In a way, Luang Prabang reminds me of Florence: It's not very big, with only four major streets, all of which run the length of the peninsula. This means that if you're on a bike, no place is more than a few minutes from anyplace else.
Another thing the onetime capital of Laos has in common with the epicenter of the Italian Renaissance is that it's full of artistic and cultural treasures. Not surprisingly, both cities are UNESCO World Heritage sites and attract visitors from far and wide.
One difference to me, though, is that I felt the presence of those travelers much more in Florence than I do here. Granted, there aren't as many tourists here as there were in Venice, in part because this isn't the peak tourist season in most of Southeast Asia and, perhaps, because Luang Prabang isn't quite as well-known as Florence. But visitors here don't seem to fill up the narrow streets and to simply "take over" as they do in the Italian city. So, everything seems so much less pressured here: the "vibe", if you will, is actually quite calm.
I was mulling this comparison on my way to a shop that rents bikes when I bumped into Heiko and Pamela, two German tourists. The shop wanted our passports as a "deposit"; we all agreed that we don't hand our passports to anyone who isn't a border control agent of a country we are entering. As far as I know, no such international boundary exists around that shop.
So I suggested that we take a walk down a street called "Utopia" (really!) I had walked it yesterday, and I seemed to recall seeing a rental shop or two. Whether they would demand our passports, I didn't know.
As we were walking, Heiko articulated exactly what I had been thinking about Luang Prabang. "It's interesting, but so peaceful," he said. "People don't seem to get upset or impatient."
We wondered whether it might have something to do with all of those monks and meditations in Luang Prabang. Everywhere you turn, you see the monks, some of whom look too young for puberty, in their saffron robes. And those temples are all over the city.
The cycling was really good, especially after we crossed this wooden bridge
leading out of the city and into the countryside.
It was calm there, too, but that wasn't a surprise given what we've experienced here. Why, there's even a place in the city that's decorated in gold and red felt as if it were bluer than the Blue Mosque:
Wat Mai Suwannaphumaham, referred to as simply the Wat Mai, is so calm that, behind the Buddha that stands over everything, I found this:
No wonder this city can "slow your pulse," as the editors Lonely Planet claim.
Forget about Big Brother. In this city
Big Buddha is...well, I don't know whether he's watching you. From what I know about him, and what I understand about Buddhism (which, I admit, isn't much), I don't think he would want to.
Still, it's hard to deny that the man taught much by example. I would say that even if he weren't about 20 times my size!
You can find that statue of him--the largest in this city, and one of the largest in the world
in the Wat Wison Narath, the oldest operating Buddhist temple in this city--Luang Prabang, Laos. I arrived here last night in a heavy rain that didn't let up until late this afternoon. This original temple on this site was completed in 1513, burned in 1887 and rebuilt. Although it charges a small admission fee (20,000 kp: about $2.50 at current exchange rates), it still operates as a temple and thus, visitors are told, a procession of monks might enter the premises. And, as in other functioning Buddhist temples, visitors are required to leave their shoes and hats at the door. Also, silence and modesty (no revealing garments) are expected.
I must admit that, if nothing else, I felt very relaxed, as I wasn't thinking about the things I normally think about. In fact, I wasn't thinking at all. I didn't try to achieve that: It just sort of happened. Maybe it had to do with the calm in that place.
The funny thing is, I've felt really calm since I've been here--even in the central part of town, where most of the shops (and tourists) are. Maybe it has to do with all of the temples in this town: There seems to be one on every other block.
The guest house in which I'm staying is on the Nam Khan River. This city is built on a peninsula. At the tip of it, the Nam Khan merges with the Mekong, one of the world's mightiest rivers.
I haven't been to China, and won't make it there on this trip. But if it's any part of it is like Laos or Cambodia, it makes perfect sense to me now that one of its major rivers is called the Yellow River: waterways in this part of the world seem muddier than in other places I've seen. Part of the reason was literally at my feet when I descended some stone steps used by fishermen to the shore of the Meking, probably no more than 100 meters below the Nam Kahn confluence.
Speaking of fishermen, one waved to me and didn't seem to mind that I was photographing him.
The fishing might be the easier part of his job: I can only imagine what it's like to navigate his boat--not much different from what his forebears used centuries ago--in the raging waters. (I must say that this is the first time I've seen muddy waters with such a visibly strong current!)
Later, after the rain stopped, a couple of streets in the center of town were closed off to make the Night Market, a kind of bazaar with tents overhead. This city is justly famous for its fabrics: Local artisans pride themselves on their skills in weaving and coloring silk, cotton and wool.
Before I headed down the aisles, I snacked on something called "coconut pancakes". They are about the size of small macarons, and their insides have an almost custard-like texture. They're served in a "cup" made of banana leaves and were well worth the calories!
