A Day in the Life of a Ban

It's six in the morning and the winter sky is still shaking off its last shadows. However, the houses are lit and the villagers are having breakfast, usually hawpia, a simple noodle soup that's dressed-up by adding greens, pork rinds, perfectly-round meatballs and a myriad of sauces and other ingredients. Most Lao like it "pet" (spicy). By seven the quiet streets have morphed into a video game of transportation vehicles traveling everywhere. Driving here is not for the faint of heart. Large trucks rule, followed by smaller trucks, vans, cars, tuk tuks, and bicycles. Scooters fill-in every open space, often going both ways on both sides of the road. Scooters coming out of alleyways assume they have the right of way and assuming seems to make it so. It's an amazing dance of the barely possible.

It is trash day and there are baskets of every description put out to be emptied. Some are plastic, but most are scarcely held together by their weave. Out in front of the guesthouse, Isuzu trucks worked all evening the night before, dumping dirt, sand and gravel into the road pocked by heavy September rains, then stayed around to supervise its smoothing. (Note to Author: Work on being less judgmental.) Traffic is now humming, grinding and chirping along. Even so, those who don't have to be out yet will wait until at least eight-thirty to avoid rush hour traffic. Most don't have that option as time is money and there is none of either to waste.

At nine, the animals, those who work at night when it is cooler, and those who have leisure emerge in search of goods and services. The shops have been open since eight and school is now in session until noon, when students go home for a one-hour lunch break then return until three or so. Cows wander the footpaths, dogs, cats and chickens are everywhere, some disoriented roosters are still crowing. The ban goat family may appear anywhere at anytime, and often do, sometimes on their best behavior and sometimes not. There seems to be a new brood of chicks every day.

Today it appears a fancy restaurant is opening on the main street in town. There are tables with cloth tablecloths, chairs and a colorful large arbor supplied by some florist in the area. Tomorrow it will become apparent this is the grand opening of a new lumberyard. There are several mom-and-pop Home Depots and Lowe's Lao-style on the main street. There is much construction, so they each seem to be doing well. Each one displays its stainless steel sinks, its powder blue squat toilets for the hong nam (bathroom), its latest models in roofing tiles. Each one is separated from the others by a cellphone establishment, a pharmacy, a small grocery and a seasonal shop now selling shiny golden items for the That Luang Festival in downtown Vientiane.

The lottery ticket sellers have set up shop everywhere. Their favorite spot seems to be in front of the wat. They put out their card tables and folding chairs and give a whole new twist to the passage about the moneychangers and the temple. Vehicles stop, purchase tickets through the passenger windows, then are on their way.

Tuk tuk drivers are drumming up business for their next trip to Talat Sao (Morning Market). As soon as each vehicle fills with eight to ten passengers, off it goes. Street vendors are everywhere; some pushing wide wooden wheelbarrows to display their wares, others on scooters or bikes with sidecars, selling everything from grilled bananas to brooms. Neighborhood open-air restaurants are making lunch by ten and barber shops and beauty salons open throughout the day and stay open into the evening.

The only thing missing in the ban is a bank. More than ninety percent of the residents have no need for such an establishment. Car dealerships, on the other hand, do a fairly steady business, thanks in part to the fact they also sell scooters. Hyundai and Toyota have dealerships that would fit right into any city anywhere. Toyota even has its front lawn cut to display its name and logo. Be that as it may, the most popular make for tuk tuks is Yada.

At three, traffic which has calmed somewhat during midday starts to pick up again. By four every street is lively, especially in front of the major ban market. Talat Sao is a desirable destination, but it is in central Vientiane and most cannot be bothered or take the time. Many cars, tuk tuks and trucks simply leave their engines running on the side of the road while they run in to get fruit, vegetables or laundry soap. The congestion doesn't end until seven, when the heat of the day is finally waning and shops have generally closed. Most villagers shower after work, eat dinner between seven and nine, watch a bit of TV, then turn in so they can do it all over again tomorrow.

Thanks for NOT Smoking, Among Other Things

It's probably an unfortunate stereotype that haunts me, of everything Asian appearing mired in an industrial or cigarette haze, but it's been a pleasant surprise to find there is a Lao ban on smoking indoors. It also seems that many don't smoke, even outdoors. It may be the expense that helps keep the habit in check, but the government makes sure its people are aware of the health hazards as well.

