Lazing in Laos - Sunday, Nov-29

Sunday is a good day to laze about. Actually, every day is a good day to be lazy, hence the title of these past few blog posts. Since I arrived in Luang Prabang nearly a week ago I have slowed down so much that I am in state of perpetual drowsiness. This is Laos: quiet, serene, and in no hurry. I mention this to Peter, the guesthouse owner, and he chuckles. It is all very well and good until you need to get something accomplished, built, repaired, he explains. Since I have need of none of those things, I enjoy the soporific rhythm of Lao life. I cannot blame the heat, though there is some of that at midday. It is something else entirely. By contrast, Vietnam, Laos’ neighbor to the east, elicits a different state of being, one that commands your full attention and requires complete alertness. Every waking moment is like the first twenty minutes after a strong cup of coffee. Even crossing the street, determined and with conviction as you must do — and praying to all my gods that the hundreds of motorcycles bearing down on me zig and zag around me with precision — makes me feel invigorated and alive. But not Laos; it is nothing short of intoxicating.

Sunday morning is spent at the internet café inquiring about a place to stay in Vientiane a week from now. Many travelers simply show up at their destination and look for a guesthouse, but I prefer knowing where I’m going to sleep that night, and it saves me the hassle of schlepping around with my gear until I find suitable accommodations that fit my budget. I choose a place named Soukxana simply because it rhymes with my name.

I visit with my monk friend Khamchanh, who is reading a book on philosophy, in English, and we chat for a bit before my growling stomach announces it is time to eat. With sightseeing goals accomplished, my days now revolve around food and where I’m going to obtain my next meal. Baguette to go or restaurant? Fruit shakes and snacks or sit-down meal? Breakfast at Manichan Guesthouse is included in my room rate and requires no thought. Just show up at the communal table at 7:30 am and wait for Peter to get back from the bakery with a load of baguettes in the basket of his red scooter.

Now that it is lunchtime, I walk to the end of the peninsula and turn right, following along the Nam Khan river past all the little restaurants with their menus displayed on lecterns like official documents. I choose one simply because I like the tables and chairs and there is plenty of shade and a good view of the river. I order a lemon-mint shake to begin my meal and am presented with a bright green icy drink in a parfait glass, like an elegant Slurpee, that is both exquisite to behold and refreshing to taste. I also order garlic chicken but am served ginger chicken. I don’t complain. I don’t really care what they feed me as long as it tastes good. Each meal ends in a pleasant stroll, waving to children, visiting wats, taking more photographs. Wooden signs point to Utopia, a restaurant much lauded by a Spanish couple I met my first night in Luang Prabang. I do not think I would have found it on my first night, or even my second, it is so tucked away down narrow alleys in a residential neighborhood south of Mt Phousi.

At the corner of Sisavanvong and Kitsarat, where the Night Market goes up each and every night, are a few food stalls that serving fruit shakes, baguettes, and coffee. I order an iced Lao coffee and watch the chickens peck around me. There are always chickens about, pecking by the side of the street with their chicks trailing behind them like bobbins, tied by an invisible thread that keeps them from straying too far from their mother. Where they go at night, and to whom they belong, will remain a mystery to me. I recall the expression “when chickens come home to roost,” and assume they know very well where to return to when the sun goes down. But until then, they roam and peck and scratch and never once get run over by a car or motorbike.

“May I join you?” a young woman asks.

“Please do.” Her name is Pauline and she is visiting from Singapore. She just arrived yesterday from Vang Vieng by bus, but today she is on her own. Her traveling companion got a bad case of motion sickness on the winding mountain road and is sleeping it off today. How awful to look forward to a holiday only to spend it sick in your room. Pauline is just learning photography, and I ask her if she wants to go shooting with me. I suggest we walk to the end of the peninsula and cross the river.

Behind the city pillar, at the very end of the peninsula that makes up Luang Prabang’s old town, is a dirt track that leads to a bamboo bridge, a monkey bridge as it is sometimes called, just wide enough for one person to cross. The people who have built the bridge charge us falang 5000 kip, or about 60 cents, which cause many to balk at the toll. As I see it, they built it and maintain it, reinforcing it so even the heavier falang can go across the rickety bamboo structure without snapping it in two.

Somewhere across the bridge is a papermaking village, but we choose to go no further, enticed by a ramshackle hut, perched on a high riverbank, that serves beer and soft drinks and offers a panoramic view of the Mekong. I vow to return for an undisturbed viewing of the sunset, Beerlao in hand. Pauline has plans to regroup with her sick friend, and I have made plans with Agneta and Fredy, my Swedish boatmates just returned from up north, to go to a wat and listen to the monks’ evening prayers.

