Whoever said that Laos is a landlocked country had not reckoned with the Mekong River. "The mother of waters", or Mae Nam Khong as she is locally known, is the lifeline of the Lao nation, flows through her heart, pulses through her veins and laps at her shores. Originating in the Tibetan Highlands, the Lancang Jiang, or "turbulent river" as she is called in China, courses through six countries before emptying into the South China Sea, 4,350 kilometers later, making it the tenth longest river in the world. Most of the Mekong’s meandering through Laos forms a natural - but very porous - border with Thailand, and partly with Myanmar (Burma) at the famous Golden Triangle. But for a journey into the interior of Laos, between Vientiane and Luang Prabang, there is no better way to go than by boat up the Mekong, which is what I did. In fact, for a country lacking any highway system to speak of, no decent inter-urban roads at all and no railways, the river is the only way to go, other than flying.

For those fed up with traffic jams and tired of being stuck in the fast lanes of Bangkok, the riverine transport of the Mekong offers a very appealing alternative, even for the most sophisticated world travellers, and as such a one myself, I easily fell for its romantic allurement. I had first become fascinated with the Mekong upon viewing the early 19 70’s Vietnam- war movie, Apocalypse Now, a free adaptation of the Joseph Conrad novella Heart of Darkness, in which a mission up the Mekong substitutes for the Congo in the Conradian metaphor of a journey into the dark recesses of the human soul. While the movie was shot in the Philippines, and not on actual location in Indochina, a long river journey with the boat turned inward upon, can not only be a journey of self-discovery but also a serendipitous discovery of a little known country that is unspoiled both by economic development and the bane of mass tourism.

Perhaps the best -- and easiest --place to begin a Mekong River journey is from Vientiane, the present-day capital of the Lao PDR and located on the banks of the Mekong, just across the river from Nong Khai in Thailand. From centrally-located Vientiane, one can ply either upstream or down. Downstream to Savannakhet by ferry is faster, but upstream to the ancient capital of Luang Prabang is more interesting so that was the route I chose to go on. The upriver journey to Luang Prabang is supposed to take four to five days, but that depends on many variables such as current, passenger and cargo pick-ups and unloading.

After flying in from Bangkok on Lao Aviation International, my first few days in Laos were spent in getting re-oriented to the most leisurely pace of life and preparing for the journey. It’s a good idea to go down in advance to the Kao Liaw wharf (about eight kilometres west of downtown Vientiane) where the Luang Prabang boats depart, as the departures are not everyday, to make sure there’s a boat when you want to travel. Although I was a little apprehensive at first, the pre-departure visit to the upcountry boats reassured me and whetted my appetite for the journey. The friendly crews, none of whom could speak any English, all greeted me with welcoming smiles and cordial "Sabai dee!" (hello) to a farang who would take part in their simple lives. Unlike Thailand, where farangs (foreigners) are all too common, in Laos there are very few and so they are well-received.

The day before departure, I was briefed on what to expect by Mr Thepvongsa, the managing director of Diethelm Travel who tried to dissuade me from going alone on such an arduous journey. Upon his advice, an English-speaking student guide was arranged through The Raintree Bookshop, the capital’s only English language bookshop (across from the Lao Aviation office). Kham Ou, the twenty-year-old brother of the shop clerk, had never been up-country before, but his English was quite good and he was enthusiastic about working as a guide. So, before starting out, he took me around the Talaat Sao (Morning Market) to stock up on provisions, consisting mostly of instant noodle packets and other dry edibles, most of which were imported from Thailand and would have been cheaper had I purchased them in Bangkok. But one thing that Vientiane abounds in that is not so readily available in Thailand is the long crusty loaves of freshly baked baguettes of French bread and rounds of "La Vache Qui Rit" cheese spread imported from France. At 900 kip per round (less than US$1.50), the cheese was a good buy to accompany the loaves of bread. We also purchased bottled drinking water, a kilo of locally-grown cucumber and some golden Delicious apples that had come down the Mekong all the way from China, and now would partially make the return journey in our picnic basket. Some cotton sheeting from an Indian cloth merchant, and some rag rugs to sleep on and our purchases were complete.

The morning departure time was set at about 8 am, but that’s pretty flexible as it depends on the loading cargo. My guide Kham Ou and I arrived at about 7:45 but had to wait for the boat to be loaded with about 200 cases of Lao beer destined for the bellies of thirsty upcountry drinkers. The three boat-boys, two of whom were young teenagers, paused in their loading of beer to carry our luggage, like teetering tightrope walkers, across the narrow gangplank. While the boat was being loaded, the captain’s wife of this "Ma and Pa" operation made some propitiatory offering to the guardian spirits of the boat or, for ought I know, to Mother Mekong herself by placing some mounds of sticky rice, some joss sticks and flowers on the jutting bow which was already adorned with a vase of thorny-stemmed red flowers. A little girl of about five or six years with puppy-dog eyes, the old lady’s daughter or niece, looked on and curiously eyed the farang passenger. About a half dozen or soother passengers boarded the low-slung boat which was about 20 meters long, and only two meters wide and two meters high. So, except for a small opening in the rear beside the galley and latrine, it was short to stand up (a fact which the bumps on my head would testify to, long after the journey) and one could only sit cross-legged or recline with comfort.

