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