I suggest we visit Wat Bouphavipassnaram across the Nam Khan river, where there are no tourists. I had been there before on a bike, and was taken by the three funeral pyres and vertical prayer flags on the grounds. We negotiate a tuk-tuk to take us. I cannot give directions, but I pull out my point-and-shoot camera and show a picture of the sign to the driver. He knows exactly where to go.

We pull up to the wat and respectfully skirt the sim, the main temple, drinking in the atmosphere and the meditative drone of the evening prayers. Monks sit inside and nuns, their head shorn and garbed I white, sit immediately outside. A few layperson also pray, having set out their bamboo mats and prayer books. We three take a seat on the cool marble steps of the temple and each find our moment of peace. A middle-aged woman sees me and beckons me to sit beside her. I give her arm a gentle squeeze in appreciation and smile broadly.

For the next half hour we absorb the chanting, lyrical and resonant. It is both relaxing at first, and enervating when it is over. We wander the grounds toward the huge funeral pyres, and admire the nearly full moon rising above the orange prayer flags that flutter in the evening breeze.

We decide to walk back instead of hiring a noisy tuk-tuk, passing by shops dedicated to supplying the town with one specific article: washing machines, wooden furniture, spirit houses, motorcycles, stationery. Each storefront is open to the street, like a dollhouse. This is the Luang Prabang not found in the guide books. A little toddler girl, her hair in pompoms, runs up to me emphatically saying “Hello! Hello!” and hugs my legs. She is impeccably dressed in a fur-trimmed burgundy coat. I glance toward her family in their shop and they are each beaming with delight. She is clearly the princess of the family. In Laos, children approach strangers with confidence, unafraid. They all laugh as I whisk her into my arms and kiss her pink cheeks.

“You want to come with me? Okay, bye-bye!” I make as if to leave, the tiny unabashed girl in my arms, and she and I wave goodbye to her family. This would never happen where I live. Children are taught that strangers do not like to be touched, and they grow up to be mistrustful and aloof.

As we approach the south end of Mt Phousi I find the signs pointing to Utopia, so we follow the winding alleyways and emerge at a tropical paradise, thick with jasmine and frangipani. A waitperson escorts us to a wood burl table, past lounging platforms for a more traditional way of dining while reclining on axe pillows. The food at Utopia is good but not outstanding, but the setting and ambiance more than makes up for it.

Like every night, I am in my room by 10, writing in my journal and reviewing my photos. Tomorrow is my last day in Luang Prabang before I leave for Nong Khiaw, a small village 3 hours north of here. Another adventure awaits.

Tags: chanting, Laos, Luang Prabang, Nam Khan

Lazing in Laos - Saturday, Nov-28

Across the Mekong from Luang Prabang lies the village of Ban Xieng Maen. Though only minutes away by water taxi, Ban Xieng Maen seems half a century away from the trendy restaurants, internet cafés, and handicrafts boutiques that cater to the phalanx of tourists that visit Luang Prabang every year. Most tourists do not come here, or simply can’t be bothered, missing out on the opportunity to experience a bit of Lao authenticity.

My companions are Hilda and Rebecca, two friends staying at Manichan Guesthouse. Today is their last day in Luang Prabang before departing for Vang Vieng tomorrow. “Can I convince you to go on a trek with me?” I ask, in the hopes that we can share the boat fare across, but also because I would like to spend more time with them instead of just over breakfast. While I prefer solo traveling in general, there are some activities – and expenses — best shared with another. I vacillate between the exhilaration of being on my own and wishing I had a friend to experience the novelty and wonder that makes every day of my trip an adventure.

At the boat pier we are met by an enterprising boatman who, after a little bit of negotiation, takes us three across for 5000 kip each. Like every morning in this month of November, the air is cool and foggy, and we bundle up in our warm layers. Next time I’m in Laos, I note to myself, I will bring gloves.

The urban plan of Ban Xieng Maen is identical to Luang Prabang, or what used to be Luang Prabang in the 14th century. Once the terminus of the historic road to the northern Thai kingdoms, it is now a quiet residential village with one paved main street and many unpaved side alleys and footpaths, and all under the cover of teakwood trees. With no guide or direction, my companions and I head toward a decrepit old temple, Wat Xieng Maen.

