Still trying to catch up, but I don’t think anyone is reading this, so who cares…it’s just for my memory sake!
Don’t want to get up and don’t want to leave and progress slowly back to faster, more “civilised” ways of living.
The so-called VIP bus is typical of those plying the route from Luang Prabang to Vientiane, and I soon discover why. It has a cracked windscreen and some other windows sealed with tape. !5 minutes before departure a team of ” mechanics” are tightening/adjusting/fixing some part of the engine with a wrench.
To say the ride is slow is a serious understatement. 380km in around 11 hours, sometimes moving at no more than 15km/h. This is a main road, but is without markings or lighting and the edges are broken. In many places, around 405 of the road between LP and Vang Vieng the road is unsurfaced, dusty, pitted. God knows what it is like in the rainy season. Because of this or inevitably there isn’t much traffic: local motorbikes, motorbikes and sidecars, pickups, a few buses, kids on bikes and trucks. One of the reasons for the country’s lack of development is surely the almost complete lack of decent communications. Oddly this is one of the attractions.
The first 6-7 hours are twisty (SHARP CURVE, SLOW DOWN!), bumpy and mountainous rural kms of wondrous sites: beautiful craggy densely forested limestone peaks, like jagged teeth. Houses and Bans hug the edge of the road, as there is no flat land anywhere else: i see men and boys gathered round a cock fight, marquees being set out for a celebratory meal, girls in colourful Hmoung dress, including amazing pom-pom fringed headwear arriving in pick-ups, parents blowing up balloons, girls collecting tall grasses which are dried in the sun by the road before being woven into thatch panels, old women walking up the steep road with baskets of chopped fire wood in baskets strapped to their backs, big round flat basketfuls of red chillis drying on the roofs of shacks. A man pumping water, another scrubbing his jeans with soap.
Everything covered in a grimy layer of red dust from the road: roofs, crates of bottles, drying clothes, motorbikes, kids with no shoes…..
The bus stops intermittently to pick up locals by road and load their baskets of wares into the huge luggage space beneath us which already contains a motorbike. There is a toilet but using it on these roads is a losing battle against gravity. The lilting sound of Laos pop is broadcast on the bus stereo. Strangely calming, and totally apt.
The available farming land is paddy in the valleys,and is being burned to fertilise the soil. Further toward Vientiane, where the villages and roads are evidently more developed, the land is more cultivated and looks like it is commercially exploited for produce rather than the subsistence of the highlands.
Our pit-stop involves a free meal at the canteen. My choice of veg and rice is pretty basic and not very appetizing. So glad I brought my takeaway from the night market in LP.
Over the top of the highest ridge we descend gradually as a big red sun slowly sinks beneath layers upon layers of blue and indigo ridges shrouded with an ethereal mist. New year’s eve is upon us: some men are sitting around fires drinking beer as their women bring out a plucked chicken to boil in the pot. For most people it looks like a regular evening.
Unsurprisingly there are accidents on this road: one involving a couple of motorbikes. A big group gathered around, but you wonder how on earth, if indeed any serious emergency would be dealt with in these difficult places.
!! hours, yes and I’m back n Vientiane, which compared to Lp feels as busy as London (well), but it has traffic and people and noise and is so much faster! SO glad that the Mixay held onto a room for me as I’m able to get out fast and have a nice Indian dinner by the river and then buy some beer and look at the tiny horizontal sliver of a moon lighting a patch of the distant water on the last night of 2011.
I go to the BeerLaos MusicCentre for the countdown: It’s a big stage with yellow tables and chair and mountains of beer can displays all sponsored by BeerLAos, behind the municipal hall. The square is busy, but I wouldn’t say really crowded,. I guess all the young Laos teenagers are there, eating at tables, drinking, laughing. All are in their smartest casual dress. Even some Laos girls are wearing high heels, but not expertly, as I see at least 2 trip and stumble. There is a group of British girls wearing little black dresses, exactly as if they were back home. There are older western guy with Laos girlfriends. The smell of fried fish and boiled chicken’s feet.There are those photographers again, taking posed pics for you: this time by an avenue of white fairy lights.
