Udon Interlude

Last night I was drinking a draft of Guinness in the Irish Clock pub in Udon Thani and talking with three expatriates about life in this large city, capital of the province of the same name in the northeast of Thailand. Bob, 58, is a retired lawyer from Berkeley and he was there with his Thai wife and six-month-old son, Patrick. Joining us was Brendan, a 41-year-old Irishman who lives with his Thai wife and child in Wales where he works in construction. They return periodically to visit and Brendan hopes to eventually retire and live full-time in Thailand, although he said that dream is far in the future. Also drinking with us at the bar was Rick, a burly red-faced Australian about my age, who recently separated from his Thai wife. She now has another farang boyfriend. “I’m glad, because now I don’t have to pay her support,” he said. Rick, who came to Udon to visit a cousin eight years ago and stayed, with occasional visits home, is a golfer and he ticked off for us all the courses he’s played in Isan, the name for this corner of Thailand where the Americans had a major air base during the war in Vietnam.

I listened carefully to their stories because from time to time, ever since meeting a lady from Udon in Koh Samui last winter, I have wondered what it would be like to marry a Thai woman and settle down here, in the city or in a village. Jerry certainly seems happy with Lamyai, his wife of four years who comes from a small hamlet in Surin farther to the south. For my Samui friend, Udon was home and she spoke of it reverently; the beach and the bright lights of Bangkok could not compare.

My guide and translator had left her car in Nong Khai and we drove down here yesterday after crossing over the Friendship Bridge from Laos and taking a tuk tuk to where it was parked. There is a wide divided highway for most of the 50-kilometer drive that passes through farming country which looked more prosperous than I imagined since Isan is the poorest area of Thailand. Udon, with a population of over 200,000, seemed big and busy. I saw only a few multi-storied buildings: the bland but well-appointed Charoen Hotel where I am staying and the large shopping center not far off that includes a KFC, a multiplex cinema and a bowling alley as well as computer and clothing shops. It’s the cultural heart of the city, I’m sure. Across the road is a street full of bars, many of which are owned by a single farang, I was told. This tradition of providing a meeting place for men and women began during the American war thirty years ago when the older wing of my hotel was built to accommodate soldiers on R&R. On my walk to the Irish Clock I was accosted by a number of streetwalkers who promised me innumerable pleasures if I would be their “friend.” I have been told that the bars of Bangkok are full of women largely recruited from Isan, Udon in particular.

There was consensus among the drinkers, all of whom were smoking “cheap” Thai cigarettes, that Thailand, and Udon Thani in particular, was a wonderful place to live. Bob talked about how his ex-wife had begun to look like his mother, and Rick said that no young woman in Australia would give him a second look. Brendan acknowledged that Thai cultural values, which encourage women to ignore appearances and serve their men, were important to him. Bob said that he met his wife just after she returned “with a broken heart” from Europe where she was living with another man. “She told me she wanted only two things, to be financially secure and to have a baby, and I’ve given her both.” He said he was aware that it was his resources that made him attractive to her, and not his large midrift and thinning hairline. But the lawyer, who retains his membership in the California Bar, admitted that he missed his high-pressure job back in the states, and that he had some difficulty finding things to do, despite the demands of being a new father (his infant son has three fully-grown half-brothers back in America). Rick encouraged him to play more golf. The men were quick to encourage me in my search for a Thai companion, and I sensed in them a need for agreement to affirm their own life choices.

I left the bar feeling sad and confused. Why, if these men love Thailand, do they congregate in an Irish pub to talk about the weather and politics in Europe and America? Two of them are Catholic and plan on sending their children to one of the two Catholic schools here, both of which are expensive. I doubt that any of them spoke much Thai. Brendan agreed that it was harder, if your woman spoke English, to have the incentive learn their tongue. I suspect that Buddhism was never an option for them (isn’t golf a kind of religion?). Bob told me in an email earlier that he did not want to live in a village but rather preferred the amenities that a city had to offer. He gave me a copy of “The Udon Thani Guide,” but there seemed little in it that appealed to me. Many of the ads were for the city’s bars, a major draw for farang tourists. Aside from life with a beautiful younger woman who seems to ignore your age and potbelly, I’m not sure what roots them in Udon (of course, I mustn’t forget golf).

This morning I had a traditional Isan breakfast, which included a fried egg, pork, and various kinds of sausage, along with fresh-squeezed orange juice and coffee. Later this afternoon I will visit a large park and lake around which people congregate in the evening for walking and exercise. Tomorrow I return to Bangkok with a suitcase full of dirty laundry.

Already I miss the louvered windows of Luang Prabang, so reminiscent of French country houses. On Wednesday we rented bikes and rode all over the town, visiting different temples on yet another special day when Buddhists take flowers and other gifts to the wats in order to pay their respects. I thought the day before was Buddha Day, one of four in the month to match phases of the moon, but perhaps it’s a two-day affair in Laos. Thailand has Buddhist wats everywhere, but Laos has twice as many. The architecture and the iconography of all of them, even those crumbling and black with age, is breathtaking and inspiring. Gothic cathedrals can barely compare. Why do I not feel oppressed by the omnipresence of Buddhism here whereas Christianity, particularly in the American south, feels like an imposition, the churches a thumb in the eye of hedonistic culture. Buddhism is not about instilling guilt for being human. While I’m not crazy about the mixing of superstition and fortune telling with Buddhist precepts, it seems to empower its adherent to live fully in this life and not wait for the hereafter (although a good rebirth is the goal of every Buddhist). Maybe this religion does not seem oppressive to me simply because it is different, more a curious artifact that something drilled into my brain. For most Thais, Buddhist moral values are inseparable from the good; there is no distinction between the secular and the sacred as there is in the West. On Wednesday at Wat Sensoukarahm, I listened to the afternoon drumming and gonging by orange-robbed monks in the drum tower and I watched the grandmothers in the temple lighting candles and sticks of incense before a large altar festooned with golden Buddhas in various poses. This image will remain with me, along with another featuring the sound of young monks chanting one night in a wat near the handicrafts market.