At about 10:15, the boat was loaded with all 200 cases of beer which kept reminding me of the old drinking song "One Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall" which we used to sing on long camping trips as kids in America. Papers and passport returned by the river police, a din-a-ling of boat’s bell and we were off -- but not for long. After about ten minutes out of port, there was a sudden jerk and the engine sputtered to a halt. Engine trouble, an inauspicious false start, as we drifted back to shore. The grease-monkey boat-boys, sweating and stripped to their undies, struggled with the rudder, now dismantled on shore, clanging and hammering it back into shape as I looked on nervously. But apparently, their puttering efforts were not in vain, as miraculously the boat with its engine back in tact chugged off again and the boat-boys relaxed with an animated game of cards. The youngest, no more than twelve or thirteen years old, was such a vehement player that the sound he made by slapping down his cards on the floor competed with noise of the chugging engine.

As they played, the captian, sitting up front with his wife and little girl, adroitly navigated up the murky milk-coffee coloured currents which swirled into whirlpools and eddies, some of which seemed to go against the swiftly moving stream. The constant flux of the river reminded me of the Heraclitean maxim that "you cannot step into the same river twice" --it was ever-changing, much more obviously so than the linear highways we are used to traversing on land. The captain dexterously steered clear of dangerously jutting rocky shoals as the 200-300 meter wide river sometimes constricts to narrow passageways between rocks. I wondered how many times the Lazarusian, leathery-skinned captain had navigated upriver and asked Kham Ou to inquire. The captain momentarily turned around from his steering wheel and incredulously looked at me for asking such a naive question -- "since 1965" he replied laconically - almost 30 years! Reassured that he must know every rock on the river, I did not ask any more stupid questions.

The riverbanks were overgrown with thick jungle, mostly bamboo forests with occasional banana trees. Here and there, at not too frequent intervals, one came across some thatched hut habitations, hardly villages, jutting out of the jungle, a few long canoes, some motorised, moored in front of the houses, like the family car in the suburban garage. The only other sights of human habitation were the occasional fishing traps seen on the shore at low tide and some plastic bottles bobbing on the surface, marking another kind of trap. The ubiquitous bamboo is used for everything from the poles that help to ply the boats, to rafts, traps, and construction material from thatching to stilting for the river houses that occasionally dot the shore. With the Lao PDR having an average population density of only 17 inhabitants per square kilometre, the few and infrequent habitations along the Mekong (its highest population concentration) attest to the underpopulated country’s having one of the lowest densities in Asia.

Finding a suitable village to tie up the boat we stopped at about 5 pm, just an hour before dusk descended in time to do some food shopping (vegetable and fish, ice-cold beverages from the canteen), bathe and prepare the evening meal before the encroaching darkness enveloped all in its warm embrace. The riverine Lao seem to prefer to bathe in the warmth of the evenings rather than the chilly mornings. Al- though throughout the hot day we often spotted naked children swimming along the bank in gleeful abandon. Many waved at the farang and swam after the boat.

Night on the Mekong is an awesome spectacle: the constellations, the Milky-Way and other galaxies are all spread out overhead in a sight that reminds an expat New Yorker of a sight that could only be seen artificially in the planetarium. But here was a spectacular show - free - with the added attraction of a soundtrack of chirping crickets and croaking frogs. There were only a few smudge lamps inside the boat to dissipate the all pervasive darkness. The maxim of "early to bed, early to rise" is appropriate in such a natural setting, undisturbed by distractions of modern life such as TVs, discos and nightclubs. However, little did I realise that on our third night out I would receive an invitation to a dance with a live rock band at a Wat on the river at Pak Lay, which by coincidence was the destination of the boatload of beer.

The next morning, as we quaffed a glass of steaming freshly-brewed Lao coffee from the riverside cafe, we met another farang headed downstream. With time to kill while waiting for the fog to lift and the river police to arrive to check our papers, Kham Ou and I set out to explore the village. We came across a Wat with a very large shell of a mock racing boat for the local village boat-racers to practice their strokes. Nearby, the real boat sat in the boat shed until the annual boat races begin. Inside the Wat, the monks were having their morning meal, being attended by the faithful who served them. The temple walls were plastered with fading Thai posters depicting the life and teachings of the Buddha but seemed to concentrate in the lurid details of the hellish punishments of sinners in the afterlife. The details were so gory that they more resembled horror comicbooks or movies, rather than religious posters. With few cinemas in the country (just a handful in the capital) and little other entertainment, the wats still remain the centre of community life, despite the efforts of so-called progressive elements to secularise this traditional Buddhist society.

