It's Saturday it Must be Saigon

We just finished a whirlwind tour of Vietnam and I think we all left wanting more and wishing we had allocated more time to this beautiful country. The past few weeks was the first part of our six month journey in which we were in constant motion—changing cities every few days and covering a lot of tourist ground. We enjoyed it all—but the pace was a bit exhausting and didn’t allow much time for any real cultural exchange.

Vietnam is a remarkable country—distinct in so many ways from all of the other South East Asian countries we have visited. The image of Vietnam mired in a brutal and complicated war (the American War, as they call it) is so deeply imprinted in my psyche that I had to keep reminding myself that this vibrant and dynamic place was indeed Vietnam. Our introduction was Ho Chi Min City (formerly, and still unofficially, known as Saigon). Much to my surprise, HCMC seemed the picture of urban sophistication albeit with a strong sense of history and the perspective. Or, as one guidebook put it—and interesting combination of pagodas, shrines, miniskirts and motorbikes. Indeed, crossing the street through the sea of motorbike traffic was among our most daunting adventures. You quickly learn that there are no traffic signals (and the few that exist seem to be mere suggestions rather than commands) and there is no way 100s of motorbikes are going to stop to let a bunch of white folks cross. So you just have to confidently wade into the traffic and hope the cars and motorbikes will avoid you. Our first strategy was to find a local to follow (and hang on to our children’s hands tight enough to cut off their circulation), but we got bolder as the days went on (Adam in particular) and were soon crossing like the locals.

I did note that with all of the modern conveniences in HCMC and the rest of Vietnam, the only American chain that exists in any significant way was KFC. According to one book, this is perhaps because the Vietnamese think that Colonel Saunders looks like a Caucasian Ho Chi Minh—and when you look at it that way, he actually does.

You get the distinct impression as you walk through the various cities that unlike Cambodia, which seems to be still struggling to emerge from it’s recent and brutal past, Vietnam has moved on, and at blinding speed. Everyone seems to be in perpetual motion here. In Africa, everything was pole pole (slow)—part of its charm and appeal, but also perhaps a cause for its continuing economic struggle. No grass grows under the Vietnamese and you can see why theirs is currently the fasting growing Asian economy.

I also had the impression that Vietnam has been far more successful in moving on from the war than America has. The resentment toward Americans that I anticipated from the Vietnamese was simply non existent. This may be explained by the fact that they actually won the war—and have garnered a great deal of pride and respect from their peers by kicking our asses. It is also possible that the war, though so formative in the American social and political conscience, is simply one of many conflicts of which the Vietnamese have been part for the past 1000 years—with China, Cambodia and France. I found it interesting that the first question they ask when they hear you are American is “what do you think of Vietnam?” It always seems infused with a solid sense of pride and satisfaction with how they have not merely survived, but succeeded. I always chuckled when this is inevitably followed by them excitedly telling you of their uncle in Santa Ana or cousin in San Francisco.

While in HCMC (the name one must use for government with government officials—but not widely used by locals), we did the typical tourist thing—a trip to the Mekong Delta with the requisite stop at the coconut candy making factory, a photo op with the resident cobra and some music and dance from the locals. Nothing terribly scintillating but a pleasant enough day.

We also visited the Cu Chi tunnels—also extremely touristy, though a bit more complicated. The propaganda film they show is actually disappointing as the quality is horrendous. It seems like a real missed opportunity that they could not scare up a quality film maker to make a decent film about this subject. I don’t think I ever enjoy seeing the instrumentality of war (war movies etc…) or the gleeful descriptions of creative ways enemy soldiers were killed, but it is particularly unnerving when the objects of these creative killing mechanisms were my fellow citizens—albeit in a war that I firmly believe we had no business fighting. I did find myself quite annoyed when I overheard an Australian woman tell her Vietnamese guide that while many Australians and Americans were protesting the war, most of the protest came from Australia She clearly missed the part about the Vietnamese War tearing the fabric of America apart—but we all come at it from our own perspective. Again, I am glad we went and the visit sparked some very interesting conversations with our kids about the Vietnam War and, among other things, the parallels with the current mess in which our country is mired in Iraq.

