Laos - Life With The Akha Tribe

 

"You have to try it... It's AMAZING!". I never imagined my friend Alessio, hailing from a culinary heritage as renowned as Italy's, would ever make such an exclamation about something as odd and pedestrian as Californian beach-side funnel cake. Moreover, banana splits and spicy buffalo wings were met with an equally strange sense of enthusiasm. It was a summer of first-time experiences and new discoveries, but likely as much for myself as for him. I've noticed a peculiar trend winding its way through my life over the past four years, in that I've been learning more about US (pop)culture and (street)food from Europeans rather than Americans themselves. Despite being California-born, I still often feel a slight disconnect from the US.

So how does this anecdote connect with Laos? This first begs the essential question: What is Laos? An informal verbal survey of a few colleagues revealed that not many people have a good idea, including even those raised in relatively nearby nations. "Where exactly is it again?"... "Isn't it a part of Cambodia?"... "There's actually something between Thailand and Vietnam?". I had heard it all. But how could I chuckle at their naivete when I had only just recently discovered funnel cake in my own backyard? Laos is somewhere you may have heard of, but you always took for granted.

Vietnam. China. Myanmar. Thailand. Cambodia. I've seen them all, a couple on multiple occasions. Yet a gaping incomplete hole on my Southeast Asian regional map was still taunting me. I felt I finally needed to know more about my fatherland's understated western neighbor. I needed a sense of cultural closure. But more crucially, I needed a flight.

 

Vientiane: Living Lazy in a Backwater Frontier Capital
Date: Tuesday, 16 July 2019
Location: Wat Si Muang Temple

The dusty back alley was empty and quiet, except for the occasional cooing of a lone rooster winding its way through small potted banana trees and rusty motorbikes. A colorful tuk-tuk waited outside of an outdoor kitchen of boiling pots upon charcoal braziers, its driver snoring peacefully in a hammock rigged in the back of his tattered vehicle. What seemed like a scene from some provincial Indochinese village deceptively concealed the truth that it was 9 AM in downtown Vientiane, one of the most forgotten capitals on the planet. A haphazard collection of dilapidated French colonial facades and overgrown gardens of coconut palms and tropical shrubbery were occasionally interspersed with the gleaming roofs and garish statuary of multicolored temples. Broken sidewalks lined with bougainvilleas passed by seemingly abandoned villas, in one case the Lao National Museum, which looked as if it had in itself become an archeological ruin. There was an oddly romantic beauty in the neglect, suggesting that Vientiane had once seen more glorious days as the colonial capital of French Indochine, of which the turbulent times of the past century had reduced it to a mere backwater on the border with Thailand.

The Mekong River forming the border between Laos and Thailand

Lazy driver napping in a hammock rigged inside his tuk-tuk

Typical Lao neighborhood restaurant, which is basically just an extension of someone's house

Street cart selling Khua Mee noodles

Vientiane is a relatively flat capital with few highrises and a low population

There was something very nostalgic and familiar about it - the narrow Gallic structures reminiscent of Vietnam, the buzzing rickshaws and motorized food stalls of Thailand, the golden stupas and shrines of Burma, the noodles and tea houses of China. Vientiane, or likely Laos as a whole, encapsulates the essences of all the nations that surround it, while still maintaining its own distinct Lao culture. The other aspect that felt different from its neighbors is the climate. Being the only landlocked nation in the region, the temperature was dramatically harsh relative to what I recall throughout the rest of Southeast Asia. As early as 8 in the morning, the mercury had already risen to 25 centigrade with 80% humidity, and upwards of 35 by midday, a nationwide sauna with little escape except for perhaps an occasional air conditioned French café or the transient breeze from riding in the back of a speedy tuk-tuk. By evening, neither the temperature nor the humidity had even remotely lowered, allowing us to continue well into darkness basting in our own drippings much like the juicy ducks being grilled on the street corners. With such a small city center, walking was the most feasible way of getting around, despite making the body feel perpetually drenched. And in the height of the monsoon, a searing rain couldn't provide any relief.

