Why I Traveled to Northern Laos

Seeking the Last Traditional Hill Tribes

A Lifelong Fascination with Remote Cultures

One of my biggest motivations for travel has always been the chance to encounter unique tribal communities, especially those still living in traditional ways in remote corners of the world. I’ve long accepted that I’ll never be able to experience every culture—but I’ve made it a personal mission to prioritize the ones that fascinate me most.

In each region I visit, I seek out the cultures that feel most at risk of vanishing, or those that still exist in isolation from globalization.

My Hill Tribe Journeys in Southeast Asia

Before this trip to Laos, I had already visited:

• Several hill tribes in central Vietnam

• The Naga people and other ethnic groups in the highlands of western Myanmar

This was  my second time visiting Laos. On my first trip, I visited a Hmong village near Vang Vieng. While interesting, the tribe had been largely assimilated into modern Lao society, and the experience felt more like a cultural stop than a deep immersion.

Still, that first trip tught me something important: Laos is a country that takes time to truly explore. The farther north you go, the more traditional and isolated the tribal communities become. I knew then that I’d need to return someday—and this time, I was determined to go deeper to experience the untouched hill tribes of the north.

Why Northern Laos?

Northern Laos drew me in for several compelling reasons:

• It’s regarded as one of the last strongholds of traditional hill tribe life in Southeast Asia

• The region has remained relatively untouched by mass tourism

• Its geographic isolation—with rugged mountains and poor infrastructure—has kept it off most travelers’ radars

• A long history of political seclusion under communism has helped preserve its cultural authenticity

Compared to neighboring countries that have rapidly opened up to outside influence, northern Laos still feels like stepping back in time.

The Akha People: A Culture Preserved in the Highlands

Of the many ethnic groups in Laos, I was especially drawn to the Akha—a semi-nomadic hill tribe known for its deep spiritual traditions, colorful dress, and remote, mountaintop villages.

The Akha:

• Live in high-altitude villages, often accessible only by narrow footpaths

• Practice a shamanistic belief system tied to nature and ancestral spirits

• Are visually distinctive—Akha women wear:

  • Intricately embroidered garments

  • Colorful, elaborate headdresses

  • Handcrafted silver jewelry passed down through generations

Everything about their appearance tells a story—of identity, lineage, and cultural pride.

Trekking Into Their World

To connect with the Akha in a respectful and immersive way, I teamed up with three close friends and organized a three-day trek with two nights spent in different Akha villages. The journey would take us:

• Deep into the misty, forested mountains north of Phongsaly

• Away from roads, electricity, and phone signals

• Into communities where daily life continues much as it has for generations

Location of Phongsaly, Laos

Getting There: Choosing the Long Way Around

Reaching Phongsaly, the northernmost province of Laos, isn’t easy—but that’s part of its appeal. I had two options:

1. Fly to Chiang Mai, Thailand, and take a grueling 20-hour overland car or bus ride through the mountains
2. Fly from Vientiane aboard a 1.5-hour flight in a 10-seater Cessna Caravan, followed by a one-hour drive to Phongsaly

I chose the second option. To get to Vientiane, I flew directly from Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam—a fast and affordable route that also allowed me to see southern Vietnam, a region I hadn’t explored before. It was also a great way to avoid Bangkok, a city I’d visited multiple times and didn’t need to transit through again.

This route wasn’t just the fastest—it was also the most cost-effective and adventurous, setting the tone for the remote, off-the-grid journey ahead.

Our lao Skyway Plane

Foggy and Cold

Our flight aboard Lao Skyway’s Cessna 208 Caravan from Vientiane to Boun Neua Airport took about 1 hour and 30 minutes. The aircraft flew low over northern Laos’ forested ridges—though in our case, we didn’t see any of it.

We were in the clouds for the entire flight, never catching a glimpse of the mountains below. When we landed at Boun Neua in foggy conditions.  But the conditions became much worse on the one-hour drive to Phongsaly—we could often see no more than ten feet ahead, and the winding mountain roads made for an unsettling, white-knuckle ride.

This cool, foggy weather would stay with us for the next four days—nearly the entire time we were in northern Laos. We didn’t see clear skies until the day we left.

But despite the endless cloud cover, I was grateful. April is one of the hottest months in Southeast Asia, and the fog brought with it cool, comfortable trekking conditions. Without it, the heat would’ve made hiking much more difficult.

At night, it was genuinely cold—we slept in full layers and thick blankets. Locals wore jackets, wool hats, and scarves—a surreal contrast to the 100°F heat of the lowlands just a few thousand feet below. 

Foggy drive to phongsaly from the airport

Phongsaly: The Gateway to Laos’ Remote Northern Highlands

Hill Tribe Trading Posts, Rainforest Temples, and Misty Mountain Charm

Perched at 4,300 feet above sea level, Phongsaly is a quiet hill town nestled in rainforested mountains and green tea plantations, some of which are still occasionally visited by wild elephants. It’s one of the largest and most important towns in northern Laos, serving as a trading hub for numerous hill tribes who journey from remote villages to buy, sell, or barter goods in its local markets.

The town itself has a mix of history and character. Many traditional wooden Chinese-style houses still line its backstreets—complete with red paper lanterns hanging from porches. These have long since disappeared from most towns across the border in China, now replaced by concrete apartment blocks.

First Impressions of Phongsaly

We arrived at our guesthouse in the early afternoon, where we checked in and met with our trekking fixer—the same man who helped me organize all our transport and logistics in advance. After finalizing the last of the payments and confirming the details of our route, we settled into our modest but cheap rooms.

Then, without wasting any time, we set off on foot to explore Phongsaly. The town was cold and foggy, wrapped in clouds that hadn’t lifted since we arrived in the north. Almost immediately, I realized there were very few other foreigners in town. Over the next five days—until I reached Luang Prabang—I wouldn’t see a single other tourist.

Locals, curious and friendly, would honk from their motorbikes, wave, or practice their English with an enthusiastic “hello!” Phongsaly felt isolated in the best possible way.

A Refreshing Change from Tourist Towns

I immediately took a liking to Phongsaly. Unlike cities like Luang Prabang, it had very few Western-style amenities, and even fewer people who spoke English. Restaurants served mostly Chinese and Lao food, and signs were rarely in English. But this is exactly the kind of place I seek out when I travel—authentic, local, and untouched by mass tourism.

