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At times the river would narrow when eddies formed
below the falling mocha water, and scraggly, verdant beards of ferns
and stunted conifers clung precariously to the sheer walls of the
looming cliffsides of limestone. Palisades of bamboo, banana and
palm trees delineated the wider stretches of the river; prim vegetable
gardens bordered the river, cordoned by crude bamboo perimeters;
stilted huts were hidden in the distance, marked by a puffy ribbon
of smoke; a child used a cudgel to coax along mud-caked water buffaloes;
mature rice fields, almost ready for cutting and winnowing, abounded;
and the occasional denuded knoll, a hairless knuckle, abandoned
by the slash-and-burn farmers, appeared. Fishing is the most apparent
industry with no exemptions from service. It is a family enterprise
and the main source of protein for the Lao people. Men, women and
children ply the waters in dugout canoes setting trotlines, laying
cavernous traps of nylon lift nets, setting bamboo poles along the
sand reefs, casting spacious nets from the dugouts, or just standing
in the shallow margins with a string and a hook. By mid-afternoon,
the fishermen would signal us by holding up the catch of the day,
and we would stop while the captain and the other passengers negotiated
and weighed the fish, depositing their live, flopping purchases
in the only available space—my already cramped cubicle. As the sun
dimmed in late afternoon and we approached Luang Prabang, the shallow,
muddy waters were filled by women in sarongs and naked children,
there for their quotidian bathing ritual. The women washed themselves
and maneuvered their sarongs methodically, scrupulously avoiding
the slightest exposure of their breasts or private parts. I observed
this display of modesty only because our boat disrupted the sanctity
of their afternoon ablutions on two or three occasions to deliver
wrapped packages and some fish.
I spent the early evening outside a Lao café, having
several Beerlao and watching people on the main street. Lao women,
wearing their gold, passed on bikes, effortlessly pedaling in unbroken
cadence, gliding in tandem like a brace of swans. Lao families joined
me at the outdoor tables, exchanging hellos and passing amiable
glances. Several European travelers passed by in a transparent cocoon
of decided aloofness. I have always thought it curious in my travels
that the locals are so friendly and charitable with their smiles
and greetings, and then I encounter a tourist (backpacker) who speaks
my language and who averts his eyes and passes like a mute. Many
of them have a reason for such behavior—they are blotto on the
local fudge and herb. With chemical assistance, they have achieved
native status and the fey gaze of the awakened Buddha. They have
invented a style all their own, the uniform of travelers—the women
wearing sarongs, local jewelry, and bandoleered with embroidered
shoulder purses while the men reinvent themselves with bandannas,
loose cotton print pants and rubber sandals, touched off with a
few days’ growth of beard for added seniority. They always march
about with riveted direction, affecting that air of superior purpose,
caught up in the timeless head game of who got there first and,
while there, spent the least. I defer to Norman Lewis for the colonial
version of this behavior. "Laung Prabang is the Ultima Thule
of all French escapists in the Far East. Europeans who come here
to live soon acquire a certain, recognizable manner. They develop
quiet voices, and gentle, rapt expressions. It is an attitude that
is looked for and is put on like a false nose or a carnival hat.
Laos-ized Frenchmen are like the results of successful lobotomy
operations—untroubled and mildly libidinous." Donning my own
anti-social carapace, I hadn’t spoken a word to a non-Lao in five
days. A parade with floats began on the west end of town and moved
east for about a mile to the most important wat in Laos,
Xeng Thong. Many of the hill tribes had come to town, having built
their own floats to compete against the other tribes for the best
float. As the parade began and the onlookers glutted the street
in a heaving mass of sober festivity, drums beat, cymbals clashed,
the crowd chanted, and flags whipped in the evening breeze. Jubilant
tribesmen and villagers hoisted the 30-foot long, intricately designed
paper dragon floats with grotesque heads, pulsing, stroboscopic
red eyes, stretched tongues wickedly jutting in and out, hued in
greens and reds, and rimmed with strings of lights and lotus blossoms
centered with candles, a psychedelic dragon-headed millipede. Each
float was fronted by a procession of tribal and village women moving
in double lines, dressed in their long, traditional embroidered
skirts (sins), their hair
in chignons laced with glittering jewelry. Hands clasped at the
waist, they held a lotus blossom, which others filled with money
to give to the river spirits. Eyes cast modestly downward and their
lips yielding a demure smile, they statuesquely advanced down the
street. Fireworks burst all around, their flares puncturing the
sky in inert arched blazes of red, green and white as a full ivory
moon hung with a god-like presence over the golden stupa of Mt.
Phousi. The parade inched along for about two hours as the participants
and onlookers melded into one hypnotic heap, now leavened with a
collective spirit, entranced in mindless celebration. After the
judges’ review of the floats at the temple, the crowd took them
down the steep stairs to the river and placed them, along with the
lotus blossoms lit with candles, in the river as votive offerings.
I watched from the top of the embankment. The opposing riverbank
was aglow with torches and candles. The river was lit by the flickering
blossoms, like a flotilla of aquatic fireflies following the beacon
of an armada of glowing dragon boats. Slowly, it all faded and dissolved
into the darkness. The fishermen seemed to be working a little overtime,
double dipping so to speak, silently paddling into the gloom, making
sure the votive offerings of Lao kip (local currency) made it to
the right river spirits.
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