The Country also advocates breastfeeding for at least the first year of a baby's life. Because cultural values are in total agreement, Lao babies are healthy, well-nourished and get off to a good start.

Village chiefs are informed periodically that their bans need an "Everyone loves a clean Laos" sprucing up. My Lao hairdresser said there are ninety-five families in our ban, so someone knows who and where everyone is when this project comes around. Juice and milk boxes are rampant here, along with plastic bags and straws. Even though plastic bottles are recycled, there is plenty of trash to go around. Often there are villagers on a Sunday afternoon studiously picking up rubbish along the roadside. From the very old to the very young, everyone pitches in.

Updates

Surgery and Healing: Po's wife's surgery went well. Apparently, it was an amazing combination of laparoscopy, lasers and a plastic bag. She is on the mend and Po left last night to be with her. Thanks so much for your thoughts and prayers.

Lawnmowers: The goat family was away for a bit, but they were back mowing the expansive front lawns at the wat (temple) in this ban (village) last week. It appeared they did a spotty job, because the cows were out the following day cleaning up after them.

Chicks: Down at the end of the block from the guesthouse there's a black mother hen and her darling gray, white and black speckled chicks. She parades around her domain, the chicks scurrying planets revolving around her.

That Luang: There is another major festival in Vientiane along the lines of the mega-celebration at the Mekong earlier this month. It goes for a week, culminating November 2. With the SEA (Southeast Asia) Games, a mini-Olympics for the ten countries in the region scheduled to begin here December 9, Laos has had quite the full dance card this year. The country is in the process of sprucing up and is especially hopeful the Games will prove an economic boon.

Linen Update: I have yet another hot pink ensemble on my bed. It is a snowflake pattern with the snowflakes made up of tiny blossoms in multiple shades of pink. It looks like it was intended to be geometric, but didn't turn out to be predictably so. Paired with the royal blue World Cup facsimile flags and soccer balls coverlet, who cares. Lucky me.

The Class

We have settled in with one another now. Middles are nice. The beginning can be a real adjustment and the end is always layered, but mid-semester has familiarity plus the joyous surprises that always come along in a multi-age class. The youngest students are eight years old. (Just ask them. They'll tell you. They are bright.) The oldest is fifty-five years old. He is bright, too, but not as willing to risk as the younger ones. Understandable. We are a core of fifteen students with fifteen satellite students who drift in and out depending upon their life circumstances. The young ones come early. They are often at the Center by three; the class doesn't start until five. The Uno fanatics, especially, like to get a few card games under their belts before class begins. The older ones have other responsibilities and show up some time during the first hour of class. We have covered and continue to review greetings, every day activities, time (using our paper plate clocks with toothpicks to keep the hands in place), directions, descriptions, days of the week and months of the year, colors, the alphabet, basic words, numbers and body parts. Next week we will move to food and make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We will also attempt to have some fun with the foreign concept of Halloween. My favorite memory, so far, is that of the youngest student (the son) in the lap of the oldest student (his father), making J/K/L booklets together. It was so sweet and intimate, I felt looking at them was an intrusion.

Napkins

My sainted Mother had a napkin fetish. The entire extended family and all our best friends knew about it. The kitchen had a stack of cheap Zee napkins which you were to use and a stack of napkins, one or two each, from everywhere, which you were to admire. "You writing a letter to Aunt Betty? Make sure you tuck in the napkins we saved for her from the Hard Rock in Hong Kong...There's a spot on one? Perfect. She'll love it." She was the only person I knew who reused paper towels. She was the only person I knew who could make a single paper plate last for a month. She would love the Lao ethic which regards less paper usage as being for the greater good...Except in the case of napkins. Only the better establishments have them (after all, what's the back of your hand for?!), and they're in a circular container with a hole in the top. They pull out of a roll from the middle like toilet paper in reverse. My favorite are hot pink. They have no perforations so they tear in a jagged fashion and they're single ply so they're not very sturdy or absorbent. Lao folk use them, when they're available, for any and every wipe job you might imagine in a restaurant setting. Then they toss them on the floor under their table. Aunt Betty definitely would not approve.

