Laos: On and Off-Leash
By: Saskia Veendorp
June, 2025
Below, Laos unfurls like a forgotten world—lush, emerald hills shrouded in mist, sluggish rivers dotted with long-tail boats, and the occasional shimmer of gold-tipped stupas poking out from jungled overgrowth. As the jet hums toward descent along the muddy Mekong, I feel myself slipping into another world—adrift in time, detached from all that is familiar. I glance at my travel companion; her ear-to-ear grin matches my own.
We come from that generation of wanderers who rode overland trucks across Africa, hitched through Europe, and slept on Lamu rooftops, sending flimsy blue Par Avion letters that arrived long after we did. Travel was pure: cut loose, get lost, let the world sink in; raw and unfiltered. The pull still tugs. My family dubs my recurring jaunts “off-leash walks,” necessary escapes stitched into the year. These days, my travel mate and I still chase the unknown—only now with sleeker packs, cushier stays, and a chilled G&T at the ready.
At Luang Prabang’s shoebox-sized airport, we meet our Lao guide who has thoughtfully crafted our 10-day itinerary. And there’s the catch: as lifelong devotees of unscripted travel, we can’t help but feel a touch uneasy. If every detail is curated—a word my sidekick loathes—and discomfort smoothed away, does that not strip travel of its magic? We trim the unstructured days from our itinerary, convincing ourselves that a touch of handholding might, if anything, fast-track our appreciation of the place.
We surrender to the waiting Land Cruiser, where our driver greets us with a humble bow and a cheerful "sabaidee," hands pressed together in the customary nop, before whisking us away in air-conditioned comfort. The hotel is everything we’d hoped—a colonial retreat complete with welcome drinks and iced lemongrass towels to wipe away the day’s grit. Have we lost our edge? A quick glance at the twinkling jade-green pool, with its neatly lined loungers, each topped with woven sun hats waiting to be claimed, suggests we might have. Candle-lit dinner poolside? Don’t mind if we do.
The ancient capital of Luang Prabang works its quiet magic from the start, a sleepy riverside town that seeps under our skin and demands our attention in the most unassuming way. Tucked between the Mekong and Nam Khan Rivers, the cobbled streets of the old town weave past gilded temples, weathered colonial facades, and monks in saffron-hued robes gliding by, immune to time. Tiny French bakeries and sleek espresso bars coexist with Buddha shrines, tuk-tuks, and bustling outdoor markets, where heaps of dragon fruit, bamboo-trussed crayfish, and skewers of crispy rats vie for attention. My culinary bravery stops at bean paste desserts dusted with coconut—a reminder that my appetite for adventure has its limits.
Our days slip into an unhurried rhythm. Mornings begin early—really early—with sticky rice offerings to monks. Barefoot on the pavement, left shoulder draped, we fumble through the delicate art of rolling rice balls into perfect alms. One hand gives; the other, out of habit, sneaks a quick photo. Pancakes with tamarind compote follow, fueling us for bike rides across the Mekong and through temple-clad jungles. Later, we swap wheels for bare feet and wade into the rice paddies of Living Land Farm behind Suzy, the water buffalo. Here, we get our hands dirty, learning how the project helps farmers stay rooted in traditional practices while supporting the local community.
By midday, the heavy heat, thick with frangipani and incense, settles in, and exhaustion from the morning’s binge of alms, wats, and rice kicks in. Spiritually fulfilled, or as close as we’ll get, it feels like the perfect moment to shift gears for a bit of retail therapy. Luang Prabang’s streets, chock-full of artisanal, socially conscious shops, deliver in spades with a treasure trove of handcrafted goods, naturally dyed textiles, and locally sourced wonders at every turn. At Ock Pop Tok, which translates to “East meets West,” we pick up embroidered chameleons—bright, quirky things (for grandkids that don’t exist) stitched from soda cans by Akha women. We learn these women are more than skilled artisans; they are masters of weaving, indigo dyeing, and cotton farming, all part of its mission to preserve culture and empower women. Later, we discover Big Brother Mouse—a bookstore and charity promoting literacy. Here, we sit with kids, laughing through memory games, swapping geography guesses, and practicing English in a way that feels more like play than teaching. As evening settles in, we sip sunset drinks by the Mekong, followed by a feast of spicy papaya salad and steamed catfish wrapped in banana leaves. The pièce de résistance? Tamarind buffalo ice cream from the Laos Buffalo Dairy, a socially responsible enterprise that rents female buffalo from villagers, providing them with reliable income—and us a sweet finale to our jam-packed day.
