Cambodia is like a lotus bud concealing an onion—serene on the surface but eliciting tears as you peel back the layers. The awesome scale and spectacle of the Angkor temples contrast sharply with the ghostly photos and skulls of civilians murdered by the Khmer Rouge in the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum. The endless peace of a Buddhist monastery gives way to the raucous din of cyclos and tuk–tuks. The magnificent sunsets over the Mekong do nothing to diminish the ugly pallor of poverty. It is a young country but an old civilization that reached its zenith in the twelfth century, when the Hindu god–kings (devarajas) built massive stone temples while embracing Buddhism, now the predominant religion.
I am in Cambodia to meet a monk and to travel the Mekong. Being Hindu, I believe in the power of a monk's blessing, and Cambodian monks are way up there in the spiritual hierarchy. So I, like the betrayed people of this ravaged land, line up to get blessed before setting out on my quest.
The Mekong is an obsession of mine. Other people track football scores. I track rivers. Rivers epitomize cultures; think of the Nile and Egypt, the Amazon and South America, the Ganges and India. Rivers are, to borrow a phrase, the cradles of civilization, carrying a country from its past into its future. In Asia, rivers are more than bodies of water. They are sources of celebration and symbols of fertility and prosperity. They are life itself.
The Mekong is particularly interesting because it is intricately linked to the soul and psyche of six Asian countries (seven, if you consider Tibet to be independent but occupied). From its headwaters on China's Guosongmucha Mountain, the Mekong descends sixteen thousand vertical feet through Myanmar, Laos, Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam before discharging into the South China Sea, some three thousand miles away.
I intend to follow the Mekong through the two countries that my time–constrained itinerary will allow. I rule out Thailand and Vietnam as too large, Myanmar and China's Yunnan Province as too remote. That leaves Cambodia and Laos—two countries that naturally combine into one worthwhile trip.
My journey begins at dawn at Wat Saravantejo, in Phnom Penh. A monk is giving audience to a line of locals carrying babies, cell phones, and wads of Cambodian riels. The monk lights incense, sprinkles holy water on the babies, and blesses brand–new cell phones by chanting sonorous sutras. I wonder if he is being recorded, like a ring tone, but somehow doubt it. The monk's blessing is to protect the phones, which are expensive and as important to Cambodians as BlackBerrys are to the perpetually plugged–in. He inscribes my U.S. dollar bill with Pali script, covering George Washington's face in the process. Throw this money into the Mekong, he says through my translator, and it will come downriver to you multiplied tenfold. I tuck the bill carefully into my purse. Other monks may offer a passage to nirvana, but this one has given me a lottery ticket.
Outside, the morning sun casts a golden hue on the stirring city. As Asian capitals go, Phnom Penh, located at the confluence of the Bassac, Mekong, and Tonle Sap rivers, is one of the prettiest. Broad tree–lined boulevards bear a profusion of flowers—frangipani, gardenia, jasmine. The architecture is mostly French colonial interspersed with domed Buddhist stupas. A smattering of buildings by noted Khmer architect Van Molyvann reflect his geometric style. Molyvann designed the city's Independence Monument to celebrate Cambodia's freedom from French rule in 1953. France's influence is still visible in Phnom Penh. Many locals speak French, and the city is full of cafés serving excellent baguettes, croissants, and coffee. It's funny: Former British colonies boast good railways and bureaucracies, while the French ones have great bread and coffee. Personally, I prefer the latter, and famously so did Norodom Sihanouk, the "old king" of Cambodia. Photographs of the politically wily and popular king, who abdicated in 2004 in favor of his son, adorn most buildings, alongside those of the newly crowned King Sihamoni, a ballet dancer trained in Paris.
