The debris of the Vietnam war is scattered all over Laos. When I walked up the river bank from the boat landing in Muang Ngoi, I was welcomed by a great big bomb, sitting with its tail fins sticking up in the air, in the garden of a restaurant. Along the main street, sections of bomb casing were being used as fence posts, or laid on the ground and filled with soil to make plant pots. At first I was surprised that bomb remnants should look so undamaged - but then realised that these were cluster bomb casings, which split apart while the bomb is falling. The casing falls to earth intact, while the hundreds of explosive mini-bombs, bombis, BLU's (Bomb Light Units), or whatever they're called, are scattered over a wide area. Some of them still lie unexploded in the fields around Muang Ngoi, and when I walked to nearby villages I saw many posters warning the residents of the dangers of picking them up. Despite the warnings, of course, there are still casualties.

In Eastern Laos, the effects of the war are even more obvious. This was the region that was carpet-bombed by US forces in an attempt to hit Viet Minh bases, and to disrupt the flow of supplies along the Ho Chi Minh trail. It was a favourite "dumping ground" for when bombers could not release their full payload over Vietnam - for example, due to bad weather. Planes could not return to base with bombs still aboard, so they dropped them in just about any place where there might just be something worth hitting. This was the "secret war" - Laos was a neutral country, but neither Vietnamese nor American forces took much notice.

Along the road to Phonsavan, I looked out of the window of the bus at ranges of rolling hills, that would have resembled the English countryside if they had not been left barren by defoliants. The only thing that will grow on them is a stunted brown grass, and it looks as if the land has been scorched by fire. The bare hills are marked by constellations of bomb craters - cluster bombs - and as more and more craters appeared around each turn in the road, I began to believe the statistics that make Laos the most bombed country in history. Sometimes the only place that vegetation will grow is inside a bomb crater, where the explosion has blown away the defoliant-laden topsoil and exposed the fertile layers underneath. Little circular gardens of trees and shrubs spring up in them, as if nature is making a futile attempt to disguise the legacy of the war.

I was in Phonsavan to see the famous Plain of Jars. Archaeologists are still researching their purpose, but the current theory is that the 2000-year-old stone jars were funerary urns, into which bodies were placed after death. The flesh was allowed to decay away, releasing the spirit which rose to the sky. When only the skeleton was left, the bones were cremated and the ashes interred. Each jar was carved from a single boulder, and some are more than two metres high. They tend to be found in clusters near the tops of hills (just like the cluster bomb craters), since it was believed that this would ease the passage of the soul to the heavens. Some of the jars have been rent apart by trees growing out from inside them; others have been blown up by bombs. But there is still a feeling of great permanence about them, and they look solid and indestructible.

The efforts of archaeologists to learn more about the culture that made the jars are made difficult and dangerous by all of the unexploded ordnance in the region. There are mine-clearing efforts underway, but it will take many years before some areas can be declared safe. In the meantime, many of the residents of nearby villages do the best they can with the pieces of land that are relatively safe. I visited the jar sites with a small tour group, and Pao, our guide, took us to a few of the villages. Just like in Muang Ngoi, war scrap is put to good use, with bomb casings used as building materials. I saw part of the nosecone of an crashed American aircraft being used as a wok, and the remains of a tank sat rusting just outside a village fence. Pao rounded off the tour by taking us for lunch and lao-lao with his family. His father, a life-long chain-smoker, apparently, sat with us as we ate, and the smokers in the group swapped and compared tobacco with him (his stash was *much* more potent than anything the tourists were smoking). Pao and his parents talked about watching US bombing raids, and how they had to live in some nearby caves for shelter, before eventually moving out to Vientiane. They returned to Phonsavan after the war, and after most of the UXO had been cleared from their village. Today the family lives in a wooden house on the same site as the one Pao grew up in. After lunch, Pao showed us the new, concrete house that he is building, next to the wooden one - he hoped that his descendents could remain in the village for many years to come.