A lazy first afternoon by the Mekong river, under a canopy of leaves, the sun dapples the Pepsi caps-riddled sidewalk with inter-weaving light and shadows, a perfect symphony orchestrated by nature. The Mekong breeze flutters the leaves adding further music, while a traditional Lao duet issues from a radio across the busy road form a bamboo-zinc sheet shack, broken now and then by the chit-chat-laughter of a group of girls sitting at another table.
Similar establishments dot the length of the Mekong river, which becomes a beehive of activity by the evening when people come out to eat sticky rice with fish and drink the famous Beer Lao. Candles in severed white plastic bottles dot the night with yellow stars, while some boast electric light bulbs, hastily put together, judging by all the wires on the ground. Some have put sitting mats with triangular pillows to rest your weary backs. Its quite a sight to see; people sitting to a hearty meal accompanied by Beer Lao in the evening, watching the sun to bed, contemplating and reminiscing, appreciating a sunset as never before.
“Sabaidee!” we greet the lady. “Sabaidee”, she chirps back. That is the first and the only word we have learnt. A day earlier, we have to wait till the evening when other artists from Myanmar, Vietnam, Cambodia and Bangkok check into the hotel. We have decided to look around on our own.
“Juice?”, we question. She points to a variety of fizzy drinks. No, no we shake our heads. Real fruit juice. It’s her turn to shake her head. My friend end up with a fizzy drink.
“Beer Lao?”, I question. I have heard of this beer from a friend who was here before. She grins an understanding. This is the language she understands. Everyone in Lao, be it a minister or a menial worker, be it in an expensive party or a family reunion, drinks it.
A lady in a conical hat walks up to us with stacks of dried bamboo stretched-skewered squids in one hand and a make shift samovar in the other and mumble jumbles a series of questions which is met by mumble jumble to her, which in English was, “ No meat, we are vegetarians”. She says something to the effect (I presume), the squids are only this much and she’s ready to roast it for us when we shake our heads in unison. No! No!. Something in our expression stops her. She jerks her head a 90 degrees and struts off, voicing something between a neigh and a grunt, her invectives floating in the air like trails of fragrance, reminding how retarded a stranger must feel in a strange land. The girls can contain no more and roar out in abandon, joined in good measure by the stall keeper and her husband (or is he the father?). We look off into the distance, pretending to be lost in our thoughts knowing fully well we will find our face reddened if we look at each other.
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