How a new high-speed train is opening up Laos ' hidden corners
Now that a new high-speed train is opening up corners of Laos once served only by buses, how will life change in the laid-back nation where slow travel has always been the norm?
The sleek-nosed train was wrapped in the red, white and blue
of the Lao national flag and sparkled in the sunlight on a spotless platform. A
man dressed in natty turquoise barked orders through a megaphone to keep
passengers away from the carriages until the doors glided open. Then a woman
wearing a beautiful blue-embroidered sinh (a traditional wraparound skirt) and
a frangipani flower in her hair greeted me at the door. Another seemed to be
taking care of the large luggage inside. So far, so unlike any rail service I’d
ever encountered in the West.
The new Lane Xang (meaning ‘Land of a Million Elephants’) train shuttles between Vientiane, capital of Laos, and the China border, tunnelling through epic limestone peaks and over rivers for 422km at a top speed of 160kph. As far as rail travel in Laos goes, it’s like looking into the future.
Scenic rice fields and karst mountains surround Vang Vieng
(Shutterstock)
As I stepped aboard, I thought of the explorer Henri Mouhot,
who spent 50 days crossing 800km of Laos on the back of an elephant in 1861,
and died shortly afterwards. This train would carry me to my first stop at Vang
Vieng (130km away) in 66 minutes! Mouhot’s wildest dreams could not have
imagined such technological strides here, and up until very recently, neither
could I.
When I first visited Laos in 2005, just one set of traffic
lights ruled Vientiane. I spent my days visiting far-flung corners of this
landlocked nation on uncomfortable, mud-spattered buses. This train, which is
part of a larger 1,000km-long China-Laos network that begins over the border in
Kunming, not only heralds a new way of seeing Laos but is a true feat of
engineering – the mountains in the north are not easily tunnelled. For me,
I was curious as to how it would change the way travellers experience this
laid-back country.
Before zooming to Vang Vieng, my journey began with not a
million elephants but just one. I had dropped by Vientiane’s unusual Buddha
Park (Xieng Khuan), where huge Buddhist and Hindu statues scatter grounds
dotted with the scarlet petals of crown-of-thorns plants. Boun, my guide,
beckoned me to approach the life-size statue of a three-headed elephant,
a Hindu deity that has become an important symbol of the country.
“The heads represent the three royal kingdoms of Laos –
Vientiane, Champasak and Luang Prabang,” Boun told me.
This trio was created after the 1707 AD break-up of the
354-year-old kingdom of Lane Xang Hom Khao – meaning Land of a Million
Elephants and White Parasol. I’d learn more about the royal kingdoms later in
Luang Prabang, but I had more recent history to unravel first; one that
reminded me why travelling off the beaten track here often comes with its own
unique set of problems.
“Laos still bears the unfortunate title of ‘the most
bombed country on Earth’”
“One third of the country is still unsafe,” explained
Khamchan Phetsouphan, communications officer at the Vientiane visitor centre
for COPE, an NGO helping those scarred and maimed by the bombs. “People are
still suffering, and about 300 are killed or injured each year.”
Landmine detonators British MAG and UXO Laos are working to
cleanse the land, but the terrible toll from these devices became horrifically
clear during my time at the centre. It was one of many unexpected discoveries
that I made in the capital, knowing that my next rail stop was barely an hour’s
journey and I had plenty of time to explore.
Today, Vientiane is a city of villages (bans) similar to
those of London, but with a wat (temple) at the heart of each. Here, Buddhism
and modernity are entwined. Saffron-robed monks clutched mobile phones as they
walked past SUVs mounted on pavements; French villas – once colonial offices –
are now dwarfed by glassy high rises.
Vientiane’s Patuxai, a monument to the Lao soldiers who died
in the Second World War and the 1949 War of Independence, was built in 1968
using funds donated by the USA to expand the nation’s main airport (Alamy)
At the centre of all this was the familiar sight of Pha That
Luang, a giant stupa tipped in gold. I’d seen it before, but paused to look
closer. It was first built in 1566 but was destroyed during the Siamese attack.
The French restored it to its original design; now it’s a symbol of the country
– “It’s found on bank notes too,” Boun reminded me.
With time on my hands, we stopped to fuel up at Doi Ka Noi, which is run by chef Noi, the first Lao member of the Slow Food movement. I had first tasted her oua hua si khai (pork-stuffed lemongrass) a few years ago; today her stuffed stalks, which resemble lotus buds packed with shallots and sauces, were as delicious as I remembered. Given my lunch tomorrow would be from the catering carriage of the train, I savoured every bite.
Offerings left at Pha That Luang (Alamy)
The US$6 billion Laos-China Railway is a joint venture
between the two nations, but the majority of the money for it comes from China
as part of its Belt and Road Initiative, which aims to boost its trade network
in Asia and Europe. There is more at stake here than local tourism and cutting
down commuter times, but Boun claimed that most Lao passengers were happy with
the result. Having said that, one traveller I spoke to, on his way to visit
family, was less convinced.
“Everyone is worried about the national debt. Laos was
heavily in debt to China before this, and people think China will take over the
country and buy all the land and businesses.”
The rest of the passengers I spoke to were simply impressed
by the speed of the train. A journey that once took five hours by road now
takes a fifth of that. It has been popular too. Some 1.3 million passengers
travelled this route between its launch and the end of 2022.