Going crazy for our favorite fruits near Talat Sao market

Catching a tuk-tuk back with our fruity treasures

 

Being in Laos with my father had revived yet again the spirit of travel. Yet even despite growing age and fits of ill-health, he has still managed to keep up with my daily wandering in the boiling sun, meandering from temple to temple in search of artistic compositions featuring hundreds of gilded Buddhas scattered among bejeweled temple pavilions. From Wat Si Saket to Wat Si Muang, we strolled leisurely along narrow tree-lined streets of laid back shopkeepers resting in the shade of their chaotic merchandise, temple offerings, and piles of mangoes and coconuts. Along the market road towards Talat Sao, our light stroll added the weight of a couple kilos in mangosteens, rambutans, and longan fruits. Central Vientiane possessed a warm charm characterized by an overabundance of open-air streetside eateries, French style coffee houses, quaint hotels, and vintage ex-pat pubs - a microcosm of 1950's Bangkok, but without its current tourist numbers. Strolling along the northern banks of the Mekong River, which flowed as lazily as the people fishing along its shores, we watched the sun slowly begin to descend over neighboring Thailand on the southern bank, an international border marked by mutual listlessness. But the calm before the storm was quickly fading.

Making offerings to the Enlightened Ones at Wat Si Saket temple

Seeking blessings and connecting a family (including the motorbike) with a sacred string of protection

Receiving benedictions from the keepers of Wat Si Muang temple

Sunset aerobics class overlooking the Mekong and Thai border

Wondering if I should swim to Thailand

By 6 PM, the sleepy city finally awoke. In the twilight hour, crowds and families appeared from nowhere, converging along the Mekong's promenade to surround themselves in the frenzy of a sticky and bustling night market. The daily night market along Fa Ngoum Street was a meandering medley of stalls selling everything from cheap clothing and cell phone accessories to Buddhist amulets and traditional textiles. But where the shopping lacked, the market made up for in food. In the mayhem of motorbikes and Toyota "Fortuners", street carts stole center stage with bowls of pan fried khua mee noodles, skewers of whole grilled chicken and squid, spicy papaya salads, and sweet crepes. Tiny tables and chairs lined what little sidewalk space was available, filled with families gorging on an array of dishes wrapped in banana leaves and leftover printer paper for convenient takeaway. Further away from the river, the back alley of Ban Anou boasted an even more bustling street food scene, as hundreds of skewers of various internal meats, Mekong river fish, and sai oua sausages sizzled over fiery coals. Trays of noodles and wok-fried vegetables sat alongside pots of steamed snails and intestine salads steaming beneath the glow of seemingly floating tungsten bulbs. It was a glorious night of gorging. A Southeast Asian institution, the night market has always been both the center of civil society and my savory universe.

The daily night market of Fa Ngoum promenade

Fa Ngoum Street, with its many street stalls, restaurants, and guesthouses

Entering the Ban Anou night market

Family getting food to go. Motorbikes pull right up to the stalls to take bags of noodles and grilled delights

 

Phongsali Province: Living Wild with the Remote Akha Tribe
Date: Saturday, 20 July 2019
Location: Chief's house, Akha village in the mountains above Pak Nam Noi

In the darkness of a long wooden room, smokey from the soot of a thousand fires and shimmering with the silk of spiders, an old woman draped in colorful tribal tapestries spread fresh banana leaves upon a low floor table. Outside in the searing afternoon sun, a cacophony of chirping insects, clucking fowl, and squealing pigs filled a steaming air that adamantly clung to the skin. The family migrated from the flames of the communal hearth towards the tables, carrying an array of pots that they excitingly choreographed upon the green floral stage, a frenetic dance of chopsticks and bowls filled with sizzling mysteries. Sitting on the dirt floor, women huddled around one small table and men at another, rice whiskey flowed freely from a bootlegged bottle into small tea cups with all arms raised in honor of the strange foreign faces to have arrived into their jungle home from the realm beyond the mountains. Welcome to the world of the Akha.

