Kim Fay

The refined, hardwood Pak Ou crests into the afternoon, sailing toward Luang Prabang and the end of our two-day journey down the Mekong River. We aren't ready for this part of the trip to be over, but there isn’t anything we can do about it, as our suitcases are hauled up and deposited on the top of the steps. The sun casts shadows down the length of the road. Clinging to the camaraderie we'd initiated on the boat, we invite our guides, Phonesy and Air, to celebrate my thirty-fifth birthday with us tomorrow. Nineteen-year-old Phonesy, with his infectious grin and fluid, often incomprehensive English. The more sedate, a bit older Air, who speaks nimble French and whose name, he informed us, “sounds like the wind.” They surprise us by suggesting a party on the boat, which will be moored for three days before it embarks on a return cruise to Huay Xai.

My sister Julie, our friend Page, and I love the idea—a Mekong River Reunion. It indulges the pangs of nostalgia we're already beginning to feel. We make plans to meet up at six the following evening, and then head for our hotel, up the road. Referred to as “The Castle” by our guides, Auberge Le Calao is a French villa that overlooks the river. It was built in 1906 by a Chinese-Lao merchant, restored in the mid-1990s and transformed into simple, elegant lodgings with one of the most gracious staffs I have ever encountered.

We are wearing the day's sweat and river grime, and we marvel at the whiteness of the hand-embroidered bedding, the grillwork above the arch that separates Page's sleeping area from ours, the louvered shutters that hold back the night. After the concrete beds in the border town of Huay Xai and the toxic-waste spiders in the rooms in the hill town village of Pak Beng, I'm more than ready for the luxury of those beautiful sheets. By nine o'clock, I'm tucked in. Rain pours, thunder shakes the room and lightning illuminates the sky. Or so I’m later told. I sleep without moving until dawn, when I wake to a dappled gray sky and the first day of my thirty-fifth year.

***
Thirty-five is a momentous birthday, especially for a woman who is not married, does not have children and—foremost on my mind—has not yet published her novel. Ever since leaving the U.S., I'd planned to rise on this morning before the first cinder of daylight, walk up to the top of Mount Phousi, and meditate insightfully while the sun rose over the verdant jungles. Instead, it appears that thirty-five years have thoroughly exhausted me. I roll over and go back to sleep, moving only hours later when Julie and Page also begin to stir.

We spend this overcast day wandering lazily down lanes, gazing at temples, lingering in shops: practicing the fine art of doing nothing. In this corner of the world, silence is a refinement of the stillness that hangs in the air. Scale and pace are reunited with basic human need. A telephone rings, and it sounds as if it's coming from a future still decades away. It's possible to believe that this place can never be touched, can never be contaminated.

***
We don't want to go down to the boat empty-handed, so we gather the lau-lao we bought in Whiskey Village and pick up a few big bottles of Beer Lao for the party. The twilight is lavender and drizzle thickens the air as we slip down the muddy incline to the boat. Phonesy and the crew (a few of them shirtless, none of them looking in the party mood) are finishing dinner, and Air is nowhere to be seen. Oblivious to our bewilderment—have we arrived early, late, on the wrong day?—Phonesy mumbles something and sprints off to find Air, leaving us alone with the captain and his family; our favorite deck hand, Smiley; and a few others we don’t yet know. No one speaks English, but by the time the night is finished, we will have deduced enough about our hosts to define them with nicknames. Mr. Diamond, Chicago and The Bartender are but a few.

Waiting for our hosts to return, we ease the lack of common ground and language by cracking open some lau-lao and taking turns swigging from a small dirty glass administered by The Bartender, who's partial to the “one for you, three for me” school of serving. When Phonesy and Air finally arrive, they are accompanied by their friend, Tia. Nineteen years old and slight as a pre-pubsecent girl, Tia works in a shop that sells lamps made of mulberry paper. He speaks decent English, has a disposition that would melt the hearts of seventh grade girls around the world, and is unaccountably hip, considering his upbringing in a rural village outside town.

While our initial feelings of awkwardness are slowly being lau-laod away, there's no amount of rice whiskey that will let us pretend this is just another normal night out on the town—a fact bolstered by the sudden appearance of a wide-eyed face on the river side of the boat. Dressed only in a pair of shorts, a man uses the railing to drag his primitive pirogue up the river, all the while peering into a tableau of three foreign women, half a dozen Lao men, a table glutted with booze and a CD player crooning Eric Clapton.

Passing into the night beyond the boat, the man continues to stare, as if the entire scene has been transported from another planet. The brief presence and puzzlement of this outsider gives our party a sense of solidarity. We are collaborators in that weird traveler's netherworld, the ephemeral no man's land where cultures verge for just a short while amidst the clinking of glasses and shouts of cheers and sok di and the singing of three lines from the five songs we all know, over and over and over. Estranged from the context of our daily lives, we create our own universal truths. 1) You are always welcome at the Hotel California. 2) Whoa whoa, hey hey, I love you more than I can say.

