On Books

Back in Udomxay, the construction town in northern Laos where our two-day odyssey from Vietnam reached a natural close, we met a crazy Canadian chap with an Irish accent and a Beer Lao can seemingly stapled twixt thumb and forefinger. Not so much met as, perhaps, attracted.

Charming chap. Pushing 70. Thoroughly pickled 24-7. And found in me, yikes, a kindred spirit.

Having travelled extensively with his own nipper, when the boy (now my age) was eight (roughly junior’s age), he had uncharitable things to say about my backpack. Particularly, the size thereof.

Now, to a degree, I second that emotion. Although, in our defense, I will say that I have only one pack, which goes on my back, rather than the “pregnant” two-pack look (one front, one back) so popular among our Nordic friends.

But, yes, he had a point.

The size of my pack is ludicrous. Not so much the length. Nor the width. It’s more the way it extends out from my back, making me look like some malformed hermit crab, yet without the spangly decorations that make the critters such lucky pets in the Philippines. (It’s a 75 + 15l Thai take on the North Face equivalent, bought after my Mountain Warehouse cheapo version died the death about eight weeks in. The death rattle took four, but that’s another story.)

When I attach the daypack, with books and Mac in it, the thing weighs almost as much as the nine-year-old (he’s 27 kilos, last time he stood on a baggage weighing machine at the airport — the lady, along with every lady we’ve met in S-E Asia, thought he should eat more).

As a feminist, there is a plus. Guys wince when they take it from me and make as if to chuck it onto the roof of a bus, before thinking better of the instinct and adopting a gradual easing.

Rather similar, dare I say it, to the mode I was using when they took it off me.

Tcha.

From a less-feminist perspective, my arms have never been better toned.

Although, perhaps, a little more on the Geoff Capes side of things than the Sharon-Stone-in-Basic-Instinct slenderness one joins a gym for.

Actually, make that a lot more.

So, yep. It should definitely be smaller.

On the other hand, I am carrying everything we should need (bar sir’s books, toys and laptop) for another eighteen months or so. So… how light can one travel?

After a nasty shock in county-town Cambodia, where the resident pharmacist didn’t even have iodine and a small wound was beginning to suppurate, I’m carrying a medical kit fit for the most neurotic hypochondriac. I own, and I am not exaggerating, more medicaments than I have ever owned in my life.

Antihistamines. Antibiotics. Decongestants. Gut-stoppers. Three different types of anti-malarials. Steroid creams. Antihistamine creams. Antifungal creams. Syringes. For those rare occasions where they scrape you off the roadway and can save your life but can’t pull out a disposable syringe (writing this, I am thinking of junking these). Plasters. Bandages. Alcohol. Iodine. Painkillers. A working thermometer…

Our washbag, also, is surprisingly capacious. I’d like to buy small tubes of toothpaste, and pocket-sized shampoos, but most small towns in South-East Asia offer the choice twixt single-use-sachet and for-all-the-family-for-at-least-the-next-year, and I can’t control when stuff runs out.

I sent all our washing out to laundry today, after our mud-bath getting here, and can report that that weighs precisely five kilos. The rainproof/snowproof/mountainproof jackets add a little more, peut-etre, but the whole is not a lot.

Anywise, the obvious solution to our weight issues is, of course, to lose the books. We have a laptop each. And, as a one-parent one-child family, a laptop each is as essential as a pen and notepad each (which we also have).

But why do I say our weight issues?

Well, junior is carrying north of 10 kilos. (I read on t’interweb that carrying more than 25% of your bodyweight can make you ill. Newsflash. He’s fine.) He’s sent the last round of books to his best friend back home.

Here are three possible solutions to our woes. And my, rational or irrational, objections to them.

1: Buy a lighter laptop.
But THEY WORK. I can’t spend thousands of dollars on something just to lose a couple of kilos when what we have works just fine.

2: Ditch the jeans.
Here, you see, you are speaking to me. We have a pair of jeans each. They are heavy. They take up space. Mine require a belt, which takes up more space and weight. On the other hand, when in the wilderness, I like some legwear that means I can fall flat on my face and look like a twat without opening up my knees like the preliminary to a Southern barbecue. That is not, to be honest, trackie bottoms or hippie trews.

3: Buy a Kindle.
I spent my childhood reading ridiculously and going through many of Europe’s finest natural environments with a book firmly placed twixt me and them. To me, thousands of pages on a single device spells over-reading and missing out. For both of us. To him, it means unnecessary reliance on local electricity.

AKA: Yes! My spawn reads well. Isn’t it marvellous? Isn’t he quite the little genius? But, honestly, he doesn’t have to do it all the time…

This post was going to have pictures. But my camera is preparing for our trip into the wilds of Laos, where we will learn bird calls and animal sounds to attract the local critters. Your thoughts are, as always, very welcome. Particularly if you have ever used a Kindle.