Champassak & Wat Phou
Thursday, October 13th, 2005The next stage required me to be up early. In this part of Laos, transport wraps up shortly after lunch. A quick noodle soup and I was on the 8:30 back to Pakse. Approaching town, the bus stopped and numerous tuk-tuk drivers boarded. They would take me to Pakse for 5000 kip they said. Yes, I replied, but the bus goes to Pakse. Oh no, they said. The other traveller on the bus bought it and left. Of course, a few minutes later we pulled into the south station. This was precisely where I wanted to be, to transfer to Champassack. You see, as a traveller, you never know anything and only the tuk-tuk drivers can save you. They are so intently focused on your well-being and care nothing for lining their own pockets.
It was tough work finding a tuk-truck to go to Champassack. These are pickup trucks with a roof and benches in back. A tout assured me that the last trip for the day to Champassack had already left. Seemed a little early for that, I thought, but I was having trouble.
It occurred to me, though, that this guy was speaking good English. That was all the reason I needed to take everything he said with a grain of salt. After all, I could take his tuk-truck to Don Det, a ferry and another tuk-truck back north from Champassack from there. It was funny – he gave the convoluted instructions as to how he was going to save me very quickly so I’d think it was easy. But he said it so fast I was confused. I decided to continue my search and finally found my ride to Champassak.
It was one of those “leaves when it fills up” deals, and this process took a couple of hours. Stultifying hours. Against a backdrop of awful music. I cannot rant enough about the music. Individually, the songs aren’t usually that bad. But they are all the same. The same instruments, played the same way. The singers have the same voices, no range, and sing every song the exact same way. The pace is the same, too. Slow, so that even at the end of a long evening, you can still warble along with the painfully sincere singer and imitate his painfully sincere facial affectations. I call it, “karaoke speed”. I fear I may never be able to erase the stain of this music from my brain. This is a legitimate concern, as I still have songs from the 12 hour, 1 tape ride from Bishkek to Osh stuck in my head. I’m just holding out hope that the total lack of melody allows me to leave this stuff behind at the Bangkok airport.
To get across the Mekong, you take a ferry. We sat on the dock and watched the ferry pull in. The dock was blocked by cars waiting to do the other way, so the ferry landed at the beach. I found that rather inefficient, because he’d have to back out and then go to the dock.
Not so, as the ferry pulled back into the river. Then the dock moved. That was our boat – the wooden dock. My confidence fell through the floor as I envisioned our tuk-truck doing the same.
At the other side, a man boarded and we drove towards town. He was all smiles as he began to pitch his guesthouse. Jeez, I thought usually they wait until your almost off the thing. But the smile was genuine so I heard him out. The price was right, so I ran with it. The guesthouse overlooked the river. The other side has three bright bands of colour – golden sand, emerald gardens and dark green forest. The river is gentle and the hammocks on the veranda ensure that life is the same.
The main reason to visit here are the ruins at Wat Phou. The oldest of these were built in the 6th century by the Chenla Kingdom. Later, the Khmer and Cham rulers added to the complex. As a result, the frescoes on the ruins show both Hindu and Buddhist art. It is thought that human sacrifice was once carried out here.
The ruins themselves are crumbling brick, starting with two large buildings at the bottom of the hill and ascending a steep stone staircase to a small prayer room at the top. The rest is nothing more than scattered stones.
The staircase is especially amazing. On the sides are spikey, bare-branched trees with gnarled trunks. The staircase seems to be slowly folding in on itself, and the tree tops are almost touching. What were at one point undoubtedly perfectly regal stairs have been twisted and torn by the forces of time. To add to the beautifully sinister effect, the sky opened up, giving me a rare taste of rain.
The rain clouds had made the afternoon cool already, and it was nice to have a day off from blistering heat.
When I got back, the driver pulled a nasty little stunt. I paid him his 14,000 kip and he said “No, it’s forty.” Now, fourteen was not a deal to me, just a fair price. Forty would get me back to Savannakhet, 300 km away. The price had been stated three times, so there was no mistake. Worse, the driver was the son of the guesthouse owner, so I had to spend the rest of the evening debating the issue. I did not waver. The quibbling was polite – it’s not China – but tiresome. I felt trapped. Normally, I’d be able to walk away from such crap. Sad, too, because for a few dollars my stay was ruined.
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