In a single afternoon, we:

• Kicked a soccer ball around with local kids in a foggy street.

• Visited a small Buddhist temple, its courtyard veiled in mist.

• Came across a creepy, old communist-era building that looked completely abandoned.

There were motorbikes parked outside, so I knew someone was inside. I needed to use the bathroom and figured that would be my excuse if anyone asked. Inside, I climbed a narrow, spiral staircase that led into an auditorium-style room—complete with a stage and large red murals that clearly dated back to communist gatherings. People were holding a meeting in the auditorium, and not wanting to interrupt, I quietly made my way back out.

Jungle Temples and Hill Tribe Hospitality

The highlight of our time in Phongsaly was a misty jungle hike to a hilltop Buddhist shrine, hidden among the trees above town. The trail wound through dense rainforest, the fog thick and swirling through the canopy. It was one of the most atmospheric hikes I’ve done in Southeast Asia.

Along the way, we stumbled upon a rowdy group of hill tribe picnickers, barbecuing, laughing, and drinking Beerlao. They happily invited us to sit down and join them for a few rounds, and we toasted in broken Lao as smoke drifted through the jungle air.

Phongsaly turned out to be exactly the kind of place I had hoped for on this journey: authentic, rough around the edges, welcoming, and utterly off the tourist trail.

Wooden House in traditional Chinese style common in Phongsaly

Wooden House in traditional Chinese style common in Phongsaly

Wooden House in traditional Chinese style common in Phongsaly

Foggy lake in Phongsaly

Creepy old building I explored

Spiraling staircase in the creepy old building

Communist meeting hall I stumbled upon in the creepy old building

Buddhist temple stupas and graveyard

Stairwell of hundreds of stairs we climbed to a Buddhist temple

Giant Buddha at the top of the hill

Being invited to a Laotian picnic at the Buddhist hilltop temple

From Toads to Tree Rats: Market Fare in the Highlands

Having traveled through much of Southeast Asia before, I already knew that unusual animals and insects are often a part of the local diet. I’ve wandered through markets in Thailand where you can buy everything from cockroaches and silkworms to scorpions and spiders, so nothing really surprises me anymore.

So when I passed through local markets in the Akha region and saw giant toads, squirrels, and small birds lined up for sale—sometimes plucked, sometimes charred—it didn’t feel shocking. It felt expected.

In this part of the world, especially in remote mountainous areas, people eat what’s available. Protein sources are scarce, and wild-caught animals—frogs, birds, rodents—are simply part of the diet. For many hill tribe communities, these aren’t considered exotic at all; they’re just normal, everyday ingredients.

Tray of toads for sale at market

Into the Highlands

Breakfast with Locals, River Crossings, and the Start of the Akha Trek

The next morning, we began our three-day, two-night trek into the Akha hill tribe villages. It all started with a quiet, misty breakfast at a local outdoor café, surrounded by Laotians on their way to work. We sat at a simple wooden table while the cook prepared our food over an open wood fire—the most common way to cook in this part of Laos.

I had fried eggs and plain white rice, served with a small pot of tea. It wasn’t fancy, but it was exactly what I wanted—warm, simple, and made right in front of us with care.

A Jeep, a Dam, and a Rickety River Boat

From town, we piled into a rickety old jeep and began bouncing our way down a rough dirt road cut through the mountains. The road twisted and dropped toward the Nam Ou River, where our next leg of the journey would begin.

Waiting for us at the river’s edge was an even more rickety wooden boat—long, narrow, and patched in places, with a tiny motor coughing smoke at the back. We boarded cautiously and shoved off.

The Nam Ou was wide and serene, but this section of it had been changed—transformed into a reservoir by a massive Chinese-built dam downstream. We drifted slowly upriver for about an hour, passing jungle-clad hills and small riverside villages, until we reached a remote drop-off point where the road disappeared and the trek truly began.

From here, it would be six hours on foot, deep into the misty mountains and into a world far removed from anything modern.

Nam Ou River

Boat Ride up Nam Ou River

Boat Ride up Nam Ou River

Into the Jungle

A Steep, Muddy Trail and a Guide in a US Army Jacket

After the boat left us behind at a quiet bend in the Nam Ou River, we were on our own. The jungle trail ahead was steep, narrow, and muddy—more of a goat path than a hiking trail. There were no signs, no markers, and definitely no other travelers. Just dense green forest rising into the hills and a long journey ahead.

We had packed light: a few liters of drinking water each and a small bundle of sticky rice to snack on during the hike. From here, we would begin our climb toward the first Akha hill tribe village.

A Guide from the Highlands

Our guide’s name was Nam—pronounced like “Gnome.” He was a short, wiry Laotian man dressed in a faded U.S. Army camouflage denim jacket, which seemed oddly out of place in the jungle but somehow suited him. He wasn’t Akha himself, but belonged to another tribal group from the Phongsaly region.

What Nam lacked in size, he made up for in stamina and spirit. He was quick-footed, endlessly patient, and friendly from the start. Though his English was basic, he made a genuine effort to explain everything he could—from local farming practices and medicinal plants to the rituals and customs of the various tribes in the region.

When we asked how long it would take to reach the village, he shrugged and smiled:

“Six to twelve hours, depending on how fast you walk.”

According to Nam, today would be the hardest day—a long, continuous climb into the mountains to reach a remote Akha village perched high in the hills.

A Brutal but Beautiful Trail

The hike started off tough and only got tougher. We pushed through dense bamboo thickets, stumbled along mud-slick jungle paths, and navigated tripwire-like vines, spiny thorns, and plants that left behind itchy rashes.

The rainforest appeared to be mostly secondary growth. The tall hardwoods had likely been cut decades ago—first by French colonial loggers, later by Chinese traders, and now by hill tribe farmers, who carved out small crop fields in clearings scattered throughout the undergrowth.

The trail was alive with biting ants, buzzing insects, and the ever-present suspicion that poisonous snakes were lurking somewhere underfoot. We climbed over fallen trees, balanced across makeshift log bridges over winding jungle streams, and ducked under low-hanging branches.

Even though the temperature was relatively cool, we were drenched in sweat within the first hour—a mix of humidity, exertion, and adrenaline.

It was rugged, raw, and utterly exhilarating.

Wes hiking through bamboo thickets

A Forest Once Full of Life

Curious about what else might be out there, we asked Nam about other wildlife in the area. He explained that monkeys still live in the forest, but they’re rarely seen—they’ve learned to stay silent to avoid hunters.