Some singers/bands are doing what looks like X-factor Karaoke style performances, but the crowd seem to know and love every word.
As midnight approaches, some old guys in suits make a long speech…Don’t know who they are, but probably important officials. Many party poppers firing confetti into the air, a couple of Chinese floating lanterns, accompanied by gasps as they falter then lift off, as if there was a tragedy averted.
After a sing along by a mixture of suits and stars (I guess), a popular band takes the stage. They are a bundle of cliches: guitarist with AC/DC t-shirt with long headbanging hair, kids dance on each others’ shoulders and sing along with a rather chubby sun-glass wearing singer with a blue t-shirt who croons such provocative lyrics (in English, some): “Girl you’re amazing. I wouldn’t change anything about you. You’re perfect the way you are…” They move from soft rock to rap metal (tuneless and stupid!).
A small group of khaki wearing police in too big caps watches from the distance, and I’m poked by one so he can have his chair. They are really pissed, groggy, almost stumbling. Clearly enjoying the sponsorship deal by BeerLaos. They toast me and wish me happy new year (oddly the only people who do), then see a “flashpoint”….. a small group of teenage boys have removed their t-shirts as they dance to some rap act. This requires action and the police rush over to make the boys comply with strict Laos law! They are monitored from then on…….
That’s enough for me…back home to bed…alone 😦
This is 3 days out of date: long haul journeys and holidays keeping me away from a computer.
30 December. Woke at dawn, up at 5.30, thinking it was 6.30 and onto the deathly quiet and empty street in complete darkness. Like passing ghosts an apparition of novice monks in orange robes, barefoot passed by in single file their alms bowls around their necks, and then gone again into the blackness. A second line passed right by me on the same side of the street, in descending height order, sleepy and looking like they would rather be in bed. An old woman, crouching on a cushion, with a bowl of sticky rice, waiting for the next contingent. I thought about climbing the mount to watch the sunrise, instead, I did a circuit of the peninsular, So still, so quiet. A couple of locals offered me some rice for the monks (for sale)… On reaching the main road, the one lined with the spectacular temples and guest houses and cafes, a few mini-buses and tuk-tuks were arriving and discharging their cargoes of tourists with cameras ready for the “performance”. I really didn’t want to be part of this. Light was slowly coming. The street busying with those taking vantage points either to give alms or take pictures. I wandered the fresh food market, Women cooking and preparing over fires in big pans their dishes, Men browsing the vegetable stalls, some with torches, some apparently with night vision. I couldn’t even make out what the produce was, let alone the quality. Back on the main drag, I sensed then saw the next troop of monks and I watched from a respectful distance. On a side road I chanced upon another, where an old woman, head bowed was dropping a handful of rice into each monk’s bowl.
As they turned the corner onto the main street through the half-light there was a series of dazzling flashes, Like media stars being ambushed by paparrazzi the monks’ daily chore was rudely disturbed. This happened with the next 2 groups of monks too. These assholes with flashes obviously haven’t read any of the polite notices asking tourists to desist from this kind of disrespectfulness of what is a solemn ritual. Or, he thought it doesn’t apply to him. What does he think when he takes then looks at those pictures? A special moment? A moment ruined for those giving alms, those collecting and everyone else observing with dignity. I decided I had experienced my own special moments and didn’t want to see any more. Zoo animals and people offering us (the zoo visitors) bamboo shoots to feed them. Most sights are raped of their magic by idiots with camera or phones. Those who think a picture is worth a thousand words. The point is they wouldn’t even have 5 words to say, so little do they actually engage and reflect on their experiences. Cameras make us lazy and give us something to hide behind.
I enjoy the first light at the temple near the guesthouse and witness the bizarre sight of an over-dressed man in his thirties wearing a red and blue shell-suit jogging circuits of the grey stupa.
I take a little sleep and dream of sitting in a cafe at a window with a woman. In the street outside is a procession of high-powered super cars, some with big spoilers.
