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Published on August 25, 2007

The long-tailed boat is original enough, with its canopy a stitched array of fertiliser bags. Every time it leans into the wind the scruffy sheets flap madly, revealing dark columns of monsoon cloud above.

The silver lining is that we're navigating Si Phan Don - the Four Thousand Islands - in this "convertible". The open top is a rare enough thing in an expensive car, let alone a long-tailed boat.

"The boat may be old, but I assure you that the captain is very new," my travel mate jokes about the teenage skipper, who ought to be studying grammar or getting spiffed up for his first date instead of moping behind an ancient vessel's steering wheel.

But he doesn't have much choice: Here in the backwaters of southern Laos, when money calls, school can wait - and so can romance.

From the village of Baan Nakasang we cruise southward down the Mekong River. Our destinations are Don Khon, Don Det and other river islands making up the famous Four Thousand.

Boiled up in Tibet and bound for the South China Sea off Vietnam, the Mekong is the world's 10th-largest river by volume, and here we are on a small boat going with the flow at its widest stretch. From one shore to the other is perhaps 10 kilometres, though it's hard to tell which are the banks because there are so many small islands in between.

"When the water level drops in summer, thousands more islands emerge from the river," says our Lao guide, Udone Philomhuck. The number of islands - 4,000 or more or less - depends on the amount of water.

For the more fanciful passenger, he has a second version of the origin of the 4,000, a bit of homespun mythology: In the Ramayana, the great Indian epic, the battle for the love of a beautiful woman sees demons and humans squaring off above this part of the Mekong.

"Sweat and blood were spilled all over the place," Udone recounts with an assured degree of whimsy. "Some of the blood flowed into the river and turned into the islands."

Adding drama to a tale obviously in need of some, the sky roils with thunder and lightning - as if Rama were lingering above Si Phan Don with his mighty bow.

It's rained every day since we reached Champasak three days ago, but regardless, I find it difficult to dislike this part of Laos, especially from the boat.

The dark clouds keep watch over us and a light mist coats the distant forest, giving it a soft, delicate shade of green. The sun occasionally pokes through, and when it does the light illuminates a riverbank village of thatched houses. We see girls in wet sarongs dawdling in the current.

The boat stops at Don Khon, one of the larger islands, and we change our mode of transport. A small songthaew carries us to see Don Khon's many reminders of French occupation, including a colonial-era school and hospital.

From the old French port here you can set off for Li Phi, the huge and powerful cascades in the midst of the Mekong.

The waterfall's name - a combination of the Lao word for "fish trap" and the word they share with Thais for "ghost" - has a strange, if not spooky, origin in the Indo-China War.

"People here often catch fish down at the waterfall with bamboo traps," Udone explains. "During the war the bodies of dead soldiers were dumped into the Mekong, and the current would carry them into the fish traps. Ever since then the waterfall has been known as Li Phi - the Trap of Ghosts."

The three powerful cascades look a bit like a giant chicken's footprint as they tumble down the stone curtain. They're criss-crossed by rough spans of bamboo and one bridge formed by a single rope, across which the fishermen make their way with their traps, dangling scarily.

Back in the village we wave to a clot of red-faced backpackers who are conducting serious comparative studies between Beer Lao and Beer Chang, and we cross the old French-built bridge to the smaller island of Don Det.

Several more shifts in vehicles, between boat and bus, let us explore the uncharted territory until, 30 minutes before nightfall, we come again to end of the road. In front of us is another swath of the Mekong, and the distant bank is Don Khong, the river's biggest island, where hot showers and warm meals await.

So close yet so far - we can't cross the river yet.

"We've got the last ferry," says Udone, fretting that we'll be late for dinner. "It will take 30 minutes or even an hour to fill up the ferry, and until then the captain won't move an inch."

Nevertheless, it's the best moment of the day to be stranded at the pier.

The sun is setting beyond the distant thatch of palm tops, firing lasers into the imperturbable Mekong.

Off to one side, a husband and wife are caressing each other in the water. To the other side a pair of local girls are about to take a plunge into the river, and giggle when the photographer zooms in for a shot. Out on the water, a fisherman bobs in his boat as he teaches his son how to cast a net.

These six people may well be at the bottom of Laos' economical pyramid, but they certainly don't seem to be struggling. Instead, it's us who feel like we're struggling as we watch them with envious eyes.

Phoowadon Duangmee

The Nation

Champasak, Laos