The National Museum is my first stop, and in retrospect a highlight. Most tourists hit Siem Reap and bypass Phnom Penh, which is a shame. While the temples of Angkor are Cambodia's main draw—and justifiably so—they are mostly devoid of statues; all the good stuff has been looted. To see Khmer art, you have to visit the National Museum. Wandering its halls is an education in the Khmer aesthetic. Giant eighth–century statues of Hindu gods—Brahma, Garuda, Shiva, and Vishnu—give way to the seated Buddhas of the fourteenth century, when Buddhism percolated through the region. Hinduism and Buddhism mingle freely in Cambodia, and indeed in Laos and Thailand as well. When one Cambodian says, "We are Buddhist but have a Hindu soul," it shocks me because Hinduism and Buddhism share a historical relationship that is analogous to Judaism and Christianity. It was a renegade Hindu prince, Siddhartha Gautama, who gave up Hinduism and established Buddhism. A Buddhist admitting that he has a Hindu soul is, in my mind, akin to a Christian claiming he has a Jewish heart.
Almost every tourist goes to the Foreign Correspondents Club at least once, and that is where I go for lunch. There is something oddly reassuring about staring at the Mekong while munching french fries. Cambodian food has its delicacies, but after the cultural overload of the museum, I feel like retreating into mind–numbing junk food. The FCC enjoys a great riverfront location, and its yellow walls display interesting posters and tidbits about the war correspondents who covered Cambodia. The second–floor restaurant has a pool table, a television, and great drinks but mediocre food.
The midday heat drives me back to my hotel. Le Royal is humming. The pool area is full of tourists—napping, reading, sunbathing. The spa is booked solid. My driver recommends a massage at Seeing Hands, which is operated by blind people, but even that is full. The only choice left is a siesta.
There are many ways to experience Asia. A popular one is to check into one of the uncommonly good hotels and pretty much stay there. The continent's five–star hotels offer good service, great value, and respite from the heat and dust. But for those who are willing to brave the chaos in order to access the culture and history, Asia offers the opportunity for a mind–bending vacation.
One of Phnom Penh's perilous pleasures is its markets. Sure, you're accosted by beggars, but once you get past them you glimpse a world that is a cross between Aladdin's cave and Alice's rabbit hole. Anything can happen here, and usually does. What happens to me in the cool cavernous interior of the Central Market is that I lose my blessed dollar. I go in one afternoon and buy silk handbags, ruby bracelets, sunglasses, and fried spiders, which the locals munch like beer nuts. Most of the stalls quote prices in dollars and take U.S. currency.
That evening, over a fine French meal at Elsewhere, I examine my wallet and find the monk–inscribed dollar missing. I am crushed. I feel like I have lost my chance at wealth, that the universe is giving me a message—a bad one.
The next morning, I go back to the Central Market, and this time I do the accosting. I ask the boy who sold me several jasmine garlands if I can see the dollar bills I gave him. I don't want my money back, I say, I just want my blessed dollar. The child offers me more garlands. When I shake my head, he takes me to his boss—a woman who runs one of the ruby stalls. She shoos me away. "No exchange," she says. I again launch into my earnest explanation. The ladies from the neighboring stalls converge and confer. Finally they understand. The boy leads me through a warren of stalls to the back of the market, where a woman sits selling noodle soup. I shake my head in frustration. I don't want soup; I want money. The boy whispers to the woman, who pulls out a wad of dollar bills. She rifles through them and pulls out my dollar. The boy grins. With surprising dignity for one so young, he regally hands the bill to me. I bow as I accept it, acknowledging the irony of the situation: I am receiving alms from the poor.
For those who have seen Bangkok's Royal Palace and Emerald Buddha, Phnom Penh's version of them will seem familiar. Curving naga heads rise gracefully from the red–tiled roof. Murals depicting the ubiquitous Ramayana—or the Reamker, as it is called in Khmer—enliven the throne room's ceiling. The best part is the royal costume room, where for a small tip a woman will tie a jewel–toned silk sarong around your hips. When I visit, a group of German tourists are standing in line to be saronged and photographed.
