by Brett Dakin
At the entrance to the sim, the chapel where monks are ordained, and the most important building in any Lao temple, we removed our shoes and stepped up onto the front terrace. The sim had been covered with a fresh coating of paint, the same rich saffron hue as the monks’ new robes. Just above the terrace, a carved wooden façade filled with mythical figures like the naga, or water serpent, and the half-bird, half-woman kinnari graced the front of the sim. Through the main entrance, I saw the feature for which Wat Ong Teu was most renowned: the sixteenth-century bronze statue of the Buddha that weighed several tons. Purple, red, and silver gems gleamed from the base of the great statue, which dominated the rear of the chapel.
Sumali and I sat among the other worshippers who crowded the terrace, facing the golden Buddha, and carefully placed our bowls of offerings on the floor before us. I noticed that some worshippers’ silver takbaat bowls were inscribed with the seal of the pre-revolutionary Royal Lao Government, a three-headed elephant. The seal, however hidden, was a potent symbol of the past; its subtle re-emergence in Vientiane was an indication of the gradual opening up of Laos’ political system. As I tucked my legs beneath me as neatly as I could, I saw a large, contemporary statue of a monk just in front of me and to my right.
“Who’s that?” I asked Sumali.
“He’s the big guy, the head monk,” she replied with a whisper. “Here, look inside.” In the center of the chapel, in front of the Buddha, sat an elderly monk who was conducting the morning’s ceremony. This was the deputy patriarch of the Lao sangha, or monastic order. He was the leader of the temple’s Buddhist Institute, to which monks from all over the country came to study Buddhist doctrine, and thus he had his official residence here at Wat Ong Teu.
As the deputy patriarch read the ancient pali scriptures into a microphone, his steady recitation was broadcast throughout the temple. His voice was a strict monotone, and faintly soporific. As it washed over the worshippers, it nearly put me to sleep. My cumbersome legs, unaccustomed despite months of living in Asia to sitting on the floor, were already reminding me that they weren’t designed for this sort of thing. Just as I was about to slip into a state of numbed semi-consciousness, the deputy patriarch completed his recitation and the melancholy chords of traditional Lao music crept out of the speakers.
We walked over to a tent that the monks had set up on the main plaza of the temple grounds, and lined up behind the crowd, our bowls at the ready. As we waited for our turn to place our offerings into the larger bowls inside the tent, I noticed that almost all of the worshippers were women.
“Where are all the men?” I asked.
“Women like to give alms. Men don’t,” replied Sumali with a grin, her lips pursed. She was a woman of few words, but her simple response pointed to a central truth about religious life in Laos: it was the women who kept the temples in business. This extraordinary devotion was despite the clearly inferior position traditionally accorded to women in Lao Buddhism. Snooping around in the office, I once came upon an old essay by Phagna Ingpeng Suryadhay, who had been Laos’ ambassador to the US in the 1950s. “Here is the philosophy of Buddhism and the one we follow,” he wrote in 1970:
Since everything changes, why insist on an ideal solution for all problems when it would be preferable to follow the middle course? This explains why our morals and traditions are suffused with so much amiability and tolerance. . . . As well, don’t look to complicate things in Laos. Take things as they come and as they are arranged. . . . A Lao woman herself must prostrate herself at the feet of her husband each night before going to sleep in order to ask for forgiveness for all the bad things she did during the day. She cannot sleep on the same pillow as her husband, for he has a pillow placed higher than hers. What is more, they cannot sleep just anywhere on the conjugal bed, but invariably to the left of her husband, to permit him to at the first signal of danger, to grab his sword quickly. During a meal, she cannot begin to eat until her husband has arrived at the third mouthful. During conversation, she can never cut off her husband.
Buddhism offered many benefits to Lao women, but a way up and out of the morass of sexism was certainly not among them.
