Succulent chunks of roasted duck in a piquant peanut sauce. I can't wait. After a strenuous day's walking in the searing summer heat of northern Laos, I'm tired, hungry, and really looking forward to dinner.
Somcham and Anuson, our guides for the three day trek through some of the area's more remote villages, promised us this local delicacy as we arrived in Ban Mom earlier in the evening. So while we headed down to the river to wash off the day's dust and grime, Somcham went in search of a duck.
We had organised the trek from Muang Sing, in Luang Nam Tha province. The walk would take us through villages of the Thai and Akha minorities, about as far north as we could go without annoying the neighbours' border guards. It's an area of rugged mountains and forested valleys, bordered by Myanmar and China to the north, and Udomxai, an almost equally remote Lao province to the south. It's also an area of incredible ethnic diversity, with a population made up of some forty ethnic groups who, over many centuries, have migrated from as far away as Tibet. We, on the other hand, had only come from Luang Prabang, Laos' cultural and tourism centre just a couple of hundred kilometres to the south-east. It took us ten hours over two long days, perched on wooden benches in the back of various trucks, clinging to the side-bars, and trying to anticipate the next spine-jarring jolt. The roads we were traversing were mainly built with the aid of neighbouring Communist governments in the 60s and 70s, when Laos became a key strategic asset in the Indochinese war. These days it would be generous to describe them as ‘bad', and as the rainy season approaches they degrade into islands of teeth-crunching tarmac in a sea of mud. Laos' public transport infrastructure certainly leaves a lot to be desired.
But that was why we were there: far enough from the beaten track to experience the Laos that largely managed to ignore the twentieth century. We were to become guinea-pigs in a pilot program funded by the UN, and set up by a local adventure tourism company, to promote sustainable tourism in the area. The program operates guided treks from Muang Sing, the number and size of groups passing through each village being strictly limited so as to minimise their impact on the indigenous communities. Our group is only four – Ali and I, and a pair of Melbourne artists – plus the two guides. We had been impressed that we would be staying and eating with families in the villages that we passed through, so contributing much needed funds to their economy.
Our first day's walk had taken us through several Akha villages – the Akha are among the poorer of the region's minorities; traditionally inhabiting the highlands, they survive on slash and burn agriculture, while their villages often appear to be just a collection of ramshackle huts. In each village we were welcomed by the headman and the village children, and sat on the bamboo mat floor while the village assembled to check us out. We really had the feeling that we were among the first westerners in many of these places, as the inhabitants were at the same time curious and timid – one sudden move would send a crowd of young children running for cover. However, far from feeling like a group of voyeurs, we very much felt a bilateral exchange, with both cultures showing genuine interest in the other, helped by Somcham's ability to speak Akha.
As we had walked into Ban Mom that evening, we had been struck by the difference between Akha and Thai villages: the Thai predominantly inhabit the fertile lowlands and farm rice, and their villages have such mod cons as unsealed roads and substantial wooden buildings. There's even the occasional tractor, albeit somewhat antiquated. Nonetheless, they are far from wealthy: we had passed a brand new but unused market building – a German aid organisation had built it without stopping to think that the local people have nothing to sell. At least the cattle now have somewhere to shelter from the summer sun.
Ban Mom itself is a beautiful village nestled amongst the emerald green rice paddies. We bathe in the river, as the locals do, and as we return refreshed, Somcham appears with a rather indignant duck under his arm. We are so hungry that we don't even let witnessing its parting breaths put us off, and are soon sitting down to the long awaited feast. It's at this point that Somcham chooses to tell us the full name of the dish: roast duck in peanut and raw duck's blood sauce. Yes, one big bowl of red goo. It's nice, but we fill up on ferns.
Our second day takes us through more Akha villages, heading for the amusingly named Sopee Kao, our stop for the night. It transpires that Somcham has spent eight years as a Buddhist monk – the only way to get a good education in these parts – and during that time learnt a great deal about the region's flora and fauna; it is enlightening to have a walk through the forest transformed into a trip through Somcham's extended larder. What seems to us to be just dense woodland reveals a wealth of plants that the local people use for food and medicine. We eat a lunch of the previous evening's leftovers and steamed ferns, wrapped up in banana leaves, as we cool our weary feet in a refreshing stream. That afternoon, however, Somcham's larder is extremely hot, humid and uphill; we spend several hours toiling through dense forest, at times having to force our way through stands of bamboo. As the sun begins to head for the horizon, we are pleased and relieved to round a corner and be met with a view over the picturesque hilltop village of Sopee Kao, bathed in the last rays of the afternoon sun.
Once we've had a chance to relax, drink a little green tea, and have a wash, we are treated to a traditional Akha massage. Lying on the ubiquitous bamboo mat floor, the young women of the village pull and twist digits and limbs, and apply pressure in places I'm not used to having pressure applied - the Akha massage is locally famous for ridding you of aches and pains, some may even call it ‘rough', but nobody had mentioned that I might be winded and lose a little hair.
Accommodation in Sopee Kao proves to be basic. As usual, we stay with the headman's family in the village's most substantial stilt house. However, when asked where one might find the toilet, Somcham replies “anywhere”, which explains the healthy looking pigs living under the house. After a meal of fish-head soup, we settle down for the night – while we've bought along our own mosquito nets, our beds turn out to be the floor. It seems these bamboo mats have a multitude of uses. The Akha still rely on the opium trade for a sizable proportion of their income, and addiction is a serious problem, particularly among the men. My ‘bed' is next to the headman, and while we settle in for the night, he settles down to a last few pipes - as I drift off to sleep, undoubtedly aided by the fragrant smoke, a soft, slurred whisper drifts out of the darkness: “Opium?”
The following morning, as we leave Sopee Kao, we are reminded once again how removed from the rest of the world this area really is. We notice someone washing one of the village's many dogs (every village seams to have a canine population problem) and are a little concerned that lunch may prove to be the most unpalatable meal yet. It turns out that Somcham has decided he'd like a pet (which the headman happily provides) and he asks us to choose a name. Ali jokingly suggests ‘Madonna', which meets with a completely blank look. The name is obviously unfamiliar.
Our last day's walk is rather easier, being mostly down hill and following more established tracks. We pass through a few more villages, and have another relaxing lunch by the side of a stream. Much to our delight, we discover that Madonna is partial to the odd fish head or two, but lunch is cut short when we realise that we have been joined by the local leech population. A short after-lunch stroll brings us to our rendezvous point with the trekking company's van, and a lift back to Muang Sing. Even though we have only been away for three days and two nights, we're glad to return to the prospect of eating at a table and sleeping in a (more or less) real bed. It's been a memorable experience. Some of the walking has been hard, some of the accommodation uncomfortable, and some of the food has certainly been novel, but we've been very lucky to encounter the people and landscape of a beautiful and remote corner of this country. I just don't think I'll be taking home any recipes.