In the neighboring Silver Pagoda, hundreds of Buddhas exhibiting a variety of mudras (hand gestures) are crammed into the dim room. The two–hundred–pound solid–gold Buddha and the "emerald" Buddha (made of green Baccarat crystal) are the highlights. The floor is sterling silver. As in all Buddhist temples, visitors are expected to cover their shoulders and legs.
Phnom Penh is full of beautiful wats, or temples. The oldest, Wat Phnom, was built in 1372 to house four Buddha statues deposited here by the Mekong. Legend has it that a widow named Penh discovered them and that together, Wat Phnom and Widow Penh gave their names to the city. Wat Ounalom, one of the prettiest, faces the river. I visit it after a sunset walk along the riverfront, which is bustling with families, fortune–tellers, monks talking on cell phones, teenagers courting on mopeds, fruit vendors offering cut mangoes, flower sellers with baskets of lotus buds, and the ubiquitous cyclos. Phnom Penh has a thriving nightlife, especially on the riverfront. I hit Ginger Monkey, Martini Pub, and the Salt Lounge—a gay bar with funky music—before sleep drives me home.
I save the worst for last. Like Auschwitz, the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum and the Killing Fields are chilling. The museum is housed in a school that was turned into a concentration camp between 1975 and 1978, when the Khmer Rouge murdered more than one million Cambodians. Now, each classroom has a metal bed, torture instruments, blood–splattered ceilings, and a giant gory photograph of a bloody victim post torture. Three rooms are lined with thousands of photographs of wide–eyed innocents, whose skulls are enshrined in a nearby glass cupboard. One of the meanings of the Khmer phrase tuol sleng is "supplying guilt," and that is what this museum does. (The Killing Fields, an hour outside the city and worth visiting on the way to or from the airport, do not affect me as much as the museum. The time–pressed can skip them altogether.)
Many good books have been written about Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge. Once you visit Cambodia, you'll want to read them all—mostly to figure out how such a gentle people could turn into murderous savages, killing their own for a cause they didn't even understand. For me, the biggest takeaway is the realization that this insane purge is not something I can dismiss as a fascist horror of my parents' era. The Khmer Rouge was a nightmare of our time; it happened when I was a teenager.
Cambodians are still consumed by the tragedy. Ask anyone you see in Phnom Penh—cabdriver, monk, tour guide, waiter—about the Khmer Rouge and you will get a shockingly graphic account of mothers watching their children starve and die, of families going insane with grief as one member after another was murdered, all told in flat tones that discourage pity.
When I visit the Royal University of Fine Arts, a dispiriting campus that belies its name, I ask Preung Chhieng, the dean of choreographic arts, about the challenge of reviving traditional Apsara dance given that only thirty of Cambodia's three hundred dancers survived the Khmer Rouge. Chhieng, a graceful man with high cheekbones and fine features, enjoyed the patronage of the royal family and was with them in Beijing during Pol Pot's reign. After returning to Phnom Penh in 1978, he traveled through the provinces trying to round up all the remaining dancers. Together, they began a twenty–year effort to rejuvenate Khmer art forms. "The mission of preservation is ongoing," Chhieng says, "but the arts are finally not endangered."
Chhieng's student Sophiline Cheam Shapiro, a dancer whose
story was part of the anthology Children of Cambodia's
Killing Fields, is keeping the faith in her own way. She
and her American husband founded the Khmer Arts Academy, in
Long Beach, California, and she is on campus during my visit
to train Khmer dancers for an upcoming American tour, taking
the art forms of her old country to her new one.
I too am following a trail from an old country to a less
old one: the path of the golden Phra Bang Buddha. The statue
was a present from the Cambodian king Jayavarman on the
occasion of his daughter's marriage to King Fa Ngum, who in
1353 founded the neighboring kingdom of Lan Xang—or Laos, as
it is now called. Fa Ngum took the Phra Bang Buddha north to
spread the Theravada branch of Buddhism in his country, and it
was this Buddha that gave his royal capital its name: Luang
Prabang.