A table is set by the Akha chief's family to welcome us

Helping the women grind flour to make glutinous rice cakes, which will later be steamed in banana leaves

 

Chopping a freshly caught front yard chicken for a hearty soup

Having driven for more than a day into the remote north, cruising along narrow curving mountain roads through dense jungles and bamboo groves, we slowly made our way with our Hmong translator, Jha, deep into the soaring rural highlands of Phongsali Province that straddle the borders of Vietnam and China. A blur of roadside villages and thatched-roof markets interspersed among rice terraces, teak forests, and winding rivers flew past at near nauseating speeds as our driver avoided pigs, water buffaloes, and small children en route to Muang Khua, the last desolate village before the remote Vietnamese border town at Dien Bien Phu. Our gradual ascent yielded breathtaking views of emerald rainforests that rolled over endless mountains where the earth literally meets the clouds. En route, the peoples we encountered along the journey changed from Lao to Khmu, then to Hmong and finally to Akha, one of the last of the relatively remote tribal communities in Laos. We departed north of Pak Nam Noi deeper into the mountains, hopping off at the dirt road junction near the summit of one peak, from which we entered back into the jungle along a muddy trail that carried us along an open hilltop crest above the lush green canopy. Trekking in the sweltering heat with our packs, our bodies glistened with moisture along the hilly ridge until late afternoon when we eventually reached the entrance to a village hugging the steep mountain side. "The spirit must be appeased upon entering the village," Jha whispered with a light chuckle, as we passed under a tall ceremonial bamboo gateway decked with decorative chains and effigies fashioned from bamboo reeds. "Don't bring any bad energy with you". The village was a dense clustering of two-storey wood and bamboo houses that hid between beautiful tall rainforest vegetation. Scattered along the small dirt trails that wove their ways among the homes, cows, chickens, pigs, ducks, and dogs meandered around as freely as wildlife. Around 72 families, or 400 people, of the Akha Para tribal clan called this cozy cliff-side community "home".

View of the endless steamy rainforest in the remote northern Phongsali Province

Passing a roadside market of the Khmu people

Roadside bootleg rice whiskey distillery

Live giant bee larvae are eaten raw or fried

The sleepy town of Muang Khua, last stop on the rural road to the Vietnam border

View of the jungles from the Akha village on the mountainside

One of our many meals was graciously prepared by the chief's family, a veritable feast of stewed earthy bamboo shoots, boiled pumpkin leaves with pork belly, a hearty free-range chicken soup, chili oil rice noodles, and cooked water buffalo skin. The Akha staple is rice, served at every meal in almost ridiculous quantities in large bamboo baskets, from which they grabbed by the palm-full and squeezed into bite-size balls to accompany the dishes. Meals are purely communal and often taken without the presence of personal dishware, as everyone typically uses their chopsticks to grab bites directly from the serving bowls. As guests, small bowls were occasionally placed for us, though the food was still shared, often with leftovers from one table collected and combined with those of another table. Nothing was wasted. Except, perhaps, the people themselves. Every single meal began with shots of home brewed 40% rice whiskey, which must be poured no fewer than two times per individual for good luck, giving me a likely explanation for the Akha people's excessive jubilance and explosive expressiveness. Multiple refusals only invited more persistent offerings throughout the course of the meal, eventually leading to submission and a warm stomach. Surprisingly, despite the highly questionable cooking conditions and sharing of food and utensils with probably the entire village, stomach trouble did not create any inconvenience, much to my relief in knowing that the closest thing resembling a toilet was an small hole in the ground surrounded by spiders. The family latrine was not much different from the sleeping quarters on the upper storey, reached by a steep carved tree log ladder. Dark and dungeon-esque can barely describe the scene of a large communal sleeping room filled with webs and soot adorning the family's archaic personal belongings. Akha houses are always open to the elements, with no one remotely flinching at the sight of a mundane cockroach, tarantula, or jungle rat scurrying among hanging clothes or rummaging through basketry. Some filthy bed bug ridden blankets were placed on the hard wooden floor for us to sleep, not too far from the family's own sleeping mats on the other end of the house. With the exception of a couple small solar-powered bulbs in the kitchen area, the house had no electricity and was always dim with few windows, possibly to keep a comfortable insulated refuge from the extreme temperature. Substituting for tiny LED lights, live fireflies drifted through the blackness of the sleeping quarters, their radiant flares and natural sparkles providing some form of soothing relief to the anxiety caused by a multitude of other unseen critters. But in spite of the impoverished, positively nightmarish provisions, everything was offered with the utmost hospitality and the brightest smiles.

