6:15 am. For the second morning in a row, a tiny songbird came into my bungalow in Ban Sop Houn, perched itself on the roof beam above my bed, and sang me awake. When his morning melody was done, and after he had gently brought me out of my dream state into the waking world, he dropped a very tiny turd, a dry inch of brown and white, onto my mosquito net before flying away. That was my alarm clock.

This song-and-turd routine was followed by a brisk, invigorating shower that promised to be hot but managed to be tepid at best. I am never completely satisfied unless I step out of the shower or bath resembling a steamed crab, red and glistening. Breakfast at the Sunset Guesthouse consisted of an onion and tomato omelet, thick coffee with condensed milk, and a crusty baguette. Peps, my neighbor, joined me for breakfast, and let me know he was checking out today and traveling north by boat to Muong Ngoi.

I headed out alone along the banks of the Nam Ou, on a rutted and narrow dirt road that wound along the river’s edge, steadily climbing uphill, past the morning mist. The teak trees multiplied alongside the road, now little more than a path, until the trees finally yielded to the sovereignty of bamboo, their stalks as thick as an elephant’s leg. Butterflies fluttered about in the sunny clearings where the road left the mountain’s shadow. There were more butterflies than I have ever seen at any one time, but I find them impossible to photograph. They stop only long enough to tempt me, but never long enough to allow me to compose and shoot. Springs issue forth out of the limestone karsts, some but a trickle, and others gushing forcefully. For nearly two hours I walked lazily, passing a man and woman on their way to the village to sell their vegetables, and later a rickety truck that hardly seemed to manage the ruts and potholes in the road.

I arrived at a Hmong village, a cluster of bamboo shacks around an open yard where chickens pecked and scrabbled and where laundry flapped in the breeze like faded flags. A few women waved at me as they went about their domestic business, offering comical sabaidees that sounded like contestants in a hog-calling competition. A few young children, the youngest sans culottes, rushed out to meet me with emphatic greetings, and I paused to take their photos. One little girl grabbed my digital camera and expertly handled the controls, flipping forward and back to peruse my images. She examined them with a critical eye and grinned when she saw herself and her playmates.

I pressed on down the road and reached a small schoolhouse. In one classroom, a circle of little ones no older than four or five were singing a song with their teacher, a pretty, well-dressed woman in a sweater set and sinh, the typical Lao long skirt. I hardly spoke any Lao at all but could ascertain that they were learning a song about personal hygiene. The children copied their teacher, who mimed washing her face and brushing her teeth, before putting joined palms against her cheek, the universal sign for going to bed.

There was another village further up the road, but it was nearly one o’clock. I had a good hour and a half walk before I arrived back in Ban Sop Houn, so I headed back. Along the way I met an elderly woman, bent forward at the waist from decades of harvesting rice. She looked up at me and asked me a question, and I could see her mouth stained black from betel juice. She wasn’t asking for money, so I smiled confusedly and shrugged. She continued on her way, muttering to herself.

Back in Ban Sop Houn I paid a return visit to Mekara’s Restaurant for laap khai and ginger tea (23,000 kip = $2.70 USD) and chatted with the owner. He was working on his motorbike, a Russian Minsk painted dark green with a solid gold star on the tank. “Good moto; break a lot,” he said. I pondered the contradiction.

The afternoon was spent in the hammock, with the added bonus of listening to a man sing in Lao in the near distance. In the evening, I headed back to Mekara where I met two Dutch travelers, Tinneke and Rob.

“I’ve traveled alone,” said Tinneke, “and I always liked to have someone to dine with. May we sit with you?”

I pulled out a rickety chair and motioned for them to sit. I think I have one of those faces combined with an easy-going demeanor that encourages people to chat me up. It happens often, and I’m usually grateful for the fellowship of other travelers. Once in a very rare while I have an undesirable encounter with someone I’d rather not engage. And worst of all, I am unable to see the moment as a slice of absurdity. On one particular flight from Chicago to San Francisco I met Ivan, a Bulgarian poet, who was such an overbearing bore my eyelids started to droop with sleep. I can only surmise that, after many years living under a totalitarian regime in his home country, the taste of democracy finally allowed him to unloose his self-importance. From time to time, he took out a packet of antibacterial towelettes and vigorously scrubbed his hands and wrists, and then proceeded to lecture me at length about fine arts.

“So, what is your area of expertise?” he asked, finally allowing me to get a word in.

“I have a degree in fine arts from a prestigious college in Washington DC. I work as a creative director in interactive design. Technology is my passion.”

“Do you draw?”

“I do, but photography is my avocation now.”

“You should draw. You should draw on your photographs.”

Eventually, I had to put a stop to Ivan’s irksome ramblings by pretending to sleep, and failing that, by doing some calisthenics in the rear galley while eavesdropping on the flight attendants’ gossip. But I digress. Tinneke and Rob were not Ivan the tedious poet, but an affable couple whose company I enjoyed until my eyelids started to droop. But this time, I really was sleepy.

It was cold in the early hours of the morning, and the massive limestone karsts were completely veiled in fog. I am reminded of that Zen koan made popular in that song by Donovan, “First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.” I snuggled under my blankets, and while the Sunset Bungalows will never be the Four Seasons, my large bed could not have been more inviting under its diaphanous mosquito net, like really swanky camping.

The shower was hot, but not hot enough to ward off the morning chill. I dressed in layers and headed to the main house verandah, my empty stomach growling for food. Breakfast was thick Lao coffee with condensed milk and banana-honey pancakes, eaten out of doors on the large deck overlooking the river and the village of Nong Khiaw on the other side. I was actually quite hungry. Whatever ailed my stomach last night has passed. When I returned to the bungalow Peps, my next door neighbor, was already gone. I hung out on my hammock and simply enjoyed the spectacular scenery.

Peps returned in a short while, and we set out on a trek to the Pathok caves, a short 2.5 km walk east of Ban Sop Houn. It’s a pleasant walk along teakwood forests on Rte 13, the same road that leads to Vietnam. We passed tractors with farm workers, and occasional bicycles parked by the side of the road, the handlebars and seat kept cool under a camouflage of leaves. The fog slowly burned off by 11 am, and we are down to our t-shirts, slathering sunscreen on our faces. We passed children on their way to or from school, offering a greeting of sabaidee to anyone who looked our way. Soon we were surrounded by limestone karsts and found a sign that pointed toward the cave, a short walk off the road and across a bamboo monkey bridge.