He said that elephants still pass through occasionally, but sightings are rare and becoming increasingly uncommon.

When we asked about tigers, Nam admitted he had never seen one himself, but he knew an old man in an Akha village who claimed to have seen one in his youth. Whether the story was true or not, it hinted at a time when these forests were alive with big mammals and apex predators—a time that’s slowly disappearing.

Nam explained the stark reality of it: people don’t hunt for sport—they hunt because they’re poor.

“Meat is too expensive. The only meat my family eats is from the forest,” he said.
“When I hunt, it’s so my family can eat.”

It was a sobering reminder of the economic pressures communities here face. In places like northern Laos, conservation isn’t just about protecting animals—it’s about survival, food access, and generational poverty. These forests are wild—but they are also lifelines.

Nam hiking over a fallen tree 

Rainforest trees

Rainforest hills

Lunch by the Stream

Jungle Cooking, Camouflaged Creatures, and the Quiet Disappearance of Wildlife

About halfway into the hike, we stopped at a small jungle stream to rest and have lunch. It was a quiet, misty spot—surrounded by dense foliage and the low hum of insects. We gathered dry wood and built a small fire, where our guide, Nam, grilled fresh fish and steamed rice in traditional hill tribe fashion—directly over the flames. We sat beside the water and ate with our hands, crouched around the fire just as locals have done here for generations. It was simple, hearty, and perfect.

As we sat digesting, the forest began to show its subtler life—if you knew where to look.

Not long after we arrived, we spotted a large wolf spider skittering near a rock. When we asked Nam if it was poisonous, he gave a half-smile and said:

“Don’t touch.”

We looked away for just a moment, and somehow lost track of it—until I glanced down and saw it crawling across Bryce’s foot.

“Spider on your foot!” I announced.

Bryce shot up into the air in one motion, startled but trying to keep his balance on the slick stones. The spider vanished again into the leaves, leaving us laughing and glancing nervously around our packs.

We also noticed a perfectly camouflaged praying mantis clinging to a nearby leaf, almost invisible unless you stared hard. I’m sure if we had stayed longer, we could have spotted dozens of strange and beautiful insects, hiding in the leaf litter and brush.

Nam and Brian, Bryce’s dad having lunch by the river

Giant wolf spider

Praying mantis

A Crash in the Forest and Giant Buffalo by the River

At one point deep in the forest, I heard a sudden, loud crashing sound in the underbrush—not far from where I was walking. My heart jumped. For a moment, I thought it might be a wild pig, an elephant, or even a bear. But whatever it was, it vanished into the jungle before I could see it.

Later that day, as we followed a trail alongside a river, we came across a startled family of massive water buffalo—towering creatures, coated in mud, with slow, deliberate movements. The bull stood watch, eyeing us with a tense stillness that felt like a silent warning. I instinctively froze, unsure how it might react.

Nam, ever relaxed, waved it off with a grin.

“They’re harmless. They belong to a family in the village.”

He explained that Akha livestock—buffalo, pigs, chickens, and more—are allowed to roam freely through the forest and surrounding mountains. They fatten themselves naturally, wandering for days or even weeks, until the Akha need them. Then, somehow, they track them down and bring them back, as if part of an unspoken understanding between people and animal.

It was one of those moments that reminded me how different life is here, where even livestock exist on their own terms until the community calls them home.

Water buffalo

Arrival at Ban Paicho

After Six Grueling Hours, A Glimpse of Hill Tribe Life

It ended up taking us six full hours of hiking—through thick jungle and up endless, steep paths—before the landscape finally began to shift. The dense rainforest gave way to small hillside fields carved out of the mountains: patches of rice, vegetables, and the occasional tangle of wild raspberries.

As beautiful as the scene was, the reality was more complex. Many of these fields were created through slash-and-burn farming, and along the edges, we passed blackened, half-burnt trees—a harsh reminder of the forest that once stood here.

Nam explained that opium is still a major cash crop for many of the hill tribes in the region, especially in these more remote areas where few other economic options exist. Peanuts are also widely cultivated and serve as both food and income.

Ban Paicho: The First Akha Village

The trail eventually led us to Ban Paicho, our first Akha village. It was a small, remote settlement made up of wooden and bamboo shacks, many of them with rusted, corrugated metal roofs caving inward at odd angles. There was no pavement—just dirt paths, lined with piles of firewood and simple tools.

We were immediately struck by the chaotic beauty of village life. Pigs, semi-tame dogs, cats, chickens, and geese roamed freely along the paths, occasionally chased by barefoot children who played with sticks, stones, and whatever else they could find. A stream of animal effluent trickled downhill past the houses—and the kids ran right through it without a second thought.

As we walked into the village, we saw Akha women dressed in their traditional clothing—dark cloaks, embroidered with colorful beads, and silver necklaces that shimmered in the gray mountain light. Their headdresses were crowned with tassels, coins, and bells, each piece telling a story of ancestry and status.

Still, we had arrived. After hours of climbing, sweating, slipping, and swatting at insects, we were finally in an Akha hill tribe village, perched deep in the mountains and seemingly untouched by modern Laos.

Ban Paicho Village

Ban Paicho Village

Ban Paicho Village pigs

Ban Paicho Village animal effluent stream

Ban Paicho Village

Two Villages, Three Days

Ban Paicho to Ban Peryenxangkao – Life Along the Mountain Ridge

Over the course of our three-day trek, we would spend the nights in two different Akha villages. Our first night was in Ban Paicho, a remote and tightly knit community high in the mist-covered hills. But the following morning, after breakfast and farewells, we continued deeper into the mountains toward our second overnight stop: Ban Peryenxangkao.

To reach it, we hiked for about four hours, following a trail that traced the edge of a mountain ridge with sweeping views over layered valleys and distant forest-covered slopes. The terrain was a little more forgiving than the day before—less vertical, but still rugged and unpredictable.

For a portion of the hike, we followed a narrow and deeply rutted 4WD track, barely wide enough for a single vehicle. According to Nam, it was mostly used by motorbikes—locals navigating the hills to transport goods or visit relatives in nearby villages. But the further we went, the trail thinned into paths only passable on foot, weaving through forested slopes, small crop clearings, and overgrown ridgelines.

Nam led the way with his usual confident stride, occasionally pointing out wild fruits, edible leaves, and signs of past cultivation—old terraces overtaken by weeds or huts slowly collapsing into the earth.

