Once caught in the crossfire of America’s “secret war,” Laos and Cambodia have carried the imprint of generational trauma alongside indomitable beauty and strength.
By Pilar GuzmánPublished: Jun 18, 2026 2:59 PM EDT
“Remember not to make eye contact,” said the night watchman as I knelt nervously outside the front gate of my hotel, a basket filled with sticky rice at my knees. At 5:30 a.m. on my first morning in Luang Prabang, I was getting ready to participate in the daily ritual of Tak Bat, or morning alms, in which hundreds of barefoot monks—some as young as 7—walk in saffron-colored robes from their local temples through the main streets to receive food offerings from locals and, in this case, tourists. I was wary of a certain kind of “cultural immersion” that can verge on commodification—or worse, appropriation—especially in a ceremonial context. But with guidance from the staff at Amantaka, I felt appropriately invisible. As instructed, with a shawl draped over my shoulder and my gaze turned downward, I emptied the basket one handful of rice at a time until the end of the procession.
This quiet ritual was my introduction both to Luang Prabang, the spiritual capital of northern Laos, located near the confluence of the Mekong and Nam Khan Rivers, and to this unlikely 24-room hotel. Occupying a former French colonial hospital just south of the city’s sacred Mount Phousi, the Amantaka lovingly and meticulously reimagines the original 1923 structure as a peaceful garden sanctuary. Like so many buildings in this jewel of a town, the hotel’s design deftly commingles Buddhist mysticism and European charm: White stucco structures with green shutters and casement windows give way to spare guest rooms that blend colonial French details with Laotian teak and rattan furnishings. There is a graceful continuity between property and place; located within walking distance of the night market, restaurants, and the Mekong River, the hotel, with its lush gardens and gracious pool and dining patio, is both an extension of and a retreat from the surrounding activity.
With limited time in this city, we stuck mostly to the UNESCO-protected old quarter—a cultural haven of 33 gilded Buddhist temple-monasteries, museums, and open-air cafés and restaurants, and called on the travel experts at Abercrombie & Kent to help distill the highlights. First up, the Royal Palace Museum, which was built along the Mekong in 1904 by the French for King Sisavang Vong, in a style blending French Beaux-Arts and traditional Lao. Serving as the royal residence until 1975, when the monarchy was overthrown, and converted into a national museum in 1995, the palace counts an impressive 14th-century gold, silver, and bronze Buddha statue called the Phrabang (after which the city itself was named) among its national treasures. In addition to all manner of crown jewels, the museum showcases the royal family’s perfectly preserved living quarters, vintage car collection, and assorted gifts from foreign countries, including a piece of moon rock from the U.S.
A woman fetches water near boats moored on the banks of the Mekong River.
Next, for a glimpse into precolonial life and architecture, we made our way to the Heuan Chan Heritage House—a fully outfitted 20th-century wooden house on tree-trunk stilts, hidden among the temples—then walked to one of the country’s oldest and most famous monasteries, Wat Xieng Thong, which was built in the 16th century by King Setthathirath. Temple of the Golden City, as its name appropriately translates, is well known for its dramatic cascading rooflines that almost touch the ground and its lavish gold stenciling recounting tales from Buddhist cosmology. On the back exterior wall of the ordination hall is the showstopping Tree of Life glass mosaic, a symbol of the interconnection of all life and a path to enlightenment through Buddhism. After visiting Wat Wisunarat, an even older traditional Lao-style temple, characterized by a rounded stupa, and then Wat Sensoukharam, one of Luang Prabang’s largest monasteries, notable for its prayer halls festooned in intricate gold leaf stenciling, we ended the day on a peaceful Mekong cruise, watching the sun set behind the forested mountains.
It was hard to imagine, while gliding along the river and sipping cocktails, that this serene and politically neutral country is, per capita, the most bombed country in history—some 580,000 U.S. missions, the equivalent of a planeload of bombs dropped every eight minutes, 24 hours a day, every day, from 1964 to 1973. Starting during the 1950s and into the Vietnam conflict, Laos’s proximity to communist China positioned it as a probable pawn in Eisenhower’s domino theory, a bulwark against the spread of communism. As America’s “Secret War” escalated during the Kennedy and Johnson administrations, bombing disrupted communist supply chains on the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
Harder still to imagine was that the last time I was in this part of the world, it was 1996. I was 26 years old on a $40-a-day stipend and had what, for me, was the dream assignment: to write the first Fodor’s guide to Vietnam. About halfway through my three-plus months there, I took a brief side trip to Cambodia. It had been only two years since Vietnam had opened up tourism to Westerners, and, much like Cuba before, its infrastructure was encased in amber. Cambodia, still dogged by the presence, however diminished, of the Khmer Rouge, saw precious few tourists due to the presence of land mines scattered throughout the countryside, where many of its most famous temples were. Though my journalist’s visa permitted me to leave and reenter Vietnam, a lanky border agent with a downy mustache stopped me at the Da Nang airport. I made out through his pantomime and my broken French that my visa didn’t grant me reentry access. The agent rubbed thumb, index, and middle fingers together in the international gesture for bribe extraction. He proceeded to rip my visa out of my passport, but then got distracted by a colleague. In my youthful bravado, I snatched both passport and visa from his desk while he stepped away, then ran to the gate where my flight to Phnom Penh was taking off.