I have breakfast at the Mekong and watch the long boats ferrying monks, locals their baskets empty, now they’ve sold their produce and other folk on some kind of business over the river.
I visit the library where you can swap books to replenish the stock, Here, the Children’s Library, which relies on donations is managed. They collect clothes and other recyclables. Most importantly they encourage people to but books from their stock to give to local remote communities, where books are a a scarce commodity, and schools are to few. Children by law only need to attend school to the completion of primary level. Some villages have no teachers. Distances are great and travel across the mountainous areas is hard. This organisation also has a river library which is trying to spread reading habits and increase the availability of materials to the harder to get to places. Books are a luxury. I think about all the stuff we throw out in UK. I think about all the books we threw out at Regency.
I do my bit. I buy a couple of books. They are are cheaply published and do not look fun to learn from. I’m touched by the plight of kids here. On the one hand I don’t like being a tourist, but on the other hand tourism brings money to this country. As the volunteer worker told me, all kids should learn English as they need to connect with the outside world.
On my bike I cross the wooden bridge, over to the rural side of the town, and end up once more at the ruined temple (incidentally I just got an email message wishing me a happy new year from the monk i met there). I was drawn there by the large group of people and a spectacle. I was at another cremation. Opposite the altar, which stands beneath a tower are 2 shelters, one for the men and one for the women (they are dressed up in white, the men are slightly less casually dressed than usual), I summise.There is evidence of a kind of feast/picnic, but now the proceedings are quite advanced. On the altar stands a big cream gilded coffin. This is lowered by monks with newly shaven scalps into a hole on top of the altar. There are some set-piece photos. A group of women, a couple quite elderly pose before the altar, one ( a sister of the deceased) holds a framed photo of an old woman (must be the coffin recumbant). This is watched by a solitary standing old man. The sole man there who seems moved by the gravity and dignity of the moment. As the women return to the shelter area, I notice the old woman has tears in her eyes. This is the only show of sadness seen. Everyone else is quite sociable and jolly. A fire is lit under the coffin and a huge ball of fire engulfs the coffin. The monks stand in a group for a photo and video opportunity before the fire, then begin to take their leave. A could light cigarettes. The crowds disperse quicky with the pyre still burning. Strange there is no smell.
I cycle into the compound of Wat Phan Sa-At which is high above the Mekong and take my time to take in the view of the 2 rivers converging, framed nicely by a small group of novices and some shady trees.
I follow the road through the Bans with the textiles and paper workshops, til the road comes to an abrupt blockage: an open-sided marquee straddling the road where some party is taking place. There are some young guys playing a keyboard and the microphone rotates between a number of others. Laos pop, strangely soothing and up-beat. I’m spied from the wings and invited to sit, and a beer is poured. Beer Laos with ice. Then I’m beckoned to the swelling dance floor where both old and young (I don’t mean kids) are jiggling, moving, rotating in a merry way. The girl who invites me insists on my downing countless BeerLaos in one. Soon lots of people want to dance with the falang, Everyone smiling at me, laughing, and Beer being our common vocabulary. One of the PA speakers falls over, the numbers dwindle, then there is a second wind.
By 4pm we are all drunk, and I decide the time is right to retrace my path. I’m drawn back to the Wat by the river for sundown and am entranced, almost hypnotised by the chorus of novice voices led by an older deeper monk voice chanting in the prayer hall as dusk descends. A special moment.
I roam the night market and to my deep joy discover several stalls selling bountiful cheap and delicious veggie buffets. I eat at the first place I see, but really should have browsed first, as each one along the same lane looked better and better. I stymie my excitement by buying a takeaway box from more stalls for my long journey tomorrow. Here I bump into Marie, once more. Somehow it didn’t surprise me. We meet up later after i have done some souvenir shopping (I didn’t want textiles, so I bought a painting of a tree with some Laos text on hand-made paper). Marie and I go to Utopia bar, with its little winding paths and coloured lanterns it feels like some kind of fairy land. By the river we drink. The 1/2 hour of reclining chat and stargazing is eventually disturbed by a large loud sweary drunk group of British (some) backpacker types. Shouting at each other about cliques, hostels and beer.
