The Slow Boat Down the Mekong – Part 1: Slow Boat

The slow boat down the Mekong was long, narrow, wooden and entirely without hurry.

Joanna took the last seat on the crowded bench, squeezed between a backpack and a man in a faded blue shirt. She was thirty-three, a nurse from Auckland, travelling alone for the first time in years. The river lay broad and brown and still, slipping past green banks and limestone hills. The engine thudded. Mist drifted off the water.

"First time?" said the man beside her.

"Is it that obvious?"

"You are holding the seat like it will fly away."

She laughed and loosened her grip. He was thirty-six, slim, with gentle dark eyes, a faded cap and a small leather notebook. His name was Khamphet. He worked as a guide for the boats, riding them up and down the river, and in the years of doing so he had learned every village by name.

"That is Pak Ou," he said, pointing. "And that bank is where the elephants come to bathe. Wait. Look."

A grey shape moved between the trees on the bank. A mahout on its neck waved at the boat. Joanna gasped. Khamphet smiled.

She spent the day on the bench, watching the river unspool. He told her stories: the old sailors, the floods, the fishing villages on stilts. At noon he shared a leaf-wrapped parcel of sticky rice and grilled fish. She shared her peanuts. They drank warm beer from the bottle and watched the sun slide gold along the water.

At dusk, they pulled in to a small riverside village for the night. Lanterns glowed along the bank. Khamphet carried her bag up the muddy track to a simple guesthouse, with mosquito nets and a balcony over the water.

"Can I ask you something?" said Joanna.

"Yes."

"Do you ever get tired of the river?"

"Never," said Khamphet. "Each trip I see it for the first time. Because of the passengers."

"Green?" she said, a lantern, a leaf.

"Green," said Khamphet, with a soft smile. "Very green. Sleep. Tomorrow, the best part."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Golden Hour on the Mekong.