Most people don't even know where Laos is. Yet this
landlocked country less than half the size of France looms
large among Americans for one reason: Between 1962 and 1973,
the CIA rained more than three million tons of bombs on Laos
to stop the Vietnamese and Pathet Lao troops from bringing
arms up the Ho Chi Minh Trail. The CIA successfully hid this
war from the American people but failed miserably in its
mission. Vietnamese troops kept marching on, and unexploded
bombs remain to this day, maiming and killing a few Lao each
year.
Laos has hardly known a moment of peace. It has been
successively invaded by the Burmese, the Thais, the
Vietnamese, the French, and finally the Americans. It was only
in 1975 that the Lao People's Democratic Republic was formed
under French–educated Prince Souphanouvong. In 1994, the
Australians built the Friendship Bridge between warring
Thailand and Laos, and an uneasy peace prevails between the
two neighbors. The routing of traffic over the bridge is
itself emblematic of Thai–Lao relations: Thailand follows
British road rules, while Laos sticks to the French system. As
a result, there's an awkward intersection in the center of the
bridge where traffic on the right gets routed to the left, and
vice versa. I avoid the confusion by flying into Vientiane
from Phnom Penh on Lao Airlines.
Originally called Viangchan, or Sandalwood City, Vientiane
could be mistaken for a village rather than a nation's
capital. The center of activity, at least for tourists, is Nam
Phou Fountain, which is surrounded by restaurants and several
Internet cafés. King Setthathirath moved his royal capital
from Luang Prabang to Vientiane in 1560 and erected the
revered That Luang Stupa, a phallic eyesore with way too much
gold paint. King Setthathirath also built the more sedate Wat
Ho Phakeo, which housed the famous emerald Buddha until the
Thais looted the temple and installed the statue on the
grounds of Bangkok's Grand Palace. Most exquisite of all is
Wat Sisaket, containing 6,840 Buddha images. It is prized
because it survived the Thai rampage of Vientiane in 1828.
Rampage and restoration is a consistent theme in Vientiane.
Lao silk, for instance, has long been celebrated for the
quality of its weave, and now educated Lao and foreigners are
working hard to reclaim that neglected heritage. Carol
Cassidy, an engaging American who has spent much of her adult
life in Laos, trains locals to weave Lao silk to world
standards. At her workshop sit forty shy Lao women, clicking
away on custom–designed looms to produce cushions,
draperies, shawls, and wall hangings destined for America.
While enjoying a sunset drink at one of the makeshift
restaurants lining the Mekong, I run into the South African
couple who stood behind me in the airport visa line. Because
Laos is a small country and most tourists follow the same
itinerary, such coincidences are not uncommon. It is oddly
companionable to see the same strangers again and again. So I
gather tips from the Long Island woman who has
"done" Asia many times over, avoid the English
drunks who show up at every restaurant I visit, and share the
flight to Luang Prabang with the German tour group I met on
the way in.
Luang Prabang deserves its reputation as the jewel of
Southeast Asia and a jet–set stop du jour. Even Henri Mouhot,
the patronizing Frenchman who is often credited with
"discovering" Angkor Wat, said that Luang Prabang
reminded him of the beautiful lakes of Como and Geneva.
"Were it not for the constant blaze of a tropical sun…
the place would be a little paradise," he wrote.
Bordered by the Mekong and Nam Khan rivers, Luang Prabang
has Manhattan's riverine geography but none of its frenzy. The
town literally has three streets: one by the Mekong and
another by the Nam Khan, with Royal Sakkarine Road in the
center. There are no beggars and no traffic jams, in fact none
of the maladies that plague most Asian cities. Rather, Luang
Prabang is clean—and safe. When I ask for a lock to go with
my rented bike, I am told that locks aren't necessary because
there are no thieves.
