There is a mysterious country hidden between the flashy magnets of Thailand and Vietnam, hidden beneath the towering trees of a verdant jungle, where the monsoon rains filter through the tall canopies and leisurely feed the eternal Mekong. A country home to a hundred peoples strewn between its myriad vallies, each proud of its own tongue, fabric, tales, and cuisine. Once called the Land of a Million Elephants, you might know it as Laos.
Similarly unknown it was to us as well, several months ago, when I asked Indi where she’d like to travel. Exploring a map of South-East Asia, her attention drifted away from the oft mentioned Bangkok, Saigon, or Hanoi, to a less familiar name, one that nonetheless sounded enticing to her ear. Laos was a complete surprise to me, and perhaps that is exactly why I immediately acquiesced to her proposal.
In the heart of this sparsely populated country, where a curve of the Nam Ou River joins the Mekong so as to almost cut the old capital of Luang Prabang into an island, one finds oneself drifting asleep into a novel distilled from the dreams of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, several chapters deep into a book where time progresses as a flat circle, eternally looping back on itself, and where names, temples and happenings repeat themselves as regularly as the seasons.
Besides rusting bicycles, only cars polished and gleaming like enormous insects populate the streets. They do not drive, as that would be an impolite interruption of the town’s slumber. They merely reflect the orange sun with their curved bodies. Massive butterflies stir the heavy air along their wandering path from flower to flower, trying to fish sweet nectar out of the pink, yellow, and red.
But as the Mekong drowns and swallows up the sun, as the blaze at the horizon peters out, and the peppered skies sparkle with the light of every star, the town suddenly and happily awakes. Windowblinds propped up by bamboo stalks become colourful awnings, framing the smiling faces of curious people eager to display their magnificent fabrics. Stories attached to the patterns and materials of each piece flow like waterfalls from their lips, over the dusty streets, where hundreds more merchants have arrived from the forest with carved black wood, embroidered purses, pyramids of unfamiliar, ripened fruit, until they eventually trickle down the crumbling steps at the edge of Luang Prabang and join the leisurely movement of the Mekong.
The merchants’ hands caress the cloth with hallowed awe, almost incredulous at the knowledge they weaved it themselves. In fact, they’d rather you only come and look, share their wonder, and not buy anything, as to part with such a marvel would be a grave burden for them to bear. Better you return tomorrow, or the day after, sleep on it a while, and instead buy cups of cut mango, or a fish pulled from the mighty river, whose brown waters only give up their treasures reluctantly, grilled over glowing coals.