But nowhere captures the spirit and sustainable ethos of the city better than Satri House Hotel, our refuge for the week. Tucked behind unassuming walls, this boutique hotel—once home to a Lao prince—feels like stepping into another time, a sophisticated blend of faded grandeur and slow-paced living, where thoughtful touches like handwoven silks draped across teak furniture, carefully arranged Buddhas, and sepia-toned Lao portraits weave layers into the hotel’s narrative, creating an effortless elegance. Luxury is not flaunted; it’s whispered through subtle details, like the faint wafts of perfumed lemongrass, the careful placement of savory bamboo chips wrapped in banana leaves on a bedside table, or the gentle sway of lotus blossoms in the courtyard pools. And here, sustainability isn't a marketing buzzword—it's clearly a way of life. Glass over plastic, refillable bath products, and locally sourced everything. The staff, mostly locals, exude a warmth that feels less like service and more like a homecoming. Normally, I’d grill them on sustainable practices, but here it’s so ingrained, it didn’t need asking.
Our love fest for Luang Prabang complete, it’s time to swap urban luxury for a ramble through the country’s wilder side—dusting off our hiking boots and stuffing flammable mossie wipes into our bras to sneak them past security on the new high-speed Chinese train. Our remaining days in Northern Laos melt together as we traipse through rice fields, cross rivers on makeshift bamboo rafts, and linger in remote mountain villages. Our local guide works miracles, threading us into moments we’d never stumble upon alone. He knows the people, speaks their languages, shares their stories, and opens doors we wouldn’t have known existed.
One such door opens into a sala (stilted bamboo hut) surrounded by verdant rice paddies and clucking chickens. It’s midday, and the sweltering heat hangs thick in the air; we are grateful for the shade and the company of our host, an elderly Khmu woman with kind, soulful eyes and a face marked by a lifetime of stories. We unwrap fried rice parcels from banana leaves—simple fare, yet together it feels like a feast. Conversation drifts in quiet bursts as she deftly stitches a satchel from a burlap grain bag, her hands moving with the grace of years spent perfecting her craft. Her husband wanders in, all wiry energy and proud grins, eager to show off his homemade rat traps and grumble about the youth’s disinterest in village life. 'Their world revolves around city life and screens, not the hard work of weaving, harvesting, and farming.' His words resonate with a poignant truth: the old world is fading, taking with it the rich traditions that defined these people’s lives for centuries. My travel companion, a former BBC correspondent, slips easily into the moment, coaxing conversation with the finesse of someone who’s done this before, sharing her own experiences, and asking just the right questions to unlock the stories buried beneath the surface. I hang back, letting the intimacy of the moment wash over me. As we prepare to leave, our host thanks us for the company. She mentions that tourists have been scarce since the pandemic. The words hang in the air—a reminder that while more visitors could provide her with a link to the outside world, it would shatter the experience we’re savoring.
On our final day, we push deeper into the mountains, where the air thins and the land feels untamed, stretching toward the borders of China, Myanmar, and beyond. Our 4x4 rattles over roads etched with deep scars from the recent typhoon, evidence of a shifting climate all around us. We wind through remote Hmong, Khmu, and Akha villages clinging to the mountainsides, and a way of life untouched by the modern world. And it’s here, in this outpost at the edge of the world, that we stumble upon something raw and extraordinary: an Akha hill tribe wedding—half ceremony, half raucous celebration, and pure traveler’s luck. The air is thick with anticipation as villagers scurry about, carrying bamboo baskets of offerings and flaunting their hand-embroidered, silver-baubled wedding best. And the wedding isn’t the only celebration in the village. Scattered throughout the village for the annual harvest festival are decorated spirit gates and a huge bamboo swing bound with coconut rope, where children catapult into the air, shrieking with laughter. It’s a rare spectacle, a tradition that unfolds once a year when the entire community gathers to honor the harvest and the seasons ahead. It’s everything we came for: connection, stories, and an unfiltered glimpse into local life. I savor the scene, heightened by the sense that it’s slipping away: the bride preparing under the shaman’s watchful eye, children darting between bamboo huts, men squatting around steaming bowls as they chop meat and prepare the feast, elders cross-legged, puffing bamboo pipes. No one pays us much mind; we’re just folded into the day, toasting tepid Beer Lao in the crowded, earth-floored house.
And then it hits me: so much has changed since we first set out, wide eyed and free, when chance encounters were endless and the world wide open. Now, with our lives more defined, these moments feel more fleeting—yet somehow more precious. I’m convinced there’s a Buddhist lesson here. The world changes, we change, but the thrill of the unknown—off-leash or leashed—stays constant. Always.
The next day, we drag out our airport goodbyes, still giddy from the weeks’ adventures. We wonder if anyone at home will care about our stories, but we’re too amused to care. As I scroll through photos, I block out the sterile hum of the airport and let the moment linger. And just like that, the pull of home snaps back. My phone starts pinging: check-ins, texts, the usual suspects: my daughter’s latest college drama, a flood of breaking news, and my husband’s relentless reminders to call NOW. Nice to be needed. I take a deep breath.
Every journey has its end, and I’m genuinely looking forward to returning. But for now, there’s airplane mode—a small reprieve, a long flight to savor the afterglow. As we board, I note to reconnect in 24 hours.
Maybe.