Under any other circumstances the view from my kayak would be beautiful. Tree branches from a prehistoric age splay like multi-limbed deities along the riverbank. Jungle creepers spiral into mist. I’m wedged in bamboo debris, sideways on to the rapids. Water gushes over the side of my kayak. I wriggle and swear, wondering where my guide, Deang, has vanished. This is the first morning of an eight-day trip in which I’m attempting to traverse the length of the Nam Tha River, a 260km waterway snaking through northern Laos. I’m following in the paddle-prints of Tom Dooley, an American doctor who journeyed downriver in 1957 delivering medical supplies to villagers, many of whom had never seen a white man before. I’m keen to discover how Dooley’s journey six decades ago has influenced modern day Laotian healthcare. Wriggle, wriggle, curse. A bamboo branch snaps, peels away from the debris. Curse, curse, wriggle. And then I’m free. Soaking wet, but out of the rapids. I drift to the first night’s stopover. Dusk envelops the jungle in a hazy calm. Whenever Dooley reached a village, he was greeted by elders bearing silver bowls containing flowers, candles and other offerings. I’m greeted by dirty-faced children with holes in their clothes. They’re very cute, nudging each other towards me. Deang and I lug our kayaks up a steep bank into the village. Grunting pigs fight. Villagers spin looms. Families huddle around bonfires cooking skewered fish. We’re staying with the chief tonight, a chain-smoking man dressed in a polo shirt and trousers. He leads us up the steps of his ramshackle stilt house. Inside, multi-coloured bamboo mats adorn the floor. A huge speaker takes centre-stage next to a TV and DVD player - very recent acquisitions as the village only got electricity five months ago. Dinner is a platter of steamed rattan – a white tuber with the texture of chicken – lettuce, fish, dried chilli flakes and the Lao staple of sticky rice. Between belches the chief tells me about the healthcare centres along the Nam Tha River, which have only been built within the last two decades. They offer cheap care and basic knowledge, like sleeping under mosquito nets and boiling river water before drinking. There’s a healthcare centre approximately every 20km. A road was built in 1992 to link villages along the river. Before that the nearest medical help involved an arduous boat journey to Luang Nam Tha, the adventure hub of Laos and where I began my trip. Many people died on this journey. A large urn of rice whiskey appears after dinner. The chief hands me a straw and urges me to suck. He soon nudges me if I haven’t taken a drink within the last minute. I drunkenly belt out a tune on somebody’s guitar while the chief tries to insert the straw into my mouth even though I’m strumming. The chief doesn’t remember Dooley’s visit. Neither does his pipe-smoking, 90-year-old mother. Her face crinkles with delight every time I suck whiskey. Days merge. In the mornings my limbs are usually numb from having slept on hard floors. My toenails have gone yellowy-brown from constantly being wet and coated in river dirt. I have seven tick bites. Some homestays are awkward; others as fluid as the whiskey in our glasses. It’s my last day and early morning mist hovers as though we’re protagonists in a fairytale. Carved dragon silhouettes loom large on Buddhist temples. The spidery limbs of dead trees point the way forward. We visit a healthcare centre, a simple two-room building covered in posters warning against HIV and bird ’flu. There’s no doubt Dooley laid the foundations for people to live healthier lives. Yet his visit also piqued villagers’ curiosities about the West. From the satellite dishes oddly protruding alongside ramshackle shacks, to the kids in Italian soccer shirts, tradition and culture here is moving as quickly as rapids in the monsoon. And while nobody remembers Tom Dooley, his spirit is still alive. It skips with the children who now survive infancy; it’s etched onto their besmirched faces. It sings with the mothers beating their washing on river rocks. And it flows into the heart of this hot and smelly kayaker.