Day 31 (03/01)
To witness Luang Prabang's most popular attraction, the
almsgiving ceremony, – more popular than the scenic river views, or the numerous ornate temples clustered on the peninsula – one must wake before dawn. I set my alarm for five, but it's four o'clock in my bamboo-panelled room when I'm woken by the clear ringing of a gong. I assume it's from the temple opposite us – 'Wat Paphaimisaiyaram' – as the monks stir. The pitch sets half a dozen dogs off into a wailing chorus, and when they've finally calmed down, the guttural chanting of monks can be heard.
I sleep another hour before my alarm wakes me and outside - I strain my ears - it's quiet once more. Wiping the sleep from my eyes I go down into the front courtyard where I find the landlady's son squatting and warming his hands at the small crackling wood-fired stove (the temperature at night has dropped to around 7 or 8 degrees, unprecedented, I'm told, for this town). On the stove a pot of boiling water pushes steam up through a bamboo rice-basket.
“For the monks?”, I ask him.
“Yes.
Sticky rice”, he smiles back at me.
"The staple food of the Lao is steamed sticky rice, which is eaten by hand. In fact, the Lao eat more sticky rice than any other people in the world. Sticky rice is considered the essence of what it means to be "Lao" — sometimes the Lao even referred to themselves as "Luk Khao Niaow", which can be translated as "children/descendants of sticky rice". - Wikipedia
A Greek business-owner on the main street yesterday told me all the 'action' of the almsgiving ceremony takes place between 5 and 5:30.
“No. At 6 the monks come out of the temple”, I'm now told with assurance.
Marie-Josée is up now too, rubbing her eyes, thinking she's missed the whole event. I reassure her we have some time to wait, so we all sit by the fire and warm our hands, watching and listening to the ever-growing activity – the shuffles and sweeps and the odd flash of orange – in the courtyard of the temple opposite. We can smell the sweet aroma of the sticky rice cooking.
The landlady is up now and occasionally takes the basket off the steam, shakes it, and puts it back. The rice is purple.
“Sticky rice, with coconut, and sugar. For the monks. Here. Try.”, she spoons a portion into a bowl for us to eat with our fingers, and as we do our attention is called to a 'tokkk-tokk-tok-tok-tok-tk-tk-tk-tk-tk-tk” of a young monk's hammering of a pole into the face of a large drum.
We open the gate and stand at the steps to watch a saffron-orange procession silently file out of the temple grounds and down the street.
Marie-Josée and I walk the 20 metres up to where our street intersects with the main drag; where most of the tourists congregate every morning to get their glimpse of this ancient ritual. The Greek man yesterday told me this is the best place to view the ceremony, and there certainly is a bit of hustle and bustle going on.
There's a line of tourists and a few locals, kneeling in a line behind their alms of sticky rice and fruit waiting for the monks, waiting to participate for whatever different reasons they all have.
We see the first orange-robed monk padding barefoot in our direction, stopping occasionally to take balls of sticky rice or a banana, and placing it in his almsbowl. The others following him do the same.
Meanwhile, camera flashes are going off and I can hear the digital
schhickkkk soundbite from smart phones. This is all interrupting and distracting from what I hoped would be a serene, tranquil, silent morning.
The monks, expressionless, continue on their way, following a tradition repeated every single morning for probably as long as this gorgeous city has existed. And a French man leans in between two monks, causing one to stop briefly, to take a snap. Another 'falang' squats briefly directly in front of the first monk to get what he must believe is a sweet photographic angle.
That same mix of embarrassment, disgust, and bewilderment return to me from my visit to Angkor. But this time it's worse. These tangerine-robed photo-opportunities aren't made of hewn stone, they're not emotionless, conscious-void objects. They're people. This shouldn't be a spectacle – Marie-Josée likens it to a zoo – but it's become one, and I'm embarrassed to be here watching it as a tourist myself.
A Korean man, Nikon held up to his eye, lets off a dawn-shattering flash –
ca-lickkk – not 20 centimetres from a monk's serene face.
Important information on morning alms giving [from leaflet]
The morning alms round (in Lao: Tak Bat) is a living Buddhist tradition for the people of Luang Prabang which, because of its beauty, has become a major tourist attraction. However, when tourists are unaware of its customs, their inappropriate behaviour can be disruptive. We would like to draw your attention to this religious practice, which has great meaning for the population of Luang Prabang.
How to respect the Tak Bat
- Observe the ritual in silence and contribute an offering only if it is meaningful for you and can do so respectfully.
- Please buy sticky rice at the local market earlier that morning rather than from street vendors along the monks' route.
- If you do not wish to make an offering, please keep an appropriate distance and behave respectfully. Do not get in the way of the monks' procession or the believers' offerings.
