Mother Mekong’s moods

Two years ago, a Lao friend showed me some grainy black and white shots of Vientiane during the 1966 flood. The famous Morning Market, which opens late morning (as opposed to the Evening Market which opens at sparrows fart), is shown surrounded by water, like a Norman fortress with moat. The king’s brother in a natty tweed suit, peers at the camera through his stylish tortoiseshell glasses. He is sitting in a boat surveying the damage. Later he will die in a Pathet Lao reeducation camp, starved and suffering malaria.

There are ants all over my desk. A sure sign that something is up. That something is the Mekong. In the wet season, it usually sits comfortably three meters below the levée built after the floods of 2000. When you live near the Mekong, you have to watch her moods.

The rising river, only 20m from my front door, was soon close to the top of the dyke, swirling with natural debris, plastic bottles and children's shoes. There was a constant rumble of motor bikes as Lao gawpers came to stare, mesmerised.

People lined the dirt road along the river sheltering under frilly umbrellas and pink motor cycle helmets watching and waiting. Some I think, expected a tidal wave as rumours of a release from an upstream Chinese dam flew about the city. Chinese are increasingly disliked in Laos since they started colonising the country by stealth. Nine provinces in Laos, including Vientiane are now only half jokingly referred to as the Southern Chinese cantons.

In the town centre, teams of laughing and drinking men and women filled sand bags, building the Great Wall of Vientiane. The air was festive more than serious, as blokes swilled the local hootch from old Johnny Walker bottles. Every time a katoey (transvestite) volunteered her services, good natured cheers and hilarity erupted. The men pull poses for us as we take photos.

Laos deal with most situations by opening a bottle. Each morning we would get up and patrol the bank to see how far the water had risen overnight and if any of the many beer shacks had been carried away. Each morning we found piles of empty beer bottles where the neighbourhood Laos had sat and got quietly drunk as the river rose under their bums.

The airport road was cut, though the airport itself was OK. In the absence of English speaking news media, many tourists did not get up early enough to take the wide detour and missed their planes. We found a few desultorily sipping Beer Lao and watching the action, wondering what to do as roads out of town were also flooded. The phones had been out for four days, and electricity supplies erratic.

We walked past people living in plastic covered lean-tos, whose houses and livelihoods had been lost in the flood. Most were ethnic minority people from Laos highlands.

Our night guards reported chest high water south of the city. The wats (temples) south of us are all inundated, women taking canoes over what were neat paths to get to the simh for prayers. Young monks with their saffron robed tied up like sumo wrestlers bucketted water from the abbot’s house. An old man chuckled as he passed us muttering hok sip hok (’66) and waving his arms to emulate when the water came rushing over the banks.

Rafts of vegetation the size of the Fifth Fleet were carried by. In between, I saw the odd banana or forest tree standing strangely erect, a bizarre sight with leaves flapping wildly in the wind.

It was terrifying and wonderful all at once.

The flood that hit Vientiane ten days ago we were told was potentially much worse than that of 1966. It was, the Mekong River Commission posited, the worst in over 100 years.

The Mekong’s critical level is 12.5 meters. The peak quickly reached 14.2 meters. A dense low had fallen in love with Vietnam and refused to leave. We were getting water from there, plus that from the Chinese dams. Billions of kip (Lao currency) in damage to property and untold lives were lost. Northern Thailand’s Chang Rai and Isan were awash. Through all this Australians remained blissfully ignorant.

The levées built in 2000 were soon breached in places. Vientiane city was awash, roads closed, and people’s lives for a while became a nightmare. Laos ranks as one of the poorest nations in Asia. It has little in the way of infrastructure and social services. Only the well-off can afford insurance. The majority just have to clean up and start over as best they can. Their insurance is family and land.

It’s a bizarre feeling to be sitting in the midst of a bright sunny day with con trails etched against the blue and be facing the risk of a major flood from the world’s 11th biggest river.

Every now and then a Lao army helicopter flew past, their pond scum green livery and Lao flag seemingly even more incongruous against the blue and potentially pregnant clouds. As the danger level was quickly passed and the river reached dizzying and terrifying heights, we watched the Mekong swallow the Thai temple and crematorium across the expanse of hurling debris laden water outside our house.

At one stage all the lights went out on the Thai side as the river drowned the cables. Nong Kai, the town that welcomes the Friendship Bridge, was the worst hit in Thailand.

Twenty meters upstream from our house the water mounted the bank and oozed through the sandbags. I looked out and noticed the water seeping into our front garden, the divisions in the cement bleeding a dark green slow moving stain. The road beside the house filled with water despite it being a dry day.

So, I thought, this is how it begins.

Two days in a row the deputy PM Somsavat walked by. A man who is particularly despised; he is not only dangerous but extremely corrupt. He walked with a small covey of obsequious officials. Our neighbours were unimpressed. "If he took his hands out of his pockets and took real action, we might be safer" said one man. Another neighbour hoped he would fall into the river, half volunteered to push him, then laughed nervously.