The caves known as Tham Pathok were used as a hideout and headquarters by Pathet Lao in the Second Indochina War. To reach the caves, Peps and I scrambled up a few dozen wooden steps, and finally up a set of rickety bamboo ladders. There was enough natural light inside the cave that our flashlights were unnecessary. A few chambers inside the cave were marked with rudimentary signs as the General’s office, the armory, and to our surprise, an arts hall. With no guide to inform us, we moved along until we reached a interior precipice accessible by a flimsy ladder. Neither one of us felt brave—or foolish—enough to scamper down and see where the cave might lead. Retracing our steps, we ventured back outside and met a Canadian couple, Steve and Shirlene, who had been on the road for four months. Together, the four of us followed a secondary trail along the face of the mountain to another cave, but this time our flashlights were absolutely essential. The passages were dank and narrow and when our lights were turned off, there was nothing but pitch blackness. Neither Peps nor Shirlene wanted to press on. My flashlight was not up to the task, either. It barely illuminated 2 feet in front on me. If I had rope, a headlamp, and a backpack instead of a shoulder bag, I would have jumped at the adventure, and I’m certain Steve would have loved to venture further into the deep cave. Instead, we all doubled back, relieved to feel the fresh air on our faces once we exited the stifling cave.

On the trail back we met three young Lao men, one of whom spoke excellent English and told us about yet another cave, but we were unprepared to explore it. Peps and I bid goodbye to our Canadian companions and made our way back across the monkey bridge. I spotted three young girls and a boy playing near the river, using rocks and pieces of wood and pretending they were talking on cellphones. They would run behind trees, hollering “a-lo!” into their flip-phone rocks. They are trilled to have their photo taken, and I taught them how to sing “Twinkle, twinkle, little star.”

“Now your turn,“ I motioned to the girls. “You teach me a song.” Even though they spoke no English at all, they understood right away and proceeded to do a song and dance for me, making sure their male friend did not steal their moment in the spotlight while I videorecorded their performance.

Back in Ban Sop Houn, and after a lunch of laap and BeerLao, it was time to get cozy with my hammock. I notice Peps attending to his ankle.

“Are you hurt?” I asked.

“No, but I found the inside of my pant leg covered in blood.”

Leeches! The leech had already dropped off, but the tiny puncture wound, injected with anticoagulants, was bleeding profusely. After treating it with iodine and applying pressure to the dressing, we both snoozed out in our respective hammocks.

In the early evening, we took a walk around the dusty back streets of Nong Khiaw and changed money at the local hardware store (there’s no bank in town,) heading to Merkala’s Restaurant for dinner and shots of laolao, the local firewater, with our spelunking Canadian friends. This is Nong Khiaw—it may be slow-paced, rugged, and full of unexpected blood-sucking surprises, but it will be one of the most enjoyable stops of my journey.

We’re 45 minutes into our drive and I can barely hold my cup of coffee. I’ve got to pee. I try to think about other things, but every bump in the road reminds me that my bladder is full. I try to distract myself by counting satellite dishes in villages, or chuckling to myself over a unusual village name. Lardkok, indeed. I look at my watch every five minutes and groan until I can’t bear it any longer and tap our driver on the shoulder and point outside. “Toilet?” I hate to be that one person who makes the whole group come to a stop, but almost everyone gets out and makes for a patch of banana trees that offers the women in our group a modicum of privacy. By noon, and one more toilet stop later, we arrive at Nong Khiaw.

The first introduction to Nong Khiaw is hardly anything to write home about. There a bus station and a few snack stalls on the dusty road. Highway 1 runs through it and crosses the bridge, and continues for six hours on a snaky mountain road until it reaches Sam Neua and finally Vietnam. I hear the accommodations are more picturesque in Ban Sop Houn, so I walk across the bridge and run into a young woman and her male companion walking lazily across. I ask them where they are staying and she points to the first set of bungalows on the right. Do you like it there? I ask. Awesome, she responds.

‘How long have you been on the road?”

“For months. We live in China.” They are either American or Canadians, so I ask if they are teachers. She shakes her head, so I inquire what they do in China. “Stuff.” She is being rather cagey. Maybe she’s a trustafarian and reluctant to admit it.

“Oooh, stuff…my favorite.” I croon in false effusiveness. I leave them behind and head toward the bungalows to get a room for the next few nights.

CT Bungalows charges 50,000 kip per night, but I’m not thrilled about the squat toilet once I unlock the bungalow and take a look inside. I leave my gear there while I go looking for another place, and settle on the Sunset Bungalows next door. To get there, you have to go down the road about 50m and turn right, following a dirt track. So while the bungalows are technically next to one another, you have to take a few twists and turns to get there. Sunset Bungalows cost twice as much, plus 50,000 kip for breakfast, but the bungalows are really clean and have western toilets. Sometimes, you just have to splurge a little. You know you’ve been in Laos too long when you think $17 USD for a bungalow with a queen size bed, mosquito net, ensuite bathroom and a hammock on my veranda is a bit spendy. Did I mention the view? It’s idyllic.

After accepting the room and getting my gear, I soon meet my neighbor, Peps, who comes over and introduces himself. He’s visiting from Germany and has made Thailand a regular destination for the past few years. This is his first time in Laos, too. He excuses himself and goes for a walk while I continue to unpack my gear.

It’s one o’clock in the afternoon and I make my way to Deen’s, an Indian restaurant on Highway 13. Peps is eating across the road at Mekala and waves as I pass by, hoisting his Beerlao in a gesture of toasting. All the restaurants are open air establishments. At Deen’s I order chicken korma, rice, a pineapple lassi, and an iced Lao coffee. I feel immensely sluggish, perhaps because I woke up so early when the monks in Luang Prabang started to beat the prayer drum at 4 am.

After lunch I make my way to the boat pier and see about putting my name on the list. I’ve decided to take the scenic route back to Luang Prabang in a few days, but the list only gets posted two days in advance. I’ll be here for three days. I wander around the dusty main street of Nong Khiaw, meeting lots of children who want their picture taken. A couple of the more forward young boys put their hands out and ask for kip, but I just give them high-fives and they soon forget to beg and are far more entertained slapping my hand. I don’t believe they are beggars; they just want to engage me and that’s the only thing they know I will understand.

I return to the Sunset Guesthouse and find Peps hanging out on his hammock. I’m about to offer to bring back a coupe of beers. He beats me to it. “How about a sunset beer?”

He goes to the main road and soon returns with two cold Beerlaos, and we sits and watch the sun set behind the imposing mountains before us, reflected in the Nam Ou river below us. We soon discover we are in the same line of work: we are both freelance web designers.

We both have dinner together and talk about our work, commiserating about the same problems. Apparently, clients are the same whether you’re in the US, Germany, or Malaysia. During dinner, I feed all my chicken bits to two hungry kittens that have easily found a mark with me. The littlest one, a dark tortoiseshell, makes the saddest possible face I have ever seen. He’s very good at looking pathetic, and later goes and works another table. I guess this is their regular racket. The orange tabby, however, hops on my lap and I give him a good scratching while he purrs contentedly.

On the way back I meet two Catalonians, Nuria and Alfonso, who just arrived from Luang Nam Tha. They were supposed to be in Nong Khiaw by 3pm but their bus kept breaking down along the way. It’s dark out, and they look tired and disoriented, so I point them to the Sunset Guesthouse. It’s no fun stumbling around in the dark on a rutted road looking for a place to sleep.

