INTO DARKNESS - A Laotian Subterranean Packrafting Adventure

To South-East Asia we went, meandering through the north-east hills of Thailand, soaking in every bit of charm we could find. From limestone karst caves to bowls of khao soi soup in rustic kitchens, we sought the most luscious landscapes and people we could find. Perhaps a bit foolish, we deemed our Kokopelli packrafts essential components in our ventures. It was possibly the most parched dry season there ever was in the region, and when our first ‘river trip’ involved a week of more boat-dragging than actual boating, we were left just a wee bit disheartened. But, thankfully, that didn’t last too long.

One evening, we met two Australian men who have explored the rivers of South-East Asia for over 30 years. Maybe one too many whiskies in, we were lamenting the current flow levels. One of our new buddies alluded to a jungly river in a remote region of Laos that would almost certainly have more water, but was a true bitch to get to. Casually, he threw in the detail that this river happened to flow through possibly the largest river cave in the world. For what it was worth, he told us the name of this river, a major tributary to the mighty Mekong: the Xe Bang Fai. Our beta, vague at best, was solid enough to warrant a week-long journey to this alien region of Laos, where we would then attempt to figure out how the hell to even make it to the put in.

We spent two days on a quest for a bus driver who had even heard of the biggest town close to the river; better yet, who would actually drive us there.

‘Boulapha?’ (Insert shoulder shrug and furrowed brow here.)
‘Yes! Yes! Boulapha!’ (Insert another shoulder shrug, head shake no.)
Defeat.

Finally, one gentleman responded to our request with a hearty ‘Ohhhh, yes! Yessss! One hour! Leaving in one hour!’ And just like that, we were tossed into an old makeshift poultry bus next to a box of cranky chickens and 10 other people, headed who knew where.

Boulapha. Getting dumped with dry bags and packrafts seemed peculiar in this land with no signs of a river, like showing up to a swimming party sans bikini. The village appeared barren, uninhabitable even, both in environment and culture. Remnants of a war-torn region resonated, evidenced by foreign aid posts with individuals donning hazmat apparel. They were working to complete one task: detonation of the nearly 75 million leftover U.S. unexploded bombs (UXOs) from the Vietnam War. With Laos being the most heavily bombed country in the world, this region was hauntingly saturated with UXOs left live and active underground. It made sense now why this village felt like a land so forgotten. I felt embarrassed at times to think the locals might associate us with the shady penumbra of our country’s past. But, amongst broken language conversations, giant smiles, even bigger strokes of empathy, healthy servings of Beerlao on ice, and of course a Laos pop music dance party here and there, we were fortunate enough to connect and engage in fascinating encounters with these resilient individuals. Surviving, just as people survive all around the world. Beautiful humanity, at its core.We pushed on for the next few hours. There were numerous chambers, and they were all Herculean. Drops of water splashed onto our noses from the 70m-tall ceilings. Some rooms were filled with insects that would suicide-bomb into our faces, narrowly escaping the bats we could see framed in our head lamp beams on the ceilings. We stunned ourselves, over and over, during this subterranean visual journey of elongated stalactites or pools of cosmic travertine. Even the most skilled sculptor couldn’t replicate the mounds of white calcite forming into terraces directly before our eyes. But, because of the darkness and the scale of this place, the experience was similar to peering through a toilet paper tube. In fact, it felt so bizarre, I wondered at times if maybe we had been abducted and transferred to a different planet.

Running rapids with a dim head lamp does not inspire confidence. The roar echoing off the walls made riffles in the water sound like giant waterfalls downstream. I’d miss eddies and bounce into unknown objects. Scouting in this setting was asinine. At one point, I paddled harder than I’d ever paddled before, sure of imminent death; but instead, landed my packraft onto a nearby beach. Happy to still have those cheat lines deep in that dark, scary cave.

Time wasn’t a factor in this journey, as there was no concept of night-time there. We could’ve been inside for 4 hours or 16, I’ll never know. But, after one of our many portages and after what seemed like an age, a sparkle of light appeared downstream. Were we finally exiting this womb? We paddled closer, into the final chamber where a brilliant full moon smiled down. The exit was just as pretty as the entrance. Vibrant ferns and rhododendrons hugged every nook and cranny of the walls. I breathed in the sweet scent of vegetation, happy to be back in a world with plants. We turned around to have one final view of the place we had just escaped. Whew. What a ride.

We exited the cave around 1.00am, into a quiet night. We pitched our tent on the first beach we met, our only neighbours being the absurdly skittish, night-time roaming cattle. Wringing wet like two river otters, we peeled our clothes off and launched our frigid, naked bodies into sleeping bags. Exhaustion.

Tomorrow, we’d go find a new adventure. Tomorrow, we’d retrace our steps back to a place more familiar than here. But tonight, with the melodies of crickets and cows, with the whistles and quiet hums from the cave, perhaps voices of the past, we’d dream of this surreal journey on the Xe Bang Fai.