It’s December, it’s cold, and it’s time for a sun-grilled elsewhere; so for the ‘I’ve lost count’ time, the cordial climate of South East Asia entices. Our infatuation with ‘every-day-is-an-adventure-Asia’ began 25 years ago, and coincidentally this is our 25th wedding anniversary year. The plan Christine and I have is to round out the year marinating in the sun and the culture of the landlocked kingdom of Laos.
Immediately it becomes apparent that the usual mayhem of most Asian cities is absent in Luang Prabang. Mingling with multitudinous Buddhist temples amid the jungle-clad hills of northern Laos, the sleepy little town undoubtedly radiates a mellow spiritual aura.
The pleasantness is remarkable for a country grappling to overcome the devastation caused when the Vietnam War violently spilled over across the border. The U.S. dropped more than 3 million tons of explosives on the country, but resilient Laotians now use those same bomb craters as fish ponds and water holding tanks for irrigating their crops.
As day swallows the night, drums from century old monasteries set in motion a daily ritual. A river of orange-robbed Buddhist monks emerge from the monasteries carrying ornate bowls to collect their daily alms, and the procession glides along the streets silently except for the soft swish of their robes fanning out behind them.
Officially the country is called Lao PDR (People’s Democratic Republic), but the general consensus seems to be that PDR actually stands for Please Dawdle Respectfully! In the early mornings Lao women sweep the muted streets with bamboo brooms, and in a gentle murmur offer the hello greeting of ‘Sabaidee’ as we pass by. With even the street mutts well behaved, it feels as if the whole country is in a perpetual meditation.
There’s a saying in Asia: Vietnamese plant the rice, Cambodians harvest the rice, Thais sell the rice, and Laotians listen to the rice grow! From what we’ve seen so far this seems to be true, as only every now and Zen does one find such a truly special place.
We snigger at some of the attempted English translations of ‘house rules’ at Villa Sayhkam Guesthouse. For example Rule #5 states: ‘Do not any drugs, crambling or bringing in both women and men which is not your own husband or wife into the room for making love.’ No sir-ree, ‘crambling’ would never cross my mind! During our breakfast in the gardens the soundtrack of monks drumming and chanting floats through a brilliant tumble of bougainvillea that separates the Buddhist temple next door.
We explore by bike and on foot, and when not burning off calories we are ingesting them during our Lao culinary safari. Then of course we have to stop for the mandatory massage for a pleasant hour of being pulled, poked, prodded, and pampered to perfection.
In a silk village we get to observe the entire process of how the ‘Queen of Textiles’ is made; right down to the wriggling white larvae munching mulberry leaves. Not to be outdone by the worms shedding silk, Christine demonstrates her exceptional aptitude for shedding cash! Coming as no revelation, it’s yours truly who ends up mulishly transporting back her plethora of purchases. Luckily for me, this time the ‘Queen of Spend’ is loosening her purse strings in favour of silk instead of stone!
Unshuttering my eyes at a ridiculous hour today I am in a dare-devilish ‘Carpe Noctem’ mood, and getting dressed, tiptoe out of our room into the black of night. My nocturnal travel stunt is to try and retrace yesterday’s cycling route out to a bombed monastery hoping to capture a picture at daybreak.
Bumbling about with night still holding the upper hand I come to a bridge over troubled water, and doing my best Helen Keller impersonation, laboriously grope my way across a rickety bamboo bridge as if by braille. For a wobbly-kneed acrophobe like myself, the roar of Khan River far below charging full, fast, and furious focuses the mind and tightens the sphincter!
I give myself a mental pat on the back for somehow locating the monastery and await daylight under the silence of the stars. Out of the blue, or in this case the black, I am startled by a robed monk who appears and questions my presence. His English is excellent, and we fall into conversation wandering across many topics, becoming both teachers and students while discussing the perceptions of our respective cultures.
Suddenly a burst of orange appears as eleven other right-shoulder-bared monks gather outside the monastery. The fellow I’m chatting with says to me, ‘Where you go now’? Telling him that I have no plans, his prompt reply is, ‘You come with us’. WOW; like brass on a doorknob I’m all over this remarkable opportunity!
Swiftly and wordlessly the twelve saffron cloaked monks and I stride off along narrow mud paths through the rice fields. They carry alms bowls to fetch the one daily meal monks are allowed; and I, my trusted camera. Tagging along behind my celibate bare footed friends with barely enough light to see, I try to keep pace and not slip, as I don’t fancy planting my nose in the muddy fields of rice.
