Just breaching the surface of the Mekong River, swims something unexpected. Float is more accurate, sometimes visible, sometimes blending in to the murky water. Many don’t notice it, many would pass it off as something else. Many would not even comprehend that it may be found here so close to a major tourist destination. The locals know it’s here, obviously, but they keep quiet. And so, unbeknownst to the lazy swarm of drunk tourists, lounging in the water, it drifts slowly by.
I hadn’t enjoyed Si Phan Don as much as I had thought I would. Though in places is was beautiful, tourism had wrecked most of it, as many lost youths have come to “find themselves,” but have instead brought all of the decadence and corruption that the West has to offer. Drugs were not hard to find and alcoholism seemed to be a problem among both the tourists and the locals. Nevertheless, escaping the ills of society and pursuing the tranquil and the serene, we had enjoyed wandering between the islands, eating simple but good food and enjoying taking life at it’s slowest. But for all of our exploration of the islands, we had not ventured into the river. It was for this reason that we booked to go “tubing.”
As the sun began to sink, fading from yellow to orange before glowing a deep red, we were taken, along with several other westerners, to a little cluster of tiny islands that sprouted out of the sluggish water. Watched by snake-like black cormorants, we were each given a rubber donut, the inside of a tractor or coach tyre and told to sit on it. Then without warning, aided by a long smooth wooden pole, possibly the remnant of an old broom, we were prodded into current. I say current, “sluggish” would have won a race against whatever this was. Like thick, brown treacle, we surrendered to the Mekong.
I lay back, absorbing the sun into my chest and tummy, enjoying it’s blissful embrace. At the same time, I was grateful for the coolness of the river beneath me, a refuge when the heat began to get uncomfortable and I could contract and sink into the tube’s inner ring. This was not as graceful as it sounds, I hasten to add. Spectators would have seen a lot of jiggling flesh and heard grunts usually only heard in an abattoir.
The sunset was gorgeous, a deep orange and pink that captivated and entranced me. Several of our pack had somehow managed to find a faster current and had sped off down the river. I pitied them, they were missing a heavenly masterpiece, the brush of life’s artist displaying all of His great skill and beauty. I was mesmerised. Time passed very slowly.
All of a sudden, something touched my hand in the water. I recoiled upon reflex. “What was that?”
I turned on my tube, as graceful and agile as a cruise liner to see what had touched me. My eyes were off the sunset now, my attention firmly diverted. How was I feeling? A bit nervous, yes, but also in a strange way, excited. What was lurking in this river? Had I been nibbled by a fish, or something else? Unfortunately, the river was to murky to see.
I lay back to enjoy the sunset, but my mind was whirring. I knew there were river dolphins further down the river, had they somehow got here? Unlikely, but possible. Racking my brains I tried to recall any ichthyological knowledge to do with South East Asia, but discovered that here lay a huge chasm in my knowledge. I briefly considered whether there was a small, undiscovered population of Siamese Crocodile here. I told myself that was ridiculous, but momentarily lifted my toes out of the water…
Again! This time I was ready and grabbed with my hand. I don’t know what I thought I would achieve by doing this, but I did it anyway. And remarkably, against all odds, I caught it.
My surprise and elation turned very quickly to horror and nausea when I opened my hand to reveal that I had, in my hand, some poo.
Yes, you read that right. Poo. Faecal matter. In my hand.
I let out a roar, that expressed every negative emotion one could possibly conjure. I thrust my hand back in the water and thrashed it around, desperate to get the vile stuff off my hand. I was to some extent successful, but this was actually a psychological response: try as I might, I couldn’t wash the wretched stuff out of my mind.
I looked for Ollie. He was quite a distance away, still enjoying the sunset. I decided to shout at him.
“Careful, theres poo in the water.”
He tilted his head back uncomfortably to look at me.
“There’s poo!” I repeated, struggling not to retch.
