The Language of Laos

A still air hangs over this village. We observe the solitude like buddhas, fending off the day’s sweat, hoping a breeze finds its way through the maze of river canyons leading to our secluded perch a hundred feet up. Six of us, from different corners of the earth, have come seeking something unknown, simpler. And now, by plane, bus, boat, and one precarious climb, we hang as apples from the tree of knowledge, waiting to be plucked.

Slowly, a faint drum taps of raindrops on the majestic trees above. Needles of water bounce from black water below. Crimson lightning flashes across the marbled sky, followed by a staccato crack as rain pierces the umbrella of rattan, palm and emerald bamboo. Nearly submerged, we wait out the assault in our forest cocoon. We had been told that leeches are happiest after a monsoon, and so we brace for their pricks, teasing each other mercilessly with false sightings as the sky retreats.

We emerge from our embattled fortress one limb at a time, extending legs like tree frogs, balancing our moves, sliding across the wooden platform just as darkness eclipses the receding sky. We nurse our wounds with rice, vegetables, lukewarm Beer Lao. In such isolation, even ice is hard to come by. We grin like sages, thankful.

In the cover of night, with no cars, electricity, nor planes overhead, serene silence opens to the cacophony of the jungle. We sway in hammocks, eavesdropping. A bird whistles, “We WHO,” another replies, “We hoo!” Geckos, cicadas, crickets, and owls blend into a syncopated orchestra. Candlelight dances through thatched walls and mosquito nets enshrouding us. My Israeli friend says we are floating in outer space, surrounded by stars. We giggle in awe of simple theater.

I allow myself to feel the fear of being alone for just a moment. No one in the world knows where I am, apart from these fellow seekers, this moving family. I direct my mind back to the spirit of this place, breathe out, and drift away to the jungle lullaby.