A big fan of Luang Prabang

After a cramped overnight bus from Vang Vieng I arrived bleary eyed in Luang Prabang, a province in the mid-northern Laos, and stumbled through the lovely quiet latticed alleyways of eccentric little wooden guesthouse builds. Nestled on the confluence of the Mekong and Nam Khan, the pretty rivers were visible from either end of the streets along the edges of the narrow jutting town. Stopping outside a gorgeous mahogany homestay I politely inquired as to the cost of a room with a camoflage clad caucasian lodger sat conspicuously with coffee in one hand, and a smashed honey bottle of honey in the other and was precipitantly met with a bracing barrage and the full force of an extrovert character. I set my bags down at a cheap but clean dormitory down the road and had precariously agreed to return for breakfast. The unorthadox and monstrously direct man and I set off to dine on the riverside battling consistently over what degenerated rapidly into stickly semantics, both as fervently grandiloquent as one and other. Breakfast was marked by the same ridiculous rigmarole and our increasing giggling audacity as we conversed at length with locals and I steadily discovered that Gary, his name was revealed to me after an hour or so, was a New York Irish IRA descendent in his forties who had beem adopted by gypsies now residing for the past 15 years in China having worked for a string of international corporate giants. As a fastidious communist, Gary had a wealth of impactive opinions on the left wing countries I was travelling through grounded in years of living in China, and offered some enrapturing tales of Burma and its deviant Wa state, as well as shedding light on the other Asian countries I was soon to visit.

I resolved to do some sightseeing, and had aquired Gary in tow, who uncompromisingly insisted simply that we have a fine glass of rosé on Luang Prabang's picturesquely quaint main central street hemmed with beautiful French-Indochinese architecture first. A good deal of time  and vociferous disturbance later we visited Wat Xiang Thong at the end of town, a historical Buddhist monastery which was enchanting and lively to look around, although the architecture was slightly underwhelming. Up close the temples seemed a little over-zealously restored and resultantly unfortunately came across sligtly crude. However, beside the white washed walls of the immacualte streets all the colours of effulgent hibiscus protrusions and gold hued gates and temples vibrantly effused life into every scene.

The centre of town was overshadowed by Phou Si, another cluster of tiny temples atop a mountain of stairs which zig zagged through the thickets of shady trees on the precipitous banks of its hill. The assorment of treasures we encountered there included a bizarre, slightly derranged looking idol dripping in gold adornments sat in a deep set small nook of a cobwedded cave beside a perculiarly barren room with a incesnce infused centre piece, before a walk way of naga snake heads which slithered along leading pilgrims past a collection of animated Buddaha statues for each of the seven days. The whole precipice was charmingly random and once the stinging beads of sweat had desisted and subsided from my eyes after the lofty climb, observing it all was a pleasure.

Attempting some artistic creativity with
my point and shoot

After passing through the National Museum, a rather un-tourist-friendly mish mash of semi-decadent items with few accompanying labels of explanation (save a proud moon rock relic dedicated by President Nixon which seemed to me an insignificant consililatory gesture for over a decade of senseless bombing) we chanced across another gentelman named Moses. Moses was a wonderfully warm Jewish New Yorker who's Polish parents who were survivors of the war had emigrated before he was born. Numinously, before the day was out, they had engaged in 3-4 additional, equally as animated discussions with other stranger New Yorkians who wandered with smooth regularity into our path, on the topic of the best bagel in town. Having visited for a week at 13, I was repeatedly exhempt from these discussions, and almost all the cultural references made by the exceedingly erudite men amongst themselves. Gary was a past and long term employee of both Nestlé and Monsanto, morrally bankrupt corporate world powers, and Moses was a real rocking hippie from the 60's who was part of the yoga western inception whilst in India with some of the revolutionary teaches and had completed ten Viaassanas arourd the world, a commitment I was venturing toward and so voraciossly inquired upon. So whilst feeling rather insipient, I was noneheless intrigued and encaptivated. Whilst gabbing of subjects beyond my comprehension, two of them allowed themselves to be conspired into a truck alongside myself and a random but friendly Indian man who wanted to see the nearby Kuang Si waterfalls as much as I did.

Through the jungle we came first across Tat Kuang Si and its family of protected Asiatic sloth bears. They are mercilessly exploited by some unforgivably supersticious Chinese for thier livers which are ground down and used to supposedly combat various ailements. After watching the bears play happily in their sizeable habitat I took short leave of the guys and their never ending conversing to climb up a precarious and steep muddy track to the top of the breathtaking falls seeing the water plunging out beneath my feet. Another Brit was at the top so after some daring photography over the edge, we hurryed sweatily back down for a dip in the brilliant blue waters. They were glowing with illustrous bright turquoise hues in the sunlight as if someone had adorned their floors to improve the spectacle and please the tourists, and were so wonderfully fresh and crisp we joyfully jumped from nearby trees in appreciation of our favourable lot before parting ways. My jnlikely companions and I wiled away the night scoffing street food, drinking, playing guitar, with more talk of bagels of course. It had been an envigorating day, but my brain was tired out, so I left Gary and Moses with another New Yorker who had stumbled upon the scene, as Gary's suspicions esculated that he was some ruthless eastern european arms dealers....