POSTCARD FROM LAOS
A quiet balance
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Bustling with bistros, boutiques and spas, Luang Prabang still manages to hold on to an out-of-the-way ambience.
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AT six in the morning the air is cool and gently caressing. Creamy frangipani and scarlet hibiscus send out eddies of perfume along the pathway to the town’s main street. Still sleepy, I pause to rub my eyes and when I open them a second later, I catch sight of the monks. Solemn and focussed, their tonsured heads in single file, they walk quickly, neither stopping nor acknowledging receipt of the freshly cooked rice ladled into their brass bowls by rows of alms-givers.
The monks are only permitted to eat what they are able to collect in this way every morning. For the townsfolk, providing food for the monks is a way of accumulating merit for their next life. Here in Luang Prabang, a Buddhist town in the remote interior of Laos, this way of life has been preserved unchanged for hundreds of years; the notable exception being the addition to the early morning ritual of dozens of excited, camera-wielding tourists and sticky-rice selling vendors.
Totally captivating
But despite the almost comic enthusiasm of the tourist crowds eager to snap pictures of “unsullied” spirituality, it is hard not to be captivated by the naked beauty of this UNESCO World Heritage town. Encircled by forest-blanketed mountains and at the confluence of two rivers — the Mekong and its tributary the Nam Khan — Luang Prabang is the former royal capital of Laos, the most enigmatic and least developed of the three countries that made up Indochina.
Along its cobbled streets, colonial French-style homes rub up against traditional Lao houses that themselves shelter in the shade of the golden eaves of the town’s over two dozen temples. With a core population of only some 16,000 people, including a thousand-odd monks, the town retains an out-of-the way feel. No mean feat given that within the few square kilometres of its boundaries, Luang Prabang houses dozens of hotels, scores of guesthouses and a smorgasbord of bistros, boutiques and spas that could hold their own in New York and put New Delhi’s offerings to shame.
Luang Prabang’s transformation from ghost town to tourist prominence began barely a decade ago when UNESCO conferred world heritage status on it in 1995, making it eligible for preservation related funding. The opening of an airport also meant that the town was suddenly accessible within the hour from the Laotian capital Vientiane, although the slow way up along the Mekong remained an option for those chary of Laotian airlines’ tiny fleet of mostly Chinese-made aircraft.
It’s too hot from noon till dusk to do much and I while away the hours cooling myself down with spoonfuls of ginger and honey ice cream. In the evening I go out for a stroll past Internet cafes teaming with novice monks, their burnt orange robes reflected off the computer screens as they surf the Web and send emails.
The royal palace, a white colonial building set in manicured lawns, is already closed for the day. The building houses a museum, the royals themselves having been expelled long ago. The last king, Savang Vatthana was sent away to a labour camp with the rest of his family soon after the communists took over in 1975. They all died under circumstances that were never fully explained, reportedly of “over exposure”.
The next morning I set out on a long wooden boat for a two-hour trip along the Mekong to the Pak Ou caves, 25 km upstream from Luang Prabang. The caves are essentially graveyards of Buddha images since it is here that people from the surrounding area have been discarding their old Buddha statues for hundreds of years.
I am looking forward to being wowed by the scenery en route and indeed as long as I train my eyes up high on the cliffs or into the blurry distance, it is possible to lull myself into a romantic reverie involving adjectives like sultry and lush, perfect when combined with nouns like the Mekong and expedition.
Away from the hills and closer to the boat I am, however, aware of a distinctly brownish tinge to the water accompanied by a nastily familiar smell. In Luang Prabang, medieval charm is accompanied by medieval plumbing and the majority of the town’s sewage is released directly into the Mekong.
Out of this world
The caves are a surreal experience with thousands upon thousands of Buddha statues littering their darkened crevices. Every once in a while I spot a Ganesha, a sharp reminder of the Indian influence that has been so crucial to shaping Laotian culture.
The countries that made up Indochina — Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam — were so named because of their existence on the confluence of the cross currents between the Indian and Chinese civilisations. In Laos, where Hinduism held sway between the seventh and 12th centuries, the balance of influence seems to be tilted India-wards.
The steps leading up to shrines in Laotian temples, for example, are usually decorated with the Indian naga rather than Chinese dragons. Again, instead of chopsticks, Laotians use their fingers to mould rice into a ball which they then dip into different sauces and curries before popping it into their mouth in a quick gesture. But, in the sun-dried buffalo and pork belly that are favourite eats amongst the locals, a more Chinese culinary orientation is revealed.
Uniquely its own
It is while shopping however that I discover a side to the Laotian character that is distinctively both un-Indian and un-Chinese. “How much is this?” I ask pointing to a hand-embroidered linen wrap, a hint of aggression in my voice as I gear up for a heated session of bargaining. The shop owner smiles dopily before singing out “20 dollaaar.” Putting on a stern expression I bark, “Too expensive. Ten dollars, my final price,” fighting ready for the kind of brutal retaliation I have got used to living in China and growing up in India.
In Beijing the shop owner in question would at this point snatch the linen wrap out of my hands, all the while accusing me of trying to drive her and her family into direst poverty. “Don’t joke around with me. Fifteen dollars, last price ok,” she would scream. I would finally agree to 14 and we would seal the bargain happy if somewhat exhausted by the emotional stress.
The Laotian lady, by contrast, looks mildly put off by my demand but only momentarily. A second later the dopy smile is back and she cocks her head sideways before completely capitulating. “Ok, 10 dollaaar,” she says and hands me my prize.
Needless to say, I returned to Beijing with bulging bags and starving wallet.
