by Vago Damitio
My host was as weathered as the house he presided over. His hair had that bowl cut look of the Yanomami when they pose for pictures in National Geographic. His eyes were small and black. He looked more like a Mexican than an Asian Tribesman. He wore a roughly woven sarong in bright reds and greens that contrasted oddly to his withered and dusky skin. Besides this festive garment his only ornamentation was the necklaces and bracelets made of jagged shells, teeth, and sinister red and black beads.
I had felt pensive climbing the ladder through the small door, wondering if the swift strike of a machete would separate my body from my head. I continued climbing, seeing, and smelling the sour and fecal smell that got stronger as I pulled myself into the opium den. There were no windows, a half dozen candles were lit throughout the room and I could see shadowy figures lying on straw mats with triangular pillows under their arms as other shadowy figures held pipes to their heads and brief flares of fire turned the tarry substance to an orange ember.
I was led thorough a maze of bodies resting while their mental occupants visited various levels of Euphoria. They were all Lao; I was the only foreigner that I could see.
Reaching an empty mat, I assumed the position of the forms around me, lying on my left side with the pillow under my arm and body propping me into an upright position. The old man muttered in the strange Acka opium speak. His words a hissing and guttural whisper. He lifted the water pipe to my mouth and lit a phosphorous match.
I inhaled and felt as if I were lifting just slightly from the cushion I rested on. My body didn’t seem so heavy as I rolled my eyes back in my head and imagined a smoke dragon filling up my lungs and spreading throughout the rest of my cellular fiber.
I wasn’t sure how much time passed while I drifted in and out of incredible worlds of color, but when I emerged it was to a very different landscape than the one I had been mentally criticizing since I arrived in Asia from Seattle two months before.
I stopped noticing the lack of sanitary facilities, I quit being embarrassed when I came upon old women washing themselves in the river, and I lost all interest in sitting in the guesthouse restaurant with fellow travelers and playing cards while the Lao people served beers and banana pancakes. I had gone bamboo.
And now I stood on my porch wanting to escape the giggling French couple in the next bungalow, wanting to howl with the tribes as lightning flashed age old fears across the visor of my humanity.
Fear of a different sort held me in stasis. My civilized mind told me of the impossibility of becoming anything other than a civilized American from Seattle. It told me everything I couldn’t do, but offered no positive alternatives.
I was in a dilemma, the monkey brain tying the human consciousness up in knots so that I didn’t even notice as the beast removed my clothing, wrapped the sarong around my waste and walked me into the chaos of my senses where the people howled with fearful joy.
Johnny handing over money to a much friendlier river pirate.
The Dread Pirate Saechao
A half million kip to take us from Xiangkok to Huey Xai on the Mekong River.
“Song hoi hasib phanh kip,” the one eyed man said pointing at me and then at Johnny as he said it again. Two hundred and fifty thousand kip…each.
“No,” Johnny said in his perfect Oxford English, “ I refuse to give this…pirate…so much. He won’t even bargain with us.” He tried one last time, however. “Si Hoi Pan Kip.” He consulted his phrasebook and then said it again pointing at us both.
It was only a savings of one hundred thousand kip, or $10 US, but it was the principle. We couldn’t maintain face if we paid the full fare the speedboat man had asked for to begin with. By refusing to bargain with us he was sneering in our faces, showing his contempt for our skin, our race, and our attempts at bargaining.
Saechao smiled broadly and shook his head. “Ha hoi pan kip.” Half million, firm. He reached under his eye patch and turned away from the Englishman and me to go back to the table where he had been eating his lunch.
“Hey, it’s no problem,” I said in my bright American way. “We’ll find another boatman, somebody who will haggle with us, hell, maybe we could even take a slow boat all the way to Luang Prabang. Let’s go get something to eat and then we’ll find another boat.”
“I don’t see many other boatmen around here,” Johnny surveyed the dusty streets of the village.
