March 16th - Dengue Fever, Riverboats and Night Clubs
I awoke this morning feeling sick. The dull ache in my joints and a general malaise made me think I'd contracted the dreaded Dengue Fever. Karen was more certain it was an acute form of hangover attributed to Beerlao, of which I'd again consumed too much. Beerlao, Beerlao, where are you now? The day's itinerary began with a tour of the Royal Palace Museum. In 1975, the King and Queen were ousted from the Royal Palace and shuttled to the hills where they lived out their lives in seclusion and mystery. Word of their death in the late 1990's did not reach the Lao people until a couple of years after their demise. Apparently, they were shamed by their inability to unite the Lao kingdoms thereby allowing the commies to take over. Regardless, I slugged through the rather empty palace trying not to pass out on the royal throne which was never to be sat in again. The end of the museum held a number of display cases with gifts from various countries bestowed upon the king. The cases were filled with beautiful jewels, china, silver and gold. Except the case from the USA. It held, I kid you not, the key to San Francisco, a model of the lunar spacecraft resembling a project by the young astronauts club, and a plaque commemorating Thomas Dooley III. Apparently, our government cleaned out the White House junk closet and shipped the contents to Laos in a display of goodwill.
We then boarded a riverboat which would lead us on a 2-hour float up the Mekong to the mysterious tourist attraction, the Pak Ou (or Buddha) Caves. I was still quite lethargic as we plodded against the current, making one stop to drop off some monks who'd hitched a ride. Is that a Nike bag?
Before the caves, we stopped for a quick lunch at a restaurant along the river. The bathroom at this joint was typical of the region. An Eastern-style squat toilet with no flushing mechanism. Instead, you were provided a bucket in a tub of water. I never used the bucket -- sorry person after me.
The caves were interesting if only for the sheer number of buddhas and the bats on the ceiling. At this point, I was feeling better and looking forward to our next stop, the whiskey village. The national drink in Laos, despite my efforts to change matters, is not Beerlao. It's a rice whiskey called Lao Lao. The marketing people over there are really on to something. The Lao Lao distillery, pictured below, is not what I expected. Just a couple of tubs on a hill. After the tour we cruised downstream and got ready for the farewell dinner, which was pushed up a day because Jun was heading back to Tokyo.
It was held at a restaurant called the Three Elephants. Bom's instructions were to meet at the "elephant restaurant." Unaware that Luang Prabang held no fewer than 6 eateries with elephant in the title, the group was split at two different places for a good hour. Eventually, I embarked on a mission to find the others and encountered a sweaty Bom riding his bike on a similar mission. During dinner it was suggested we all head to a night club after eating. Karen and I had routinely been awaking circa 5 AM and falling asleep by 9 or 10. Despite the fast approach of my bedtime, I couldn't help but wonder what took place at a nightclub in this old-fashioned, conservative country. It was even stranger than I'd imagined. In the dark, black-lit, smoky room, everyone was seated on large u-shaped sofas facing the dance floor and the stage. On stage was a band performing Lao pop music that was somewhere between Astrud Gilberto and Styx. The keyboard player was barely visible behind a rig of 15 synths. The drummer with his machine-like precision clearly knew these songs and ONLY these songs, but he could play them flawlessly, as he had hundreds of times before. After 10 minutes of music, some Lao women cautiously approached the dance floor and began a dance akin to a slow-motion Macarena. In another ten-minutes the foreigners hit the dance floor as if the tunes were being spun by Sasha and Digweed. Flailing maniacally around the two-stepping Lao folk, the bizarre cacophony of sights that ensued had me chuckling in my chair until Wasa dragged me into the mix. I feigned enjoyment despite my embarrassment. This cycle of events was played out over the next hour or so until the band packed it in and Madonna rose on the speakers. The strange thing was, the Lao style dancing never really changed. The foreigners only became more belligerent.
We then boarded a riverboat which would lead us on a 2-hour float up the Mekong to the mysterious tourist attraction, the Pak Ou (or Buddha) Caves. I was still quite lethargic as we plodded against the current, making one stop to drop off some monks who'd hitched a ride. Is that a Nike bag?
Before the caves, we stopped for a quick lunch at a restaurant along the river. The bathroom at this joint was typical of the region. An Eastern-style squat toilet with no flushing mechanism. Instead, you were provided a bucket in a tub of water. I never used the bucket -- sorry person after me.
The caves were interesting if only for the sheer number of buddhas and the bats on the ceiling. At this point, I was feeling better and looking forward to our next stop, the whiskey village. The national drink in Laos, despite my efforts to change matters, is not Beerlao. It's a rice whiskey called Lao Lao. The marketing people over there are really on to something. The Lao Lao distillery, pictured below, is not what I expected. Just a couple of tubs on a hill. After the tour we cruised downstream and got ready for the farewell dinner, which was pushed up a day because Jun was heading back to Tokyo.
It was held at a restaurant called the Three Elephants. Bom's instructions were to meet at the "elephant restaurant." Unaware that Luang Prabang held no fewer than 6 eateries with elephant in the title, the group was split at two different places for a good hour. Eventually, I embarked on a mission to find the others and encountered a sweaty Bom riding his bike on a similar mission. During dinner it was suggested we all head to a night club after eating. Karen and I had routinely been awaking circa 5 AM and falling asleep by 9 or 10. Despite the fast approach of my bedtime, I couldn't help but wonder what took place at a nightclub in this old-fashioned, conservative country. It was even stranger than I'd imagined. In the dark, black-lit, smoky room, everyone was seated on large u-shaped sofas facing the dance floor and the stage. On stage was a band performing Lao pop music that was somewhere between Astrud Gilberto and Styx. The keyboard player was barely visible behind a rig of 15 synths. The drummer with his machine-like precision clearly knew these songs and ONLY these songs, but he could play them flawlessly, as he had hundreds of times before. After 10 minutes of music, some Lao women cautiously approached the dance floor and began a dance akin to a slow-motion Macarena. In another ten-minutes the foreigners hit the dance floor as if the tunes were being spun by Sasha and Digweed. Flailing maniacally around the two-stepping Lao folk, the bizarre cacophony of sights that ensued had me chuckling in my chair until Wasa dragged me into the mix. I feigned enjoyment despite my embarrassment. This cycle of events was played out over the next hour or so until the band packed it in and Madonna rose on the speakers. The strange thing was, the Lao style dancing never really changed. The foreigners only became more belligerent.
posted by Tim | 7:12 PM
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