Next, for a glimpse into precolonial life and architecture, we made our way to the Heuan Chan Heritage House—a fully outfitted 20th-century wooden house on tree-trunk stilts, hidden among the temples—then walked to one of the country’s oldest and most famous monasteries, Wat Xieng Thong, which was built in the 16th century by King Setthathirath. Temple of the Golden City, as its name appropriately translates, is well known for its dramatic cascading rooflines that almost touch the ground and its lavish gold stenciling recounting tales from Buddhist cosmology. On the back exterior wall of the ordination hall is the showstopping Tree of Life glass mosaic, a symbol of the interconnection of all life and a path to enlightenment through Buddhism. After visiting Wat Wisunarat, an even older traditional Lao-style temple, characterized by a rounded stupa, and then Wat Sensoukharam, one of Luang Prabang’s largest monasteries, notable for its prayer halls festooned in intricate gold leaf stenciling, we ended the day on a peaceful Mekong cruise, watching the sun set behind the forested mountains.
It was hard to imagine, while gliding along the river and sipping cocktails, that this serene and politically neutral country is, per capita, the most bombed country in history—some 580,000 U.S. missions, the equivalent of a planeload of bombs dropped every eight minutes, 24 hours a day, every day, from 1964 to 1973. Starting during the 1950s and into the Vietnam conflict, Laos’s proximity to communist China positioned it as a probable pawn in Eisenhower’s domino theory, a bulwark against the spread of communism. As America’s “Secret War” escalated during the Kennedy and Johnson administrations, bombing disrupted communist supply chains on the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
Harder still to imagine was that the last time I was in this part of the world, it was 1996. I was 26 years old on a $40-a-day stipend and had what, for me, was the dream assignment: to write the first Fodor’s guide to Vietnam. About halfway through my three-plus months there, I took a brief side trip to Cambodia. It had been only two years since Vietnam had opened up tourism to Westerners, and, much like Cuba before, its infrastructure was encased in amber. Cambodia, still dogged by the presence, however diminished, of the Khmer Rouge, saw precious few tourists due to the presence of land mines scattered throughout the countryside, where many of its most famous temples were. Though my journalist’s visa permitted me to leave and reenter Vietnam, a lanky border agent with a downy mustache stopped me at the Da Nang airport. I made out through his pantomime and my broken French that my visa didn’t grant me reentry access. The agent rubbed thumb, index, and middle fingers together in the international gesture for bribe extraction. He proceeded to rip my visa out of my passport, but then got distracted by a colleague. In my youthful bravado, I snatched both passport and visa from his desk while he stepped away, then ran to the gate where my flight to Phnom Penh was taking off.
Per-Andre Hoffmann/Picture Press/Redux
Monks at Ta Prohm, a temple in Angkor Archaeological Park that has been overtaken by the jungle.
Courtesy of Aman
Morning alms are offered to Theravada Buddhist monks.
Morning alms are offered to Theravada Buddhist monks.
Elegant white building with brown roof, reflecting pool, surrounded by greenery and outdoor seating area in warm sunlight.
courtesy of AMAN
It’s hard to describe what Cambodia felt like in those days. The pall of “the Killing Fields”—the catchall phrase used to describe the unthinkable period of genocide that took place in some 300 rural sites where the Khmer Rouge regime executed and buried an estimated 2.5 million people between 1975 and 1979—was still heavy. I was only in Phnom Penh for a day, but the countless black-and-white prisoner portraits and piles of confiscated eyeglasses in the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum (the memorial site of the regime’s “Security Prison 21” interrogation and detention center, where, of an estimated 17,000 prisoners, only 12 were known to have survived) have haunted me to this day. From there, I flew to Siem Reap, where a taxi took me and two other young backpackers to a single-story, government-run cinder block hostel where we slept and ate. Warnings of undetonated bombs in the area restricted our movements to the hotel and, the next morning, to the single dirt road that led to the town’s famed temples via that very same taxi.
Thirty years later, that arterial road leading to the center of town is freshly paved and looks more like the Vegas Strip. Siem Reap, now a major tourist hub, buzzes with tuk-tuks, motorbikes, tour buses, cafés, restaurants, and five-star hotels. Pulling just off the main drag into Amansara, a former royal guesthouse built in 1962 for King Norodom Sihanouk by French architect Laurent Mondet, is like stepping back in time. Villa Princière, as it was originally named, was built before the rise of Pol Pot, at the height of Cambodia’s brief “golden age” when the country saw a surge of growth and creativity. It served as guest quarters for foreign heads of state, dignitaries, and celebrities, including French president Charles de Gaulle, Jacqueline Kennedy, and actor Peter O’Toole. In 2003, Aman acquired it and restored it to its former glory and then some.