We didn’t pass another soul on the trail. It felt like walking through a forgotten world, on footpaths that had connected the Akha people for generations—long before maps, tourists, or modern roads arrived.

Ban Peryenxangkao Village

The Shaman and the Spirit World

Animism, Ritual Healing, and the Mystical Beliefs of the Akha

The Akha people are among the few remaining tribal groups in Southeast Asia who still practice animism in its purest form. Unlike many other hill tribes that have adopted Buddhism or Christianity—often due to missionary influence or government pressure—the Akha continue to follow their traditional shamanistic belief system, untouched by outside religion as far as I could tell.

It was something that truly set them apart. In today’s globalized world, seeing a community completely devoted to their ancestral spiritual practices is rare and profound.

The Village Shaman

In most villages, there’s a shaman—usually an older man—who serves as a healer, spiritual guide, and protector of the community. Nam explained that the shaman’s role is multifaceted. He may:

• Prescribe herbal or natural medicine made from plants found in the surrounding forest

• Perform rituals to summon spirits, especially for healing or protection

• Break curses or place charms to ward off bad energy

• Maintain spiritual balance within the village

The shaman is typically the first person people go to when someone is sick. Only if traditional remedies fail do villagers travel to the city for medical care.

Superstitions and Curses

The Akha hold many deep-rooted superstitions, especially concerning curses, bad luck, and maintaining a spiritual balance between good and evil forces. According to Nam, certain actions—particularly those that harm children or disrespect spiritual taboos—can disrupt this balance and lead to misfortune.

This may also help explain why so many Akha women refused to be photographed. While part of it may be modesty or cultural discomfort, it’s also tied to the belief that a photo can capture a piece of a person’s spirit, especially that of a child, leaving them spiritually vulnerable.

Language Barriers and Cultural Gaps

One of the challenges we faced in learning more about their beliefs was the language barrier. The Akha speak their own language, which is distinct from Lao. Nam could only communicate with them in Lao, and even then, not all Akha villagers spoke it fluently.

Many times, when we asked about a ritual or object, Nam would answer:

“I’m not sure… maybe it means protection. But I don’t know exactly.”

He admitted that some questions were hard to translate or felt inappropriate to ask directly, especially when they touched on sensitive spiritual matters.

Nam’s Own Superstitions

Nam, though from another tribal group, shared many similar beliefs. He laughed about how he once drank homemade whiskey from a bottle with a venomous centipede inside. When I asked him about it, he explained:

“My friend told me it will protect me from curses and make me strong.”

Akha woman and her child with headress and silver necklace

Akha woman feeding her pigs

Akha woman and her child with headress and silver necklace

The Camera and the Akha

Respecting Boundaries in a Photo-Hesitant Culture

Throughout our entire time in hill tribe country, one thing became immediately clear: the Akha women did not want to be photographed. Not just politely hesitant—completely averse.

Knowing this, I made a conscious decision not to even try taking photos of them upon arrival. I didn’t want to be that tourist—the kind who barges into a village, camera clicking, ignoring the discomfort of the people living there. So I waited, hoping that after spending some time with them—sharing a few laughs or exchanging stories about their children—they might warm up to the idea.

But even after we began to break the ice and have genuine conversations, the answer remained the same: no photos.

A Lens Too Large

Part of the problem, I realized, was likely my camera itself. I had brought a large SLR with a massive telephoto lens, and to the Akha women, it must have looked intrusive—like pointing a weapon in their faces. It was simply too much. So I switched to my smartphone, hoping its smaller, more casual presence would help.

Even then, they gently but firmly refused.

Nam, our guide, later explained that among the Akha, women are the custodians of tradition and culture. They tend to be more superstitious than the men, especially when it comes to things like photography.

“They believe the photo can capture part of their spirit,” Nam told us.
“So they don’t want that taken from them.”

No Performative Tourism Here

In many tribal communities I’ve visited over the years, there’s often a transaction—someone agrees to a photo in exchange for a few dollars, or to promote the sale of a handmade item. I expected I might encounter something similar here. But that never happened.

Not once did any woman ask for money in exchange for a photo. In fact, only one woman agreed to be photographed at all during our entire three-day trek—and that was only after we bought some handwoven bracelets from her. Even then, she refused my large camera, allowing only a quick photo with my phone. And even some of the children shied away from the lens, running off or ducking behind their mothers whenever the camera appeared.

A Choice of Respect

In the end, I made a firm decision: as guests in their villages, we had a responsibility to respect their wishes, whether we fully understood them or not. I only took photos when I could do so from a distance, using a zoom lens, or when I was completely concealed and confident it wouldn’t offend anyone.

As a traveler, I wanted to document these moments, to preserve a culture so distinct and rare. But more than that, I wanted to leave a good impression, to walk through their world as an observer, not an intruder.

And that meant sometimes, the camera stayed in the bag.

An Akha woman posing with me for a photo

A Flashlight on Her Headdress

One small detail that stuck with me was seeing an Akha woman with a flashlight strapped to her traditional headdress—a modern tool cleverly adapted into an ancient cultural outfit. At first glance, it seemed out of place, but it made perfect sense.

Inside the homes, even during the daytime, the interiors were dimly lit or nearly dark. Most of the bamboo and wooden houses have no windows, and very little natural light seeps through the cracks in the walls. At night, a few homes had solar-powered light bulbs, but they gave off such a weak, yellowish glow that they barely illuminated more than a few feet.

In this kind of setting, a flashlight becomes essential—not just a convenience but a necessity to navigate through the home, cook meals, or find something in the shadows. Seeing it woven into a woman’s headdress, right next to colorful beads and silver ornaments, was a striking symbol of how modern life merges quietly with tradition in these remote villages.

Akha woman wearing a Flashlight on her headress

Stitches of Identity: Akha Women’s Traditional Craft

Master Sewing, Cultural Pride, and Daily Realities

While staying in the Akha villages, I was struck by the incredible craftsmanship of the women. In one home, I watched an older woman weaving colorful fabric by hand in the back room, quietly focused and skilled—her fingers moving quickly and with practiced precision. Akha women are truly master sewers, and their traditional clothing reflects not just talent, but deep cultural pride.

They create their own:

• Dark cloaks and traditional garments, carefully hand-stitched

• Embroidered headdresses, adorned with silver coins, beads, and decorations

• Necklaces made from intricate patterns of color and texture

These pieces are not mass-produced or ceremonial—they’re lived in, worn daily, and lovingly maintained.