We switched gears and our next stop was a charming little fishing village called Hoi An. It was nice to have a few days to relax by the pool, go running on the beach (the first time in a few weeks!), and stroll through town. Hoi An is known for clothes making, so Maya, Emma and I did as the locals do and had dresses made. The other shopping was actually tempting here, but I am still reluctant to add any more to our already heavy load, so we wandered, window shopped and ate. The food in Hoi An was fabulous. We had dinner in a tiny little restaurant along the river and for less than $15 (for the 4 of us) we had our best Vietnamese meal.

From Hoi An, we took at bus to the ancient capitol of Hue (pronounced Huway), known as the intellectual heart of Vietnam. The bus ride was very pleasant, much more so than our Siem Reap-Phnom Penh experience. We met some interesting Brits and enjoyed seeing the beautiful countryside roll by. Planes are quick and efficient, but you really do miss a lot.

In Hue, we signed up for a excursion on a large dragon boat down the Perfume River and noted that while the river did not smell like perfume, at least it didn’t stink like many of the other rivers on which we have traveled. As we slowly floated down the river, we stopped to see some wonderful temples and shrines and learned about the history of this fascinating city. Along the way, we met a very interesting young German traveler with whom we discussed politics of all sorts. He was hesitant at first to discuss American politics as a previous discussion with some red neck American landed him in a fist fight, but once we assured him of our solid anti Bush bone fides, he willingly discussed the fact that Germany was “thunderstruck” that George Bush had been reelected and we had a very interesting discussion. We were all still so consumed by what we had learned about the Cambodian genocide that Maya asked him what Germans thought of Hitler. He gave the right response (“we learned the history honestly and are horrified that something like this could have come from Germany”), but I was pleased to see the kids starting to make these important connections.

Throughout our trip in Vietnam, I was struck by what appears to be an exceedingly strong sense of family among the Vietnamese people. All businesses seem to be family run. While on the dragon boat down the Perfume River I noticed that it was really the family houseboat. So, as the captain steered us down the river, his wife was nursing the baby or rocking him to sleep in his make-shift cradle (a basket hanging from the ceiling by ropes), while the toddler sat in her father’s lap proudly helping him steer the boat. The rest of the crew seemed to be made of up siblings and cousins—from the food preparers to the souvenir hawkers—just all a family affair.

While in Hue, we also visited the Citadel—the old walled city. In addition to being beautiful, I was immediately struck by how peaceful it felt to be inside (even if it was 100 degrees and intensely humid). Interesting since Hue, being just a few kilometers from the DMZ, was the target of intense violence during not just the American war, but most of the international altercations in which Vietnam has been involved over the past 1000 years.

As we did in HCMC, we found a nice little middle of the road hotel in Hue. However, they were oversold for our second night and rather than waste time searching for something similar, we got lazy and extravagant and checked into the local 5 star hotel. At $150/night (with the 4 of us in one room), we all enjoyed a little luxury break--money well spent for fluffy towels, sparkling clean sheets, comfortable beds and a great pool.

We planned to take the train from Hue to Hanoi, but when we discovered that it was 14 hours long and arrived at 4 AM, we chickened out and decided to fly (oddly—the price was practically the same). After a rather unpleasant first night in a filthy, cockroach-invested hotel in Hanoi (in particularly harsh contrast to our previous night), we all fell in love with Hanoi—a city of wide tree-lined boulevards, lakes, parks and freshly baked baquettes on every corner—an enchanting combination of French and Asian style. We did some of the tourist things here—Ho Chi Min’s body under glass being the most bizarre--but mostly enjoyed wandering through the city and soaking up the energy and culture (see Adam’s next blog for more info). As we chilled out in a beautiful park by one of the lakes and observed the throngs of contented locals running, playing badminton, and engaging in the variety of carefree leisure pursuits, there was no sense at all that these relaxed, content people were suffering under the yolk on any kind of repressive communist regime. The only inkling you get that you are indeed in a communist country is the ominous looking military folks posted in various places, applying what seem to be relatively arbitrary and nonsensical rules about where you can walk and what you can photograph. The government officials seem to be an odd combination of extremely serious and completely ineffectual. However, this is truly the only hint you have that you are in a communist country.