I have many calming dreams this night.
Once more I didn’t get up at dawn, and anyway a bit bad-tempered after being woken up and kept awake by noisy neighbours, but still haven’t put a face to the din.
I rent a mountain bike, as yesterday’s one-speed heavy iron thing was useless for rough roads and hills. After buying some stuffed beyond capacity baguettes for breakfast and a picnic later I ask at tourist information for a good local map. What I get is useless and pointless.
Ive read about Route 13 and I missed it on the bus as it was dark. It goes all the way to Vientiane, which is 384km, but I’m not going to do that. It winds gently up the mountains and for a main road it is rather low-key, poorly finished and with no markings.
After about 30 minutes I come to a turning marked Tadhong Waterfall and take the steep dusty mud road/track, passing a couple of locals with sling shots, searching for food, some small houses and a boy doing something with large planks of wood, possibly preparing them for seasoning. It’s hot and I’m not sure how far I will have to go, but 20 minutes later I descend to a pond and a cluster of buildings labelled Snack Bar. Nobody there, just a local standing on the crumbling brick bridge.
The surroundings are beautiful, mountains all around, lilac coloured bushes a waterfall gently falling over the rocks. A woman appears from the shacks and sells me a ticket for 10,000 kip, which seems a lot just to stand at this clearing but she explains there are more falls higher up.
I take the wrong path immediately, and find myself climbing the side of the mountain through semi-cultivated slopes and past the workers’ shacks. As ai limb the view becomes more dramatic. The trodden path (not well beaten) takes me higher into the forest. There are hundreds of twisty vortex-like spider webs at knee height in the grass and bushes, and some spiders too.
Many types of butterflies, yellow, dirt colour, a red and white one the size of a child’s hand, 15cm long green dragonflies, blue-black ones near the water courses, and dirt coloured jumping cricket-like insects about 6cm long, hopping all over the place. And no people, just me.
Over the top of the mountain the path flattens then descends a little leaving the forest and I see it doesn’t lead to a waterfall, but a village, I later learn is called Ban Huay Ton. Seeing this remote village brings a moment of excitement. It looks just like the places I read about: remote, undeveloped, poor and not used to falangs.
I hesitate about proceeding, knowing I will be stared at and feel like the stupid whiteman looking at the natives, but I know I cant miss this opportunity. The approach is strewn with waste and on the edge of the settlement a small girl of about 6 or 7 is crouching and learning to weave the grass panels that are used for the walls of the huts. Her sister works behind her.
The village comprises about 25 similar houses with thatched roofs and grass panel walls, on stilts with wood stored underneath. This space is also used for keeping animals and has a platform for sitting on in the shade. There is a lot of sitting around: 4 boys are being taught something by a teacher: a woman standing on a small mound in front of them. Kids playing in an empty oil drum, another with an old bicycle tyre, some chase a skinny half-plucked chicken.
They are all shoe-less and have old dirty, some ripped, clothes. There is a gathering of people, mostly kids watching a truck unloading some stone. 2 monks also. Smoking. I know this is taboo. The place has 2 stores, which are just houses with big open window counters holding soft drinks and tissues.
Only the kids call out Sabaidee, the adults respond to me, but I’m tolerated rather than welcome. Anyway nobody objects to being photographed. There is electricity and there are a few satellite dishes. There is a dust road and motorbikes. I don’t think these people travel far, and I wonder what they make of and feel about the world they view on their TVs. I regret not having anything to give the kids. That was titillation, and leaves me a bit sad and awkward. Like going to a zoo.
The route back over the hill takes me through more forest and I’m passed by some locals who are not very responsive. Eventually I find the initial goal: a series of pools linked together by little cascades, sparkling in the dappled light shooting through the canopy. Its soothing, beautiful, peaceful.
Back at the Snack Bar pond area, a man is fishing with a rod, and a couple are wading the stream searching for something with a large net.