The Mekong River flowed brownly through the deep gorge below. Twisted rock formations lay like shipwrecks scattered through the water. The village was made up of a half dozen open sided restaurants built on bamboo platforms leaning over the cliffs. The restaurants were little more than a wood barrel stove, bamboo mats, low tables, and a roof. We picked up our backpacks and trudged up the dusty street in search of a cool resting spot from the blistering Lao sun.
We’d arrived an hour earlier after a bumpy ride from Muang Singh by a combination of truck and bus on the semi developed dirt roads which connect one tiny Northern Lao town with another one. Just holding on to the truck itself had been an incredible physical feat that left us both exhausted and dirty.
The feeling of elation at finally seeing the Mekong was quickly replaced with exasperation when Saechao was the only one who would talk with us about transport to Huey Xai. Negotiations had led nowhere despite our attempts at bargaining, pleading, and finally humorous exasperation. Which left us in our present circumstances.
Walking across a swaying bamboo floor it felt like the weight of our packs would bring us tumbling down the cliffs and into the filthy Mekong.
We’d read that morning about the “speedboat mafia” in Xiangkok. The corrupt river men who extorted money from travelers and intimidated all competition into sending foreign business to them. We’d taken the warnings in Lonely Planet lightly, figuring that two seasoned travelers such as ourselves would be able to skirt any potential price gouging.
The restaurant too was overpriced and the villagers had none of the friendly looks other Lao people had seemed defined by.
“Chicken fried rice, please” Johnny pointed at the menu.
“No chicken,” the woman told him.
“Pork fried rice then,” he feeling slightly offended that the menu was inaccurate.
“No pork,” she told him.
“What do you have then?” he asked.
“Chicken and vegetables,” she said.
“I thought you had no chicken, I’ll have the chicken fried rice, please.” Johnny was beginning to feel slightly persecuted.
“No chicken,” she said again, “Chicken and vegetables.”
He started to argue, realized the futility and nodded his head. “Okay, chicken and vegetables.” She stepped three feet away to prepare the food.
“What do we do now mate?”
I held back the laugh I felt inside me. “Well, I figure we eat, then we go back and offer him 200,000 kip each. Give him time to think he lost us. Hey, all I’ve got is travelers checks, do you have enough to loan me 200,000.” It felt ridiculous to ask for such a huge amount of money.
Johnny pulled a paper sack out of his side bag and dumped it on the table. Three two inch thick piles of 5000 kip notes. “Here’s 250,000. Pull fifty thousand from the pile and put it in your other pocket. If he won’t take 400,000, we can offer him 450.” The food arrived. The portions were small and the taste was bland. “It might be worth getting ripped off just to get out of here.” I looked at the small table on the other side of the restaurant where three old men were glaring at us. “This doesn’t feel like a very friendly place.”
We finished up our food and walked back down the street. We put our packs down and when Saechao looked like he was going to get up we motioned to him and he sat back down with a grin.
“Now, you stay here with the packs, and I’m going to go down to the water and see if those other boatmen will give us a ride,” I said, “It’ll be good to let him know we’ve got other options.”
I scrambled down the rocky cliff to the wat
erline where three slow boats and a half dozen cigar shaped yellow speedboats were tied up. I stopped when I got to the waters edge and watched as a man stripped down to his underpants, waded into the river, and began moving the speedboats so that his slow boat could push out to the water.
“Hey, um, excuse me…” the swimmer looked up at me “You go Huey Xai? Huey Xai? Rakkha thao dai?” How much? The man frowned and looked at the water.
“No. No Huey Xai. Saechao. You..Saechao Huey Xai.” He refused to say anything more, just gesturing up the hill where I could see the pirate eating his noodles and looking down at me. I could see Johnny talking to two other river men in the street. Maybe he was having more luck. I tried to talk to three more boatmen with the same result. Each time they frowned and pointed up to the now laughing Saechao. Nobody would deal with us. Nobody but the pirate.
Finally, disappointed and frustrated, I climbed the hill to find Johnny attempting to negotiate a price with the two men. They refused to budge from the initial price.
