By Jeyn Jack
Eighteenth Annual Solas Awards Gold Winner in the Doing Good or Kindness of Strangers category
Seven kilometers I pedaled on my rented bicycle to get to Poukham Cave and a beautiful blue swimming hole along the river. The morning sky was nearly cloudless and the sun was beating down over the rocky dirt road underneath my spokes. By the time I arrived at Poukham, my body and clothing were drenched in sweat and I was ready to be embraced by the crystalline river.
An old banyan tree-lined with wooden steps led up to a platform about 15 feet above the water, and there was a rope swing that dangled from the branches. I grabbed hold of a long bamboo pole with which to guide the rope to my hands and plunged into the water. The refreshment was immediate, sweat-washed clean by blue beauty. I climbed back up the platform for a repeat experience, loving this place that continuously drew me out of my shell. I swam up to a shallow cave in the rock formations to the side of the river and mired myself underneath its cool overhang, the dank scent of mud and clay permeating the air.
Once I dried off, a man who worked as a cave guide showed me the way up the steep jagged rocks to the entrance of the massive cave. A reclining Buddha statue rested on a shrine just past the entrance stones. We climbed over boulders deeper into the cave, a place studded with stalactites and stalagmites similar to those in Halong Bay, but without the garish-colored lights. Poukham was dark, and we needed flashlights to make our way through its depths. There was no defined path; it would’ve been too easy to get lost without a guide. Our flashlights woke up a bunch of bats who scattered as we drew near.
My guide taught me some Laotian words at my request, and I made mental notes of the way my mouth formed around them as I poked around the cave in a sense of wonder and enchantment. The more well-known caves in Southeast Asia were usually packed with tourists, but my guide and I were the only humans crawling around inside Poukham Cave that morning.
After the cave tour, I practiced my new words with the local women who were selling food and beverages at a little outdoor shack at the base of the cave. Jin beerlao, tow di?
The women laughed and clapped their hands, then handed me a beer with a smile.
Some other locals had pulled up in a white pick-up truck and began gathering around the swimming hole. I dove in again to rinse off some of the mud from the cave that had caked my skin as I passed over, under and between its boulders. Pretty young Laotian women who could speak a decent amount of English came and sat next to me by the riverside. We were quickly joined by her brother, husband, mother and grandmother who had been observing me on the sly, curious about this girl with lightly freckled skin and red hair.
I noticed the white strings that were tied around their wrists like bracelets and asked what they meant. The young woman explained that they were for good luck and marriage.
Thunder rumbled amongst newly gathered dark clouds and the sky suddenly flashed with lightning. Rain began to slice through the early afternoon heat. There were several raised wooden platforms with bamboo thatched rooftops held by four sturdy beams that had been built all along the riverside. I dashed for one of the open-air shelters just as the downpour struck.
I predicted that the rain would last about an hour, then the clouds would part just as they had been doing for days. An erratic wind howled and blew from shifting directions; at times the rain would blow sideways from the riverside only to reverse direction moments later. It was no use trying to sit still in the center of the structure where I was waiting out the storm. If I remained in one place, I would get soaked. I had to dance with the wind and rain, and find my entertainment in the movements of the weather.
I lit the tail end of a joint and smoked it, inhaling a ganja cloud mixed with rain molecules as a heavy downpour drenched the earth surrounding my form. After the roach was out, I began swinging my navy blue over-the-shoulder day bag in circles around my body, switching hands in turn as it moved like a speedster planet in orbit. My iPod had been stolen in Vietnam, and the only music I had was the music I could create with my own body. I opened my mouth and sang at the top of my lungs, the pounding rain drowning out most of the sound. I sang whatever songs popped into my head, belting them with all my force, knowing that no one else could hear. Around in circles went my bag, my brain a fuzzy warm buzzing of being happily stoned. I was wrapped in a haze of ganja and song, this little life of mine in the big beautiful world where all I ever needed was my voice, my sense of adventure, the beating heart inside of my chest opening itself to the wonder and gorgeousness surrounding me, rain or shine. The opening of vocal chords while belting out a song has the power to crack the heart wide open, the body a vessel of vibration and sound. Hearts can’t heal while guarded by heavily armed soldiers in imposing towers that block out the light. They heal when engaged in activities that bring them life.
I was singing the life back in. The rain was carrying a thundering rhythm, commanding that I sing louder, stronger, harder. Commanding that I give it my all, just as the storm clouds were giving it their all. If I couldn’t match the rain’s intensity, there was no point in singing at all. My soul was beaming and I needed nothing more than everything I already had. I was awake, impassioned, ecstatic. The rain could go on and on and I wouldn’t care. I could go on and on.
And I did.
As the rain began to lighten, I saw that I wasn’t alone. Two of the men who were with the friendly young woman from the swimming hole came and joined me on the structure where I had just been singing. Sai ba dee, hello hello. The big-bellied one didn’t speak much English, but the skinnier guy with a kind face spoke a little. They explained that they noticed me swinging my bag around and singing. We played language barrier charades to communicate about the rain and how I was passing the time before it was clear enough to ride my bike back to town.
The winds began to mellow out a bit as we drank our beers. Big Guy smiled at the bike and jumped on it, pedaling the bike in circles out in the rain. The skinny guy and I were laughing as he cruised all around the park with a goofy grin on his face, getting soaked in the process. He parked the bike and joined us as I drained the last of my beer.