It’s not even 10 o’clock, but I’m ready for bed. It’s pretty cold up here in Nong Khiaw, and the bungalow doesn’t do much to keep out the cold, so I pile on four layers of clothes and pull the hood over my head. It’s too cold even for mosquitoes, but I still tuck the netting all around the mattress. There are other crawly things around, and I don’t want to wake up with a 6-inch centipede in my bed.

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.

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.

I find a spot on a corner and sit and wait, approached by ladies selling packets of sticky rice wrapped in banana leaf, should I wish to make an offering. The monks do not eat this rice. I was told some monks got sick from eating this rice, and others have said that they object to the commercialization of this ritual. Whatever the reason, I politely refuse. I would rather be a quiet observer.

The Lao faithful line up individually, kneeling on mats or sitting on low stools so that their heads are below those of the monks. It is an expression of humility and respect. When a line of monks pass, sometimes as many as a dozen at a time, each person places a small ball of sticky rice in their alms bowl, starting with the eldest monk and ending with the youngest and shortest novice. All is silent except for the click of tourists’ camera shutters. A small group of falang whisper among each other, “This will be the only food they eat all day,” but that is not true. As novice La explained “monks love pizza.”

I see my monk friend Khamchanh and we make brief eye contact, but he quickly casts his eyes down and I turn and look away, not wanting to interrupt the moment. By 6:45 the monks have all returned to their wats for breakfast, and it is time for me to do the same.

Breakfast at Manichan Guesthouse is always the highlight of my morning, and today Peter cooks up a yellow lentil omelet for me, along with the oven-warm baguettes, homemade jams, and strong Lao coffee that are the usual morning staples set out on the long communal table in the courtyard.

I make postcards after breakfast from bits of ephemera I’ve collected along the way. Brochures and ticket stubs and SIM card jackets are repurposed as art, but I won’t be able to mail them until 5pm, when the only post office in town opens its doors. Travel agents and moneychangers open early and close late, making it easy for tourists to part with their US dollars, euros, of Thai baht, but I haven’t grasped the rhythm of business hours in the government-run offices.

Today’s adventure is a culinary one, and my first destination is the well-known Tamarind Restaurant, an institution in Luang Prabang. Aside from lunch and dinner, Tamarind offers banquet-style tasting menus and cooking classes in a cozy location not far from where I observed tak bat. I order kratiep si khai, a rosella and lemongrass cooler. Rosella, or more commonly known as roselle, is a species of hibiscus with the tart flavor of raspberries and rhubarb, and is used in traditional medicine as an antihypertensive and diuretic. I am soon brought my entrée of mok pa, a river fish steamed in banana leaf and topped with a dill and basil sauce, with a small basket of sticky rice to mop it all up. Traditionally, Lao food is eaten with the fingers, using a ball of sticky rice to scoop of the food. Sticky rice is a special variety of rice that sticks to itself when cooked, but does not stick to one’s fingers, thankfully.

Even though portions are much smaller than what we are served in the States, I am always more than satisfied by the end of a meal and have yet to sample a local dessert. No matter how many times I pass by the JoMa coffee house by the Night Market, past their displays of coconut cake, lemon cake, chocolate cake, and doughnuts, I cannot manage to squeeze in dessert. There are dozens of street stalls offering a rich variety of fresh fruits blended into tasty shakes that satisfy both thirst and sweet tooth.

I am expected at English class tonight, so an afternoon siesta is in order. I keep the shutters in my room closed all the time to keep the room from getting too hot during the day, and in the quiet darkness I sleep fitfully until my cellphone alarm wakes me around 5 o’clock in the afternoon. There’s barely time to mail my postcards and grab a fruit shake before class. A proper dinner will have to wait until after class.

Today’s lecture is about United States history, the symbolism of our flag’s thirteen stripes and fifty stars, and how the US can be compared to fifty nations with their own cultures, dialects, and laws, but united under one federal constitution. At one point Xay, the teacher, asks me to name all fifty states.

“Is this a test?” I ask, laughing, “Because I can’t imagine why you’d want to know all this useless information.”

I explain what freedom of speech means to Americans, and how we are a nation of immigrants. “In fact, there are many Hmong living in California,” I add, but I don’t discuss how the US repatriated the Hmong who helped the CIA during their secret war against the Vietnamese Communists in Laos. I talk about Spain and bullfighting, and how I always root for the bull but he rarely wins. I’ve brought a few photos to share with the class so they can see my family, my cats, and my home in San Francisco.

“Your husband is wearing a white shirt like you.”

We are posing under a bas relief of apsaras, celestial dancers carved into the temple walls of Angkor Wat. My partner Richard had unbuttoned his shirt against the searing Cambodian heat, and his chest is exactly the same shade of white as my tanktop.

“That’s not a shirt; that is his chest,” I correct one of the students, and they all laugh at how pale his skin is.

Toward the end of class, I read aloud from the only English book in class so the students can listen to my pronounciation. The students read along from photocopied pages that are very nearly illegible. It is a challenge for them to pronounce the letter r, and I write a few words on the whiteboard that we can say together.

Rabbit.
Radio.
Rain.
Red.
Ruin.

And finally, the most monstrous of all “r” words: Rural.

Class is over at 7 o’clock, and Xay and Olay, one of the older students and a close friend of the teacher, invite me out for beers at one of the many restaurants along the banks of the Mekong. Xay gives me a ride on the back of his red motorbike, and then goes and fetches Olay. They arrive in two minutes and order a couple of tall Beerlaos and a bucket of ice.

I learn that Xay is getting married soon, on December 26, but for now lives with his fiancée and soon-to-be mother-in-law. His family is from Vientiane and he moved to Luang Prabang to teach. Olay is married and has a 2-year old son and has a knack for fixing anything that is broken. But he’s tired of being an auto mechanic and wants to learn to fix computers instead. We talk about marriage in the US and our high divorce rate, how extended families are rare, and why we put our elderly in nursing homes when they are too feeble to care for themselves. I tell them about my own mother who, at age 83, insists on living alone, but it works for her because she has a tight network of friends and family nearby who all look after one another. “Juntos pero no revueltos,” is her motto. Close but not all jumbled up.

“I would like to invite you to my home for dinner, when you have time,” offers Xay.

“I have nothing but time, and I would be most honored to be invited into your home.”

No matter how much I protest, the fellows insist on paying the tab. After saying our goodbyes, I head toward the Night Market and grab a Lao-style baguette for dinner, happy to have made new friends here in Luang Prabang.

I linger over breakfast with my fellow guests, Hilda and Rebecca. Breakfast is always a leisurely affair with plenty of coffee to go around and lots of stories to share. I take pleasure in conversing with them both. Hilda lives half the time in Vancouver; the other half of her time is spent in Chiang Mai where she own a condominium. Rebecca is from Hawaii. Of the two, Hilda is the most outgoing. She’s a captivating conversationalist, smart, worldly, and with an elegant air about her, underscored by her slight English accent. Rebecca is quieter, soft spoken, but has a subversive sense of humor that peeks out when she gets to know you. Hilda tells me how she took her children out of grade school (they’re my age now) and set sail around the world. There was a little bit of home schooling while they traveled, like keeping up with reading and math, but most of their lessons came from being out in the world, from the places they visited and the people they met, and when her children returned to school they were far ahead of the other children in their class.