“I checked on a bus, mate, and it seems there is only one each day. We’re stuck here until tomorrow unless we pay these scoundrels. They won’t budge. I refuse to pay that much.”
“Oh, come on Johnny, let’s see if he’ll negotiate now.” I started towards Saechao.
“Hey, what did you find out? What did the other boats say?” Johnny didn’t sound very hopeful, probably because I was already walking towards the restaurant.
“They pretty much refused to talk to me. They all told me to talk with him. He seems to be the godfather of the local speedboat mafia. We don’t have much choice here.”
I walked up to Saechao who now had a huge grin across his face.
“Song hoi hasib pahn kip,” he held out his hand with the air of one who knows he will get what he wants. He pointed at each of us and said slowly in turn “Song hoi hasib pahn kip.” His grin threatened to spread beyond his narrow face.
I pulled the wad of cash out of his pocket. “Song hoi pahn kip” I said as I handed it over. Saechao was all business as he counted the stack of notes.
“Okay,” he said and motioned to Johnny that he should pay next. Johnny handed him another stack of notes.
“Hey, wait a minute,” I said pulling my camera from my bag “I gotta get a picture of this.” The pirate kept his big grin for the camera and held my notes while Johnny aped a pleading posture and held out the second stack.
Snap, the picture alone was worth the $40 he was asking.
Saechao counted Johnny’s wad. He motioned, irritated, “Hasib pahn kip.” He held out his hand for more money.
“No,” Johnny said, “Same, same.” He motioned to the two piles. I started to get an uneasy feeling. I’d only counted off fifty thousand from the top, not bothering to count the big pile.
“Wait a minute,” I reached for the first stack of bills, “Let me count that.” In a minutes time I no longer felt like smiling. “I apparently gave him 250,000. Fuck, I only counted fifty from the top…fuck it man, lets just pay him. We lose. It’s only $5 each.”
“Right,” Johnny said taking his 200,000 back, "But it’s the principle, I refuse to give this scoundrel my money. I’ll find someone else and pay them instead.” He walked out back to the street and stood by the packs with an offended look on his face.
“I’m gonna pay him Johnny. Fuck it. He’s the only game in town. C’mon it’s not worth it to get pissed off.” I handed the pile of cash back to Saechao who was still grinning. He motioned a dismissive gesture at Johnny and took the money, walking up the street to a rickety cantina where he changed the whole stack for a relatively small amount of Thai baht with an old Lao woman who drank whiskey from a dirty mason jar. He motioned to me and two old women inside the canteen and started down towards the boats.
“C’mon Johnny, just pay him,” I grabbed my pack and followed Saechao and the other passengers. Johnny’s face was set in an expression of English resolve. I was torn between staying with my stubborn friend or taking what I now realized was the only way out of this tourist hell. I figured Johnny might change his mind as he saw me get on the boat.
Saechao stowed the pack and the women’s colorful tarp bags in the front and indicated where we should sit. I stood on top of the sand dune and gestured to the irresolute Johnny who still stood on the hilltop like a statue, his body language indicating that he was thoroughly pissed off.
“C’mon Johnny… Fuck it… just c’mon!” I yelled it up the hill and saw my friend’s resolve crumble as he grabbed his pack and trotted down the hill to where Saechao was getting ready to cast off. Johnny held the money towards him but now the pirate simply shook his head. He wouldn’t let Johnny on the boat now.
“Oh, c’mon, give me a break!” I stepped out of the boat, grabbed Johnny’s pack and put it in the front with the other baggage. At this point, Saechao started to protest but then decided to take the Englishman’s money and made room for him in the narrow vessel.
It was about 15 feet long, painted bright yellow, and just wide enough to allow one person to sit in it. We four passengers sat in a line with our legs pulled tightly in front of us. Me first, then a middle aged woman, then the older woman, then Johnny, and in the back, the pirate, directly in front of the huge motor which extended the prop another 15 feet beyond the end of the craft on a metal pole. The engine made a high pitched, ultra loud mosquito sound as he started it.