I return to Route 13 and carry on up the mountains away from Luang Prabang. It’s a joy to have a good bike. I’ve never ridden a bike that makes such big hills effortless. After passing through a number of villages and 30 minutes later, I decide that I should turn back..though, to be honest I just wanted to keep on going. The scenery is so awesome and the watching of everyday life so engrossing.
Back in town I go to the UXO visitors’ centre. This is an information centre run by UXO Laos, who are an NGO who are systematically removing all the unexploded ordinance left over from the Second Indo-China War. Laos had more bombs dropped on it than the total number of bombs dropped in the entire Second World War. The poorest areas were worst hit and the carpet bombing and use of chemical weapons is still having a significant effect on the people there. Lives being taken, children being maimed, livelihoods lost. Last year there were still 300 incidences of injury or fatality. This is 4 decades on and there are victims who weren’t even alive when these things were dropped. One of the biggest problems are cluster bombs. These are now illegal. The Americans dropped thousands of these. The casing breaks apart in mid-air scattering 400-600 mini-bombies, brightly coloured (nice for kids) and the size of a grapefruit. 30% of these never exploded. When one goes off anyone within 30m of it faces injury or worse. These are being dug up, found almost day by day..in school fields, paddy fields. I read that it will take another 100 years to completely remove all these bombs. Another problem is that poverty drives the locals to trade bombs and bomb casings as scrap metal. This is out-lawed but not enforced. This trip was really emotional and it made me angry to see that the USA isn’t more involved in righting this affront to humanity.
Another evening of shakes, crepes, and cycling in the cool dark evening. Ive found this part of the trip a bit solitary. Couples here, groups of friends with money, families, retired people. Anyway, I’m doing what I want to, and I was getting bored with the traveller’s chat: where are you from/where have you been/where are you going next?
I’m looking forward to being with someone: Cyrus and wonder how he will respond to this kind of travelling. 7pm here feels like 1am!
Well this must be halfway through now. In spite of good intentions to get up at dawn and watch the monks’ procession I opted for my very comfortable and warm bed. There were no bananas at breakfast and I set off on a bike over the river without eating. After crossing the river on the car-free wooden bridge I quickly found myself in semi-countryside with tracks instead of roads.
My first stop was Watpakha Xaingaram which has a ruined wat which has stood in that form for over 200 years. On the same site a new temple has been recently built. I cycle up and around a few times to get comfortable with approaching the monks working there. Two are painting white the lotus bud statues. Wearing orange marigold gloves to match their robes.
Two younger monks (one a novice, I think the monks wear yellow and orange, the novice just orange) are crouched around a couple of small wood fires. On nearing I can see the novice is shaping wooden handles for the multi-purpose long thick knives they use here and heating the blades before banging them into the handles to make a complete item. The monk is wearing a yellow hat and goes to get a pan of water which slowly boils. A very young novice flits between the action neither helping nor hindering. The monk with the pan calls out hello and invites me to sit with him. His name is Won. He is 25and asks me the usual questions of an elementary English speaker: name/age/family/origin etc. he also asks for my email address (not sure why, but if he writes I can send him one of the characterful photos I took). His mobile rings: his family calling. After 20 minutes or so of pleasant small talk in the sun I move off again.