Every falang I’ve met thus far has traveled far and often. I think you really need a bit of wanderlust to visit Laos. It’s accessible to a degree, but is not the first place people choose to visit when they set their sights on Southeast Asia. Laos lacks the tourism infrastructure of Thailand, the dynamism of Vietnam, or a major attraction like Cambodia. But what it lacks in sightseeing options it makes up for in stunning, unspoiled natural beauty, trekking opportunitites to remote places, and some of the most laid-back folks on the planet. Laos is the least populated country in Asia, with fewer than 70 inhabitants per square mile. To put it in perspective, Vietnam has nearly 670 inhabitants per square mile. There’s a lot of elbow room here.

After breakfast, I decide today is a good day to visit the Royal Palace Museum, former home to the royal family when Laos was a monarchy. The palace was built in 1904 during the French colonial era for King Sisavanvong and his family. In 1975 the palace was converted into a museum after the monarchy was overthrown by the Communists and the royal family taken to re-education camps. They died shortly afterward.

The building itself is an interesting blend of French and Lao architectural styles. The site was chosen near the river so that visitors to the palace could disembark from their journey and be immediately received. The palace now houses an impressive collection of art and artifacts, as well as the residences of the royal family. Perhaps the most noteworthy object in the collection is the Phra Bang, a legendary Buddha statue believed to have been cast in Sri Lanka in the 1st century, and presented to King Fa Ngum in the 1359. Twice it was taken from Laos by invading armies, and rumor has it the Phra Bang on display may not be the original after all. The real one is safely hidden in Vientiane. Or maybe not.

The King’s reception room is decorated with murals by French artist Alix de Fauntereau. They depict scenes from traditional Lao life and are meant to be viewed at different times of day, depending on the light that enters the window that corresponds with the time of day represented in the mural.

The Throne Room is the most impressive of all. The walls are painted a rich, deep red and covered in mosaics made of colored Japanese glass mirrors. They illustrate legends, battles, and daily Lao life. It’s not the kind of place that would inspire a deeply moving experience, but I cannot help but stand in awe and imagine what it must have been like at the height of the monarchy’s reign. I am not able to take my camera in, so I have no photos to show how magnificent all this is.

In a building behind the palace is a photography exhibit by a German fine arts photographer, Hans Georg Berger, titled “The Floating Buddha.” In 2005 he photographed novice monks in Luang Prabang practicing vipassana, or silent meditation. His black and white silver gelatin prints capture a singular moment of serenity that, in its observation, becomes a meditation in itself. I am particularly drawn to one image. The novice in the photograph is holding one of those banana leaf and marigold offerings that resemble a stupa. His eyes are closed in meditation, and he has the most beautiful elongated hands that seem mannered and unreal. His face is angled with very high cheekbones, but also soft and serene. I begin to see that those Buddhas in the temples are not abstractions, that some Lao people really do look like that.

It is late morning, so I work my way down Sakkaline Road, Luang Prabang’s main street, stopping at every wat along the way to take some photographs. At Wat Sirimounkhounsayaram (I think it wins the prize for the longest name) I engage three novice monks in conversation who are sitting around outside. Most monks speak English well, having a lot of time to practice with visitors. One of them, Khamchanh, is very bright and chatty and fun to talk to. I ask them all how long they have been monks and how long they plan on being at the monastery. No one wants to be a monk for life.

Young men, usually in their late teens and often younger, will enter the monastery for a short time in order to make merit. Not only is it is a social and religious obligation, but it gives a family prestige to have a son who takes “robes and bowl.” Some boys become monks for as little as a few weeks, and others stay for several years so the can obtain an education if their parents are too poor to send them to university, or live too far from a good school. In some cases, a married man might get caught cheating by his wife and becomes a monk for a little while until the fracas settles and he can go home again. It is an arrangement to resolve marital discontent that I find curiously amusing.

After saying goodbye to my monk friends, I walk across the street to Wat Khili. Wat Khili is a rare example of a Xiang Khouang-style temple. Legend has it that the Black Flag Haw rebels who sacked and looted Luang Prabang in 1887 took special care to destroy these types of temples because their shape resembled Chinese coffins. It’s also said that the Buddha at Wat Khili broke into a cold sweat in 1958, a dark omen signaling the coming war. The province of Xiang Khouang was heavily bombed during the Second Indochina War, leaving no trace of its architecture, making the sim at Wat Khili possibly the last surviving example.

At Wat Khili I meet a young novice by the name of La, who has only been studying English for one year but speaks it remarkably well. We stand under an arbor of bougainvillea and chat, and he compliments my Lao pronunciation when I describe the places I have been to. I ask him if he can help me say a prayer for my neighbor who killed himself, and I tell him how I was there when it happened and how his death has tormented me ever since.

La explain what the ritual entails, and then fetches the key to the sim (temple.) He returns wearing his yellow novice vest and prayer shawl. Inside the cool dark temple, I sit mermaid-style with my feet behind me, praying three times to the Buddha and ending each prayer by touching my forehead to the ground. I ask that he, my neighbor, accept this offering if he wishes, I pray for his passage to the next stage of being, and I pray for forgiveness because I was unable to help him. I put some kip in a silver alms bowl, and La begins to chant in Pali, the Buddhist liturgical tongue, reading from a prayer book. I feel tears running down my cheeks, but they are tears of relief, not of pain.

“I’m sorry,” La says sympathetically.

“It’s okay, La. It’s over now.”

He hands me a glass of water that I am supposed to pour outside while thinking of my deceased neighbor. I’m not sure if there’s a right or wrong way to pour water on the ground, but I impulsively make a heart shape and say goodbye, and go back inside the sim where La is waiting.

“I have something for you.” He reaches into a vest pocket and pulls out an orange and white cotton bracelet and ties it to my wrist, making sure not to make contact with me. Monks are forbidden to touch women.

“When you are sad, look at the bracelet and it will make you happy.”

For the first time in two weeks I feel whole again. I don’t feel the heavy burden, the raw wound of my neighbor’s suicide. This chapter is closed. La and I say goodbye, for now.

In the afternoon I visit the new Traditional Arts and Ethnology Centre at the southern end of Mount Phousi and learn all I can about the different ethnic groups in Laos. I learn that there isn’t such a thing as “the Lao people” but that there are three primary ethnic groups and dozens of other ethnic minorities, the most visible ones represented by colorful exhibits showing their tribal dress. A fascinating and informative documentary about the Yao depicts a Taoist ceremony and indoctrination of two young men into the animist religion.

