Wat Phia Wat

The street's quiet in the morning chill, 1200m above sea level I read as I sip on a coffee, eyelids resisting the caffeine, a weariness clinging to my bones. Somewhere an hour passes by, we find a scooter, tours to the jar sites expensive, a temple and the old capital off their track, the day passing.

Out of town we pass site one, thinking to return later, head south towards sites two and three. I miss a turning, eventually Che king the map and finding that we're on the way to the old capital, continue. The road feels longer than the signs say, but site 16 is along here also, through the old town, a naked stupa riding above a hill, the tarmac giving way to dust and gravel, a bridge crossed upon planks of wood, protruding nails threatening punctures for the unwary. Another turn, the wrong choice, two women sitting by a dusty shop front, no shared language, I draw a jar in the air and they point us onward, the wrong way. Turning we arrive at Wat phia wat, the oldest in the area, a broken temple where the Pha Ongteu Buddha image sits, red bricks protruding through bomb damaged shell.

Following the sign to site two we enter a small village, stop the bike to ask for directions, almost there. I press the starter, the engine offering a series of dry coughs, spluttering before cutting out. Another attempt the same, a five minute pause offers no improvement only the eating light for the battery. An attempt to kick start fails as does a slope to jump the engine into life. Two lo so women attempt to help, nothing happening they point us to the village repair shop, watch as I push the bike across the street, all of us laughing, 30 odd km from Phonsavan. 

Pushing the bike up to the repair shop, miming the problem, I press the starter again, a cloud of dust exhaling from the bike as the engine, now, kicks into life, is turned off, another attempt and it's still okay offering a choice of trying to get back to town or taking the risk and heading to the jar site. We take the risk…

At the site a group of local kids, gleefully posing for photo's and sharing the laughter of untranslated jokes before departing. The strangeness of the jars upon this wooded hill, dirt paths marked out by stones each marked MAG, a safe place to walk, site three further up the hill, a viewpoint, the basin rising into the mountains, rice fields and small streams, silence. 

And the road back upon an untrustworthy steed. 


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