I am wandering through the golden stupas and gardens within
the beautiful Wat Xieng Thong when an eighteen–year–old
monk named Somphong appears, points at the dot on my forehead,
and asks if I am Hindu. I nod. Suddenly excited, he leads me
to the back and points at carved wooden panels depicting, yes,
the Ramayana. The setting sun casts a dazzling glow on the
gold leaf. Somphong grins triumphantly, and I try to feign
surprise. "Wow," I say, "the Ramayana."
Again.
As we walk outside, he tells me his story. He is from a
mountainous province up north and joined the monastery to get
an education. He plans to go to college and study astronomy,
he says.
"Astronomy," I repeat, as if it were perfectly
normal for a saffron–swathed monk to aspire to NASA.
"Any particular reason?"
"Come to the National Museum tomorrow and I will tell
you," he says cryptically.
Dawn brings one of the town's most extraordinary sights. As
the mist swirls, townspeople and tourists gather to give alms
to a procession of five hundred monks, who pad barefoot
through the silent streets in a blur of orange, saffron, and
vermilion robes that conceal lacquer begging bowls. Devout
Buddhists kneel and offer rice balls, spiced fish wrapped in
banana leaves, fruit, cans of tuna, instant noodles, and even
candy bars, which make the young novices break out in smiles.
As the sun comes up, the monks disappear like ghosts into the
monasteries to pray and study before eating their last meal of
the day by noon.
Somphong meets me outside the National Museum at 2 p.m. He
takes me to the room in front, which contains gifts from
various governments to the Lao. There are Buddha figures and
friendship flags, silver crucibles from the Thais, a
pearl–inlaid rifle from the Soviets, and finally a moon rock
given by President Nixon. Somphong points at the awkwardly
shaped rock, no bigger than a fist.
"Next time, a Laotian will go on the moon and get that
rock," he murmurs. "Not receive it as a gift from
the Americans."
In Luang Prabang, the Mekong is never far, either
physically or psychologically. Early one morning, I take a
boat trip to the Pak Ou Caves, where successive Lao kings
brought Buddhas to be consecrated. The musty caves are now
lined with thousands of Buddhas, smiling beatifically at the
huffing and puffing tourists. On the way back, I stop at Ban
Xang Hai, or Jar–Maker Village, to sample the potent rice
liquor known as lao–lao, stirred up by diminutive
women who could outdrink an Irishman. I buy a few colorful Lao
silk scarves, drawn as much by the round–eyed Lao children
as by the ten–dollar price tag, before catching the longtail
boat home.
In Laos, the Mekong becomes slow moving and languorous,
spreading itself over banks planted with peanuts and cucumber.
As the boatman poles us along, naked children dive into the
coffee–colored waters, using car tires and rubber tubes as
makeshift rafts. Women pan for gold, and men, standing
knee–deep in the river, scrub water buffaloes.
I furtively drop my monk–inscribed dollar into the
Mekong. The boatman yells and fishes it out. The monk who is
bumming a ride home with me smiles mysteriously. I tell him
about the Cambodian monk's blessing. I have to drop the money
in the Mekong, I explain, so that it will come back to me
multiplied tenfold. The monk gazes at the bill, then turns it
over and examines the writing closely. He says something in
rapid, urgent tones. When I frown in confusion, he breaks into
halting English. "This means 'unfulfilled desire,' not
'money in Mekong,'" he says. "You must come back to
fulfill your desire."
I am unable to accept what I am hearing. Was the Cambodian
monk playing a trick on me? Or has the meaning been lost in
translation? I am not sure.
I carry the Pali–scripted dollar bill in my pocket to
this day. It reminds me of the monk's blessing and of the
Mekong. Someday, I tell myself, I will go back and drop the
bill into the river. And then I'll be rich. The voice of the
New Yorker inside me says, "Yeah, right. In your next
life."