When I leave, I discover a path behind the museum with an enigmatic blue wooden arrow, nailed to a tree, that reads “tem ple” (sic). I can’t resist an off-the beaten-path adventure, so I follow the signs, winding my way around a different neighborhood, waving to children along the way and greeting ladies sitting on their doorsteps. It’s a gentle meandering path under the trees, ultimately terminating at the lower temples on Mount Phousi, and offering panoramic views of the mountains east and south of Luang Prabang without having to endure the punishing, merit-making steps I took two days ago.

After a streetside dinner of baguette, I take a stroll to the end of the peninsula and find myself at the wat with the longest name, Sirimounkhounsayaram. On the grounds is a long rambling building with what appears to be classrooms. It’s about 7pm and classes seem to be in session. I wander over and poke my head in one of the classrooms. The English teacher, a young Lao man, invites me in, so I remove my shoes as is the fashion and stand quietly near the door while they practice their listening comprehension from an old cassette tape. On the tape, a man and woman discuss their vacations. The man says he is from San Francisco.

“I am from San Francisco, too!”

The teacher, whose name is Xay (rhymes with “sigh”) asks me if I would like to speak to the class so they can hear a native English speaker. I have no inhibitions when it comes to speaking before a group, so I tell them all about my family, my partner Richard, my cats (who might as well be my children), how the weather in San Francisco is similar to Luang Prabang’s, what a big deal it was to elect Barack Obama as our president because he was the first president who wasn’t a white man, which led to a discussion about slavery and the Civil Rights movement. I ask the students, who are in their late teens and early 20s, about their hobbies and interests and what they want to do when they leave school. The girls are shy, but they boys are less so, telling me they want to work in IT or become lawyers. I tell them about my job as a web designer and write my email and web address on the whiteboard, inviting them to write to me any time they want. Class is over at 8 o’clock, and Xay asks me if I could please come back tomorrow night as well.

On my way back home I buy two silk scarves at the Night Market. They are handwoven in the typical Lao style with tiny diamond patterns, and made with natural dyes of indigo, turmeric, and ebony. One is a dark color, and the other is in light yellow tones. I don’t bargain hard and am happy to get both for 250,000 kip or $29 USD. I chat with the ladies at the market for a little while before I return to my room for the night. This was supposed to be an easy, lazy day. It turned out to be full of wonders and surprises, but it also brought some closure, and with it, some much needed peace.

I walk north on Sakkaline Road and find a pharmacy that also rents bicycles, a typical single-speed city bike with a basket for carrying my bag and camera. I pay 25,000 kip, or about $2.95, to keep the bike until 6pm. The lady pharmacist wraps my bag straps around the handlebars. “Lock the bike always,” she adds. Just because it feels like paradise doesn’t mean it is so.

I ride down the main street on my way to Talat Phousi, a big arcaded market about 2km south of the town center that we passed yesterday on our way from Tat Kaung Si. I first go up the escalator to the second level, but am underwhelmed by the imported Chinese sportswear, none of which is in my size anyway. I’m much more fascinated by the fruits, vegetables, and meats arranged along the narrow aisles. Should there be any question about the kind of meat you are purchasing, the animal’s head on display should dispel any doubt whether you’re buying pork or water buffalo.

Decapitated heads don’t do much to preempt my hunger. It’s practically noon, and my lazy 2km bike ride made me work up an appetite. I find a lady selling baguettes and point to a sensibly sized one. She shakes her head no and grabs a much larger one. No words are needed here. She just took one look at the giant falang woman and probably thought, “you’re not going away hungry from my stall if I have anything to do with it.” I can’t argue with that kind of unspoken logic.

“Kai?” I suggest, meaning chicken.

“Moo,” she responds. Moo, in Lao, means pork. I nod. Alright, madame, do me some moo.

Let us now take a moment to praise the French for leaving some of their culinary legacy behind. Okay, done. The baguette lady slices the foot-long bread down the middle but leaves both halves still joined on one side, filling it with slices of barbecued pork, thin slices of seasoned tofu that look and taste a bit like mortadella, lettuce, tomato, onion, sweet chili sauce, fresh coriander (mention cilantro and you’re given blank stares), and something light brown that looks like finely shredded wood but tastes smoky and quite divine. Then, the baguette is topped by a sheet of notebook paper, or in lieu of that, a page torn from some inscrutable falang textbook, and held together with a thin rubber band and put in a small plastic bag. Total cost: 7,000 kip, or about $0.82 USD. Oh, joy!

With my gourmet sandwich in hand, I unlock my bike, step in a puddle of yuck, find a nearby spigot and wash the yuck off my feet, and pedal back to town, hoping to find a shady spot nearby where I can nosh on my baguette. Less than a kilometer away is Wat Hosian Voravihane, a recently restored temple with a very old stupa on the grounds. The sim, or ordination hall, has a unique silver naga balustrade with 3 more smaller nagas coming out from its mouth. I park my bike and find a table and benches under the shade of a bodhi tree, the same kind of sacred fig tree under which Siddhartha Gautama (later known as Gautama Buddha) achieved enlightenment. As for me, I’m content to have just attained gastronomic nirvana.

I pedal across the Nam Khong river to the suburbs of Luang Prabang. Along the way I stop at Wat Mounena Somphouaram, where novice monks are preparing three simple wooden altars and decorating its canopy with a fringe of kip. There are laypeople also busy at work, perhaps their parents or relatives, helping them and bringing food offerings of rice and fruit. No one speaks English, so I cannot ask what its purpose is. I just have to content myself with the experience of being in the moment, and observing without knowing what this means.

I continue on my ride and almost reach Wat Pa Phon Phao, a 3-storied golden temple I saw from the top of Mt Phousi yesterday. It’s a hilly ride on Route 13, alongside trucks spewing diesel fumes, and not much pleasant at all. When I reach the bottom of the hill where the temple is built, I’m none too excited to push my bike up the steep gravel road to the top. It is 3 o’clock in the afternoon, and the hottest part of the day. Perhaps I’ll save that excursion for another bicycle ride. What I really want right now is a shower and a drink.

When I return to the guesthouse I meet Hilda and Rebecca, two friends traveling together whom I had met earlier that day over breakfast. We sit at the communal table in the courtyard, enjoying cups of hibiscus tea under the shade of the thatch canopy. Soon Agneta and Fredy arrive from their day’s outing. They both got massages at a place along the Mekong river.

“You really must try Mr. Vong. He really knows what he’s doing.” I agree to do so, though I much prefer a masseuse. A woman’s touch is lighter and more relaxing, and I need not worry about hands straying where they are not wanted. Agneta also informs me that our group is meeting for one last dinner together at 7pm, for tomorrow Tom, Bob, and Mattias are leaving Luang Prabang. Though I was looking forward to some street food tonight, saying goodbye to my riverboat companions is the polite thing to do.

But until then, I seek out the Mekong River View massage, located in a traditional teak house. When I enter, I ask the English-speaking manager that I would like a head and shoulder massage. I hope it helps with the odd tingle between my shoulder blades, possibly caused by lugging my heavy photography gear around. The manager, a smiling middle-aged lady, beckons to a young woman who escorts me up the stairs to a darkened room, its shutters open to the soft breezes coming from the river. There are a half dozen mats on the floor with bedsheets hanging up from cords that are strung across the room, for when privacy is needed. Since it is just the masseuse and I, the privacy sheets remain up.