- Do not stand too close to the monks when taking photographs; camera flashes are very disturbing for both monks and the lay people.
- Dress appropriately: shoulders, chest and legs should be covered.
- Do not make physical contact with the monks.
- Large buses are forbidden within the Luang Prabang World Heritage Site and are extremely disturbing. Do not follow the procession on a bus – you will stand above the monks which in Laos is disrespectful.
Take part in the almsgiving ceremony by protecting its dignity and its beauty. The community and the authorities of Luang Prabang thank you in advance of your collaboration.
Marie-Josée and I notice infractions of all but the last two of these points.
“I don't like this at all. I feel sick”, she tells me, beating me to the very same words.
I suggest we go back down the street to our guest house. This is a great decision because some of the monks cut down this side street from the main 'viewing' street and most of the tourists seem to not be bothered venturing any further. So it's just us, and occasionally one or two other tourists scurrying quietly past to another popular viewing street. We get the quiet, serene, dawn procession we wanted and what all the tourists are supposed to be looking for.
You can hear the pit pat of the monks' bare feet as they file past, dropping some of their collected alms into boxes in front of what I can only guess are homeless or terribly poor children. One of the older monks feeds a dog which has been following him, another smiles at me warmly as I return a smile just as warm. The knot in our stomachs has untangled.
I'm lucky I inadvertently picked a guest house opposite a minor, yet no less gorgeous, temple. The aesthetic of the orange robe is really quite pleasing, and a dash and flash of warm colour is a regular part of the Luang Prabang city scenery. Sometimes it's a monk of 8 or 9 sitting in temple grounds studying, or a couple of teenage monks looking at mobile phones behind a glass cabinet in the market. Right now it's long lines of orange gliding silently through this cold, misty morning.
This is, I must admit, a very touristy town. But it keeps its integrity and is not lost to gimmicks. And, as with all touristy cities/towns/regions, it only takes a small effort, a little initiative, and that so-damned-cliche
open mind, to easily find an 'authentic' experience.
Before I head out for a walk about town, Marie-Josée relates to me a French saying told to her by her Vietnamese friend, which reveals some hint of the difference between the peoples of Indochina:
The Vietnamese plant the rice, the Cambodians watch it grow, the Lao listen to it grow.
I climb up the hill in the centre of town -
Mount Phou Si - upon which is perched the temple Wat Chom Si. Up here one an take in a panoramic view of the small, narrow city, the mountains, and the two rivers which meet here.
A place as beautiful as this makes me rue the day my computer broke, for I'm inspired to type and type and type. I just have to wait for Thailand to get it fixed. For now, a notepad will have to do.
I pass some of the many temples in this city, and find a small alley to sit down for a noodle soup. The noodles here are hand-made, and I spice the shit out of the soup in an attempt to combat what feels like an oncoming illness. I mimic a local lady next to me who adds crushed peanuts, sugar, soy sauce, and dried chilli with oil to her soup. The trick with a noodle soup, I discover, is to customise that bad boy, to crank up the condiments. While I eat I watch a man skilfully shoot a sparrow from a tree with a slingshot, then swiftly break its neck. An orange robe flashes past us.
I'm keen to try out a Laotian herbal sauna, and I find the Lao Red Cross building, an old wooden thing. First, for 5 dollars I get an hour-long herbal massage. I'm glad I get a man, his strong hands are just what my muscles are craving, and I wince with pain and pleasure as I'm kneaded and twisted and pummeled.
After the massage I'm directed to the sauna. It's called a sauna, but really it's a steam room – a small box crammed with half-naked Laotians, herbal-scented steam rising up from the floor.
I'm given a sarong and a small towel for the sweat. There are male and female steam rooms, and free herbal tea is provided. I sit in the steam, and I can make out glistening flesh, and feel the presence of seven other men, and they're all bantering and laughing. A sauna is really a great social leveller, and I imagine what they're talking about and what they're laughing at is pretty much the same as Latvian men in their
pirtis or Russians in their
banyas, Finns in their
saunas, or Japanese in their public baths.
I'm liking the smell of the numerous herbs – I only recognise lemon-grass though, and maybe I sense kaffir lime – but I am missing the heat control that a Finnish style sauna gives you – the controlled pauses, the heat extreme, the existential ecstasy of plunging into cold water or snow after.
I drink the tea down with relish, and I go in three or four times. Afterwards, my skin is supple and soft, and my forehead, like after any sauna session, is taught. I stroke my forehead and smell my skin as I eat my eating my second chilli-heavy noodle soup of the day, savoring that post-sauna euphoria that is so excruciatingly ephemeral.
 |
| Sticky rice for the monks |
 |
| Right out front |
 |
| View from the mount |
 |
| The humble guest house |
 |
| Lao textiles in the night market |