A Contrast with Everyday Wear

While the Akha women dress in beautiful, traditional garments, the contrast among men and children is striking. Most of the men wore Western-style clothing—tattered T-shirts, old pants, or shorts—often hand-me-downs or items that had clearly been used for years. Children ran through the villages in bare feet, their shirts faded, their clothes torn, playing along the same dirt paths where livestock roamed and defecated—an environment almost certainly rich in parasites.

Still, even in their simple clothing, traces of tradition remained.

Beads, Buttons, and a Beautiful Gesture

The one traditional item I saw many children wear was a kind of headdress—colorful and playful, made of buttons, beads, and cloth patches stitched together like a storybook of their heritage.

One moment especially stayed with me: I had brought along a few small gifts to share, including a packet of decorative buttons. When I gave them to a grandmother, she smiled, took one look at her grandson’s headdress, and immediately sewed a new button beside the others—a blend of old and new, tradition and today.

It was a small gesture, but incredibly touching—a reminder that even the simplest offering can become a part of something meaningful, woven right into the fabric of identity.

Bryce playing with the village kids and presenting them gifts

Loving mother

Beautiful Akha woman

Beautiful Akha woman

Akha women carrying their children on a foggy morning

Fueling Daily Life with Firewood

One of the most familiar and striking scenes during our trek was seeing Akha women carrying massive loads of firewood, bundled into woven bamboo baskets strapped to their backs. These women, often barefoot or in simple sandals, would emerge from the forest trails, hunched forward under the sheer weight of the branches they had gathered.

All cooking in Akha homes is done over open wood fires, and in every home we visited, firewood was the only source of fuel I saw. There were no gas stoves, no charcoal burners—just smoke-blackened hearths at the center of each home, often glowing with embers throughout the day.

Because of this, collecting firewood is a daily ritual, and it’s mostly the women who shoulder the task. They hike into the surrounding forest, often for miles, and return to the village hauling enormous piles of wood, their silhouettes etched against the misty hills.

It was a reminder that in these remote communities, every meal begins with a physical journey—a connection to the forest that sustains not only their traditions, but their everyday survival.

Akha woman carrying bundle of firewood

Playful Children, Universal Joy

Like in so many tribal villages I’ve visited around the world, the customs, religions, and clothing may vary, but one thing always feels the same: the playful spirit of the children. In every Akha village we stayed in—and even those we passed through—we were greeted by curious, energetic kids, eager to observe us and quick to laugh.

While the Akha women toiled over daily tasks, often hauling water, collecting firewood, or cooking over open flames, they still kept a watchful eye on the children from a distance. But for the most part, the kids had the freedom to run wild, playing barefoot along dirt paths, splashing in streams, and chasing animals through the village. Their world was one of laughter, curiosity, and boundless energy.

We found it easy to break the ice. The moment we started playing with them or handing out small gifts—balloons, buttons, stickers, or pens—their shyness melted into joy. On the advice of our fixer, we had brought these items to offer to our host families, but we ended up sharing them with nearly every child we met. They were grateful, never demanding, and always surprised by these colorful novelties from our faraway home.

In these moments, language barriers didn’t matter. The children became our greatest ambassadors—reminding us that while the world is vast and varied, laughter and play are wonderfully universal.

Baloon volleyball

Grandma and grandchild

In Akha villages, the older children take care of the youngest ones

Kids turn everything into a toy, even a beerlao plastic case. Sadly, this village had no beerlao. 

Village scene

Village scene

The Silver Legacy of Akha Women

French Indochina Coins, Dowries, and Generational Jewelry

One of the most beautiful and historically intriguing aspects of Akha attire is the silver coins worn by women and children—a quiet but powerful symbol of heritage, dowry, and identity.

During our visits to the villages, I noticed that many Akha women wore silver coins woven into their traditional headdresses or dangling from their clothing. These same coins could also be seen around the necks of children, passed down like heirlooms from mother to daughter.

A Dowry Passed Through Generations

Nam explained that these coins were:

• Part of the dowry system, gifted to the woman upon marriage

• Often passed down from generation to generation

• Shared among family members, which is why the same coins might be worn by both women and children in the household

They weren’t decorative trinkets—they were living artifacts, linking the present with a deeper past.

French Indochina’s Hidden Remnants

On closer inspection, I realized the coins were old silver French Indochina currency, once used when Laos was a colony of France in the early to mid-1900s. These coins date back to a time when France ruled much of Southeast Asia, before being forced to abandon the region after losing the war in Vietnam.

What struck me most was how well-preserved and authentic the coins appeared. If genuine, these old silver coins could be worth hundreds of dollars each to collectors—yet here they were, worn proudly as cultural adornment in remote jungle villages, never treated as commodities but as symbols of lineage and pride.

These coins were a small but potent reminder of how history lingers in the details, and how objects of colonial past have taken on entirely new meaning in the hands of the Akha—no longer currency, but culture.

Village kid  with Indochina silver coin necklace

Village scene

Knowing When to Step Back

When visiting cultures and communities different from our own—whether their beliefs are wildly unfamiliar or surprisingly similar—it’s important to remember that while their lives may fascinate us, and we may come to learn, observe, and connect, sometimes the most respectful thing we can do is to step back and stay out of the way.

One such moment occurred during our stay in an Akha village.

My friends and I were returning from a walk through the village when we heard loud chanting and cries of anguish echoing from somewhere nearby. One of my friends hurried to tell me, “The women are crying—something’s happening.” My first thought was that someone had died. But then I wondered if it might be a shamanic ritual, some form of ceremony that we had stumbled upon unknowingly.

Curious, but cautious, I decided to keep a respectful distance. I made sure not to let my camera be seen—the last thing I wanted was to be intrusive or insensitive.

From afar, we witnessed a deeply emotional procession. The entire village—mostly women and children—was following a small truck, the kind designed to handle rough dirt tracks in these hills. Seated quietly on the back of the open truck bed was a young Akha girl, perhaps in her teens.

The villagers chanted what seemed like a ritual prayer, and their voices were intermixed with deep, guttural cries of grief. They walked slowly behind the truck, escorting it out of the village in a solemn, echoing farewell that lasted several minutes, until the truck disappeared down the dirt road and into the forest.