The next Wat is on top of a hill, and I approach it passing a couple of houses where women are weaving at looms outside. The wat is surrounded by a wall with 2 entrances from the forest, each guarded by a pair of stone lions, and features a tidy temple, the main steps of which are flanked by a pair of three-headed nagas, a collection of sleeping buildings, a wooden kitchen/eating area, a laundry area, a drum house with a 2 tier roof and a couple of tree-shaded seating areas. There is also a much older crumbling. almost toppling down brick stupa. Skinny kittens, brightly coloured cocks, a small dog with lop-sided ears, some pigeons hopping up the steps, a butterfly or two…
Here I spend about 1 hour just absorbing life at the wat and trying to understand the roles and interaction the novices and monks have. There is constant activity between the buildings, the monks and novices are always on the move but not actually doing very much. In the morning much seems to revolve around food. A heavily swathed young novice aged around 11 climbs the steps to the wat from the road below with a bag full of fruit, maybe mango. Later I see another novice come from another direction with another bag. Meanwhile a couple of novices are fetching water and hand washing a big bundle of robes. Another 2 are breaking up wood which they use to build a fire to heat water on. An older monk who is reading from a book moves from the heat of the sun to the shade of the temple porch. The baby of the temple (the young one) shares out some of the fruit. He is loud, laughing, joking running around, a typically unself-conscious young kid. I notice later a huge scar of about40 cm that runs from his back round to his chest just above his breast bone. He also has a 20cm scar on the back of his head, which is clearly visible through his stubbled head. I am not acknowledged but accepted, and the atmosphere is happy and relaxed. One of the novices who was building the fire appears from his lodging house and stands on the steps peeling mangoes which he produces from his robe. He has a small bowl of chilli paste which he dips them in. The others come and join in, the baby novice runs over, his robes gathered up like anppy.. I cant imagine such scenes at a Catholic monastry (that suggests solemnity, austerity, discomfort, silence, coldness). I was thinking it felt timeless with these primitive chores, but through the stillness I detect tinny rock music: it’s coming from one of the novice’s mobiles. He holds it high as he crosses the yard. Meanwhile an older monk, wearing socks, has climbed up from the forest and entered the temple building (it’s called a sim, I think). other monks appear from the sim: they must have been praying inside. Two women arrive on a motorbike, one with a jug of orange juice which she leaves in front of the sim. They cat to the monks on the porch. These monks wrap and unwrap and rehang their robes as they talk. Seems there are hundreds of ways to wear them. Lunchtime (11.30) is approaching. The baby goes into the sim and brings out his bowl that he uses to collect alms (it’s gold and looks like a drum). Another novice takes his bowl across the yard to the eating house. I gather they are combining their alms and preapring the last meal they are allowed in the day. A gong is sounded. It must be lunchtime. The monks cross to that house. I leave.
The road takes me through many bans These are villages with temples. The road is lined with dwelling houses, many with yards where women are working: weaving, making paper; old women are cooking around fires, fowl are running around. There are a few stores: open windows selling drinks, snacks and household essentials. There are cyclists, people on motorbikes, novices going to see their families, holding umbrellas against the harsh sun.
And there are many temples…I come across a yard full of corn husks orange as they dry in the sun, then the local police station which is a house with a big open door. The policemen are eating and the only signs of technology are a white board with some notes on the wall above their dining table. Their vehicles are unmarked old motorbikes. To the side, next to their cages of poultry, an officer, in his khaki uniform is cooking at a wood fire.
This road runs more or less along the bank of the Nam Khan river and I retrace it to a path which descends to a little shack selling drinks on the edge of the river right at the confluence with the Mekong. About 100m up the river is a rickety bamboo bridge which takes you back into Luang Prabang.
This is rebuilt every dry season, as the rainy season swells the river and it can only be crossed by boat at that point. On the bridge I meet the very man who built it (with the aid of 20 others, over a period of 2 weeks). He introduces himself as Mr Ton Pan, 48, 4 kids and tells me that this is his job, and he maintains the bridge too. He has a lot of missing teeth. He makes me promise to return and share a beer with him at sunset, but I have other plans.
Across the bridge I pay the toll of 5000 kip and haul my bike up the steps. At the top are some Americans umming and erring about the bridge; “Is it safe?” “I hope they get the money, not the government”…..Just cross the bridge, damn it!
I take lunch at the same restaurant as yesterday, by the river with a spicy green salad and a marvellous red plum shake. I spend some of the afternoon drifting past the more ornate and more touristy temples in the town centre, then branch out and accidentally find myself at a funeral: two coffins burning on altars under massive towers with tiered pagoda-like roofs. Then climbing a hill to visit Santi Chedi, a big gold structure which you can climb all the way to the top of the inside, each floor getting smaller and smaller and each with paintings on the ceilings of the story of the buddha.
After that I visit the mosque shaped That Makmo (nicknamed the watermelon stupa) which is grey and mossy. I watch some young kids play keepy-up and football.
