Laos - Luang Prabang

Laurie Weed's Portfolio Travel Writing Asia Blog Index

Asia Update 9: Laos – Luang Prabang

November-December 2002

Despite Craig’s enthusiasm for Luang Prabang, I maintain low expectations (having finally learned the secret of traveling in Asia.) Within 24 hours of arrival, I admit I am charmed. The village lies in a cool, lush valley at the fork of the Khan River and the Mekong, crowned by a gleaming gold stupa at the top of Phousy Hill. Leafy lanes, restored French Colonials, and distinctively Lao temples define the landscape. Amid modern coffee shops, bustling markets, handicraft boutiques and internet cafés, the sun rises and sets to the soothing echoes of temple drums and the low, ageless chanting of monks.

The absence of dropped power lines, open sewers, or other immediate death threats adds unique appeal, but the best reason to like Luang Prabang is the relaxed affability of the Lao people. They are hospitable without being ingratiating, disdaining the constant, cutthroat vending style that plagued us throughout Vietnam. The town’s sole beggar, a tall and toothless man of about a hundred, is more like an oversized trick-or-treater, appearing in a starched military uniform one day, a woman’s dress the next, and occasionally making his morning rounds in nothing but a sassy mini-sarong.

Although we planned to meet Craig’s mysterious associate here, a phone call summons him to Vientiane, a grueling bus journey of nine or ten hours, or a short but perilous flight on Lao Air, the government-owned aviator notorious for their complete lack of communication with the ground. We quickly dismiss the idea of me accompanying him to the dirty capital city. I will remain in Luang Prabang, awaiting the next chapter of this most intriguing tale.

With time on my hands, I attempt to find semi-permanent lodging. This proves more difficult than I first thought and the language barrier complicates the process. Following a series of hand-drawn maps from point to point and communicating my snobbish requirements to would-be landlords, (such as “Western toilet,”) exhausts me. By the time Craig returns, I have rejected all three of the houses available to foreigners. Craig suggests we enlist the help of a twenty-two-year-old tour guide he met once, who is the cousin of his friend’s wife. Apparently, this passes for a close connection and she speaks English.

Against all probability, Paan shows up, locates a perfect house, negotiates our lease with the Lao owners and turns out to be a delightful playmate as well. On her infrequent days off, she swings by on her Honda Dream and whisks me away for interesting outings, gossiping in excellent English all the way. Quite the heartbreaker, she has already outrun a number of Lao boys and handful of panting young foreign men as well. She tells me she works too hard to settle down, and is saving her money to travel and open her own business someday. Boyfriends are just too expensive and time-consuming, she confides. I have to agree…

We move in to a semi-modern, two-story cottage in an otherwise entirely Lao, unbelievably loud village on the edge of town. The neighborhood kids (and some of the adults) derive endless hilarity from hanging on the fence and watching us in our simulated natural habitat. Craig wants to post a sign, saying “Please Don’t Feed the Farang.” I disagree; they should bring us food in exchange for the 24-hour entertainment venue we provide, thus solving the daily problem of feeding ourselves in a kitchen containing only a knee-high block of tile, a cold-water sink and a dorm room fridge.

Fortunately, eating out is cheap and Lao food is amazing. A typical restaurant meal includes an order of sticky rice (preferably the purple variety), a vegetable dish such as stir-fried morning glory with garlic, or greens with mushrooms, and either a laap (sort of a chopped salad with minced chicken or fish, lemongrass, chilies and herbs,) or Mekong catfish steamed in banana leaves. Craig is partial to the ubiquitous fresh spring rolls that are similar to the version found in Vietnam, minus the dirt and rocks. This menu runs three or four dollars for two, including fresh papaya shakes.

