It’s December, it’s cold, and it’s time for a sun-grilled elsewhere. With the cordial climate of South East Asia once again attracting us like bugs to a light, Christine and I plan to round out the year marinating in the sun and the culture of the landlocked kingdom of Laos.
In Luang Prabang it immediately it becomes apparent that the usual mayhem of most Asian cities is absent. No buildings have more than two floors, and mingling with multitudinous Buddhist temples amid the jungle-clad hills of northern Laos, the sleepy little town definitely radiates a mellow spiritual aura.
The pleasantness is remarkable for a country grappling to overcome the devastation caused during the Vietnam War, when the U.S. dropped more than 3 million tons of explosives on the country trying to crush Laotian communist rebels and cut off support for North Vietnam. 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 river of orange-robbed Buddhist monks carrying ornate bowls to collect their daily alms. 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 hours of morning Lao women sweep the muted streets with bamboo brooms; and in a gentle murmur offer the hello greeting of ‘Sabaidee’. With even the street mutts well behaved it feels as if the whole country is on valium.
During breakfast in the gardens at Villa Sayhkam Guesthouse the soundtrack of drumming and chanting from monks floats through a lush tumble of jasmine vines that separates the Buddhist temple next door. There’s a saying in Asia that 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 certainly seems to be true, as only every now and Zen does one find such a truly special place.
With the last of the stars being chased from the sky we drive out to the stunning Kuang Si Falls. Having the falls almost to ourselves, we watch with awe as a waterfall tumbles out of thick jungle and cascades down over rocks into gorgeous limestone pools of turquoise. Making the moment even more special, a group of orange-robed monks suddenly appear and join us in savoring beauty of nature.
When not burning off calories by walking or cycling we are ingesting them, and as we journey through our blissful days enjoying the slow life, it also feels mandatory to stop for a serene Laotian massage for a pleasant hour of being pulled, poked, prodded, and pampered to perfection.
At 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; and coming as no great surprise, 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 rather than stone!
Unshuttering my eyes at a ridiculous hour today I am in a dare-devilish mood, and after getting dressed I 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 quality photo at daybreak.
Bumbling about with night still holding the upper hand I come to a bridge over troubled water, and in my best Helen Keller impersonation, laboriously grope my way across a rickety bamboo bridge as if by braille. Confronting my acrophobia I find the roar of Khan River charging full, fast, and furious far below definitely focuses the mind and tightens the sphincter!
Giving myself a mental pat on the back for somehow locating the monastery I wait out the remainder of night under the silence of the stars. Suddenly out of the blue, or in this case black, I’m startled by a robed monk questioning my presence. His English is excellent, and we fall into conversation wandering across many topics; becoming both teachers and students while discussing perceptions of our respective cultures.
A burst of orange appears with eleven other right-shoulder-bared monks now gathering outside the monastery. The fellow I’m chatting with says ‘Where you go now’? Telling him 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 the narrow mud paths through the rice fields in the tradition of Sai Bat (Morning Alms); they carrying alms bowls to collect daily rations, 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.
At the first small village we come to devotees who have woken very early to prepare food offerings are kneeling on bamboo mats. A tremor of uncertainty travels across my face when I see the smooth-skulled squad walk by the villagers collecting alms and then stop on the dirt road standing in a straight line. Seeing me absolutely clueless my friend instructs me to join the row of robed ones. They then begin chanting a blessing for those on their knees, with me ineptly lip-syncing alongside.
Sensing the muddled minds of villagers at seeing an outsider joining the monks, I wonder if they’ve ever witnessed this before. They respectfully bow with hands palm to palm below their chin, and one lovely lady kindly offers me rice even though I don’t have a bowl. Not wanting to hurt her feelings I birth a sunny smile and offer a 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 atop a flamingo pink kiddie’s bike stops us wanting to know what is going on. I have no inkling what was said during the exchange but the guy immediately backs off, leaving the cavalcade of 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 wish each other well. He and his hairless-headed friends retreat back inside their monastery, while 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. The modest entrance opens up to reveal an eclectic mix of militia ordinance, hammocks, water gardens, and a huge BBQ made from a bomb casing. Lounging on a bamboo platform on the cliffs we gaze down upon the Khan River far below to enjoy a brew with a view. 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 are 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, the 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!
Visiting 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 soiled and face forlorn.
Little girls don’t belong in frowns; little girls belong in smiles. We gift her with a Barbie doll, and staring at her precious parcel 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 on receiving any little item, graciously offer a thankful ‘nop’; 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 daily activities along the mighty river and its shore. Then, with a sinking crimson sun hanging like a colossal red balloon over the horizon, we pensively reminisce on the magic of Laos, which from top to bottom qualifies as one of our favorite happy places in all of Asia.
With a little time still remaining before returning home we head back to Thailand in search of sand. After brief stopovers at Phuket and Phi Phi Island we travel to 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 both the people and an alarming number of feasting mosquitos with an apparent affinity for foreign white meat!
Having explored all the island’s nooks and crannies by motorcycle our enthusiasm has completely withered, and with the days now just limping by we know it’s time to end this pointless Koh Lanta pilgrimage. Our hearts are simply no longer in it; clearly we left them behind in the incredible WOW of Lao!
Mark Colegrave Jan 2010