21. LAZYBONES

I think we've run out of adventurous steam. All these months of excitement have left me feeling inclined to sitting around in cheap, sunny bars and having very little happen to me. After Laos, we managed to pass through Cambodia without really doing anything. In fairness, this probably put us more in tune with the locals than in any other country we've visited. They're not ones to over-exert themselves.

We did visit Angkor Wat, but I think pretty much everyone else in the world was there at the same time, so you probably already know about that. Then we headed to Phnom Penn, the capital. Busy, but essentially slow moving, like Hanoi on downers.

I didn't realise until I visited Cambodia the scale of the horror that the people have endured in recent history, which may explain why today they don't appear to give a hoot about anything. There's an occasional show of effort, but it's not really followed through. At our guesthouse in Phnom Penn, home-made signs had been tacked to the walls advising that drugs, prostitution, drawing on the walls and ironing in the rooms were not allowed. Well, the first thing the owner did after we checked in was try to sell us weed; he had women in the bar who if they weren't prostitutes were certainly over/under-dressed for the location; and someone had drawn a huge naked Buddha on our bathroom door. I can't prove this but I suspect there may even have been ironing going on in there. Scandalous.

Other than this naughtiness it wasn't a place that encouraged activity, rather having the feel of a Victorian madhouse or First World War field hospital about it: frazzled Englishmen and the occasional stray American sitting around drinking tea in their dressing gowns until late in the afternoon, staring dead-eyed into the middle distance and muttering occasionally to themselves. We tried to be a bit more active but the tourist sights of the city - killing fields and a former school turned Khmer Rouge prison - aren't the sort of things to write about in such a facile document as this blog.

Leaving Phnom Penn in a half-hearted search for adventure, we headed to more rural parts to visit some of the country's famous floating villages. Bobbing about on gentle waters seems to suit the Cambodian temperament, and charging foreigners $15 an hour to visit them seemed to suit the temperament of the Vietnamese lady who took us out there on her boat, so we didn't hang around long.

After that it was a few days in Kampot, a lazy river town populated almost entirely by ageing French drunkards and infant Cambodians who like terrifying foreigners by leaping out of the bushes and bellowing "Hello" at them, then we came back into Vietnam. Having realised we were doing not very much anyway, we decided we might as well do it on the beach, so headed for a lovely place called Phu Quoc island. Full of Russians, for some reason. Beautiful though. Mari, who's always more energetic and adventurous than me, went scuba diving, but I limited myself to snorkelling. The alien fish and blooming coral was possibly the most absorbing thing as I've ever seen as I bobbed a few feet above it on the service of the water. Even just bobbing about there was fun. I think I might finally be falling in with the local temperament.

20. BACK TO THE BIG BUDDHA

Buddhists: offering nothing in return

Back in Luang Prabang, the novice monks are preparing for the festival that marks the end of the rainy season and appeals to heaven for a good harvest. They nimbly fashion boats of shaped bamboo and blazingly colourful paper that they'll later float down the river dripping with lanterns.

In the sunshine outside their temples, the older novices fix together the pieces and whisper instructions to the more excitable youngsters who clamber around inside the dragon-headed boats.

Visitors are encouraged to talk to the student monks, who apparently like to practice their English. A fascinating prospect, but unfortunately it's a complete waste of time as they have nothing whatsoever to say. Activity without purpose or reward. Perhaps it's supposed to be; maybe there's some sort of lesson in there. But I think I can say that I don't need any lessons in wasting my time from a Buddhist monk. I'm already on the Seventh Level with that.

Obviously I'd like to say something more enchanting about the whole experience, but I can't. It was like tormenting animals: it's easy but it's not right.

We apprehended one of them who was lurking about near us as if he wanted a chat, but the boy was a nervous wreck: fidgeting with his robes, mumbling monosyllabic answers, shuddering his legs and gazing over our shoulders as if he was longing to be somewhere else. The whole thing had the feeling of an interrogation about it. Blazing sunshine, the unwilling suspect in baggy orange, Western persecutors towering over him... visions of Guantanomo Bay started nagging at my mind.

Have you ever tried talking to anybody who's recently joined Alcoholics Anonymous? I have, funnily enough.  It's piss in the wind. They'll answer you, but it's not really them. They've sort of severed the connection. This was a bit like that.  

Of course I could blame myself for all this, I could admit that I'm too demanding, too forward, too expectant of easy answers, too brash and too European. But I didn't. I blamed Mari. You're obviously making him nervous, I said; he's been educated in isolation with other young men, he's not used to talking to women. I need to talk to them by myself.

Mari was more than happy to let me continue my persecution of religious figures single-handed so I went off wandering the streets looking for another temple. Just walking the streets in Luang Prabang is fun in itself because they all have lovely names like Sissavangvong, Chittychittybangbang and Chattanouga-Choo-Choo, the tuk-tuk drivers are all asleep and there's a beautiful temple every few yards. Unfortunately I got pretty much the same response in every one.

