SEP 2008

Laos was the first foreign land I ever visited—14 hours on a jolting international bus, sitting on a sack of potatoes, wide-eyed and in my early twenties, not knowing that this moment would stay with me for years.

On September 27th, 2008, after lunch, I set off for Xishuangbanna. Before leaving home, I took a quick look in the mirror by the door: olive-green quick-dry shirt, gray hiking shoes, my backpack and camera in hand. That familiar look and feel had left me for a couple of years, ever since I got married and had my first baby. This time, I was flying south again—and waiting for me at Gasa Airport was my old friend Yu from uni.

From the plane, I saw the red, earthy colors and knew I was back in Yunnan. We made a side trip to the tropical botanical garden in Menglun—Xiangyu had promised to see me off all the way to the border.

One iPod, two ears—each of us with a headphone, sharing the same playlist. I love watching the world pass by to music, especially in Yunnan, where the tea mountains roll on forever and even the sky feels generous.

The Mekong runs through seven countries. I found out online that from Jinghong Port, you could once take a boat all the way to Luang Prabang. But when we got there, they told us the route was suspended. Only ferries to Huayxai on Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays—and even then you have to find your own onward boat. It sounded romantic—floating down the Mekong into Laos—but for someone crossing into a foreign country alone for the first time, uncertainty didn’t feel like adventure. So I chose the land route from Mengla instead.

The next day I got to Mengla, only turned out there was no bus to Luang Prabang. The only 7 am daily bus had broken down. Not wanting to waste another day,I caught a night ride to Mohan, the last Chinese town before the border to try my luck.

Across from Mohan is Boten, the first town on the Lao side. At 8:30am each day, there’s a flag-raising ceremony at the checkpoint—only after that can vehicles begin to cross. Yu and I waved goodbye right at the border line.

And then—luck of the road—I managed to flag down an international bus from Kunming to Vientiane. It was completely full, no seats left, not even fold-down ones. So I sat on a sack of potatoes. 14 hours. Over narrow, winding dirt roads, crawling at twenty kilometers an hour. That’s how I arrived in Luang Prabang— the legendary city I had only seen in photos. And now, dusty and wide-eyed, I was here.

Standing before the murals, it’s hard not to think of the craftsmen who labored away in the dim, airless tombs to paint these scenes, from day and night. Did they ever thought that a thousand years later, their work would be carefully displayed in an air-conditioned room, appreciated by curious modern eyes? The intricacy of these works rivals that of European court murals, yet, unfortunately, their creators remain nameless.

As the former capital of the ancient Lan Xang Kingdom and a center of Buddhism, Luang Prabang is home to numerous temples, many of which are now considered among the most renowned in Southeast Asia. The dominant faith here is Theravāda Buddhism, just like in Xishuangbanna. I remember Yu once told me: Theravāda Buddhism focuses on personal enlightenment, while Mahāyāna Buddhism seeks to save all beings. Theravāda is the main form of Buddhism practiced across Southeast Asia.

Wat Xieng Thong is the most majestic temple in Luang Prabang. Its main hall glows with gold leaf on deep black lacquer, a quiet opulence that draws you in. Behind it, the rear wall carries a mosaic of the Tree of Life,a masterpiece from the golden age of the ancient Lan Xang kingdom.

I arrived in Luang Prabang just after midnight. The lights were still on at a small guesthouse called My Lao home, so I decided to stay. The manager was from Singapore, and we got to know each other when having breakfast on the upstairs balcony each morning. People here are warm and kind—they taught me how to say Sabaidee (hello) and Khop jai (thank you).

Laos is the world’s third-largest coffee producer after Colombia and Vietnam, and it’s easy to pick up a coffee habit here. Every morning, I sat with Daniel on the second-floor veranda, sipping strong, dark coffee softened by coconut milk and sugar. One cup marked the start of a new day. Later, a bowl of green curry—rich with lemongrass and basil—catered to a stomach quietly longing for tropical spice.

The next day, it rained. I took shelter under the eaves of this very temple. It was nearing dusk. A few monks walked by with umbrellas, heading off for their evening meal. Others sat inside, their voices rising and falling in steady chants. I sat quietly on the floor with them, cross-legged and still, not understanding a word — it was presence.

I wasn’t quite used to the way the monks at the temple greeted me in Japanese or Korean. But once the confusion was cleared up, we’d often manage a few simple phrases in Chinese. For them, the temple isn’t just a place of worship—it’s also a school. Each day, besides Buddhist scriptures, they study English, French, Japanese, Korean, and Chinese. One afternoon, I sat on the wooden floor of a little loft in the temple and teaching a young monk Chinese for hours— starting with basic greetings and common phrases.

At the market, I saw many children. Some were running stalls on their own, others stayed quietly beside their mothers, They had bright black eyes — just like the Wa children I’d seen before.

Each morning at 5am, people kneel quietly along the sidewalks of Luang Prabang, waiting for the monks to pass by for the daily alms round. They often offer sticky rice or local dried foods, placing them gently into each monk’s bowl, one by one. One side gives, the other receives. And just like that, the day begins for everyone.

On the way to Wat Xieng Thong, I stumbled upon a school tucked beside the road. In the courtyard, girls in white shirts and black longyi were laughing, chasing each other across the field. Their eyes were wide and bright, their smiles blooming like tropical flowers—so vivid, the joy was so inviting.

Among all the moments captured on this journey, these photos remain my favorite: under the blazing sun, children clutched the rope and hurled themselves into the Mekong River, again and again.

I sat on the riverbank, quietly watching them play. It was the childhood I never had.