The only man at Wat Ong Teu that morning, I put a bit of my modest wealth in each of the row of bowls inside the tent—a banana in this one, a ball of sticky rice in the next, a candy bar in another. We made these simple offerings in order to earn merit in this life, which would hopefully be returned to us in the next. On our way home, Sumali pointed out four that kaduk, or bone stupas, that sat just inside the temple walls. She explained that over the years our landlady’s family, prominent merchants since the early twentieth century, had been a great benefactor to Wat Ong Teu; the parents’ and grandparents’ ashes were interred in these stupas. Their dates were engraved on the front of the pyramid-like structures. The grandfather had lived from 1930 to 1994, the grandmother from 1931 to 1996. Placing a small amount of sticky rice on the base of each stupa, I paid my respects to my surrogate ancestors, whose photographs were on prominent display in my bedroom.
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That evening at 8:00, I met Sumali in front of her house for the bientiene, or candlelight procession, around Wat Ong Teu. We prepared our offerings—this time, small bundles of flowers, incense sticks, and orange candles—and crossed the street to the temple. As soon as we entered the grounds, the procession began. A smaller group of worshippers, mostly young people, had returned to pay their respects to the monks and to wish for good luck. The women had swapped their sin for more casual attire, and some were even dressed in jeans. At the front of the circling crowd walked the resident monks and novices, led by the deputy patriarch.
We filed in behind the monks and used another worshipper’s candle to light our own. As we turned the corner of the sim, I caught a glimpse through one of the windows of the great Buddha sitting inside—as serene as ever despite the din of the evening’s activities. Two young monks sat in front of the Buddha, reciting from their scriptures, their words broadcast through two large speakers placed outside. The chapel’s ornately carved shutters, painted bright red and gold, depicted scenes from the Lao version of the central Hindu epic, the Ramayana. In the glow of the candles, the characters seemed to come to life: the hero Phra Lak triumphed over his evil brother Phra Lam and went on to become the true leader of the people of Vientiane. The burning incense created a magical haze on this cool October evening, and the flames from our small candles flickered faintly in the eyes of the two naga—central figures in Lao mythology—that guarded the temple entrance.
We circled the sim three times before following the crowd over to a longboat that had been placed in the grounds. After the monks lit the candles that graced the seats of the boat, we each placed our palms together and performed a nop, the formal Lao greeting, three times before laying our floral votives inside. The candles, flowers, and incense soon caught fire, but no one seemed at all worried by the growing flames. As the crowd began to disperse, monks strolled about setting off fireworks into the night to celebrate their newfound freedom. One novice marched about with a long, tube-like rocket in his hand, periodically setting off a fountain of sparks into the sky. He appeared in the dark to be a young sorcerer, casting a spell over the evening with his wand. Children, delighted and frightened at the same time, squealed and ran for cover behind their parents’ knees.
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Back at her house, Sumali and I sat outside and munched on boiled peanuts, one of her favorite snacks, as we waited for a group of her friends to arrive. I knew that it wasn’t easy for her to be sitting here alone with me, a foreign man about her age. Just think of what the neighbors might say! A young Lao woman had to be more cautious than women in West when it came to how they acted and the company they kept, lest she develop the sort of reputation no woman anywhere in the world would want. Then again, Sumali didn’t seem all that worried. Even under the watchful eye of her mother, an elderly woman who did little but watch the world go by from inside the cramped quarters of the
ir one-story home, Sumali could at times be quite flirtatious.
Sumali lived with her aging mother and elder brother. The family seemed to rely on the brother’s ad hoc motorbike repair business to get by. He also trained the family’s chickens to fight, and entered them into competitions every weekend. The cocks struck me as particularly vicious—for two years, I made sure to keep my distance—so I wouldn’t be surprised if his winnings substantially supplemented the family income.
As we sat together, Sumali took the opportunity to tell me about one of the most popular legends of Awk Phansaa: Bang Fai Phanyanak, or the Fire-Shooting Serpent of the Mekong. According to this legend, at the bottom of the Mekong, about sixty kilometers south of Vientiane, there lives a great water serpent. On the eve of Awk Phansaa, the serpent shoots a stream of fire from his mouth and out of the water, spraying light into the dark sky above. Every year on this night, thousands of Lao and Thai gather to watch the mysterious pockets of light rise one hundred meters above the river and then disappear. It always takes place in the same location, and always on the eve of Awk Phansaa—though the exact date of the festival changes every year.
