October 1 - Laos

“Love is... Two souls inhabiting the same body.”

This is one of the more interesting messages we’ve seen stenciled on T-shirts. I love what is sometimes gained in translation. Like multiple-personality disorders.

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Willa’s just fallen asleep and Johnny calls me out to the deck of our bungalow. We’re in the small, quiet riverside town of Nong Khiaw in Northern Laos and, with the exception of a few lights from houses on the other side of the bridge, the only light outside comes from the millions of stars and galaxies above us. Looking across the river, the silhouette of the giant, craggy mountains delineates where the sky begins and the Milky Way - something I don’t think I’ve ever seen before - shines brightly, following, or perhaps directing the path of the river. It’s idyllic here.

Actually, it’s idyllic almost everywhere in Laos. It’s a beautiful country of mountains, jungles, fields of rice, fruit orchards, wetlands, waterfalls and sprawling rivers. Beautiful people who smile and greet you. Children in school uniforms of white blouses and dark blue sarongs or pants who wave as we pass by in buses. They race their bicycles down the road, steering with one hand while holding umbrellas to shield themselves from the sun in the other. Even in the cities, people are relaxed and friendly. Except for the literature and occasional posted warnings about UXOs (unexploded ordnances), there are no indications that Laos is famous for being “one of the most bombed nations on earth,” as Lonely Planet guidebook states.

We arrived in Vientiane, the capital of Laos, on September 28th, by bus, crossing the Mekong River on the Thai-Australian Friendship Bridge. It’s a short ride from Nong Khai, a border town on the Mekong River in Northeast Thailand, about an hour, even with two stops at immigration. The distance and time seem too short to be leaving one country and entering another, but almost instantly we feel and see differences in the two countries.

The French colonial influence is pervasive in Vientiane and throughout Laos. There are two-story buildings with balconies on each floor, wooden shutters and overgrown plants and trees neighboring manicured gardens, both rich and green. The paint on the outside walls has faded to pale and chipped yellow, green and white. Glowing golden wats (temples), ancient, crumbling stupas growing grass and flowers and an arc de triomphe with a giant fountain decorate the boulevards.

From Vientiane we head north by bus to Vang Vieng, a small, flat town just off of the highway. In the center of town is an enclave of tourist-geared outfits offering tubing and kayaking, backpacker cafes and guesthouses with TVs blaring episodes of “Friends” and “The Simpsons.”

Our guesthouse sits on the Song River with an incredible view of the rushing, rising water. It rains heavily every night and sometimes during the day, flooding the grass and gardens of the guesthouse where Willa plays with the owner’s four kids, wrestling, chasing and taking turns trying to pick each other up.

On the far side of the river, men and women cast fishing nets from boats and from the shore, laughing and shouting to one another as they fish and exclaiming over catches. Beyond them, bright green rice fields stretch out and beyond those, karsts reach up to the sky, their peaks concealed by clouds.

One morning we bicycle across the river and down the red dirt road in search of one of several caves housing Buddha statues Vang Vieng is known for. The air is clear and cool from the rains and herds of small, brown cows share the road with us, the wooden bells around their necks resonating.

We walk our bikes across several small, rushing rivers. When the water rises too high, we park our bikes and follow a woman who, like a guardian angel, spotted us on the road and motorbiked to meet us. We trek up river, against the strong current, making paths through tall grabbing weeds, over rocks and muddy paths. Stopping to catch our breaths at a lean-to, the woman walks behind it and comes back with a handmade sign, “10,000 kip for guide.” Ahhh.

While we usually prefer to make our on way and really prefer to know in advance if someone’s expecting a fee, there is no way we would have found our way to the hidden cave with the giant seated Buddha and, more importantly, back to our bikes without this woman.

We head north for Luang Prabang by bus, departing from the pot-holed tarmac airfield strip that serves as Vang Vieng’s bus station, a meeting ground for the town dogs and a driving course for would-be licensed motorcyclists.

The mountains our bus slowly climbs around are stunning, awesome, breathtaking. We compare them to Hawaii, New Zealand, Montana, and finally concede that they can be found only here, in Laos. Though we do see some evidence of deforestation - and Dr. Seuss’ The Lorax springs to mind - the beautiful, mostly undeveloped country seems to go on forever.

Small mountain villages sit right on the highway’s edge and children, ducks, pigs and dogs amble cheerfully in the road. One cow lies on the median line, traffic swerving around it. Drivers use their horns sparingly, if at all, and defer to animals and people.

Most of the houses and shacks have satellite dishes. Everyone seems to have access to transportation - bicycles and motorcycles, if not cars. We do not see people hitchhiking or walking long distances. There seems to be plenty of fresh food available - rice, fruits and vegetables, fish and healthy, if small cows.

There must be extreme poverty in this country, but we don’t see much evidence of it. There are few beggars and they look more in need of a shower and clean clothes (and, in some cases, psychiatric help) than they do food. I can count on two hands the number of children I’ve seen obviously suffering from malnutrition.

The smooth road now descends, and our bus gains speed as it winds down the mountains. The bus driver’s assistant hands out plastic bags to those who need. Willa gets sick once, but we’re prepared and the mess is contained and cleaned up in seconds (sticky rice goes down in clumps and comes back up in clumps.) Johnny and I are almost manic in our attempts to entertain Willa, joined in our unspoken and irrational belief that if we can keep her mind distracted by good cheer, her stomach will forget it’s doing somersaults. Somehow it works.

