Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage. This is number 52 of a series about our lives and travels, true stories of two people discovering the world, each other, and themselves through five decades of traveling together. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage and travels look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts are a previous series.
After 32 hours on four planes, our eyes felt as if we'd abused them with sandpaper and our feet and ankles were swollen, but we'd reached Vientiane, capitol of Laos, the first of three countries of Southeast Asia that we'd explore with our friend Hala. The challenge ahead wasn't only that these countries were still building an infrastructure for visitors, but also that they were—in varying ways—ruled by repressive governments. Plus, there was the weather: rain had been beating down, with lightning and thunder, but now it had stopped, although both the temperature and humidity were stuck at ninety.
"We paid money for this," Sherrill whispered, wiping sweat from my face.
"We paid money for this," Sherrill whispered, wiping sweat from my face.
On the tiny plane from Bangkok we were surrounded by young Asian businessmen, very jolly with each other, briefcases on their laps. Our Lao guide, a slim brown-skinned young man with sharp cheekbones and a big smile, met us at Arrivals. He'd been a Buddhist monk for twelve years, beginning at the age of eight. Maybe that was why he was so patient, whatever problem he encountered.
Vientiane, we saw driving from the airport, was still a city free of high-rises and heavy traffic. Buildings from the French colonial era, most of them with wide eaves like sleepy eyebrows over weathered faces, broad verandahs, and shuttered windows, peaked out from among newer two and three story buildings. Circling around a massive Victory Arch built in the 1960s to celebrate independence from "foreign control," we drove to our hotel, where we passed out until the next day.
Vientiane, we saw driving from the airport, was still a city free of high-rises and heavy traffic. Buildings from the French colonial era, most of them with wide eaves like sleepy eyebrows over weathered faces, broad verandahs, and shuttered windows, peaked out from among newer two and three story buildings. Circling around a massive Victory Arch built in the 1960s to celebrate independence from "foreign control," we drove to our hotel, where we passed out until the next day.
Sherrill, Morning Market, Vientiane Several of us walked to a Morning Market, on the way meeting stragglers from an early morning "Friendship Marathon" that began in Thailand at 5 a.m. and ended at the Arch. Colorful three-wheeled motorbike taxis, tuk-tuks, and their eager drivers were ready to carry us anyplace we wanted, but we had other plans, starting with changing money. In a ditch beside the street, Sherrill and I saw a woman and three small children collecting dandelions into plastic bags.
Laos was proving to be a country of trees, flowers, motorbikes, slender women moving with small, graceful steps in longhi wrap-around skirts, and young men in the robes of Buddhist monks. Passing monastery after monastery in Vientiane, we could believe that nearly every Lao male spent several years as a Buddhist monk. Recently washed saffron robes were hung out to dry and boyish monks peered at us from open windows and from behind teak shutters.
Sherrill, Motorbike taxis, Vientiane Strolling along the Mekong as the sun set, we passed tea shops and cafes and vegetable gardens belonging to individual families on a broad dyke that ran along the river's edge.
"Look at the kids with those blades," I told Sherrill, as we passed boys cutting down clusters of bananas with machetes big enough to remove a leg.
"Don't fret. They've probably been doing it since they were babies."
"Look at the kids with those blades," I told Sherrill, as we passed boys cutting down clusters of bananas with machetes big enough to remove a leg.
"Don't fret. They've probably been doing it since they were babies."
Weavers at Carol Cassidy's, Vientiane We drove across town to a restored colonial mansion in which an American, Carol Cassidy, ran her weaving company. Twelve years before, she began helping local women relearn the old Lao craft and art of weaving traditional Lao designs. She also adapted the designs to create her own fabrics. Some of the mansion's high-ceilinged rooms also had been turned into showrooms for the beautiful wares created in her workshops.
