MUANG SING 2007

From having been Thai territory in the 16th century, then a French protectorate from the 19th century until 1954, to finally being squabbled over by the British, Chinese, and Vietnamese, French Indochina, Muang Sing town and province, after the USA lost the war against the Communists, was brought into the fold of the Socialist Republic of Laos.  Nowadays, it has turned into this laid back village, visited by adventurous backpackers and the occasional charter middle-aged charter tourist who booked his tour in Thailand. Some of the lone travelers though come this far for the mere kick of getting to smoke opium, which has maintained its aura of the real McCoy for the few, despite the Communist government cracking down on it.

The local market was a riot of colourful tribals selling exotic game like coati, bats, and jungle fowl.  Laos isn’t Thailand, but here also one can see the impact of luxurious goods on the lifestyle of the nomadic forest dwellers. Children are sent to schools and one has to be able to get there.  Pressure to give up the traditional way of life comes from all sides.  The last straw was to lose their forests, and yet on this one too they seemed to have yielded to capitalism. 

Among the hill tribes I visited, the Akha were the most impressive.  Like the Hmong, they entertained a deep connection with the forest spirits, who channeled their energy through the village shaman. One needed a trained eye to find out which village belonged to which tribe.  Some houses looked so similar. They were nomads, but with the ever increasing pressure from the government to resettle (read: to be deported to as far as the capital), to close towns like Muang Sing which become detrimental to their culture.

The Chinese corporations have had no qualms telling the Akha, that it is better burning their (primary) forests, and then to plant rubber trees instead. They are persuaded that this will make them millionaires for in ten years from now they would be able to sell the rubber to the world. Everyday, as far as I could see, the forest was going up in smoke; I wanted to cry.  

It was not difficult to romanticise their way of life when you met them. Having hitched a ride with the Lantern, I was back in town, in time for the Rocket -pronounced 'loket'- festival, which would start the following morning. From my Guest house room I had a view of the preparations and show of colourful dancers, young and old, who arrived from all over the place. A shaman was present to officially inaugurate the festivities. A racket of gunpowder launching arrows out of bamboo guns straight into the sky, marked the end of Songkhran, (in which native and tourist have water and flour thrown at them), the Spring festivities. Many of the ethnic groups showed off their skills under a blazing sun, the children bathing in the nude in a brook nearby.  Being the only foreigner was a true blessing, as everyone treated me with the most exotic food and drinks, and which lasted into the wee small hours of the morning.