We were sorry to leave Vietnam—but there is no doubt we will be back. Besides, we were all looking forward to some time to chill out in Bali and to see my mom who was on her way.

A Tough Day in Cambodia

It had always been our plan to visit, as a family, both the Killing Fields and the Museum of Genocide in Phnom Penh, which relate the horrific events surrounding the Pol Pot regime (1975 to 1979). I can hear now, the voices of many of our friends gently inquiring as to the wisdom of such a decision (Paulette’s voice-not so gentle). However, after being warned by our guide in Siem Reap and reading a bit more about it, Melissa and I decided that the kids might not be up to it. So, Melissa graciously offered to let me go on my own. Yes, we can exercise parental judgment from time to time.

Melissa, Maya and I had all been reading memoirs of accounts of life during the Pol Pot reign. We read “First, They Killed My Father” and “Stay Alive, My Son.” Both were extraordinarily moving accounts of the horrors of life under the Khmer Rouge. I strongly recommend both books, in particular, the first one. While, of course, familiar with the name Pol Pot and the evils of the Khmer Rouge, my knowledge of this episode in human history was sadly limited. It has been eye-opening to learn a bit about this cataclysmic event.

It is not inaccurate to say that during the four years that the Khmer Rouge ruled the country, the Cambodian people were enslaved in hell. In April 1975, as the Khmer Rouge soldiers marched into Phnom Penh, they were initially greeted as saviors having brought to an end years of civil war and bloodshed. Incidentally, it’s not clear how much credit that they deserved for that. However, shortly after marching into Phnom Penh, they ordered that the city be vacated. Think about that. Phnom Penh was not some small backwater city, even in 1975. It was a huge and thriving, relatively cosmopolitan city. Pol Pot and his henchmen, adhering to a particularly radical form of Marxism, believed that the only way to create a true communist state was by rapidly establishing a purely agrarian society. Therefore, all city dwellers called “new people” were sent to the countryside to become farmers and to be “reeducated.” It is this same zealousness that ultimately led the Khmer Rouge to conclude that all of those with education were not susceptible to “reeducation” and were risks to the revolution and should, therefore, be killed. Imagine the impact on a country of murdering all of the doctors, engineers, scientists, teachers and anyone else with any education. Indeed, the Khmer Rouge killed those with glasses, believing they were indicia of education. Breathtaking, not just in its wickedness but also in its colossal stupidity. While the numbers are not entirely clear, by 1979, the Khmer Rouge had murdered approximately 2 million people and another 1 million had fled. To put this in perspective, this reduced the population of the country by between 40% and 50%.

It was with this admittedly limited historical knowledge that I visited the Killing Fields and the Museum of Genocide. I hired a Tuk Tuk driver to accompany me for the afternoon. First, the Killing Fields. Located a few kilometers outside of Phnom Penh, it is a fairly desolate place. After paying a dollar or two to enter, you are immediately accosted by a person offering to be your tour guide. I hired a guide for $5. His English was not great, but it would have been really hard to piece it all together without a guide. The first thing that you see is a three story monument, reminiscent of a small Buddhist temple. As you walk in, you immediately see hundreds and hundreds and skulls. There’s something oddly banal about seeing skulls. Skulls, at least for me, do not conjure up horror. They conjure up Halloween and science class. However, my guide pointed out to me the various cracks and indentations on the skulls that were the cause of death. He explained to me, and I had also read, that, to save money, the Khmer Rouge would not “waste” ammunition for these killing sprees, instead opting to use blunt or sharp objects to bludgeon or stab their victims to death. He later told me that they also used the jagged edge of palm leaves to decapitate victims. I felt these jagged edges and while somewhat sharp, this would not have been a quick death. Initially, you see only the hundreds of skulls, but then when you look down, you see the discarded clothes of the victims. This was very reminiscent of Holocaust exhibits that I have seen. The exhibit is a square room and you walk around the square, but largely you see the same thing from every angle, acres of skulls and the victims’ clothing. You can only exit from the same side that you enter, so once you start the walk inside, you’re stuck. It’s very hot in there. Just as I was about to exit, there was some hold up, and I felt myself momentarily panicking that I was never going to get out of there.

