years old. They vary considerably in their architecture. One can only imagine what the city was like before the French takeover, when there were sixty-six temples.
One climbs Phu Si by a long series of steep steps on the west side. For some, this walk is related to religious observance of course; for others it is a matter of sightseeing. Going up to the summit was one of the first things we did on arriving, for we wanted to take in the 360-degree view before the light faded. At the peak, where in another culture with a different history one might expect to find some sort of statue or memorial, there are instead the rusting remains of a Russian anti-aircraft emplacement. On the north side, one looks out over the Nam Kha far below, a wide smear of brownish water winding its way along toward its union with the Mekong. Running more or less parallel to it was the then still notorious Highway 1, which had recently experienced a resurgence of bandit activity. It was as though the ghosts of the Pavillons Noirs had not been put to rest, or were somehow being honoured.
— BUDDHAS AND BATS BY THE THOUSANDS —
M and I were up not much past dawn, evidently the same as everyone else, and we went down to the river, where the homes, and the people as well, are visibly poorer than those just a few steep steps away. A storm overnight had shredded the plastic sheets used as awnings; strips of the stuff were tangled round the unpainted balustrades on back galleries of the buildings that overlook the river. Palm fronds were lying everywhere; discarded water bottles rolled back and forth, up and down Thanon Khem Khong. We wanted to go upriver about twenty-five kilometres to the mouth of the Nam Ou, the place where the warlords had come in such force, though for most visitors the purpose of such a trip is to marvel at the Buddha-filled Pak Ou caves (which we would also do).
We suffered only minor confusion figuring out where to catch a longtail boat at the so-called Mail Boat Pier, which is the seat of north-south river traffic, but not of the ferries that trundle back and forth. The boat we boarded was a family operation, steered by the father while the mother, who was also the deckhand, cooked for the family, and one of the children did his schoolwork near the bow. It rode so low in the water that without leaving my seat or even leaning over, I could almost have plunged my hand in the Mekong. The vessel had a homemade appearance yet reminded me of a European railway carriage, with square windows along both sides, with strips of cotton used to tie back the curtains.
There are hamlets on both the east and west banks. We stopped to take a look at one of the best known of these villages, Ban Xang Hai — best known because it is a village of jar makers (that is what the name means). Modern commerce being what it is, big brown clay jars are purchased from an outside source and used to hold the rough Lao rice wine called lào-lào. Archaeologists have found that the site was inhabited two thousand years ago. When we put in there, it first seemed to be inhabited no longer, as the rain had returned with enough force to drive indoors the handful of residents who weren’t working somewhere else that day. We climbed up the slippery red mud hill, falling several times. The houses were in a ragged row up a steep, winding path, like a lonely scribble in the jungle. They were built on pylons about 1.5 metres high, so as to limit damage during floods and provide storage for the inventory of jars and shelter for the animals the rest of the time. Hens with black spots were puttering about while the chicks sat protected under reed-woven domes that looked like big overturned laundry baskets. One building stood out from the others for being much taller and being open to the elements on all four sides. This was the school. I saw no books or blackboards there, but only a haunting poster illustrating fifteen different varieties of landmines and grenades. Someone confirmed that the text in Lao was a warning to young ones not to touch or play with such things when found. Later, I saw the identical poster, but with Khmer writing, in Phnom Penh. It now hangs in my flat, prompting a cautionary tale that always needs retelling.
In the dry season, which this most definitely was not, the water is so low that boats have to leave from an alternative jetty in Luang Prabang where the water is deeper. At such times, sandbars are exposed to view, and many Lao paddle over to the ones near where the Nam Ou empties into the Mekong and pan for gold — how successfully, I have no idea. We saw only fishers instead, casting their nets or — the perpetual chore of fishers — mending them. Artifacts found above the Nam Ou near the confluence date back eight thousand years. There is a Hmong village high up on the north bank, but it isn’t visible, not that time of year, at least, from the stairs on the opposite shore of the Mekong. These are the steps that lead to the lower-most of the enormous and enormously sacred limestone caves, famous for containing literally thousands of Buddha figures, especially (but not only) the standing one associated with Luang Prabang. The upper cave is slightly more difficult to access, has fewer statues and figurines, is also darker, and is inhabited by an uncountable number of bats.
Back in Luang Prabang the next day, M and I set out on our self-assigned tasks. Poking about one of the back lanes, I discovered a discarded metal sign that obviously had once hung on a government building. It was perhaps 1.5 metres in height and two in width, and shaped like royal crown; it was emblazoned with a big yellow hammer and sickle. Many dwellings and temples were freshly whitewashed, the streets were clean and quiet. I stood in the shade of lotus trees and smelled the bougainvillea blossoms. Occasionally I would see a bright multicoloured jumbo, a form of public transport larger than a tuk-tuk, but smaller than one of the buses (which are small in any case). Bicycles are by far the most common form of vehicular traffic, though rentals are not allowed and so only residents ride them (often steering with one hand while deftly manipulating an umbrella with the other). The town was busy and full of tourists, but I experienced nothing to jar the senses until a group of monks came up the street in close order, carrying their begging bowls. A Western woman with two cameras round her neck suddenly appeared out of the shadows to photograph them. They paid no attention, but she moved ever closer to them as her cameras clicked and clicked. I could see that she was about to touch the sleeve of one of them, presumably to ask if he would stop for a moment and pose for her. He evaded her, neatly, quietly, without expression, and without adjusting his step. I am normally a strong proponent of minding my own business, but in this case I took the woman aside and explained, with tact and patience, I thought, that the man would have had to perform a kind of purification ritual if she had touched him. She reacted badly to the news. Finally she said, “I’m going to see the abbot about this and give him a piece of my mind.”
M, meanwhile, was busily researching French education to determine how it did or did not differ from that in Vientiane. She began with the Golden Page Lao Business Directory, which is the telephone book for the entire country, printed in Lao and English, but not French (a bad sign). It is devoted almost exclusively to businesses and in any case doesn’t always make clear, not to foreign eyes, anyway, which entries refer to which towns and cities. By quietly muttering her frustration, however, she attracted the attention of the Phousi Hotel’s desk clerk, who proved to speak French at what she called a “tourist-industry level.” He told her that French-language classes are held at the school located behind the hotel. She went there and found a poster indicating that classes bilingues, parts of the Maison du Patrimoine programme, are held at 1600 hours.
She returned at the specified hour and waited and waited until students began arriving for some other class entirely. “Two teenage girls on motorbikes,” she told me later, over dinner at a strange restaurant, open-air and bare-bones, down on the riverfront near the jetty. “Once they parked, they stopped to read something written in Lao on a big signboard. So I picked my way through the mud puddles and began a conversation with them in French. They giggled. One of them pulled out her textbook for the evening. Its title was Lao-English Conversation Book, so I thought I must be in the wrong place or in the right place at the wrong time.” But she is not one to give up, and so whipped out her all-purpose Southeast Asian Phrase Book and the three of them tried to conduct a conversation using any Lao or English phrases that seemed to fit.
“There was a lot of laughing,” she told me. “I found out that they were fifteen years old. They