We are greeted along the way by young girls selling bright pink lotus blossoms, and young boys asking for pens, which we didn’t encounter in Luang Prabang. While the giving away of a few pens means nothing to us falang, it is not always the best way to interact with young people, no matter where you travel in the world. I recently read how the fishermen around Tonle Sap, the large inland lake near the ruins of Angkor in Cambodia, realized that begging was far more lucrative than fishing, and have abandoned their nets in favor of an open palm. A typical day’s catch can yield $6 USD, but panhandling can bring in twice that.

Wat Xieng Maen was founded in 1592 but fell into ruin. It was rebuilt in 1927, retaining the original 16th century temple doors. When we arrive we are met by an ancient old monk in dirty robes thrusting out a fistful of sodden kip toward us. We understand this to mean that we are to pay admission, and before we can act a young monk hurries toward us and accepts the 5000 kip entrance fee. I’m uncertain whether monks who beg for money are on the up-and-up. As I understand it, donations should be given to a temple or monastery directly, where it can serve all monks, not just the individual. In Thailand, for example, there are laws against such practices, not to mention that begging for money violates the Buddhist code of ethics. In a situation where I’m not sure what is expected of me, and not wishing to risk embarassment either for myself or another, I often pretend not to understand. I shrug, smile stupidly, act the part of ignorant falang. “Yes, yes, thank you. I don’t know,” I utter meaninglessly. I follow the novice to the sim, the main temple, where he unlocks the ancient doors.

After taking a few photos, Rebecca, Hilda and I continue down the narrowing village road in a northeastern direction, past houses and more children selling flowers and ladies in their front yards sewing or embroidering. A sputtering truck rumbles past, seemingly held together with nothing but bailing wire, and I wonder how long until the rough road shakes loose its clattering fenders.

Before long we spot a temple atop a high hill on our left, Chom Phet, but the long, steep stairs leading to its summit daunt us. We press on under the cover of tamarind and teak trees, the path narrowing under our feet as we continue on our pleasant morning walk until we reach Wat Long Khun. It was traditional practice that the each new king spend three days at Wat Long Khun in ceremonial bathing and meditative retreat before returning across the Mekong on the eve of his coronation. With the dissolution of the monarchy, however, the monastery was abandoned and fell into disrepair, later being restored in the mid 1990s. About 200m away we discover a short set of stairs leading to a gated entrance to a cave. This is Sakkaline cave, the subterranean monastery long since abandoned. The wooden doors are locked, so we take a few minutes to rest and admire the scenery around us. Below us, young monks are trying to move large slabs of granite, used in stairs and foundations. It is hard physical labor, managing to move each hewn block a couple of meters in the twenty minutes we watch from above.

Two boys arrive with two tourists and unlock the cave entrance, so I follow along while Hilda and Rebecca stay behind and rest. The cave is warm and extremely humid, and for a few minutes I cannot see past the condensation forming on my eyeglasses. This cannot be good or my camera, either, but I don’t give it much thought because right now, I’m am in the most mystical cave, full of little grottoes, small stupas, and glittering white rock formations. We follow the boys down a slippery trail lit by a string of light bulbs hanging haphazardly on a thin wire down the length of a stony corridor, but the light is dim and barely illuminates this sacred cave.

I rejoin my two trekking companions and we continue on our walk, the trail narrowing until it but a deer track, with branches going off in every direction. We had heard there was a white Buddha in the forest, and now I wish we had hired a youngster in the village to show us the way because we have no idea where to go. We dead end near a house and turn away not wanting to provoke a couple of dogs barking at us in warning.

By now it is almost noon and starting to get hot, so we walk back to the river bank where we got dropped off and wonder if we’ll come upon a boat to take us back. It’s a matter of minutes before our boatman returns for us unbidden, having seen us from the far shore and knowing we’d want to get back eventually. We pay him 20,000 kip, 5000 more than last time, for coming to get us. In total, our excursion to the other side of the river cost less than $4.25 round trip.

After a lunch of pork & egg soup next to Wat Khili, I returned to my guesthouse to nap for while, but I awoke barely able to hobble my way across my room. My knees were painfully swollen and aching from overuse. Linda, the owner of the guesthouse, brought me some ice, so I sat in the courtyard sipping hibiscus tea and icing my knees to bring down some of the swelling.

I visit the Night Market in the early evening with the goal of buying gifts for my family and friends back home. If you leave these things toward the very end of your trip, you might miss out on that interesting souvenir you saw the other day. My purchases include a charcoal gray hoodie with the national flag and “Lao PDR” on the back, and a large zippered totebag made from Hmong textiles. It is still early, but I need to give my swollen knees a break or I might have to skip out on some later adventures.

Tags: Ban Xieng Maen, Laos, Luang Prabang, Wat Long Khun, Wat Xieng Maen