Bolaven Plateau
Last weekend, I went to the Bolaven Plateau. This vast expanse is a plateau between the inhabited part of southern Laos along the Mekong River and the mountain range separating the country from central Vietnam.
There are no large settlements on the plateau, only a few villages. Local farmers grow coffee, extract fresh latex sap from rubber trees, and also produce tapioca for bubble tea and other cool uses.
There's a popular motorcycle route, The Bolaven Plateau Loop, through coffee plantations and waterfalls. I greased my bike, pointed it at a random spot in the center of the plateau, and rode along an uncharted trail where white people never go, destined for adventure.
I really enjoyed the waterfalls and rubber plantations, which aren't featured in tourist brochures, but I didn't linger long. The hard-packed dirt road ended at a barrier after 50 km. Behind it, a powerful hydroelectric power station hummed. The water outlet to it, covered in colored plastic, descended from the mountain like a giant pipe from some hellish water park. Only power company jeeps were allowed on the mountain serpentine to the top platform. For me, it was a dead end, and I had to return the same way.
I sat for a while in the employee cafe/shop; they were stopping in jeeps for food and drinks; there were no other customers. It was 1:45 PM. Leaden clouds were quickly descending from the mountains, and I decided to make a dash for the highway and return to the city.
A tropical thunderstorm hit just a couple of kilometers into the drive, the road immediately became muddy, and I, my bike, and all my belongings found myself covered from head to toe in the local red clay. I hid in a mysterious golden tent with golden chairs (50 km from the city!), which had already struck me on the way to the power station.
Around 4:00 PM, amid flashes of lightning and rips in the fabric of the universe, it became clear that even at top speed on the potholed road, I wouldn't make it to the highway before dark, as sunset was at 6:00 PM. I realized that nothing depended on me anymore, and my soul became very calm. I strengthened my faith that God would see me through, and I could get on with the usual business of a sack of meat and bones, a small-scale fertilizer producer.
I calmly washed all my clothes, stocked up on rainwater—filling all the empty bottles under the streams running from the tent. I washed myself and my bike the same way, ensuring everything was clean. I packed my slightly damp backpack in a plastic bag and began taping it to protect all my electronics and documents.
At that moment, a huge white truck with high sides pulled out from the highway. In the cab sat a cheerful young driver, a middle-aged woman, and a very young woman. A gang of mischievous and playful teenagers was galloping along in the rain in a tall, open truck. This merry traveling theater veered off the road toward the golden tent, and the little ones even jumped out of the truck while it was moving, rushing toward me with cheers, their bare feet scattering chunks of red-orange clay in all directions. This whole gang had arrived to remove the tent.
We laughed for a long time and tried to explain ourselves, to no avail. Then I helped them dismantle and load everything into the truck, and they carefully took the bike on board, which was a joy to hand over to them, perfectly clean. The language barrier wasn't a problem at all. Our shared cause instantly bonded us; words were unnecessary. The storm passed completely unnoticed, and we all rode into town together. We took lots of photos. We arrived in Pakse with the last rays of the setting sun.
Yes! The mysterious tent had been erected in the wilderness not for a secret wedding, but for the celebratory opening of a new plantation. An entire field on the plateau was planted with new trees. I couldn't figure out what kind. Chances are high that these were the same rubber trees that would produce tons of liquid latex, and I passed many such rubber farms that day.