Rainy season and everyday problems

As you can easily gather from the reduced blog frequency internet access is a rarity - also in the south of Laos. Let alone a fast one. At least off the few tourist hotspots. Hence blogging itself is already almost an adventure. 

In the first two months of our trip we did not notice much of a coming rainy season. We always hoped for a cool down from above. But sometimes locals crushed our hopes by saying that there were no classical seasons in the last few years (cold from roughly November to March, hot from March to May, rainy from May to November). Instead it apparently was always hot, especially in the southern parts of the country, and it either rained too little or too much at once which lead to flooding. According to them the climate is definitely changing...

Flooded meadows and well filled rice fields. Bottom: Fisherman at the confluence of a clear side arm with the brown Mekong.

Because this is our first time to southeast Asia we have no frame of reference but we can surely register that the rainy days are a lot more frequent in the past three weeks. If a thunderstorm happens to accompany it then the chance of a power cut is near 100 %. After a stormy night one can see everybody running around with headlamps. And lately we always keep it at hand too. Contrary to our expectations it usually rains between evening and late morning. Rarely for extended periods of time but when it does it is a torrential downpour, usually out of the blue. The black clouds to the west already had us wondering why it isn't raining yet when we hear a loud rushing in front of us. We are confused at first and wondering where this river may be. Suddenly we spot a wall of water 40 metres away racing towards us. We just have enough time to flee under our ponchos before taking a shower. And not an unpressurized one but a full on tropical at four bar. The road is a stream within seconds and we have no idea if water from the top or bottom is breaking into our shoes. But every step is soggy and gurgly. Our feet have a worrying wrinkly appearance by the time we stop walking. 

Elly's feet after a day in wet hiking boots...

A few days later we loose the patience game against the goddess of water (we made big offerings to her in Thailand) and have to trash our Western thinking. We imitate the Lao people and exchange our hiking boots for flip flops. If water cannot be kept out then at least make sure it can drain well. We are marching in the Laos national footwear for 15 km until the rain eases off. But it is admittedly a real treat to get back into our "footgloves" - shaped over almost 2000 km to fit every square millimetre of our feet. 

Don't let the video fool you - in reality the downpours are brutal. But at least you get an impression...

 

Maybe a few have asked themselves how we handle everyday things like going to toilet on such a long hike in sometimes very remote places. The answer is obvious, we improvise. Mostly bushes come to the rescue (as they do for many locals too). It doesn't happen too often though because the body uses the little food very efficiently and almost all fluids leave the body by transpiration. 

Left: Lots of green toilets in the background. Right: typical house of the region (has space for whole families). When asking for a toilet you are directed to the bushes...

But a few days ago it was my turn and I had to "go big". Mysteriously very suddenly and urgently so I ran towards the next opening in the bushes upon seeing it, dropped the backpack, dove into the green and relieved myself. The light feeling didn't last for long. I grabbed my pack and before I knew it my hands were in someone elses heap (man or animal I do not know). I forgot to inspect the landing zone of my bag and paid for it. It was just everywhere and stank abysmal. Trying to clean my companion without water and soap made an even bigger mess. I settled for walking with a brown olive backpack (instead of blue) and in a cloud of rotten fish, sewage plant and manure for the last 15 km. And I thought that not only the people but even the dogs wrinkled their nose when I walked past. But we learnt something new: never drop your backpack thoughtlessly... 

Two days later I had to deal with a set of whole new problems. My head was hammering and I felt feverish and weak. The thermometer only said 37.2 (which most likely excluded dengue or malaria) but I could not picture myself walking in this condition. So we took an unscheduled days rest to observe the situation. I still didn't feel well the next morning but the temperature seemed normal. Knowing that we had not too many days left on our visa we continued our journey on foot. We managed 34 km but I was half absent most of the time. Another 35 km on the next day took their toll and I just fell into bed. My head did not stop heating up. 38 degrees. Threshold to start worrying about malaria. Damn it!

Measuring the temperature - not happy...

 

Should we drive the 180 km to Pakse and see a doctor? I did not feel capable of walking this distance and our health needs to be the top priority. Especially because our body is also our means of transport. On the other hand there was the project which I have come to love. I couldn't fight the thought of letting down the donors and the people we wanted to help if I drove. And it was our dream to walk Laos. Chaos in my head. But finally I made a very difficult decision: if my situation does not improve until the morning I am going to see a doctor in Pakse. Having tried everything and battled for 70 km was cold comfort. I slept very well that night. And in the morning I felt recovered, 36.2 degrees. Miraculously everything vanished and I was very, very relieved. We only walked 10 km on that day to not stress the body too much. But the machine is running well again ever since and we are now 60 km north of Pakse after (once again) walking a marathon today...