She begins at my feet, pounding on my heels and working her way up, devoting a lot of care and attention to the spot between my shoulder blades. She knows exactly where the knots are, and I’m grateful for her gentle touch. Like all massage in Southeast Asia, you remain fully clothed or are given loose pajamas to wear if your own clothing is too constricting. Since it is just us two women, I take off my tshirt but leave my bra on. I can feel the cooling evening breeze, a luxurious feeling combined with her careful pummeling and the sensation of her long, silky hair brushing across my back. All Lao women leave their hair long. When she asks me to turn over, she massages my forehead and spends a good while massaging between my eyebrows, inducing a sense of deep peacefulness. I finally understand why my cats enjoy having their foreheads gently rubbed.

An hour later, our massage concluded, I gather my belongings and walk downstairs, paying the manager 40,000 kip, or about $4.75 USD. I leave a 10,000 kip gratuity for my masseuse. As I leave, I take her hands in mine and kiss them, the only way I can express my gratitude. She giggles like a schoolgirl and gives me a big hug. The manager hands me a few pieces of sugarcane to chew on before I leave.

“See you soon, ladies!” I wave goodbye, chewing the sugarcane and savoring it, sweet and wet in my mouth.

I run into Agneta and Fredy on their way to Sokdee Guesthouse to meet the fellows for dinner. I feel strangely energized even after my strenuous bike ride earlier in the day. It’s amazing what a little bodywork can do.

Our group wanders about looking for a restaurant. We walk toward the Nam Khan side of town, but no restaurant seems to satisfy all tastes, whether it be for food or ambiance. Agneta is being especially particular which begins to wear on me, but I just try to go with the flow and not steer the group one way or another. With a group of six people, you cannot expect to please all palates, and Lao food is pretty consistent no matter where you go. After an hour or so of wandering, it was time to make a decision.

“You’re a good leader, Suzanna,” says Tom. “You need to decide for us.”

Sigh. Just when I was planning on going with the flow and following the crowd. I never want to appear bossy or domineering, but I do think I have good leadership skills, gently guiding people to make their own decisions and giving encouragement. But once in a while you need to grab the reins when the horse is wandering about the field.

“Listen, friends, we’ve all had a long day, and we can’t possibly meet everyone’s criteria. If we don’t sit down soon I’m afraid I may need to excuse myself and seek out some sustenance soon. I haven’t had a bite to eat in eight hours, my blood sugar is low, and I’m starting to get cranky. I don’t think I’ll be ‘nice Suzanna’ for too much longer.”

Suddenly, as if I had just uttered the magic words, the group happily goes to the nearest restaurant and we all have a great meal, saying goodbye to Tom and Bob. Agneta and Fredy go for a beer, and Mattias and I take a stroll and browse the Night Market.

Mattias disappears into an antique shop and motions for me to come in. The shop contains an eclectic collection of religious and secular objects, many from Tibet and China. I spot a bronze sculpture of Avalokiteshvara, the Buddha of Compassion known in Tibetan Buddhism as Chenresig. It is the one incarnation that I am most drawn to, maybe because compassion is the quality I feel most in need of cultivating. But my eye is drawn upward to another shelf, to a smaller sculpture even more beautiful and compelling. It’s a copper figure of Amitabha, the Buddha of infinite life who brings about healing and wisdom. He sits crosslegged on a lotus and holds in his hands the Vase of Life, filled with the nectar of immortality. In Vajrayana (Tantric) Buddhism he has two main disciples, one of whom is Avalokiteshvara, who sits on his right.

The owner of the shop, a Hmong man with a round face and a gentle demeanor, tells me it is between 150 and 200 years old. I walk around the shop some more, admiring his tasteful collection of art objects, but I keep returning to Amitabha.

“I am going to buy this one,” I tell Mattias.

“I thought you wanted Chenresig.”

“I did, until I found this one.”

“The Buddhists believe one does not choose the image. The image chooses you.”

Well then, there we have it. I consider myself chosen. I hand the owner my credit card and also pick a wood and bone snuff bottle from China with an erotic scene carved on it. The total bill comes to $165. I don’t know how to value antiques, but I do know that a new Buddha sculpture retails for more than what I paid, but it doesn’t matter, really, as long as I like it and it means something to me.

I bid goodnight and safe journey to my German companion. Tomorrow he leaves for Vientiane and then to Siem Reap, Cambodia. I will miss his company, but I will enjoy my solitude at long last.

I am awake fairly early, so I do a little stretching. I’m not calling it yoga, but it does resemble it in my own unorthodox way. My objective is to continue to be able to touch my toes and balance on one foot until I’m old and grey, and I don’t really care what those postures are called or if I’m doing them perfectly. It just feels good to stretch, and it helps to get my blood circulating.

Breakfast is served starting at 7:30am. The big table in the courtyard is set out with warm baguettes, muesli, homemade yogurt, and three kinds of jams that Peter, the owner of Manichan Guesthouse, crafts himself: tamarind, papaya-lime, and pineapple-ginger. There’s a pot of strong coffee at the self-serve drinks station, black and green teas, and dried hibiscus flowers, too.

“How would you like your eggs, Suzanna?” he asks with a smile.

Oh, my. “Scrambled hard, please,” and out comes a bowl of scrambled eggs dotted with chopped tomato, onion, and basil. I’m never much of a breakfast eater, but I suspect that will change starting today. Boy, this man can cook! It turns out Peter was a chef in Belgium before trading in his toque and moving into the hospitality business, and it shows in every loving detail. More guests arrive at the table, and soon we’re chatting amiably, sharing travel tales and itineraries, as is the norm. But there’s not much time to dawdle today.

Phet, our river boat guide, arrives prompt at 8 o’clock to pick up Agneta, Fredy, and me. Our hired minivan is parked along the Mekong, with Tom, Bob, and Mattias waiting inside. The Dutch cycling couple has their own agenda, having already left on their mountain bikes for Tat Kuang Si, the waterfalls 30km away.

Before I get deeper into describing my time in Laos, I should point out few things to note about spelling and pronunciations. Despite the common spelling of Luang Prabang as used here, the letter r is silent, or if you’re Lao, completely unpronounceable. So Prabang sounds more like Phabangh, and farang (foreigner) is falang. At times you’ll see various spelling for a location, with r’s and l’s used interchangeably — as well as w’s and v’s — in their Latin transliterations. So Sakkarine Road also appears as Sakkaline, and Visoun can also be sign posted as Wisoun. Have fun with that, turistas.

