Reverie on the Mekong

PAKXE, Laos —  I saw my first “save the dolphins” poster in this market town, the departure point for my voyage to Khon Island on the Mekong River in southern Laos. There, I hoped to see the endangered Irrawaddy dolphin and the conservationists working to save it. I’d read about the dolphin on an earlier trip to Laos. When I asked the host of my guest house here about it, he unrolled a wrinkled copy of the poster. Its faded photos of a mother and her calf were my first look at the Irrawaddy dolphin, which is unusual for its being at home in both fresh and salt water.

Reaching the dolphins’ riverine habitat involved traveling through Laos’ rural south, which attracts fewer foreign visitors than the more populated north. Laos is popular with Europeans these days because it is unspoiled, compared to other parts of Southeast Asia, with good food and hygiene. Few Laotians speak English, but many speak French.

It was possible to go south by land, but I wanted to follow the downstream flow of what the Lao call the “Mother of Waters” to Si Phan Don, “Land of 4,000 Islands.” There, between Cambodia and Thailand, countless islands and sandbars lie under the river in flood during the monsoon season, emerging as the water subsides in the dry season, November to April. (I was there last December.)

At the southern end of the islands, the Mekong drops into Cambodia in a series of nine waterfalls collectively known as the Khon Falls. This geographical feature was the major obstacle for 19th century Europeans hoping that the river could be a commercial route between its delta at the French colonial capital, Saigon, Vietnam, and its source in China.

I had to travel first from Pakxe to Khong Island, the largest in southern Laos, then take a smaller boat to Khon Island, where I hoped to see the falls and the dolphins.

At Pakxe’s busy waterfront, motorized long-tail boats were moored four abreast. It was easy to find one going downriver, so overloaded with human and animal cargo that it was barely afloat. Not that I worried: The water level was at that moment only shoulder deep.

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Long before the French arrived in Southeast Asia, southern Laos was part of the Khmer (Cambodian) Empire. The temple ruin of Wat Phu, south of Pakxe, dates back to the 6th century, making it older than the Khmer’s most outstanding architectural achievement, the city of Angkor. Like most Khmer shrines, it faces east and should be visited at sunrise, but perfect timing in travel is rare. My boat from Pakxe had reached the nearest village, Champasak, in the afternoon. As the heat of the day dissipated and the light yellowed, I rested near the main sanctuary, originally dedicated to Hindu gods. It once housed a relic of Shiva that was ritually cleansed by a spring whose waters still flow, though now through a plastic pipe.

Below my perch, two young men dragged a nylon fishing net through twin ponds at the temple entrance. Three farmers reaped with long scythes the tall grasses that grew on the slope. Earlier they had ignored me as I ascended the 100 uneven steps, the symbolic staircase linking heaven and earth, that connect Wat Phu’s three levels. For a reasonably fit person, reaching the sanctuary at the top did not seem difficult, but I had been told that only those of strong faith would make it all the way. So, at an image halfway up--of Vishnu or Buddha or both--I lighted three sticks of incense purchased from a seller at the ticket booth.

I was the only guest that night in Champasak’s only lodging, Sala Wat Phu. Even if I hadn’t had the undivided attention of the manager, Yoi Soumpholphakdy, he would have made an impression on me: His quiet voice, thoughtful manner and unhurried movements embodied Champasak’s calm. Dogs didn’t even bark at strangers there. This was rural Asia at its best, a place where one can relearn the importance of being still.

Yoi had an excellent French map of the river from Pakxe to the Cambodian border. On it he showed me the location of other Khmer ruins and the spot where, as recently as 20 years ago, mahouts rode their elephants down from the hills and into the river shallows for the February Wat Phu temple festival.

In the 14th century the Lao kingdom was known as Lang Xang, or “Million Elephants.” Twenty years ago, Laos estimated its elephant population at 1,000.

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I continued my journey down the Mekong from Champasak on a cargo boat even more crowded than the first. The only place to sit was on a large chunk of ice wrapped in straw that numbed my behind while my head cooked in the brilliant sunshine. It was an eight-hour run: We stopped at villages on alternate shores, and on islands in the middle of the river, offloading those who lived there and their varied assortment of household goods purchased in Pakxe--pots, plastic shelves, rubber boots, an outboard engine, a generator. When the boat finally reached Khong Island, it moored on the western side. Lodgings were on the east side, in the town of Muang Khong. We few weary eastbound travelers climbed into a pickup truck with seats in the back and bumped across the island in the dark.

On Khong Island early nights followed early days, a gentle primordial schedule to which I adjusted by instinct. Generators provided some electricity at night, but even so, the village was quiet. An indication of the daily rhythm was the market behind the schoolhouse, where islanders traded produce and fish catches: By 7 a.m., the trading was over.

Yoi’s patronage extended to Khong Island. He had given me a note for his cousin who manages the Auberge Sala Don Khong. It was arguably the best of the community’s four guest houses for ambience because it occupied an old teak house directly across the road from the river.

On the wall of a simple restaurant in Khong was the same dolphin poster I had seen in Pakxe. On-site information about the conservation project was scarce, its two staff members having gone out of town.

