We got back. Limbs intact. Tanned but not the yellow tone of hepatitis. Initially arrived smelling fetid and feeling worn, but nothing that a quick spurt in modern civilization can’t fix. While the dirt was soon washed off and souvenirs quickly spread out, the wanderer’s itch would not subside for a while yet.
Was there a mode of transport not ventured? Speedboat, slowboat, two-seater tuk-tuk, multi-seater tuk-tuk, meat-wagon, Lao airlines plane out of an airport resembling a rundown highschool cafeteria, hitched a ride on Belgian chick’s new Landcruiser in Vientiane, big bus, collapsing bus, bicycle, and no shortage of plain old walking.
Had gorged on a plethora of local food—would you believe that the best bakeries in the world are to be found in Laos? Or that a veritable insect buffet awaits any Indochinese with the munchies? Salads that sing, the softest stickiest sweet rice with red beans and a tantalizingly tangy centre, drinking Laotian version of Sangria—Lao Gaia under a full moon, stuffed basil leaves and cabbage leaves that leave their Turkish cousins for dead.
If exhiliration could be distilled – it would be the rush from jumping under the Kuang Si waterfalls in Luang Prabang—the water ices to the core, causing scalps to tighten and eliciting half-involuntary yells.
The same high can be said of Angkor Wat, though in a different vein—meditative and breathtaking rather than adrenaline-inducing. They are only temples, one thinks, but faced with the age and agelessness of the ruins, a spell is cast – we almost beseech the restoration work to cease, so walls crumble and leave only puzzles of stone, strewn with wild flowers and tall grasses tugging at visitors with their adoring thorns. We become as enamoured with the evening breeze of the jungle as we do its stone inhabitants. Bas-reliefs of asparas bewitch our eyes in the glint of dawn. The sculptures—defaced, beheaded or covered with velvety moss bespoke the imperfections of humanity far more than preserved relics confined in museum glass. There is little to speak about – the rush of extreme beauty renders words inept. We madly capture – on digital memory, as if consciously putting the barrier of a camera lens between us and grandeur, as if the confines of camera angle would reduce these wondrous facades to comprehensible proportions.
Tourist-watching is no less interesting. Some see Angkor Wat as photo opportunities, others see religious symbols and architectural feats, the historians reflect upon our own times of turmoil and envisage the rise and fall of empires. Further still, there are tour groups from Taiwan whose crude mockery of the stone phallic symbol – part of the Linga cult would be hilarious if it weren’t so tragic. Well-heeled Europeans nod constantly at their Cambodian guides’ commentary, although I do detect at times their eyes glaze over. Brit backpackers saunter through massive gates and admit it makes European castles seem like trifles of edifice.
Turning 29 can feel like stepping off precariously the top step of Angkor Wat, but in the sunset of a quiet temple, surrounded with the sweetest Cambodian kids, goodness and peace made age seem of irrelevance.
The Queen of Shopping did not come home empty-handed, vases of mango wood, shawls embroidered with elephants in silk thread, earrings that remind me of Cambodian grace, bamboo lamp shades made by the girl in front of me.
It wasn’t without misadventures – the 7-hours crammed into an aerodynamic biscuit tin (they call it a speed boat) on the Mekong yielded 15 minutes of novelty gazing at the cloud-encircled mountains and an eternity of discomfort, compounded by bulleting rain against which our only shields were conical bamboo hats and uber-chic sunglasses.
Funds dried up in Chiang Khong and forgot PIN number of credit card.
Wei was mistaken for a criminal at the Thai-Cambodia border given his common John-Smith like name.
Outrage at corrupt Laotian border officials who wanted to charge a Saturday/Sunday overtime fee—before grudgingly paying it.
But it is always the shitty experiences that make for persistent memories, no?
Was there a mode of transport not ventured? Speedboat, slowboat, two-seater tuk-tuk, multi-seater tuk-tuk, meat-wagon, Lao airlines plane out of an airport resembling a rundown highschool cafeteria, hitched a ride on Belgian chick’s new Landcruiser in Vientiane, big bus, collapsing bus, bicycle, and no shortage of plain old walking.
Had gorged on a plethora of local food—would you believe that the best bakeries in the world are to be found in Laos? Or that a veritable insect buffet awaits any Indochinese with the munchies? Salads that sing, the softest stickiest sweet rice with red beans and a tantalizingly tangy centre, drinking Laotian version of Sangria—Lao Gaia under a full moon, stuffed basil leaves and cabbage leaves that leave their Turkish cousins for dead.
If exhiliration could be distilled – it would be the rush from jumping under the Kuang Si waterfalls in Luang Prabang—the water ices to the core, causing scalps to tighten and eliciting half-involuntary yells.
The same high can be said of Angkor Wat, though in a different vein—meditative and breathtaking rather than adrenaline-inducing. They are only temples, one thinks, but faced with the age and agelessness of the ruins, a spell is cast – we almost beseech the restoration work to cease, so walls crumble and leave only puzzles of stone, strewn with wild flowers and tall grasses tugging at visitors with their adoring thorns. We become as enamoured with the evening breeze of the jungle as we do its stone inhabitants. Bas-reliefs of asparas bewitch our eyes in the glint of dawn. The sculptures—defaced, beheaded or covered with velvety moss bespoke the imperfections of humanity far more than preserved relics confined in museum glass. There is little to speak about – the rush of extreme beauty renders words inept. We madly capture – on digital memory, as if consciously putting the barrier of a camera lens between us and grandeur, as if the confines of camera angle would reduce these wondrous facades to comprehensible proportions.
Tourist-watching is no less interesting. Some see Angkor Wat as photo opportunities, others see religious symbols and architectural feats, the historians reflect upon our own times of turmoil and envisage the rise and fall of empires. Further still, there are tour groups from Taiwan whose crude mockery of the stone phallic symbol – part of the Linga cult would be hilarious if it weren’t so tragic. Well-heeled Europeans nod constantly at their Cambodian guides’ commentary, although I do detect at times their eyes glaze over. Brit backpackers saunter through massive gates and admit it makes European castles seem like trifles of edifice.
Turning 29 can feel like stepping off precariously the top step of Angkor Wat, but in the sunset of a quiet temple, surrounded with the sweetest Cambodian kids, goodness and peace made age seem of irrelevance.
The Queen of Shopping did not come home empty-handed, vases of mango wood, shawls embroidered with elephants in silk thread, earrings that remind me of Cambodian grace, bamboo lamp shades made by the girl in front of me.
It wasn’t without misadventures – the 7-hours crammed into an aerodynamic biscuit tin (they call it a speed boat) on the Mekong yielded 15 minutes of novelty gazing at the cloud-encircled mountains and an eternity of discomfort, compounded by bulleting rain against which our only shields were conical bamboo hats and uber-chic sunglasses.
Funds dried up in Chiang Khong and forgot PIN number of credit card.
Wei was mistaken for a criminal at the Thai-Cambodia border given his common John-Smith like name.
Outrage at corrupt Laotian border officials who wanted to charge a Saturday/Sunday overtime fee—before grudgingly paying it.
But it is always the shitty experiences that make for persistent memories, no?
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