“Oh, come on. Koi baw seuah chao. I don’t believe you—there’s no such serpent,” I said.
“Mee tae. There is so,” Sumali insisted. “I used to say I didn’t believe, but then I saw it with my own eyes. And now I know, the serpent exists.”
No one could quite understand this phenomenon, and I heard a different explanation each time a Lao told me about the legend. Some wondered if there wasn’t some sort of chemical reaction occurring under the water. But why only on Awk Phansaa? Perhaps a few mischievous Thais were playing a trick on the crowds. One of my colleagues at work had also been to view the light display, and he insisted that there was a city underneath the Mekong that was also celebrating Awk Phansaa. According to him, the lights that jumped out of the river were really fireworks being set off by the celebrants below.
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As Sumali tried in vain to convince me of the truth, her girlfriends showed up. “Oh, mee falang! It’s a foreigner!” one exclaimed. “He’s cute. Does he speak Lao?” All of this fuss never amounted to much, and I knew it was mostly a game. But I couldn’t help but wonder if these girls were actually interested in me. Or was I merely an object of curiosity? After I had established my credentials, we all set off for the banks of the Mekong. Candlelight glowed from the windows and courtyards of our neighborhood’s closely packed homes. The calm quiet belied the intense activity within. Grandmothers and granddaughters worked side by side constructing khatong, or miniature boats made from banana leaves, flowers, and incense, which they would later set adrift on the river in an ancient Lao tradition known as Lai Hua Fai.
As soon as we passed out of our village, the calm became a maelstrom of live music, cheering celebrants, and laughing children. Nearly every house near the river had been converted into a makeshift restaurant. In the driveways of old colonial villas, residents had set up small stands selling grilled chicken, fresh sticky rice, and that inimitable elixir of life in Laos: Beer Lao. In 1999, Beer Lao had sold 33 million liters of beer and made 150 billion kip, and by the end of 2000 it would own nearly 100 percent of the domestic market.
On Fa Ngum Road—the namesake of the founder of the Lan Xang kingdom—which runs along the Mekong, the crowd was so thick that we were soon swept away in a sea of merriment. After struggling for a few minutes to walk in a particular direction, we gave in and became one with the mob. Wherever the crowd went, we followed. Along the riverbank, stands selling Thai and Vietnamese toys had been set up under tents. Occasionally, the jolting sound of a firecracker pierced the night air.
“Ao nyang baw, monsieur? What would you like?” an elderly woman called to us. “How about these khatong? Very beautiful.”
I wasn’t a tough sell, and quickly bought two boats decorated with bright orange and purple flowers. Armed with our khatong, Sumali and I traipsed over the muddy flats and down to the river. Drunken men, relieving themselves in the dark, dotted the landscape around us. Near the water’s edge, young couples and families alike gathered to release their boats into the Mekong, an act of offering to the powerful spirits of this, the world’s twelfth-longest river.
In the autumn breeze, it was a challenge to keep our candles lit as we sent our own khatong on their way downriver. When they floated away, our natural banana-leaf models were soon overtaken by a very different kind of miniature boat, made from bright pink plastic and shaped like lotus blossoms: imports from Thailand. In the weeks leading up to the end of Buddhist Lent, the Lao government had issued a statement encouraging citizens to refrain from using these Thai models in an effort to protect the river environment. Not many got the message. These plastic models invariably stayed lit the longest, and their owners seemed happy with their purchases.
The Mekong, sprinkled with flickering lights drifting by, mirrored the clear night sky above. But despite their beauty, these small lights actually represented our evil spirits being sent downriver, far from Vientiane. I wondered if villagers further downstream would be nearly so pleased when they woke up the next morning to find these decidedly non-biodegradable boats on their shores.