After finally getting out of the exhibit, my guide walked me through the Killing Fields. These Killing Fields are one of many throughout Cambodia. Over 80,000 people had died at these particular fields. Throughout the fields, you could see deep indentations where bodies, some still alive, had been dumped. He explained that some were found naked, some were decapitated. Babies were found dead, having been smashed against trees like some sick sport from hell. The events are still so recent that when it rains bones and clothes of the victims are revealed and are just left there as potent reminders. After my tour ended, I walked a bit around the fields conjuring up images from the past. Imagining the horror of being buried alive under a pile of dead or mostly dead bodies, or the horror of the mother watching her infant killed for sport, and on and on.

I then left and headed to the Tuol Sleng, Museum of Genocide. This former high school, located in the heart of Phnom Penh, was converted into a prison and torture chamber. From 1975 to 1979, approximately 17,000 political prisoners, mostly ordinary citizens, but also senior officials deemed to be traitors, were killed. As with the Killing Fields, I hired a guide for $5.00. The guide related to me her own story, as a seven year old, of fleeing to Vietnam with her mother and sister. Everyone has a story. It seems that if you survived the Khmer Rouge siege, you have an extraordinary story of determination and survival. No one received a free ride. The museum is a grim place, largely unchanged from its former use. I saw the prisons where they held the prisoners. The prisons were smaller than most closets. They didn’t have doors as they chained the prisoners into their cells. The guide showed the various instruments of torture used by the Khmer Rouge. There were pictures of the countless victims as well as the monsters who tortured them. However, the fact that the whole place is largely unchanged from 1979 is what gives it its ominous sense of horror.

After the tour was over, I continued to explore the building. On the upper floor, there’s a very interesting photo exhibit of former Khmer Rouge soldiers. Each display contains three elements: a picture of the man or woman as a Khmer Rouge soldier, a picture of him or her in their current lives, and a quote explaining why he or she was with the Khmer Rouge. The exhibit was very successful in conjuring up a variety of feelings. On the one hand, you see these severe photos of the subjects in their Khmer Rouge uniforms and then you see these pictures of them in very ordinary activities, fishing, taking care of their children, etc. The quotes are tough to take and eerily reminiscent of Nazi Germany. Comments such as (and I’m paraphrasing), “I was just following orders.” “If I didn’t do what they said, I would be killed.” “I didn’t do anything, they should go after the really bad people.” And so on and so on.

As a Jew, it was impossible for me to not compare the horrors suffered by the Cambodian people with the horrors suffered by the Jews in the Holocaust. Both Melissa and I wrestled with the ultimately pointless question of which was worse the horrors visited upon the Cambodians by the Khmer Rouge or those suffered by the Jews under the Nazis. However, I got to thinking about this Jewish tendency to assert that the Holocaust is the worst genocide in human history. Indeed, Jews take an almost proprietary interest in the words “genocide” and “holocaust.” It’s as if the “reward” for thousands of years of discrimination in various heinous forms is that we have the right to declare that the Holocaust was the worst catastrophe in human history and everything else pales by comparison. I certainly grew up thinking that way. Much of my reading about the Cambodian genocide suggests the same parochial thinking on the part of Cambodians. Indeed, I bristled at an exhibit at the Killing Fields that stated, as if undisputable fact, that the cruelty suffered at the hands of the Khmer Rouge was greater than Nazi cruelty. I guess this is merely a symptom of human behavior to assume that one’s own tragedies are greater than all others. However, putting aside parochialism, I think the main risk of this kind of thinking is that it permits us to ignore other atrocities, whether in Darfur, Rwanda, N. Korea, etc., because such atrocities, while bad, were certainly not as bad as “our” atrocities, whoever the “our” may be.

Certainly, it was a tough but stirring day.