Nam

Nam, water, is increasingly precious here in Vientiane as well as around the globe. In spite of the devastating floods in Laos' northern provinces, its capital has had a very dry monsoon season. The reefs in the Mekong River have turned into islands. Unlike Southern California, there is no mention of rationing, but the heat and dust here are constant reminders of the necessity of water. Unfortunately, I forgot to put my water bottle in its spot on my backpack before I took off for the Center today. Sweating as usual when I arrived, I looked forward to a few sips. Oops. I went next door to patronize local interests and buy a bottle. The lovely shopkeeper came out from behind the counter with a plastic bag of ice and asked me which kind of bottled soft drink I wanted her to pour into it. There was a straw perched and ready in the bag so I could sip. I smiled, chose Pepsi, paid the 3000k, and used the chilled bag to cool my sweaty forehead.

Funerals, Fans and My Left Foot

The Lao Buddhist/Animism funeral is an Asian version of the Irish wake. The main purpose of the week following a loved one's death is to free the spirit so it can fly to Nirvana where every wish is granted. Spirits which are not freed can haunt your home, your sleep, your life. To avoid such a fate, monks in the wat (temple) are paid alms to say continuous prayers for safe passage. Small to mid-sized trucks are commandeered to serve as parade vehicles. Their flatbeds are covered with fancy spirit-like houses in which all the windows and doors are open and decorated with flowers and leaves much like floats, then sent around town with joyous music piped from them. Bodies are cremated to further encourage the freeing of the spirit. Food offerings are made. (Po tells me the Hmong--among Laos' 49 ethnicities--don't believe in cremation, so the above doesn't go for everyone, but certainly it's the pomp and circumstance of rites of passage.)

Whoever invented the electric fan didn't get enough credit. I have renewed appreciation for the wonderful devices. When the little family was sharing office space in the Center last week, they co-opted the floor fan which usually sits next to the computer. They've moved on and the fan is back, to serve in serendipitous harmony with the oscillating ceiling fan. The classroom we use has concrete walls which collect the heat all day. The room has one little closed window. By the time class begins at five, we have thrown the window open and cranked up the two wall fans and all is habitable. Last week, we used alphabet manipulatives which demanded we turn off the fans so the letters didn't fly all over the place. By the time we put them away in their bag, we were relieved to be able to turn the fans on again. The ceiling fan in my room at the guesthouse is a veritable jukebox. When I first arrived, it played endless choruses of "Skip to My Lou." Last week it switched to, "I've got a mule, her name is Sal, fifteen miles on the Erie Canal"--uptempo. This week, it's become, "I've got a home in Gloryland that (clap!) outshines the sun!"

As for my left foot, thanks for your concerns. It's fine. I have been reunited with my jumprope which is a beautiful thing, especially for my psyche!

bialao

Lao Beer, affectionately refered to here as bialao (Lao doesn't capitalize much and there are no spaces between words) and listed on the bottle as Beerlao, is so prevalent that the first two weeks I was in Laos I thought it had a corner on the market. Then Po told me, objectively I'm sure, that there are other beers, like Tiger Beer, but that Lao Beer is the best. I just know that two-thirds of the signage in Vientiane would disappear if there were no such product. The distinctive green and gold colors decorate restaurants, shops, talats (markets), gas stations and billboards everywhere. The bright yellow plastic crates which carry the bottles are everywhere, too. The restaurants all along the Mekong are dotted with them. If you order Pepsi, you get a plastic bag full of Pepsi with handles and a straw, but if you order Beerlao, you get the bottle.

Linen Update: I saw the yellow and burnt red plumeria-decorated coverlet to match my sheets on the fence drying the other day and wondered why I hadn't gotten the two together. A second later, I answered my own question: Boring.

Transportation Update: There's a brand new cement foundation covered by a shiny new corrugated aluminum domed roof next to the guesthouse annex. Guess what they're selling there? Isuzu trucks.

The Twelve

There are twelve overweight people in Laos. This is an anecdotal study, of course, but I'm pretty sure I counted them all. And it's not that they're obese, it's just that everyone else is so slender they're easy to spot. It seems clear: 1) There is a definite disadvantage to lugging extra weight around in oppressive heat; 2) It's important to be agile and light on your feet if you're going to have to work hard and long to survive, and 3) It's simply not culturally acceptable to carry extra weight. (Po's secretary, upon seeing my picture book from home that Fred prepared for me, said straightforwardly and with no malice, "Oh, you were fat then.")