Another ubiquitous image in Luang Prabang is the red communist hammer and sickle. I saw it on tee shirts, hats, and small flags atop tuk tuks. Riding past the police station on our bikes, I first saw the Laotian flag and then, on the side of a wall, a giant hammer and sickle. The other image resonant of Laos’s socialist credentials is the face of Che Guevara. His tee shirts were on sale in the handicrafts market, and one day I saw decals with his face plastered all over a khaki-colored jeep parked on the main street. It reminded me of the stall at the Chatuchak Market in Bangkok full of communist chic. In Laos I wore the tee shirt I bought there with the picture of Karl Marx on the front and a quote from the “Communist Manifesto.” I thought it would be appreciated, but as far as I can tell no one noticed. The backpackers are all too young to recognize his bearded face.

Back in Thailand, we stopped by the Sala Kaew Ku Sculpture Park outside Nong Khai. It was created by Luang Pu (Venerable Grandfather) Boun Leua Sourirat, a Laotian mystic shaman, who died in 1996. He supposedly met a Hindu sage from Vietnam named Kaewkoo who introduced him to the mysteries of the occult. Before the communist takeover in 1975, he began his sculptures at Xieng Khuan (Spirit City), which is now Buddha Park on the outskirts of Vientiane. After the Pathet Lao crushed such subversiveness, Luang Pu crossed the river to perfect his art at the pavilion of Kaew Ku. The park is a smorgasboard of the weird, huge statues of Buddhist and Hindu deities cast in brick and concrete by Luang Pu’s crew of unskilled artists. My guide finds the imagery horrifying and refused to accompany me until I agreed to hold her arm while she kept her eyes closed. The shabby park was empty the morning we visited, the dirt car park surrounded by mostly vacant stalls for the nonexistent tourist crowds. I found the whole scene rather delightful.

Elephants, a Tiger, and Bears

We boarded the All Lao Travel van in the morning, along with five Aussies, two young backpackers from Holland and Finland, and a lady from Hong Kong, for a day in the country, a little elephant trekking, perhaps a swim in a waterfall, and visits with Laotian villagers. What I expected might be a typical tourist trip turned out to be a delightful journey out of urban Laos (not that Luang Prabang is that big a city) into nature with a look at the way rural life has been lived for centuries in Laos.

Our guide was a Hmong man who told me that when he was young the government forcibly relocated his village from the mountains where they had lived for generations down into the valley. The old people were sad but the young were excited by new opportunities for education and work. I can tell from the faces and the dress I see that there are a variety of ethnicities represented in the population here but it is hard to distinguish one from another. Last night there was an old Hmong woman in the handicraft market that did not even speak Laotian.

The first leg of the journey was down a long bumpy dirt road to the elephant camp where it is possible to stay for a period of time and train as a mahout. All of the elephants we rode were in their 30s, mere youngsters in elephant age. We were given silly straw hats to wear and climbed a platform to get into our carriage. Then we lumbered off at a slow pace into the dense jungle. Because of the heavy rain, the small path was muddy and slick but the paciderms were amazingly sure-footed, even climbing up and down step hills. Part of the trip included traveling up a rain-swollen stream and I half expected the elephants to begin swimming. I flashed on the jungle ride at Disneyland and thought to myself: this is the real deal. Back at the camp, after the hour ride, we fed and petting the trunks of our elephants, but mine gave my hand a whack with her trunk, indicated “the ride is over, bud, keep your hands to yourself.”

After lunch at the elephant camp, we stopped by the “three-cleaned village” (that’s what the sign read, but no one could explain to me) of Ban Phanom where a hall filled with weavers (looms were in the back) hawked their wares. While the others dickered and bartered, we had a cool drink on the terrace of the silver shop across the road. Driving back through Luang Prabang, we then headed south, following the route of the Mekong, toward the falls a half hour away. The countryside, with tall hills looming in the background, was beautiful: Small hamlets and bright green rice fields, everywhere were roosters, chickens and chicks, not to mention water buffaloes, sometimes ridden by small boys. Dogs slept in the warm road and children played in the gutters and canals.


Tat Kuang Si is a wide and many-tiered falls, bulging with rain water and sending cooling steam and spray over the many drenched tourists below taking photos of each other in front of the magnificent example of hydrology in action. The waterfall is surrounded by a large public park with restaurants, and souvenir/clothing shops around the parking area below. No one was swimming, although a pool on the second level was available. Because of the over-abundance of water, I was advised against going up the slippery steps.

On the way down from the falls, we stopped to chat with a tiger that had been rescued from poachers and given a large fenced piece of jungle for a home. He (or she) preferred to pace in front of the fence, just like the albino tiger I saw in Buenos Areas last year, where tourists were taking photos. I felt sorry for its lost of the wild, but apparently it isn’t safe out there for prized animals like the tiger and bears that had their own pens next door. There were about a dozen bears of varying ages. Bear paw in Asia is considered an aphrodisiac and these bears had been saved from horny men.

Back at the parking area, I had a cup of strong Laotian coffee (powdered creamer barely changes its color) and watched some small boys hunting for fish in a pond next to the restaurant. Most of the fish we could see were tiny fingerlings, but they searched through the muddy water for a big catch. Finally we heard a scream and looked up to see one of the boys with a big catfish about two feet long. He ran up the road with his fish in a net and presented it to an adult next door, either a relative or a customer. I found a toilet before the ride home but the urinal had no connecting pipe and I peed on my foot.
Last stop was Hmong village where dozens of children were lined up at little tables with hand-woven bracelets for sale. Competition was enormous, and noisy. Our guide took us up a path through the houses but those not selling anything studiously ignored us. From the last hill we had an incredible view of Luang Prabang in the distance, Phu Si with its gold stupa cap, and the Mekong twisting around her like a snake (or perhaps a naga).

We arrived back at our guest house at about half past five, and after cleaning up walked a few doors down the soi to the Blue Lagoon Café where we had a delicious meal of Laotian food, laap (ground meat in a salad) and om lam (beef stew), served with sticky rice. I had a glass of the house French red wine. After dinner we strolled through the large night handicraft market and bargained prices for a large handbag, several small gifts, and a tee shirt. The food has generally been excellent here, not as spicy as in Thailand where steamed rice is more common than sticky rice. Our driver on the elephant trek told us that most of the “Mekong fish” advertised in restaurants here comes from Vientiane, even though we’ve seen people selling fresh-caught fish on the streets (one lady included some dead frogs with her catch. A word about peanuts: Every other Luang Prabang resident we see now is eating freshly picked peanuts. They’re on sale everywhere and look like bouquets of lime-colored beans. Quite the seasonal delicacy.

