Lazing in Laos - Tuesday, Dec-1

It is 8 o’clock in the morning and I’m sitting on the jump seat of a minivan with 8 others and the driver. We are on our way up north to Nong Khiaw, a village on the banks of the Nam Ou river. I’ve been entranced by this small village after finding a photo on Flickr of a bridge across the Nam Ou, a high Chinese-built concrete span between Nong Khiaw and the neighboring village of Ban Sop Houn; and in the background, a ridge of green-covered limestone mountains. Every time I’d get a little down, I’d look at the photo. It was like medicine, this image. No matter how miserable my day was, I’d look at the photo and think, “I’m going to be here — right here — in a few months.”

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.

Tags: Laos, Nong Khiaw

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