Laos

If Buddhism didn't require giving up chocolate and kitten heels, I would be sold. Laos is like a geographic embodiment of Buddhism-- powerfully simple, infinitely calm, glacially slow. The charming little French colonial town of Luang Prabang, at the confluence of the Mekong and Khan Rivers, is surrounded on all sides by massive jungle covered mountains.

We got in to town in late afternoon and went for a stroll along the river. A nice gentleman with a longboat offered to take us out on the river for a sunset cruise and we took him up on it.
It was breathtaking. Even the sun moves slowly and gracefully in Laos.


The next morning we took another longboat to the Pan Ouk caves, where for hundreds of years the local people have taken their household buddhas to be cleansed in the holy caves.

We spent the afternoon on an elephant trek through the base of an endless cascade of waterfalls. Though my mother got the same earful Clare got on the indignity of riding an elephant in a circle, I never ceased to be amazed by these massive but gentle creatures. The tips of their trunks are like children's hands-- moist and fleshy and in constant search of new things. They have such kind, intelligent eyes framed by wispy lashed. And despite their mass, they move with careful grace and a certain regal air. I love being around them, I just get insulted on their behalf by the way they are used for tourism.


As tends to be the case, one of the highlights of our day was entirely unexpected. As we walked through the small village that we passed on our way to the waterfalls, a group of young monks-in-training at the town's temple started waving to us and gesturing to join them in the temple. We took of our shoes and kneeled down with them in front of this tiny (by Buddhist standards) shrine. They lit incense and gave it to us and then proceeded to recant a Buddhist prayer, stopping occasionally to giggle madly and poke at each other's arms. It reminded me of catechism as a kid when we would quietly change the words to the Lord's Prayer and then choke back our laughter when the teacher shot us warning looks.

We spent our last day in Laos on a trip to the remarkable Tad Kuang Si waterfalls, a seemingly endless series of giant falls originating in a gushing cascade over limestone cliffs. This picture gives no sense of scale, but Google tells me it is 30 meters high (about 100 feet). What I do know is that the roar is deafening, and yet despite its ferocious force, the water almost immediately settles into these perfect aqua blue pools that only gently ripple at the surface as the powerful current moves beneath them.

So in this peaceful land of Buddhism, where the sun moves slower and the rapids look calmer than anywhere I've ever been, we decided to honor the local traditions by climbing to a temple on the top of a mountain overlooking the city and releasing a captive bird. Traditionally this act is viewed as an expression of compassion and piety by Buddhists, but in Laos it seems to predominantly be a means of employing adorable children to harass tourists. Whether the good luck comes from the Buddha or good-tourist karma, we were happy to take it, and also happy to set this little guy free.

The next day we did as the bird and took off for Vietnam. Tales of our final adventures will be posted on Saturday from my one-window studio apartment in D.C., undoubtedly accompanied by a depressed rant. Look forward to that.

Note

New pictures are posted under the Hong Kong entry. Other pictures may drift up as time allows.

Cambodia- Now with Pictures!

Dear Mom, I've run off to Cambodia.



Actually, she probably knows, she's run off with me.


We met in Bangkok in the wee hours of the morning-- her jet-lagged from 15 hours of traveling and me life-lagged from two months of reckless abandon. Yet we stayed up until 3 in the morning, catching up on the last few months and indulging in a thoroughly un-Thai club sandwich and french fries.

One day in Bangkok of spicy food and Thai massage (Mom is hooked now) and we were off to Cambodia! Siem Reap, to be precise.


Cambodia is beautiful and utterly heartbreaking. Siem Reap itself is a charming town on a river with a surprisingly sanitized tourist center that brushes elbows with the devastating poverty that surrounds it. The town exists as a tourist destination because of the stone giants that rise from the sand in the form of the Temples of Angkor Wat-- built from the 10th to 12th centuries to honor (alternately) Hindu gods, Buddha, or the reigning King. The temples are incredible, and well beyond description. Sandstone bricks were intricately carved by hand into elaborate representations of dancers, animals, and gods and then stacked to the heavens in curving towers and archways. And the temples have withstood the elements (though not the vandals) for over a thousand years as a testament to the hard work and unflappable religious devotion of early human civilization.



