Lazing in Laos - Saturday, Nov-28
Across the Mekong from Luang Prabang lies the village of Ban Xieng Maen. Though only minutes away by water taxi, Ban Xieng Maen seems half a century away from the trendy restaurants, internet cafés, and handicrafts boutiques that cater to the phalanx of tourists that visit Luang Prabang every year. Most tourists do not come here, or simply can’t be bothered, missing out on the opportunity to experience a bit of Lao authenticity.
My companions are Hilda and Rebecca, two friends staying at Manichan Guesthouse. Today is their last day in Luang Prabang before departing for Vang Vieng tomorrow. “Can I convince you to go on a trek with me?” I ask, in the hopes that we can share the boat fare across, but also because I would like to spend more time with them instead of just over breakfast. While I prefer solo traveling in general, there are some activities – and expenses — best shared with another. I vacillate between the exhilaration of being on my own and wishing I had a friend to experience the novelty and wonder that makes every day of my trip an adventure.
At the boat pier we are met by an enterprising boatman who, after a little bit of negotiation, takes us three across for 5000 kip each. Like every morning in this month of November, the air is cool and foggy, and we bundle up in our warm layers. Next time I’m in Laos, I note to myself, I will bring gloves.
The urban plan of Ban Xieng Maen is identical to Luang Prabang, or what used to be Luang Prabang in the 14th century. Once the terminus of the historic road to the northern Thai kingdoms, it is now a quiet residential village with one paved main street and many unpaved side alleys and footpaths, and all under the cover of teakwood trees. With no guide or direction, my companions and I head toward a decrepit old temple, Wat Xieng Maen.
We are greeted along the way by young girls selling bright pink lotus blossoms, and young boys asking for pens, which we didn’t encounter in Luang Prabang. While the giving away of a few pens means nothing to us falang, it is not always the best way to interact with young people, no matter where you travel in the world. I recently read how the fishermen around Tonle Sap, the large inland lake near the ruins of Angkor in Cambodia, realized that begging was far more lucrative than fishing, and have abandoned their nets in favor of an open palm. A typical day’s catch can yield $6 USD, but panhandling can bring in twice that.
Wat Xieng Maen was founded in 1592 but fell into ruin. It was rebuilt in 1927, retaining the original 16th century temple doors. When we arrive we are met by an ancient old monk in dirty robes thrusting out a fistful of sodden kip toward us. We understand this to mean that we are to pay admission, and before we can act a young monk hurries toward us and accepts the 5000 kip entrance fee. I’m uncertain whether monks who beg for money are on the up-and-up. As I understand it, donations should be given to a temple or monastery directly, where it can serve all monks, not just the individual. In Thailand, for example, there are laws against such practices, not to mention that begging for money violates the Buddhist code of ethics. In a situation where I’m not sure what is expected of me, and not wishing to risk embarassment either for myself or another, I often pretend not to understand. I shrug, smile stupidly, act the part of ignorant falang. “Yes, yes, thank you. I don’t know,” I utter meaninglessly. I follow the novice to the sim, the main temple, where he unlocks the ancient doors.
After taking a few photos, Rebecca, Hilda and I continue down the narrowing village road in a northeastern direction, past houses and more children selling flowers and ladies in their front yards sewing or embroidering. A sputtering truck rumbles past, seemingly held together with nothing but bailing wire, and I wonder how long until the rough road shakes loose its clattering fenders.
Before long we spot a temple atop a high hill on our left, Chom Phet, but the long, steep stairs leading to its summit daunt us. We press on under the cover of tamarind and teak trees, the path narrowing under our feet as we continue on our pleasant morning walk until we reach Wat Long Khun. It was traditional practice that the each new king spend three days at Wat Long Khun in ceremonial bathing and meditative retreat before returning across the Mekong on the eve of his coronation. With the dissolution of the monarchy, however, the monastery was abandoned and fell into disrepair, later being restored in the mid 1990s. About 200m away we discover a short set of stairs leading to a gated entrance to a cave. This is Sakkaline cave, the subterranean monastery long since abandoned. The wooden doors are locked, so we take a few minutes to rest and admire the scenery around us. Below us, young monks are trying to move large slabs of granite, used in stairs and foundations. It is hard physical labor, managing to move each hewn block a couple of meters in the twenty minutes we watch from above.
Two boys arrive with two tourists and unlock the cave entrance, so I follow along while Hilda and Rebecca stay behind and rest. The cave is warm and extremely humid, and for a few minutes I cannot see past the condensation forming on my eyeglasses. This cannot be good or my camera, either, but I don’t give it much thought because right now, I’m am in the most mystical cave, full of little grottoes, small stupas, and glittering white rock formations. We follow the boys down a slippery trail lit by a string of light bulbs hanging haphazardly on a thin wire down the length of a stony corridor, but the light is dim and barely illuminates this sacred cave.
I rejoin my two trekking companions and we continue on our walk, the trail narrowing until it but a deer track, with branches going off in every direction. We had heard there was a white Buddha in the forest, and now I wish we had hired a youngster in the village to show us the way because we have no idea where to go. We dead end near a house and turn away not wanting to provoke a couple of dogs barking at us in warning.
By now it is almost noon and starting to get hot, so we walk back to the river bank where we got dropped off and wonder if we’ll come upon a boat to take us back. It’s a matter of minutes before our boatman returns for us unbidden, having seen us from the far shore and knowing we’d want to get back eventually. We pay him 20,000 kip, 5000 more than last time, for coming to get us. In total, our excursion to the other side of the river cost less than $4.25 round trip.
After a lunch of pork & egg soup next to Wat Khili, I returned to my guesthouse to nap for while, but I awoke barely able to hobble my way across my room. My knees were painfully swollen and aching from overuse. Linda, the owner of the guesthouse, brought me some ice, so I sat in the courtyard sipping hibiscus tea and icing my knees to bring down some of the swelling.
I visit the Night Market in the early evening with the goal of buying gifts for my family and friends back home. If you leave these things toward the very end of your trip, you might miss out on that interesting souvenir you saw the other day. My purchases include a charcoal gray hoodie with the national flag and “Lao PDR” on the back, and a large zippered totebag made from Hmong textiles. It is still early, but I need to give my swollen knees a break or I might have to skip out on some later adventures.
Lazing in Laos - Friday, Nov-27
At 6 o’clock in the morning, the nameless side street between the Mekong river and Luang Prabang’s main street is quiet under the foggy sky. Even the roosters have stopped crowing, having already announced their presence as early as four, and now replaced by the scattered chirping of songbirds and the occasional barking dog. Before long, a long line of orange-robed monks turn the corner, punctuating the silent morning with the soft padding of their bare feet and the gentle swishing of their robes. This the tak bat, the monks’ morning rounds, when monks and novices file down the street near their wats, accepting offerings of sticky rice and fruit. For Theravada Buddhists, it is a means of merit-making, and devotees believe that by feeding the monks, they are feeding the souls of their departed ancestors.
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.
Categories
Archive
Links
Meta
Search
Get Involved