Me: Is it ok if I watch you working?
Oldest novice: [Nods silently]
Me: The boat is for the festival?
Oldest novice: Yes
Me: It's very beautiful
Oldest novice: [Nods rather smugly, in my opinion]
Me: You've studied here for many years?
Oldest novice: Yes
Me: I've come from England. Life in Laos is different. I'm very lucky to have the chance to see this.
Infant novice: HELLO!!!!!!
Me: Erm... hello.
Infant novice: FA-RANG, FA-RANG!!! [Means, variously, 'Foreigner', 'Frenchman' or 'Long-nose', depending whose translation you believe]
Oldest novice: [Stern but indecipherable rebuke to the infant, sometimes followed by a slap on the head].
Me: Do you like to study here?
Oldest novice: Yes.
Me: Ok... well, maybe I'll just stand over there and take some photos. Is that ok?
Oldest novice: Yes please.

It's much more rewarding speaking to the ordinary people in Laos, particularly the guesthouse owners. They're all very animated. Madame Pap runs the cheapest lodgings in the village of Tad-Lo - seven mattresses lined up along a wooden floor - and is possibly the most charismatic person we've met in six countries. She says she's 45 but looks 15 years older; she's had a hard life, she explains. Her husband left her with four children to bring up and ran off to Thailand with a younger woman. He recently died from electric shock while attempting to change a light bulb. Madame Pap looks unperturbed by the news. She moves over to the light bulb and mimes out the action of a man being violently killed by electrification to make sure we get the point. Then she draws on her cigarette in the manner of a French philosopher and shrugs insouciantly, as if such an end were to be expected.

Her infant grandson is propped on the floor of her cafe, watching her wide-eyed. He also has "no Papa", she says. It seems he got sick, his belly swelled to an incredible size, then he died. Then his belly returned to normal, but by that time he was no further use to anybody. She shrugs again. It's very hot, she explains.

The child periodically bursts into unprovoked tears, as if he's understood something of the painful fates awaiting males of his line.

We were staying in a slightly more expensive place down the road - our own private shack, with larger and more interesting lizards hiding in the walls - but spent our days lounging in Madame Pap's cafe, which is the social centre of a village where nothing ever happens. Every day the manager of the tourist information office would come in for boozy three-hour lunch breaks then go and put big speakers on the window ledges of his office and blare out western rock music and snooze on the steps for the rest of the day. Local women trundled up, made half-hearted attempts to sell us trinkets, then passed out in the hammocks. If we ordered food, Madame Pap would light another cigarette and sit down for a rest. After about twenty minutes she might wander indoors in the direction of the kitchen. Another half-hour after that I might go in to find her watching TV and gently ask if she planned to start cooking soon. An hour later she'd emerge with a plate of noodles huge enough to make sure we didn't trouble her again for a while.

Down the road in Champasak, our host was the most easily amused man I've ever met. He wouldn't tell us his name; I did ask him but he just burst out laughing, like he did at everything else. At one point a German banged his head on the roof and I thought the man was going to explode with mirth. His biggest giggle, however, was reserved for when he sold us "VIP" transport arrangements to 4000 Islands. I should've known something was wrong. In the morning he walked us down to the river front, put us on a rickety four-seat wooden junk, and pushed us off while he stood on the sand shouting "good luck" and waving with both hands. I had the feeling of an early human setting off on an adventurous but naive sea discovery voyage, perhaps aiming to reach the moon. Amazingly we made it to the other side, and even more amazingly the bus turned up two hours later. Full. As I sat on the steps, my feet dangling out of the open door and over the bumpy dirt road, I wondered what the arrangements would have been if I hadn't gone for the VIP ticket. Maybe they'd have found some space for me on the roof rack. Well, at least it wasn't going very fast. If I'd fallen out I probably wouldn't even have died. Major skin loss and a big chunk out of my head, perhaps, but not death. I'm a VIP, after all.

Anyway, I don't want to engage in another prolonged Jeremiad about transport arrangements because I loved the country. And we did eventually meet a talkative monk. Maybe. On the steps of the Wat Phu temple, having cycled miles in the sun and dust to get there (VIP bikes - a full complement of wheels but no brakes) then huffed and sweated our way up the hillside. The temple was originally built as a Hindu worship complex - it's considered a template for Angkor Wat in Cambodia - but has now been taken over by the Buddhists. There's a very popular ceremony there each February where they slaughter a water buffalo by bleeding it to death and offer it's blood as a sacrifice. Now does that sound like very Buddhist behaviour to you? Locals love it, apparently, although I shouldn't imagine it's very popular with the buffalo. I couldn't get an answer to any of this from the monk, as he preferred to ask his own questions: where were we from, where have we visited so far, will we be going to his home town of Vientiane, do we like it Laos? Couldn't get away from the man. In fact, given the attitude to animal welfare, I've got reason to believe he wasn't even a real monk. He was much too interesting for that. Anyone can dress up in orange robes. I decided to get out of there before he invited us to his guesthouse and offered us some VIP transport tickets.