All Things Merge in Luang Prabang

1. just go with the flow

The late afternoon sun caught the saffron robe of the young Laotian monk who sat in front of the roofed wooden boat. He sat right next to the captain, away from us, a hundred backpackers dozing under the shadows, this tie-dyed, flip-flop sandal-wearing brigade, the great unwashed who had come to visit his country. It was the hottest day of the year here, always falling on the second week of April.

We were lulled into a half-dream by the humidity that melted our vision like butter. The tender flow of the coffee-colored Mekong, the world’s tenth largest river, hushed us. Dog-eared second-hand paperbacks dropped on the floor unnoticed. With hardly any legroom, some of us had folded our knees and pressed our legs on the back seat of those in front of us. Others had sat and slept more comfortably on the dirt-covered floor. One way or another, we dealt with the discomfort. It would take us two days from the northern Thai border of Huay Xai to reach our destination in Laos.

From time to time, we’d stir and wake up to the sight of burning hills and sunning albino water buffalos. We took pictures discreetly. A ragtag band of children was caught throwing sand at each other, the passing view accompanied by the soundtrack of our own imagined personal journeys playing in our Ipod.

Some of us secretly hoped for even just a glimpse of the endangered giant catfish, one of the heaviest freshwater fish in the world, growing up to three meters long, endemic to this river, and ceremoniously caught only once a year. Fat chance that they’d surface. But we had traveled so far. We owed it to ourselves to hold on to our imagination, to our hopes of capturing and claiming our brief moments of blissful escape.

At dusk, our boat docked along the stopover village of Pakbeng, the cool air wafting of grilled catfish and skewered pork sold on the street. We had dinner under a tin-roof shed right next to a group of local men drinking away the remains of the day. Dogs waited on the dirt floor. We ate balls of sticky rice, dipped in shrimp paste, along with a heaping bunch of fresh mint and basil leaves on our plate. We washed it all down with boiled water, stained with tea, poured in our glass straight from the kettle.

When night fell, we headed to our guesthouses, straight to our modest rooms to rest. Still, our minds remained unmoored. It took a moment to take in all the distance we have covered and the journey that still lay ahead. We pinched ourselves with thoughts of wow, we’re really here, followed immediately by that stunning Chatwinesque question, but what am I really doing here?


2. with an “s” and a Boston accent

Thirty years ago, the landlocked kingdom of Laos became a communist state.

Surrounded clockwise by Myanmar, China, Vietnam, Cambodia and Thailand, this mountainous country, twice the size of Pennsylvania, got caught up in the Cold War when Vietnamese communist forces used Lao territory to ferry armaments to Saigon. Fearing the domino effect of Southeast Asian countries falling into communist hands, the United States launched the most terrifying bombing barrage in the entire history of human warfare. Within a few years, the least developed and the most enigmatic of the former French Indochinese states would earn its most unfortunate title as the world's most bombed country. Ten percent of the population fled.

Today, Laos is one of the poorest countries in the world with an annual per capita income of $1,900 in 2005. Only in 1986 did the country open itself to private enterprise and began decentralizing controls. I took in these hard facts the way I woke up in Pakbeng, to the crowing of a hundred roosters, a necessary alarm clock for what one had to tiresomely deal with in these places. Dark history passed like the night; we just had to face its everyday consequences, the necessary toils of moving on.

We went to the small open-air farm market and bought papayas and bananas, stocked up on baguettes and la vache qui rit cheese or canned tunas and crackers - the foreign influence of the distant and the not so distant past remaining, the way the French added the “s” to Lao, later pronounced by JFK during the cold war as “Lay-Ohs” with a Boston accent.

Breakfast was under a blue wooden shed overlooking the river that disappeared through a misty bend. Right next to us, a Laotian gentleman in buttoned-up shirt, slacks and leather shoes, sent cell phone text messages. While waiting for our boat to unmoor, an Asian traveler sat on the sloping embankment and passed the time writing on her journal. Our journeys converged along the river. Bumping into each other from time to time, from one village to another, we politely acknowledged the familiar faces. A number of us have had enough of the Songkran festival in neighboring, progressive Thailand, where water mayhem and the resulting fleshfest on the streets of Bangkok were the big draw. Away in Laos held its own promise.

By mid-afternoon, our boat reached its destination and docked in Luang Prabang where we lugged our backpacks up a steep embankment to a busy street. We were exhausted, barely clinging to our hopes of finding in this place our moment of – of what? Perhaps solace. Escape. Enchantment. Healing. Anonymity. Connection. Meaning.