Cambodia

Siem Reap was our surreal introduction to Cambodia. We arrived at the brand spanking new international airport and into the City of Siem Reap which is literally filled to the brim with huge, luxury (mostly tacky) hotels with others springing up on what seems to be an hourly basis. It felt to me more like Orlando, Florida than Southeast Asia. There is clearly no city plan in mind, just a feeding frenzy to capture the staggering and growing amount of dollars (and I do mean dollars—the currency is widely used, including in the ATMs) brought by Western, Japanese and South Korean tourists who flock to this city at a rate of almost two million a year to view the magnificent temples and then immediately fly out. The city is entirely devoted to catering to the seemingly gaudy taste of wealthy Asian and Western tourists and seems to be devoid of anything authentically Cambodian, at least on the surface. Indeed, our guide told us that most Cambodians have had to move out of the city because of the skyrocketing price of land, affordable only by wealthy Asian and Western Hotel developers. Yet, at the same time, the people of Siem Reap and its environs have clearly benefited economically from the influx of tourists.

The temples are located a bit outside of the city and our first glimpse at Angkor Wat quickly revealed why the tourists flock there in droves. It is the most extraordinary architectural site I have ever seen and, as long as you can see past the bus loads of tourists, it truly takes your breath away.

While we have tended to avoid guides in most places, preferring to explore places on our own, a guide was really a necessity here as we would have missed the myriad details and fascinating stories behind the art and architecture. We were fortunate that my friend Karen Lash hooked us up with a phenomenal guide named Kao Samerth (Sam for us lame Americans who cannot properly pronounce Cambodian names). His English is terrific, as is his air conditioned van and cooler of water awaiting your return from the heat and dust of temple viewing. Most importantly, however, is that his enthusiasm for the temples and the rich history of the Cambodian people is positively infectious. He told us of his frequent dreams about the beauty and glory of Angkor Wat and the other stunning temples. His knowledge is incredibly comprehensive and he shares it with such a sense of love and almost duty. As is the case with every single Cambodian over the age of 27 or so, Sam personally experienced the brutally of the Pol Pot regime, including loosing his father and his oldest brother. He spoke openly to us about his horrific experiences during that time and willingly answered our many questions. It was absolutely heart breaking to listen to his stories and hear not just the personal horrors, but also how raw and open the wounds still are for him. His sadness is just palpable. In one story, he described working at a labor camp as a 16 year old boy and crying inconsolably in his bed at night—but quietly to avoid being discovered, and likely killed, by the Khmer Rouge. He seems to find some solace in the fact that he can teach foreigners about the positive aspects of Cambodian history. Adam, Maya and I have been reading books about the Pol Pot regime and he seemed heartened by our desire to learn more. In fact, on our last day, he gave us a book to help fill in some of the political and historical gaps we have been trying to understand. From someone who is struggling to survive and support his entire family (including siblings and his mother), this was an extraordinary and generous gesture.

Sam was only able to actually accompany us on one of the days, but he planned our entire stay for us in a wonderful manner and set us up with another terrific guide, Pep, for the time he was unavailable. He also just set a great tone for us to explore the temples. In our three days of touring around the temples we learned volumes about the complex mathematical formulations that went into designing and building these architectural wonders, the religious and historical context, the myths and stories behind the intricate wall carvings, and what historians were able to learn about the lives of 9th, 10th and 11th Century Cambodians from it all. Angkor Wat itself is overwhelmingly beautiful and the many pictures I had seen of it simply do not do it justice.


However, my particular favorite temple is called Banteay Srei—known as the female temple because it is smaller in scale than the others and the carvings and detail are much more intricate (apparently Cambodians believe that women are more patient than men). The kids were absolute troopers as we schlepped through the hot ruins 7-8 hours per day (with a very welcome lunch and swim break mid day). One of the most enjoyable parts of viewing the temples is that you are able to climb all over most of them and touch many of the carvings and treasures. Of course, this is also somewhat disturbing because you wonder how many more years the temples can survive this.

So, the temples are indeed extraordinary, but there is something profoundly depressing about the entire Siem Reap experience. It is heartening and just that Cambodia can finally reap spiritual and financial benefit from these national treasures. However, I left wishing the government, or someone, would engage in thoughtful planning and preservation mechanisms to ensure that these sites will be preserved into perpetuity so that future generations, Cambodians and others, may enjoy and benefit from them.

