After an evening that presented a truly wild storm, Donna and I woke up early, finished our morning chores, and set off for an adventure. Today was the day of the boat races!
The Mekong had a different voice today. Usually, it was a low, churning baritone, a rumble of perpetual motion that was the background music to life on Don Det. But this morning, on the day of the Bun Awk Phansa boat races, it had sharpened to a feverish pitch. The deep thrum was still there, but layered over it was the distant, rhythmic thumping of Mor Lam music, and a high, electric hum of hundreds of voices gathered on the shore. The air itself was thick, flavored with woodsmoke, frying garlic, and Beerlao.
Festival Food
The island’s main artery was no longer a simple path; it was a river of people. It had transformed into the legendary Riverside Walking Street, a temporary, pulsating vein of commerce and celebration. The simple wooden fruit shake stand outside the school had multiplied and diversified into dozens of makeshift stalls. Skewers of various meats turned and blackened over glowing coals. Women with betel-stained smiles pounded green papaya in giant mortars, the rhythmic thock-thock-thock of their pestles a percussive counterpoint to the festival’s symphony.
Every part of a chicken was grilled or fried, piled in small, savory mounds for sale. Balut, eggs containing almost-hatched chicklings, were so very popular. Having tasted one, I can tell you it’s not as bad as it may sound. It tastes like both chicken and egg at the same time, rendering the question of which came first entirely moot.
Happy Children
But the true heart of the carnival, the epicenter of its joyful noise, was a small clearing just next to the huge concrete structure left behind by the French colonials—originally built for relaunching boats after traversing the islands to bypass the waterfalls. Here, amidst the chaos, was a pocket of pure, unadulterated childhood euphoria. A cluster of trampolines, their springs groaning in protest, launched laughing kids into the humid air. Next to them, the pièce de résistance: a miniature kiddie train, a fantastical contraption of welded metal and brightly colored fiberglass cartoon characters, chugged in a determined, endless circle. It pulled eight little carriages, each filled with tiny, wide-eyed passengers, their squeals of delight cutting through the din. It was a perfect, self-contained universe of joy, a world away from the fierce competition about to unfold on the water.
Lunch with new friends
We walked around the carnival grounds, occasionally looking out to the river to catch the tail end of some of the smaller boats racing. While the festival food was good, we had already made plans to visit Hua Det and Vipha’s Secret Kitchen for their natural homemade sausage. We ran into several friends, including a young couple from China, Ben and Nana, who had been traveling for several years. They had fascinating stories, including being stranded in Madagascar during COVID. We told them about the restaurant, they said they might check it out, and we went our separate ways. When we arrived, they did too. We took a table together and exchanged stories while enjoying the sausage sandwiches the owner proudly called a “hot dog.” It was not a hot dog; it was much better!
Back to the Races
Refueled, Donna and I returned to the races. We watched one contest between two small fishing boats with four people in each. They paddled ferociously! We saw it about to happen—one boat slammed into the side of the other, ending the race in a foul. An argument erupted over whose fault it was, but in the end, the judgment was clear, and the offending boat was disqualified.
Then came the main event. The heua, the longboats, were things of savage beauty. They were impossibly long and slender, carved from single massive trunks of timber, looking less like boats and more like predatory water insects. Each was manned by twenty or thirty rowers, men with sinewy bodies honed by weeks of practice. They sat in perfect, tense lines, their paddles held upright, catching the sun like a forest of spears. At the stern stood the helmsman, a figure of immense authority, also the rhythm-keeper, a coiled spring of energy, calling the cadence.
And They’re Off!
A Master of Ceremonies provided a constant commentary on the different island teams and the surrounding chaos. He reminded me of a radio announcer painting a picture for an unseen audience. By the time we found a good spot, we learned that the Don Khone boat had already lost in a previous heat and would not be in this final run. The helmsman on the Don Det boat began his frantic, hypnotic dance, calling out in a rapid, staccato rhythm—HUP-HUP-HUP-HUP! The rowers erupted into motion. It wasn’t a series of individual strokes, but a single, unified, muscular convulsion. The boat shot forward, its prow lifting out of the water as if in surprise. The rowers’ chant, a guttural “HUP! HUP! HUP!” synchronized with their heaving bodies and the helmsman’s chant, became the dominant sound on the river.
Beside them, the boat from Don Som launched with equal fury. For the first few minutes, they were a single, thrashing entity, a multi-headed water serpent charging down the course. The wake they threw up was a churning, white chaos. The crowd on the bank went berserk. Money was waved, bets were screamed, and a cacophony of cheers, whistles, and drumming from the festival grounds created a wall of sound that seemed to physically push the boats forward.
Swamped!
The race was a brutal test of endurance and synchronization. The course was long, and the initial burst of speed couldn’t be sustained. This was where strategy and heart took over. Then an incredible thing happened: the Don Som boat swamped and sank!
The Don Det crew, unaware of their rival’s predicament, found a deeper rhythm. Their bodies gleamed with sweat and river water. Their helmsman, a wild-eyed man whose entire being was focused on his task, adjusted his beat, finding a cadence that was slightly faster, more urgent. The rowers responded, their “HUP!” becoming a sharper, more desperate cry. It was a breathtaking display of raw, human power. You could see the strain on their faces, the cords standing out on their necks, the collective will of the crew manifesting as forward motion.
As they neared the finish line, a marker fluttering with flags just in front of us, it was obvious that the Don Det crew was now racing alone. Don Som had put in an intense yet futile effort. In a final, explosive surge, the prow of the Don Det boat broke the invisible tape. Only then, looking back, did they realize they were the sole boat on the course, save for a few smaller vessels helping to retrieve the Don Som crew and their partially submerged longboat.
Finalé
There were a few other smaller races, but the main event was over, and people began to leave. We hung out a while longer and watched with pride as our friends from Don Det received their prize money from the judges.
It was a long but fun day, and it was time to go home. The carnival atmosphere was winding down to a few stragglers, last-minute sales, and vendors cleaning up to pack away their wares. We got on our little three-wheeled electric scooter and hit the rice field road back to our house, the thrilling echoes of the day’s cheers still ringing in our ears.