This is our last full day in Laos. Tomorrow we catch an early plane to Vientiane, take a taxi to Friendship Bridge and a bus over to the Thai side, where I head to Udon for the last two days of this trip. This morning we awoke again before dawn and went outside to feed the monks. This time we saw a busload of Japanese tourists sitting on a line of red stools with their prepaid gift trays at the ready. It was raining slightly and the orange-robbed monks all carried black umbrellas. Very colorful. Time to play catch up:


Monday morning, after climbing up the 300-some steps to the top of Phu Si, we checked out of our luxurious room at the Ancient Luang Prabang “boutique” hotel and into a far preferable room at the Villa Phathana at less than half the price. Phathana in Thai means “develop” or “improve,” and it certainly was. The guesthouse is only a few months old, and we found it quite by accident wandering down the street the day before. The original room we looked at was fine, but by the time we checked in, we had been upgraded to a “superior” front room because of a reservation conflict. Same price: $25 a night. From our windows on the second floor, we can see Wat Ho Pha Bang across the street, and in the evening the handicrafts market which fills our soi. All that is missing is a TV, and who cares about that? There is also no Internet connection, but I hope to be able to plug in at the Internet café around the corner, or back at the café in our old hotel.

Working on the desk at Village Phathana was Son, a nephew of the owner. His home is in Madison, Wisconsin, where he has lived for 26 years. He has two Laotian restaurants back there and is an American citizen, but he likes to return home from time to time to help out his aunt. We talked about Madison, which I visited for the first time a year ago, and the cold Midwestern winters so different from the weather here. He knew all about the painted cow festival and the jazz festival on the lake terrace at the university.

Unlike the previous week, Monday was sunny and hot, with lovely fluffy white clouds in the sky. The night before it rained we weren’t sure what to expect. As the Buddha taught, life is full of uncertainty. What is certain is that the monks from the many temples in Luang Prabang go out in the morning for their food, and we woke at 5:30 Monday to collect sticky rice and other gifts. They came in at least three shifts down the soi and we kneeled to put our gifts in the bowls. I also tried to take photos at the same time, which was tricky. A Dutch girl who did not have a clue as to what was going on joined us. The streets were full of vendors trying to sell offerings for the monks to the tourists taking flash photos in the semi-darkness. We showed her the routine and she will return to Europe with a new experience to remember.

The view of the surrounding countryside from the top of Phu Si is stupendous. We could see the Mekong winding its way through the hills past Luang Prabang, and we could also see its little brother, the Nam Kam, coming down from the mountains to commingle muddy water for the long journey to the sea in Vietnam. There is a small temple at the top of the hill, That Chomsi, and we paid our respects to the Buddha with a gift of flowers bought from a young girl at the bottom. Tourists from Japan and England were taking pictures. On the way down we passed a rusting Russian anti-aircraft gun and a number of brightly painted Gold Buddhas in various stock poses. I particularly liked the unfamiliar sculpture of him surrounded by disciples.

On the way down I also met with these three young monks who were sitting in the shade near Buddha’s footprint (which looked like a perfectly natural rock formation to me). The one in the middle spoke passable English and he asked me all the usual questions: Where are you from? Do you like Luang Prabang? How long you stay? My only question of him was: Can I take your photo? I feel like such a tourist. You can see the Nam Kam in the background.

Much of this pilgrimage to Luang Prabang has been about eating. Meals are cheap, rarely more than $3 or $4 for a sumptuous repast. Yesterday we had a lunch of Thai food at the Blue Moon Café across from the bright red façade of Wat Sensoukarahm, and sticky rice with our meal in the evening on the top floor of Last Cuisine Restaurant where we could watch the evening activities on the main street (mostly people eating or looking at menus). The stairs at Last Cuisine were unusually steep like ones in our guesthouse. Maybe it’s because Laotians are smaller than Westerners? Or maybe it’s to save wood?

My feet are getting a workout. I’m on the second pair of sandals to replace my faithful Chacos which took me around the world but which recently gave up the ghost. The first pair had no back and kept slipping off. The next pair of sandals I got have a Velcro strap to attach in the back and are cumbersome and difficult to put on and take off. I’ve avoided wearing the ordinary flip-flops because the last time I tried I got terrible blisters between my toes. The important thing in this land where shoes are always left outside the door is easy access. There is a reason why flip-flops are the national footwear for Asia. So last night, after returning from our elephant trek, I bought a pair at the night market and are breaking in my toes, hoping for a blister-free day. We tried to buy blueberry cheesecake for desert, but it was sold out and we had to settle for chocolate cake.

Luang Prabang is quiet and slow. There are few private cars. Travel companies own most of the vans on the road. Traffic consists of tuk tuks, motorbikes and bicycles. There are no traffic lights and no traffic jams. Life is peaceful and easy. This morning I saw several tuk tuks waving the red and yellow hammer and sickle flag. You also see it on tee shirts (Che Guevara is another popular image). Since the Laotian government is still nominally Communist, that makes sense. We have walked from one end of the town to the other several times. The sidewalks are paved with brick and lovely tree-lined sois wander off from the main roads. There are tourists but not crowds. Buddhist temples (or wats) are everywhere; the presence of Christian imagery, even in so-called religious countries, cannot hold a candle to the dominating presence of Buddhism here. Most of the restaurants are empty and I wonder about their economic viability. There are night markets on several streets with mostly young girls selling the same products of the weaver and carver’s art. The few rather nice designs are repeated endlessly. But there are not that many customers and I cannot see how they make a living. Before Laos was opened up again to tourism in the late 1990s, I wonder what these craftspeople did?

In many ways, Luang Prabang is paradise (if only you could so something about the rain). It reminds me of Antigua in Guatemala, or San Miguel de Allende in Mexico, a picturesque colonial-era town enjoying the prosperity that only tourism can bring. There are no doubt other desirable destinations for wealthy tourists with money to burn. I’ve read that because of tourism, Luang Prabang is the most prosperous place in Laos right now. Certainly the ongoing construction everywhere is evidence of that. I wonder how many guesthouses and hotels a fragile ecosystem like this can handle? What does the influx of tourist dollars and baht do to the traditional economy?