Satisfied that our boats would stay afloat long enough to drift away, we trekked back up to Fa Ngum Road to a large concert stage erected right on the riverfront. The energetic singer wore an orange nylon shirt and tight white jeans, and constantly ran his hand through his greased hair as he sang a mix of Thai and Lao pop songs. In front of the stage, hundreds of teenagers attempted to dance to the music, jumping up and down in place and occasionally throwing their hands in the air with carefully restrained abandon. These Lao had never known life under the Lao PDR at its most strict, in the late 1970s and early 1980s, when women were prohibited from wearing anything else but the traditional sin and men couldn’t even wear jeans.
In front of the stage, young men and women alike were dressed almost uniformly in blue jeans. Drunk on Tiger brand whiskey, groups of boys swayed back and forth, stumbling as they made their way to the dance floor. “Hallo!” they cried out when they saw me. On the edge of the crowd, pairs of young men stood as nonchalantly as possible, cigarettes in hand, arms draped heavily over one another’s shoulders. This generation may have tossed out many of the traditions of old, but it continued to preserve perhaps the central prohibition of Lao society: men and women never touched in public.
The young people around us showed no signs of stopping, but Sumali, her friends, and I were tired. We were getting old, it seemed. The full moon above guided our way back to Wat Ong Teu. We said good night and I went upstairs to bed.
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The next morning, I woke up earlier than I’d have liked, as Sumali and I had planned to head down to the river once again. But she and her mother had set up a small shop outside their house in order to capitalize on the steady stream of people already making their way down our small alley. Sumali’s mother had bred goldfish throughout the year, and was now selling them in old whiskey bottles to the children who passed by. Business was swift, and her mother needed help, so I walked down to the river on my own.
Today was Vientiane’s Water Festival, or Boun Nam, held each year in association with the end of Buddhist Lent. This festival has its origins in an animist focus on the spirits of the soil and water; the community looked to the spirits to protect the kingdom and to ensure agricultural prosperity in the coming year through the annual cycle of flooding and drainage of the rice fields. These days, boat-racing competitions dominated the festivities. Throughout the morning and into the afternoon, races were held on the river in front of Fa Ngum Road.
The races had clear roots in Laos’ royal heritage. During the Water Festival in Luang Prabang, when it was still the royal capital, the king’s boatmen would remove the royal barges from a shed behind the palace and enter the Mekong nearby. They would row north to the spot at which the Mekong and the Nam Khan rivers converge, to a collection of rocks where a
group of naga was said to rest. The boatmen would place floral arrangements and candles on the rocks, and then pray to the water spirits to protect the kingdom before retracing their journey to the palace.
On this day in Vientiane, onlookers lined the riverbank, jockeying for a glimpse of the racing boats. Many in the crowd were clearly not from Vientiane, and they stood out. These country folk seemed bewildered, overwhelmed by the whirl of activity that surrounded them. While most showed little to no interest in me—one of very few foreigners around—these men and women were as agog as their grandchildren when they saw my white face. They reminded me of an old Lao saying Sumali had once taught me: Gai gan ban fa gap din. The difference between their lifestyle and that of their fellow citizens here in the big city was as great as “the distance between the sky and the earth.”
Each race began with a gunshot. Once they were off, the long, slender boats glided gracefully through the tepid waters, slicing through the stillness. The contestants, about fifty to a boat, had trained for months leading up to the event, and they were ready. Each oar moved in perfect time, as if the men were part of a single organism. Traditionally, different villages within the city formed the teams and competed against one another. In recent years, as Laos had opened up to the forces of market capitalism, large companies had begun sponsoring teams as well. Today, Pepsi had a team, as did Beer Lao.
Thirty-six boats competed in the races: 26 in the men’s and another ten in the women’s. The competition was run as a single-loss elimination system, and the prize for the winning men’s team was 14 million kip—at the time, about 1,700 dollars—and for the women, seven million. The races were certainly competitive, and onlookers cheered loudly for their favorites. But most rowers were really there to have fun, and once each race was over, both the winners and the losers exploded into a display of unbridled revelry. Boats rocked as teammates drank, danced, and sang, satisfied that all those months of training had finally paid off.
