A pilgrimage contains the moment when the sacred is met. The moment might not we what was expected. Indeed it usually not. But in hindsight all the time before is understood as travelling towards it, all the time after as a savouring and a returning. That moment for me was the baci, the traditional Laotian welcoming ceremony, given by the villagers on a Mekong island.

We visitors, my daughter Holly 26 years, her mother, Vi, Holly's age mate from Canberra, Anna, and I were seated on the floor in front of a metre high floral arrangement.

But it was a floral arrangement of few flowers. Most of it was composed of sculptured banana leaves standing in a bed of rice and slivers of bamboo each fringed by many ties of white string. I had seen a group of women work all morning to make it.

Over 50 people were crowded into the room and radio mike was broadcasting to the crowd downstairs who couldn't fit. There were family groups of women and men, young and old, and a few children too. All were dressed in there best, smiling and chatting happily as the lay elder recited the Pali prayers.

When the prayers were finished there was a surge forward and we guests were showered with rice and water. The girls in particular were drenched. Their beauty, self-confidence, grace and white skin had besotted islanders, young women and the young men alike. They were dressed in traditional phaa nung (a long straight skirt like a sarong), tight fitting blouse and a shoulder sash of silk, hair piled up, necks bare.

I too was besotted for they were princesses in my sight and in their light Vi and I had become royalty. Vi too wore a phaa nung and make up, a queen in bearing and dignity.

With the water throwing, laughter was all about. Then there was a rush, a free for all of people crowding forward to take hold of our wrists and give individual blessing and it was happening to all us at once. The young men rushed to be first to the girls.

My friend, age mate and former elected village chief, Phorlu, was first to take my hand. With a string from the floral arrangement he stroked my inner wrist while he said a prayer for a long friendship. Smiling into my eyes he tied the string to my wrist. Then the present village chief took my hand and then a succession of men and women, most of whom were total strangers to me.

Something about giving over upturned wrists to strangers embodies surrender. And then in that state of grace, to receive a blessing and a tie of friendship Š haaaa, tears of joy. Here was a pure moment, an exultation of friendship. Here was Rumi's wine.

If the girls were rushed to be honoured by the young, Vi and I had the eager attention of the elders. Strangers with kindness in their eyes and a torrent of goodwill in their hearts held our hands. The laughter and clamour of friendship went on till there were no more strings. Phorlu wanted me to bless and tie his wrists and together we scrambled for the last of the ties.

Our wrists were wadded with the white ties of friendship. The girls had the added honour of having bank notes tied to their arms and around their necks.

My Laotian travels had been taken embraced as a search for the sacred, and here was the Buddha field, here the Buddha moment.

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