In fact we suffered an outbreak of ministers. I went out to see what was happening and photographed the Minister for Justice strolling by. He thanked me for taking his photo, resplendent in Lao silk shirt.

A fattish man in a NSW University of Technology T-shirt visiting his old mother, complained. "The Government is so corrupt they won't do anything to help the people." Doesn't take the diaspora long to pick up the local grumble.

Despite the rain and incipient threat, the irrepressible Lao women, seeing advantage in everything, were fishing, swathed in plastic bags and wearing the distinctive conical hats favoured by tourists. They dipped their huge square nets suspended from bamboo cross pieces repeatedly in the swirling waters. They may be 70 but you wouldn't want to arm wrestle one. Others are grilling bananas to feed the sandbaggers who moved in overnight. The flood of blue uniformed Electricite Du Laos workers that arrived we took as a portent that the Government considered the situation serious.

So we moved all our books and pirate DVD's upstairs and hoped that the morning would see us with dry feet. We downloaded Australian newspapers and still no reports. I had been sending reports to the Sydney Morning Herald and ABC. I had sent photos just in case they thought I was making it up.

Later the army, along with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs workers joined the high school kids in sandbagging our stretch of the river. The skinny kids chortled and flirted outrageously, singing as they worked. Women held umbrellas over other sweating, shovel-wielding women dressed in silk sinhs (traditional skirts). Claps and cheers decorated the hot sweaty work. It was all so good natured, motivated and hopeful.

I had sent messages to friends reassuring them that we were OK. Many knew we lived on the river and had visited us here. I got back puzzled notes wondering what I was on about. Most were horrified that while an event of this magnitude is happening, not a word is written, televised or radioed.

Later when the river has subsided two meters, the press catch on. Though I suspect that is only because one Aussie bush walker gets lost in the forest. His drama alerted Australia to the fate of thousands of Laos and Thais. That Luang Prabang a World Heritage city, was inundated and many drowned was not apparently worth reporting. Landslides buried heritage buildings and farmlands. And nothing appeared in the Australian media.

One wonders who makes the decisions about what is deemed newsworthy and what parameters are used. I have often said that Asians know a lot more about Australia than Australia knows about Asia. Now I think I know why, but I also wonder how many other global events are eclipsed by say one plucky woman’s fight with cancer, road rage or sports star divorce stories - the latter seeming to have nudged diet fads off the front page.

By and large the Olympics were more important than the biggest flood in 100 years to hit the Mekong. A swimmer’s sprint more newsworthy than poor people losing their livelihoods in a country where 30 per cent of children are undernourished. Adel Horin noted that each gold medal cost Australians $50 million. An obscenity that I think outdoes a photographer’s art pictures of nude teenagers.

The SMH never acknowledged the messages or photos. The ABC’s Australia Network continued to serve up breathless reports on the games, at one stage sending a hapless correspondent out into Indonesian crowds to try to make sense of their general boredom with Olympic rituals. My Lao neighbours hoping for some news of the floods quickly went home, also bored and frustrated by the incessant sports coverage. For Laos the games finished with the opening ceremony.

But what impressed me was the organisation of the Lao people.

A French restaurateur was woken and called by his nai ban (village head) at 2am to fill sandbags. He and his Lao wife joined hundreds of others to hold the waters back. He counted as a privilege the sense of community and inclusiveness that he felt.

In a flight of fantasy I imagined the same thing happening in Australia. I imagined the local mayor calling the community to help. After a stream of “buggers offs”, he might also be told, “We pay our taxes, it’s not our responsibility”. Parents would be outraged to have their darlings pulled from school to fill sand bags. “This is no job for children, there are pedophiles out there.” or “Trent has a civics class, and will miss his session at the obesity clinic”.

And government workers? “It’s not in my duty statement, or in my WorkChoices contract. Nah I am not doing that. What about health and safety? The handles of the shovels are full of splinters.”

Foreign Affairs? “I can’t fill sandbags. I am getting my hair done and a manicure for tonight’s cocktail party at the Moldovan embassy.” Or “I don’t have time I am writing a briefing on the risk of terrorists in para-gliders attacking Gold Coast holiday makers”.

In two days over two million sandbags were laid. I was at a small shop a day or so ago, and watched as a song, undeniably Stalinist in its tone and gravitas, was played on Lao TV to honour those who had saved the city. I admit that I cried as scenes of the young and old Laos with such good grace, delight and pride who worked without complaint was shown.

Yes this is a Stalinist state, but the people were not heaving 50kg bags because they were ordered to. They are old fashioned patriots who care about their country. They parked their bikes in my garden, chatted to my dog and then grabbed a shovel, laughing and joking as the Lao do. While this went on, Australia watched a lot of highly paid and primped athletes. I may be biased but I think what happened here was, by far, more heroic.