After setting out again, in the afternoon we picked up a stranded young man with his speedboat sidling up to our boat for a piggyback ride to Pak Lay. His engine had gone kaput and so he needed a lift to the local mechanic to get it fixed. These speedboat jockeys, always nattily dressed in jeans and denim or leather jackets, are the Mekong equivalent of motorcycle boys. They have money from charging exorbitant prices from well-to-do passengers usually Thai businessmen - in a hurry to get up the Mekong. They live for speed and drink hard. Although no more than twenty or twenty-one years old, this one already had some prematurely gray hairs on the back of his contoured razor-cut hairstyle: It was he who invited us to the beer dance at Pak Lay.

Pak Lay is the midway point between Vientiane and Luang Prabang and a sign (in English) announces that the "port" had been constructed with the financial assistance of the Australian government. Actually, the port is little more than a concrete ramp for unloading cargo from the boats that dock there, about a dozen or so small craft like ours and one big cargo boat laden with teak headed for the capital’s lumber yards. We unloaded the speedboat a bit further upstream, just down the hilly bank from the main town wat where a monk filled jugs of river water.

Following the monk up the hill, I discovered the wat all abuzz with monks and workmen stringing up lights, setting up sound equipment and picnic tables for the town social. It reminded me of a cross between an American church bazaar and small country-fair. Food stalls and tables were set up outside the wat, and the monks manned a fortune-telling table. I tossed a hundred kip note into the black begging bowl on the table, shook a canister with numbered pick-up sticks until one, no two dropped out. The young monk at the table read the number of the first stick, 16, and pulled down the printed sheet corresponding to the number and handed it to me to read. Of course, I can’t read Lao and the monks who spoke only a little English can’t translate it for me, so my fortune remains unknown. A small novice monk beat the big bell and, as night fell, the townspeople began to gather for the social evening.

My host, the young speed-boat man, took me around to various foodstalls to select my meal to be brought back to his friend’s house across the street. Having a yen for fresh green veggies, I loaded up on laap ,the unique Lao "salad", a kind of lettuce-wrapped canape stuffed with a delicious mixture of some indescribable explosion of tastes which seem to be eggplant and herbs such as basil and mint leaves, onions, roasted peanuts and green chillies. It is accompanied by the ubiquitous khao niao, or sticky rice, which the Lao seem to eat with every meal, served out of small woven baskets and rolled into balls and eaten like others eat bread. Sometimes it is used as a sop, dipped into soups or gravy. All this is washed down with fiery rice wine known as lao lao, which my host guzzled down like water, while I took only polite sips and tried to dilute the effect with sips of soup as well.

Although I was the guest, but a rich farang guest, I was asked if I would like to "sponsor" my newly-made Lao friends at the dance which meant, as Kham Ou explained, that I would have to treat them to drinks. After their polishing off more than one bottle of rice wine, I couldn’t see how they would still have room for beer, but that didn’t seem to trouble them. Nevertheless, although surprised at this turn of hospitality in which the guest was asked to treat his host, I politely declined. Instead of joining in on the dance floor after dinner, I sat on the sidelines and watched as Kham Ou and the others spun around on the dance floor to the tune of some Thai rock music. I noticed that the Lao lasses are not at all shy about sitting down next to a boy they fancy and asking him to dance, although at first the gender grouping were homogeneous and some girls danced with each other. The girls all wear their traditional skirts while the boys and men don more western style fashion. While the beer flowed and my hosts became drunk, I wondered about the wisdom of this drunken revelry being sponsored by a Buddhist temple as a fundraiser.

The next morning, the wat looked like the site of some post Armegeddon disaster as the monks endeavoured to clean up from the night before. I said good-bye to my Pak Lay friends who were trying to nurse their hangovers with black coffee, and we set off once again up the Mekong. On the fourth day, well into the upcountry, the excited young boat-boy pointed to the far shore and shouted "Chang! Chang!" Although from a distance it looked like two gray water buffalo beside the bank, I could see that these two beasts were much larger -- they were elephants, hauling teak logs into the logging camp. It was a reminder that this land was once known as Lan Xang, or Kingdom of a Million Elephants.

By the fifth day, I was starting to get restless and stir-crazy from the boat, so the captain suggested we get down at Muang Thadeua and take the last leg overland by the lorry-bus which would get us to Luang Prabang a day earlier than the boat. So upon reaching Thadeua we paid the captain the fare of 8,500 kip each and clambered up the hill to the waiting lorry-bus which had just arrived and would wait an hour or so until it was full enough to set off for Luang Prabang.

As it turned out, the three-hour bus ride across the mountainous Saiyabuly Province was one of the highlights or the journey, and it was good to be on terra firma again, even though the road was pockmarked with moon-like craters. The fresh air of the high altitude, surrounded by mountain peaks over a thousand metres high, was invigorating and the climate so cool I had to put on a plastic poncho over my jacket--to protect against the breezy rain squalls. The rolling hill landscape was predominantly rural with small farms and surprisingly lots of domesticated turkeys running around, so that its seemed more like the realm of a Million Turkeys, rather than elephants. Tribal men all dressed in black with colourful sashes around their waist strode by toting long rifles, presumably for shooting birds, and playful schoolboys walking long distance to their homes waved and smiled at the farang on the bus.