The boat pulled back from the Lao shore and edged to the center of the Mekong, midway between Laos on one side and Burma on the other. I looked closely to see if there was any difference in the noticeable landscape or architecture but saw two sides of the same river. Both equally victim to massive slash and burn agriculture, both nestling equally impoverished villages, both victims of the poverty that gripped the entirety of the Golden Triangle, the area of the world where the majority of heroin is produced.
The only visible difference was the Burmese flag that flew on one side and the lack of any flag at all on the Lao side. The invisible difference was that Burmese rebels were extremely thick along this part of the river and atrocities, gunmen, and rebellion might be happening anywhere in the dense jungle that lay along the banks. Suddenly I realized a bullet could easily find it’s way into my head. I kept the thought to myself but hoped Saechao would drive quickly.
My hopes were quickly realized as Saechao brought the boat up to what seemed an extremely unsafe speed. The shallow keel of the boat kept us seemingly hovering on top of the water and the slightest wave or rapid threatened to send us careening out of control into one of the gigantic rock forms that Saechao jetted us through. The spray soaked me and the baggage riding in the front of the boat. It occurred to me that perhaps I should be scared, but the ride was too thrilling. To be zipping between river carved formations in a pirate speedboat down the Mekong. It sounded too fantastic to be real, but it was, and that made it thrilling.
The boat stopped first at a small Burmese village. Saechao pulled the boat close to the shore where some rocks blocked out the illegal landing from any authorities who might be watching. I reached out and touched the ground, excited to be momentarily making contact with a foreign country without any sort of official permission. No visa, no customs, just my hand grabbing Burmese rock. The middle aged woman grabbed her rainbow colored tarp bag and stepped onto the rocks. Saechao pushed the boat back out to the center of the river and resumed the high-speed journey.
The next woman was dropped off a short distance further at a Lao village where naked children dove from rotting dugout canoes and the villagers lined up on the ridge top to see who was coming. The woman’s family came down and waited for her and her many bags and boxes. I stepped out of the boat and helped the woman ashore while Johnny started to haul her bags to her waiting friends and family.
“Kop jai lai lai,” she sang to us as the boat pulled out, “”La kwarn.” Thank you, goodbye.
Local passengers gone, the pirate began to pilot his boat like a daredevil. Zipping past slow
freighters, zig zagging in and out of hulking boulders, and splashing through massive rapids that filled the compartment housing Johnny and my bags with river water. We were soaked too. The pirate laughed as each new wave of water crashed into us over the bow.
He zoomed by a freighter heading up river and I lifted my hand in a wave to the man sitting on the boats bow. The man started to wave, saw whose boat it was, and lifted his fist in the air, shaking it and spitting what sounded like curses after me. He seemed to know the dread pirate Saechao, he seemed to know him and to hate him.
For the first time, I began to seriously worry. This guy was bad news. His laughter as the packs were slung around the front of the boat was menacing. In my worried state I scarcely noted when the Burmese riverbank disappeared and the Thai riverbank began. There were no markers for the invisible political boundary. One moment it was a landscape of desolation and smoking hillsides and the next it was giant golden temples, double decker tourist buses, and newly paved roads. The change was immediate and strangely surreal.
The sun glinted from the golden towers on the Thai side of the river as it made its way to the horizon. Sunset was not far off. Saechao maneuvered the boat to a large dock.
“Is this it?” Johnny asked “Huey Xai?”
“No,” Saechao gestured down the river. “Huey Xai…one more hour.” He smiled hugely. “We stop for night. Sleep. Tomorrow Huey Xai.” He pulled the boat to the dock and began to secure it. “You find guesthouse now.” He stepped from the boat and walked to a table on the dock where three Lao men sat playing cards. He pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Wait a minute,” I said from the front of the boat where I still sat. “Is this guy ripping us off just taking us halfway and then stopping?” It was unbelievable. I got out of the boat and walked up to the four men. “No. You take us now. We pay you to take us. Go now.”
