I am writing in my favourite spot in Luang Prabang, trying to summon the strength for something that's rather challenging for me.

This spot, this little "cafe", where I'm sitting now, is so wonderful because it is so amateurish, so half hearted, yet so perfect. The downstairs of this large wooden house is the family's living space and general art curio shop, though no one seems to ever come in. The upstairs balcony is the cafe, no more than a row of chairs and tables under the eves - although, I've never seen any other customers here. They serve only tea, coffee and cold water, but even better, there's been no effort at all to separate the balcony from the upstairs room, which is quite obviously someone's study and painting room. A few feet away from my head is this person's desk - a letter lies spent, in looping handwriting I read, "Dear Mr Gestabrook (?), many thanks for the invitation, but tonight we are having a large group for dinner with the governor of L.P.B [Luang Prabang] and I must be there. Sorry, but hope for next time. Gerard". Whoever this person is (Mr Gestabrook? Gerard?) who has filled this room with the material traces of his thoughts, he has a strange set of interests. Paintings, looking more like more own efforts than purchased, a large golden Buddha's head with long ear lobes, several smaller ones of flowers against pastel backgrounds; functional sculptures in paper or papier mache (there are lots of big 3D stars covering the cafe's light bulbs); framed posters of old aeroplanes, and several hand constructed model aeroplanes hanging from light fittings and the ceiling. Some of the model aeroplanes' boxes rest under a table - I can measure this person's long stay here by the heavy dust collected on them.
But the best thing about this place is placed at the end of the balcony, potted and hanging plants surrounding. It is what I think is called a divan, what a Bangladeshi-Canadian man described as, when I mentioned it to him, "Ah yes, a day bed"! To sit / lie, my body at about a 15 degree angle, in the shade over a rarely busy road, too far from the tourist hub further back for many passers by, a white walled temple across the road, it is perfection. As I recline here, damp sweat sticking to my eyelids, and the waitress (the very young mother of a very young baby) carries up my tea on a tray, I feel very much the French colonial eminence, exiled to Indochina for sins unpardonable, majestic in regret. It is a lovely little discovery, feeling more like visiting someone's house than dallying in a shop. It would perhaps be even better if they served some food, but then that might spoil something of the magic.

The thing that challenging me? Trying to make some money from my writing. I know I've often talked about how travel should be challenging, and here I am faced with a real challenge and am finding it very hard to surmount. After lots of encouragement from friends and people reading the website, I do want to try and get some of my work published. I feel emerging inside me some inclination to sort out some things about my life and future - working out if I may be able to make some money writing seems a good avenue to be exploring now. Also, too, I want the challenge for its own sake.

So far, I've been getting some advice, some help from friends, done some research about publications and, as a trial run, got a couple of pieces posted on a free internet magazine, travelmag.co.uk.
Essentially I now need to get a move on and start sending out re-edited sections of my travelogue to people. It would be nice to be the kind of person who thought, "I don't know if my writing is any good, what I'll do is market it and market it and market it, and if someone snaps it up, that shows it must be good stuff". But I am captured by that rather English reticence, preferring to keep any artistic outpourings locked in the garden shed (and if anyone asks to see them, immediately begin prefaces like, "Just something I do on the weekends, of course, when the wife out at her group"). The idea, for example, of submitting the same article to lots of publications simultaneously seems, well, a bit distasteful - as if I imagine the editors (black suits, white tufts of hair) would meet for a long lunch one day and the conversation, by chance, turns to a new article on west China one has received. "But, by God, I've been sent the same piece, from the same scribbler!", exclaims the other. "What a cad, what a bounder!" the two plump men agree. I know it isn't really like this, but I think it's just a step to get over.
The equal problem is the effort involved. Were it simply an issue of emailing travel editors a link to my blog and saying, "Have a look through, if there's anything you'd like to use, let's discuss payment and rights, yours, Daniel" - but of course the world isn't like this. Re-editing and re-angling submissions based on what the publication is really after seems key.

