Spirits, both friendly and fierce, thread their way through nearly every Lao Buddhist rite. In the heart of Vientiane or a riverside village, small spirit houses (phra phum) stand guard beside wats and homes. Before any major merit-making, locals slip jasmine garlands, sticky rice and rice whisky into these tiny shrines—tactfully acknowledging the land’s invisible tenants so that Buddhist monks can chant in peace.

The beloved Baci, or Sou Khwan, ceremony exemplifies this blend. Months-old infants, newlyweds and travelers receive white cotton threads tied around their wrists. Each knot “calls home” wandering khwan (souls), cementing communal bonds. No Buddhist chant would feel complete without this animistic heart—and during Pi Mai Lao (Lao New Year), water splashing isn’t only about cleansing karma; it’s a playful gesture to appease water spirits.

Take boat-racing festivals along the Mekong. Teams carve sleek wooden vessels, but before the horn sounds, bowls of fruit and incense drift into the river, an offering to Nam phi (water deities). Modern crowds in 2025 might snap selfies, yet the fisherman in traditional sarong murmurs prayers to those unseen oarsmen who steer luck ashore.

Inside temple walls, guardian spirits occupy niches painted in bright reds and golds. Monks weaving palm-leaf manuscripts quietly avoid stepping on these hallowed spots. Even the local festival for the Phaya Naga, October’s luminous candle procession, pays homage to serpent-spirits believed to shield villages from floods.

Astrology and spirit-medium consultations still guide harvest dates and house-blessing ceremonies. A chicken or two might be released instead of sacrificed outright—an evolving nod to animal welfare without upsetting ancestral pieties. Today’s Lao find that blending Theravāda calm with animistic flair creates a tapestry as rich and vibrant as any silk brocade.