My journey was certainly comfier than on the old buses.
Air-conditioned carriages offer larger seats in first class than in second, and
each wagon has ultra-clean loos (one squat, one sit-down). Sadly, the catering
car didn’t deliver on its promise; water or Pepsi were the only options. I
passed on both, preferring to savour a fish dinner at the Riverside Boutique
Resort on my arrival in Vang Vieng.
This lovely hotel hugs the town’s pea-green Song River. Its
swimming pool and garden of frangipani overlook soaring limestone towers ringed
by clouds, which almost give the appearance of mountain peaks dressed in
Elizabethan-style ruffs. I decided to settle in for the night, relishing the
novelty of not being stiff from a long cross-country bus ride.
“Bamboo and indigo bushes stooped over the bank as we
criss-crossed the tinkling water on stepping stones”
The following morning, I bicycled past buffalos mooching in
fields to a blue lagoon and climbed high to a cave sheltering a Buddha statue.
Then it was time to put my feet up. I boarded a long-tailed boat down the
river, which was busy with shrimp collectors and children splashing in the
shallows.
For travellers, this is what makes the new fast train so
exciting: the chance to spend more time in places that were once quick detours.
Recharged, I was keen to travel on to Muang Xai, forging deeper into the
mountains. From my window seat, I glimpsed rice storage huts marooned in
terraced fields as we zoomed north. Yet, for all its convenience, I was eager
to leave my comfortable train behind and get out into the countryside.
Mr Don prepares a picnic for the trek to Phavie village in
Muang Xai (Claire Boobbyer)
With my trekking guide, Mr Don, we dropped by Muang La
market to pick up picnic sausages, pig-brain pâté and moreish purple sticky
rice enmeshed with coconut and sugar, before driving to the start of our trek.
We walked along the Huoai Khai stream bed to Phavie, an isolated Khmu minority
village high in the sun-stroked mountains. In the 1930s, opium grown here
funded French colonial rule, and it’s said that silver flooded the mountains.
Today, villagers mostly grow rice, soyabean, corn, chillies and peanuts.
Bamboo and indigo bushes stooped over the bank as we
criss-crossed the tinkling water on stepping stones. The sky was cobalt blue,
dusted with cotton-ball clouds. I inhaled lungfuls of fresh air and gazed up
ahead.
Beneath the deep folds of a mountain, Phavie’s mix of
stilted huts and newly built concrete homes sat in a clearing. We’d arrived the
morning after a wedding; beer crates were stacked high and chillies dried in
the sun.
“The Khmu lived here 1,000 years before the Lao came,”
explained Mr Don. “They believe in the spirits of ancestors and offer rice to
an altar inside their homes. They had also just held a Baci ceremony, as
someone had recently recovered from ill health.”
The ceremony is an animist tradition, I learned, aimed
at restoring the 32 spirits to the body to create harmony. Mr Don pointed to
the tell-tale signs of a blessing: the wearing of cotton bracelets that signify
good luck.
By now, my feet were in need of a blessing. Instead, I sat
on a terrace overlooking the river at my jungle retreat, Nam Kat Yorla Pa, with
a refreshing Beer Lao. After nights in the cooler mountain air, I looked
forward to the tropical warmth of Luang Prabang.
Luang Prabang has long been the spiritual capital of Laos,
and is home to over 30 temples of varying degrees of gilt splendour (Alamy)
Back on the train, I was joined by Tongdam, a soldier on
ten-day leave to see his family. He echoed the sentiments of most people about
the train: “It’s nice and easy, and quicker and more comfortable than the bus!”
His words proved true, and we swiftly pulled into Luang Prabang, a city whose Buddhist soul, old royal mantle and French and Lao buildings make it eternally alluring. I strolled palm-shaded, herringbone brick pathways scented with frangipani, visited ethereal temples and sipped coffee and cocktails. At dusk, temple drumming boomed through town; this was my cue to watch the sun set from the terrace of the Belle Rive Hotel. As the sky turned a pale rose, the Mekong crinkled with a silvery sheen and lights from boats spilt glitter over the rippling water.
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In the Royal Palace, now a museum, the gable featured the
image of the elephants of the three kingdoms, as did the wooden bed of the last
king of Laos. Even in the coronation room, red and gold walls sparkled with the
mosaic figures of pachyderms. I felt as if I was spinning in front of a giant
disco ball.
Before leaving Laos, I squeezed in one last elephant encounter on a visit to the Mandalao sanctuary near Luang Prabang. I walked with two female jumbos in a teak forest and learnt that only a dwindling 300 or so remain in the wild here. There is hope, though. Mandalao is home to a male adolescent, and the plan is to re-introduce him to the wild to breed.
The elephant Mae Lam is joined by her mahout at Mandalao,
which takes care of elephants that have spent the majority of their lives
working in logging camps and tourist attractions with no one to oversee their
welfare (Claire Boobbyer)
As we plodded along, I thought of all the gains made here
since elephants were used to get around. Laos has always been one of those
places where slow travel was unavoidable; that was its charm. The fast train
changes that, but not in the way that you’d think. It opens up corners and
detours previously too time-consuming to experience; if anything, it lets you
slow down more, which can only benefit places like Mandalao and its elephant
https://www.wanderlustmagazine.com/inspiration/laos-high-speed-train/
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