Well, enough self pity. Time to get on the horse.

--
It is hard, as I idly shift to uncover an even more pleasurable lounging position, to think of anything that would make this more enjoyable. Well, actually there is - I would love to have someone to talk to. Luang Prabang is a terrible place to meet people (ie travellers) - the familiar issue with places with too many tourists, the cameradie is gone. And in fact, it would really be lovely to have someone to talk to about something other than travelling, and specifically travelling in SE Asia. At times, listening to how everyone seems to have been to the same places in the surrounding countries makes me seethe in radiant bilous contempt. The problem with withering contempt, however, is that it feels like it goes hand in hand with withering self pity, whenever one meets someone possibly "better" at something or other than one's self. So I am trying to smoothe out my emotions towards my fellow questers.

--

Realising I don't have much of a sense about what I came to Laos to do, which is probably why I'm finding it hard to work out where to go next. I have a list of things that instantly spring up when I contemplate India, Thailand, the Philippines or to a lesser extent Malaysia, but I feel no link to Lao culture that might help me decide what to do or where to go. Some kind of link with one's destination in the imagination and heart would be immensely helpful in terms of building up some self-directed itinery.
I do feel like I want to go on a river voyage, and see the capital Vientiene, at the very least. I will probably take a boat up the Mekong, back towards the north west of the country. Little interest in chilling out more than I have already done in Luang Prabang. It's true that Laos is relaxing, but I think my body and mind are just set up with a minimum stress and activity level - if I try and go below that, the dial just rebounds and creeps up again.

--
(a day later)
Ah, feeling very liberated - just submitted an article to the Guardian newspaper. I had thought the sensible thing to do would be to start off submitting to small publications, build up experience of how to play this game, be able to advertise past successes with smaller fish. And, in terms of trying to make a living from writing, that probably is a good strategy. But, in terms of freeing oneself from fear - this step stepping started to feel exactly the wrong thing to do. I'm fairly sure the Guardian won't actually publish my submission, but I'm not so afraid of that. I fear being rejected by some non-paying web magazine - that would be insulting... But to be rejected by the newspaper, that along with the Independent, I read the most when back in England, a giant, well, that's expected. And so the fear of submitting work to other publications recedes - I have been strong enough to impudently slap a tiger in the face, why now fear a hyena? In fact, I would recommend this to everyone: write something and email it to the publication above all others whom you would like to be published by. It is a good feeling and I am drinking a beer to celebrate.

Going to Pak Beng tomorrow, I have decided, by slow boat. Still not sure about Laos, not sure about how much time I want to be spending here. Taking two weeks to see the north west is theory no sacrifice, but equally, when I look back at this year, sure I will wish I had two weeks spare for something I really wanted to see and couldn't. Either way, decided the one thing I want to do without question here in Laos is take a slow boat up the Mekong river. I leave for Pak Beng, close to the Thai border, tomorrow morning.

