River of Dreams

Dawn was breaking over Luang Prabang, the golden stupa of hilltop Wat Phu Si piercing the ethereal mist cloaking the town. A line of saffron stretched as far as the eye could see: spiritual soldiers of the Buddhist faith, streaming through the streets in search of donations. Every morning the monks of Luang Prabang receive alms from the local population, a ritual which has become an iconic experience for travellers, like me, journeying through Laos.

“My wife was up at 4.30am preparing the rice,” our guide Bounsavath told us, not intending to make us feel guilty. “Place a spoonful in every bowl, but carefully – women must not touch the monks.” Such is the devotion among the people of Luang Prabang that stoves are fired up every morning to feed the monks residing in the 32 stupa-studded wats (temples) of this living, breathing UNESCO World Heritage Site. Snaking through town, the blaze of colour was inspirational.

Wat Xieng Thong is the very essence of a Lao temple, its sublime, sweeping roof almost touching the ground. I admired its interior, adorned with gold-leaf paintings, and I wasn’t alone – the wat has been revered since its construction in 1560. The chief abbot led us to the funerary chariot of King Sisavong, who died in 1959. “His ashes were kept in a golden urn; I still remember the funeral procession, even though I was much younger then,” he recalled with a grin.

Heading upstream by longtail boat, the river seemed to shrink as the mountains loomed ever higher. Forested slopes yielded to cliffs where, cut into the limestone, I found a natural cave overflowing with sacred images of the Buddha hidden here centuries ago.

Successive pilgrims have left marks of their faith in the Pak Ou Caves, and there are now thousands of precious images silently standing guard over the Mekong.

Venturing deeper into southern Laos, I reached the widest point of the Mekong before it spills over waterfalls into Cambodia. Once part of the mighty Khmer empire, the legacy of Angkor is evident at the almost-mystical mountain temple of Wat Phu, built a millennium or more ago in the shadow of Lingaparvata mountain.

The ling, a male fertility symbol, was sacred to the ancient Khmers – so this phallus of a mountain must have provided an irresistible lure to erect a temple here. I admired carved sandstone enclosures and brick structures; a curious stone bearing a crocodile imprint may even suggest an even earlier civilisation that practiced sacrifice. However, unlike incomparable Angkor, the temples here are a sideshow – it was the location that captivated me, the temple spilling down the mountainside with a commanding view over the Mekong.

“It’s time to purify yourself,” said Bounsavath, pointing out a natural spring emerging from the rock face, used by kings and conquerors before us. Bounsavath stooped down and bathed his face in the holy water. There is such an aura to this ancient site that even I felt I could be cleansed at this magical place, rich in the spirituality of animism, Hinduism and Buddhism, the fusion religion which predominates in Laos today.

Heading toward the Cambodian border, I reached Si Phan Don – ‘4,000 Islands’ – where the Mekong splits into tiny tributaries, creating hundreds (the name suggests thousands) of small islands. Exploring by bicycle, I found a sleepy place where the pace of life is unhurried and the people unconcerned by the changing world beyond; on Don Khong, the largest inhabited island, electricity was introduced only a few years ago. As I cycled through small farms and villages, young children waved, and dogs and chickens scratched around beneath the houses.

From Don Khong I took a boat to Khon Phapheng Falls – the Niagara of the Mekong. The dramatic falls play host to a drama of their own: fishermen scale bamboo ladders to catch fish from the unrelenting spray. Later that night I sampled their wares in a delectable fish laap, a spicy Lao salad with a fiery kick.

Across the border and several hundred kilometres south, the Cambodian capital Phnom Penh proved to be a chaotic yet charming collision of Asia’s past and present, with a gentle riverine atmosphere reminiscent of a Bangkok of long ago. Cyclos cruised the streets looking for customers, though they’re fast being eased out of business by the buzzing moto (motorcycle taxi) – the family ‘saloon’; often I spotted four or more passengers on a moto. The history of Cambodia’s capital is studded with both triumphs and tragedies, but it is the latter that have been etched in the consciousness of the West. When the Khmer Rouge marched into the city on 17 April 1975, they evacuated the city’s population at gunpoint and turned the clocks back to Year Zero. I visited what became S-21 prison, now Tuol Sleng Museum of Genocide, a former high school used to incarcerate enemies of the revolution. Today it is a sombre reminder of the evil that visited this land – no journey to Cambodia is complete without experiencing it.

The Royal Palace proved a suitable antidote to the poison of the Khmer Rouge. I entered a shimmering compound and trawled through the treasures of this ancient dynasty. At centre stage is the ilver Pagoda, so named for the 5,000 silver tiles that carpet the floor; I was dazzled by the sublime golden Buddha shining above, decorated with an incredible 9,584 diamonds. At the nearby National Museum I gawped at the treasures of Angkor, admiring the world’s finest collection of Khmer sculpture – the perfect tease for a side trip to the temples.

The Vietnamese call the Mekong Song Cuu Long (River of Nine Dragons); as the river flows out of Cambodia it splits into nine arteries, breathing life into Vietnam’s delta and fire into its agricultural economy. I found myself enchanted by the river life of the delta, the Mekong simply oozing personality as traders, travellers, fishermen, farmers and fruit sellers bustled for space on the water. In a pancake-flat land that is awash with floods when the monsoon arrives, the rivers are equal to the roads; more often than not the rivers are the roads.

Befitting a commercial centre, Can Tho is ringed by floating markets and I had a dawn appointment with the traders of Cai Rang. The largest of the region’s river malls, Cai Rang was bustling with hundreds of tiny vessels selling fruit and vegetables, fish and flowers, and a splash of souvenirs. Observing from above, my eyes were hit by a riot of colour, punctuated only by the conical hats protecting the sellers from the early-morning sun.

Saigon was the final destination on my Mekong odyssey. The dynamic face of new Vietnam, I discovered a real buzz – and I’m not just talking about the motorbike engines. Bold and beautiful, cultured and commercial, historic and holistic, Saigon has something for everyone; it was a fine terminus for my journey following one of the world’s great rivers. I’d left the crowds behind to explore the river which is also a road – one less travelled, and the pathway to an older, more authentic Asia.