There are smacks and slurps as Lao folk obviously enjoy their meals, they just eat to live rather than the other way around. Sparingly.

Isuzu Trucks and Breastfeeding

Isuzu Trucks are the exception to the genteel rule of Lao transport. First of all, they have air horns that will split your eardrums if you're not careful. Second clue, they look like the bullies they appear to be; big, heavy and barreling everywhere at breakneck (for Laos) speed. Third, they stop for nothing. Even if I were a cute little goat, I wouldn't test them.

There is a family living in part of the office. The office is in the center where I teach. It has a large room with a couple mats in it, a small bathroom with a toilet that works but a sink that doesn't and a room with a ceiling fan (definitely a saver!), a desk with an old Mitsubishi computer and a hard drive on it, and a printer, a mat and a small rug on the floor. Oh, and one swivel chair. This is where I normally blog and it is usually empty. Yesterday, I took off my shoes and walked in as usual to find a young mother, her two preschoolers and her toddler, who was enjoying a breastfeeding buffet. I was delighted to see her breastfeeding lying on one of the mats on the floor. She, however, was understandably startled. I apologized in both Lao and English; she seemed uncomprehending either way. I slipped into the computer room and the family was outside taking a walk when I left to go to the classroom. It seems the college semester starts next week and the father of the family is waiting to move into married student quarters. Some days hold more adventures than others.

Differing Perspectives

I was doing lesson plans in the little lobby at the guesthouse when I noticed a huge cement building with a fancy second-story window a couple doors down. After walking that way nearly every day for five weeks, I couldn't recall such a grand building located so close by. I made a point to check it out on my next trip to class. Walking by later that day, I realized the storefront of that very same place had a corrugated tin roof and a garage-turned-into-a-store appearance just like all the other storefronts in the neighborhood. It was only when I looked at it well back from the street and to the side that it showed off its finer features.

When I first arrived at the guesthouse, I wrote that the matriarch of the manor laundered every day. Even though I'm usually up at six in the morning, I'm hard pressed to look out the window before there are royal blue towels and colorful sheets hanging over lines and fences everywhere. It seemed like crushing, neverending work. Then I started to watch the matter of fact way she went about her day, usually smiling and seemingly never perturbed. There are days I wonder if she'd teach for me and we could trade.

The dogs aren't walked here, nor is there labeled dog food and no one would understand the term pampered pet, but they are not scrawny or mean, nor is any other animal. They just have a well-honed survival instinct and know they have to fend for themselves, just like pretty much everyone else.

Babies cry when they look at me, hopefully because I don't look like their mothers or anyone else they've ever seen, but the little girls in class like to hold my hand and the owner of the guesthouse calls me madame. As long as he puts the accent on the second sylLAble, I'm okay with that.

Animal Tales

The goats were cute enough the first time around. I was walking to the Center and noticed cars, trucks and scooters pulling to a stop, a sure sign something's in the road. Some of them ran to the other side. Some stalled, as if measuring their best chance at survival. The kids were caught between the two groups, totally unsure of where their safety was. Finally the group in the middle of the road trotted to the other side, gathering up the kids as they went. I smiled at the happy resolution and caught the eyes of one of the car drivers. He was smiling, too. On my way home, there they were again, this time trotting more wisely to the side of the road, single file. I could see the billys' goatees in various colors, the nannies who looked as if they either needed the kids to nurse or needed to be milked, and the babies interspersed among the others.

When I first arrived in Laos, Peter (another US visitor) tried to pet a family dog during one of our visitations. He almost got his hand bitten off. During our class lesson on everyday activities, I omitted "walking the dog." It simply doesn't compute here. Different strokes.

Ballet

The chief cook and bottle washer and general jill-of-all-trades at my favorite feu (noodle) place in the neighborhood is a sight to behold. She's not much over five feet, hair in a medium length ponytail, cute, with a wonderful smile and perpetually in an apron. But put her into her domain, that little rectangle that encompasses her workspace, and she turns into an artist. Once in awhile she'll leave her confines for the Coke cooler (which, of course, contains everything except Coke), but generally she works her magic in a spot most of us would consider claustrophobic. Some noodles here, some veggies, bean curd, meatballs and onions to flavor the broth, oh, and don't forget to tend to that kao bpat (fried rice)! It's like an intricate ballet, every move purposeful yet graceful in its pragmatism. She smiles at the passersby. You want that order to go? Certainly! Hot soup ladled into a plastic bag, extra ingredients beside it, add the Lao spoons and you're on your way. She's mesmerizing. Everyone's delicacy is ready, as ordered, in a moment, even if you wish it might take a bit longer.

