The Holiday

My parents appeared, magically and surreally, in Vientiane last month, and stayed for three weeks- quite a long time, actually. We went on an odyssey, up north and down south, to see all the things I've been wanting to see since I arrived.

A new acquaintance was surprised recently by my blunt admission that I have never and will never move across any vast distances carrying a backpack- on my back! Like, no way. It’s so heavy, and uncomfortable, and what about when it’s hot and I’m wearing a singlet and the backpack straps rub uncomfortably?
And what if I need something that’s right on the bottom of the pack? What, I have to unpack it then? What a drag!
It’s just not going to happen.
And furthermore, it’s not like I’m the only person in the world to admit this.
And also, why is it that so many backpackers dress so badly and seem to have forsaken showers in the name of- what? Enlightenment?

Now, you won’t see MY parents carrying around backpacks. Oh no- it’s all cocktails before dinner, hired drivers and nice hotels. With my own room, too. My parents were every bit as averse to sharing a room with me as I was with them- hooray!

Giving alms
Mum was completely entranced when she woke up early one morning in time to witness the monks taking alms from the ladies on the street. It’s true, it is quite an enchantment the first time you see it. Older ladies (and sometimes men) kneel on the road with their sticky rice baskets and bowls of soup, and a row of monks file past, their bare feet padding silently on the pavement. Occasionally they will chant, if one of the ladies needs a blessing, but usually the whole thing is completely silent. This happens all over the country every morning, including outside our house. [It even shows up quite regularly as a plot device on the Thai soap operas.] The other morning, Kate and I left the house for an early-morning walk, and busted one of the young novices slouching for a chat with one of the ladies. He straightened up and began chanting as soon as he saw us.

Bombsites
Xienghouang province was good, but the town of Phonesavanh is a dive. But it is still half-built, and it did rain a lot.
We hired a driver to take us there through the mountains. On the way we stopped for lunch and a group of very young, very poor children hovered shyly. One of them couldn’t have been more than 8, and was carrying an infant in a sling on his hip. He flinched when I tried to speak to him- it took me a while to work out that he was Hmong and didn’t speak Lao. I bought him a packet of chips, which he snatched and ran off. But he came back a few minutes later, and I realised he didn’t know how to open them.

This is the most heavily-bombed area of Laos. While Mum was busy wondering about women who weave, and where the monks get their food (I told her it was the ladies on the street, and she didn’t believe me until a monk actually told her), Dad was completely caught up by all the war history everywhere we looked. Empty bombshells propping up houses or used as flowerpots. A guy making spoons out of discarded casings. Bullet holes and massive bomb craters in the Plain of Jars. Lots of them are fishponds now.

I was really creeped out by the Hmong villagers, who live in windowless wooden houses. They are animists, and believe in different spirits. Our tour guide took us to one of the villages, one of the poorest, quietest, strangest places I’ve ever seen. The Hmong dress differently, have a different language, and live in darkness. They have fires inside their houses, which smokes their food and blackens the walls. They also grow opium and pot in vast quantities.

Our guide sure came up with the goods, telling us all about the CIA and the Secret War, and about Madeleine Colani, the French archaeologist who spent three years studying the Plain of Jars in the 1930s. She walked there from Vietnam, with the help of 50 slaves a day, who kept running away. He also showed us how to distinguish between the different ethnic groups. The Lao carry their goods across their shoulders on a stick. The Kamu hang baskets from a strap on their heads. The Hmong have bamboo backpacks.

Down south
Paxse: I dig it. A city on the brink- you heard it here first. Good markets, nice riverside restaurants. Plus, I really like the Pakxe Hotel, where we ended up staying for four nights. Large and stately- I’ve always had a thing for faded glory: there are four clocks in the lobby, showing the time in London, New York, Tokyo and Pakxe. I found this touching.

Wat Phou, Siphandone, Boliven Plateau, the coffee plantations, ancient temples, rain. And back to the Pakxe Hotel each night. It was ace. Our tour guide spoke no English, giving me a chance to really put my lame Lao to the test. I didn’t fail. In fact, I’d give myself a Credit, true to form. Dad drew a picture of the guide near the Boliven Plateau, and he was so pleased he didn’t know what to say.

We visited more villages- completely different to those we saw up north. Here, the Katung arrange their houses in a rough circle, with a raised hut in the centre for the sacrificial killing of a buffalo each year- also not Buddhist.

Majestic, magnificent, breathtaking, etc etc etc
We flew to Siem Reap in Cambodia for three days, and were shocked by the rampant tourism- hundreds of massive, MASSIVE hotels in a relatively small city. And children everywhere with frightenly good English demanding that tourists buy their postcards and bracelets.
I’m not going to go into describing Angkor Wat and its surrounds. Any good guidebook will describe it well enough, and it meets all expectations. Mum lucked out with the new Aussie-run guesthouse she chose over the Internet. The owners of the Villa Siem Reap (it's purple!), Fiona and Anthony, know exactly how to deal with people like us who are only in town for a couple of days and don’t know where to start. They give you a driver, a guide and a packed lunch, and send you off with strict instructions.
They advised us to get to a certain temple by 6am the next morning, so as to avoid the tourist hoards. But we weren’t too early for an upscale fashion shoot, featuring one of the oddest-looking woman I’ve ever seen in the flesh- a model, of course. Really, it did look strange.
Our guide, as a child in the '70s, had been forced into hard labour by the Khmer Rouge, away from his family in the jungle. He told us all about it. In fact, he couldn't talking about it, and inserted side stories into all his commentary on the ruins we were looking at.
He said that his children don't believe what he tells them about what the Khmer Rouge did. He said he remembers it like it was last week. I think he was worried that if he didn't talk about it to everyone he met, everyone would forget what had happened, especially when surrounded by all that rampant commercialism and all those five-star hotels.

I had forgotten what it was like to me in a major tourist destination, and it was pretty gruesome. It wasn’t even the high season, but there were so many people. And so many idiot-looking girls in mini-skirts and heels, clambering over the ruins like tools. Can you tell me why they would do this? I mean, I know I'm not always the most practical person when it comes to clothes- I don't, for example, own anything made of polar-fleece- but there are signs, in several languages, at the main gates to Angkor Wat advising people that bare shoulders and knees are inappropriate for what is clearly a sacred site. And yet there were girls in hotpants. I blame that slapper Victoria Beckham for getting 'snapped' by the paparrazzi walking around in hotpants on the street.

Thanks, parentals
Anyway, the holiday was ace, and much needed, and renewed my love of Laos, which had been flagging somewhat. It’s always good to see something you’re used to through new eyes, and mum and dad were in fine form. Mum found out lots more about people than I usually do- because she does love to bond. Dad grappled with the currency, and took some great photos. Most of these are his.