LAOS | Sunday, 30 June 2013 | Views [324] | View Larger Image
During a boat ride just south of Luang Prabang, we stopped in at a small village along the banks of the Mekong River. The people here made their living brewing potent whisky and selling odd trinkets to passing tourists. We had arrived during a special time – the village had all come together in the tradition of building funeral constructs for the elderly. I felt particularly out of place and a little intrusive strolling through the village while they peeled, nailed, bent and tied the vessel that would house their relatives into death. While the men where fashioning the coffin material out of plants and wood, the women were in the houses clipping wet money onto clotheslines and preparing lunch. During the commotion, something struck me as peculiar. It rang in my mind like a distasteful joke. While the soon-to-be dead were being attentively looked after, in the quiet corners of the town sat the very young. Alone.
