If you squint you can just about make out people on the other bank. They’re busy shoring up the side of the Mekong over in Thailand. Thai jurisdiction ends at the banks.  From the waterline on, it all belongs to Laos. This has its problems: the Thai side suffers the inevitable erosion that comes as standard where rivers of this magnitude are concerned. Unfortunately for Thailand, this all happens on its side. Laos owns the Mekong and thus, as the "Mother of All Waters" works its incessant attrition; thus, Laos grows and Thailand shrinks. From Vientiane, arguably the sleepiest capital city in the world, I sip a green tea; bask in the tropical sun, and marvel as microscopic laborers endeavor to keep The Land of Smiles whole.

I arrived in Laos a week ago. From the tiny border point of Huay Xai at the confluence of Laos, Thailand and Burma, I made deliciously slow going as a passenger on an old freight boat down the Mekong River. For two days I watched jungle-clad, emerald mountains slip lazily in and out of view, steam rising from their peaks conjuring images of idling dragons. River folk, busy at their industry, flitted around our behemoth in their lighter and more agile crafts, selling fruit, rice and at one point what appeared to be a three-foot-long buffalo tongue. Our captain expertly piloted our 60-foot vessel between the whetted jaws of the granite outcrops that haunt the length of this untamed artery of Southeast Asia, and, in time, I was brought to Luang Prabang.

Wat Xieng Thong (Luang Prabang)

Luang Prabang was the royal residence and Buddhist religious center of Laos until the end of the monarchy in 1975.  The erstwhile capital to the then French protectorate, Luang Prabang and its population of about 44,000 is charmingly laid back. Regular visitors will know that to wake a shopkeeper or taxi driver from his siesta in order to avail oneself of his services is commonplace; that “rush-hour” in Laos consists of more than one buffalo occupying the road; and that a plate of rice in a restaurant arrives in its own good time. Some people think that the PDR tagged to the end of Laos’ official name means People’s Democratic Republic. It doesn’t.  Please Don’t Rush is the real definition.

Scattered in nooks and crannies among the colonial buildings which would place you in 1930’s rural France – were it not for the gregarious mynah birds chattering on their rooftops and the saffron-robed monks passing shuttered windows that open on to dusty streets – are small temple complexes called wats.  Wats form the focal points for the ubiquitous devotion to Buddhism in Laos.

Wats are comprised of several buildings: a bot, similar to a chapel and often the largest of the buildings in the complex; a vihaan, whose job it is to house sacred Buddha images; a haw trai, where the Buddhist scriptures are kept; the monks’ quarters, which are known as kuti; and the haw glawng, or drum tower. Also, within the walls of the wat are numerous chedis, stupas or pagodas.  These vary in shape and size and are often used to house the earthly remains of local worshippers, monks and nuns. The largest chedi in a wat is always said to enshrine a piece of the Buddha’s bones.  Given their number in Southeast Asia, the Buddha must have been an awfully big man.

Wat That Luang

Beautifully decorated with mirrored shards, gold paint and colored glass, wats rise out of the dusty landscape like lotuses from a muddy-bottomed lake. Inside they are decorated with fastidious representations of The Ramayana and the life of the Buddha. The triple-tiered eaves (one for the Buddha, one for the teachings of the Buddha, and one for the followers of the Buddha) sweep low, a protecting apron guarded at both ends by ornately carved nagas – snakes that keep evil away. Inside, images of the Buddha crowd the altar, often speckled with gold leaf applied by the devoted. The high roofs keep the interior cool, the burning incense fill the senses with calm and the reverent prostration of the locals at the alter is a beautiful image of their love for the Buddha.

As a part of my recuperation after my trip, I sat in the tranquility of Wat Xieng Mouane in the riverside district of Luang Prabang enjoying the warm breeze that played through the leaves of the bhodi trees standing sentinel within the walls of the complex. Three novices appeared from the kuti and climbed the stairs to the haw glawng. Using one arm to brace himself against the skin of the huge drum contained therein, one of the novices began to beat out a vigorous syncopation and was joined by the other two who smashed out metallic accents with hand-held cymbals. The air boomed with a percussive raucousness, the like of which would not be out place in a Rio carnival.  The call was taken up by the wat next door, then further down the street, and soon the entire neighborhood was enjoying this wonderfully fervent means of veneration. Today, it was later explained to me, was a “Buddha Day.” Usually there are only a couple of these per year. Apparently though the monks of Luang Prabang are prone to ignore their calendars and batter out a Buddhist bossanova whenever the fancy takes them.

Monk in Wat Luang

Uplifted by my time in Luang Prabang, the next day I caught the local bus to Vientiane.  The only sealed road in Laos meanders from Luang Prabang along mountain paths, past small settlements of bamboo dwellings, which cling to the sides of deep precipices almost by will power alone, to the new capital, to my riverside café, my green tea and my view of Thailand.                          