Wherefore Art Thou, Big Pharma?

It took until yesterday to realize I have yet to see a drug commercial of any kind anywhere in Laos, even on TV. There are lots of spots for airlines and high tech companies, but nothing for upset stomach, inability to sleep or the dreaded ED. Come to think of it, there are far fewer commercials in Laos than in the US, and most of them last a minute. Ah, those were the days!

Tidbits:

Po's secretary and her sister are home from the hospital. Po is better as well. The secretary's mother is still in hospital and Po's wife is to have liver surgery on the twenty-first out of country, so please keep them in your thoughts and prayers.

Seventy percent of Lao roads are unpaved. That's part of why traveling on them is so interesting.

Linen update: Today's sheets are burnt red and yellow with white runners with burnt red pinstripes on them and a plumeria (dok champa) pattern on the rest. The blue coverlet is tastefully covered in white daisies.

Footpaths, Scooters and Tuk Tuks

By now you know my next favorite thing in Laos after the people are the modes of transportation. Since I was told, in effect, not to jump rope for awhile, I'm doing some walking every day. If you're lucky, there's a footpath through the grass or dirt berms alongside the road. Shopkeepers are eager to ply their wares, so their shops are creeping ever closer to the streets to lure their customers inside and get a corner on their competitors. This means generally no footpaths on the main drags, but the side streets often have them. As with the rest of Laos, they are colorful--mostly because of who and what uses them. Often I run into school kids who are unlucky or not old enough to have scooters; the elderly (I ruefully realize that includes me) use them quite a bit, too. Young adults will use them occasionally, throwing their two or three words of English my way to get my attention. I smile and keep on walking. I thought I was approaching dogs last week, but it turned out to be goats. We accommodated one another. Yesterday I was walking back from my favorite restaurant to the guesthouse, minding my own business and oblivious to the world with my head down so I could watch my step, when I came face to face with a cow. I think she was startled, too, but decided to blink first and took to the road. I was grateful.

Scooters are always a trip. I love taking them, because the heaviness of the heat which often surrounds us here melts away and a breeze magically appears when you're on one. The best part by far, though, are the families. Couples are fun, but the other day a couple turned into a family when a little boy popped out of his father's camouflage jacket like a joey from a pouch; mom oblivious on the back, probably glad for a break. My favorite so far was the mother driving, her little girl sandwiched between herself and the grandmother, who had a baby in a sling on her chest.

Tuk tuks are endlessly fascinating. I managed my first price negotiation on one today when the driver said, "Hoi sii pan kip," (104,000k) for the trip I had requested. I must have looked as flabbergasted as I felt. A fellow driver stepped in as if to say, "What he meant was..." and I ended up traveling for hok pan kip (60,000k). Much better. We went past the Festival grounds which were rapidly being restored to order following the crowds of the last week. Guess what the clean-up crew was doing? If you guessed sweeping--ding-ding-ding-ding! You win! All the debris was being swept into 100 lb. (or whatever that translates into metrically) rice sacks. On the way home, as we turned into the street that fronts the guesthouse, a small tuk tuk turned onto the main drag with--you'll never guess--a huge pink pig in it! I'm talking, "Fine swine, wish he was mine, Zuckerman's famous pig!" I doubt his name was Wilbur, but he was not happy about his situation, and I was not the only one who looked twice!

Flying Solo

With a few exceptions, last week was not a particularly good one. Class was fine. The students were great. Then it all went quickly downhill. Po's secretary ended up in the hospital with several other members of her family. (Guilt, guilt, guilt after the Nong Khai fiasco.) Po himself was ill. I went to the French Doctors' Office with a swollen left foot, sure something was broken. The good news: No break. The bad news: Strained tendon. I was given anti-inflammatory capsules and cream and told nothing would work unless I elevated it above the level of my heart. (Good old RICE.) I throw it up the wall for a bit each night when I go to bed and that does help. When I asked the doctor if I could still jump rope for cardio, he laughed. I took that as a no. I have mosquito bites where no mosquito should be allowed to leave a calling card. The intermittent rain does encourage them. I am redoubling my DEET. (I still think they probably like the stuff, which is not fair for as much trouble and mess as it is. Yeah. Yeah. I know. Life's not fair.)