Later, I learned that this was likely a traditional farewell—a ritual sendoff for a young girl who was leaving the village to move far away, perhaps to join another family through marriage. Whether out of cultural duty or emotional bond, the villagers were mourning her departure as if it were a death—not in body, but in presence.

It was one of the most moving, human moments I’ve ever witnessed on the road—a reminder that observation is a privilege, and that true respect sometimes means putting the camera down and simply bearing witness in silence.

A scene of mass mourning when one of the villagers departed to another one

The Village Shower Spectacle

Cold Water, Bamboo Fences, and a Surprising Audience

As strange as it sounds, one of the most memorable highlights of our trek through Akha country wasn’t a mountain vista or cultural ritual—it was the village shower.

Each evening, after hours of trekking through mud, smoke, and sweat, we were offered the chance to freshen up Akha-style: with a bucket shower from a barrel of icy cold stream water, placed just outside the house.

The Ritual of the Rinse

• The setup was simple: a large blue plastic barrel filled with cold water

• A smaller bucket was used to scoop and pour

• The “shower” was in the open—beside the house, with only a low bamboo fence for privacy

We showered one at a time, modestly keeping our shorts on, but removing our shirts to rinse the sweat and grime from the day. It was refreshing—shockingly cold, but satisfying after hiking through the humid jungle.

The Unexpected Audience

What made it unforgettable wasn’t the chill of the water, but the fact that half the village came to watch.

As I stood there rinsing off, I noticed:

• Women, children, and elderly men gathering quietly behind the bamboo fence

• Whispers, giggles, and shy glances as we took turns with the bucket

• A mix of mild curiosity and open amusement—as if our showers were the evening’s entertainment

It was a bizarre moment of unexpected voyeurism. We weren’t offended—just caught off guard. In this remote village, it seemed our foreign bathing habits were just as fascinating as anything we found unusual in their daily lives.

I laughed it off, poured another icy bucket over my head, and tried to act like this was totally normal. Because, in a way, it was.

We were the outsiders. The guests. The spectacle.

And for a few hilarious, chilly minutes, we were part of the village’s nightly routine—bare-chested curiosities beneath the jungle sky.

Village scene

Talismans and Other Good Luck Charms

Spiritual Barriers and Protective Symbols in the Akha World

One of the more fascinating aspects of Akha village life was the presence of talismans and spiritual charms—objects meant to ward off evil, attract good luck, or protect homes from curses and misfortune. These symbols were often subtle, sometimes strange, and always intriguing.

Spirit Gates at the Edge of the Village

At the entrance of every Akha village, we passed under spirit gates—simple wooden structures placed at the outskirts of the community.

• These gates are intended to keep evil spirits out.

• They act as spiritual boundaries, protecting the village and its inhabitants.

• Some are decorated with carvings or symbolic items from nature.

Though understated in appearance, these gates hold deep cultural significance and reflect the Akha’s animistic worldview, where unseen forces constantly interact with daily life.

Household Talismans: Horns, Feathers, and Skulls

Inside many homes, we began noticing small talisman-like objects hung over doors or on walls. Each one seemed intentional, though no two were exactly the same.

Some examples we saw included:

• Goat horns or antelope antlers hung over doorways

• Feathers tied to strings or beams

• A monkey skull placed above an entry point

• Bundles of natural materials hung like charms

Meaning and Mystery

When I asked Nam about these objects, he admitted he didn’t know the full story behind many of them. His best explanation:

“They hang them to protect from bad spirits, curses, or sometimes just for good luck.”

He added with a smile,

“Some of them, they might just like the way they look.”

This ambiguity made the talismans all the more intriguing. For the Akha, the spiritual realm blends seamlessly with the physical, and even the most mundane objects can carry layers of meaning—functional, aesthetic, and mystical all at once.

Monkey skull

Sleeping in Akha Homes

Harsh Conditions, Heartfelt Hospitality

Nam arranged for us to stay with two different Akha families during our three-day trek—one night in each village. He explained that the homes belonged to the village chief in Ban Paicho and the former chief in Ban Peryenxangkao. It was interesting to learn that the Akha elect a new chief every 4–5 years, rotating leadership through a community vote rather than inheritance.

After each stay, we gave a small payment to our host families—modest compensation that likely also helps support the village community as a whole.

No Modifications for Tourists

Unlike homestays in other parts of Southeast Asia, Akha homes remain unaltered—there are no added comforts for foreigners. Even Nam, who grew up in rural Laos, admitted the conditions were extremely rough by Lao standards.

The homes were constructed from aging wood and bamboo, with dirt floors, and no windows to let in light. Interiors were dark, smoky, and dusty, the air thick with the scent of burning wood from the indoor fire used for cooking and warmth.

Inside the Home: A Simple, Shared Space

• The central room was where the family gathered to eat, smoke tobacco from bamboo bongs, and warm themselves by the fire.

• Around the edges, baskets, tools, and stored food were stacked neatly.

• Sleeping areas were raised wooden platforms on the sides, separated only by hanging blankets, where entire extended families slept together—and where we were invited to sleep as well.

• At the back of the home was a small indoor kitchen with an open fire for cooking.

Animals like ducks, dogs, and cats wandered freely inside, often looking for scraps under the low plastic table where we shared meals with our hosts.

No Toilets, No Running Water

One last important detail: there were no toilets or running water in any of the homes we visited. During our stay, I never saw a toilet—people simply went outside into the jungle, wherever they could find privacy.

Water was collected from nearby streams, then boiled over the fire for drinking or tea. Bathing was done either at the stream itself or with water scooped from a bucket set aside for washing.

Off the Grid: No Signal, Minimal Power

Life in Akha country felt completely off the grid. Most of the time, there was no cell phone reception at all, aside from a few patchy spots in the second village.

There was no electricity grid either. Homes were powered by basic solar panels, which provided just enough electricity for:

• A few dim light bulbs at night

• Charging mobile phones, which some villagers used mainly for communication or music

At night, the villages fell into true darkness—no hum of appliances, no neon glow—just flickering firelight and the sound of the forest.

Wes on one of the tiny plastic stools inside the Akha home where we stayed

Family portrait hanging up in the living room 

Welcome

Kitchen

Staying warm in the living room

Dinnertime

A Night on the Boards

Shared Sleep, Snoring Symphonies, and Lessons in House Etiquette

In both Akha homes where we stayed, sleeping arrangements were simple and communal. My friends and I were assigned a single room, separated from the host family by a thin wooden partition—just a few loosely spaced planks that offered little in the way of privacy or soundproofing.