As we approach the first small village the people kneel in prayer on bamboo mats hoping for a blessing. A tremor of uncertainty travels across my face when I see the smooth skulled squad walk by the villagers collecting their alms and then stop on the dirt road standing in a straight line. Seeing me clueless, my friend instructs me to join the line of monks. The row of robed ones then begins chanting some sort of blessing for those on their knees; with me ineptly lip-syncing alongside.
I sense the muddled minds of the locals at seeing an outsider joining the monks and wonder if they’ve ever witnessed this before. Villagers respectfully bow with hands raised palm to palm below their chin, and one lovely lady kindly offers me rice even though I don’t have a bowl. Loathe hurting her feelings I birth a smile and offer bow, before imprisoning her paddy product in my pocket. Then without a word the procession of monks shuffles off with me trailing along behind. Who’d ever of thunk; Mr. Mark – ‘The Thirteenth Monk’!
This procedure is repeated at several more stops, and at one point a smarmy army soldier riding a flamingo pink kiddie’s bike stops us wanting to know what is going on. I have no inkling what the monks said during the exchange, but the guy immediately backs off, leaving the monks and I to silently return in single file to the monastery.
Thanking the monk for the privilege bestowed upon me we shake hands, and then he and his follically-challenged friends withdraw back inside their temple. I’m left still trying to wrap my head around the whole lot of special that just happened. Hugging my secret, I hike back to share my amazing encounter with Sleeping Beauty, who is still in bed staring at the back of her eyelids.
Quite by accident today Christine and I stumble upon a captivating outdoor bar called Utopia. A modest entrance opens up to reveal an eclectic mix of militia ordinance, hammocks, water gardens, and a huge BBQ made from a bomb casing. Recumbent on loungers set on a bamboo platform suspended out over the cliffs, we enjoy a little social lubricant while appreciating the Khan River far below. Well OK then, just five more beers, and then I really must be going!
On the wretchedly rutty road leading to Ban Xang Hai (Whiskey Village) we’re tossed about in a tiny tuk-tuk that sounds like a demented bumble-bee, and looks like it’s been around since Jesus was in Pampers. Getting out we check to see if any dental fillings have been jarred loose! The scruffy smidgen of a village has two industries; whiskey making and weaving. I too have been known to partake in a little weaving after whiskey, but I digress. Oddly, villagers ghoulishly infuse snakes, scorpions, lizards, and other ghastly ‘harvestables’ into bottles of rice whisky as if it were preservative fluid. So many questions – so little time!
Today at the villages of the Hmong and Khmu hill tribes, we la-de-da about handing out toys, dolls, and dozens of pencils brought from home. One lovely young girl has her baby brother in a pouch slung across her back. Her dress is soiled and her face forlorn. Little girls don’t belong in frowns – little girls belong in smiles, so we present her with the gift of a Barbie doll.
Staring at her precious parcel and realizing the doll is hers to keep, her dark eyes widen into full ovals and her little face births a dimpled smile that lights up the entire village. The grateful ragamuffins are absolutely lovely, and being on the receiving end of any little item, graciously offer a thankful ‘nop’ by respectfully bowing from the waist with hands clasped in prayer-mode and fingers pointing towards heaven.
On our last afternoon in this captivating country we boat along the mighty Mekong observing locals engaged in their daily activities along the river and its shore. Later, with a sinking crimson sun hanging like a colossal red balloon over the horizon as the day slides away, we pensively reminisce on the magic of Laos. From top to bottom this gem qualifies as one of our favorite happy places in all of Asia.
Still with several days before returning home we head to Thailand in search of sand. After Phuket and Phi Phi Island we stop on the predominantly Muslim island of Koh Lanta, where coming as a shock we find the food surprisingly bad. I don’t know where they learned to cook but it tastes like they didn’t listen! Unfortunately the island gets even more failing grades with the prevalent unfriendliness of the people, and the hassle of legions of feasting mosquitos with an apparent affinity for foreign white meat!
Having explored all the nooks and crannies by motorcycle our enthusiasm has withered, and with the days just limping by, we know it’s time to end this meaningless Koh Lanta pilgrimage. Our hearts are simply no longer in it; clearly we left them behind in the peaceful charm and incredible WOW of Lao!
Mark Colegrave Jan 2010