One afternoon, we took a boat trip on the Tonle Sap Lake to see a floating village. It was absolutely devastating—some of the most profound poverty I have ever seen. As our boat approached the village, it was quickly stopped by several local boats with young kids trying to sell us souvenirs and drinks and ask for money. The kids are so aggressive in their selling and begging tactics, I often just wanted to run away. It’s also impossible to know whether it is right or wrong to give them money. When I asked Pep, he told me that when they become successful at begging or hawking tchotchkes (my word, not his), their parents insist that they leave school to do so full time and support their families. I had my answer—but it is still hard to walk (or float) by knowing that the dollar you give them could actually mean the difference between them eating or not that evening.

From Siem Reap, we traveled to the capitol city of Phnom Penh by bus. It was certainly not the most comfortable 6 hour ride-but I appreciated the opportunity to observe more authentic Cambodian life as we drove through. As I sat on the bus, I recalled observing that the poverty in Tanzania, while profound, did not have a sense of desperation about it. Not so in Cambodia. The desperation here is so palpable that it is unnerving. The pain of watching all of this was enhanced by the fact that so many of the faces I saw reminded me of my niece and ex sister-in-law. It was simply impossible not to think about what Borany and her family’s lives could have been like had they not been able to escape the war.

Our first impression of Phnom Penh was rough. As we exited the bus we were accosted by what seemed like hundreds of taxi and tuk tuk drivers begging for us to use their services. We chose one and made it to the hotel, but once again, that sense of desperation from these drivers was just heartbreaking. We then stupidly decided to walk into the downtown area from our hotel. It was overwhelming, loud, and you literally take your life in your hands to cross the street or even walk along the sidewalk. Traffic rules, if they exist at all, are completely irrelevant. Cars and motorbikes seem to be going in any direction they find an open space. It makes New York streets look positively orderly. We all went to bed that night feeling relieved, and a bit guilty, to be safely ensconced in our quiet hotel. The next day, we saw the gentler more promising side of Phnom Penh from the (relative) safety of a tuk tuk—with it’s large sweeping boulevards, beautiful architecture and expansive and welcoming gardens, you can clearly see the French influence. We would have loved to visit with some of Borany’s relatives, and gotten a more local perspective but the few that survived the war were traveling and we could not connect.

Overall, Cambodia seems to be a place with a (constant) undercurrent of sadness. The history of war and genocide is so recent, brutal and dramatic that, as my friend Karen aptly put it, a huge portion of the country seems to be suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. There is clearly economic progress being made, but it seems it will take many more decades to overcome the ravages and destruction that the Pol Pot regime wrought on this country. Some of my discussions with Pep really underscored this for me. He is clearly a smart and interesting guy, but when he had the opportunity to go to university, he had no interest. His brother actually went through medical school, but is now a driver for private tours (such as ours) because he could not get a job as a doctor unless he paid a $4000 bribe to some government officials. He also described a typical evening for Cambodians in his town, about 7 kilometers outside of Siem Reap. They are too far out of town to have electricity, so they use car batteries for lights and any other electrical needs. They do not have refrigerators, but they all have televisions and watch each night from 7:30 to 10:30. I found this depressing. Of course, many Americans do the same, but there was something profoundly sad and defeatist in his description of his life. Though, in fairness, I may be viewing this through the prism of how I think that I would feel being among the first generation born after Pol Pot.

Luang Prabang, Laos, Israelis Galore and Pesach

As Melissa mentioned in her prior posting, after Chiang Mai, we flew to Luang Prabang, Laos. We have now flown a number of local airlines, Precision Air (Tanzania), Nok Air (Thailand) and Laos Airlines. Maya and I noticed that on one of the Nok Air flights, Emma was studiously reading the safety card. Emma, who almost never follows instructions, dutifully adhered to the flight attendant’s request to read the safety card. However, not only did she read it, she committed it to memory with an earnestness, which, if she applied to her school work, would make her Harvard bound. Upon seeing this, Maya and I quizzed her on her knowledge of the safety card: What’s the crash position? Where are the exits? What position do you assume if you have to evacuate the plane from one of the slides? Emma scored a 100% on the test. Moreover, not realizing that Maya and I were teasing her (just a bit), Emma answered the questions with a seriousness of purpose, again generally absent from her prior academic pursuits. Maya and I were hysterical. Our poor little Emma is definitely a bit of a worrier. However, after I read that Laos Airlines did not have some FAA certification, I thought Emma might be the smart one.

