It was supposed to be a scenic 190-mile cruise up the atmospheric Mekong River, a ride through nature, fresh air, and small, remote villages after almost two weeks in big and/or busy cities in Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos. Instead, we found ourselves exposed for two full days to the smokiest air I have ever experienced. With an AQI score of over 500, the air pollution in Laos and northern Thailand tinged the skies with a sickly yellow/gray/brown hue and left its acrid taste in our mouths and noses. Slash-and-burn agriculture is alive and well in this part of the world, and we hit the peak of the crop-burning season, unfortunately.
We left Luang Prabang in the morning and boarded our boat in the small town of Ban Xang Hai. At first glance, we were skeptical, but once aboard, we quickly noted the many charms of our vessel. Long and lean, the wood boat had a variety of seating options, tables, and even a few bed-like couches along the edges. This would be our home for the next two days although we did disembark for the night in between.
Our first stop was Pak Ou, also known as the Buddha statue cave. The shores of the Mekong are riddled with caves, and this one, about two hours into the journey north, is one of two now-famous ones.
We climbed the steep stone staircase and were met by the unexpected sight of thousands of small Buddha likenesses. None is in great shape, but the imperfections – chips, broken limbs, and peeling paint – add to the cave’s aura.
Back on the boat, we continued north, snacking, drinking, chatting and lunching in the comfortable interior. Soon we were also sneezing, coughing, and squinting, as the smoke and its particulate matter settled deep into our nostrils and throats, the crevices of our fingers, and the folds of our clothing.
We tried hard to ignore the air quality, but it was certainly making things a little less pleasant with each passing hour. Although there was no escaping the air, we tried to take our minds off of it with the bucolic river scenes – an elephant being bathed by its owner, small gatherings of animals, passing vessels of all sizes and colors.
To add to our dustiness, we stopped at our first small village, Ban Bor, in the early afternoon. We trekked up a steep hill of sand and dirt to meet a classroom of children whose teacher is a friend of our guide. This enclave was well-kept and calm, and I mostly enjoyed the visit, something I had worried about because I have an aversion to “poverty tourism” in general, and the stops we had planned gave me pause as we moved upriver.
By evening, we got even creepier views of the smudged horizon; as we crept forward, it felt like we were sailing the River Styx, with the filth in the air backlit and yellowed by the setting sun. We got an overnight respite from the air in Pakbeng, a small town in the middle of nowhere but still home to a lovely set of cabin-like rooms high above the muted Mekong.
The following morning brought 90 more miles of smoky, blurry cruising up the river, as well as a second and much more unsettling village stop. We could immediately see and sense that Ban Huoy Lamphane, a poor Hmong village, was very different from the prior day’s visit. Known as one of the most fiercely independent hill tribes, the Hmong resist outside pressure to change; while not a bad thing in theory, the attitude has nevertheless left villages like this one adrift.
There was none of the industry (by which I mean weaving and other arts) of the first village, many children were clearly not in school, and the pride of place we had seen earlier was not to be found. I felt uneasy about our presence here; were we in any way helping, or was this exploitative tourism pure and simple? I happen to be fairly informed about the Hmong – one of my favorite books about a clash of cultures is Anne Fadiman’s The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down – and after having worked with several Hmong families resettling in the U.S., I was loathe to judge what we were seeing and torn about the efficacy of any help some passing tourists could really offer. A rough visit for me.
We completed our journey up the Mekong, crossing into Thai waters at Houay Xai in the mid-afternoon. We had high hopes, but of course we quickly learned that smoke knows no borders, and the thick air would stay with us until we left for Bangkok a few days hence. In spite of the miasma that enveloped our boat for two days and nearly 200 miles, the boat ride was a pleasant suspension of time, both literal and figurative, and I’m glad we did it.
Laos might have been the most confounding destination on my trip to Southeast Asia. It started under blue Bangkok skies with the most cheerful turboprop ever, and it offered a multitude of unique experiences, but everything about our time there was dimmed – quite literally – by horrific, smoky fires.
From our first stay in charming Luang Prabang, through a 200-mile boat ride up the Mekong River, and on into northern Laos and Thailand, the pervasive fires lent a sickly grayish-yellow tinge to everything we saw.
Still very much a user of slash-and-burn agriculture, Laos in late March/early April 2023 was in the midst of one of the most extended crop burns in recent history. Even before we touched down in our plane, my nostrils and throat began to register the smoke, and a quick glance outside made me think the pollution here was even worse than in Hanoi. We deplaned onto the tarmac and were hit by eye-watering particulate and the realization that this was no temporary haze.
Feeling a little bit ill both emotionally and physically, we proceeded into Luang Prabang for almost a full day of sightseeing before we could check into our lovely hotel. We started with the National Museum (formerly the royal palace) and went on to Wat Xieng Thong, both just outside the main downtown area.
The main attraction for me at both the museum and the temple were the stunning cut-glass designs on the walls, both inside and out.
Our young guide initially appeared to be very serious, but we were quickly surprised and amused by his deadpan delivery of some rather salacious facts about the palace’s residents. As our time with him continued for the next five days, we were regularly entertained by his blunt, slyly-joking manner.
Our lodging here was one of the places I had booked for J and myself in 2020, so I was eager to see if it lived up to my lofty expectations. The good news was that it did; the bad news was that we were unable to enjoy the gorgeous amenities because of the suffocating smoke. The pool, the outdoor bar, and the private patios outside our rooms were all off-limits if we wanted to protect our lungs. We partook of some of them in very small doses, but for the most part, we were stuck in our rooms when we were not out touring the city and countryside.