Traditional textiles hang to dry before the chief's wooden house

Typical Akha meal of rice, noodles, stewed bamboo shoots, grilled pork, braised greens, and spiced pork blood

My area in the family's communal sleeping area of the wooden house

  

I was suddenly awakened in the utter darkness by the flashing of headlamps dancing around the room. Through sleepy squinted eyes and the veil of my mosquito net, I made out the hazy forms of the family wandering about the house in a hustle-bustle of activity and rapid chatter. Unexpectedly, nearly flinging me from bed, the chief bellowed out an unintelligible announcement that seemed to echo off the mountainside throughout the entire village. Almost instantaneously, every rooster in the village began to crow, every cow moo, the youngest baby's cries piercing from below the wooden floor. It was 4 AM. Jha turned over with a groan. "He says today is a sacred day, so no one is allowed to go out the village gate to work in the fields, or it will bring anger to the spirits." Like many rural farming communities, the Akha arise around dawn to begin their arduous day. The men slaughter pigs for their respective families, bloodcurdling squeals emanating in the distance from every direction.  The women begin cooking rice for the day's meals. With no modern plumbing or water distribution, girls from each household began their mornings with a steep trip down the misty mountainside into the jungle to a reservoir to fetch natural stream water. This was the only water source for the whole village, a small life-giving trickle that had been under threat of drying up due to a poor rainy season. I collected my toiletries and a large bucket and headed down to the reservoir to bathe, where a growing line of women formed as each waited with god-like patience for her turn to fill massive 20 liter jugs from the pathetic trickle. The jug was then placed in a bamboo basket and lugged back up to home using a strap suspended from their foreheads, every woman carefully adjusting the heavy load as to not disturb her intricately embroidered and brightly colored marriage turban. By 5:30 AM, I was finally able to fill my bucket, from which I gingerly bathed to conserve the precious water, in the midst of girls washing clothes while staring sharply at the semi-naked "falang", and curious farm animals passing through the cool evanescent fog.

Akha women bathing by the NGO-built reservoir that collects spring water

 

 

A household further up the mountain invited us to celebrate their child's survival to his first birthday, a reasonably momentous occasion that we in the developed world all too often take for granted. In gratitude to the spirits, the male family members sacrificed a pig, restraining it and stabbing a hole in its jugular to allow its precious blood to drain into a pot. Mixed with water and ground pork meat, the raw congealed blood mixture was a prized delicacy to the many families and neighbors who attended the ensuing feast. Sitting on the floor near the hearth, the men butchered the meat and smoked it while the women prepared the bamboo and blanched greens. The tiny home was absolutely bustling, filled with people crammed around floor tables devouring the lavish meal while downing copious quantities of rice whiskey and giant bottles of Beer Lao. Following the meal, the family elders performed a sacred "string" ritual, dipping colorful threads into small cups of tea and rice whiskey before tying them around the child's wrist while chanting benedictions and beseeching the spirits to further protect the child.

