I was lost for words looking for an expression that would describe the ambience of Luang Prabang, so I drew on a phrase used by the French Colonialists when they occupied Indochina in the 19th century: ‘The Vietnamese planted the rice, the Cambodians tended to the rice but the Lao listened to it grow.”

Some feel that this is a somewhat disparaging remark, implying that the Lao are lazy. But as someone who shared their lives, I feel that the French got it right. Their serenity and composure could be seen as laziness by those from the frenzied pace of the European industrial revolution.

They merely displayed the effects of a deeply entrenched Buddhist culture. Here was the spiritual centre and base for the royal household. The tranquillity was palpable. The royal family was abolished in 1975, and Laos became a communist state. 

We took the bus from the capital Vientiane to Luang Prabang complete with all the chickens, pigs and a man with an AK-47 standing over us. He was to protect us from the serious separatists operating out of the mountains. This caused some concern but not as much as realising that the dirt road, which we were travelling on, was held in place by bamboo poles suspended over a bottomless gorge. This tested all my pretensions of having to ‘trust in the universe’! 

Our arrival was marked by a total lack of mayhem, which is found in most Asian towns. Everyone went around their usual daily chores against the backdrop of the magnificent architecture and the languid Mekong River. I noticed the stately bearing of the younger people, the women dressed in long sarongs and white blouses, their hair tied up on the top of their head amplifying their elegance.

After booking into an old French Colonial guest house, we went searching for a guided trekking outfit. Being experienced global trekkers, we couldn’t wait to see what lay in those alluring limestone mountains. 

When checking in for this two-day walk, there was a lot of commotion made about my age (60). I could not understand this until I saw the physical shape of older women, who had spent their lives in the rice fields. They shuffled along with a pronounced sideway bend at their waists and seemed to be perennially tired.

Our walk started out pleasantly enough, soft trails through the forest. But when we hit the steep climbs, the delight quickly turned to dismay. The trail, if you could see it over the long razor grass, was set at 30 degrees and in some places 45 degrees. In Europe or New Zealand, there would be set ropes for this gradient but all we had was bamboo trees and thick vines to hang onto. The surface was muddy and slippery. It was seriously challenging climbing in the hot steamy jungle, carrying a day’s water supply. At one point, I looked down to see myself covered with mud, blood and sweat. The tears were awaiting their turn. 

Descending was even worse, slipping and sliding on the edge of the trail exposing an abyss. At one stage, I lost it and let out a blood curdling scream and the worst obscenities one could imagine. (The sort of words that I learnt in the shearing shed and cattle camps of outback Queensland). That sent the hidden wild animals scattering as I tried to forget that tigers lurked in this location. Eventually, I found a piece of bark that I could sit on to slither down on my bum.

Finally, we arrived at the Hmong village where we were to stay overnight. That night I slept the deepest sleep ever. The next day was a relaxed walk back, stopping at the famous Kuang Si falls with its clear turquoise waters.

And, to think it was only the start of three amazing weeks.