A Laotian Valentine
I thought about it but hadn’t made up my mind until I got to the border, whether to take the bus or the 2 day boat trip down the river. On my lists of sights to see had always been Luong Prabang, the ancient capital of this section of Asia. The bus ride would be uncomfortable - sitting-up sleeping - but quicker by a day, whereas the boat-float would be much more of an adventure. Scenic and closer to the pulse of the indigenous people. Either way my mind held a dose of trepidation. Being an American, of a certain age, there was always that unknown quotient as to how I’d be received, though this was western Laos and not along the eastern front where we’d carpet-bombed during the Viet-Nam War - The Ho Chi Min Trail & The Plain of Jars. And then there was that added factor of a one-party state to consider. Communism and the death of the royal faction. How to rationalize a visit to a country which held little value for democracy though it preached an egalitarian rhetoric of a people’s version where girls could only get a sixth grade education? A boat-commune of 80? Maybe.
Afterwards I was set to visit Cambodia where the Khmer Rouge once flourished. We all know how that went down. Angkor Wat was the draw I’d wished to document, through entangling vines and fallen futures. How a civilization could thrive, and then tumble to its demise. A metaphor for our global warming condition and the slow response to our impending collapse. Airplane flights and the gasoline for my car to take me to the airport. I, too, was a voluntary servant of species’ wide extinctions. Pollutions? Justifications? The greater ‘call’ of an artist to manifest a greater vision? A foreign correspondent during a post-revolutionary era, or just another Western ‘do-good’ observer with a less than plausible escape clause? A poker hand as to how I’d be received in Laos. 4 Aces? Or a busted straight? A, 1-2-3-4-9. It’s always the last card to a five card draw that snatches your hopes.
I arrived on the afternoon of New Year’s Day. The queue at the border appeared slow and slack. No rush. Not so many visitors. Guards cut down to a minimum. Possibly sleeping it off from the previous night’s celebrations. I’d spent it in Chang Rai, four hours 2nd-class bus, to the west. Wow! Those northern Thai’s really know how to throw an extravaganza: fireworks, stages, dancing-strut ladies, colored lights, picnicking locals sharing delicacies on sidewalk curbs and outdoor markets. Families with kids. Rocking vocals. The annual garden display was wondrous, also. Tulips and roses and so many more fleurs arrayed in unique patterns. I’d made a decision. Prepped for action, no way I was going to take the over-night bus to Luong Prabang. Laos Man! This was Laos, good odds I’d never see the Mekong’s flow again. I’d heard China was about to dam its upper portion. Another chance of a lifetime not to be bus-stop passed over. Theravadin Buddhist religion, of the old variety, the tourist guides read, and other metaphoric images for me to capture for my photographic creations back home.
We got in late on the afternoon of the second day. By then many of us were well acquainted and had gotten chummy. Motorcycle chitney’s waited to take us into town. A six-seater with stacked backpacks. Open aired. Some friends wished to stay at fancier places on the city’s outskirts. I went with a smaller contingent to the old zone where we found a refurbished colonial mansion from the French era. Bunkbeds, mixed, at 12 dollars a night - toast and coffee for breakfast, cubicle showers. Close and central, only three blocks from the main drag. A little further to the temples, the museum, government offices, former palace, the post office, and the morning market where the Laotians shopped their groceries. Strolling and trolling, I caught the majority of these photos during my five day visit. A cornucopia to my roving eyes. When home-bound friends asked what Laos was like its fascination was hard to describe. I’d still be a Lutheran, I’d say, if we had golden figures embracing on our church doors like those I saw on Luong Prabang’s temples. Plus, the crafts in the market were exemplary, and then there was the waterfall excursion and that Hmong woman, Lily, who I fell for so instantaneously, and the Scandinavian bakery where I went to write most afternoons.
— John Staple
