And the rains came…. This year (1971) the Mekong flooded its banks. Every day, riverside dwellers went out to inspect the situation, and we watched the level inching up. However, no one actually took any action until the Indian volunteer contingent arrived and started sandbagging. An admirable operation, but alas, the next morning the river had overflowed.

 

To my surprise and relief, the flooding was a gentle affair. The mighty river quietly crept over the sandbags and spread its waters over hectares of flat land as far as, and beyond, the airport road. Our houses were built Lao-style on piles above the ground so they were not inundated. I awoke in the morning to find a foot or so of water under the house, and I had to wade out to the road. No one, to my knowledge, was swept away. I pushed my motorbike out to Jon Pennebaker’s house, which was at a slightly higher elevation next to the main road, and parked it there.

 

People were out in force to survey the floods. It was a kind of tourism. In the flooded ricefields, people were fishing with nets. Of course, the rice was lost, and had it been in Britain or Europe, everyone would have been moaning and complaining, and there would not have been a smile in sight. But Laos was the land of “Bo penyang”, usually loosely translated as “Never mind”—although I prefer the literal translation; “No Why”. It had happened and there was no point in crying over it, just… time to go fishing. Soldiers were out on tour in their big trucks; a policeman appeared to be issuing a ticket… for speeding? Down by the riverside, the food and drink stalls carried on with business as usual. Customers dangled their feet in the water. Two bargirls took the opportunity to make practical use of their hotpants. The attendant at the Shell petrol station was one of the few disconsolate figures. The Victory Monument, on slightly higher ground, was marooned on mudflats, but did not sink.