I did a bit of a splurge, buying a sarong skirt, a pair of shorts that look like they could pass a sarong, a scarf, two zippered pouches and a batik collage fabric figure of a cat I probably will give to my friend Mildred, who is caring for Marlee while I'm away. I bought an embroidered patch of the Laotian flag and a refrigerator magnet. The total? 257,000 kip. The current rate is around 8500 kip to the dollar. I'll let you do the math, since you probably are better at it than I am.
After all that, I went to a restaruant called the for a traditional Lao meal. Laap consists of marinated meat, with a combination greens and spices. Sometimes the marinating "cooks" the chicken and it is served cold: something like an Asian ceviche It can also be cooked after marinating and served hot, as mine was. My laap had chicken, lemongrass and, according to the waiter, "morning glory." Surely he didn't mean the flower, did he? No, not quite: He meant the shoots and leaves of a flowering plant that's often called "water morning glory" or "river spinach" in English.
In any event, it was served--like most Lao dishes--with sticky rice. It's actually a different species from the rice most other people know: Its grains are shorter and it has a higher starch content--but no gluten. Although it's usually associated with Northern Thai food, its true origins are in Laos. As it happens, Northern Thailand has almost as many ethnic Lao people as Laos itself, so much of what is called "Northern Thai" or simply "Thai" in the US and other countries is really Laotian.
When I asked for chopsticks, the waiter gave me a somewhat condescending smile. So did a waitress who happened to overhear the conversation. You're really supposed to eat sticky rice with your hands and, in fact, use it as a utensil to scoop up your laap (or whatever else you're eating) much as Ethipians use injera, their pita-like bread.
This trip is proving to be educational in all sorts of ways!
Nobody here should be impressed with me. (Actually, I don't think anybody should be impressed with me.) But the people I've talked to all seem to look up to me, and not because I'm taller than they are.
Sometimes it's because I'm a professor (university lecturer, actually), as educators and, more important, education are revered here because so many can't get it, or get enough. A couple of people were in awe when I did something a lady isn't supposed to do: reveal my age. One woman--about whom I'll say more later--said her mother is ten years younger and "looks older." Days spent in hard, repetitive tasks in the sun, heat and humidity will do that to you. And then there are those who think I'm other-worldly because I live in New York City.
Sokhana (sp?), who works at Green Park Village, the hotel where I'm staying, was simply astounded that I rode a bike about 85 kilometers. She simply had to tell her co-workers, the manager and everyone about it. If you've been reading this blog, you know that I've done much longer rides than that. If anything, if they want to admire me, it should be for going that distance (about 53 miles) on the bike I borrowed from the hotel. Yes, that one. And, perhaps, that someone from a temperate climate pedaled through the heat, humidity and rain (late in the afternoon).
I could have taken the tuk-tuk. I'm sure the driver would have known how to get to the Banteay Srei temple. But I simply felt like riding.
The town and district are named for Banteay Srei, hence the name of the Butterfly Centre I mentioned in yesterday's post. My ride took me into the countryside, much like the PURE bicycle tour I took. A curious visitor ambled up to the side of the road:
Just meters away, a farmer waded through a rice paddy, barefoot. His manner of growing the grain, and the ways in which he tended the cow (if indeed the cow was his) probably don't differ much from those of farmers at the time the Banteay Srei temple was built, in the 10th Century CE.
The temple is known as the "Citadel of Women." There are indeed many carvings of female figures, but they are mainly divine nymphs or celestial dancing girls knows as aspara or minor female deities, shown standing and called devata.
The real reason why it's known as "The Citadel of Women," though, would not pass today's standards of political correctness: It's because of the temple's small size, at least compared to Angkor Wat or Bayon, and the intricacy of its carvings, which have survived remarkably well.
That detail was possible, in part, because most of the temple was built from red sandstone, which lends itself to such work and at times looks like wood. So, although it is relatively small, the reddish color and those details, visible from a pretty fair distance, give Banteay Srei a striking, unique experience. You might say that if Angkor Wat is the virtuoso and Bayon is the show-stopper, then Banteay Srei is the crowd-pleaser.
And, yes, you can enter it with a valid Angkor Wat pass.
On my way back, I passed the Butterfly Center and stopped at the Landmine Museum, but not to look at the exhibits. The young woman at the admission desk remembered me and allowed me in when I asked to see another young woman who works in the gift shop. An Youn and I had a very friendly talk when I first visited, and she really liked the pendant I was wearing. This time, I gave it to her. Rarely has anyone been so happy for such a small favor from me.
Of course, I didn't tell her the real reason I gave it to her: I was trying to lighten up the load for the rest of my ride back to the hotel! ;-)
