A good friend of mine, Sara, who’s also an avid traveller, once remarked to me that one of the things she most likes about hitting the road is the fact that you end up having random encounters with people that you’d never meet in daily life.
How right she is. And of quite a few that I had over the years (one even resulting in a friendship that’s spanned almost three decades) there’s one I had in Laos that I just has to be told.
Most nights in Luang Prabang, I’d head to the night market - either for a stroll, a drink or an evening meal. Packed with stalls, I tended to head to the one marked ‘Vegetarian food’ where I found a mum, sister and brother running a great little set-up.
I fell into a comfortable routine - I’d order my food, pay, then make my way to one of the many wooden tables, clutching my wooden sign bearing a number and the stall name.
Then I’d sit with a bottle of water and my book and wait for my dish to be brought over.
This night was different however - the night market was packed and finding a table wasn’t easy.
I’d only just opened my book when I noticed a woman next to me, clearly looking for a spot to plonk herself down. Not actively looking for company but anxious not to be rude, I motioned to the empty seat across from me. Gratefully, she accepted.
Enter Rachel Sarah (an astonishing coincidence in itself, since my name is Sarah Rachel), a doctor from Colorado who - she informed me - lived off the grid, got by with solar power, had no neighbours for miles around and shot her own elk and moose (which she bartered with other like-minded off-grid folks) for other things she might need in her home.
An epidemiologist by profession, she was able to turn her hand to general medicine when necessary, in order to treat people in her locale although she wasn’t working full-time. As a child, she said, she’d spent time in Asia and, feeling somewhat nostalgic, had decided make a trip back to this part of the world.
For the rest of the evening, we talked about anything and everything - politics in the USA, solo treks in odd parts of the world (she’d driven a land rover from Cairo to Cape Town) her desire to live off grid, far from people, just her and her dog, and our impressions of Laos.
She was the first person in Luang Prabang I was able to have a serious conversation with about the extreme poverty in the country, not to mention the real hardships locals face on a daily basis. It’s a subject that most tourists give little thought to, but something that had been nagging away at me for some days now and apparently she felt the same.
We spoke of how much we take for granted in the west - clean water, decent infrastructure, healthcare, advanced educational opportunities, financial independence. These are things people here can only dream of.
Many of the locals I’d talked to here had never even visited Vientiane (the country’s capital), let alone travelled across the border to Vietnam or Thailand, or taken a plane to another continent.
I confessed to her how ‘guilty’ I felt at paying $25 a night for accommodation in a guesthouse by the river, knowing what a fortune this sum was to the woman who cleaned my room each day.
Then Rachel told me a story that I still haven’t been able to forget.
The stall next to mine at this very market was where she’d been eating, night after night, and the previous evening, when she’d arrived, she’d noticed a look of consternation on the owner’s face.
Asking what was wrong, she was told that they’d almost run out of rice, which meant they couldn’t serve customers. The only way to make sure they got through the evening was by buying more, but they didn’t have the funds. Could they borrow something from her?
“How much did they need?” I asked Rachel.
“20,000 kip,” she replied. “Just under a dollar. Of course, I subbed them. They took the money to another stall, came back with a huge pot of rice and soon they were back in business.”
A dollar. That was what stood between them and being able to run their kitchen that evening. She’d helped them. What about those in similar situations, who didn’t have someone to sub them the cost of ingredients? Well, they’d go home that night without earnings.
Rachel was leaving the following day but encouraged me to take a trip to the nearby Laos Buffalo Farm, set up by an Australian woman who was doing everything in her power to help local farmers survive - from renting their buffalos and using their milk to make cheese, to teaching them animal husbandry and giving their kids English lessons.
(I’d later visit this very farm and, over a plate of delicious buffalo cheese, find out first-hand from the owner how many obstacles she faced in trying to run a small business in a country where corruption and bureaucracy are rife).
It was late by the time we said our goodbyes but Rachel had a long flight home the following day and needed sleep.
From our three-hour conversation I understood she’s not the most sociable of gals but, astonishingly she offered me her phone number.
“I don’t do this very often” she told me “but if you’re ever in deepest darkest Colorado, come and find me.”
Only I lost her number (I’d had no phone that night so had made do with a scrap of paper). And since I’m clueless as to her family name, and she’s naturally suspicious (as she told me) of social media and Google searches, I’m guessing it will be hard to find her.
But I’m glad I met her. This was a chance encounter that I’ll never forget - it made me realise why I travel the way I do, and how - round every corner - there’s someone you’ve yet to meet who’ll intrigue you with their own story.
Thanks for a great evening, Dr. Rachel.