"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.
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| The Mekong River forming the border between Laos and Thailand |
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| Lazy driver napping in a hammock rigged inside his tuk-tuk |
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| Typical Lao neighborhood restaurant, which is basically just an extension of someone's house |
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| Street cart selling Khua Mee noodles |
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| 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 |
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| 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 |
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| Seeking blessings and connecting a family (including the motorbike) with a sacred string of protection |
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| Receiving benedictions from the keepers of Wat Si Muang temple |
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| Sunset aerobics class overlooking the Mekong and Thai border |
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| 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.
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| The daily night market of Fa Ngoum promenade |
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| Fa Ngoum Street, with its many street stalls, restaurants, and guesthouses |
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| Entering the Ban Anou night market |
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| 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.
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| A table is set by the Akha chief's family to welcome us |
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| Helping the women grind flour to make glutinous rice cakes, which will later be steamed in banana leaves |
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| 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".
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| View of the endless steamy rainforest in the remote northern Phongsali Province |
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| Passing a roadside market of the Khmu people |
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| Roadside bootleg rice whiskey distillery |
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| Live giant bee larvae are eaten raw or fried |
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| The sleepy town of Muang Khua, last stop on the rural road to the Vietnam border |
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| 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.
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| Traditional textiles hang to dry before the chief's wooden house |
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| Typical Akha meal of rice, noodles, stewed bamboo shoots, grilled pork, braised greens, and spiced pork blood |
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| Sacrificing a pig for the celebration |
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| Waiting for boiling water to remove the fur |
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| The pig's head, waiting to be roasted by the hearth |
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| Men prepare the meat while the women prepare bamboo and vegetables |
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| 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.
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| My Akha grandmother |
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| 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.
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| Men butchering a dog for the ritual feast to appease the spirit of the village gateway |
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| Men gathered for the dog feast on the path entering the village |
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| 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.
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| The upper part of the Akha Trail, heading down from the village of Hong Lerk |
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| Back on the road in Oudomxay Province |
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| Cave bats for roasting at a village market |
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| Squirrels, moles, and a slow loris are also consumed in the countryside |
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| Jungle rats and other rodents roasted and ready to eat |
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| Roadside market of the Hmong ethnic people |
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| Hmong woman stitching tribal tapestries |
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| 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.
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| The main street passing through the vintage quarter of Luang Prabang |
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| The elegant roof of the Wat Xieng Thong temple |
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| Crossing the Mekong |
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| Chowing down in Veggie Alley |
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| Whole fried fish is the specialty of the night market |
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| Quaint neighborhood scene on the upper peninsula |
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| Classical Lao performance of Phra Lak Phra Ram at the former royal palace |
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| 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.
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| View of Luang Prabang from the top of Phu Si Hill |
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| Monks seek alms of sticky rice from devotees in an early morning ritual |
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| Rainforest on the outskirts of town |
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| 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.
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| Earthy home-style Lao cuisine is heavy on rice, herbs, and strong spices |
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| The national icon of Laos, the 45 meter tall Pha That Luang stupa temple |
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| 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.
