In Muang Ngoi I fell in love with bright green river weed. In its most beautiful form, it flowed behind rocks and branches in the green Nam Ou river. I loved seeing the men and women collecting it, drying it on the streets, and then mixing it with sesame seeds and smearing it as a paste on woven bamboo mats. Once dried into paper and fried, it tastes like a river and a cracker. The town may be one of the most beautiful places I've ever been. And I say this despite how sick I got. It took us 4 hours on a small wooden boat to reach this village of about 120 homes. There are no cars, no motorbikes and no electricity except by generator for a few hours in the evening. The river is green, the jungle green, the mountains are stacked layer upon layer. Bungalows over the river cost $1 a night. For meals we ordered lap lap vegetables (cooked with cilantro, scallions, red chillis, green chillis, and peanuts) and vegetable suzy, a medley cooked in coconut milk. It was the best food of the trip and cost $1 each. There are few tourists here, but enough to warrant some guesthouses and good restaurants on the river. Wandering the town, I saw river weed linng the streets, a family welding aluminum propellers, and women weaving on looms. At sunset we sat on the beach with Carlos, Barb and Kim while 5 little boys and a girl swam in their underwear and built a fire. They dragged bamboo into the fire, waited for each section to pop and then cheered.
The next day, December 9th, Carlos, Barb, Kim, Sarah and I took a canoe with a local guide to trek 2 hours up the mountain. It was the H'Mong New Year and we wanted to see the celebrations and stay in the village. On the way up the village I asked Tuy, our guide, how long people had lived at Muong Ngoi. They have been there for 45 years, since the Americans bombed the people from the mountains to the river. The kids in many of these villages run, screaming to their parents when they see foreigners, because they assume that all white people are Americans.
We reached the village, consisting of 40 houses made from woven bamboo after passing through rice fields and a Khmu village. A black pig was slaughtered and we ate bits of it for lunch, along with sticky rice and vegetables. In the evening, a rooster was circled around a bamboo pole and then sacrificed. With bamboo straws we drank a rice wine from a jar brought over from the Khmu village.
The chief invited us to his hut for dinner and festivities. I offered him a pack of cookies, as did Sarah and Carlos. Barb and Kim gave lao lao. He welcomed us there, saying he was glad to share with us, to interact with us and happy we wanted to be there learning from each other. Very old men sat around the chief and smiled and nodded. The chief offered out white rope for everyone to tie on each other's wrists and wear until they fall off--for good luck in the new year. Then everyone started passing the food--sticky rice, vegetables, cookies, candies, pork. The oldest man spoke French and handed me a fork full of pure pig fat, a warm gesture. I couldn't help but think that my country had been bombing this man and there was no way in hell that could refuse the piece of lard he was offering me.
Late in the night everyone toasted lao lao, danced, and played instruments around the fire. I woke up in the early morning sick. I managed to participate in the courting ritual. Teenage girls dress intheir best traditional costumes and toss indigo-dyed hemp balls to young male prospects. Men sit around and watch, smoking their bamboo bongs or playing a sport with a bamboo ball and net. Women nurse their babies.
vomit and shit my way down the mountain, on the steps leading up to the village. worst ive been. ive given up meat. more details later im off to dinner and to celebrate the last day of hanukah with sarah.
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