--

As that night fell, my final night in the hot calm of Luang Prabang, I seemed to be crossing into the world of what this place was like to live in, rather than to visit. I had finished my beer, eaten, and again, hadn't talked to anyone. I walked on towards that balcony cafe with its model aeroplanes. Passing one of the temples, a few orange robed young men and boys sat on the other side of the wall. One said hello and we got talking. His English was patchy, but we seemed to be able to understand each other. He and the others were not allowed to eat dinner - they walked the streets of Luang Prabang at 6am each day and begged/collected alms from the townspeople, food and money - that made up their two meals a day. He showed me the Buddha to which he prayed to every day and meditated in front of - he unlocked one of the main buildings on the monastery grounds - a small room facing a rather large sitting buddha. The Buddhism in Laos is different to Tibetan Buddhism; I get the impression more about individual enlightenment and monastic effort than about deities to be placated and prayer wheels to be spun. Maybe, maybe not, but it was noticeable how impersonal the art on Luang Prabang's temple walls was - lots and lots of small figures praying, travelling etc, rather than a giant demon or strange god staring back at me. He also showed me a metal drum and a bell - tonight was the full moon, and he would wake up at 4am to ring the bell and wake all the other monks up. As he switched on the small room's light, a living sea of flapping bugs swam around us - as if the monks prayed to a rotting pig's head on a stick than a golden statue. I found it hard to concentrate, in all honesty, feeling these insects casually molest my neck and hair, and was relieved when we got out.
Aside what people donated, the monks had almost no money or possessions. The novices had ten rules to follow, including (bear in mind some of this may have been lost in translation) never touching a woman, not working in a job, no singing or dancing, never sit higher up than a monk, never lie, never kill. "So, that means we can never confess to murder", one said, making everyone laugh around him. I supposed jokes were fairly thin on the ground for these monks. Once a novice began a full monk, he then had 227 rules to obey - but the language barrier was too great to find out what thes might be.
My monk friend, Can (English name Ken), had left his family in the countryside and been sent to Luang Prabang to be a monk. He had spent his time reading holy works, praying and teaching younger monks. But, now he wanted to leave the monastery. It seemed, now he was a full monk, it would be hard to progress further - he wanted to leave and go to university. Specifically, a college of English, such as the Lao - American School in Vietiene. He wanted to spend the next few years studying English so that he could return to Luang Prabang, a town he clearly loved, and get a job as a guide. All jobs in Luang Prabang needed English, the language of tourism.
The problem, as perhaps will not surprise, is money - Can had none, he didn't even have any clothes, and he would have to return his orange robes to the temple when he left. So his plan was to go to visit his parents and ask them for help financially with his education. Probably he would try to enter the LPB college of English, somewhat cheaper at 90 dollars a term.

This journey had something of a tragic air: his parents had no job and currently raised animals and fished to make a living. He said quietly at one point he did not think his parents would be able to help him. If they did not, he would have to stay with them and work in the village, as he had no other options. He asked me if I would like to come with him on the journey to see his parents.

With the aid of a pocket calendar, we established that he wanted to leave on the 16th, this being a good day either for spiritual or curriculum reasons. I said I would love to come with him, but felt I had to stress I would be coming as a friend, rather than as a sponsor - I could not pay for him to go to University. I showed him the word "friend" in his English - Lao dictionary, I think the message was conveyed... I said I was going to leave LPB tomorrow, but that I would loop back and return on the 13th. We would then see if we both still wanted to go, and then set off. We said goodbye, he said he was very happy to have an English speaking friend. I told him I was happy too.

Later that night, it kept returning to me how this man's life turned on what was comparatively a tiny amount of money. The difference between raising pigs and cows in a village and working in LPB, as he wanted to, probably came to some few hundred pounds. How badly would any of us in the UK really miss three hundred pounds? Or, perhaps more pertinently, how happy would any of us be to find three hundred pounds lying on the street? Certainly, we'd be very happy, planning things to buy or credit card bills to diminish; but this young monk would be ecstatic, it would be a miracle, life changing. How inefficiently the world's resources are shared out, I mused ragingly, how much could the average happiness of humanity be raised with a little more equal wealth distribution.
But of course, there was actually no need to reform the entire world for Can to go to University. I had it in my bank account to just give him the money - I could change his life tomorrow, as soon as the bank opened. What was three hundred pounds to me? Another six weeks travelling in India?