Sacrificing a pig for the celebration

Waiting for boiling water to remove the fur

The pig's head, waiting to be roasted by the hearth

Men prepare the meat while the women prepare bamboo and vegetables

Elders dip sacred strings into tea and rice whiskey before tying them on the child's wrist while chanting prayers

When not lounging on the chief's porch to escape the afternoon monsoon downpour, strolling through the village proved to be an excellent means of seeing the types of daily activities that go on aside from farming the fields (we were still confined to the village boundaries in fear of angering the spirit). The most noticeable aspect of the Akha society was its complete dependence on women. Akha women do essentially everything, from farming and gathering firewood and water, to maintaining the home, children, and livestock. It's often said that an Akha woman's work is never completed, and there are nights when they seem to sleep merely four hours or less. By comparison, men seem to do little aside from relaxing and drinking. Though the mentality is slowly changing for the better, Jha informed that traditional Akha culture is extremely patriarchal, with women simply existing to serve the men even down to only eating whatever is left after the men have finished. Even more troubling is the tribe's superstition in the ill-omen of twins; should a women give birth to a pair, the infants are taken from her and abandoned in the forest to prevent their perceived "evil" from infecting the village. Despite the extraordinary difficult lives and work Akha women endure, they do so with such grace while wearing ornate tribal attire and jewelry. Many of my father's attempts to formally photograph this beautiful aspect of womanhood had been futile, for despite their strong characters, they were very shy and fearful of the camera. The mere sight of one often resulted in groups fleeing in all directions into the darkness of their homes. Trust is every field anthropologist's best asset, but our time to develop it with the womenfolk was still quite limited, leading mostly to sneaky snapshots of these gorgeous people.

My Akha grandmother

Mother with child

The sacred day of no work nor leaving could not conclude without appeasing the spirits and making offerings in hoping that misfortune would not befall the community. At the chief's invite, we were remarkably fortunate to partake in an annual ritual that, unsurprisingly, involved only the men. At the village entrance gateway, they gathered to cut thin strips of bamboo, which they fashioned into decorative interlinking chains and God's Eye like fetishes. A makeshift "kitchen" of log chopping blocks and a large wok situated over a wood fire graced the ground off the side of the main path before the gate. Men from all over the village arrived with ingredients - garlic, galangal root, banana flower, chilies, rice, and rice whiskey - yet, the most valued of them all arrived by motorbike - the sacrificial dog. The large canine had already been slain and had its fur removed, waiting for the elder chief to sanctify and behead the offering. Climbing to the top of the gateway, the men hung the dog's head along with the bamboo decorations in what seemed reminiscent of a gruesome child's craft. The jungle echoed with the sounds of chopping, as everyone unsheathed their personal machetes to help butcher the meat and toss it into the sizzling wok. After the elder chief offered the food and prayers towards the heavens, giant banana leaves were laid in a long straight line on the entrance path, where everyone finally sat to feast upon the savory and spicy dog sautee. As distinguished guests to this Akha Saturday night cook-off, we were first offered the most sought after piece - the chewy grilled penis. And in thanks for a wonderful evening of bark and booze, two bottles of quality bootleg were on us.

Men butchering a dog for the ritual feast to appease the spirit of the village gateway

Men gathered for the dog feast on the path entering the village

Bidding farewell to a tribe member who has moved to the town, by offering him shots of rice whiskey before driving

The return trek from my experience with the Akha played out like a scene from a National Geographic documentary. While this is typically the case on trips with my family, the spirit of adventure is beautiful in that it never grows mundane, never tiring... even while face-planting and literally rolling down a muddy jungle trail in the middle of a torrential monsoon. Drenched - it's the word that best describes my physical state as I made my way down the mountain side from the remote village back towards the rural junction of Pak Nam Noi, a lengthy downhill jungle road that awarded breathtaking views of green rolling peaks engulfed by wispy low lying clouds and mist that floated among entangled vines, banana trees, and timber bamboo groves. The rain poured, God leaving on his heavenly faucet to hurdle veritable streams of water that eroded away the ferric soil into rivers of blood red mud. Slipping and sloshing around, soaked to the bone even despite carrying umbrellas and tying banana leaves to our packs, we eventually reached the end of the open road, which vanished into the shadowy green depths of a tiny concealed trail. We pushed through the thick overgrowth of vines, bamboo, and ferns at a snail's pace, walking delicately upon the foot-wide narrow trail, as to not slip off the edge and plummet into the murky mess of cobwebbed vegetation filled with insects of nightmarish sizes. The rain still poured through the dense canopy, our clothes and packs saturated from water, our skin pruning as if we'd just stepped out of the shower. I slipped and rolled right into the plants and mud, at first completely disoriented before bursting into laughter at how filthy and grimy I now was. Anyone else would've likely felt utterly miserable, possibly on the verge of breakdown. But even to my own surprise, I was overcome with immense liberation, completely doused in the unforeseen catharsis of adventure. By the time we reached Pak Nam Noi, I was ready for anything. So I started off with a smoked gamey jungle rat from a roadside shack of highly questionable hygiene. It seemed relatively generic next to the cave bats, bamboo moles, and slow lorises that were next in line to be grilled.