Most foreigners linger over dinner until 9:30 or 10:00, since nightlife is somewhat lacking… okay, non-existent. During another of Craig’s trips to Vientiane, Paan introduces me to the “evening club”; so-called because the government does not allow nightclubs and the place has to shut down by 11:30 p.m. The first thing I notice is that hardly anyone smokes, so you can enjoy the music without oxygen breaks… although maybe “enjoy” is not the right word. A handful of performers linger on the stage, playing various loud instruments out of time, warbling melodramatically, or otherwise perpetrating auditory assault on the awkward line-dancers.

The herbal steam bath, another of Paan’s favorite activities, is much more to my liking. The local Red Cross operates a nice sauna/massage facility and the proceeds support their community health projects. Packed into a tiny, aromatic steam closet full of chattering, laughing Lao women of all ages, I wish mightily for even a rudimentary understanding of their language. Paan translates the occasional tidbit for me, nodding at an animated young lady who holds the crowd spellbound, dispensing nuggets of beauty wisdom:

“She says laughing too much makes your underarm hair grow long…and eating banana flowers will make your boobs bigger.”

Our first real catastrophe in Laos heralds the arrival of the holidays. Two days before Christmas, we park our rented motorbike on the main street and go for a late dinner. Our deceptively simple order stops time, and when we return around 11 p.m. the motorbike has vanished. We are stupefied -- where did it go? We search frantically up and down the empty street; perhaps someone just moved it for us. The restaurant staff saw nothing, of course. After some frustrating pantomime, they agree to call us if anyone comes forward with information. Clearly, they all find this notion ludicrous -- the bike is on its way to the border.

We rouse a bleary-eyed taxi driver to take us home, where the horror of the situation sinks in. The rental agency holds Craig's passport as collateral. Insurance does not exist here; the owner will demand cash -- probably $500 to $800 (equal to a month of extravagant living expenses.) Craig stays awake all night, fretting and brooding and plotting to flee the country. We both lament the loss of faith in Lao integrity nearly as much as the material loss.

The next day we taxi back into town, stopping first at the restaurant in desperate hope that someone reported the thief. When there is still no news, Craig heads up the street to report the loss to the rental agency. Less than a minute later, he reappears and drags me outside, sputtering incoherently. The motorbike sits exactly where we left it the night before, undamaged. We are standing there speechless when a local fellow wanders over and asks,

"Your bike?"

We nod, stupidly. He lives in the building, he tells us in passable English. When he came home "late" last night and saw the motorbike, he assumed some fool tourist had forgotten it. Worried it would be stolen; he pushed it inside and went to bed. In the morning, he returned the bike to the same spot so the owner could claim it. Oh, and while he was at it, he repaired the broken fuel gauge.

Faith and happiness restored, Christmas in Laos was now upon us. At Paan’s request, I had agreed to host a Christmas night soiree in our new house -- although Buddhists and Communism seemed an unlikely Christmas party mix to me. I left Paan in charge of invitations, but with no word from her in almost a week my enthusiasm had waned. After procrastinating all day, I pedaled to the market and grabbed a string of twinkle lights and some dusty tinsel, just in case. Craig donated a couple of cases of soda and Beer Lao (manufactured locally by Aneurism-Busch,) and then retreated upstairs.

On the dot of 8:30, Paan appeared at the door with a half-dozen friends, all formally attired and bearing brightly wrapped gifts and treats. A surprised but ever-resourceful hostess, I threw on some music, popped bottle tops, and dragged Craig out of the attic in his finest orange tie-dye to entertain them. Naturally, he interpreted this instruction as ‘Teach them card games and then take all their money.’ We both had a lovely time, but as we bid them goodnight at 2 a.m., I worried how the occasion went over with our conservative guests.

My insecurities were unfounded. They all turned up at our door again the next night with more gifts and baked goods, eagerly anticipating a replay of their first American Christmas party. Unfortunately, we were already in bed at the time.

Encouraged by our success, I contemplated throwing an even better bash for New Year’s Eve, which is celebrated here even though the Lao New Year begins in April. Alas, word-on-the-cobblestones is, the village headman disapproves of our corrupting the innocent youth of Luang Prabang, and will not allow it. It was only a matter of time.