In Search of Blueberry Cheesecake

No, not the monks. They were satisfied with sticky rice when they went out on pindabat through the streets of Luang Prabang this morning at 6 a.m. And the old monk seemed pleased when I stuck a folded 50,000 kip (pronounced "keep") note in his bowl next to a mound of rice (about $5).

It was I and my guide and translator who decided in Vientiane, where there is a French bakery on every corner, that we wanted cheese cake. We looked everywhere. And although we found baguettes and carrot cake, and cappuccino in abundance, cheese cake was missing. Until we got to the JoMa Bakery Cafe. There it was. And with blueberries even (which apparently are in season now all over southeast Asia. JoMa has a branch in Luang Prabang down the street from our hotel, and yes, the cook had just made a cheese cake with blueberries, and we could take a slice back to our room. We repeated this miracle last night.

The cook was a woman from Pennsylvania, and she had been living in Laos for three years. She was talking with two young girls. One of them was about to be sold as slave labor to a restaurant, but the American was able to talk her poor parents out of it by having the staff of the bakery contribute money monthly for her upkeep. Now she goes to school and visits the bakery every day where she plays games with the employees and is given food to take back home. Yesterday when we visited she had brought a friend to show the miracle in her life.

There are children working everywhere as vendors of trinkets on Thanon Sisavangvong, the major boulevard here. We were sitting on the terrace of the Café des Arts, and this young man, with the "Make Love Not War" tee shirt (I complimented him on his sense of style), sold us a small bracelet. I was impressed by his command of English and his smile. He tried to sell us other items from his box, but when we said one was enough, he left. To be replaced by one, two, six other kids. Some had a sense of humor. The more persistent girl, who said she was 10 but looked a few years younger, was very serious. I tried to give her a piece of my brownie but she refused. I tried to take her photo and she hid her face. All of them were selling the same cheap souvenirs but she had a crucifix on a leather chain. Soon the vendors around us were thick as flies. An ancient solder in army fatigues held his hand out. A crippled lady stopped by. (Later I gave her a five baht coin and she seemed insulted by the Thai currency. "Kip," she shouted.) Finally the owner of the café had enough and he drove the pack off.

Alert readers will have noticed the sun, or at least the lack of rain, in the newest photos. Yesterday we got a respite from the storm, although there is flooding in Vietnam, and evacuations in China before another typhoon reaches landfall. So yesterday, when we weren't feeding the monks, eating cheese cake or patronizing young merchants, we saw a few of the sights.

First we visited the Royal Palace Museum in the former home of King Sisavang Vong who died in 1959, the longest reigning monarch in Asia until the King of Thailand surpassed him in 2001. A supporter of the French, Sisavang Vong became head of state of the Kingdom of Laos in 1949 but died during the civil war with the Pathet Lao. His palace, built in 1904, seemed rather stuffy; I wouldn't want to live there. Gifts from other countries to the king were on display, including a moon rock and a model of the Apollo space ship from Nixon. Sisanvang Vong was known as a playboy and had up to 50 children from as many as 15 wives, some of who were related. His son, Savang Vatthana, was declared regent on his father's death but never officially crowned. When the rebels took over, he and his family were sent to a reeducation camp where they died. Next to the museum is Wat Ho Pha Bang, a pavilion begun in 1993 which will house the Pha Bang, a sacred Buddha image cast of gold, silver and bronze, perhaps in the 1st century in Sri Lanka. It was more likely of Khmer origin and brought to Luang Prabang in the 16th century. Currently it is housed in a room in the former palace and we paid our respects along with numerous other tourists. In the new wat, we watched workmen applying gold leaf to columns from the tiny squares of gold that are given out in temples to coat Buddha images. It looked like a tedious and time-consuming job. You can see the palace in this photo taken from the nearby wat.

From the museum we took a tuk tuk to the other end of the city to visit Wat Xieng Thong, the most magnificent of the many Buddhist temples in Luang Prabang. It was erected in the 16th century by King Setthathirat, one of the great builders of the Kingdom of Lan Xang (he is also responsible for That Luang in Vientiane, the "gold rocket launcher" as someone described it). Both the palace and Xieng Thong are close to the Mekong by design for easy access. We saw the rare reclining Buddha in La Chappelle Rouge (so named by the French who borrowed it for an exhibit in Paris in 1931), and and the magnificent mosaic tree of life on the back of the main sala (pictured above). There is also a hall containing the large funeral carriage of King Sisavang Vong, something his progeny was denied. The low sweeping roof is characteristic of Luang Prabang temple architecture.

Enjoying the sunny day, we strolled the main street of the town. We saw young boys setting off firecrackers, much to the consternation of little girls nearby. There were groups of tuk tuk drivers playing the Lao version of bocce ball on the banks of the Mekong. Young men brought fish up from the river to sell to restaurants. Vendors carried baskets of freshly picked peanuts down the street and I had to taste one to believe that it was really the un-roasted version of the common delicacy. Everywhere were monks, most of them young students, in their bright orange robes. Taking their pictures were hordes of young backpackers and aging tourists. A young man with an indeterminate accent at a café sported a Santa Cruz logo tee shirt. I gave him a high five. Circling the peninsula, we walked along the smaller Nam Khan River which joins the Mekong, past a few luxury "boutique" hotels with views of the surrounding hills and the fertile flood plain covered with new green seedlings. The skyline is dominated by Phu Si, a 100-meter high hill around which the city streets are wrapped. There are several wats on the hillside in various states of disrepair and one at the top which can almost be seen here. Unfortunately, almost every good vista I've seen is obscured for the photographer by bundles of wires. I've found that to be true in every developing country, Guatemala included. It's a wonder more people are electrocuted.

We learned yesterday that we cannot extend our stay at the lovely Ancient Luang Prabang Hotel where there is not enough hot water in the heater to fill our luxurious giant bath tub (this morning all of the water was inexplicably shut off). Walking through an afternoon craft market next to the palace yesterday we strolled down an alley to visit Le Cinema, where you can rent a DVD and watch it in a private room with surround sound (who needs that with a laptop stocked with classic movies?), we looked through a gate into the courtyard of a beautiful new house designed with wood in classic Lao style. We discovered it was a new guest house and made inquiries. The room is beautiful and the price even better: $25 a night (we had previously reserved a room at the gloomy Phousi Hotel for $66 a night). So today, after walking up Phu Si, if the weather holds, we will move into our new room for the next three nights.

