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.