Lazing in Laos - Thursday, Nov-26

Today is an easy day: no biking, no plans, no commitments of any sort. It is also Thanksgiving back home. I only give it a momentary thought, because it wasn’t a holiday my family observed. My father loathed turkey; it was too frequently served when he was away at sea. My mother is Spanish, so Thanksgiving has no significance to her and she only used the oven for drying clothes in the winter or for storing unused cookware. As for me, it’s a day off from work, which is cause enough to celebrate. Like my mother, I have never roasted a turkey and probably never will.

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.

Tags: Laos, Luang Prabang, Night Market, Royal Palace Museum, teaching

Lazing in Laos - Wednesday, Nov-25

I haven’t been in touch with anyone since I left Chiang Rai, Thailand, 4 days ago, so I find a nearby Internet café and ring up my mom to let her know I’m in Laos and already having a wonderful time.

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.

Tags: Laos, Luang Prabang, market, massage, Talat Phousi