AT VIENTIANE airport it took 90 minutes and four officials to process my Laos visa; one took my passport, another stamped it, a third took 30 dollars, the fourth kept an eye on the others. Only then came passport control and customs.

But any fears that this was a hard-line communist country were soon dispelled. At a gentle 20mph on our drive into town I noted the Scandinavian Bakery, Gourmet Mediterranean Delicatessen, and countless other examples of private enterprise. “The French call our brand of communism comme çi, comme ça,” said our guide.

My hotel, the pleasant Settha Palace, had been renovated to its former French colonial splendour — old engravings, shady pool — plus a TV that showed more English football matches than in the UK.

Religion was doing good business, too, as we set off with Mr Nou, our guide for our first city tour. I was glad I’d brought flip-flops and airline socks, as you must take your shoes off every time you enter a temple or house.

Wat Si Muang, our fourth temple of the afternoon and the country’s most popular, was buzzing. The congregation of mostly women and children were chanting, offering fruit and incense, and a little group of Westerners wearing shorts and T-shirts were learning the rituals from a Lao guide.

“We are Danish,” one of the shaven-headed youths whispered. “We think there are many good things about Buddhism, so we come here often.” Strangely his group, girls included, were wearing shorts and sleeveless T-shirts, strictly, as I believed, against religious tradition. “We wouldn’t do that, but OK for Westerners,” says the tolerant Mr Nou.

Vientiane, the capital, is very laid-back and low-rise, with everyone seemingly tucked up in bed by 11pm. I wandered the streets without fear or hassle, spending evenings at a waterfront café, watching wildfowl flying home to roost, fishermen casting their nets like a scene from a Chinese watercolour painting.

On my last morning there I was brought to earth with a bump. Mr Rattanavong, vice-chairman of the tourist organisation and a former Ambassador to Washington, told me that a 14-storey hotel was due to open this year, by my calculations plumb in the middle of my idyllic landscape. It was time to move on — to Luang Prabang, the former capital and now a Unesco World Heritage Site which despite suffering the ravages of war and revolution has reinvented itself as a must-see on every traveller’s wish-list. A blaze of bougainvillea greeted us at the airport, and as we drove off a water buffalo and its calf ambled across our path. “Rush hour is when the kids go home from school on their bikes,” said our new mentor, Mr Bounsavat.

Alas, my itinerary allowed less than 36 hours, and it was tempting to spend some of those by the pool of the uppercrust Pansea Phou Vao hotel. But with gold dust in my eyes, I set out to explore this surprisingly small town — there are still 30 temples, many clustered like exotic jewels along the main street. If you’ve time for only one, make it Wat Xieng Thong overlooking the river, representing classic Luang Prabang architecture with its roofs sweeping low to the ground — the locals call it their “chicken-wing temple”.

Action Luang Prabang-style means chilling out in the main street bars with a beer or wine for 25p, watching saffron-robed monks and schoolchildren mingle with backpackers.

There was an astonishing choice of restaurants of all nationalities. At dusk a queue of tuk-tuks arrived with earsplitting roars, and village women spread their wares on the road for the evening market — not tourist tat but beautiful hand-made toys, cushions, bedspreads and paper lanterns.

We said our au revoirs to Luang Prabang for our journey north to a Unesco ecotourism project being pioneered on the borders of China and Burma. It was a hot and tiring eight-hour minibus drive that plunged into shaggy mountainous jungle. We pulled off the track to visit a tribal village of palm and bamboo belonging to the Lenten people — identifiable by their baggy indigo clothing, and women who depilate their eyebrows and wear large coins in their hair.

“Sabaai, hello,” the children rushed up, welcoming and inquisitive. The village elder invited us into his longhouse which he shares with his wife, married daughters and grandchildren — 14 in all.

“The government put in solar energy, but it doesn’t work in the rainy season when we need it,” he shrugged. In the dark longhouse, sweetcorn hung from the ceiling, rice sacks were stashed in the corner, and black pigs and children roamed in and out, one of them in an Eminem T-shirt.

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