We have also been fortunate to have the most fantastic tuk-tuk driver and guide in our Cambodian adventures. Clare and I met a Brit in a bar in Bali who had just come from Cambodia and gave me the tour guide's email address. Kakada has been a blessing. Not only does he fearlessly dart our little tuk-tuk between the buses and motos that zip along the streets here, but he has shared with us the fascinating story of his life in Cambodia. He was born in Battabong Province, West of Siem Reap. His father was a Communist and the party arranged his parents' marriage. He is one of six, his father left when he was young, and his eldest brother died at age 9. When the civil war started, they moved to Siem Reap to get away from the violence and he enrolled in monastery to get an education. He has shared such amazing stories with us of a childhood in poverty, a youth in a country at war, his teenage years as a training Buddhist monk, and now his life with his young wife and daughter in Siem Reap. He has seen more suffering in his short life than most of us will ever see in a lifetime, and yet he is the most joyful, open-hearted, caring person I have ever met. He calls my mom "Mama" and me "sister." If any of you ever come to Cambodia, please ask me for his contact information.

Kakada's difficult story is far too common in this country. Everywhere you look, there are people here missing arms, missing legs, or blinded by landmine explosions. We stopped yesterday at a school that educates and provides prosthetics for children injured by landmines. It also houses the Landmine Museum, which is part of a non-profit venture that funds landmine removal efforts. Though nobody has a definite number, there are between 3 and 6 million landmines still active and hidden in Cambodia. Some were dropped by American airplanes during the Vietnam war, while still more were planted by the Vietnamese and Cambodian resistance forces to the Khmer Rouge to keep Pol Pot's army in Thailand after they were run out of Cambodia. It is impossible to ignore or marginalize the tragic effect of landmines on this country.

Ok deep breaths, you guys didn't sign up for the lecture. All things considered, it has been anything but seriousness around here. My mother's creative hearing makes things ocassionally complicated, but always entertaining. Take, for example, the following exchange:

Kakada: We are going to a waterfall where the river is carved with thousands of linga. You know linga?
Mom: Lincoln?
Kakada: Yes, linga. You know?
Mom: Like penny?
Kakada: Yes! Linga!
Mom: Penny!

Here's the bit of information that had me laughing to tears in the corner: linga is the carving for the essence of the deity. It's a phallus. I guess "linga" sounds enough like Lincoln, and "penny" sounds enough like... well, you know where this is going. Needless to say, both Mom and Kakada left that conversation thinking they understood each other and I nearly peed my pants.

But the river really was carved all the way down the mountainside with thousands of linga like the scales of a giant serpent, along with lounging deities, and jungle animals, culminating in a gorgeous waterfall in a stone grotto filled with butterflies. Honestly, it was unbelievable.


Today was our last day in Cambodia and it was quite possibly our best. We started the morning with a boat ride on Tonle Sap, the giant lake that provides the fish that feeds five provinces in Northern Cambodia. Large populations of Vietnamese refugees from the war came to Cambodia and formed communities in and around Tonle Sap, and those communities have continued for generations as floating villages.


Ok, serious again: the floating villages of Tonle Sap are billed to tourists as a charming aquatic lifestyle. They are not. They are the product of crippling poverty and total abandonment by all government resources. In fact, the government has banned and strictly polices the only thing that keeps these communities alive: fishing. The police crack-down on fishing has forced the poorest residents to fish at night, often resulting in boating accidents and deaths. We stopped by a floating school in town, which doubles as an orphanage for children whose parents drowned in fishing accidents. We brought them notebooks and pencils from the local market, but it's hard not to feel hopelessly inadequate when you hand a hungry orphan a notebook and tell them to study hard in school.

After Tonle Sap we toured a few more temples before getting stuck in our first torrential downpour of Cambodia's monsoon season. It was a bit soggy, but kind of charming to huddle beneath the moss-covered stones of a thousand year-old temple, dodging the leaks, to wait out the rain. We were about to call it a (rainy) day when we passed a giant Buddha statue where training monks were doing their evening prayers.
We got out to watch and Mom (who is inclined to commune with spiritual beings) made an offering to Buddha. Kakada said it would bring us good luck and, as if on cue, the rain stopped, the clouds parted and the beginnings of a beautiful sunset poked through. We went to a nearby temple on the top of a mountain and watched the sun set between the stone pillars of the temple, reflected on the surface of Tonle Sap.

We are exhausted, permanently sticky with sweat and grit, and excited for the next leg of our adventure in Laos.