Today, the low-slung midcentury oasis, with long exterior corridors opening onto leafy courtyards, lives up to its name, which translates to “heavenly peace.” Following a recent renovation, each of the 24 open-plan guest suites, which start at a generous 811 square feet, flows from bedroom to living area to bathroom; beyond a freestanding soaking tub, floor-to-ceiling glass doors frame a personal patio, some with plunge pools. The minimalist design of muted palette and terrazzo floors is tempered by the warmth of ebonized millwork. Details like the sandstone relief over the built-in loungers that point toward Angkor Wat never let you forget where you are. The compound coalesces around a swanky pool and outdoor dining area and tree-canopied interior gardens.
I was so excited to see Angkor Wat again the next day that I could barely sleep and was, simultaneously, a little worried it would be overrun with tourists and pale in comparison to my memory. My guide, Koy Vy, a passionate and deeply knowledgeable historian, picked me up at 4 a.m. On the car ride, as our conversation moved from mysteries of the temple’s swift 30-ish-year construction to the rise of Pol Pot and the long tale of terror to living through COVID, I was reminded of the incomprehensible optimism, generosity, and resilience of the Cambodian people that had struck me all those years ago. Like every other local I spoke to, Mr. Vy, 54, had suffered numerous devastating losses, including the death of a brother. He pointed to the Raffles Siem Reap, a 1930s art deco hotel, which had been his wife’s family’s private residence before her father, a high-ranking prerevolutionary officer, was executed by the Khmer Rouge. The echoes of all that was lost were everywhere for him and anyone else who made it out alive.
As we entered the temple park in the dark, first by tuk-tuk and then on foot via the quieter east entrance, I asked if even this, the largest religious monument in the world, ever lost its magic for him. “Never,” he said, with one hand on his heart. Commissioned in the 12th century by King Suryavarman II and dedicated to the Hindu god Vishnu as a centerpiece of the Khmer Empire, Angkor Wat served at the time not just as a monument but as a sprawling urban center, complete with a vast complex of spires, a moat, frescoes, cloisters, balustrades, and a sophisticated water-management system. Renowned for its nearly 13,000 square feet of highly detailed bas-relief depicting Hindu myths and stories of the Khmer Empire, the massive sandstone temple complex was largely abandoned by the 15th century, until the French reportedly rediscovered it in the 19th century. Against the pink sky of dawn, the temple’s towers were five silhouettes casting reflections in the northern lotus pond. As I took them in, I caught Mr. Vy with his hands in a prayer position bowing toward the rising sun. Miraculously, there was only a handful of other visitors.
We took a short ride to the equally impressive Ta Prohm, the 12th-century Mahayana Buddhist monastery built by King Jayavarman VII in honor of his mother—a site made even more famous for its appearance in the movie Lara Croft: Tomb Raider. Overgrown with lichen, creeping plants, and the jungle’s muscular root system, this mortarless ruin of crumbling towers and walls has become an enduring symbol of nature’s triumph over humanity.
courtesy of AMAN
It’s hard to describe what Cambodia felt like in those days. The pall of “the Killing Fields”—the catchall phrase used to describe the unthinkable period of genocide that took place in some 300 rural sites where the Khmer Rouge regime executed and buried an estimated 2.5 million people between 1975 and 1979—was still heavy. I was only in Phnom Penh for a day, but the countless black-and-white prisoner portraits and piles of confiscated eyeglasses in the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum (the memorial site of the regime’s “Security Prison 21” interrogation and detention center, where, of an estimated 17,000 prisoners, only 12 were known to have survived) have haunted me to this day. From there, I flew to Siem Reap, where a taxi took me and two other young backpackers to a single-story, government-run cinder block hostel where we slept and ate. Warnings of undetonated bombs in the area restricted our movements to the hotel and, the next morning, to the single dirt road that led to the town’s famed temples via that very same taxi.
Thirty years later, that arterial road leading to the center of town is freshly paved and looks more like the Vegas Strip. Siem Reap, now a major tourist hub, buzzes with tuk-tuks, motorbikes, tour buses, cafés, restaurants, and five-star hotels. Pulling just off the main drag into Amansara, a former royal guesthouse built in 1962 for King Norodom Sihanouk by French architect Laurent Mondet, is like stepping back in time. Villa Princière, as it was originally named, was built before the rise of Pol Pot, at the height of Cambodia’s brief “golden age” when the country saw a surge of growth and creativity. It served as guest quarters for foreign heads of state, dignitaries, and celebrities, including French president Charles de Gaulle, Jacqueline Kennedy, and actor Peter O’Toole. In 2003, Aman acquired it and restored it to its former glory and then some.