Later, we drove to the outskirts of Vientiane to see other handicraft shops where women also wove fabric from silk and cotton, coloring it with natural plant dyes. Barefoot women worked with precariously balanced pots of boiling dye and small children wandered among the looms, sewing machines, and steaming kettles. We pictured women and children being maimed and killed, but were told that these were the best jobs these women could get and they were glad to have them.
Sherrill, Buddhist temple, Laos We flew to Luang Prabang from Vientiane because, we were told, the road wasn't safe for tourists. Our guide nearly had been killed when traveling in a car with members of his agency. Bandits murdered the others, but he survived by pretending to be dead. Our double engine propeller plane had two rows of two seats that folded like camp chairs. Luang Prabang sprawled beside the Mekong surrounded by low green mountains lush with blossoming trees and ripening fruit. Despite a few tiny creatures with many legs, our room facing a garden patio was pleasant, but when I told the receptionist that our tub leaked he smiled.
"Oh! You're in room seventeen! Didn't anyone tell you not to use the tub?"
"Oh! You're in room seventeen! Didn't anyone tell you not to use the tub?"
Monks with begging bowls, Luang Prabang The town of Luang Prabang, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, was famous for its wats (monastery-temples), most of them low buildings with wide eaves sloping from a peaked roof and simple, graceful ornamentation. Often we encountered people burning incense, kneeling at prayers, and arranging offerings in front of statues of Buddha. Traditionally, most ordinary homes were two stories, the lower level open for storage and animals.
At six the next morning, we walked out to where monks in their saffron-orange robes shuffled barefoot with their begging bowls past local people with bowls of sticky rice or other food. As each monk hesitated, each person dropped a wad of rice into the bowl, gaining "merit" toward the next phase of earthly existence.
"When a boy goes into a monastery," we were told, "it's one less mouth for his family to feed."
At six the next morning, we walked out to where monks in their saffron-orange robes shuffled barefoot with their begging bowls past local people with bowls of sticky rice or other food. As each monk hesitated, each person dropped a wad of rice into the bowl, gaining "merit" toward the next phase of earthly existence.
"When a boy goes into a monastery," we were told, "it's one less mouth for his family to feed."
A boat up the heavily silted Mekong past forests, farms, and fishermen took us to the Pak Ou Buddhist caves. Naked children at the edge splashed in shallow water the same color as their skin. On the way, we stopped at a primitive port where we scrambled up a steep, muddy bank to a village where we found rows of large clay jars in which, we learned, rice whiskey was made. A couple of us bought small bottles of it, despite the warnings of the rest of the group. Later, at our hotel, we blended it with fresh juice. None of us died.
Booth with rocket bomb, rice whiskey village, Laos Walking through the village, we reached a central area where a festival was celebrating the gifts of a water pump and shrine by a local man who had emigrated to Tennessee—and now had returned with his family for the gala day. Music drifted through the trees, people ate and laughed and were happy. A small stand selling religious objects and marigold-decorated offerings had used an eight-foot bomb shell standing on its white-finned tail to support one corner, a reminder that Laos is the most bombed country in history.
During the Vietnam War, American planes flew over Laos to Vietnam, but had to return with empty bomb bays. If they still carried bombs in their guts when flying back, they dropped them onto Laos, which had the misfortune to be on the route to home base.
During the Vietnam War, American planes flew over Laos to Vietnam, but had to return with empty bomb bays. If they still carried bombs in their guts when flying back, they dropped them onto Laos, which had the misfortune to be on the route to home base.
From the whiskey village, we chugged up the Mekong until the Pak Ou Buddhist caves rose ahead of us like great inkblots on the sides of steep variegated cliffs. Eventually, we began to see a chaos of Buddhas, tiny statues around larger ones, in their dark openings. Climbing many levels of steep stairs, we maneuvered through the caves, among thousands of Buddhas, some hundreds of years old. Shining our lights up, we discovered hundreds of small bats clinging upside down to the uneven ceiling.