Our first destinaton today is Wat Visoun (or Wisounarat,) the oldest temple still in use in Luang Prabang. Built in 1513, it was set on fire by Black Flag Haw raiders in 1887. During the latter half of the nineteenth century, bands of Chinese warriors known as Flag Gangs, (from tribes then called ‘Haw’ in Thai) of southern Yunnan, ravaged large areas of northern Laos. Though destroyed in the sacking of Luang Prabang, the temple was rebuilt a decade later. Inside the ordination temple is a large collection of Buddhas in the Calling for Rain pose — both arms down at the Buddha’s side — a style found most often in Laos. Perhaps the most notable part of this temple complex is the unusual stupa, That Pathum. That Pathum means “Stupa of the Great Lotus,” but among the locals it is called That Makmo, or Watermelon Stupa, on account of its stout round shape.

Luang Prabang is not a big town by any stretch. The old town, with its 30 temples, museums, and other sights, is built on a narrow peninsula. The Mekong river flanks one side, and the Nam Khan sits along the other, curling around the tip of the peninsula before joining the Mekong. It’s a narrow spit of land not much wider than a city block. You can traverse its width in about 5 minutes or less. There is one main street down the middle, two other main streets that parallel each river, and many small side streets (sois), alleys, and stairs crisscrossing the relatively flat peninsula. The only exception is Mount Phousi. Rising 150m (492 ft) from the center of town, this sacred mountain has temples scattered on all sides of its slopes and a panoramic view of the entire town from its top. No matter where you are, day or night, you can always see Mt Phousi and That Chomsi, the bright golden stupa at the summit, so it is impossible to ever get lost. Our minivan arrives on the southern side of Mt Phousi and we all climb the 355 steps to the top.

“Climbing the stairs is a way of making merit,” announces Phet while he offers us a bit of history. Why must piety be so painful? I wonder.

There are several wats on Mount Phousi. Wat Phra Bat Nua has a yard-long footprint of the Buddha, left behind as he tried to suppress an evil demon serpent that had risen from the depths of the mountain. Further around the mountain is a cave shrine with a large fat Buddha, and to the right of that, a low-ceiling entrance to a deeper cave with more altars and relics. At the top of the mountain our group gathers at a viewing platform with panoramic views of the city and its surroundings, then descend the long stairs to our waiting van.

I rarely get tired of visiting wats and temples, though I’ve heard many a tourist comment that they tend to blur together after a while. Perhaps, but they all possess unique features that makes each one different from the rest if you take a moment to observe the details. Maybe it’s the way the temple roof slopes, or its number of tiers, or whether the walls angle inward or stand straight. Sometimes the temple is old and restored, or else it’s in ruins; it might be new and painted in vibrant allegorical murals, or decked out in dazzling mirror mosaics depicting local legends. Some contain one single golden Buddha, or many Buddhas stacked haphazardly collecting dust.

Our next stop is Wat Xieng Thong, on the northern tip of the peninsula. In 1560 King Setthathirat commissioned the constrution of the sim (ordination hall), and it survived the sacking by Black Flag Haw in 1887. The Black Flag leader had studied here as a monk earlier in his life and used the temple as his headquarters, sparing it from the certain fate of fire that befell most other temples in the area. The sim is considered classic Luang Prabang temple architecture, with a splendid tree of life mosaic on the rear exterior wall. I find that my favorite building in the entire compound is the funerary carriage house. Aside from the enormous naga-flanked carriage, which is impressive in its own right, there are many glass cases containing royal puppets, beautiful religious artifacts, and carved tablets.

It’s late in the morning, and we board the minivan again on our way to Tat Kuang Si, the limestone waterfalls 30mk south of town. It’s an enjoyable drive on a winding rural road past Hmong villages and rice farms. By now the fog is clearing, and we can see the rolling hills around us. About half way to the falls we meet up with Anna Lucia and Jake, the Dutch cycling couple. He’s an experienced cyclist, but she looks like she’s about to have a heart attack. Apparently, the only way she could convince her husband to come to Laos was to book a cycling trip, but she doesn’t seem physically prepared to tackle the hills, let alone some of the mountains they will encounter on their journey south to Vientiane. But we all give them a lot of encouragement and continue on our own motorized journey.

We arrive at the parking area to Tat Kuang Si, a tree-shaded dirt lot surrounded by open-air eateries. It’s nearly noon, and we all suggest we eat lunch first before we trek to the waterfalls.

It’s an easy 10-minute stroll on a well-marked trail to get to Tat Kuang Si. The path is bordered with thick vegetation and huge poinsettia shrubs in full bloom, each flower as large as a dinner plate. It’s refreshing to see these flowers in their natural habitat instead of the foil-wrapped pots one finds in the supermarket around the Christmas holidays. Up ahead is a short wooden bridge and to our left, the main waterfall cascades from a height of 180 feet. At its base, a slightly more rugged trail takes you along the water’s edge, where the falls tumble down shallow turquoise pools and form perfect swimming holes. A rope swing dangles from a tree, and though the water is cold this time of year, it doesn’t stop more adventurous falang from donning their swimsuits and taking a dip in the icy water.

Near the end of the trail is a rescue center for Asiatic Black Bears. Often called moon bears because of the crescent shape found on the bears’ chests, this preserve serves to rehabilitate bears that have been saved from traffickers and poachers. Their enclosure is very large, about 2 acres, and is equipped with an elaborate jungle gym decked out with climbing ropes, tire swings, hammocks, ladders, and platforms. There are about a dozen bears in here, and each seems engaged in some activity or group play. One plays king of the hammock, knocking down other bears that come to usurp his or her place. Another is occupied with an old metal drum, trying to get to the food inside. These bears are highly intelligent and resourceful creatures, and by encouraging them to forage for their meals, it mimics their own eating patterns in the wild. They all look healthy, interested, and playful.

By late afternoon we are all back at our respective guesthouses, with plans to meet for dinner at 7pm. We bid goodbye to our wonderful guide, Phet, who always went out of his way to get us oriented, make us comfortable, and keep us informed.

In the evening, Agneta, Fredy and I meet up with Tom, Bob and Mattias at the Sokdee Guesthouse where they are staying. I’m sure it is a nice place to stay, but it’s rather noisy in the lobby, making me glad to have lucked upon Manichan Guesthouse and its peaceful ambiance. Our group finds a nice restaurant on the banks of the Mekong, and I order khai paen (dried river moss) to share and chicken with fried cashews. Everyone finds khai paen delicious and a good snack to accompany the ubiquitous Beerlao. Dinner is cheap by western standards, coming to about 40,000 kip per person ($4.75). As usual, I’m relegated to calculating and divvying up the bill. I’m not sure how this happens when math was never my best subject in school, but our waitperson helps out and we leave him a good tip. Even though tipping is not required, it is always appreciated.

While I very much enjoy the company and conversation of my boat mates, I will also be glad to be on my own tomorrow when I can indulge my taste for even cheaper street food and get lost, if that’s even possible, in this quiet former French Colonial town that is Luang Prabang.

We meet at the appointed time and walk west toward the boat landing and up a hill past a faded old Socialist party billboard about being a good worker or something about productivity. We take photos of children and spirit houses and chickens, and a woman with her sleeping baby hanging across her back in a cloth sling. She is pounding corn in a large stone mortar, her little one oblivious to the vigorous motions of her body.