Package tours make eminent sense here. The pros at
Singapore–based Country Holidays regularly work with
Westerners and so are used to concerns about food and health
(65–6334–6120; http://www.countryholidays.com.sg/).
Australia–based Travel Indochina is similarly
reliable (61–2–9244–2133; http://www.travelindochina.com/).
Cambodia–based Lolei Travel arranges everything from
helicopter flights over Angkor to guided nightlife tours of
Phnom Penh (www.asiatours.net/cambodia/lolei.html).
Yunnan Aviation International Travel Service is
extraordinarily responsive. When I wanted to depart the
province four days early, the owner offered not only to refund
most of my money but also to deliver it in person at the
airport (86–871–537–7090).
In Phnom Penh, my driver, Tim San, was an
indispensable source of assistance. His English is
rudimentary, but he exudes a desire to please. He will help
you haggle at the market if you so desire and will leave you
alone to wander through a museum. It took him 15 days to
answer my e–mail, but that was because he'd been at a
wedding in a faraway province (855–12–823–485;
timsan818@hotmail.com).
In Laos, the folks at Lao Youth Travel can arrange a
car and English–speaking driver in Vientiane and Luang
Prabang for a lower daily rate than you'll pay on typical
package tours (856–21–240–939; http://www.laoyouthtravel.com/).
Prices quoted are for October 2005. For information on
the U.S. embassies in Cambodia and Laos, call 212–501–4444
or go to usembassy.state.gov.
Lodging
In Cambodia, the fine Raffles group (http://www.raffles.com/)
has both the Hotel Le Royal in Phnom Penh
(855–23–981–888; doubles, $100–$320) and the Grand
Hotel d'Angkor in Siem Reap (855–63–963–888;
doubles, $195–$295). Siem Reap's best, however, is the Victoria
Angkor, which is full of colonial charm and lush plantings
(855–63–760–428; http://www.victoriahotels-asia.com/;
doubles, $285–$320). Those with deep pockets may prefer the
less atmospheric but impeccable—and expensive—Amansara
(855–63–760–333; http://www.amanresorts.com/;
doubles, $775–$825).
In Phnom Penh, the Amanjaya has spacious rooms,
gracious service, and a good location facing the Mekong
(855–23–214–747; http://www.amanjaya.com/;
doubles, $108–$178).
Little Luang Prabang has a surprising number of good
hotels. La Résidence Phou Vao is the best, with
expansive rooms, picturesque gardens, an infinity pool
overlooking Mount Phousi, and a restaurant serving Lao and
Western cuisine (856–71–212–194; www.pansea.com/laos.html;
doubles, $190–$265). The Maison Souvannaphoum is a
princely residence newly added to the Banyan Tree chain. It
has minimalist haute–Lao decor, a spa, a small pool, and a
small restaurant (856–71–254–609; http://www.coloursofangsana.com/;
doubles, $200–$250). Les 3 Nagas, with just 15 rooms
in the heart of town, serves fine authentic Lao food in a
pleasant setting (856–71–253–888; http://www.3nagas.com/;
doubles, $105–$180; prix fixe, $12). The best thing about
the fading Villa Santi is its central location
(856–71–252–157; http://www.villasantihotel.com/;
doubles, $80).
In Vientiane, the Settha Palace Hotel has French
colonial ambience, a pool, and a good restaurant
(856–21–217–581; http://www.setthapalace.com/;
doubles, $160–$180). The central, modern Lao Plaza Hotel
has all the trimmings—pool, restaurants, shops, sauna—but
is favored by tour groups (856–21–218–800; http://www.laoplazahotel.com/;
doubles, $75). The spanking–new Don Chan Palace has a
soaring lobby, every amenity, and spectacular Mekong views
(856–21–244–288; http://www.donchanpalace.com/;
doubles, $130–$160).