Prior to two weeks before we left for our trip, I had never heard of Luang Prabang. Quite frankly, I had heard of Laos, but certainly did not know much. Thanks to a farewell lunch with a buddy of mine, I learned about Luang Prabang. Melissa and I put it on our list of possible places to visit and when we learned that Chabad would be offering a Passover Seder there, the decision was made. We arrived slightly battered and bruised, Maya literally, the rest of us emotionally, having just come off dealing with Maya’s injury. Indeed, we were still somewhat obsessed with figuring out how we were going to deal with getting her stitches removed. However, more about that later. After a short, mercifully uneventful flight, we arrived at the Luang Prabang airport and after a brief 15 minute ride, we were at our hotel. Choosing hotels is always a bit of risk, when you’re opting for something less than top end. Given the length of the trip (and our lack of employment), cost is definitely a factor, but we’re also not backpacking 22 year olds anymore. However, we picked well this time and ended up in a lovely little guest house, on the Mekong River.

After dropping our bags, we began to explore Luang Prabang. Luang Prabang is an enchanting city, a charming mix of Asian and French style, both architecturally and culinarily. Laos had been under French control for half a century and the French influence is manifest. There are essentially two main areas where tourists hang out. The first is on the road where our hotel is. Hotels, shops, internet cafes, etc. are located on the side of the street opposite the river and various restaurants are located on the river side. The Mekong is wide and breathtaking—particularly from our hotel breakfast patio. Although, the river was quite low, apparently due to both the dry season and some temporary Chinese hydroelectric need. We strolled along the river a bit and then headed away from the river, several blocks up to the other main road, which runs parallel to the river. This road also was filled with restaurants, guest houses, boutiques, stores, travel agencies, internet cafes, etc. While all of this was quite common place, the architecture, the generous sidewalks, the wide roads, gave it a very inviting, indeed an almost magical, feel. As you walk down the street, you eventually hit the night market (which starts opening at around 4:00 pm). The night market is a gorgeous and colorful display of crafts, all meticulously and beautifully organized. There were bags, scarves, statuary, skirts, tschotkes galore. Melissa quipped that she would like a Lao woman to come organize our house. Also, the market had a very pleasant feel. The Lao people are pretty laid back and are not constantly in your face beseeching you to purchase, as has been the case in many other places that we visited. We ended up spending a significant amount of time strolling up and down the night market and made our first few Southeast Asian purchases.


Also everywhere you go, you see folks on motor bikes. Indeed, they use motor bikes in the same way we use compact cars—it was not uncommon to see a family of four on a motorbike, usually with the toddler up front, sometimes with an infant nursing in the back with mom. The only mildly unpleasant aspect of Luang Prabang was caused by the ubiquitous burning going on in the region. In Northern Thailand, Laos and Burma it is common for the villagers to burn their refuse during the dry season, which pollutes the air. Indeed, you can see ash falling from the sky. This put a haze over the city. However, even this could not diminish the charm of the city.

We immediately heard the familiar tones of Hebrew as were walking the streets. It seems that Luang Prabang is a very popular destination for Israelis. We also learned that, like us, many Israelis had descended on the city to enjoy a Chabad Passover. Since it was Friday evening, at Melissa’s insistence (no big surprise), we decided to look for the Chabad House. Finally, after some help from Israelis, we found it. Much to our surprise, packed into a small room was a group of 60 or so people, mostly young Israelis on their post army travels, but some Americans, Canadians, and others as well, celebrating Kabbalat Shabbat. Melissa and the girls went inside. I, and this will surprise you, decided to grab a beer at the bar across the street. We then decided to stay for Shabbat Dinner. Despite the fact that it was sauna-like in the sanctuary/dining hall (I don’t know how the Chabad can live in Luang Prabang and still adhere to their austere dress code), it was quite a nice experience. The kids felt like they were at camp. And, of course, it was only a matter of time before Melissa was trying to recruit the Americans to join IKAR, notwithstanding the fact that not one of them lived anywhere near LA. Some habits die hard.

