Laos
Trip Start
Feb 2005
1
4
6
Trip End
Mar 2005
Lao Peoples Dem Rep,
Lao Peoples Dem Rep
Monday, January 17, 2005
Pat decides to make one unscheduled stop on our way to the Mekong River. I am astonished when the bus pulls up to the first - and only - non-traditional temple I will see in Thailand. Unlike traditional temples, that are filled with color, Temple Wat Rong Khuin is pure white plaster, tightly set with tiny fragments of broken mirrors that sparkle in the sun.
This temple was designed, and is maintained by, the accomplished ( and hot ) artist Chalermchai Kositpipat. In his youth, Mr. Kositpipat was a party boy; he was egotistical, aggressive, materialistic, and in high demand - for both his art and his hot self. When he discovered Lord Buddha ( i.e., got religion ), he cleaned up his act, apologized to everyone, and decided to build an 'identity' art temple - a work of art culturally tied to a specific time and place
Crossing the Mekong To Laos
. He chose to build it here, on the land where he was born, outside Chiang Rai. To reach the main building of his temple to Lord Buddha, one must cross a narrow bridge that rises above a semi-circular cement sea, representing the hell that waits for us if we fall from the pathway of spiritual good living.
As you walk this metaphoric plank, arms and tortured faces with desperate eyes reach to you from their misery. It's a very graphic and convincing portrait, especially when you have a raging hangover, as I do.
Inside the main temple, a monk is chanting before a crowd of praying supplicants. He blesses them, shaking water on their heads and shoulders with a fistful of reeds. Drops of the cool water land on my feet as I watch the crowd.
I leave the main temple and walk over to the gallery that sells this artist's interpretive water colors, and buy a lithograph of Ganesha, the Hindu god who creates the faith to remove all obstacles.
Considering a photograph of Mr. Kositpipat, I briefly think how much fun this Bad Boy must have been when he was raising hell. It crosses my mind that this might be considered inappropriate, but then I figure - what the hell - and proceed with my fantasy
Another Giant Buddha
.An hour later, our bus approaches the river town of Mae Sai, and the little children who are waiting for us, ( dressed in elaborate folk costumes ), begin chanting "Eine photo ten baht,OK?" in a sing-song, high-pitched chorus, over and over again., which becomes annoying in a surprisingly short period of time, as they follow us everywhere once we are off the bus. We are offered a visit to the Opium Museum, after which we walk down a wide flight of cement steps to the Mekong River, under the watchful eyes of a seated golden Buddha that stares down on us from a towering one hundred feet.
The dock is scattered with stained cement block buildings, broken chunks of leftover concrete, a couple of bright silk umbrellas, and clothing hanging on scattered poles, drying in the hot sun. Two monks sit at a picnic table under a tall tree that is covered with bright red flowers.
Gratefully leaving this mess, chanting children on the steps behind us, we cross the river in a wooden motorboat. On the far shore is a large Burmese casino called "Paradise." Directly opposite the casino is an old, rotted and rusty American PT river cruiser, leftover from the Vietnam War.
A black cloud is settling over our group as we approach Laos. For my generation, this is Normandy - men we knew died here. Landing, we climb a rickety wooden plank up a sandy dune, and step into a circle of endless thatched huts, filled with the same crap, the same junk, augmented by stacks of Laotian cigarettes and Mekong snake whiskey - rot-gut with a fang-baring snake preserved inside every bottle. The sales pitch for snake whiskey is that it's like Viagra.
Although there seem to be a number of people around - shopkeepers, some children - there is total silence
Pedicures on an Elephant
. No smiles, no hellos, no conversation, no laughter.We're on Sad Island: it's dismal, depressing, and gloomy.
We walk around the circle of huts at this horrible tourist trap, one by one, past sleeping dogs, people eating noodles or just sitting in front of their stalls, staring at us with no expression on their faces, nothing showing in their empty eyes. For me, the karma is palpable - this is a souless place. The Golden Triangle has been bleeding people for centuries by selling opium, trading guns or hosting war. I imagine that I can feel it in the air : this is not a good place. People have died horrible deaths here for centuries.
I do buy one thing in Laos : a large laminated photograph. It's a tinted black and white, taken in 1973, of seventeen young American G.I.'s. They are standing in a long line, laughing, grinning, and holding up a naga - a river snake - that must be thirty feet long, and at least four feet around at it's middle section. The caption says it's the biggest river snake ever caught here. A few months after I get home, there is a picture on MSN one morning of a six hundred and forty-six pound catfish, caught in these same waters.
I go back to sit in the longboat, and join Lips, who is already there. We look at each other and don't say a word
Me and Lips
. We're both sad and feel the evil energy of a place that is still sucking souls, this time with Mekong snake whiskey.The group reboards, and we are all quiet, except for the Party Guy: he bought a penis charm and a bottle of the whiskey.
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Back on the bus, I plug in my I Pod, listen to some Bonnie Raitt, and look out the window through my Armani sunglasses. With my Fuji digital camera, I take a picture of a little boy wearing a David Beckham t-shirt, and check the Rolex on my wrist for the time. I understand how lucky I am.
That night, our last evening in Chiang Rai, I sit by myself on the terrace of the hotel, staring into the darkness, and think about some old high school friends.