Dining
Food is inexpensive here; unless other–wise
noted, entrées are under $10. Incongruously opposite the Tuol
Sleng Genocide Museum in Phnom Penh, the leafy Boddhi Tree
serves fresh, healthy food alfresco (855–16–865–445). Topaz
has decent French food (100 Sothearos Blvd.;
855–23–211–054). A lovely old house with gardens, Elsewhere
has a full bar, a nice wine list, and Continental food (corner
of Streets 51 and 254; 855–23–211–348). The Foreign
Correspondents Club, housed in a beautiful old building
facing the Mekong, is great for drinks at sunset (363 Sisowath
Quay; 855–23–724–014; entrées, $6–$19). The American
who owns the Java Café & Gallery serves great
sandwiches, salads, and coffee (56E1 Preah Sihanouk Blvd.;
855–23–987–420).
Luang Prabang's main street, Boulevard Phabat–Tay, has a
surfeit of dining choices. Most serve a bit of everything
(Lao, Thai, and European), have menus posted, and accept
dollars. For modern French and Lao food on a pleasant rooftop,
try Samsara (27 Sisavangvong Rd.;
856–71–254–678). L'Eléphant, with a casual
ambience and good food, is considered the best in town (Ban
Vat Nong; 856–71–252–482).
Near Vientiane's Nam Phou Fountain, L'Opéra has
decent Italian food and wine in a rustic atmosphere (Nam Phou
Circle; 856–21–215–099). Nearby, JoMa Bakery Café
(44 Setthathirath Rd.; 856–21–215–265) and the Scandinavian
Bakery (Nam Phou Pl.; 856–21–215–199) have fresh
bread, sandwiches, and pastries. The best Lao restaurant, Tamnak
Lao ("Three Elephants"), has live music and a
wide array of dishes (Sisavangvong Rd.; 856–71–252–525).
Shopping
In Phnom Penh, two particular streets are lined
with shops selling silk scarves, Cambodian handicrafts,
handbags, and custom–tailored clothes. On Street 240, try Le
Lézard Bleu, Fancy Mango, Bliss, Jasmine, and Water
Lily. On Street 178, Chez l'Artisan, House Kravan,
Lotus Pond, and Dolla's Gallery carry inexpensive
local art. Around the corner from Street 240 is the city's
best bookstore, Monument Books (111 Norodom Blvd.).
Laos is famous for handwoven silk, and Sisavangvong Road in
Luang Prabang has several fine shops: Mixay Boutic, Caruso
Lao Home Craft (which has wonderful wooden bowls created
by a Canadian woman), and Satri Lao Silk (which also
has housewares; http://www.satrilao.laopdr.com/).
Caruso has an outlet in Vientiane as well. In the latter, the
most famous fabrics showroom is Carol Cassidy's, on
Setthathirath Road (http://www.laotextiles.com/).
Reading
To understand Cambodia's genocidal madness, start
with Philip Short's Pol Pot: Anatomy of a Nightmare
(Henry Holt, $30). Any and all of the Cambodia books by David
Chandler are a good bet. Dith Pran, whose life was the basis
for the movie The Killing Fields, compiled Children
of Cambodia's Killing Fields: Memoirs by Survivors
(Yale University Press, $17). Henri Mouhot's Travels in
Siam, Cambodia and Laos: 1858–1860 is a fascinating
memoir by the Frenchman who "discovered" Angkor Wat
(Oxford University Press, $70). And, finally, The Lands
of Charm and Cruelty: Travels in Southeast Asia, by
Stan Sesser, is a series of essays covering the politics and
economics of Southeast Asia, including Cambodia and Laos
(Vintage, $19). A Short History of Laos: The Land in
Between, by Grant Evans, offers insight into—and
challenges many of the theories about—Laos's role in
America's "secret war" (Allen & Unwin, $17).
From the October 2005 issue of TIME Asia Magazine
Copyright © 2005 Time Inc. All rights reserved.
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writer :: reporter :: foodie :: mom