Here on Thanon Fa Ngum; the capital’s eucalyptus, peepul and teak-lined boulevard, which follows the river’s lazy course; evidence that Mother Khong has her favorite children abounds. The swelling of the river during the wet season leaves nutrient- rich deposits along the alluvial planes that flank it. In the dry season the planes are exposed and provide perfect agricultural land. While in Thailand they are busy building walls, here in Laos men and women wearing sarongs and wide-brimmed banana leaf hats plough, scatter and harvest on the flats, producing more than enough fruit and vegetables to keep hunger from the door until well after the river has swollen and reclaimed this bit of Vientiane.

The town is an eclectic mix of styles. There still exist old wooden buildings, the style of which hasn’t changed for centuries. Alongside these dwellings are huge colonial buildings – from private residences, walled and shuttered, to palatial seats of office – left behind by the French when they left the Lao to their own devices in 1953.  There. too, are the municipal buildings, which are clearly more concerned with function than form, constructed by the communist government, the Phathet Lao, who took charge in 1975. And, naturally, the city is peppered with wats. Inspired by my experience in Luang Prabang I decided to check out some of the wats here. 

A stroll down Thanon Fa Ngum, then a cut back into the city takes you along the high walls and eventually to the gate of Haw Pra Kaew.  Situated on Thanon Settharhirat, Haw Pra Geaw – Altar of the Emerald Buddha – was built in 1565 under the auspices of King Settharhirat.  It once housed a diminutive jade statue of Buddha, which was stolen by the Siamese in 1779 and taken to the Grand Palace in Bangkok. The Siamese then sacked the temple in 1827, which was ultimately rebuilt in 1940.  Now decommissioned as an active place of worship, it once was used exclusively by the Lao royal family.  Surrounded by a manicured garden and flanked by towering palm trees, it contains art treasures reputed to be the best in Laos. Its importance as an embodiment of Lao fine art, culture and religion is reflected by its continued revitalization, most recently in 1993 thanks to a grant of $62,000 from the Federal Republic of Germany.

A little further on the same road, opposite the Presidential Palace, is Wat Si Saket. This Siamese style wat, constructed in 1818 by King Anouvong – the last king of Laos – once stood in the grounds of the royal palace. It, too, suffered at the hands of the Siamese and was left ravaged until 1924 when renovations were begun. As well as being a living temple, it has in part been converted into a museum of sorts. A cloister circumscribes the bot, set into the walls of which are niches containing 6,840 images of the Buddha cast in bronze, silver, wood and clay, dating from the 16^th century. Other treasures and curiosities include: a large, stuccoed-brick Buddha image built in the 19^th century; a hardwood candle platform standing 188cm high (74 inches) and 210cm wide (83 inches); and walls decorated with art of Siamese origin, which portrays, among other things, people dressed in western style clothes, reflecting the relationships that Siam was building with Europe at the time.

Outside the main sanctuary, under a vast peepul tree next to the wat’s extensive library, I was invited to join a discussion being held by two monks about the Buddha. One was from Sri Lanka (awaiting his visa to return to Thailand to study) the other was Lao. It was fascinating to hear their objective discussion about their prophet. Where other religions can be dogmatic in their interpretation, it seemed for these scholars at least, explication was a fluid process. Both were learning from each other and I from them both.

Further away from the river, in the northwest of the city, stands the most striking of Vientiane’s temples – Pha That Luang (Great Sacred Stupa). This magnificent golden stupa rises from otherwise barren land reflecting the rise of Lao sovereignty as well as the importance of Buddhism in guiding us from ignorance into enlightenment.  Considered the most important national monument in Laos, legend has it that Indian missionaries erected the first stupa here in the 3^rd century B.C. to house the breastbone of the Buddha.  It is believed that a Khmer monastery may have existed on the site between 11^th and 13^th centuries A.D. In 1566, King Settharhirat began the construction of the stupa as it now appears.  Its main spire takes the form of an elongated lotus bud on the verge of blossom.  As tends to be the pattern, this, too, was sacked by the Siamese but finally restored by the French in the 1800s.

It was here that my Lao odyssey came to an end.  Sitting in the shade of the cloister surrounding the golden pinnacle as the sun made its lazy journey beyond the horizon, I watched the gilt walls throw back its blazing rays, concentrated into needles of light that grew softer as the deep blue sky turned purple, then red and finally to black, and the stars took over. Monuments to enlightenment fresh in my mind, I took a sleepy walk back to my hotel wondering whether the perpetual demand for work on the Thai banks of the Mekong was in any way the karmic cost of a historical penchant for temple sacking.  Maybe the Buddha knows.

Copyright Hamish Chalmers 2002. Chalmers left a career teaching in elementary school to pursue the end of his nose in Southeast Asia.  He works for Gecko Travel, a British adventure travel company.