If

If
tropical rainforests are at the heart of Luang Namtha
province, then the animist tribes and their traditions are what
keep it beating. Though it’s been inhabited for 6,000 years, this
ancient land remains a little-discovered corner of Laos. It’s also
home to Nam Ha National Protected Area, a rugged and mountainous
terrain that’s densely blanketed in virgin forest, lush vegetation
and squawking wildlife. The Tha River is the jungle’s lifeblood;
its fruitful waters home to a myriad of creatures which feed the
Khmu, allowing them to raise their people in the wild.

Phonxay village market marks the start of my time in Northern
Laos. Rattan cages rattle with poultry, and bustling bodies weave
in and out of fruit and vegetable mounds. The sound of locally
caught tilapia fish thrashing around in the boot of our van signals
the beginning of a 30-minute drive to Nam Ha National Protected
Area. Once there, we tread carefully through a humid rice field
while the sticky heat of the day prickles at my forehead. Tom, our
trekking guide, is unyielding – in fact, he looks nonchalant as he
leads us towards the forest edge. I cast my mind to home and
prepare to be amazed by a land of unparalleled beauty.

Hiking into the depths of a bamboo forest, we clamber under
low-hanging vegetation and fallen logs while witnessing its hidden
inhabitants. Rustling among tropical flora and fauna, crested
finchbill warble and monkeys leap between the woody vines. As we
descend along a trail, I watch as a battalion of giant red ants
march near my feet. Tom starts a wood fire and, with his machete,
cuts several banana leaves to lay on the forest floor. Heady and
intoxicating, the smell of barbecued fish mingles with the sunlight
as lunch is served.

Phonxay village market marks the start of my time in Northern
Laos. Rattan cages rattle with poultry, and bustling bodies weave
in and out of fruit and vegetable mounds. The sound of locally
caught tilapia fish thrashing around in the boot of our van signals
the beginning of a 30-minute drive to Nam Ha National Protected
Area. Once there, we tread carefully through a humid rice field
while the sticky heat of the day prickles at my forehead. Tom, our
trekking guide, is unyielding – in fact, he looks nonchalant as he
leads us towards the forest edge. I cast my mind to home and
prepare to be amazed by a land of unparalleled beauty.

Hiking into the depths of a bamboo forest, we clamber under
low-hanging vegetation and fallen logs while witnessing its hidden
inhabitants. Rustling among tropical flora and fauna, crested
finchbill warble and monkeys leap between the woody vines. As we
descend along a trail, I watch as a battalion of giant red ants
march near my feet. Tom starts a wood fire and, with his machete,
cuts several banana leaves to lay on the forest floor. Heady and
intoxicating, the smell of barbecued fish mingles with the sunlight
as lunch is served.

Rolling Laotian sticky rice between my fingers, I crunch on
freshly cut bamboo shoots, raw rattan and palm hearts. Leafy
vegetables are served with jeow bong chili paste and spicy
aubergine, followed by floral pears to cleanse the palette. I’m
stuffed, and the ridge trail ahead of us offers up a challenge as
we walk a route carved out by tribespeople centuries ago. We tumble
into a small clearing, sunlight burning a hole through the sky, and
cross the rice fields until we reach the spirit gate that marks
Nalan Neua village.

Five hours into the wilderness and we’re face-to-face with the
elders of a Khmu tribe. Placing our hands together in a nop
gesture, we greet one another with a friendly “sabai dee”. Out of
respect, we avoid the women swathed in cloth as they wash in the
river. Instead, our eyes dart to the men who wade with fishing
nets, the net-covered bucket of croaking frogs and the gleeful
children splashing around in the water.

In the dusty village, traditional houses are raised on timber
stilts with bamboo walls and thatched roofs. My eyes meet a woman
in indigo-dyed clothing as she squats beside a wood fire. Plumes of
smoke billow as she enjoys a moment of stillness among the chaos.
Between a game of barefoot kickabout with the local children and
bathing in the ebbing sunshine, a purple haze falls on the valley
and we trundle to the hillside to watch the sunset before
dinner.

Piglets and chicks run circles around our ankles as we sit down
for a candlelit meal. Pounded rice is soaked in water then steamed
over the fire as we gobble up young rattan shoots (a type of palm),
shaved banana flowers, spicy papaya salad and barbecued frogs. Eyes
wide with joy, our host makes her delight clear as we relish every
last morsel. My mind drifts away from chit-chat, tuning instead to
the rhythmic call of a million frogs: “Drink, drink, drink.”

Bellies full and bodies tired from the day’s hike, we sit around
the fire and hear stories of Khmu traditions and beliefs.
Jungle-distilled rice whisky, or “lao-lao”, are shot nine times.
It’s impolite to refuse, so I gulp the fiery liquor and turn to the
friend on my left who repeats the ritual. Beneath an inky blanket
littered with stars, I chew on a bristly stick of sun-dried buffalo
skin and feel myself melt into the ground with the weight of the
whisky as Tom translates the local shaman’s stories of supernatural
worship.

The nearby town and its rumbling main road seem a distant memory
as we climb under mosquito nets and rest our heads on the ground.
My thoughts quickly slip away to the gentle hum and click of
insects surrounding me and I think to myself, how calm it is. When
the blackness above is so spirited and vast, I wonder if the
universe’s heart is also beating.