Our hosts generously gave us some dusty old blankets, a few pillows that felt like bricks, and wooden boards as our bed. I had brought a sleeping bag liner and used bundled-up clothes as a makeshift pillow, which turned out to be a wise move.

We all slept side-by-side in a row, like sardines on a hardwood shelf. The challenge wasn’t just the hard surface—it was the symphony of village life all around us.

Sleeping Was… a Challenge

Here’s what made sleeping nearly impossible:

• Snoring from my travel companions on both sides

• The constant crackling of the wood fire

• Thick smoke that drifted through the room

• The occasional quack from ducks wandering inside

• Dogs barking outside

• And what sounded like rodents scurrying suspiciously close to our heads

Trying to reposition for comfort, I thought I might turn around and sleep with my feet pointed toward my friends’ heads—a small attempt to claim a bit of personal space. But the moment I placed my pillow at the foot of the bed, our host mother appeared.

She swept away a patch of dust near our bedding—sending more dust into the air—and quietly, but firmly, kept moving my pillow back to the head of the sleeping area. At first, I thought she was simply trying to help, or tidying up the bed. But her repeated insistence made it clear: this wasn’t just housekeeping—it was house rules.

Bad Luck and Bed Direction

Our guide, Nam, soon stepped in to translate.

“You can’t sleep that way,” he explained. “In Akha tradition, your feet must point toward the living room, and your head toward the wall.”

I asked why, out of curiosity.

Nam shrugged and translated the host mother’s response:

“It’s bad luck to sleep the other way.”

I didn’t need more convincing. I repositioned my bed, faced the wall, and tried to get some sleep to the sound of chickens crowing, men snoring, and the village night pressing in through the thin gaps in the wood.

It wasn’t restful, but it was real—one of those immersive experiences that reminds you you’re far from home, and exactly where you want to be.

Sleeping conditions

Bamboo Bongs and the Daily Ritual

In nearly every hill tribe home we visited—Akha included—giant bamboo bongs were a common sight. The men would sit near the fire, often in silence, taking long pulls of tobacco smoke through these enormous water pipes, the smoke rising into the dim, soot-stained ceilings. It was a ritual as familiar and casual as sharing a cup of tea.

The Golden Triangle’s Lingering Shadow

But tobacco wasn’t the only substance grown or smoked in these mountains.

This part of Laos lies deep within the Golden Triangle—a region historically known for its opium production, criminal smuggling networks, and even for being entangled in the covert wars of the CIA, which, at one time, allegedly financed operations through smuggled opium from this very region.

Today, opium production is officially illegal in Laos. The government has made public efforts to eliminate it, with posters in government offices denouncing drug trafficking and community initiatives targeting crop substitution. But law enforcement in these remote hill tribe regions is minimal, and opium remains a long-standing, culturally ingrained, and economically vital crop.

The Bribe Disguised as a Tax

According to Nam, most of the families we stayed with still grow opium—not necessarily for personal use, but as a reliable source of income in a place where few other economic opportunities exist. He explained that while the government prohibits its cultivation, local police often collect what is essentially a bribe—framed as a “tax”—in exchange for turning a blind eye.

“If you pay, you can grow. If not, they arrest you,” Nam told us.

Some villagers have pushed back against this extortion, but as Nam put it,

“The police just come back with more men. They always get their tax.”

The Discreet Trade and a Missed Season

While it’s no longer common to see people openly smoking opium, the crop is still grown and sold quietly to Chinese traders, who move it across the porous northern border. I asked Nam if we could see any opium fields, but he said we had just missed the harvest by a few months, and that this year was a bad one due to drought.

Opium’s Future in a Changing Climate

In the end, it may not be law enforcement that reduces opium production in Laos, but something else entirely: climate change. As weather patterns shift, rains become less predictable, and harvests less reliable, the future of this controversial crop might wither not under government control, but beneath a changing sky.

Nam smoking tobacco from a bamboo bong

Sinking in the Jungle: A Rough Exit from Akha Country

Overgrown Trails, a Dugout Canoe, and a Camera’s Final Voyage

After days of hiking through remote Akha villages, our final morning began with a challenging jungle trek, led by a local hunter. The trail was rough—tangled with vines, overgrown bamboo, and dense underbrush—but after hours of scrambling through the thick forest, we finally emerged at the river.

Waiting for us on the muddy bank was our ride out: a narrow, motorized dugout canoe, barely wide enough for the five of us and our gear.

Setting Off Downriver

Per the captain’s instructions, we carefully distributed our weight and settled in, sitting low inside the wooden canoe. The plan was to cruise downriver for about 40 minutes, where a vehicle would meet us and drive us back to Phongsaly for one last night before continuing to Luang Prabang the next day.

The jungle was silent, the water calm—until it wasn’t.

A Sudden Emergency on the River

About 10 minutes into the ride, Wes suddenly started yelling and pointing to the floor of the boat.
Water was rushing in.

In a panic, I grabbed a bucket and began scooping water out as fast as I could. I alerted the captain, who immediately killed the motor and began paddling us toward the nearest bank.

We had been:

• Overloaded with passengers and gear

• Traveling too fast for the boat’s low profile

• Taking on water faster than we realized

We were sinking.

A Split-Second Mistake, A Camera’s End

We made it to shore just in time—but in the rush to climb out of the swamped boat, I dropped my camera into the river.

I pulled it out within seconds, but I knew immediately: it was done for. I had foolishly left it outside the waterproof bag I brought for this exact scenario.

The silver lining?

• I salvaged the memory cards—and with them, all my photos

• The camera was ready to be replaced anyway

• I still had my smartphone, which takes surprisingly good shots

A loss, yes, but not a disaster.

Regrouping, Cooling Off, and Heading Home

To safely complete the trip:

• We split into smaller groups

• The captain arranged for another boat to retrieve the rest of our team

• Everyone made it out—wet, sweaty, but smiling

Before jumping into the truck waiting for us, we took a moment to strip down and dive into the river. The water was refreshingly cool, and after such an intense morning, it felt like the perfect farewell swim to Akha country.

From there, we drove back to Phongsaly for one last night in the hills—grateful to be dry, alive, and still in possession of our jungle memories… even if one camera didn’t survive the journey.

