Banana Leaves and Night Markets: Chasing the Best Family Travel Moments in Luang Namtha, Laos

Getting ready to kayak on the Namtha River

There’s a delicious little irony baked into the life of a traveler.

We spend untold amounts of time, energy, and money moving from one side of the planet to the other. We cross borders and time zones. We conquer airports and currency exchanges. We endure jetlag and bus rides. We collect experiences that maybe keep therapists in business, and definitely keep chiropractors in business.

All in pursuit of something—something meaningful.

But here is the irony: after all that effort, we often find that the most valuable moments—the ones that brand themselves permanently into memory—are small. Simple. Almost mundane. And often revolve around spending time with the people who are with us at home, as well as on the road.

Sometimes, most important experiences taste of river mud and nam prik.

Banana Leaves on the Muddy Banks of the Namtha River

One such moment unfolded in northern Laos, in Luang Namtha.

It began, as so many great adventures do, at a local market before sunrise. My family and I had hired a guide to take us on kayak trip down the Namtha River. Our guide was a quiet man with an excellent eye for produce and, apparently, not afraid of a little mud. He gathered up a whole fish stuffed with herbs, some chicken bathed in a grayish gooey sauce, bamboo salad, nam prik (a spicy paste for dipping stuff in), and some sticky rice.

We kayaked past scenes of wild beauty—and wild deforestation. For every ancient tree still standing, there seemed to be an equal number of palm plantations growing in neat, tragic rows. But nature was still doing its best. The muddy river sparkled, birds wheeled overhead, and somewhere between the paddle strokes, we found a beautiful rhythm.

Stroke. Shift. Stoke. Shift. Stroke.

Out on the Namtha River

At midday, we pulled up to the muddy riverbank for lunch. Our guide cut banana leaves to lay out as a tablecloth over the mud. He unpacked our feast, and gestured for us to dig in.

Um . . . this seems a little unsanitary and we have to spend hours on the bus tomorrow. Not exactly the best time for some tummy trouble caused by ingesting river mud.

But paddling is hungry work, and it was either eat in the mud or go hungry.

And so we dug in. We stood over our little picnic (because it was too rocky to sit down). We sanitized our hands as best we could. I grabbed a bit of sticky rice and dipped it into the gloopy chicken stuff.

It was amazing. I couldn’t believe how good it was.

And so we stood there over out lunch. We ate. We laughed. We commented to each other on good everything was.

That meal—humble as it was—became a perfect memory. Not because the chicken was tender (though it was) or because the nam prik burned just right (though it did), but because we shared something that seemed like a surprisingly special experience.

As a family.

The Night Market Feast

A few evenings later, Luang Namtha offered up another masterpiece of culinary minimalism.

The night market in Luang Namtha was modest. Just a handful of food carts clustered together, each selling variations of the same items. We procured some roasted duck, a kilo(!) of crispy pork belly, and another kilo(!) of sticky rice (because one can never have too much sticky rice).

Armed with plastic bags of meat and rice, and wooden skewers for utensils, we settled at a table. Bags were passed around. Skewers stabbed and poked. Meat juices dripped down wrists and mingled with the rice clumps we tore apart with our fingers.

It was the opposite of elegant dining. And it was perfect.

So perfect, in fact, that all I have to do now is utter the phrase “kilo of pork belly, kilo of sticky rice,” and my whole family is instantly transported back to that meal. We remember the taste, the sticky fingers, the laughter.

We remember us.

And that is important.

Because travel isn’t just a set of experiences. At its best, it can be a set of shared experiences, that strengthen the bonds between the travelers who are lucky enough to share simple meals, or strange experiences, or even bone rattling bus rides.