Ollie smiled and put his thumbs up. Either this was a polite way of saying that he didn’t hear a word I said or Ollie is surprisingly comfortable with bathing in Cholera soup. For that is what this part of the river was. As I looked around I saw suspicious sludge balancing just under the water’s surface. With cunning and sly movements, it would encircle ignorant bathers, willing them in. I recoiled, emotionally and physically, retreating to an uncomfortable safety on top of the tube.
How far away was I from the landing point? Quite away, and there was no chance of me deciding to swim the rest of the way. The sunset! Focus on the sunset! But despite my attempts to distract myself with the creators splendour, I couldn’t quite take my mind off the way human beings have ruined it.
What had been a restful and relaxing excursion had become a nightmare, and the time dragged even slower than before. But such was my mental state that I completely failed to notice the current picking up…
Although I was facing the wrong way, it was with a huge sense of relief that I began to hear and see the tell-tale signs of life that indicated I was about to escape this huge open sewer. I tried to turn around to see where I was going, but couldn’t work out a way without putting my hands and feet in the water. I relaxed, I didn’t need to see where I was going.
Apart from I did. Whilst the others had casually guided their tube towards the shore, I had somehow drifted into the middle of the waterway, where the current had really picked up. It was only as I looked to my right and saw my landing point go sailing past me that I realised my predicament. This was less-than-ideal. Sub-optimal. Not only was faecal voyage looking set to continue unabated, I was very aware that not too far down the river was a waterfall. I panicked!
“Help!” I waved frantically at the people on the bank.
They waved back.
That was nice. But also very unhelpful.
I yelled again, attempting to translate a bit of my inner terror into my voice.
Thankfully someone noticed. Quickly grabbing a rope, he threw it into the water. It missed. By about 10 metres.
This was the part where I sort of expected him to think, “eh, I tried,” before settling down into a blissful and untroubled slumber but thankfully this man had slightly more vigour about him than the rest of his stationary companions. Mercifully, before too long, he and a friend had readhed me in a boat, and I was being dragged unceremoniously towards land.
I vowed never to go back in the Mekong. However, the very next day, bright and early, I made my way back to the water’s edge.
I would do anything to watch wildlife, even if that meant returning to the river that I had such a horrendous experience in the previous day. In fairness, I was heading south, to a wider and cleaner patch of the river. Even bright and early, the sun was hot and the sky was a mesmerising azure, with only the faintest wisps of cloud delicately caressing the morning. Our guide was a friendly man with a big smile, gaunt with age and very slim. Although he spoke very little english, he was very friendly and his smile made up for his quietness. As he started up his little outboard motor, spluttering into life like a longterm chainsmoker, he said a sentence that put a big smile on my face.
“Let’s go see dolphin!.”
Let’s indeed!
The Mekong River has been entirely, well, ruined. It has been overfished and polluted. Several huge hydroelectric dams have caused flooding and have quartered up the waterway. And the result, though still beautiful in places, was a barrenness of life. Fish levels have plummeted, birdlife is scarce, and as for other inhabitants, most are extinct, or on the very brink. The Irrawaddy River Dolphin is one of these species. Previously found in estuaries and deltas all across South East Asia, the dolphins now exist in small isolated pockets. Small populations exist on the coasts of India, Myanmar and Indonesia, and their range technically stretches as far as the North Coast of Australia. But they are very much on the endangered list, and the pocket that lives on the border between Laos and Cambodia perhaps at the most peril, with approximately only 90 remaining. Like the gibbons in the north, these were the last few survivors clinging to existence.
The day was beautiful, and away from the habited islands of the region, the Mekong also sparkled a deep blue. Skimming over the surface, bouncing on the gentle ripples, this was a little flashback to how the river used to be. Peeking through the surface of the water, trees leaned across the waterways, bowing, in a dendrous guard of honour as we passed. A top of these, great black cormorants postured, contorting their necks into impossible positions in an attempt to extort as much energy from the sun as they could. Shortly after we had hovered to observe a small maelstrom forming in the river, I was surprised to see an osprey take off in front of us, gliding majestically to it’s next favourite fishing spot. Despite being a welcome migrant to the UK, I have only seen Osprey twice: once in Florida and now Laos of all places.