(Lest you think I am being dramatic about the air quality, for that period and the surrounding weeks in Laos, the AQI was a shocking 500+ for days on end. As a comparison, the recent fires in eastern Canada resulted in several readings of about 400, with the worst day in New York City registering 377 and causing all sorts of cancellations and flight stoppages. Unlike the mostly accidental fires in North America, the weeks-long fires in Laos and a few other Southeast Asian nations are set on purpose every spring despite educational efforts about the effects on the environment and human health.)
Still, we tried to avail ourselves of all of the charms Luang Prabang offered: cute little shops, a huge night market, distinctive architecture, delicious cuisine, and more.
One morning, we rose extra early to participate in Tak Bat, the giving of alms to the Buddhist monks who live in Luang Prabang. At about 6 am, the monks began their procession through the town, where locals and tourists alike lined the streets with baskets of sticky rice.
In fact, we saw very few tourists, which surprised and pleased me as I had worried that the whole alms-giving thing was just a touristy thing to do. On the contrary, the rice and other food handed out each morning is the main sustenance for these monks, and we saw many local people, women especially, who sat and supplied the monks long past our brief 30-minute stint of placing small handfuls of rice into the bowls that the monks carried.
After breakfast at the hotel that day, it was still early in the morning, and we had some free time before our next outing. Smoke be damned, I was eager to climb Phousi Hill for a little exercise as well as a view of the town. Although no one would join me, my inner badass compelled me to do this short hike after an innocent comment made by our van driver the day before.
Upon arrival in town, we had parked at the base of a long set of stairs up a hill, and when asked what was up there and if we could climb them, the driver let out a small laugh and said yes, we were allowed, but certainly no one in our group should attempt it. Challenge set and accepted, buddy!
As it turned out, the hike up was not difficult at all; it took me about 15 minutes to walk from the hotel to the top of the hill even with a second set of stairs that were hidden from view at the bottom. The joke was on me, though, because (a) there was no view to speak of given the air quality, (b) my lungs were now choked with that heavy, dirty air, and (c) I dutifully followed the “Way Down” signs and ended up semi-lost up on the back of the hill (with a bunch of gold Buddhas) and then totally disoriented when I arrived on the complete opposite side at the bottom, along the river and nowhere near the streets back to the hotel.
Using a general sense of direction and a landmark electrical pole I had spotted the night before, I half-ran, panting, my way back in the thick, hot air and barely made it before the van left for our next stop. (As a funny aside, I learned firsthand what our guide had warned us about when I asked for directions. I would point left and say, “Avani hotel?” Big smile and nod yes! “Or that way?” as I pointed right. Big smile and nod yes! Back to dead reckoning, I guess.)
I was reluctant to participate in our afternoon activity that day because I have a big problem with most kinds of animal tourism, and we had an elephant sanctuary on our schedule. After much questioning and my own research, I became comfortable that this place was ethical and positive. There were no elephant rides, no bathing of the animals by tourists, and only four elephants were in residence at the time, with a few mothers and babies out in the nearby forests but not in the visitor part of the sanctuary.
Despite my worries, it was an amazing afternoon. After an informative and enthusiastic talk by the sanctuary spokesman/manager, four mahouts brought out their elephants and “introduced” them to us. I don’t imagine I will ever stand so close to such magnificent creatures again, and I’m glad that this chance was one that felt acceptable to take.
After the trip, I happened to read a long, fascinating article about the musical genius of some elephants; apparently, they have naturally perfect pitch and an uncanny sense of rhythm. In that essay, I also learned that in some places, female Asian elephants are used by human mothers to babysit their children because of the elephants’ very high levels of intelligence, sense of nurturing, and responsibility. Having seen them up close, I can very easily picture this scenario. They are gentle, sentient souls.
Our last outing in the Luang Prabang area was another activity I initially pooh-poohed but ended up really enjoying. We traveled outside the city to a working rice farm that allowed small groups to come in and both learn about and help out with every aspect of rice cultivation. Over the years, I’ve seen rice paddies and terraces, watched farmers plow with their water buffalo, and cooked and eaten rice (obviously), but I have never really thought about the enormous number of steps involved in getting rice to my table.
We got started by taking off our shoes and wading into a small square of clumpy mud into which we scattered rice seeds (grains) to start the process. Rice fields must be flooded at planting time and remain constantly waterlogged; there is no clean way to do most of the jobs in a rice field. A short distance away, we stepped into a section a bit farther along in the growing process; here we pulled up small clumps of rooted rice plants that had just started to grow, carried them to another field, and planted them in new mounds of mud.
In the next paddy, we learned (out of order) how the water buffalo-powered plows turn the soil for new plantings (with a few of us getting to “drive”), and in a final section, we helped cut the mature rice with a scythe before knotting the bunches and carrying them under a roof for the next series of tasks.
Threshing, dehulling, winnowing, cleaning – the list went on and on until the rice was finally hanging over a wood fire, cooking in its bamboo basket before being spooned onto a plate. Here, as in most of Laos, the rice is sticky rice, and I am now an ardent fan.
In fact, I might miss sticky rice more than any other food in Southeast Asia … those plump grains all glutinous and full of nutty texture, baked to a slightly crusty perfection inside their baskets, scooped out in chunky spoonsful, and piled with fresh vegetables, meats, sauces, or just eaten plain and simple … Oh, I miss that rice!
It was a highly instructive day overall, and we felt like we’d been in an outdoor classroom while also helping, in a very minor way, with the work of the farm. Covered with mud to our knees and an ashy film everywhere else, we shuttled home and blissfully showered before our final stroll around town and a much-enhanced appreciation for the scrumptious sticky rice we consumed at dinner!
Next up: a cruise (seemingly into the apocalypse) on the Mekong River