3. the fabric of memory

Roaming from backstreet guest houses with bare rooms and common bathrooms, to converted colonial houses with courtyards, to former residences of the royalty turned into luxury hotel/resort – the second week of April is one of the two busiest times of the year to find a place to stay in Luang Prabang; the other in December when the town is cloaked in mist. The first time I heard of Luang Prabang was through a Thai couple who had met here as strangers, had fallen in love amidst its winter charm, and gotten married.

Romancing with Luang Prabang in a sultry night begins at the night market in Sisavangvong Road. An endless cord with warm light bulbs had displaced the daytime traffic, casting a lambent and flirtatious glow on the goods laid out on the pavement. Sparkling silvers, shiny wood carvings, glowing paper lanterns accentuate each stall’s mesmerizing centerpiece: a spellbinding gallery of Laotian hand woven textiles, one of, if not the best, in the world.

Much of Northern Laos is populated with ethnic groups. They sell their handicrafts at the night market in their traditional costumes, their heavy headdresses often an advantageous marketing tool. They rarely wear them in everyday life though, making it hard to tell them apart. The impact of mass tourism is strongly felt here. Issues of cultural integrity come to mind. Money from tourists started coming in the late nineties: we come to a foreign land unaware of how we affect the way locals perceive themselves. Perhaps it takes feeling a fabric to understand the weight of it all.

What did we hold in our hands when we lifted these sumptuous silk textiles, flawless on both sides, thin but surprisingly and distinctly heavy? We’re told that the more silk thread is used, the heavier the fabric. Imagine the millions of temporary shelters left behind by silkworms in their maturity; and then imagine beauty created from the homes you’ve left behind. Priceless.

Embroidered in geometric patterns, our fingers traced a people’s unique way of seeing the natural world. Ephemeral butterflies. Crabs. Elephants. Fairly common motifs too are the temple roof and the benevolent serpent that brings rain and protects the rivers, both prominent Hindu and Buddhist symbols. Hundreds of years ago, Hinduism, and later Buddhism, spread eastward from the Indian subcontinent and influenced the cultures of Southeast Asia. From animist beliefs, the renowned fabrics of Luang Prabang have intricately woven other cultural threads. The courtly tradition of gold thread embroidery, which involves wrapping silk threads in gold foil or fine gold leaf, is also being revived, a continuum of honoring a people’s heritage and enduring beliefs.

But perhaps the heaviest strand is that which cannot be seen. The image of women in traditional villages, bent over their looms under stilt houses superficially suggest submission and passivity. But think about the kind of character this devotion builds. Think of the seasons the weaver had to wait for, to gather and harvest the teak and indigo leaves, the tamarind and rosewood barks, the turmeric roots and ebony seed pods. To make dyes by hand requires incredible patience in soaking and boiling these raw materials. It takes days, weeks, and months. Think also of the generations it took to transform the past, the natural world, the mythical and ephemeral into a meaningful and enduring work of beauty. It’s a great lesson on endurance. Only then can we acknowledge the irony of hanging this Asian textile inside our American suburban homes right next to the plasma TV. In this work of art hang not only heritage but also the resilience of an impoverished people - colonized, bombed and exiled. Imagine everything you hold dear in life taken away from you. Think. What would it take inside you to rely on the natural world to create something beautiful out of devastation? We can only turn to these women bent over their looms for the answer.

I raised my camera to take a picture of a hanging textile in Luang Prabang’s main thoroughfare. The local merchant shook her head, indicating disapproval. I smiled apologetically and immediately put my camera away. There are probably a number of reasons why the locals refuse to have pictures of those textiles taken. But I would like to think that it had to do with the fabric itself. It is heavy with memory. The fine, silky fabric of Laos can only be described not in pictures but in remembering alone.

4. moist, glowing

Back when Luang Prabang was the royal capital and religious center of the Lao Kingdom, also known as the Land of a Million Elephants, sixty gilded monasteries were built in this tongue of land where two rivers meet. Golden spires of Buddhist shrines gleamed like jewels amidst an emerald forest. No wonder it was constantly invaded and sacked by marauders and its neighboring kingdoms.

When the French arrived and began its colonial rule, they initially saw the river as a possible trade route to Vietnam. The plan never materialized. They found out that the waters were too shallow to navigate during the dry season. Relegated as a minor protectorate, very few expatriates were sent to administer Laos. The French nonetheless left their most visible and enduring influence in the country’s architecture, evident in the small town of Luang Prabang: wrought iron balconies, sweeping verandas, lofty ceilings, tall window shutters. Sometimes these houses were built with fired brick and ceramic roof tiles intended for Buddhist temples.