Plastic awnings are lowered to protect us from the incoming storm. The deck grows steamy and cozy. Mr. Diamond sings the traditional Song of the Two Sisters. Phonesy disappears for half an hour, only to return, slipping precariously down the gangplank, carrying a small white cake adorned with three frosting cats and the words, Happy Birthday, Miss Kim Fay, Age 35. I don't make a wish before blowing out the candles, since it would be selfish to want anything more than what I have right now, this kindness of strangers.

***
There is only one word to describe the day after my birthday. Hangover. We accomplish little more than breakfast on the hotel’s verandah—ever so grateful for fruit shakes—but we don't really care. Last night will have been worth it, once the brutal lao lau headaches subside, and besides, doing nothing gives us the opportunity to shore up energy for tomorrow, Tuesday, September 11. It's our guides last day in Luang Prabang, and they're taking us on an excursion through the countryside to visit the Kwang Xi Waterfall.

Our informal tour’s departure is scheduled for 8:30 a.m., and we leave right on time. Lao time, that is. Phonesy, Air and Tia meander nonchalantly up the steps of our hotel around 10:30, and it takes another half hour to rent Hondas and get on the road. After two disappointing pit stops—to visit a 300-year-old, UNESCO-sponsored weaving village that is nothing more than a dismal warehouse, and to search futilely through the leech-infested sludge of the Nam Khan River for the grave of Henry Mouhot, the French botanist who brought Angkor Wat to the attention of the western world—we abandon our Lonely Planet and head for the falls. Our tinny bikes climb through lush countryside, past the squinting curiosity of local villagers and envious expressions of a group of back-packers pushing their broken down taxi-bus along the side of the road.

The rustic settlement just outside the entrance to the falls is Tia's childhood home, and we stop for lunch at his uncle's restaurant before making our way into the park. The waterfall is spectacular, a magnificent cascade that fills the air with a cool mist. Our hair and clothes are as wet as if we've been caught in a storm. Foreign tourists bask in the sun around the base of the falls.

Had we come alone, with just our guidebook for company, we'd probably be doing the same thing. Instead, we're led to a secret swimming hole a short distance away, where the guys strip down to their skivvies and leap in. Hyper-conscious of the necessity of modesty in Laos, I've felt uncomfortable at times even wearing a tank top, but swimming, it appears, is a matter not governed by cultural mores. In our t-shirts and shorts, Julie, Page and I take the plunge, and any remaining reserve splashes to the wayside as we return to adolescence, testing our strength against the current, standing on our hands underwater, diving off one another's shoulders and shoving one another off rocks.

We're soggy as we head home, but the afternoon is still warm. The sun bathes the landscape in a shimmer of gold. Ahead, Julie and Page lounge on the backs of Tia's and Air's motorbikes. Chauffeuring me, Phonesy tells the story of a girl who broke his heart. I sing Three Dog Night and Waylon Jennings. The day is beautiful, and we are happy.

***
Since Phonesy and Air are leaving early the following morning, we ask if we can take them out to dinner to thank them for their kindness. They suggest the Indochina Spirit. We walk through the night's dark silence to the edge of town. With its hardwood walls and thatched roof, the exterior of the restaurant is lovely. The honey glow of lamplight filters through a warren of dining rooms. We gather upstairs around a low table, resting on the cushions scattered on the floor. The shutters are open wide. We have the place to ourselves.

As we pass around dishes of fish soup, chicken rice, prawn curry and Mekong seaweed, we laugh and chat as if we've known each other for a lifetime. In a sense, this is true. A new existence began for Julie, Page and me the hour we entered Laos, and it will end the moment we leave.

Phonesy describes his life as a monk from the ages of 16 to 18, and tells us that he had his first drink when he was twenty. Tia confesses that he wrote poetry when he was young. Certainly, in his case, young is a relative term. About love?, we ask. Oh no, about the poverty and suffering of my childhood. Page and Air speak French, although Air breaks away every once in a while to tease me about a sentimental outburst of tears at my birthday party. We are nearing the end of our meal when Phonesy, perched on the edge of the table beside us, declares, "I have met many American women in my life ..."

In his fabulously fractured English he tells us about the time he invited some guests from the boat to his birthday party. The group promised to come, but they didn't show up, which explains why he wasn’t prepared on my birthday. There is something so sad in Phonesy's telling of this story that we want to rush out, find those lousy tourists and kick their butts. Instead, we remain calm and listen as Phonesy says that we have changed their minds about Americans.

When it comes to traveling the world, whether you're the visitor or the visited, there is so much power in a fleeting impression. Entire countries are pigeonholed based on the personality of a single traveler passing through town. A trip can be either the best or the worst of a lifetime, based on a single incident. As Phonesy grins at us, and Air and Tia nod solemnly, we're flattered to have had a great time and been good ambassadors, as well.

