The Best Women's Travel Writing by Lavinia Spalding Page B

on a whim deserved a fighting chance. It was not the first time I’d fallen in love with a grand gesture, only to find that the moment always outshone the creator, who was after all only a man. Nonetheless, I had brought Flint to Laos, a place I found magical, hoping he would love it as I did, and I was willing to explore at least part of the country on his terms. Now the seadog in him was itching to be afloat again; he needed to be “unlocked in this landlocked nation,” he said.
    As for me, I’m no mariner, but an old-school Mekong riverboat is a simple machine: two long ropes run up each side and wind around the steering column, controlling the rudder. Another rope, operated by the driver’s big toe, is the accelerator. There is no gearbox, so once you turn the key you’re going forward: no neutral, no reverse, and no brakes. It’s like driving a stretch go-cart on water. The
Salmon
was a pile of splinters and flaking mustard paint but initially, I didn’t see cause for worry. Every riverboat in Asia was at least as wobbly, if not more so. The old girl looked tired, but game for one more run.
    Following an engine overhaul and several trips to the market for supplies, we launched our expedition, deciding to take the established route in slow stages before sailing off the map. On our first trip upriver, Flint had crouched behind the boat pilot the whole way to Muong Noi, furiously scribbling notes. Navigating the Nam Ou on his own, he claimed, would be “not too difficult, but definitely interesting.” I couldn’t tell whether this little adventure was driven by diehard romanticism or his outsized ego, but either way, he seemed happy for the first time in months. My meandering style of travel did not suit Flint; he was a man who needed a mission, and at last he had one.
    Now that we were circling the point of no return, the plan seemed questionable and the boat even more so. The river looked faster and fiercer than I remembered. Sandbars and boulders had somehow doubled in size since our last trip. I knew what Flint was thinking—he’d repeated it often enough: “Rivers are like women; they change with the weather.” I was thinking neither of us was in top form for this—Flint had a snotty head cold, and I’d woken up with a slight fever and an ominously bloated stomach. Yet, no one suggested turning back.
    Skirting the boat gingerly around the cliffs and into the Nam Ou, Flint stopped again and admitted to feeling “nervy,” which turns out to be British for “woefully unprepared.” During our final dash to the market, he confessed, he had lost the hand-drawn map and navigational notes from the scouting trip.
Now
I wanted to turn around, but it was too late; the Nam Ou was too narrow, and we were officially up a creek. Immediately, we faced an “interesting” section of current. As we hesitated in the shallows, a fisherman waved us over to the bank, where he hopped effortlessly onto our boat’s prow, guiding us through the first stretch of gurgling water with the precision of an air-traffic controller. We ferried him back to the side and offered to pay for his time. Smiling, the man shook his head, but his young son, who was peeking into our hold, looked up at me starry-eyed.
    â€œLacta-Soy?” he whispered shyly.
    I handed the boy two boxes of the popular soymilk drink, and they went happily on their way. Once they were out of sight, I stopped smiling and addressed the Skipper.
    â€œWhat’s your plan?” I demanded.
    â€œBelieve it or not, it isn’t my intention to get us killed,” Flint said, looking sheepish. “I’m a complete pillock for losing those notes, I know. It’s a very technical river, and I have no business driving it on the basis of watching someone else do it exactly once.”
    â€œSo, now what?” I grumbled.
    â€œWell, I think we should find a nice, calm spot to camp.