Where is Noah When We Need Him

Lekima, the typhoon named after a Vietnamese fruit that swooped into Southeast Asia three days ago, continues to wreak havoc in the region and disrupt my plans. The Lao Airlines flight from Vientiane to Luang Prabang was delayed over two hours this morning because of bad weather and flooding at the airport where we were due to land. The crash of a flight to Phuket a couple of weeks ago was perhaps caused by rain which caused the plane to skid off the runway. I didn't want to risk anything like that, but I wanted a full five days in the temple city on the Mekong in north central Laos. So while I was a little worried that Lao Airlines might be small and flaky, I was happy that they were taking precautions today. Our 9:25 AM flight finally took off, just after the 11:30 flight to Luang Prabang and we had incredible views of the rain-swollen Mekong as our Chinese-made turboprop MA-60 aircraft dove through clouds and alongside the mountains to land at the airport where dark skies continue to empty their contents.

My guide and translator and I were able to check into our beautiful room in the Ancient Luang Prabang Hotel in time for a tasty lunch in the downstairs restaurant. And later we took the umbrella supplied by the hotel to stroll down Thanon Sisavangvong, lined with cafes, travel agencies, internet outlets and restaurants, and, at the confluence of the Mekong and the Nam Khan rivers, we turned back to walk along the Big Muddy, past innumerable guest houses, boat piers, street markets and riverbank dining spots to our hotel. It will be great when the sun finally comes out so we can see this fascinating town more clearly.

The rain actually let up for part of our day in Vientiane yesterday. We took a tuk tuk to Pha That Luang, the golden stupa that is both a symbol of Buddhism and Lao sovereignty. Numerous pilgrims, many from Thailand, joined us to circumambulate the stupa, but unfortunately the upper levels were closed. According to legend, Ashokan missionaries built a stupa on the site to enclose a piece of the Buddha's breastbone (pubic bone in one account). A stupa was constructed in the mid-16th century by King Setthathirat on a Khamer site, but like so many other monuments in Laos was destroyed by foreign invaders. The present golden stupa was reconstructed by a French university team in the 1930s, which doesn't seem to diminish the passion of the pilgrims. A large statue of Setthathirat sitting on a horse is outside the gate and he looks amazingly like Teddy Roosevelt. Down the road from Pha That Luang is a large four-sided arch faintly reminiscent of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. Named Patuxai which means "gate of triumph," the arch was constructed in the 1960s of cement from the U.S. intended to be used in the construction of a new airport. It's sometimes called "the vertical runway." A sign on an inside wall is unusually critical, and after recounting the story of its construction, says: "From a closer distance, it appears even less impressive, like a monster of concrete." Patuxai is surrounded by a large park which was full of Laotians and tourists, all taking photos of each other in front of the concrete monstrosity.

There are more temples in Laos than even in Thailand where the characteristic architecture fills the skyline. We ended out tour yesterday at Haw Pha Kaeo, a temple built to house the Emerald Buddha which now resides in a place of honor at Wat Phra Kaew in the Royal Palace in Bangkok after being taken by the Siamese during warfare in 1779. I doubt that the Laotians are much happy about that, but relations along the Mekong border are peaceful these days. Haw Pha Kaeo is now a national museum of religious art and we sneaked under the wire just before closing to look at the varieties of Buddhist iconography, old and new. (That line at the left of the photo is my umbrella, as the rain was beginning to fall again).

Last night we went up to the fourth floor of Bor Pen Nyang, a bar next to our hotel, to watch the sun set over the Mekong. But despite drinking a Beerlao, the national brew, gray clouds obscured the view. A little later we walked along the riverbank past dozens of outdoor "beer garden restaurants" and a large carnival complete with games and blow-up castles for kids to a riverboat restaurant. But before the cruise began, mosquitoes feasted on us for dinner instead and we opted to leave and dine in the air-conditioned comfort of Restaurant Le Provençal, a French restaurant where the walls were inexplicably covered with bullfight posters (Hemingway's influence?). I order duck but got beef instead. It was delicious, and the "freedom fries" were very tasty.

The French influence can be seen in the architecture, street names, and in presence of French bread everywhere. I had a cappuccino at La Salon de Thé. The Post Office had "Philatelie" over the stamp window, and at the airport the VIP lounge was the Salon d'honneur." But Laos is still run by a Communist government and I was reminded of Vietnam but the absence of magazine and newspaper stalls. The only place I saw the English language newspaper, the Vientiane Times, was in the hotel lobby and in several cafes, but never for sale. There were no familiar fast food restaurants, no Starbucks and no 7-11s, although I did see a minimart with the tell-tale red and green strips in the window. None of the franchises were missed. Vientiane seemed full of westerners, many in working clothes whom I suspect worked for the UN and NGO organizations. And of course there were many backpackers, kids with tattoos and tattered copies of the Lonely Planet guide. Everywhere there are women wearing long skirts called I believe phasin, in beautiful patterns. The market I visited was packed with stalls selling beautiful materials and I flirted briefly with the idea of going into the import-export business. Certainly not an original idea.

I liked Vientiane very much and believe I could live there. Prices are certainly cheaper than in Thailand, and comparable to Vietnam. I'm not sure what I could do, however, beyond watching the river flow and, in the rainy season, watching the drops fall. My first impressions of Luang Prabang, soggy thought they may be, are very good, but I'll save them for another blog. Below is a picture of our hotel, the tall building.

Weathering the Storm

Just as I was getting used to the rainy season with its brief daily showers, Typhoon Lekima landed in central Vietnam and pushed westward toward Nong Khai where I was staying on the banks of the Mekong River. Named after a Vietnamese fruit, the tropical storm first headed towards southern China where over 100,000 people were evacuated along the coast. But it switched course, increased its winds to typhoon strength, and prompted authorities to begin evacuating 400,000 people.