Six and a half hours later we arrive in Luang Prabang and it is even more charming than the guidebook photos convey. Luang Prabang is a growing tourist destination and while there’s development, it complements the surrounding temples, trees and rivers. Teak wood homes line brick paths behind short, tidy wooden fences and courtyards are filled with bouganvillea, various palms and potted plants. There are none of the cement-block high rises popping up all over the rest of South East Asia’s towns.

“I could summer in Laos.” I’m joking, knowing this comment will make Johnny roll his eyes. He’s already heard me remark countless times how this hall of trees and flowers over the sandy dirt path remind me of Martha’s Vineyard or those cottages remind me of Cape Cod, but it’s true. This country is absolutely beautiful. It’s taken the best of rural life and city life and magically, seemingly successfully, combined them.

All over Laos, even in the cities, it’s silent by 9PM. Save for the lights emanating from homes and restaurants, streets are dark, stars and moon clearly visible in the night sky. The few street lights are a dim yellow. There are no horns blowing, no fluorescent shop signs or karaoke blaring from bars. Delicious fancy restaurants with chic decor and flattering lighting share sidewalks with small noodle soup cafes and food stalls grilling whole fish stuffed with lemongrass. Wide, tree-lined avenues and dirt paths for biking and walking follow the river. The cities and large towns provide all amenities and comforts like great bakeries and internet, disposable diapers and French wines.

There is more wrong than right with colonialism, but I am completely beguiled by the charms of French colonial architecture in Asia. And baguettes.

Pakam Guesthouse has only six rooms, all immaculate with private bathrooms, dark hardwood floors and a balcony with a sitting area just outside our room. My mom takes the room next to ours and I think we’re the only guests here. We keep our doors open and Willa has her run of the upstairs. In the evenings, we have picnic dinners on the balcony of grilled fish, barbecued pork sausage, sticky rice, and spicy green papaya salad.

A week later, we take a songthaw, a pick-up truck with two long covered benches down the length of the bed, north to Nong Khiaw. The songthaw is packed with people, all Laotians save for us and a British guy, and bags, both inside and tied on the roof. We pick up other passengers along the way and they somehow squeeze in, or stand on the back bumper and hang on to the rail. If the driver brakes short of someone’s stop, the passengers rally and call out good-naturedly until he relents and drops each person right at their door.

Unlike the larger, air-conditioned buses used mostly by tourists, there are no signs of inward groans or rolled eyes from other passengers when they see us boarding with a baby. People hold Willa’s hand, offer her sweets and gesture for me to let her legs stretch out onto their laps when she’s sleeping. I don’t blame fellow tourists for not wanting their travels marred by a crying kid, but I welcome not feeling guilty when we board the bus.

It is hot, breezeless and the sun is relentless when we arrive in Nong Khiaw. Our legs are stiff and we move unsteadily in the heat under the weight of our bags which seem to grow heavier with each leg of our trip.

In the late afternoon, after reviving cold showers and colder Beer Lao, we walk across the bridge to the small town consisting of a tiny post office, some lackluster restaurants, guesthouses, and shops selling shampoo, toothpaste, candy, chips, etc. At the boat dock, cement stairs lead down to the river and young women and men bathe and wash dishes and clothes while little children play. Chickens run loose and Willa follows the chicks following their mother hen.

The next morning we walk to a cave where Laotians hid during the Indochina War. The paved road is shaded with overhanging trees, lush and green, and runs along a river. The air is loud with the buzz and whirring of insects. We could be on a country road in Virginia or North Carolina and I love that places and experiences can feel universal.

The boat back to Luang Prabang is five of the best hours we spend in Laos with the good company of three Australian women we befriend, children waving and yelling to us as they jump en masse into the river, bright yellow butterflies dancing above the water, limestone cliffs that reach straight up from the river and the breeze off of the river tempering the late afternoon sun.

Suddenly, time is passing too quickly. We have only two weeks left on our Laos visa and so much of the country that we still want to see.

We catch a flight south to Pakse, covering in one hour what would have taken about 30 hours by bus. In dusty, sprawling Pakse we go to the post office, bank, market, grocery store, health clinic, hospital and pharmacy (my mom’s had a terrible sinus infection which develops into the flu), and sporting goods store (to buy a badminton set which we play with while my mom recuperates) over the course of five days. I’ve spent years in cities and not been to all of these places.

When my mom’s sufficiently recovered, we continue south to Kingfisher Eco-Lodge, where elephants roam the mountain paths and giant, black water buffalo wade in the wetlands. They follow each other, a string of water buffalo, along a water path through the high reeds at dawn. White egrets alight upon their backs as they wallow in the marsh. In the early evening the young tenders glide out in shallow wooden boats and in singsong, call the herd home.

Further south still, we take a boat from the mainland to Si Phan Don, Four Thousand Islands. We play badminton on our guesthouse lawn, eat spring rolls, and look at trees. Take bike rides and look for dolphins in the river. Listen to monks chant in a temple lit by candle light. Read and sleep.

Willa has learned to wai, the prayer-like Buddhist greeting of placing palms together in front of your face. It’s delightful to behold, but even more wonderful is what she chooses to wai to. Temples and photographs of temples, the moon, early morning coming in through the curtains, water buffalo calves nursing and, as she lays in bed in the dark, to herself and the day’s end, waiting to fall asleep. All wai-worthy.