On leaving, the infant school has finished nearby. Kids in white shirts and red neckerchiefs clamber the walls of the wat like the monkeys at the Batu caves as they wait for their mums to pick them up on their motorbikes.
Back to Utopia bar for a beer, read, and sunset. They have tables and flowerpots made from the casings of US bombs. Strange, macabre, fetishistic recycling…
The same market stall for dinner and a night-time cycle around the peninsular. There is a lot more to write here, but I must go…
Picked up from the Mixay Guesthouse in Vientiane by a van and take a tour of the city picking up other travellers destined for the nightbus to LP. The problem is that we are not all booked on the same bus and the sleeper that I’m supposed to be on departs much later than advertised. Waiting at Vientiane bus station I chat to a couple of Cambodian women who actually end up staying at the same place as me in LP. The sleeper bus is quite bizarre with three rows of upper and lower “bunks” which are actually reclining seats with minimal turning space. Hemmed in and no room for bags. We are all given a carton of fried rice and some water and the bus moves off. It is very cold and the road is bumpy, twisty, noisy and we stop several times, maybe for the drivers to change. It is a 10.5 hour journey and I awake as we are descending some misty mountains into Luang Prabang.
I am met by a guy who has some rooms available and he whisks me and some others into town. Th guest house is by the Nam Khon river (LP is on a peninsular at the confluence of this and the great Mekong). Free tiny bananas and tea/coffee are available, and I wait from 7.30 to 11.30 for a guest to check out so I can take on his room. He is from Laos and hurry is not part of the culture. I slowly warm up at this time as the sun comes out on the terrace, and I chat with some current guests ( a retired couple from Holland, who seem a bit Xenophobic) and an outgoing couple from Sweden. The wife is a retired teacher and she recommends a book by an Irish author who sets his books in Laos and uses the profit to fund education programmes here (Colin Cotterill is the name). Later I track down a book exchange store that has a whole series of his books on sale. Books and publishing are not very developed industries or activities at all here. The room is big, has a tv and en suite and costs a mere $9. And I was led to believe accommodation would be hard to find and expensive….
After a quick shower I take a stroll around the edge of the peninsular. The town is small and the riverside lined with little guesthouses and restaurants with terraces high up on the river bank. I stop at veggie one called Oasis to have a mushroom curry and a herbal shake. The sun is quite hot and I am overdressed. There is a ban on car traffic, so there are just bikes and motorbikes. A large percentage of falangs, and many monks. This part of town also houses many many Wats, most of which you have to pay to enter. I will see them another day. Today I just wanted to look around. I bump into the Belgian girls who I met In Vientaine, but who took a different bus to LP. We talk about meeting later but by the time I get to their rendezvous spot they have gone.
I spend a couple of hours at a blissed out bar just along the river from my guesthouse, with cushions and mats and a platform overlooking the river. I start reading my new book, doze a little, have a Beerlaos and watch some small boys playing in the river. Occasionally the idyll is interrupted by an incoming prop passenger plane (the airport must be close) and a passenger helicoptor. Lying here is so relaxing and makes me decide to stay in LP for a few days.
In the early evening I climb in darkness to the stupa on the top of the hill in the centre of the town,. Walking is a bit hazardous. There is no illumination at all. At the top I stand for a few minutes on the only side of the golden landmark that is spot-lit. There is a group of teen boys hanging out there too. They seem quite surprised to see me. Then I wander the handicrafts market with stall after stall selling bright coloured textiles, ethnic Hmoung bags, carved wooden boxes, silver bracelets, patterned throws…All ver nice but I don’t need or want anything. Actually I do need another layer to fight the cold night air, and buy a hoodie with “Sabaidee Luang Prabang” printed in Laos on it. Tourist….
Dinner is a 10 000 kip plate of buffet veggie street food. Great value. And a mango shake. Town is a bit too touristy for me do I go to a few local shops for beer and postcards and plan an early night to get the sleep that I didn’t get on the bus!
i was planning to get the daytime bus to Luang Prabang and got up at 7am to sort myself out. But, the prospect of arriving there in the middle of the evening and having to search for a room put me off. I bought a ticket which means I will miss the passing countryside, but I hope I can see it on the way back.