By the time it reached me, winds had considerably diminished, but the skies stayed dark and the rains came, ruining my plans to visit the Sala Kaew Sculpture Park. Constructed of cement over a 20-year period by a mystic shaman named Luang Pu, who died in 1996, the park sounds like a Thai version of Watts Towers in Los Angeles. According to the Lonely Planet, the park "is a real smorgasbord of bizarre cement statuyes of Shiva, Vishnu, Buddha, and every other Hindu and Buddhist deity imaginable, as well as numerous secular figures." I wanted to ride over on a bike supplied by the Mut Mee Guest House to the park on the outskirts of Nong Khai, but the rain spoiled my plans. So I enjoyed a lovely breakfast in the outside hall while the winds blew, the rain came down, and the mighty Mekong rolled on before my eyes.

It continues to rain this morning in Vientiane, the capital of Laos. The picture above of the river was taken from the terrace in front of the Mekong Riverside Riverside in the center of what had been described has a sleepy, dustry Wild West kind of a town. Not so. Even with the clouds and rain, Vientiane (the French name for Viang Chan, the city's Laotian name) seems a lively city, full of backpacker energy. While eating whole fish and laap, a Lao delicacy, at a table on the second-floor balcony of the farang-owned Douang Deuane Restaurant & Wine Bar, I watched dozens of young westerners walking up and down the street. There is little traffic in this part of the city near the river bank, other than the put-put-put of tuk-tuks and motor bikes.

Getting here was easy. The Mut Mee was only minutes away from the Friendship Bridge where my visa exist was stamped by Thai authorities who seemed unusually inquisitive about my residence in Bangkok. However, I passed, and took a bus packed with Lao across the bridge for 15 baht to the Lao immigration office on the other side. While waiting for the visa, which cost $35, I talked with an American coming from Burma who said he worked for the State Department and was constantly questioned by the police before the current troubles. He also said he had trouble find a Burmese girl who would date him (I wouldn't date a U.S. "spook" either!). After paying a 10 baht "exit fee," I took an aging Mercedes Benz taxi to the capital which was about an hour away over roads bumpy from construction. Occasionally the air conditioning would send out a puff of suspicious white smoke. My room at the Intercity Hotel is small with high ceilings and a dab of art on the wall. My cheap rate did not merit a Mekong view.

a After checking in, I oriented myself to the neighborhood. Vientiane is full of Buddhist temples, despite the fact that Buddhism was outlawed briefly when the communist Pathet Lao regime took power in the 1970s. Next to the hotel is Wat Chanthabuli and across from it is Wat Ong Teu Mahawihan, built in the mid-16th century by King Settathirat on a site believed to be imported for religious purposes in the 3rd century. Now called the Lao People's Democratic Republic, Laos is still a Communist country but the Soviet drabness has been replaced by backpacker chic. There are cafes and restaurants everywhere. After a cappuccino at the Scandinavian Bakery next to a French restaurant across from the Vietnamese Cultural Center, I walked up to That Dam (pictured here), or Black Stupa, a monument that was supposedly once coated with gold that was taken during the Siamese sacking of the city in 1828. It is surrounded by a couple of houses that could have been brought from Paris, a sign of French control over the country for fifty years.

Laotians drive on the right, probably a result of the French occupation (as is the popularity here of French bread; dare I order "freedom fries"?). Both U.S. dollars and Thai baht are acceptable currency (I paid the taxi driver 300 baht and the hotel $10 for in-room internet access). But the national currency is the kip. I got 281,000 kip for 1,000 baht , and when I took 300,000 kip out of one of the rare ATM machines, my bank withdrew $32. Lunch yesterday was 80,000 kip, and dinner, which included a glass of good French Sauvignon, was only 85,000 (I should add that this is for two, including my guide and translator).

If the sun lifts soon, I hope to visit a wat or two. Jerry said that when he came to Vientiane with Greg there was nothing to do here but eat and drink. I think there are more choices, judging by the sights to see in the Lonely Planet. But judging by the excellence of lunch and dinner yesterday, a culinary holiday in Laos would be a fine thing.

Watching the River Flow

The Mekong River flows by me as I write, sitting at an outdoor table, where an (mostly unreliable) internet connection is conveniently located, at Mut Mee Garden Guest House in Nong Khai. The muddy water is fueled by heavy rains upstream. This is the end of the wet season in Thailand, and also in Laos across the wide river from me, my destination tomorrow. For the next ten days, the Mekong will remain in sight.

I've long had a fascination with the Mekong, one of the world’s great rivers, since first hearing its mysterious name during the American War (that's how the Vietnamese think of it). It was originally called Mae Nam Khong by the local Tai people, Mae Khong for short, which means Kong River or "Mother of all rivers" (“nam” is the Thai word for water). The headwaters are believed to be in China’s Qinghai province (Tibet?) and half of the river’s length is in that country. Leaving China, the Mekong passes through Burma, Laos, Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam. Because of gorges, rapids and falls, much of the river is all but impassable to river traffic. There are several dams in China, which have concerned environmentalists, and a few bridges downstream, notably the Thai-Lao Friendship Bridge, built in 2004, that I will cross over tomorrow.

The broad river is tranquil here and appears to move as slow as molasses in front of the Mut Mee (which means, inexplicably, “got fleas,” according to the British woman who runs the Hornbill Bookstore next door). Legend has it that the river is populated by water dragons called “naga” who spew fireballs into the air every October at the end of the annual Buddhist Rains Retreat which coincides with the 15th waxing moon of the 11th lunar month. Whatever the scientific explanation for the phenomenon of small lights rising from the water may be, the event is a tourist bonanza. Unfortunately I will be back in Bangkok by October 26th when the next sighting is scheduled to take place.

I flew from Bangkok to Udon yesterday and took a van from the airport to Nong Khai an hour’s drive north. On the northeastern border of Thailand, in the land called Isan (for the Sanskrit Isana, the Mon-Khmer kingdom which flourished in the 9th century), Nong Khai is a major gateway to Laos. Mut Mee, owned by an Englishman named Julian, comes highly recommended by Lonely Planet (which was just sold to BBC Media in a multi-million-dollar deal). Rooms in several buildings and an outdoor restaurant overlook the Mekong, and the compound also includes, besides the bookstore, space for artists and yoga instructors. There is also a floating bar and restaurant, and a barge for evening cruises. I took one last night to enjoy the Mekong at sunset, drinking beer while watching the lights come on in both countries.