The boat that sank

Chasing Waterfalls in the Rain: Kuang Si Waterfalls

A Thunderstorm, a Tight Timeline, and One Perfect Swim in Luang Prabang

After a long, hellish day of travel—winding mountain roads, a high-speed train ride, and enough curves to make anyone nauseous—we finally reached Luang Prabang by late afternoon. We were exhausted, and the skies weren’t helping: rain was falling, thunder rolled through the jungle, and lightning flickered across the horizon.

We were tempted to delay the trip to Kuang Si Waterfalls until morning, but:

• The weather forecast predicted rain again the next day

• We were all leaving Laos by the following afternoon

• Time was running out, and it was now or never

So we made a snap decision: go now—rain or not.

A Quick Plan and an Empty Waterfall

Bryce called a friend in town who quickly arranged a driver to meet us at the train station, bags and all. From there, we set off on a one-hour drive through lush, hilly terrain toward Kuang Si.

To our surprise, when we pulled into the parking area:

• There were no tour buses

• No crowds or selfie sticks

• Just empty walkways and jungle thunder

Most likely, the rain had scared everyone off. But for us, it meant one incredible thing:

We had the entire Kuang Si Waterfalls to ourselves.

Into the Pools of Eden

We wasted no time. Despite the light drizzle and distant rumbles of thunder, we leapt into the first turquoise pool—not realizing there were even more spectacular falls ahead. With each new level, the waterfalls became:

• Bigger

• Wilder

• More secluded

Eventually, we reached the tallest waterfall, rising nearly 100 feet, cascading down a cliff into mist. But what really caught my attention were the hidden pools above it—tucked into the rainforest like a secret garden in the clouds.

Climbing to Heaven

Determined to reach those pools, we found a muddy jungle path and started to climb. At one point, we passed a sign that said, “Entry Not Allowed”—a clear warning. But the temptation of those pools was too great.

We crawled up:

• On hands and knees

• Over twisted roots

• Across slick limestone terraces

Finally, we emerged into the upper pools—crystal-clear travertine basins surrounded by thick rainforest. I slipped into a personal-sized pool, the water cool but soothing, bubbling over the limestone edges like a natural jungle jacuzzi.

A Tourist Trap Turned Private Paradise

I had come expecting a tourist trap, packed with crowds. But somehow, through sheer luck and poor weather, we had stumbled into a version of Kuang Si Waterfalls that few ever get to experience—completely empty, wildly beautiful, and absolutely unforgettable.

We swam and explored until dusk, then returned to our van and were dropped off at our guesthouses, still wet, still buzzing, and grateful for taking the chance.

Kuang Si Waterfalls

Bryce walking along the tallest falls at Kuang Si Waterfalls

Paradise falls, hidden in jungle seclusion above the high falls at  Kuang Si Waterfalls

Luang Prabang: My New Favorite Town in Southeast Asia

Colonial Charm, Riverside Views, and a Thousand Temples

I didn’t expect to be so taken by Luang Prabang, but within just a few hours of arriving, I knew—this was my new favorite town in Southeast Asia. I loved everything about it. From the riverside calm to the golden rooftops of ancient temples, the place just felt timeless and easy to love.

A Five-Star Night in Colonial Elegance

For my night in Luang Prabang, I splurged a bit and booked a room in a 5-star guesthouse—a beautifully restored French colonial hardwood home that overlooked a peaceful bend of the Mekong River. The room oozed old-world charm: dark wooden beams, antique furnishings, and a balcony perfect for sipping tea and watching life float by.

A Laid-Back Town with World-Class Flavor

The town itself was laid-back and walkable, with great food around every corner. From flavorful bowls of Lao noodle soup to baguettes stuffed with grilled pork, French and local flavors blended effortlessly. There was no need to seek out anything—it all seemed to find you, tucked along shady streets, beside temples, or in the bustling night market.

Temples, Monks, and Morning Rituals

What truly sets Luang Prabang apart is its spiritual depth. The town is home to hundreds of stunning Buddhist temples, many centuries old, each glowing with saffron robes, carved details, and chanting voices.

In the early morning, the streets transform as monks in orange robes quietly walk in single file, collecting alms from local residents in an ancient, meditative ritual. It’s one of the most peaceful and moving sights I’ve seen anywhere in my travels.

Mekong River

The Giving of Alms in Luang Prabang

A Sacred Morning Ritual at the Crossroads of Faith and Tourism

For hundreds of years, Buddhist monks in Luang Prabang have quietly left their monasteries at dawn to collect their daily food rations—a ritual known as the giving of alms. It’s a profound act of humility and spiritual connection, and one of the most deeply rooted traditions in Laos.

A Procession of Silence and Grace

Each morning at around 5:30 AM, the streets of Luang Prabang begin to stir—not with traffic or noise, but with the soft shuffle of bare feet and the rustling of robes. Monks, wrapped in flowing saffron-orange, walk in silent procession, carrying bowls to receive small offerings of sticky rice and wrapped snacks from local devotees kneeling along the sidewalk.

The food they receive is their sustenance for the entire day. Some monks, in turn, pass along portions to poor children waiting quietly at the edge of the street—a quiet act of compassion and redistribution that’s rarely noticed but deeply meaningful.

Tourism and the Sacred Line

Today, this ancient ritual has become one of Luang Prabang’s biggest tourist attractions. While the tradition itself remains authentic, its popularity has drawn mixed reactions:

• Many tourists participate respectfully, sitting quietly and offering food with sincerity

• Others treat the event like a photo-op, dressing in local clothing, posing for selfies, or getting too close to the monks

To preserve the sanctity of the ritual, roped-off areas and guards have now been introduced along the monk routes. These guards ensure that tourists do not interfere or disrupt the procession, and that the line between observation and intrusion is respected.

A Lesson in Presence and Respect

Witnessing the alms-giving ceremony was beautiful and humbling, but it also served as a reminder: some traditions are not meant to be spectacles. They’re meant to be witnessed quietly, with reverence—a window into another way of life, where faith, community, and simplicity still lead the way.

Me giving alms

A Buddhist temple in Lunag Prabang

A Buddhist temple in Lunag Prabang

A Buddhist temple in Lunag Prabang

French architecture

French chateau

Departing Laos: Onward to Chiang Mai

From Luang Prabang, I said goodbye to my friends Bryce and Bryan and boarded a direct flight on Lao Airlines to Chiang Mai, Thailand, where I would reconnect with my friend Sterling for the final leg of the journey.