It was our first day in Luang Prabang. We had come in on the eleven o’clock flight from Bangkok on the little prop plane from Lao Aviation that bumped and rocked over the green jungle and jagged peaks of the track less forest beneath us, finally settling down at a tiny airport that looked like the rebels where going to come down from the hills at any time and seize control, driving all the foreigners into heaving lines of people trying desperately to get on the last plane out.
Actually, the airport was really nice, just pretty small and run down, no gates or anything, the plane just disgorged its load on to the tarmac and the people were shuttled to two ancient teak booths to have our visas processed.
After collecting our bags, a pretty short wait due to the fact that we were the only plane coming in and there were all of twenty people on board we grabbed a taxi and headed to our hotel. Rushing down the highway, past little huts and with views of golden stapes in the distance, rising up over the ever present teak trees we kept catching glimpses of people through screens of scarlet bougainvillea that lined the road.
Everywhere you looked people were moving to and fro, going about their daily lives. There were motorcycle tuk-tuks going up and down the streets shuttling people and tourists from the markets and temples that littered this valley that had been formed by the confluence of the Mekong and Nam Ou rivers.
We reached our hotel after a fifteen minute ride and got out, staring at the Wat surrounded by a low stone wall that was across from the ninety year old converted French shop that would be our home for the next several days.
Looking around the street I was amazed by the small town feel that was still prevalent here even though it had been on the backpacker circuit of south east Asia for several years now. There were people cooking, eating, and drinking just off the almost deserted street. In the small closed in allies that went down to the Nam Ou river behind the hotel children played with abandon, running, jumping, and yelling like children everywhere. Over the entire town, from the green hills stretching in a line on both the east and west sides to the river snaking its way from north to south hung the scent and have of thick wood smoke as the subsistence farmers around the country used the cold months of December and January to clear new land for the spring planting, sowing seeds of bright purple baby eggplant, deep red scallion, the green stems of shallot, that when they are ready will disappear into a shiny white bulb to flavor soups, stews, and fragrant Lao salads.
After settling in and getting cleaned up it was time to head out and take a look around. Meandering along the chocolate covered fast flowing Mekong, framed with little terraced rice paddies and plots of lettuce and papayas lining the narrow yellow sand banks we couldn’t help but think of the millions of people that this river, the tenth largest in the world fed and watered everyday, from the vast rice terraces of Yunann in southern China, spread along flanks of steep mountain ranges with wispy clouds of white mist rising gently on the currents to the rich black earth of the delta, spreading its fingers across Cambodia and Vietnam.
While walking along the Mekong on the right the rows of old french colonial villas and shops spread along the left side of the street. Some had been lovingly restored, the balconies and interiors cool and inviting with reams of colourful flowers hung up and teak on the floors that had been polished by over seventy years of bare feet pattering to and fro, while outside they buildings are painted the typical French colonial hues of blues and yellows.
Others had fallen into disrepair as years of the tropical heat had taken its toll, leaving hand carved wooden window shutters barley hanging on to the frames, weather beaten and grey and the walls had huge gaping holes showing the mud lattice work that is the inside filler in the walls.
Finally, after strolling through this garden of tropical wonder we made it to the main street, our goal, and found food alley, lined with all manner of cooked food ready to be eaten.
On spits, dripping with roasting fat, were skewers of bamboo that had chicken fat woven in spirals along the shaft, balls of water buffalo intestine, lovingly twisted and tied with lemon grass to slowly cook on the part of the girl away from the roaring flame. On tables were stacked piles of frogs, pig heads, charred river fish straight from the Mekong and huge slabs of beef.
Finally we reached our destination a little spot dominated by three plastic tables and fronted with low benches. The woman behind the tables could have been anyone’s grandma in any country, big and jovial she was lovingly stirring huge vats of rice noodles and preparing the most popular dish in south east Asia, eaten for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, pho.
Pho is cheap, simple, and easy to make and dominates local street food all over Indochina. Basically it is a bowl of rice noodles with some vegetables added in and your choice of pork or chicken slivers on top, pretty bland by itself but that is where the condiments come in.
At any street stall that serves pho the table is covered with plates of limes, lettuce, cabbage, shrimp paste, scallions, shallots, red onion, chili paste, and jars of fish sauce, soy sauce, and red pepper.
When the big bowl of steaming pho is set in front of you make sure you look over at what the locals are doing and just follow. Take a handful of scallions and shallots and add them to the mess of noodles and broth, add some shrimp paste, a little bit of crushed red pepper, and maybe some peanut sauce and mix it all together, watch as the broth changes from a clear base to have tinges of red and brown as the peanut sauce and shrimp paste mix together and wash it all down with a cold glass of Beer Lao
