We agreed to pay a little more than the asking price to take a four hour walk to a waterfall, pass through three villages on the way and then take a boat ride back to town, a walk that most villagers said was not possible.
It was me, Max and a Swedish kid who seemed to take a liking to us and kept showing up at meal times even though he had little to say. His name was Andreas and he had deep blue eyes and the blemished skin of a teenager. He seemed eager to make conversation but uanable. He'd hang around quietly, sit in the background for long pauses then start conversations that lasted for no more than a few rallies, then try again after another long pause. He seemed stilted beyond the language barrier. His english was good enough when he got going, but something else was holding him back and driving him forward at the same time.
We set off at 10am, the sun already hot on our faces, following a guide who spoke little English but carried a good sized knife in a leather sheaf and strapped around his waist. We started along a path that pretty much followed the river south and even though the sun was hot and the countryside was dry and brambly, we were happy to have hours of walking ahead of us and a waterfall as a reward at the end.
The dry shrub grew thicker, closing in the dirt path to a narrow alley. And then it grew higher into a canopy over our heads that we had to duck down to make it through. The thorns on the brambles snatched at my hat and my backpack, making me stop and unattach the branches more than once. Max, who had another foot on me, was having an even harder time, and was growing anxious to stand erect again. We finally emerged from the canopy of brambles, ducked into the shade of tall trees for a short time and then were back into fields of dry brown bushes again, low this time, and without a dirt path.
The guide carried on, seldomly looking back and using his knife to cut the smallest of branches that weren't in anybody's way. He found the path again, lost it again and took us in a few circles when he did look back and laugh it off. It was a little over an hour into the journey and we were losing confidence in finding the waterfall, wondering if we had actually spent our $5 wisely. And then we were being lead out of the brambles, down an embankment onto a beach of the Nam Ou river. Our guide flagged a boat and ushered us aboard with a smile and a sweeping hand gesture. We gestured back with walking fingers on our palm, explaining that we really wanted to walk. A group of local Laos people in the boat looked on.
Our guide then tried to explain that it wasn't possible to walk. "Not possible walk." We interpreted this into English as "I am too lazy/tired to walk," or alternatively "I am completely lost." We saw what looked like a dirt path continuing down the shore line and after two times being led in a circle, wondered if our guide was being honest or if we were being bamboozled in a big way.
With the only other options to make our own way down something that resembled a path, continue to argue on the beach or get in the boat, we let prudence win and we got in the boat. But we grumbled heavily.
We did make it to the waterfall. The boat took us most of the way, but we got another forty-five minute walk into the damp forest and climbed the shallow tiers of the waterfall until we got to the rocks where the water fell into two big gushes twenty feet into a clear blue pool. We cooled ourselves in the water, took pictures of each other with the waterfall rushing over us and ate the sandwiches we had packed. I had a peanut butter sandwich. Laotians interpret peanut butter literally. I had a buttered roll with crushed peanuts.
In the end we got a dollar refunded, but we had stopped grumbling and were tired enough from the walking and ducking we did get to do. The Swedish kid left the next morning, stopped by to exchange email addresses, which seemed a strange gesture, but not any more strange than his others.