As we turned, the river widened into something of a lake, and the driver switched our engine off. The journey had enthralled me, and part of me was sad that it was over seemingly so quick. Our boat glided to a halt and we rested, gently bobbing on the water. It was silent. It was stunning. It was how it used to be. Our guide noticed my camera in my hands, poised for action.
“Just sit,” he said. I wasn’t sure if it was an command or a piece of advice. It may have been both. But I did what I was told.
There seemed to be a long period of silence. None of us spoke. We just sat and watched, absorbing the still silence. Until a loud sigh pierced the surface of the water not far behind us.
“There is dolphin,” said our guide beaming. I turned to the sight of a tiny ripple. Had it not breathed as it had breached, I would have barely noticed it.
“You have to be lucky,” mused our guide. “He is very quick. You need to be looking in the right place.”
How comforting.
I find that often, when I am watching wildlife, the temptation is to scan scene intently, as if following the ball in a tennis match. In an area this size, focussing that intently is strangely tiring, and incredibly unsuccessful. If the dolphin was to crest just a little bit out of my focal spot, I will miss it entirely. After missing quite a few sightings, I began to become a bit frustrated. My guide on the other hand, had caught almost all of them. Perhaps it was his experience, yes, but there was absolutely no chance that he could predict the location that the dolphins would surface. I turned my attention to him. Annoyingly, he seemed to not even be bothering to look. Unlike Ollie and I, he was not noticeably scanning the water’s surface, not was he turning to look from all angles. He just seemed to recline there, an almost glazed expression on his face.
It seemed implausible that such a technique should work. I was almost irritated at my own temptation to try it. And yet I couldn’t argue with the results.
I lay back, refusing to focus anywhere. The lake was almost blurred, a badly taken photograph on a cheap camera to my relaxing eyes. I felt ridiculous. But then, movement. Immediately, my eyes focussed, almost subconsciously on a dolphin has it briefly arced its back out of the water. I giggled to myself. That was a fluke, surely. But I tried again. Sure enough, despite the blur and the apparent lack of diligence, I spotted dolphins. I was actually surprised at how many I saw.
They were a pale grey in colour, slightly pink in places, and about the length of a small person. In other words, stand them up next to me and we could have looked each other in the eye, stand them up next to Ollie and they would have been sniffing his armpit. Not that I do that. Each glimpse was brief, the water too murky to see them even inches below the surface, however, some breaches seemed more extravagant than others. Whereas some only exposed their backs, with their petite dorsal fin, the shy and introverted dolphins, others seemed to leap a bit more, exposing their stumpy little faces, and waving goodbye with a little wiggle of their tails. I don’t know how many we saw, we could have seen the same dolphins several times. All I know is that I saw a scarily large percentage of this last remaining population of Irrawaddy dolphins in the Mekong River.
How can we do this to our world? How can wildlife be so far down our list of priorities that we are not only prepared to risk, but in some cases actively seem to pursue the extinction of beautiful species such as this?
As the sun rose higher into the sky we left our aqueous friends in peace. Every now and then I google search my Irrawaddy friends in the Mekong. They are still there. Sometimes their population seems to grow but the threat of more dams makes me apprehensive about their future. I hope I am wrong.
As we sped back up river, our guide gave us one last surprise.
“Welcome to Laos.”
Ollie and I looked at each other, slightly bemused. This was the first welcome we had received after a few weeks in. The country but it seemed a strange time to receive it.
Our confusion seemed to come across loud and clear in our muttered thanks.
“That is the border, back there.” He turned and pointed behind us.
I wanted to ask what he meant but I did that thing where you just emit noise for a bit.
“We were in Cambodia, now we are in Laos,” our driver beamed at us.
“Oh, is that legal?”
No response, I think he didn’t understand.
“Is that allowed?”
“No,” came the response. "But I think we’ll be ok.”
Shutterstock Image- I was unable to capture my own photograph
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