THREE of us, a retired schoolmaster from Manchester, a backpacking plumber from Worcester and me, sat in an open air restaurant high up the bank of the River Khan close to where it joined the mighty Mekong and created the excuse for the beautiful town of Luang Prabang in Laos. A boat was coughing its way upstream with one young man in the bow, another in the stern and between them, under a canopy, a small black Chinese pig.
I have never understood why this sort of pig should have been named after the Middle Kingdom. Possibly it is a mark of the regard that her former fiefdoms hold her in. This perky little porker, doubtless destined for a wedding feast, suddenly did something which subsequently gave this chapter of our holiday the title, 'Piggy Makes A Break For It'.
The pig rattled out from under the canopy, threw itself into the river and struck out for the shore. The two dolts in the boat took some time to register this streak of intelligence, giving the pig a good start. Eventually they turned the boat around towards the bank - which was where the pig sadly came unstuck.
Not having read George Orwell's Animal Farm and with no other pigs to back it up, it had nowhere to go. It ran up and down the riverside, directionless, and was easy prey for the two yobbo when they reached dry land. The three resumed their journey, the pig screeching against its coming sacrifice, while we three stood fists in the air, shouting at the boat: 'Cochon libre!' French is a much more revolutionary language to say such things in and, anyway, Laos is a former French colony. That made no impression on the men but the pig snorted an acknowledgement, probably its last.
I was reminded of the incident while walking through The Landmark last week. There is an elaborate staircase display involving plump self-satisfied infants and little pigs to celebrate the Year of the Pig. The murderous hypocrisy of it struck me with force.
First of all, the pigs did not so much look like pigs as piggy banks - and why we should encourage children to insert coins into the backs of pot images of pigs is the subject of some deep psychoanalysis. Perhaps this representational infelicity is a local trait. Lions in lion dances, which feature heavily this time of year as a form of outdoor relief for minor triads, do not look like lions. They resemble over-coloured and more than usually impertinent Pekinese lap dogs.
The pigs mingling with the kids in The Landmark look pleased and under no significant threat from the youngsters who normally like nothing better than a slice of sweetened ham on top of their noodles. One little pig is actually up on his hind legs with his trotters over the rail, smiling down on the masses. Yet no self-respecting mother would let her child anywhere near a pig, especially one that could smile and stand upright. There is no knowing what may come of that.