After a chat with a guy from Singapore called Mervin I walk across the sands of the Mekong to sit by the water. and it really is like a beach with fine sand…and nobody there.
My novice friend and I have a chat by SMS (so weird when you think about it) and I get him confused when I mention my orientation. Either unheard of to him or just doesn’t get what I mean. I guess sometimes it’s better avoiding those issues.
Anyway I decide to spend my day on foot for a change and go to the veggie buffet place and am the only customer. It’s another 2 juice day, the best one coming at the end: lemon and mint…wow it really punches the thirst.I also devote some time to my book The Redundancy of Courage by Timothy Mo. Oddly it’s the second book I’ve read this trip on the subject of war. This is a satire on civil war in South East Asia. It could be Malaysia or Indonesia.
I spend most of the afternoon watching everyday stuff at the big central market, which was originally housed in a pair of temple-like cantilever-roofed houses.
The space between them has now been taken up by a newly constructed and unfinished modern shopping mall. There are a few shoe and belt stores on the basement and the first floor has a couple of jewellery stalls which seem to be being kitted out.
Other units are empty. The top 2 floors are reachable by escalator and there is no security to stop you wandering the acres of empty spaces and looking through unglazed spaces onto the roof of the old market and the haphazard overspill mess of corrugated roofs and tarpaulin covers.
Under these is a maze of stalls selling everything from washing machines to books to dried fish to yards of fabric. This is also where the hairdressers are. The smell of heated hair mingles with tossed threshed garlic and offal.
Women crouch on their stalls chopping meat, an old lady lounges among her baskets of oranges.
Porters wait to be called to wheel their handcarts across the broken concrete floor full of bags of goods. I am the only falang there.
This is not Tesco’s. Shopping is noisy smelly hot work, and selling looks exhausting. Brand presence? There is none.
Outside the new market (mall) there is a pick-up. On board is a Buddha statue, it’s a kind of portable temple. A young orange-robed novice sits in there cross-legged tying orange strings around the wrists of supplicants. An old man in regular dress sporadically bangs a gong hanging from the struts of the pick-up.
Now 45 minutes until my pick-up for the bus to Luang Prabang. Finally moving again.
I based this day on meetings-up, which actually were short-lived. I should have left town today, but it’s OK, I’m still on schedule.
This is Christmas Day, but it just feels like a Sunday. Most places are closed. My morning is a gentle cycle to a few Wats, taking me to an Indian lunch. I have bought a Laos SIM card to facilitate rendezvous, but neither Sombath nor Em reply during the morning.
After a pineapple lassi I cycle out of town via Wat Si Muang, which is built around a stone pillar and worshipped as the founding stone of Vientiane. Planted there when King Setthathirath decamped his capital from Luang Prabang. Before the pillar was lowered into the hole it now stands in a volunteer sacrifice was needed to jump into the hole. They got this. Apparently.
Back to the sauna. Fewer people and I get chatting with Tobias. a German who is working as a volunteer marketing water processing plant equipment.
After some SMS chit-chat I meet Sombath, the novice, once more at the Mekong. He asks me to read to him the story of the young Buddha, and I teach him some words, but I don’t think he grasps them. Feels like the people around us are listening in. What a weird thing to be doing. Before we part I ask him about his dream and hope. He wants to be a “businessman” and earn money to support his family and develop his country. I thought he might say that. I take a last picture of him. It looks timeless. Orange robes, dignity, a background of the desert-like dry Mekong Riverbed.
I have also been trying to meet Em, with whom Ive been chatting on-line for quite a long time. I’m a bit confused by his texts and when he does turn up on his motorbike I have already gone for dinner. When we meet we barely talk and I don’t really understand what we are going to do. Anyway it turns into a 20 minute windy bomb around some of the sights (which I have already seen) with a few snatches of question and answer. Then back to my guesthouse and he rides off to work. So weird, we didn’t even have a conversation or even look at each other’s faces.
Evening again and nothing much to do once more.