This mortarless ruin of crumbling towers and walls is an enduring symbol of nature’s triumph over humanity.
Today, the low-slung midcentury oasis, with long exterior corridors opening onto leafy courtyards, lives up to its name, which translates to “heavenly peace.” Following a recent renovation, each of the 24 open-plan guest suites, which start at a generous 811 square feet, flows from bedroom to living area to bathroom; beyond a freestanding soaking tub, floor-to-ceiling glass doors frame a personal patio, some with plunge pools. The minimalist design of muted palette and terrazzo floors is tempered by the warmth of ebonized millwork. Details like the sandstone relief over the built-in loungers that point toward Angkor Wat never let you forget where you are. The compound coalesces around a swanky pool and outdoor dining area and tree-canopied interior gardens.
I was so excited to see Angkor Wat again the next day that I could barely sleep and was, simultaneously, a little worried it would be overrun with tourists and pale in comparison to my memory. My guide, Koy Vy, a passionate and deeply knowledgeable historian, picked me up at 4 a.m. On the car ride, as our conversation moved from mysteries of the temple’s swift 30-ish-year construction to the rise of Pol Pot and the long tale of terror to living through COVID, I was reminded of the incomprehensible optimism, generosity, and resilience of the Cambodian people that had struck me all those years ago. Like every other local I spoke to, Mr. Vy, 54, had suffered numerous devastating losses, including the death of a brother. He pointed to the Raffles Siem Reap, a 1930s art deco hotel, which had been his wife’s family’s private residence before her father, a high-ranking prerevolutionary officer, was executed by the Khmer Rouge. The echoes of all that was lost were everywhere for him and anyone else who made it out alive.
As we entered the temple park in the dark, first by tuk-tuk and then on foot via the quieter east entrance, I asked if even this, the largest religious monument in the world, ever lost its magic for him. “Never,” he said, with one hand on his heart. Commissioned in the 12th century by King Suryavarman II and dedicated to the Hindu god Vishnu as a centerpiece of the Khmer Empire, Angkor Wat served at the time not just as a monument but as a sprawling urban center, complete with a vast complex of spires, a moat, frescoes, cloisters, balustrades, and a sophisticated water-management system. Renowned for its nearly 13,000 square feet of highly detailed bas-relief depicting Hindu myths and stories of the Khmer Empire, the massive sandstone temple complex was largely abandoned by the 15th century, until the French reportedly rediscovered it in the 19th century. Against the pink sky of dawn, the temple’s towers were five silhouettes casting reflections in the northern lotus pond. As I took them in, I caught Mr. Vy with his hands in a prayer position bowing toward the rising sun. Miraculously, there was only a handful of other visitors.
We took a short ride to the equally impressive Ta Prohm, the 12th-century Mahayana Buddhist monastery built by King Jayavarman VII in honor of his mother—a site made even more famous for its appearance in the movie Lara Croft: Tomb Raider. Overgrown with lichen, creeping plants, and the jungle’s muscular root system, this mortarless ruin of crumbling towers and walls has become an enduring symbol of nature’s triumph over humanity.
Two monks in orange robes sit inside an ornately carved stone temple.
Giovanni Simeone/Estock Photo
Two monks at Banteay Srei, a Hindu temple primarily dedicated to the god Shiva.
Giovanni Simeone/Estock Photo
Two monks at Banteay Srei, a Hindu temple primarily dedicated to the god Shiva.
The next day I was blessed by a monk at a local monastery and visited Satcha Handicraft Center, Cambodia’s first incubator for local artisans. I ended the day with a boat ride down the Mekong River to see the vast wetlands and colorful (if problematic) floating villages of Tonlé Sap, Southeast Asia’s largest freshwater lake. With nearly 150 species of fish, 10 species of turtles, and 225 species of birds, the area is a designated UNESCO Biosphere Reserve. In order to protect it, the Cambodian government will soon relocate the largely ethnic Vietnamese communities who have lived in floating homes and thrived here for generations.
We will see what happens as this population moves inland. But as I watched the highly adaptive community in action—multigenerational families preparing fresh-caught fish, handmade noodles, and vegetables, all sitting down together to a midday meal—it seemed to me that they’ll have everything they need.
Pilar Guzmán is the Editorial Director of Oprah Daily and O, The Oprah Magazine.
We will see what happens as this population moves inland. But as I watched the highly adaptive community in action—multigenerational families preparing fresh-caught fish, handmade noodles, and vegetables, all sitting down together to a midday meal—it seemed to me that they’ll have everything they need.
Pilar Guzmán is the Editorial Director of Oprah Daily and O, The Oprah Magazine.
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