I am writing this post on Ko Tao. Specifically, I am on the front porch of our cold-water not-quite-beach-side-but-close-enough bungalow, which i love beyond all reason. I am wearing a bathing suit and a soft cotton dress. This seems to me a pretty safe perspective from which to write about Luang Prabang, a place I enjoyed, but which filled me with conflicting emotions at the time.
When you go to a place to see its life rather than its sights, as in Luang Prabang, you – or at least I – am drawn to somehow participate in that life, to be able to offer something of value. In retrospect, I should have volunteered while we were there, but instead I got emotionally invested in a quixotic quest to spend my money in the right way. Money, you see, is the easiest way for a tourist to fit into the life of a tourist town. It is what is expected.
The first night we were in Luang Prabang, we went to the night market. It was a totally overwhelming display of consumer goods, beautiful things, all reported to be handcrafted, scarves and slippers, bedspreads and tablecloths, purses and paper crafts. But what caught my eye most was the jewelry. Laos, specifically the Hmong, are reputed to be master silversmiths, and silver jewelry was everywhere, all of it beautiful, all of it cheap. I bought a pair of little earrings for myself among all the other souvenirs for others that I bought; they cost me $5 worth of kip.
Next door, I saw a necklace and felt an immediate desire for it. It was large and opulent, with turquoise beads and a dripping pile of seed-pod-shaped charms. I put it on and felt very beautiful. Realistically, I imagined I could only wear it at Burning Man or other events where such decadence is celebrated. It was expensive for a souvenir, but cheap for what I imagined it to be.
I held off. I knew nothing of buying fine silver. I did not want to make a mistake, since our budget is not unlimited. So I put it down, and spent the next day reading about the purchase of silver, and went to the local museum that depicts the dress of the various Hill tribes of Laos, including the silver tradition among the Lao and the Hmong in particular. I learned about the history of silversmithing in Laos, and that one should look on the back or clasp of silver jewelry to see if it bears the important mark “92.5”, which indicates that the piece is sterling silver, or 92.5 percent silver. Laotian silver actually often exceeds this in purity, which makes it softer but even more attractive.
But I was not sure if these marks were universal, and I read nothing to guide me about navigating the silver shops of Luang Prabang. So I went back to the shop and looked at the necklace again. I tried it on and it was still beautiful. I looked all over it and did not see a mark of 92.5, but when the salesgirl assured me that it was indeed 92.5 percent silver, I bought it anyway.
Days passed, and I still had not recovered any ease. I had so enjoyed the boat trip on the Mekong to Luang Prabang, playing Ticket to Ride with the Blythe Spirit and the father and son from Hong Kong, and watching the hills and rubber plantations and villages and fisherman slide past as we floated down the glassy river. But our night at Pakbeng, where we were greeted with open need for our kip and nearly stayed in a literal fleabag hotel, had knocked me off my game. I was feeling edgy in Luang Prabang. As we stayed and our friends from the Gibbon Experience and the Elegant Frenchman moved on, my edginess deepened. This caused trouble between me and The Professor, though we shared some wonderful experiences.
While wandering the alleyways alone, so that the Professor and I could get a breather from each other, I happened into a beautiful art gallery, and was invited by the Laotian artist to sit and chat. He spoke perfect English and was obviously gay, with a white partner. They lived half the year in Canada and half the year in Laos, I gathered, and had been to San Francisco so many times that they did not want a postcard from there, which I offered to send them. I had mentioned that I was feeling very relaxed – true in that moment – and that I liked Luang Prabang very much, but that I feared the night market where I had been souvenir shopping was bad for my budget.
Most of what is sold there is made in factories in china, they told me.
In retrospect that was obvious and doesn’t detract from the uniqueness of what is sold there from a western perspective; I can’t get this stuff at home. But at the time it hit me like a lightning bolt. Afraid to tell them that I had already purchased a necklace, I told them that I had mostly bought needlepoint items, which I could see the market women stitching as they waited for customers. Those are authentic, they told me. So I told them I was thinking about buying a necklace. The ones near the market are all tin, they said. To get the real thing, you need to go to the silversmiths in their old district on the Mekong, or in an alley near the old fountain by the major intersection.
I digested this for a day, and then I went to these silversmiths. I bought a second necklace, stamped 92.5, more expensive than the first but still a good price for what it was, just as beautiful but less provocative. I met the silversmith, whose father-in-law had made a crown for the last king. He showed me an old photograph of it. I watched his daughter, who had sold me the necklace, practice an elaborate and fascinating craft of gold-thread embroidery. We talked to the limits of our mutual ability. She had long orange fingernails that looked wonderful laying the gold floss and stitching it into place with thinner, more delicate dark red thread. I thought of the Vegan Taxidermist, and the Paper Queen, and missed them tremendously. I felt the old familiar pang that I am not an artist like they are, just an occasional amateur, and the accompanying familiar consolation that I can at least support the lives of real artists and craftspeople in this world when I am abroad.
Which is a nice way of saying that if you don’t have the talent or discipline for art, you can still have the money and the taste to participate in the lives of artists. There’s a part of me that very easily adopts the role of the wealthy woman of leisure, and i distrust that part because i know the discipline to make your own beautiful things rather than buy them is superior. I am hard on myself sometimes.
I love both my necklaces and the lessons they taught me, and the experience of buying the latter. but if you ask me about my happiest memories of Luang Prabang, they are of talking with friendly people on the street who wanted to share with me their two months study of English. The fellow passing out fliers by the bamboo bridge. The fellow who lived on the same street as our hotel, and chatted with me. The fellow who clinked beer bottles with Phil and tried to dance with me on our last night in the city, at the club near the bus station behind the grocery store. And I loved seeing the sunset from the point where the rivers meet, and hanging out in utopia with the Blythe Spirit, and biking to a less-touristed waterfall with the Professor. I like Laos. I’ll need to digest it some more, though.
– the Private Eye
The Professor and the Private Eye: Adventures Abroad 