Citing Luang Prabang as the best-preserved traditional town in all of Southeast Asia, UNESCO identified 111 historic Lao-French buildings and the surviving 33 temples for restoration. In 1995, the town was declared a World Heritage Site, ranking its importance alongside India’s Taj Mahal, the Acropolis in Greece and the Great Wall of China.

To this day, the same remote location and topography continue to lure visitors and keep others at bay. Even supposedly at its busiest, my Thai traveling companion and me rarely came across teeming crowds in our early morning strolls to visit the temples. The very few we bumped into explored quietly along mossy cobbled backstreets shaded by palm trees. Hidden temples that glint behind aerial roots of widely spreading banyan trees lured us. We followed paths that led us to a stunning spread of splendor and in a second, the way we looked at the world was forever changed. Everything turned moist.

Nestled in a garden of bougainvillea and hibiscus is Wat Xieng Thong, a temple built during the height of the kingdom, its distinct and characteristic glazed tile, multi-tiered roof sweeping low, like ancient wings about to unfold and ready to ascend. Around the temple was a colored glass mosaic in a red background, depicting the Bodhi tree where the Buddha attained enlightenment. Another structure sheltered a king’s twelve-meter high funeral chariot with a carved seven-headed serpent. Ramayana figures adorn the main temple’s exterior wooden panels.

Following local customs, we took off our shoes and entered the temple’s venerated heart. Beams of natural light streamed in its barely-lit sacred space. In the shadows, specks of gold, red and bronze glinted. Our eyes adjusted like an unveiling was about to take place. We found ourselves sitting on the floor, between gold-stenciled wooden pillars supporting a ceiling frescoed with Dharma wheels. In front of us was a statue of the Buddha. Single curls of incense smoke gracefully meandered in the light. We remained there, not moving, trying to recall the last time, if ever there was one, when silence and stillness made us glow like this.


5. all things merge

This happens every day in Luang Prabang. Every morning, along the misty banks of the Mekong, hundreds of people gather on a street lined with fire trees. They form three lines. The first line, also the first to arrive, consists of Luang Prabang’s old women. Sitting on the pavement, they patiently wait for the second line that arrives shortly - hundreds of monks in a breathtaking parade of saffron, steadily pouring from the temple with their rice bowls to collect food from the people. The third line, standing behind the old women, is usually the last to arrive. They are a mix of the locals, also waiting to gain spiritual merit by donating food; and us, the foreigners, enthralled witnesses, constantly alert with our digital cameras.

We were told that the best time to capture the moment is to arrive early. We did that and waited in the empty street. Apparently other travelers have been advised similarly. A few showed up at about the same time; some a little embarrassed, some eyed us with a hint of disdain. I was almost tempted to hide my camera the whole time. We all knew we were there for the photo op.

Truth is, between the tourist and the monks, it has been increasingly hard to tell which line was longer. It seemed easier to tell which line was dwindling – those of the old women sitting on the pavement. You can almost say that Buddhism is as old as the river and that the monks will always be there; they have survived through the ages. In this country, poor families even send their children to the temple as a novice because it’s the only way they can afford an education. But we’re more curious about the number of devotees and how our arrival has affected them, the young especially.

We came in time for the Songkran festival, a term that originated in Sanskrit meaning a move or a change, the Laotian new year, a time for cleaning and renewal. Its most obvious and apt element is water. It is poured onto the image of the Buddha and the carved Naga, the mythical serpent that protects the river. Traditionally, young people visit the elders and pour small amounts of perfumed water on their hands as a sign of respect. Nowadays, it’s more common to get yourself wet on the streets. Splashed and doused, we were drenched. There was no escaping.

On a sandy island in the river, where hundreds of tents have been set up, we found ourselves in the midst of revelry. There were food and drinks. Boats continuously ferried a never-ending stream of people to this island that surfaces only during the dry season, the young and old, the locals and those who like us were just passing through. People threw white powder on each other. They sang and danced, their faces smeared with talc. At the water’s edge, people made sand pagodas and decorated these with colorful flags painted with the Buddha and the twelve animals that summoned his call. Water surrounded us. We had put our faith in it. It was the river that had brought us here. Even as change continued to take place in Luang Prabang, for once my worries were washed away. While it’s true that we cannot step on the same river twice, it’s also true that eventually, like the weaving of Luang Prabang’s cloth, all things would merge into one, as writer Norman Maclean had put it. And a river runs through it, he had sagely added.

Everyone who sets foot in Luang Prabang will be one with those who came before us: wandering ascetics, kings, colonizers, rebels, weavers, monks, fishermen, travelers and revelers. We are the roots, barks and leaves soaked in water, dyeing the thread of life for the old woman who sits bent on her loom, waiting.


My Luang Prabang Flickr Gallery. All rights reserved.