Not enough has been written about northern Laos, its remote villages and imposing kharst mountains stretching skyward between verdant rice paddies. We had spent six days working our way north along a tributary of the Mekong River, first by bus and then, when the roads vanished, by long boat. We stayed in villages perched precariously on the river banks, wooden balconies dangling over the muddy rushing water. It had been days since I had seen electricity, and I couldn’t remember my last internet connection. Those things became less important as our bodies adjusted to the slower pace of life in the mountains, sleeping and waking with the sun.
We left Mong Noi early in the morning on foot. The air was cool but heavy with the afternoon’s rain. A narrow dirt trail extended from the edge of the village into the distance, meandering inland towards, we understood, a more isolated village. The hike took hours, but could not have been more beautiful. We passed lone huts with thatched roofs, which stood in stark contrast to the rolling fields around them. I didn’t have enough words for the different shades of green.
The village itself rose up gradually, a sudden density of rough-hewn dwellings with bamboo walls, muddy footpaths running between them. Tired from our lengthy trek, we stopped at the town’s only restaurant, which, according to the signs, was also a hotel. We communicated with the proprietor in a mixture of charades, broken English, and laughter, eventually ordering lunch. We weren’t sure what we would get until we saw her walk behind the restaurant and very calmly slaughter a chicken. During our meal, she described the many maladies she and her family suffered as her tiny grandchildren played underneath the table; it was clear we were the first travelers to visit in months.
We left her with chocolate, band aids, and bug spray. As we prepared to depart, eager to return to the river-side village before nightfall, she asked us for a favor. She pointed to the sign that had first drawn us to her home, which read “Hotel and Restaurant” in red and yellow paint, before handing me a flat metal board, two paint cans, and a chop stick with which to write. As I began the painstaking work, she handed my husband a second, finished sign and one of the toddlers. Grabbing the second child and a shovel, she marched him to the main road where he dug a hole for the sign post. All told, we made and hung three signs before leaving at dusk.
As we walked through the town, we noticed a uniqueness to the construction. Though most of the houses were made of natural materials, sections of sidewalk, some building foundations, and the occasional planter were metal, like the signs, made out of scavenged cluster bomb casings, abandoned by two armies after the Vietnam War. The villagers, however, had integrated the remnants of what had been an intensely bloody and divisive conflict into the foundation of their town, turning destructive power into stability, transforming what had been designed to eradicate life into something that sustained it. Surely, we thought, this is how whole societies are healed.