There is a small backpacker scene in Nong Khai with travelers stopping off here on their way to the fabled Vang Vien in Laos which, if reports are correct, sounds similar to Pai which I visited two years ago between Chiang Mai and the Burmese border: Dreadlocks, Banana pancakes and bars showing American films on DVDs. Guests at Mut Mee are given a book for their room in which to enter charges for food and drink. Coffee is free and this morning I had an omelet with “sexy stuffing” for breakfast. Bikes are available and if the rain does not materialize, I plan to ride across town to see a strange sculpture park that sounds like the Thai version of Watts Towers in LA. Yesterday I strolled through the small town, visiting a large market, noticing the unique and colorful tuk tuks, and seeing a variety of Buddhist temples, one with a very interesting Buddha situated on top, with a fine view of the Mekong. I even found a coffee house which served an excellent cappuccino.

Mostly I want to enjoy the time here and watch the river flow by.

Accentuating the Negative

Monks in Thailand go out from their monastery or temple every morning on pindabat to beg, and in this way receive all their food and support from the community. I've seen them do this up country but not in Bangkok before last Friday when I walked up Soi 4 at 8 in the morning and witnessed this scene outside of a tailor shop next door to Nana. I was surprised to see the saffron-robed monks in my neighborhood because as far as I know there is no Buddhist establishment within walking distance. But there they were, waiting patiently, bowls in hand for a donation of warm sticky rice or freshly fried fish, or maybe a few baht to help with expenses, while the denizens of Nana slipped past, some to go home and sleep after a busy night of pleasure seeking.

A few days before, but not quite so early, I'd walked up the soi to Sukhumvit and was stopped by the sound of chanting across the road from the above picture. There, in the Melody UK Bar, surrounded by kneeling girls, were four monks next to an altar with candles and lotus blossoms. One of the monks held a Bodhi leaf-shaped fan in front of his face, sure sign of his teaching authority. It was such an unusual sight in the entertainment district that I stopped and listened for a few minutes. It was too dark to take a photo and I suspected it would be impolite. My guess is that it was a funeral service for a co-worker. Later I saw the implements of the ceremony piled high on the street-side bar to be picked up by whomever had supplied them. The other day Jerry took a look at the saffron-colored shoulder bag I'd purchased at MBK and said that Lamyai his wife would not allow it in her house, because it identified me as a monk and I was not one. One of the girls at the massage parlor up the street from my apartment told me yesterday that she wanted to give me the oil treatment because I was a monk and she wanted to see what was in my heart, "maybe magic." The bag's color immediately gives me an identity, for good or ill. I haven't taken it to the Baan Aree Library talks for fear of confusing the troups. Only Pandit and Phra Mick are fully authorized to wear that color. At home I wear a saffron-colored dhoti from India which has drawn comments, rude or otherwise, from my house guests.

Next to the bag in the photo above is a copy of A Woman of Bangkok by Jack Reynolds. It has been called one of the finest novels written about Asia. But today, fifty years after it was first published in England as A Sort of Beauty by Jack Jones, this classic is out of print and used copies are almost impossible to find. There is strangely little information about Reynolds/Jones on the internet. He was either a Welshman or Scottish, and perhaps drove an ambulance in China during the war. Supposedly his missionary parents were scandalized by the book, hence the name change. Maybe he wrote nothing else. Bangkok novelist Christopher G. Moore compares Woman with The World of Suzie Wong and The Quiet America, two other novels written in the 1950s about Asia, and says Reynolds' achievement is unequaled. What he captured was "the authentic atmosphere of Bangkok in the 1950s and created a prototype novel about the western male who falls head over heels in love with a ruthless bargirl." A whole school of fiction has followed and the shelves here are full of this genre. I'm only half-way through and find it well-written and absorbing. The author shifts perspectives between an Englishman new to the city and the bar girl he loves. Here is one of her observations:

By and large she preferred Americans to all the rest...the Americans knew how to treat a girl like her. They had plenty of money and were free with it when out to enjoy themselves. They never fell in love: they hated personal involvements like that. They took their women as they took their drinks and cigarettes: women were just one more pleasure to which they were addicted but which they didn't get emotional about. The world was scattered with girls they'd had as it was with the bottles and cigarette packets they'd emptied. And often, in fact usually, they were drunker than the English or the French (but not the Dutch), so they soon rolled over to snore.

Sort of like American foreign policy. We fuck the world, then forget about it.

You've got to accentuate the positive
Eliminate the negative
Latch on to the affirmative
Don't mess with Mister In-Between

The morning I saw the monks I was on my way early to Bumrungrad International Hospital for an HIV test, my first, one of the new rites of passage. It's a huge facility tucked between Sukhumvit sois 1 and 3 in the Middle Eastern ghetto. More than 60 per cent of its patients are non-Thai and the sick and the cosmetically-challenged from all over the world come for their relatively cheap services. No less than three lovely Thai ladies with "Registrar" tags helped pave the way through paperwork, took my photo, and issued me a card. Fully authorized, I found the general medical clinic, and after being passed along to several other desks by friendly faces, and having my vital signs taken ("Normal," the nurse said of my blood pressure), I waited briefly in the huge but almost empty lobby. Complimentary water, coffee or tea was available and the numerous TVs broadcast Thai news channels. This hospital could easily handle a major epidemic. After my blood was drawn painlessly, I had an hour to kill over a cappuccino and the Bangkok Post at the nearby Starbucks. I won't say I wasn't worried. Though I've been for the most part careful and protected, you never really know. When the female doctor finally said: "Negative," I was just a bit joyful.

