From Chiang Mai, we returned to Bangkok to collect Kaberi’s temperamental camera from the Sukhothai’s camera-savvy concierge and indulge in a 2-hour, full body Thai message. After being kneaded and prodded by our diligent masseuses, we found ourselves more limber than at any time in recent memory as we boarded a regional flight bound for Luang Prabang, Laos.In making this journey, we were setting foot in the country where Kaberi’s father – in his previous life as a globetrotting civil engineer – narrowly averted an attempt on his life by local rebels some 40 years ago. We didn’t quite know what to expect from Laos, the first communist stop on our itinerary. We looked out the window of our turbo-propeller plane with a mixture of curiosity and fascination as the red roofs of Luang Prabang sprung out of the hazy contours below.
Located in verdant green hills in north-central Laos, and nestled between the Mekong and Nam Khan rivers, Luang Prabang may be the best-preserved example of French colonial architecture in all of Southeast Asia. This distinction largely stems from a thorough lack of road access to the area until 10 years ago and accords the town UNESCO World Heritage status. Walking the one square mile town center entirely devoid of cars and taxis, save for the occasional lone antique Mercedes sedan, we felt ourselves transported back in time.
We quickly found our way to The Apsara, a colorful oasis one street from Luang Prabang’s main thoroughfare, with tasteful rooms overlooking the Nam Khan river. Our second floor room featured a veranda for people-watching in the balmy evenings and air-conditioning to provide much-needed climactic refuge during the day. With daytime temperatures eclipsing 100 degrees by noon, we spent the mid-day hours in the shady reception/lounge/restaurant area in the company of free, but slow, wireless internet access and old-fashioned fans hungry for stray fingers.
Wandering the peninsula of land making up the town center, we stumbled upon one Buddhist wat after another. Unlike the temples we had seen in Thailand and Cambodia, the Lao wats served as functioning monasteries filled with young men and boys (some as young as 9 or 10) in vivid saffron robes. In fact, Luang Prabang’s largely-peripatetic populace seemed almost evenly divided between monks and monk-seeking tourists with cameras in tow. Invariably, the monks kept themselves occupied with various chores such as tending to the gardens, hanging robes out to dry, and ringing the bell to herald evening prayers. They also seemed to maintain remarkable restraint and good cheer in the face of the tourist paparazzi following closely in their wake.
In subsequent mornings and afternoons, we scaled Luang Prabang’s sacred Chomsi hill, viewed the Floating Buddha photographic exhibit at the National Museum, and walked through a Sisavangvong Road Night Market brimming with Hmong quilts and BeerLao tank tops. We also enjoyed a 25-kilometer ride on a long-tailed boat -- captained by the Laotian Jimmy Page (minus the occult fascination and the nasty heroine habit) -- down the murky Mekong. After a brief transfer in a pickup truck cum tuk tuk, we found ourselves immersed in the brisk clearwater pools of the 200-foot Kuang Si waterfall.
In Luang Prabang, Kaberi’s internal clock steadfastly remained impervious to her surroundings. This afforded her the opportunity to watch the 6:00 am procession of the monks who receive their daily alms from the townspeople. Careful not to make eye contact with their benefactors, hundreds of monks proceed single file down the town's main street as the villagers tak bat (give alms) by individually placing food into each of the monks’ bowls.
Before arriving in Luang Prabang, we had read in the Bangkok Post that the tourist boom here was increasingly pricing local townspeople out of the market, and threatening the ritual morning feeding of the monks. The obtrusive tourist presence during the proceedings indeed made Kaberi question her own presence as an observer. While she made sure to stay back, using her telephoto lens to discreetly capture the beauty of the scene, she took only minor comfort in being more respectful than a nearby American couple triumphantly announcing “We fed the monks!” as if they were at the local petting zoo or various Japanese tourists taking turns posing beside uncomfortable, hemmed-in supplicants. Vik managed to avoid this ethical dilemma by using the time for an alternative purpose … catching up on his beauty sleep.
During our brief stay in Luang Prabang, our encounters with Lao townspeople were marked with sincerity, gentleness and respect, representing a nice change of pace from the ceaseless, in-your-face hucksterism of well-trafficked Thailand. This experience was all the more remarkable to us considering Laos’ unfortunate status as the most bombed country in the world on a per capita basis, a status thoughtlessly bestowed during a secret war orchestrated by the Nixon Administration’s witless Henry Kissinger. Our stay was also characterized by rapidly-diminishing air quality. A permanent smoky haze descended upon the city, seemingly overnight, as a result of widespread Laotian slash-and-burn agricultural practices (similar to those near Chiang Mai).
As we waited in the airport for our departure flight, Kaberi recognized herself in a Canadian traveler seated nearby who was also completely absorbed with her passport. In tandem, Kaberi and the young Canadian woman scanned their passport pages battle-scarred with visas and arrival and departure stamps and painstakingly removed staples binding departure papers in place. With only three months on the road, half of Kaberi’s new passport pages are already filled, leaving her to wonder if there will be enough pages to last the entire trip. Only time will tell.
