Feb. 20 - Nong Khiaw - I become a farang bitch

Nong Khiaw in northern Thailand was the first place I really became a farang
bitch. (Farang, by the way, means “French” in some Asian languages and has
become the word for “foreigner” in those countries. Lao and Thailand being
two examples.) There are many times when it’s easy to lose ones patience: A
tuk-tuk driver will nod and smile as you tell him you need to go to the post
office. Twenty minutes later you find yourself being dropped off at the boat
dock with his open hand gesturing for payment, the same smile still gracing
his face. Ordering a meal in what is billed as a “Western” restaurant can be
an effort in futility. And let’s not even get started on transportation
problems. But what made me into a bitch in Nong Khiaw was a light switch.

Nong Khiaw itself is a lovely little town on the Nam Ou River. It is about a
three-hour bus ride north from Luang Prabang and the place where many
backpackers get off and catch a boat to Mung Ngoy. Both of these towns are
mentioned in guide books as being good places to get a trek into surrounding
mountains but, as often happens between competing towns, only one takes off
as  a tourist destination. In this case, Mung Ngoy, perhaps being more
remote (only accessible by boat so far), is the one to which most trekkers
head. You can see the remains of the tourist trade in Nong Khiaw – about a
dozen guesthouses line the river – but they are mostly empty now.

Not interested in following the crowd, I remained in NK for a couple of days
for some quiet time and nice scenery. I stayed at the Philasouk, a large
wooden guesthouse suggested by my Rough Guide. A small, single was $1/night
so the price seemed right but the first night made me change my mind about
that. It seems the Philasouk is well-known by locals and when a group of
Laotian guys dropped in to stay the night I arrived, at fist we had a lot of
fun, drinking Whiskey and trying to converse in very broken languages. When
it was time to go to bed, almost all of us headed upstairs and, after
reading for a while, I looked for a light switch to turn off the glaring
fluorescent light. It was then I discovered there was none. Heading out into
the hallway, I saw all the lights on in all the rooms and realized they were
all controlled by one switch somewhere in the building. The problem was that
two of the guys had decided to go out and drink some more and had not yet
returned and the owners of the guesthouse were waiting for them before
turning the lights out. At about 2 a.m., I heard loud talking and stomping
up the stairs and someone very drunk (or possessed by aliens who slur and
stumble around) banged very loudly into the room adjacent to mine. He fell
onto the bed and proceeded to make loud moaning noises, interspersed with
banging his feet on the floor for some godforsaken reason. His roommate
tried to quiet him down and it worked for about three minutes. Well, I
thought, at leas the lights will go out now. But they didn’t. I waiting for
about 15 minutes and then proceeded downstairs to find someone to turn out
the light. It was dead. Absolutely no one around to talk to and while there
were several light switches on some of the walls, it was impossible to tell
which ones did what and which ones were even on. (In some guesthouse rooms,
you press the switch up to turn on a light; in others you flick the switch
down.) So, I trudged back upstairs, got into bed and covered my head with a
rather rough blanket to keep the light out.

The morning clamored to life with the sounds of garage doors and
lattice-work gates being pulled back with loud metal screeches of protest.
The roosters, having crowed only half a dozen times in the night were in
full chorus. Engines of trucks, motorcycles and tuk-tuks, speedboats and
slow boats, roared to life; and hammering on boards of buildings
ever-needing repairs and additions sent ducks and chicks running. In my own
guesthouse, the pounding of rice at 6 a.m. signalled the beginning of the
day and soon, chattering could be heard coming from the dining room below as
locals dropped in for a  cup of kafeh nom hawn (dark, strong coffee,
sweetened with condensed milk) served tepid, accompanied by a steaming glass
of Chinese tea. By 7 a.m., they were off – to chop wood or deliver cement or
check their farms and the mist was just beginning to rise off the valley
floor. Even grandma had somewhere to go, dressed in her Sunday best – a
plaid hat, gray blazer, brown slacks and thongs. Autumn above the ankle,
summer on her feet.

I came downstairs and, with squinty, half-shut eyes, complained to one of
the guests who spoke English about the lights being on. He just laughed and
said everyone sleeps with the lights on if they have to. No big deal. Well,
so much for a sympathetic ear. During the day, I tried to sleep some more
but it was too hot and noisy so I went for a walk along the river, read a
lot and tried to stay awake past 9 p.m. so I wouldn’t wake up in the middle
of the night.

Thankfully, Mr. Drinksalot and his gang had left and it seemed like it was
going to be a quiet night. In fact, after heading upstairs to bed, I had
barely managed to change and get ready for sleep before the lights were
turned off at 10 p.m. A bit early for my taste but a small miracle,
nonetheless. Or so I thought.

About an hour later, more voices downstairs. Some late arrivals. And
wouldn’t you know it, all the lights go on upstairs. What sound like a
couple come upstairs, once again into the room adjacent to mine. But instead
of getting ready for bed, they seem to be standing around talking. That’s
when I snapped. I was not going to wait for them to go to bed only to find
out there was no one around downstairs to turn the lights off and I was not
going to spend another night with the lights on. I headed into the hall,
found them standing in their doorway chatting and yelled at them. I yelled
in English, of course, since Lao is not even my 14th language. But I pointed
to the lights and pointed to my watch and made hand signal indicating 15
minutes and stomped off to bed. Immediately, I felt guilty. These people had
no idea what had happened the night before and it wasn’t their fault there
were no separate light switches. Not only that, but they probably didn’t
understand a word I’d said and my anger and frustration had been totally
futile. I was embarrassed by my reaction and the fact that I had become the
farang bitch I promised I never would allow myself to be. Heading out into
the hall to try and rectify the situation, I found their door closed and no
one around. I went downstairs and, again, no one was up. Here I was again,
facing a Night of Light. I headed over to the Wall of Switches and tried to
decide which one I would press first. I felt like I was in a James Bond
movie with 10 seconds to go trying to figure out which wire to cut to
diffuse a bomb that was going to destroy the world. Suddenly, I head a noise
behind me. I turned to face grandma who, with a big smile on her face,
walked over to the wall and pulled out a plug that was stuck in an outlet
beside the switches. The whole building went dark. She walked away and I was
now left in complete blackness to try to find, and stumble up, the stairs,
grazing shins and knees, feel my way along the corridor to my bedroom,
unlock my door and make my way into bed, replacing the mosquito net by the
slight light of a crescent moon that shone in through the window. Fifteen
minutes later, the lights went on again. Some more late-night guests
arriving. I began to whimper.

To be honest, it wasn’t actually that late – probably not even 11 p.m. by
this point. But it’s pretty unusual for backpackers to arrive this late into
a city and look for a guesthouse. These weren’t backpackers, however, they
were Laotians and they seemed to know the owners of the guesthouse.
Thankfully, I think my outburst earlier had gotten the message across and
after the new guests had settled in, the lights went out again. I waited for
an interminable amount of time with my eyes open, staring at the light,
anticipating another glare but it never came and I finally got a good
night’s sleep.

Next up… The road back – seaweed, rocks and rice with extras