Archaeology > Articles > Archaeological Mysteries of Laos

Often enough, the divisions that demark nations give you little idea that you've stepped over a line. They are no-man's lands recognised only by man, cutting off families, peoples, cultures and whole histories from each other - yet despite this strangely invisible.

But the Thai-Laos border is not one of those places. The sense that I'm in another nation is immediate as soon as I burst heavily sweating from passport control and plunge straight into a different world.

Having only been open to foreigners for around a decade, the most obvious contrast between Laos and its neighbour is the people. It's a clichéd mantra of guidebook writers that 'the people of (insert country) are the friendliest on Earth etc. etc.', though they will seldom tell you that hospitality and commercial interest are frequently one and the same. This is not to say that Thais are mercenary tourist trappers - they are not - but the Laotians are a different breed. Their legendary affability may not last forever as tourism takes a hold on the Laos economy, but for now the people are as genuine as they come.

Moreover, Laos is one of those few places in the world where, though travel is relatively cheap and easy, it's still an adventure. Once you step over that unseen line, Thailand's backbones of railways and air-conditioned coaches are replaced by grey government buses from a different age and throngs of converted pick-up trucks (known as sawngthaews). These cranky old rust buckets are your main form of transport if you opt not to fly. There are no trains and there is no tarmac.

Laos's people-movers skulk along the dusty tracks laden with as many people, animals and goods as can be crammed onto, below and above the wooden benches fitted in the back. Consider yourself lucky if you have less than 20 travelling companions in a vehicle originally designed for five. At least they are friendly, if circumstances are a little cramped: a toothless old lady asks me to help rearrange a basket of eggs that she herself cannot reach; a lithe young man with an AK-47 ascends politely to the roof so as not to get in the way.

En route from the border, the sawngthaew unloads at Pakse, a town rendered unlovely by the stink of the hundreds of durian fruits littering the marketplace. Fortunately they taste a hell of a lot better than they smell. Jumping out, I find another vehicle, I wait, and I am on my way again.
"Where you from?" asks one of my fellow passengers.
"England," I tell him.
"England, good, good. David Beckham! Have drink!"

Before I know it I am plied with lashings of lao lao, the head-splitting Lao vodka that forms a part of all welcoming rituals and may well have given the country its name. Accompanied by grasshopper kebabs and other dubious delicacies, the lao lao is drunk neat from an impromptu cup cut from the bottom of a plastic bottle. It is 8.30am: heaven help you if you board a Lao sawngthaew on a special occasion - this is just ordinary hospitality.

The truck draws up at a pontoon and I stagger out. My destination lies across the river - but how to get there? On board the chugging river barge that seems to be nothing more than three old boats tied together with rope, as soon as I announce my goal my saviours swiftly arrive borne in a brand-new Isuzu SUV.

"Wat Phu Champasak is the holiest place in the country," explains the owner, a visiting businessman from the capital, once he hears where I'm headed. "It's been my ambition for many years to come here," he adds, gesturing to his three companions, "and also my colleagues. In fact we have taken time off from work specially. We have lots of room, please come with us!" I am embarrassed but he is insistent; "it's OK, thanks" is not an acceptable answer. As the barge judders to a halt on the opposite bank I squeeze in to the Isuzu and we are off.

Dismounting at the head of the path, it is not easy to see why Wat Champasak holds such an attraction. The Vientiane gentlemen dismount and begin attending to their Buddhist rituals as I thank them and wave farewell. Before us stand the ruins of two palaces, flanking the path that leads to Mount Phu Khuai, the hill that shields the wat itself. Elderly monks clamber around the rubble in an endless survey of what must be restored next.

Granted, in the shadow of the mountain the approach to the wat is dramatic. Past the skeletal remains of the palaces it's an endless climb up crumbling steps guarded by stone tigers and naga serpents, strewn during still-current ceremonies with delicate five-petalled flowers. And then, when I arrive panting at the summit, anticlimax. Wat Phu Champasak is a tiny affair, worn away almost to dust by its sheer age.