It seems whenever things takes an unsavory turn, expanding one's comfort zone is helpful. Saturday morning I ventured forth, determine to negotiate a tuk tuk journey by myself. The driver said 20,000k into Vientiane. I said the village to Vientiane, shopping, then back. He said 60,000k. I nodded. I clambered in and we were off, each with a smile. (I wasn't even very good at selling Girl Scout Cookies, so there's your benchmark.) We arrived at Nam Phou (the Water Fountain), I used the ATM and shopped for groceries, we returned. I paid. Flush with success, I decided to press my luck. It turns out there's a hair salon next door to my guesthouse. Time for a haircut. Resolute, I entered what is essentially a gussied-up garage to be greeted by an extremely thin young man with streaked hair in a bun, bike pants, an overly long black t-shirt and pink lipstick. His high school English was remarkably good. (I wish my high school Lao were the same.) He said he wanted to streak his hair my color. I was putty in his hands. He trimmed me up short for 1500k, two-fifty including tip, I foraged for feu (noodles) at my favorite spot down the block and decided to call it a day while everything was still going smoothly. Missions small, but accomplished. Good day.

The Boat Racing Festival

There is some variation on what today's holiday signifies. The Lao PDR Guide 2009 says today signifies the end of Asian lent, but calls it the Boat Racing Festival. Several of us checked out Festival Central on the Mekong in the heart (and heat!) of Vientiane yesterday and the place was indeed jumping, but not in an over-the-top Mardi Gras way; more like your midwestern county fair. We walked the long grass and gravel beltway between the street and the River. It was covered with vendors of every sort and restaurants for every taste. A couple of the kids tried the carnival games and our eight-year old threw darts, popped three balloons and won an orange soda. The rest of us took in the action with some yogurt and Lao kettle corn and lots of water. We did see a few long racing boats with large crews skim by, but never together. They looked like they were practicing for a race to come later.

My hairdresser (I actually got the nerve to get a haircut Saturday at the little place next to my guesthouse) says tonight is make-a-wish night to Buddha to speed dearly departed relatives to Nirvana, bypassing endless time as a spirit or in reincarnation. Thousands of little straw and banana leaf boats covered in flowers, candles and incense will be set forth on the Mekong as appeasement to the spirits of the River to aid in their journeys.

Last night there were candles lit around all the genie houses (homes of the "phi" or spirits who have been waylaid) and there were lots of fireworks. Offerings were made to keep the phi from being too mean or mischievous. As Animism happily combines with Buddhism here, I'm not sure which goes with which. It doesn't seem to matter, as long as your intentions are sincere.

Of cars, coolie hats and French dinners

Vientiane is the home of some of the most obscure car names I have seen. Amid the Hyundais, the Toyotas and the Mitsubishis are the eurekas (That's what I'm calling most of the brand names I've never heard of before as my Lao reading is even more dismal than my Lao speaking, unfortunately. The curlicues are gorgeous, but confounding. I will keep trying.) and the Kalaos. Kalaos, especially, are popular. They come mostly in Ford Ranger compact pick-up style. Po says they are broken down in Thailand or Korea and shipped to Laos where they are reassembled to avoid heavy taxation.

I was walking to the office to check the state of the intermittent internet when I realized it was really hot and sunny. This is not unusual, but after a week of rain and cooler temperatures as devastating Typhoon Ketsana plowed through on its way to oblivion, 31 degrees centigrade caught me without my umbrella for shade. Bingo. I found a coolie hat in one of the shops I was passing. "Ha pan kip," she said, and seventy-five cents sounded reasonable to me. She asked if I wanted a tie on my hat. I couldn't prove this verbally, but her sign language was, luckily, as excellent as her Lao and I smiled as I tucked the tie under my chin and was on my way, head and neck now protected from the penetrating rays.

