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The time: approaching sunset. The place: an old railway bridge across a river in southern Laos. The paradox: No train has passed through here in more than 50 years.

Today, the multiple-arched, aqueduct-like bridge mostly sees foot traffic, as well as the odd bicycle or water buffalo. And around this time of the day it hosts sunset gazers, providing the perfect vantage point for photography. At nearby riverside cafés on the island of Don Khone, you can quaff a Beer Lao and contemplate the sun silhouetting the coconut palms.

Ten years ago, this border region was considered very dangerous because of insurgency in nearby Cambodia. Today, the biggest hazard is falling coconuts. Coconut palms proliferate through this alluring region, known as Siphandon — Lao for “4,000 Islands.”

Swollen by tributaries, the Mekong here reaches its greatest width — 14 kilometres — splitting up to create a maze of channels and islets. The number of islets varies with the water level and the optimistic figure of 4,000 probably includes sandbars that appear during the dry season. Flooded forests in this vicinity form important spawning grounds for many kinds of fish that are a source of protein for the locals.

The railway bridge would not look out of place in a small town in France, and that's not surprising, since it was built by the French and is a relic of their colonial presence. In the early 20th century, the French completed five kilometres of railway track across two islands here — the only line built in Laos — so cargo could bypass treacherous falls and rapids on the Mekong and reach, or be retrieved from, boats that would come up the river from Cambodia. But shipping on the Mekong was only possible seasonally when the water level was high enough for large boats, and eventually a road replaced the river as a trade route. Over time, most of the railway track here was ripped up by local villagers for use in their own backyard construction projects. A rusted French locomotive lies abandoned near the railway bridge, along with a dilapidated customs house.

In recent years, Siphandon has witnessed a new “colonization,” this time by backpackers, who are in some ways similar to the French — young, rich, indolent and badly dressed. Siphandon is a backpacker hot spot: Many come here expecting to spend a few days and often end up staying for a week or more, unaware of the passing of time as one sunset blurs into the next.

In Siphandon, nobody is in a rush to do anything, with lots of siesta time in between tending water buffalo or chickens, or milling rice, or fishing. The French colonists described this laid-back style thus: “The Vietnamese plant the rice, the Cambodians watch it grow, and the Laotians listen to it grow.”

One of the main draws of Laos is in fact its bo pen nhang (never mind, take it easy) attitude. Thais from Bangkok come to Laos on holidays to learn the art of slowing down. Westerners come to learn the art of doing nothing, which the Laotians seem to have perfected.

I have stopped in Siphandon to rest for a few days on a long journey by road and boat on my way to Phnom Penh, Cambodia's capital. And here I find the perfect guest house with the perfect hammock: Mr. Tho's Bungalows. Mr. Tho has a library of English books cobbled together from stray tourists and other sources (no mean feat in Laos, where importing foreign books is severely restricted by the stern Communist regime). The catch is that you can borrow these books only if you stay at Mr. Tho's. So I move into a thatched hut, and start working my way through the fiction section — hanging out in a hammock by my bungalow overlooking the river. All the bungalows here provide simple but tasty Lao home cooking at meal times. Or you can amble along to family-run restaurants with water views.

For those who feel the urge to get out of the hammock, there are some options. The islands have no roads, just foot trails that can be followed by rented a mountain bike. You can follow the disused railway track across Don Det and Don Khone islands, passing through rice fields, forest and small villages.

To the south, this will lead to a magnificent viewpoint over Liphi Falls, where you can park and order a refreshing coconut. Another vantage point overlooks thundering Khone Falls, a crashing cataract that, at almost a kilometre in width, is the widest in Asia. Here, the normally placid Mekong turns into a roaring torrent, dashing and foaming through narrow gorges.

Unable to pass the falls and the rapids are freshwater dolphins. The rare Irrawaddy dolphin comes upriver from Cambodia between January and March and the only place you might catch a glimpse of these rare mammals is at the southern end of Don Khone Island. You can hire a boat here to reach offshore islands, where viewing is best in the late afternoon. There are estimated to be fewer than 50 of these endangered animals left.

Spotting some bright-red kayaks parked near a guest house on Don Khone, I venture in and find the operator, Mick O'Shea. O'Shea is a young Australian who completed a hair-raising descent of the Mekong by whitewater kayak from Tibet to Vietnam in 2004. O'Shea says Siphandon holds great potential for kayak touring — everything is kayak-friendly because the locals all get around by small boat themselves. For his company Wildside Asia, O'Shea is scouting an exploratory run from Siphandon down to Stung Treng in Cambodia, a three-day paddle through flooded forests.

That's my next destination: the border crossing into Cambodia by small boat to Stung Treng, and then following the Mekong to Phnom Penh. In the Khmer Rouge era, the Lao-Cambodia border was one of the most dangerous regions in Asia — a place rife with mines and insurgency. But today it's a snap to negotiate, as long as you have a valid Cambodian visa.

Meanwhile, a hammock under the stars. In Siphandon, you have to adjust your personal clock. You go to bed earlier, get up at the crack of dawn. This has a lot to do with lack of electricity — here there are only kerosene lamps at night, plus generator lighting for restaurants until about 10 p.m.

At night, there is only one channel to watch: Star TV — with no ambient light, star-gazing from my porch is first-rate. I am wondering how I can have a skylight built into the bungalow rooftop, or install a powerful telescope. The pitch blackness makes you feel exhilarated — and at the same time insignificant — as you try to work out how long it has taken the light from those stars to reach your hammock.

Special to The Globe and Mail