The whole Chabad thing was interesting to me. Clearly, the Israelis, both religious and irreligious (the two primary Israelis approaches to religion) found Chabad to be a home away from home. I can understand why—they seem to make it such an inviting and comfortable place to hang out. Indeed, I think that’s why the kids felt like it was camp. There was singing, there was dancing, there was comradery, there was joy. I had a tough time reconciling my comfort hanging out at the Chabad house, with my knowledge of their hard line views on Israel and their maintenance of a non-equalitarian approach to religious observance. Yet, I must say, there were many Israeli woman there (again both religious and irreligious) who seemed perfectly comfortable. Interesting.

As we were leaving Shabbat dinner, we asked the Rebbetzin if she knew of good doctors in the Luang Prabang area. We figured that the Jews must know where the good doctors are. Through the help of Chabad, a few days later, we ended up finding a Chinese doctor, who had the warmth and bedside manner of an ashtray. However, the day of the Seder, he checked out Maya and told us that he would remove her stitches the next day. We were not altogether thrilled, but did not have a lot of options. However, we hoped that maybe we would meet a nice Jewish doctor at that evening’s Seder.

Before the Seder, we went on a boat trip up the Mekong River in a long boat. Since, in view of Maya’s accident, we had cancelled our boat trip from Thailand to Laos, we thought we should take a trip on the river. We decided to visit some caves that have been used for centuries as Buddhist shrines. The Rabbi had informed Emma that she would be the youngest at the Seder, so Melissa tutored Emma on the Four Questions as we were chugging towards our destination (see the photo below). It was a lovely day.

Then the Seder. Much to our surprise, there were over 200 people (mostly Israelis). We were placed at a table with a dozen or so other North Americans. We were joined by a young Chabad Rabbi (he’s actually one class short) from Seattle, who translated for us (it was all in Hebrew) and explained what was going on. Emma, with another young child, read the four questions, albeit quietly and shyly. The Seder was festive, joyous and exciting—with people singing dancing and standing on chairs. There is something magical about seeing young, hip, interesting Israelis singing Jewish songs with such gusto and joy. A Seder that we will definitely remember.

We thought we hit pay dirt, when we learned that a French obstetrician was attending the Seder. Melissa, who had been chatting with his wife, asked if he might be willing to remove Maya’s stitches. She asked her husband, who politely declined saying that he did not have the right materials. Once again, the French declined to get involved. Oh well.

The next day, the Chinese doctor came and, not very gently, removed Maya’s stitches. Maya was a bit unhappy with his lack of gentleness, but we were all relieved to have the stitches out and to see that the injury looked pretty good. By the way, for the two house calls, we paid 100,000 Kip, which is equal to $10.

The next few days were a bit tough, as all of us, except for Maya, thankfully, were hit with traveler’s tummy, so we confined our diets to mostly matzoh (that we had been able to procure from Chabad). We initially thought that maybe it was something that we ate at the Seder. The thought of surviving three months in Africa and Southeast Asia, only to have our first serious bout of traveler’s tummy at the hands of the food provided by Chabad, is ironic, to say the least. However, the morning prior to our departure, I dragged myself out of bed at 6:30 to see the morning processional of the monks. Each morning the monks line up and walk down the main road and receive donations from people lined up on the street. The process is known as "Making Merit." The idea is that by giving to the monks, the people are essentially doing a mitzvah (pardon, the unholy mixing of religions) which will increase their chances of being reincarnated into a higher station. It was quite a beautiful scene.

Finally, on our last night, we attended a traditional Lao/Hindu ballet, which was beautiful.

All in all, we had a wonderful stay in Luang Prabang.

Next stop—Cambodia.