Mr. Skinny had one white string tied around each wrist, but I noticed that Big Guy had about ten on each. I tried asking why he had two strings but the other guy had twenty, but he didn’t understand my question.
“For happy! Happy!”
Big Guy took two strings off his wrist, then poured a glass of beer. He held out my hand and placed the glass in my palm. Both men clasped their hands in prayer and said something in their native tongue. Big Guy tied one of the strings around my wrist and motioned for me to chug the beer in my hand. I took one big gulp.
“Hob jai lay li,” I said. Thank you very much.
The young woman came and joined us and saw the string around my wrist. I told her what happened, slightly worried that it was symbolic of my marriage to Big Guy.
“Good luck for your future,” she said, and I was relieved.
Mr. Skinny lifted my arm and placed a freshly poured glass of beer in my hand once more and led the next prayer. He tied the second string around my wrist and motioned for me to drain the glass. I obliged. The young woman laughed at him, then explained that he had wished me good luck and for a handsome husband.
Oh.
A small crowd of onlookers had formed around us as the rains began to lighten. There was grandma, auntie and mom watching their younger relatives interact with this curious outsider who had just sung and danced her way through a torrential downpour. Little by little, they drew closer until the farmer’s plank that I occupied was packed with three generations full of locals. They piled into a half moon circle around me, their eyes watching my every move, word, gesture and smile. When it was time for them to leave, one of the elders spoke to the young woman and asked her to translate for me.
“Thank you very much for talking with us,” she said with a polite nod and smile.
Are you kidding me? I wanted to laugh. I was honored and humbled by the encounter. Enchanted by this place, by these kind people, I wondered if, had I not been there alone singing to myself through a storm, they wouldn’t have bothered approaching me? Was this meeting and ceremony with the white strings only possible because I was a lone traveler? Did singing my heart out in the rain help draw them near?
“Hob jai lay li,” I repeated, heartened by their goodwill and curiosity.
The rain lightened to little more than a drizzle and I wandered over to the food shack. I ordered a vegetable soup, figuring by the time it was served, the rains would have moved on. Another local family of about three or four generations invited me to come sit with them at their dry, sheltered table. They were playing a game of cards and they all wore giant smiles. What appeared to be a great-grandfather and a little girl of about four came up and sat next to me. The little girl stared as I ate my soup and the three of us made gentle conversation without words.
As predicted, the rain had fully stopped by the time I finished my soup. Hob jai lai li, and I was off on my bike. The rocky dirt path that I had ridden on my way to Poukham Cave was now covered in large mud puddles and the tires sloshed over the surface of what used to be dry ground. No more than half a kilometer down the road, the bike chain came off its track just as the rain began to gently fall again. I put the chain back in place and continued on my way as my face, hair, arms and legs grew damp with drizzle.
Sometimes I had to jump off the bike when the mud puddles became too deep and sticky. Sludge caked on the tires and they lost all traction, sliding upon the path before me. I pedaled over a small footbridge and on the way down, the bike gained speed. A huge mud puddle had formed at the bottom of the bridge and I realized I should probably hop off because I didn’t know how well the tires would handle it. The bike was going pretty fast, and when I hit the brakes I realized that the rear brake was broken. With only the front wheel braking at that speed, I felt my body lift and flip over the handlebars. I landed, sprawled out in a mud puddle.
Drenched from chest to toe, I sprang out of the puddle. At least the landing was soft and squishy. The bike chain had been knocked loose again, and I was still about six kilometers away from my guesthouse. I walked the bike for a few minutes, but then the rain started down harder. I fixed the bike chain again and hopped back on to pick up the pace.
I was good for about another kilometer or so, trying to avoid puddles because it was impossible to see whether or not any crooked rocks were sticking out under the muddy surface. I pedaled as fast as I could as the rainfall increased in ferocity until the chain jammed again. This time it got stuck between the body of the bike and the chain track. I tried to force it out with my hands, but it wouldn’t give. I walked with the bike for another few minutes and then tried again. After repeating the process a few times, I was finally able to force the chain free from its wedge with some steady and determined manipulation.
I rode most of the way back to the guesthouse in an all-out downpour. When I finally arrived, the rain was over and the other guests who were beginning to congregate outside took one look at me and busted out laughing. My face broke into a bright grin and I laughed at them laughing at me. I gave them a salute and then beelined for the shower to wash away the mud that caked my skin. But no water came out of my tap. Not a single drop. The faucet in the sink was also bone dry. I shrugged and grabbed a towel, dried the rain and mud off my body as best I could and changed clothes before heading into town for dinner.
It was my last opportunity to order a cup of opium tea from the bar’s special menu that night, as I was planning my move to Luang Prabang. I was exhausted and didn’t have any tea-drinking buddies to share in the experience, but it had been such an epic day that I wanted to celebrate it to its fullest potential.
A Lipton tea bag sank into the cup. The combination of flavors from the black tea and the rehydrated opium tasted like mud. It was reminiscent of my day. I walked back to my room at about 11 pm and discovered that my water was back on. I took a shower and then relaxed into my bed, leaning into the mellow. A little out of touch with gravity. Limbs like rubber bands, elastic and full of give. I didn’t catch any sleep until after the sun rose in the morning sky, but I was neither bored nor restless. A strange, tired, happy euphoria wrapped little spirals around my body all through the night, an end to a beautiful day living the good life.
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Jeyn Jack is a poet and world traveler who lives in a redwood forest near Santa Cruz, CA with her husband and two daughters. She is currently working on a travel memoir.