Muang Khoua
Christian, Christian and I laughed a lot by developing a theory ethological smoker who establish classes of whites. Our conclusion is that a "traveler "Does not behave like a stack of bills without own will - that it would be the" tourist "- but as a foreigner who takes risks and stash money for its survival under his shirt. My
Austrians left at dawn to the Vietnamese border. To thank them for having paid the boat, I gave them the hand of Buddha from the novice to Luang Prabang.
I walk out on the road to the village. People on my way laughing and pointing the finger at my bag of khao niao as if they never imagined that I could eat the same food they do.
After twenty minutes, a tiny woman to me catches. She starts walking behind me. I throw glances. Uniform jacket to the air in Vietnam. Canvas satchel bag of rice which relies on its front shoulder and which contains a watering can. She wears boots, this is the first time that I see.
I stop to walk it abreast. It also stops. Smiled at me, talking to me, beckons me forward. We resumed walking. I hear his boots scraping against the ground and I try to stall on pace to find a pace that we would be common. But really, no, I am embarrassed to be in front. I stopped again. It also, three steps behind me. I do sign him to join me.
- No, no!
- Yes, yes!
- No, no!
Finally, here it is. His head is level with my shoulder. We go to homes where people are warming their hands over small fires. Despite this cold that seems normal, they do not have chimneys. Outbreaks are outside or under a shed adjoining the house where the smoke escapes through the top of the perforated walls.
The woman announces our arrival by a few words out loud. Everyone smiled and showed my pocket khao niao.
We walk. Too fast for her, too slow for me.
Shared humanity is there in full force and strangeness. Our bodies moving and our eyes speak, with the only music the rhythm of our steps on the road. It could be anything more between us, except if I stayed to live there, or if she was with me in my journey. A shared language does not reveal anything except the information to make a context.
And yet, even though we know that echo the words of each return as a reflection in a mirror, the language is required.
She begins to speak. Much. As if I understood everything. And she heard glances in search approval. Occasionally, I reply in French. I also said something.
We finally leave the urban area. After these soliloquies, it's time for questions.
She asked my age.
- Thirty-two. It
:
- Thirty-nine.
She says she'll water his garden. And me, where am I going?
- I walk.
Wrong answer. It is the question.
I think about an answer that could satisfy it.
- I just Nong Khiaw and I'm going to Phongsaly.
It is a little surprised, this Not the road Phongsali. But at least it's an answer.
We walk in silence, long time.
She asked if I have a lighter.
I leave my bag that I bought this morning at the market. She takes it in his hand. She wants to keep it. Of course, yes. Why not? (I will not do the little fire that I wanted to eat rice from mid-day warm up. And then?)
She smiled at me, the lighter disappears into the pocket of his military jacket. Another five minutes of silence. The rhythm of our steps, I think about it, very bold, tough, strong, flexible, strong, surely the mother of several children. She was born during the war here - A few miles from Dien Bien Phu.
It shows my windbreaker.
- You give?
I laugh.
- I'd love to, but I have enough cold like that!
She laughed too. She tried her luck. At least she will be lighter. Suddenly, his face closed, it stops. I want to wait, but she waves me forward. Good. The protocol is restored. I walk past it behind. I try to wait again. I turn around. But she made grand gestures to my point. For several miles, you walk like that.
I turned from time to time. She nodded to continue. At one point, she calls me, show me: this is where it turns. Thank me flatly to the lighter, the two hands in prayer before the face and upper body bent.
I watch her climb in the wet grass of the hill. The watering can rattle in his back.
Evening / Muang Khoua
Earlier, the return of the march, people invited me round their fire.
- Nao! Nao!
Cool! Cool! I stayed a long time to roast my hands. Meanwhile, young women made of paper dolls with packages of cookies. The men smoked. Occasionally, someone from a house across the street approached to say three words and laughter.
Later, on the other side of the suspension bridge, I met Souk, who walks with a young woman he did not introduce myself and held back, eyes downcast. He speaks English with an American accent. His father said he works at the hospital there, in this concrete building that looks deserted. He, educated at Phongsali. And the girl?
- This is my girlfriend.
- Getting married ?
- No! Certainly not! It's just like that!
Night has fallen. Laos are all around their fires, none invited. I am housed in a room without a window or door. Just a few degrees above zero. I peel.
In the darkness of the terrace of my guesthouse windy, I try to eat the soup that just brought me. Floury noodles, big pieces of raw cabbage, ginger sections, tail plant - without any seasoning. At least, that's fun, tourist, here we do clap!
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