 Traditional Laos house on stilts |  Sherrill on Mekong River |
Villager hand-making paper As the days went by, we visited many villages in which people still lived in traditional thatch-roofed houses on stilts, looms often set up underneath, naked children and animals playing in the dust. In one village, little boys clomped beside the road on coconut shell halves turned upside like horse's hooves. In a narrow lane, a man was hollowing a log, making a canoe. Deeper in a forest, we found several tin-roofed houses where people were making paper the old way, by hand, using a bush similar to the mulberry. Young men and women smoothed the pulpy substance in water-filled flats, then set the flats out to dry.
Hmong Village Woman Exploring a higher, more remote area, we visited a Hmong village where thickly thatched houses were built directly on the ground. Our guide persuaded a Hmong woman to let us look inside her house, one room divided into sections. An open fire on the hard-packed dirt floor sent its smoke up through holes in the thatch. The original religion there, now coexisting with Buddhism, was a type of animism or nature worship. Driving further over one-lane bridges and narrow roads past rice fields and dense forests, we came to a still more remote Kanu village with houses elevated on stilts again. The few women that we saw turned away or darted back into their houses. The men must have been off working in the fields. The place seemed populated primarily by small children.
One humid evening, several of us climbed a steep hill above the Royal Palace in Luang Prabang to visit some Buddhist shrines, including one in which Buddha's oversized footprint reputedly had left its mark in a large rock. In other shrines, bronze Buddhas meditated behind offerings of flowers, incense, fruit, and small dishes of food. Then we drove to a restaurant with a dining room open to small gardens on three sides, geckos darting silently above our heads. After a meal of spicy meat dishes, vegetables, and stuffed eggs, the lights dimmed and, to our surprise, a birthday cake, lighted candles glowing, was brought out and set in front of Sherrill, alarming the geckos, which scurried away or dropped to the floor.
"Happy birthday!" everyone sang.
"Where did that come from?" Sherrill asked.
Our friend Hala had ordered the cake by long-distance, even giving the recipe and decorating instructions.
"Happy birthday!" everyone sang.
"Where did that come from?" Sherrill asked.
Our friend Hala had ordered the cake by long-distance, even giving the recipe and decorating instructions.
 At Kuang Si Waterfalls |  Sherrill cooling off by Mekong River |
Our visit to Laos ended back in Vientiane with dinner on an old river boat that had been reconditioned by a French entrepreneur living there. We maneuvered over a plank bridge onto the boat, a woven rattan roof stretched over our heads, the sides open to breezes from the Mekong. The owner introduced us to a French doctor who had been coming to Laos since 1990 as one of the "Doctors Without Frontiers." A tall, handsome, middle-aged man, the doctor told us that he had seen many changes during the past decade.
"There were no cars in Vientiane," he said. "No modern amenities of any kind until recently, and the only medical treatment available was 'traditional.'"
Because of the relentless bombing of the country during the Vietnam War, he added, the need for humanitarian and medical aid still was enormous. Each year, he returned to Paris, but then came back to Laos to do what he could to help. The boat put-putted toward the center of the river, then as it slowly moved through the muddy water we talked and ate, the sun set, and lights started to glow on the two sides of the river, in Laos and Thailand.
To be continued....
"There were no cars in Vientiane," he said. "No modern amenities of any kind until recently, and the only medical treatment available was 'traditional.'"
Because of the relentless bombing of the country during the Vietnam War, he added, the need for humanitarian and medical aid still was enormous. Each year, he returned to Paris, but then came back to Laos to do what he could to help. The boat put-putted toward the center of the river, then as it slowly moved through the muddy water we talked and ate, the sun set, and lights started to glow on the two sides of the river, in Laos and Thailand.
To be continued....
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Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
You also might enjoy reading the new bargain-priced e-book of my first novel, The Night Action. The book is available at Amazon and other online retailers. Click on the title or Here for the link.
Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
You also might enjoy reading the new bargain-priced e-book of my first novel, The Night Action. The book is available at Amazon and other online retailers. Click on the title or Here for the link.
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