It's been a travelling kindof time.
The train from Bangkok to Chiang Mai was lovely - I've had far worse sleepers in Europe (Eastern Europe anyway.) Didn't stop for trekking or sightseeing there; just wanted to move on to Laos. So got a bus about an hour later to Chiang Rai, 3 hours away across jungled hills and through 2 storms. Met a Danish girl - Marianne - going my direction at Chiang Rai, so we carried on to Chiang Kong, a further 2 hours away by uncomfortable local bus. Made it there by 5.30, so were able to get one of the last ferries across the river (just a basic longtail; they didn't bother running the big ferry for us).
So we were in Laos, at unpronouncable Haoixoui. Boats downriver east to Louang Prabang not leaving till the next morning, so stayed over in a rather lovely set of huts - all darkwood woven, and the first hot shower I've seen in cheap accomodation. The town was small, onestreet with several restaurants and guesthouses and shops but not much else. Not much different to small town Thailand; houses and gardens were a bit better - border trade must be good for the local economy - but little distinctive to be seen.
Boat started at 11 the next day. Long and narrow, with uncomfortable skinny wooden seats along each side, just about room for 13 people a side and daybags in the middle - it was crowded, and after 6 hours, the seats really dig into you. But the scenery was gorgeous alright; rolling hills and mountains all covered in jungle; occasional settlements of wooden houses on stilts; naked kids playing in the chocolate brown river; even saw a wild elephant by the river. The river itself was turbulent; very fast with numerous currents running in all directions, lots of little whirlpools and standing waves.
In the small town we stayed in last night - Pakbeng - mid journey, got a guesthouse with some of the others from the boat (all decent types) and had a much-needed drink with them, and dinner at the guesthouse. The town was mostly battered wooden shanties, front open to the street most of the day. Meanwhile, a local dealer had come around and was offering opium and grass for sale. One of the blokes, who had done opium before, struck up a deal for anyone interested to go to a doctor to smoke opium pipes. So we trooped up the road, up a very narrow steep path up the cliff, up a ladder and into a tiny wooden shanty. By the candlelight, there was one old Laosian man, and a young annoyed local woman, holding a sleeping baby. There were about 8 of us, and the old man told us to get out - maybe we were too many, or maybe we were too likely to wake the baby, or maybe his wife was in a bad mood - we left. On to try the next place. Even less salubrious, scaling a tiny mudpath vertically by torchlight, up to a cardboard shack. This place had two young guys lying on the floor with a candle and pipe each. They give you a long bamboo pipe; stick a lump of black tarry opium on the end of a metal skewer, and hold it over the candle, turning and moulding it as it warms. They then sick that into the 'bowl' - a small hole cut into the side of the bamboo - and you lie down on the cardboard floor and hold the hole side on to the candle flame as the opium bubbles and smokes, and the doctor keeps pushing it back into the bowl as it liquefies. The smell is flowery - like violets, I thought. More probably like poppies, but I don't know what they smell like... and the buzz is mellow, rather sleepy-hash-like.
More slowboat today - 7 hours of it - and am finally at Louang Prabang, alleluiah. It seems lovely, utterly unlike any picture I had in my head of the second largest city in a communist country. It feels like a small town; one main street lined with two story white&red roofed houses. The French influence is visible in the cooking - lots of baguettes & excellent coffee and food in general, and in the fact that the guesthouse owner speaks mainly French and is under the impression that I can too (aided by my nodding seriously to everything he says. Hope it doesn't turn out I've agreed to sleep with him, as happened before with an incomprehensible pygmy I met in Leyton. The perils of the nod-and-smile solution to a thick accent).