A week ago I needed to talk with Po and said I'd treat him to a meal in exchange for a consultation. He could even drive. (He drives like my Dad, so those of you who knew and loved my Dad know my putting myself in his car was an act of faith.) We ended up in central Vientiane, where the foreigners live and hang out and I nervously checked my kip supply as he dropped me at a French restaurant and looked for a place to park. I needn't have worried. After a lovely meal of pasta pesto with basil sauce and nuts for each of us, I was out 60,000k ($7 US). I was going to leave the change from the bill as a tip. Po explained that was far too much and asked, "What do you have?" I said, "I have everything," meaning I had a smattering of Lao kip in every denomination (about $20 worth). He looked at me oddly, then got my meaning and told me what was appropriate. It was only later I realized the scope of my statement and just how true it was.

Note: I have not been able to access yahoo for awhile, so if you've mailed me or if I owe you a note, please know how much I appreciate you. I'm hoping it's just a matter of good things coming to those who wait. Your comments, written and not, are manna to my soul.

Week 5: Nong Khai Adventure

Some weeks the stories just tumble over themselves begging to be told. Like the cow on the road, not exactly standing smack dab in the middle, but definitely in what at least would be the right hand lane. Calmly chewing her cud as tuk tuks (open air taxis, most often colorful motorcycles get-ups with parallel-lengthwise bench seating attached to them and a metal roof over the top with vinyl sheeting which rolls down in case of heavy rain), trucks, cars and multiple scooters maneuvered around her. It could have been called death by selected suicide, but she knew the Lao "live and let live" ethic would prevail and she would survive to stand and leave gifts in the road again. That and the Hyundai tour bus parked in the front yard of a small house between shops on the main drag. But that's for another day.

A trip over the Friendship Bridge to Thailand had been arranged for some time. Po's secretary, my trusty some-English tour guide, was not feeling well but said she was still game. I thought maybe fresh air would do her some good.

She showed up wearing her cute pale green surgical mask with the off-center orange flower. That should have been my first clue. She quickly arranged for us to travel by tuk tuk to Talat Sao (Morning Market). So far, so good. We picked up passengers along the route who were also headed for the Talat. When we got there, we transfered to a Nong Khai bus. At this point I felt the secretary's forehead. She was really warm. I got a bottle of cold water and she rubbed it over her face. Somewhat rejuvenated, we waited for the full bus to leave and another to load. The ladies with the large bright blue cooler were a trip; they tried to cram into the full bus but wisely decided that was not to be and waited for ours instead. The full bus finally pulled out and the next bus pulled up. We sat in the back and the bus quickly filled. Fifteen minutes after we were full, people outside were still clucking that they could get on if everyone would just get a bit more cozy. It was humid and in the mid-80's, but the agreeable contingent obliged and another ten people clambered on. Finally the bus driver climbed into his seat for the third time and decided the density was such that we could profitably depart. It was a milk run with many stops, but a half-hour later, we reached Friendship Bridge. The secretary was a bit cooler and made her way to the Bridge bank with me in tow so we could could exchange kip for baht (Thai currency). We went through customs, bought Bridge tickets so we could cross, traversed the mighty Mekong, got off the bus, then into a regular taxi.

Thai drivers drive as the Brits do, on the right side of the road. We looked for a paisanee (post office) so I could mail a letter, then backtracked to Tesco (the Asian equivalent of Wal-Mart). After buying a couple things, we purchased coupons so we could use them for lunch in the food court. The secretary had perked up enough to have some appetite, so we both enjoyed noodles and some sort of banana shakes, then rode the tuk tuk back to the Bridge. Bridge tickets back to the Lao side, Lao immigration, and yet another tuk tuk. Another hot forehead and now she was really looking peaked. I thought the tuk tuk would be faster than the bus. Sometimes it pays not to think. Our tuk tuk driver hustled until he filled every nook and cranny plus the roof with paying customers and their bounty. Twenty minutes later we were on our way, again dropping people off periodically. When we finally got back to Talat Sao, we scrounged for the first driver interested in taking us home. Secretary on her last legs, we must have picked the slowest tuk tuk in Vientiane; it was on its last legs, too. It sounded like there were pachinko balls in the gas tank and everything shook. The driver kept shifting gears as though that would help, to no avail. Six hours after we'd left, sick secretary was finally delivered to a place she could rest and I scurried off to class.