The upper part of the Akha Trail, heading down from the village of Hong Lerk

Back on the road in Oudomxay Province

Cave bats for roasting at a village market

Squirrels, moles, and a slow loris are also consumed in the countryside

Jungle rats and other rodents roasted and ready to eat

Roadside market of the Hmong ethnic people

Hmong woman stitching tribal tapestries

Drying Phongsali tea leaves

Luang Prabang: Living Luxury in an Ancient River Capital
Date: Tuesday, 23 July 2019
Location: Villa Ban Lakkham Hotel

Two strings of firefly lights illuminated a long, creaky bamboo foot bridge cutting through the buzzing darkness above the Nam Khan river. Yet what awaited us on the opposite bank this time wasn't a wild jungle or a rural village. Rather, it was a Lao-style mojito and Mekong river weed appetizer at a cozy outdoor restaurant-bar, the chic and inviting Dyen Sabai. In the glow of warm paper lanterns amidst fellow diners gorging on Lao hot-pot, a waiter brought us sleek plates of fried lemongrass eggplant, sauteed water buffalo with ginger, and grilled pork beside jeow bong, the national chili paste. It felt like a world away from the thatched huts and tribal markets of roasted bats, fried tree frogs, and live wriggling bee larva. Whereas Vientiane is "Civilized Laos" and Phongsali Province is "Adventurous Laos", Luang Prabang most certainly earns the title of "Romantic Laos".

Taking the bamboo bridge across the Nam Khan river to the cozy Dyen Sabai restaurant

A UNESCO world heritage town and former capital of the Lan Xang empire, Luang Prabang proved to be one of the most magical and elegant places I've ever visited, highly reminiscent of Vietnam's Hoi An or Cambodia's Siem Reap colonial quarter. A quaint historic town nestled on a peninsula where the Nam Kham meets the mighty Mekong, it possessed a unique charm and beauty unlike any other, its small brick streets lined with refurbished French Indochinese facades filled with stylish cafes and bars, tasteful restaurants, villa hotels, and boutique shops. For once, eateries outnumbered temples in this town, the former decked with lanterns and open fronts where tourist families, backpackers, and locals alike sat at sidewalk tables to take evening drinks and international fare in the warm evening air. Every day at 6 PM, the main street through town closed to vehicles where, in the blink of an eye, a massive handicraft, souvenir, and clothing market would spring up beneath a hundred tents, thousands of products arranged neatly on the ground for perusal. But even more appealing to me were the long lines of street food stalls that also appeared, selling all of the usual savory favorites as well as new treats including coconut khao nom kok pudding pancakes and mangosteen shakes. Hunger took us down Veggie Alley, where a veritable buffet of 20 trays piled with different noodle, curried, and stir-fried vegetable dishes sprawled out on display, under two dollars a bowl to fill with as much as one could fit. For carnivores, a spread of various grilled meats sizzled and smoked over charcoal grills, my personal favorites including pork ribs and chicken hearts. The star of the alley, as evidenced by its presence at every table, was undeniably the grilled Mekong River fish, with its crispy skin and firm juicy flesh accompanied by a lighty sweet and tangy chili fish sauce.