Apart from the intricate carvings above the doorway and a series of shrines and motifs nearby there's little to see but a lot to sense. Archaeologists believe that this inscrutable little temple, a millennium old or more, could be an original centre of the complex culture that built Angkor in Cambodia and dominated south east Asian civilisation until the coming of Buddhism. As a whole, the Wat Phu complex was shaped as an expression of Hindu beliefs about the relationship between nature and humanity, every aspect of it symbolic. Nearby stands a small cave-shrine stuffed with twinkling candles and waxy Buddhas; beside it the impression (so they say) of the Buddha's footprint. Wat Phu Champasak may be small, but there is an atmosphere here, an intangible mood of what it once was. I'm glad I came.

From the soporific riverside town of Champasak itself 8km away, it's another sequence of buses to the capital Vientiane with its remnants of the colonial French and on to another of Laos's inexplicable enigmas.

The nearest town to where I'm going, Phonsavan, is hardly an entertainment mecca; the electricity clicks off at 6.00pm leaving you cold and in the dark. Before then, linger in the lobby of many of the hotels, restaurants and bars and the proprietor as often as not will motion you to one side to view his collection. Some may even be displayed in glass cases as a mini museum. Twisted and corroded, the lumps of metal you will be shown are still recognisable: bomblets, grenades, cartridge cases, rifles, machine guns and the occasional aeroplane part.

It's a grim reminder that forty years ago Laos was one of the most heavily bombed places on the planet, not just because of its role in the communist supply route known as the Ho Chi Minh Trail but as a dumping ground for American flyers unable to land with a full load of explosives. Couldn't find the target in Vietnam? No problem, drop your ordnance over Laos instead.

Even grimmer are the edgy teams of mine clearance experts by the roads on the way out of town. Decades after the conflict they are still scouring the area for unexploded munitions, and in the villages and cities legless beggars testify to the fact that farming a former war zone is a risky business.

In the café at the mouth of my hotel, just before the lights begin to dim, a group of guides arrive to win the business of the guests who have just arrived. I pick a fellow who calls himself 'David'; he seems a good sort, and we negotiate the price. For just a few dollars, tomorrow he will take me and some companions to what we have come to see.

"Do not step off the path," warns David the next day. His face is serious. "Much danger. Only follow me." The main attraction at Phonsavan is slap bang on top of one of the US military's Vietnam War dumping grounds, not to mention the scene of a major engagement during the conflict between the Pathet Lao communists and the French colonial rulers. So a guide is absolutely essential if you don't want to fly home in a wheelchair. However, do beware of overpricing too; there's no need to pay over $10.

The Plain of Jars is exactly what it says on the tin: a plain full of jars. And there the explanations end. Some say that the hundreds of stone vessels that have littered the fields since Roman times are cast-away rice pots. Others reckon they are coffins from arcane burials, monuments to a military triumph or relics of ancient religious rites. And between them dip the tell-tale bomb craters of what happened here more recently.

David tells us of a local legend. It runs that the jars are monuments to a southern Chinese army that swept in to liberate the area from a tyrannical chieftain: or maybe they are fermenting vessels used to brew liquor for the ensuing booze-up. Who knows. Ultimately, the choice is yours.

The jars spread photogenically across the plain, effortlessly satisfying the role for Indochina that Stonehenge fulfils in England. Some are no bigger than an oil barrel, while others would give a minibus a run for its money. Some are squat, some are tall. Some are broken, many are intact. Some are carved, most are not, though all are fashioned from single blocks of sandstone or granite. On the fringes of these sites also rise tall brick stupas built by neighbourhood kings, plus a couple of neglected wats with crumbling stone Buddhas: the only reminders that mankind, not some unguided hand of nature, did after all assemble the plain of jars.

Here I stand, surveying the stone vessels stretching to the horizon before us, and reach out to the enigmas of Laos's past. Only time will tell whether the influx of foreign visitors will affect the touchingly uncynical attitude of its people, or wear away its mysterious monuments, most of which are so far unspoilt. I hope not; and the difficulties of travelling here may well prevent mass tourism from ever taking hold. But as I stroll back through the fields to the minibus that brought me here, David expertly leading the way, it's easy to forget that I am still in the modern age. Despite its troubles, Laos is a nation that seems immune from the world outside. Long may it continue.

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