I had heard other travelers complain that they saw no dolphins at Khon Island, and that the villagers were unfriendly. But I arranged for the 90-minute boat ride south and departed optimistically. If nothing else, the beauty of the river would satisfy me.

After docking at Khon Island, I walked three miles to Hang Khon, a fishing village of about 40 households, where I sought out a guide to take me to the nearby dolphin habitat. The wooden office of the conservation project was shuttered and locked. The villagers were aloof, but seemed more wary than hostile. Negotiations for a guide took time. The men were repairing nets and traps and were reluctant to interrupt their work to take me to the tiny island, where I intended to wait in the midday heat with passionate confidence in my mission to see dolphins.

It wasn’t an island so much as an islet of sand and rock, a mere five strides in either direction. Four months of the year it is underwater, the roots of its solitary tree a shelter for migratory fish. In the tree’s patchy shade I sat within sight of two countries, Cambodia and Laos. From each shore I heard similar sounds of rural life--water buffalo bells, women conversing in riverine gardens, children’s voices raised in play.

I heard an abrupt exhalation of breath before I saw the dolphin. Near the Cambodian shore, there was a fleeting movement of slick, blue-gray skin, a ball of dolphin back rolling over the surface. I was thrilled. This brief encounter was sufficient pleasure, but there were more dolphin noises, closer this time. One animal swam purposefully around the islet, rising for air three times. The moment was so exquisite, I didn’t even dig out my camera.

The boatman, who had waited with me, shared my excitement. Like all Khon islanders, he believed dolphins to be reincarnated humans who had fallen to their deaths down one of the waterfalls. The dolphin, therefore, is never eaten.

Another sound then reached me from the Cambodian side, a muffled explosion.

In the past, Asian river systems such as the Mekong have supported large numbers of the freshwater dolphin, Orcaella brevirostris. Conservationists estimate there are fewer than 30 remaining in the deep-water pools off Khon Island.

Several reasons for the Mekong dolphin decline are cited by the experts: aerial bombing during the Vietnam War, which killed large numbers of fish and dolphins, a devastation from which they never recovered; accidental drowning in gill nets; death by gunshot by villagers who mistake them for predators, and death by explosives, a preferred fishing method in Cambodia, where such ordnance left over from war is readily available. The conservation project’s policy has been to reimburse the Laotian fishermen for the cost of the gill nets they must cut in order to free entangled dolphins. But to stop the use of explosives in Cambodian waters is difficult without Cambodian cooperation.

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Khon is an abbreviation of two Lao words that mean “fish waterfall.” People who live there take their name from the land. Fishing is their inheritance, but its future depends on the continued ability of the Mekong to support life. River pollution from heavily populated areas above and below the falls reduces water quality. Logging of forests destroys food sources for migratory species. And success in marketing Mekong fish, made possible by improved transportation and refrigeration, encourages the use of gill nets and explosives, both practices that contribute to overfishing.

Back at the Khon Island guest house, the caretaker, Mr. Lai, had to be summoned to unlock the front door. He was uneasy to find himself responsible for a single woman and pointed out his home a short distance away.

Under the same management as the Khong Island inn, it had a beautiful garden that faced the river; water buffalos milled about at the gate.

I was awakened at midnight by a silence so immense that I mistook it for sound. It swelled to fill every corner of the room with an intimidating presence. Then I began to identify parts of its composition: the trilling of insects, the patter of rodents on the roof, the clunk of a cowbell, the humming of the river. Had I come this distance only to hear this quiet symphony, I would consider my voyage a success. Then I recognized a familiar noise. Someone was snoring softly. I peeked outside: A concerned Mr. Lai had returned to sleep on the veranda.

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GUIDEBOOK

Adventure in Laos

Getting there: The best access to Pakxe and Laos’ lower Mekong area is from Ubon Ratchathani, Thailand, 60 miles from the Laotian border. The only direct service from LAX to Ubon Ratchathani is on Thai Airways, via Bangkok. Round-trip fares start at $832. Buses and taxis run from the airport to the border; from there, taxis and passenger trucks go to Pakxe. The trip takes about three hours.

Those who are not experienced Southeast Asian travelers may find it best to use a tour agency. One that is reputable, with regional offices and English-speaking guides, is SODETOUR. Telephone in Laos’ capital, Vientiane: 011-856-21-216314, fax 011-856- 21-216313. They recommend sending requests for information by e-mail: sodetlao@samart.co.th.

A passport valid for at least three months from time of entry into Laos and a visa are required.

Where to stay: In Pakxe, Champasak Palace Hotel was built for a prince exiled in 1974. Rooms start at $35. Tel. 011-856-31-212263.

Salachampa Hotel is a former French villa in Pakxe with rooms for $18. Tel. 011-856-31-2212273.

Sala Wat Phu, Champasak, and Auberge Sala Don Khong are booked through SODETOUR.

For more information: Embassy of the People’s Republic of Laos, 2222 S St. NW, Washington, DC 20008; tel. (202) 332-6416. Internet https://www.laoembassy.com.