where the river khan snakes into the mekong sits luang prabang,
a peninsula thrust between the jungled hills where history and beauty
entwine with spirit and throngs of tourists stroll the litter-free streets.
sidewalks neatly bricked and tiled in terra cotta front the silk shops
and guest houses, cafes where the french colonial past can still be tasted
in the pastries and savored with a cup of the exquisite lao mountain coffee.
preferably at a sidewalk table with a view of the foreign tourists
dressed up in their idea of international hipster chic:
billowy silk harem pants, dreadlocks, exotic tattoos
t-shirts emblazoned with dragons or beer company logos
i wonder why they fail to notice that the locals favor plainer garb
like jeans or chinos. without the red faces or sweat-soaked backs.
along the spine of the peninsula, the temples of this holy buddhist place
reach for the divine, the gold on black interior of wat xieng thong best saved
for last, where we sheltered beneath the eaves while the monsoon burst the sky.
about an hour before sunset, the night market sets up on the main street,
with red and blue canopies and ground cloths, reed mats spread with wares.
it goes up quick, with the precision of a military operation, filling up
the width of the street for several blocks with just enough room to walk
in narrow aisles. the former royal palace, a modest one as these things go,
is now a national museum. king's bedroom, queens bedroom, playroom, library…..
only the entrance and reception area are grand. very grand.
dazzling reflective glass mosaics. glass cases with the royal garments,
swords, king's walking sticks, queen's dinner plates and flatware.
gifts from various countries, especially fellow people's democratic republics.
two pieces of gravel from the moon, courtesy of the nixon administration.
a couple of ivory-colored lincoln continentals and an edsel in a dusty garage.
portraits of several generations of the royal family on the walls. but no mention
anywhere, at least not in any obvious place, about their ultimate fate,
sent to the north after the revolution to participate in reconstruction of the country
after the victory against the american imperialists. where they vanished
into history, cause unknown. there is another museum, away from the shops
and cafes, the temples and the guest houses. the UXO center.
that's the acronym for unexploded ordinance. there are an estimated
800 million of them, large and small. the little ones, the cluster munitions,
that they call bombies; are almost cute, like bambi. brightly colored, like toys.
the comrades are not innocent either of course, when the hmong, america's
proxy army in the region, tried to flee across the mekong to thailand
they were machine-gunned in the back, men, women, grandmas and babies.
and yet this place, with it's spotless new airport, and glorious temples nestled
between the rivers and the emerald hills, either holds no bitterness or hides it well.
perhaps the ancients who chose this spot found a place with more than beauty
and good soils. a place where the spirit of the buddha can endure beyond
the failures of civilization and war. or even the influence of global tourism,
with all it's trinkets, rudeness, and cultural ignorance. with any luck.
there is big gecko native to southeast asia, the english name for them is tokay,
which is kind of what their voice sounds like. or with a certain ear, it could even be:
okay. it's said that if you hear them call seven times, it's means good luck.
the sun went down and we sat on the balcony of our hotel gazing over the town
and heard one call, ok, ok, ok, ok, ok, ok. six times. we waited for the seventh
and at just the moment when it would have croaked, a badly muffled truck
passed along the road, masking what i choose to believe was the seventh,
because the lao deserve all the good luck that they can get. okay?
okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay.
No comments:
Post a Comment