In Santa Cruz before I left I took photos of street musicians, hundreds of them, from solo instrumentalists to a variety of groups and bands (the home-made marimba band was the best). Some of the singers could even carry a tune. Here in Bangkok I watch for street musicians playing unfamiliar instruments. This blind man near the river dock is playing a khene. It looks like Peruvian pipes but the sound it makes is haunting, more like bagpipes. This old man, not from down the soi from Nana, is playing a Thai violin. The melody it made was raw but beautiful. Every evening I can see a blind singer or two being led along the crowded sidewalk, singing traditional Thai folk songs, probably from Isan, through a portable speaker. Some of the street musicians are bad, imitations of their pitiful counterparts in the west. Yesterday I heard a blind singer and guitarist outside the entrance to the Asoke subway station, and their music would make a dog howl. The smart ones had run for cover. Still, Jerry gave them a few baht as it was important, he said, to support musicians wherever they can be found. I think there should be standards, here as well as in Santa Cruz where there is a woman who played that banjo so badly and sang so poorly that I think she made the flowers wilt in the cupola in front of the bookshop, and forced Tom Scribner, whose statue she desecrated, to turn over in his grave.


On Saturday I visited Lumpini Park for the first time. What a fabulous place, in the same category with Central, Hyde and Golden Gate parks. It's named after Buddha's birthplace in Nepal. I got there late, about 9, but the action starts at dawn when the fitness fanatics congregate in this lung of the city. The lanes winding around the artificial lake were still filled with joggers, tai chi and aerobics exercisers, strolling grand dames under umbrellas to protect from the sun, and a variety of bikers and even a roller skater. The picnic areas were full, some with groups wearing similar colored shirts (pink was a favorite, though on Saturday the official color is violet). A good percentage of the people were my age or older, and I judged the largest number to be Chinese. Outside each park entrance were a conglomeration of stalls selling all manner of food. I didn't see anyone selling snake's blood, a specialty at Lumpini I have been told, nor did I see any of the aggressive ladyboys who apparently prowl the park at night. On the lake teenagers and families rowed and pedaled various kinds of boats. I walked back on the nearly deserted pedestrian overpass to Benjakiti Park near my apartment. But, as on a previous weekend, found it nearly deserted despite its spacious walkways, lawn and large lake. I don't understand the popularity of Lumpini and the emptiness of Benjakiti, but I was told that the latter is more popular in the evenings when lovers stroll the paths and snuggle on the grass.

At the end of my long walk through the parks on Saturday, I passed through Chuvit Park on Sukhumvit where I saw this magnificent reproduction of a traditional Thai wooden house. Unfortunately it was not open but could only be viewed from the outside against a backdrop of skyscrapers. The beautiful little pocket park was built by Chuvit Kamolvisit, the owner of a string of massage parlors, and is "dedicated to the Lord Jesus Christ." At 4 a.m. one night a couple of years ago, accompanied by soldiers, his workers bulldozed the houses and shops of dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people to clear the land (which he owned) for grass, benches and fountains. Needless to say, Chuvit is not loved in these parts.

Tomorrow I leave for my two-week adventure in Nong Khai and Laos. I'm not sure how easy it will be to blog there, so I am trying to use up all my notes here before I go.

I haven't said much about traveling on the Chao Praya River (Larry, who lived here 18 years ago, pronounced it incorrectly as "Choppia") but it is a pleasure taken whenever I visit the other side of the city. The Skytrain from Nana, with one transfer, takes me easily to the pier at Saphan Taksin, and a ride on the river taxi, usually packed with Thais, tourists and monks, is only 13 baht. Occasionally, as here, you see kids swimming in the brown soupy water, their immune systems more powerful than mine. The river doesn't smell as bad as the canals but it's clearly polluted and clogged with hardy vegetation. River traffic is heavy with dozens of barges passing in either direction, usually in groups of three pulled by tugboats, carrying cargo for the port to the south and river points north. There are cross-river ferries and a variety of large ships carrying tourists on a lunch or dinner cruise. The river is lined with raggedy shacks which seem about to fall into the water, luxury hotels like the Oriental and Shangri-La, tall skyscrapers filled with expensive condos, and Catholic churches as well as Buddhist temples. It's cooler on the river where a breeze always blows away the humidity. Departures and arrivals are a little scary. The taxi captains are adept at sliding up to the docks where you must jump on or off quickly. I haven't seen anyone fall in the brink yet.

Rather than ramble on forever, I had better end this before losing the patience of any reader who has made it this far. Unfortunately, I have not said anything about the tweezers which you see employed everywhere, hairless Thai men plucking their few chin whisker and women their eyebrows. I even accompanied a lady who purchased a pair at a major mall. And I haven't mentioned the census takers who accost tourists on every corner to compile statistics for some government ministry ("Where are you from? Where do you live? Do you like Bangkok?"). I wanted to write about the prostitutes and ladyboys who stand in front of the Sukhumvit Starbucks to put on their makeup. Out front of Nana every night you can see a food cart selling insects, vendors carrying huge pandas and teddy bears as gifts presumably for the ladies, and frequently you must avoid the elephants lumbering along the soi.

I've seen three movies in the last three weeks, all of them in French with English and Thai subtitles. Last weekend I saw the delightful Belgian film "L'Iceberg," a screwball comedy about a woman who finds herself in the freezer of a fast food restaurant. And in my desire to understand the sleazy and seamier side of Bangkok life, I've visited the bars where freelancers hang out in the daytime and late at night after Nana closes, the cavernous Beer Garden on Soi 7, and the depressing basement bar Thermae on Sukhumvit between sois 13 and 15. One night I ventured to Soi 33 where the bars are named after artists, like Gaugin, Van Gough, Goya, Dali, Degas, Renoir and Manet. No one seems to know how it started, but the girls here dress up and the beer prices are double what you pay elsewhere.

As I write this, a beautiful day with a pale blue sky and puffy white clouds, the saffron revolution in nextdoor Burma seems to have ended, not with a bang but a whimper. The people are cowed once again by a brutal military dictorship. Even though the UN envoy is visiting with jailed leader Aung San Suu Kri, the streets are apparently quiet. The government reports nine dead, but activists suspect many hundreds were killed and thousands are in jail. It remains to be seen how the people will react to their monks being so badly treated by the soldiers. One account I read says that the military is divided and that this disarray may bode well for future attempts at bringing the government down. At the end of the meeting at Baan Aree Library last week, Pandit led us in a metta meditation for the monks. And I received an email from Everyday Dharma in Santa Cruz saying that the merit from last weekend's retreat would be dedicated to the monks and the well-being of the people in Burma. Let us do whatever we can, meditate, pray, or just think good thoughts. And wish me well, please, on my visit to Laos.