A Laotian New Year

New Years Eve 2010 was special. Not because we are on the other side of the world and doing something of which most people dream, but because we did something very different. Frequently, for many people, New Years Eve is something of an anti-climax where at the stroke of midnight one can be found singing Auld Lang Syne with a bunch of strangers in an over-priced bar while clinging to the oft false hopes of a better year. But in Pak Beng in Laos, which was simply a stopover breaking up a 2-day boat journey to Luang Prabang along the mighty Mekong River, we lit huge lanterns adorned with fire crackers and rocket trails while making our new years’ wishes as the gas inside propelled them up into the star-littered sky.

As we left our guesthouse in search of something to eat, I was less enthusiastic than Helen about finding the source of a scattering of lanterns in the black sky.

“But they’re so pretty”, Helen said.

“I don’t care,“ I grumpily retorted as my belly started to make noises, “they’re probably miles away anyway.”

I was forced to bow to her intrepidity, however, when we came across a gathering of locals all dressed in white and chanting melodic mantra-like verses in Laoan as they released their lanterns. We were fervently welcomed and invited to join them in holding the rim of each lantern until they filled with enough gas to take off. The repetitive chanting was infectious and though we were unable to sing, we soon found ourselves humming along. We each had a lantern dedicated to us and asked our names, which were then integrated into the chant. Every so often we would hear our names between words that to us were incomprehensible. We must have set off dozens of lanterns over the course of an hour, each one clapped earnestly by its dedicatee as it accelerated skyward and on which many hopes, prayers and wishes were pinned.

And as if that wasn’t enough, it was the Monk’s birthday, so after singing him a happy birthday after midnight, we all ate cake. Grand.

Footnote: Now I cannot stand those typical travel accounts found in Lonely Planet travel guides gushing about how wonderful a run-of-the-mill experience was as if the writer is a family member of the Brady Bunch. Honestly, I would not be surprised on opening a guide book to read how amazing it is watching a poor kid eat out of the gutter in some developing country while sitting back, drinking a beer and soaking up the atmosphere. And the account would probably conclude with an overused, cliché noun like ‘Heaven‘. But this was a magical encounter that I had to write about. It is one of those experiences that doesn’t come around too often and we will remember it forever.