems not to notice us pass by. Eyes closed, draped in orange robes, he sits cross legged with a stick of burning incense pinched between the fingers of one hand and a string of beads in the other. This place has a magical quality about it.

My random traveling companion sitting next to me happens to be a French expatriate in his fifties who lives in Northern Thailand. He is doing a visa run - getting another month stamped on his passport. Apparently he's been doing it for years. I suspect like many other foreigners here, or farang as the locals call us, he is also on the run from something, somewhere or someone, or maybe just from himself. He explains that this is where the legend of the Chinese dragon originates and that there are strange, long snake-like fish in these waters that resemble the mythical beast. He produces an old dog eared black and white photo from his pocket. It's of a group of American GIs from the war and they are holding one of these creatures, some eight meters long. His eyes sparkle as he explains how the soldiers caught the beastie and how he believes it to be a close relative of the dragon. He is positive dragons are real and is determined to catch one - like some great white hunter lost in a Tolkien's wilderness of myth and mystery.

The aromatic scent of clove tobacco fills my nostrils. I turn to look at the skipper who is grinning. A hand rolled cigarette is clenched tightly between his yellow rotten teeth, like some demented, crazed Popeye the Sailor Man. He winks at me. We are in safe hands.

The waters of the Mekong, opaque, milky, tinged with green conceals its secrets. It froths, foams and churns. Eddies and whirlpools spin. Leaves and semi-submerged tree branches are trapped in perpetual cyclic motion, caught for eternity. This place is timeless, with no hint of civilization. A distant mountain peak is hidden by low cloud as lightening strikes its side and the rumble of thunder fills the air, but directly above us the sun is still shining. This river not only borders two countries, but myth and reality as well. I stare intently at the water hoping to catch the flick of a dragons tail, submerged in the mysteries of the Mekong.

Illustration by Bob Veon
(Bob Veon's Website)

Read more about the author of this story:
Aaron Smith

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