Our moods are high as we walk back to the hotel. We follow the lighted main street, rather than the darker river road. The town, like the restaurant, feels deserted, as if it belongs solely to us. We stop on a corner and say the first of our good-byes to Air, who will be spending the night in town rather than on the boat. The moment is awkward. Although we've shared a life-affirming experience, chances are we'll never see these young men again. Overcome by a formality that masks our emotion, Julie, Page and I take turns shaking hands with Air. Tia leaves next, but our parting is casual since we'll see him in his shop before we depart. Phonesy makes up an excuse to walk us back to the hotel.

As we pass a café, Page and Julie notice a group of foreigners watching TV. Luang Prabang isn't like Bangkok or Bali, where backpackers cluster in the evenings to drink beer and watch grainy old Sylvester Stallone movies. Foreigners here seem to want as little to do with each other as possible. We step inside, to see what's going on.

The channel is CNN. A building is burning. We look around the room, but no one is talking. After a few moments we realize that there has been a plane wreck in the middle of New York City. We try to figure out what happened. Then, in an instant, it becomes sickeningly clear. Terrorists have attacked the World Trade Towers and the Pentagon.

Julie's and my parents are on business in Philadelphia with side trips planned to New York. Page's family lives in New York, near the towers. Standing on the curb, Phonesy listens to our hurried good-byes and watches us rush away. He realizes that something has gone terribly wrong, but he doesn't understand what.

Page runs back to the hotel to call her family. Julie and I race to an Internet café. Thank God for Hotmail and the message waiting for us. Our parents are safe. Later, when we meet back up with Page, she tells us she spoke to her father. This is a small miracle, considering both the Laotian telecommunications system and all the people in America who are unable to contact their loved ones during this time.

Disoriented, we find our way to a TV in a new café. Surrounded by Australians, New Zealanders and Europeans hunkered down on a rough timber floor, we watch the small fuzzy image of our President as he addresses the nation. It's nearing midnight, and we're exhausted. And then, whispered under the breath: What did they expect?

Not once this night do we hear how terrible or how sad or how tragic. Instead, we learn that somehow we might have deserved this assault, and that our president is a "wanker." I have never felt lonelier in my life than I do now in this room, but although we want to leave, we also need to know what's happening back home.

Finally, around one a.m., CNN cuts out and everyone drifts away. No one expresses a word of sympathy, and we return to the hotel, wounded. We lie in the dark silence of our hotel room, so tired we find it impossible to sleep. Another storm will come and go before the night is over, and when we wake it will be to a world irreversibly changed.

***
My sleep is haunted by a looping nightmare that someone is outside the door, trying to break in. I wake completely worn out. Julie and Page are bleary-eyed, silent, as we walk through the overcast town to breakfast at the Healthy Café. We have no experiences to fall back on, to help us comprehend and process what has happened, and we are alone. Phonesy and Air have sailed back up the Mekong, our country is mourning without us, and we are tender from the callousness of the travelers we encountered last night. We need the solace of familiar food. We order pizza.

We spend the day wandering in and out of shops. It feels profane, and yet at the same time we don't know what else to do. We don’t want to sit and stare at the walls of our hotel room. We have no routine to comfort us. We have no community to embrace us in its collective sadness and rage. Every trip into the Internet café breeds new anxiety. New York is filled with family and friends. What if? It’s agonizing to read the New York Times online as details of the events trickle in.

The hours pass, and the tragedy weaves itself into the fabric of the day. Mist lies like a shroud over the town. The tranquility we basked in just the day before now feels like desolation. The Lao people we encounter know what has happened, and despite their country's heartbreaking history with ours, they are genuinely sympathetic. A few attempt to offer consoling words, but our cultures do not express emotion in the same ways. Too much is lost in the translation, and the efforts, although appreciated, fall short of solace. When we run into Frankie, a Scotsman we met at the waterfalls, his compassion is so familiar and heartfelt that I want to cry. I hadn't realized how much a few kind words could mean.

Dinnertime arrives, and we are pulled back to the Indochina Spirit, accompanied by a duo of incompatible ghosts: the specter of the Trade Towers collapsing, and the phantom of three Lao men and three American women sitting around a table laughing into the night. We sit upstairs in the same room, but we choose a different table. We're acutely aware that it's impossible to bring back the enchanted hour that preceded the terrible news, although that's certainly why we're here.

Instead, the music is so eerie we ask to have it changed, and the tables are filled with non-American foreigners who make no effort to hide their stares. We now know why we had the place to ourselves with Phonesy, Air and Tia. While we were hidden away, sheltered, the world had lost its footing, and everyone but us was watching its mad stumble. It seems impossible that we didn't feel it, that it didn't shake the restaurant right off its foundation.

We eat, and we talk, and we miss our new friends. As we reminisce about our short time with them, it's a kind of salvation, a comfort simply knowing they exist. After everything Laos has suffered, its inhabitants can still smile, are still kind, are still capable of innocence. Phonesy, Air and Tia are living proof. If there is anything that will get us through the darkest hours of this tragedy, it is this.