Mattias and I hurry back to get some breakfast, which consists of a greasy fried egg in a huge baguette and a cup of strong Lao coffee. There’s a saying in Spain that “cuando hay hambre, no hay pan duro,” which loosely translated means that everything tastes good when you’re hungry. The coffee here in Laos is thick and potent and sweetened with condensed milk. Phet arrives to tell us it’s time to go. He has a mini-pizza with everything on it for us both, but Mattias doesn’t eat pork so it’s up to me to make sure the pizza finds a good home – in my stomach. I eat half the pizza, packing up the remainder for later, shovel the rest of my baguette in, and hustle down to the boat landing to embark on the second leg of our journey.

It is cold and foggy again this morning, and we are all dressed in layers. Phet prepares coffee for us all, and we gather around the dining table in the back of the boat to wam our hands and our insides. It always seems colder on the water, and the breeze contributes to the chill. The captain’s wife brings us blankets from their living quarters in the rear of the boat, and while some accept them gladly, I’m comfortable enough in my hoodie and windbreaker.

Around midday the sun burns through the mist and overcast. A few of us gather on the sundeck and chat while others sit and read or watch the river. I really enjoy the company of my boat mates and can only imagine how uncomfortable it must be on the public boat with wooden seats, packed to the brim with passengers.

Lunch today consists of stir-fried vegetables, a warming soup, rice, and Lao sausage, all while enjoying the spectacular scenery that unfolds before us. I ask Phet if he ever gets bored of making this trip, often two or three times a week.

“Never.”

The sun is high and the day feels warm and pleasant. We stop at a Hmong village along the way, disembarking on a small sandy beach to be greeted by children who seem genuinely excited to have visitors. When the rainy season is over, villagers plant their crops right on the sandy shore, after the Mekong has left rich deposits of fertile silt behind. The Hmong ladies have their handicrafts out for sale, and I purchase two pretty scarves woven in the traditional Lao style, one red and one olive green. The most difficult decision is choosing a color. The village children follow us down to the beach to see us off, waving at our boat from the shore until we cannot see them anymore.

By 3:30pm we dock at the Pak Ou caves, our last stop before arriving in Luang Prabang. The Pak Ou caves (pak = mouth and ou = water) lies at the confluence of the Mekong and Nam Ou rivers. In the center of a limestone massif is the cave entrance, a jagged opening with many steps leading up to it. The cave is a significant site noted for its collection of over 2,500 Buddhas left by villagers and pilgrims over the centuries. The mostly wooden Buddhas are arranged on every rock shelf and cave niche, and can be found in almost every conceivable pose or asana: sitting in meditation, standing, calling for rain, dispelling fear, or laying in repose (nirvana.)

Phet points to a mark on the outer wall where in 1966 the Mekong rose so high it flooded the caves. The mark is a good 8 meters above our head after we reach the topmost step. Some of the Buddhas are covered in silt and cobwebs, but it all adds to the mystery and decrepitude of the place. There is a second set of stairs along a trail that hugs the limestone cliffside and leads to a second cave. We will need our flashlights to see inside. There are more statues in the second cave and a few stupas containing relics, but not nearly as many or as impressive as the first cave.

When we embark, Phet informs us that we are about an hour away from the boat landing in Luang Prabang. I wish out loud – and my fellow passengers agree – that two more days on the boat would be most enjoyable. I lieu of that, we ask Phet if he can stay with us one more day and take us on a tour of the main sites in and around Luang Prabang. He makes a few calls, and arranges a minivan to take our group out the next day.

When we arrive in Luang Prabang, I’m pleased to discover there is a very accessible boat landing with a ramp that leads up to the street. Phet hires a waiting tuk-tuk to take us to our respective accommodations, but only a few of us have reservations. I ask if anyone wants to check out Manichan Guesthouse, where I will be staying, and we stop there first to inquire of any vacancies for my newfound friends.

Manichan Guesthouse is only 3 short blocks away down a short soi perpendicular to the Mekong, here called the Nam Khong. Only a few main streets have names in Luang Prabang. All the other side streets, sois, and alleyways are nameless, and are referred to by recognizable landmarks that lie nearby.

When we arrive, we are greeted by Peter, our host, who is holding his little daughter, Diana. Today is her first birthday, and she grins a big toothless smile. When she smiles she wrinkles her nose. It’s the same expression her mother, Linda, makes, who soon comes out to greet us as well. Peter is Belgian and Linda is Lao/American, and I learn that Manichan is her Lao names and means “moonlight.” It is a perfect name for her, with her pretty round face that radiates nothing but joy.

There is only one room with shared bath left in the main house, and Agneta and Fredy take it until an en suite room becomes available tomorrow. The others, Tom and Bob and Mattias, are chauffered to another guesthouse.

I am shown to my room, number 6, on the far end of the rows of rooms behind the main house. In the middle is a courtyard with a large dining table and 24-hour access to coffee, different kinds of tea, and bottled water. My room is immaculate and tastefully decorated with paintings of Buddhas on handmade paper crafted by local artists. The walls are done in peach and terracotta with heavy wooden furniture, also made by a local artisan. There are two big windows with screens (no glass) so in the evenings I must draw close the white-painted shutters because it does get quite cool at night. The shuttered windows are an elegant detail borrowed from the French Colonial period when this part of the world was known as Indochine.

After a very hot shower, I hear a knock on the door. It is Agneta inviting me up to the veranda for a nip of whisky before we three go out to dinner. Fredy doesn’t speak much English, but he understands a lot and only on occasion must Agneta, who looks like Judi Dench, translate for him. I like them both very much.

We wind our way toward the center of the old town and find ourselves in the midst of the Night Market. It is very quiet and relaxed, and so unlike the hustle and bustle of Thai markets. The ladies offer a demure sabaidee, each one of them displaying her handicrafts, jewelry, or trinkets for sale under bright red canopies that are assembled at 4pm and taken down every night at 10pm. I am enthralled by the assortment of textiles in every color combination imaginable. It will be a difficult task to decide upon the one I like most, like choosing a puppy.

Immediately after the market ends, we find a restaurant recommended by another guest, and I order khai paen, the seasoned dry river moss dotted with sesame seeds and slivers of dried garlic and tomato. Cut into 3-inch squares and tossed in a little oil, they come out crunchy and delicious, with the texture of nori but without the saltiness and fishy flavor. It goes great with Beerlao, which is an institution here in Laos as much as it is a beverage. Beerlao is light and especially fizzy and comes in a 650ml bottle for about 10,000 kip ($1.20 USD.) I can’t remember what else I order, but I end up with a pleasant food buzz and a big, sleepy smile on my face.

On the way back, Agneta, Fredy and I go for a short stroll and admire the wares at the Night Market. This will become my evening ritual during my stay in Luang Prabang. By 10pm the market begins to break down, so we meander back to Manichan and rest up for tomorrow’s excursion.