As I wrestled with these thoughts, a quiet and calm voice inside me spoke up, "Well, all that may be true, but really, we both know you aren't actually going to give him that money, so no need to keep torturing yourself". I now had more sober thoughts, though probably less noble ones. Why help this monk and not another? Why not, while we're on the subject, help some of the Chinese students I had got to know in Kunming desperate to study in a foreign university? Why didn't I help those lovely daughters back in Todosantos with their education - merely purchasing them a Spanish copy of "The Little Prince" as a goodbye present?
Plus, I hadn't known Can for more than an hour. Perhaps he liked to visit home every few months, and as the time approached, found a tourist who would soon be happy to buy his bus ticket and perhaps contribute some clothes? I didn't think that really was what was going on, but perhaps it was a fraction of it? The rich man's joke is always funny, as someone said.
I decided two things.
1. I was happy to help him on his journey as long I wasn't in danger of being hurt by trusting, and giving him a pair of trousers and a t-shirt and a bus ticket seemed absorbable costs enough. I was sort of planning to come back to LPB anyway, and if, when I returned, I found him again and he still wanted to go, we would go.
2. My resolve was strengthened to do something useful and beneficial for the world, or some small corner of it, once this travelling is over. I feel that while this trip has being the right thing for me to do, I've seen a lot of people in poverty and done practically nothing to allievate it. It has been quite a selfish, self focused time, and while maybe I needed to take the time to see the world, I hope that something of value will flow from this exploration, rather than just a set of entertaining dinner table stories.

I did all this wrestling on that balcony divan I mentioned at the top of this article. I came to the house, the family were sitting on the floor chatting. I asked, "Coffee"? They shook their heads, they finished serving coffee at 6pm (a cafe that closes at 6pm!). I actually knew this already, but I wanted to steal a fond look at them all before I headed off to Pak Beng the next morning. But suddenly, they changed their minds, the young woman and a boy ran up the stairs with me and started switching on lights. The woman came out of the little kitchen with a tray of coffee and a glass of cold water and, after she left, tiny baby sleeping on her back, the 12 year old boy and I chatted for a while. His name was Joy, the family were from a small Lao ethnic group in the countryside nearish to LPB. Joy's parents wanted him to join the same temple (or Wat, spelt with a v) that Can lived in - but only for eight months, I think, then he would return to regular school. He ran off and came back wrapped in the orange robe - then ran off and changed back again. We joked about how he would have to get his thick shock of hair cut off. I pointed at the model aeroplanes and asked whose they were - "Oliver!", Joy responded, but who Oliver was and what his relationship with the family was, I wasn't able to find out. Although Joy's English wasn't that great, I tried to imagine how many English twelve year olds would happily chat in the evening darkness with a foreign customer in their second language.

The next morning, I was awoken abruptly at 4am by monks in different temples beating drums. I dozed until half five, then forced myself out of bed in order to see the monks collecting their alms. On the pavement of the main street, many women of the town knelt on mats, shoes off, legs swept back to one side (there were a few men, they seemed to be mostly standing). Each woman had brought a large container of rice, Lao sticky rice that you pull apart with your hands. The monks walked in single file, each holding an urn maybe the size of a football. As they passed each woman, whom they would never be allowed to touch, she tore off a little rice and placed it into the monk's basket. It was the town honouring their holy men by treating them so - it almost felt like the women were the begging ones, not the monks.
Now, this being the world, whatever a tourist might want to do, there are local people ready to sell it. Other women wandered the streets selling food for us to give to the monks, sticky rice and little sweets wrapped in banana leaf. I weighed up buying some food and joining the line of offerers versus standing and watching, like the batteries of photo-taking tourists snapping a few feet from the procession. Having just spent an hour talking to one of these monks the previous night, and been told this really was most of the food they ate (sometimes they used the donated money to buy additional food), I felt I couldn't in good conscience look on and not contribute. I bought some of the sweets, after haggling down the price, and stood at the end of the line of donors. I gave my sweets away, soon running out. It was a powerful feeling, to be part of something very old about LPB and this part of the world, far more powerful than just watching had been. If the photo takers thought I looked silly, I can accept that. I ordered breakfast, bought some sticky rice and gave it to the remaining monks still pacing the street. Their large urns were almost full, presumably it would be good eating today.

Daniel, 3 May 2004, a slow boat on the Mekong