The main street passing through the vintage quarter of Luang Prabang

The elegant roof of the Wat Xieng Thong temple

 

Crossing the Mekong

Chowing down in Veggie Alley

Whole fried fish is the specialty of the night market

Quaint neighborhood scene on the upper peninsula

Classical Lao performance of Phra Lak Phra Ram at the former royal palace

Dusk falls over main street, where the night market sets up daily

Luang Prabang's former glory still stood in the forms of palaces and multiple lavish temples, whose gilded Buddha images stood nearly as tall as the coconut palms that surrounded them. The golden stupa of Phu Si Hill watched over the area, whose streets buzzed with tuk-tuks and street vendors. From this modest peak, one could see the entire town with its curved traditional roofs and golden spires sprouting from a carpet of tropical greenery, low misty clouds rolling over towering mountains in the distance. After a week of roughing it in the rural north, our time in Luang Prabang took on a considerably slower, more leisurely approach. Beginning with the somber dawn observance of the tat bat, where monks made their rounds seeking alms of sticky rice from the devoted townsfolk, the days began with warm fluffy banana crepes on a river-view terrace, followed by morning strolls along avenues of temples until a light lunch of Lao spring rolls and pork laap. An afternoon roadside coconut by the river or an iced cafe latte at one of the many colonial cafés preceded an evening meandering around the shops, ultimately leading to dinner at the night market and getting lost among souvenir stalls. When adventure seemed to beckon again, a short drive around the nearby mountains to the famed Kuang Si Falls provided a beautiful escape back into nature, its paradaisical pools of aquamarine and cool trickling cascades calming one's mind, gently floating along a forested trail graced by towering viney banyans, hanging orchids, and flowering birds of paradise. 

View of Luang Prabang from the top of Phu Si Hill

Monks seek alms of sticky rice from devotees in an early morning ritual

Rainforest on the outskirts of town

The lower limestone pools of Kuang Si Falls

Laos: The Conclusion to a Diverse Wandering
Date: Thursday, 25 July 2019
Location: Pha Tat Luang Stupa, Vientiane

Sitting in the back of a local microbus filled with people, sacks of rice piled in the aisle and a clucking chicken in a bamboo basket in the trunk, I cracked open my khao lam bamboo tube to get to the sweet coconut rice stuffed inside. It all seemed so pleasantly familiar. The bus bounced its way past the soaring, jungle covered limestone monoliths around Vang Vieng, slowly descending back into the hot flat plains of the familiar capital. That evening, I contemplated my experiences over a papaya salad, sook phak vegetables, a curried southern style duck stew, and, of course, another plate of laap. Almost everything about Laos lived up to what I had imagined, particularly it's cultural and culinary similarities to the rest of Southeast Asia. What intrigued me was how the cuisine, while absolutely delicious, seemed more limited and less refined than that of its Thai cousins to the south, though no less delicious. Heavier, earthier, and with stronger flavors more akin to home style village cooking, it didn't come as much of a surprise given how remote, rural, and low density most of the nation seemed to be. With this in mind, along with being relatively untainted by tourists, the Lao cultural mentality has still remained delightfully simple, its laid back people far more gentle, soft-spoken, and welcoming compared to its more popular neighbors. Overall, this simplicity set the foundation for a truly pleasant and liberating sense of wanderlust that will continue to have a lasting impression on my own daily life. 

Filled with discoveries around every twist of its mountainous roads, I feel I've attained a far better understanding of the "mystery spot" between my father's birthplace and the rest of Indochina. And after a whirlwind two weeks of seeing the unseen and eating the unimaginable, I think I can finally pass another verdict, one a little closer to home - funnel cake really isn't that strange after all. 

Earthy home-style Lao cuisine is heavy on rice, herbs, and strong spices

The national icon of Laos, the 45 meter tall Pha That Luang stupa temple

The Patuxai Victory Arch. Like many things you'll find in Laos, it too was never completed

I dedicate this trip to my Torino brother, Alessio. After all the bizarre things I've eaten throughout this adventure, I will never question his affinity for funnel cake or donuts again.