Sabaidee!
It has been a long and speedy week for us here in Champasak, quite the roller coaster.
It was tremendously exciting for the staff when the workshop participants arrived. After months of preparation and studiously poring over the applications, we had actually made this thing happen. I
realized with a surge of pride on Monday morning that we had overcome
many obstacles to get people here: complications with visas, lack of
communication, frustrating partner organizations, problems of HOW to get
money into this country according to the institute's
strict and often stupid rules, superstitions – one participant declined
our invitation to attend because his fortune-teller told him he should
not leave the country until next year.
Monday evening, we left on a high, with our handler Thonglith promising to ensure the classroom was locked behind us. Rather
than carry the projector and printer and computer for the classroom
back and forth daily, we opted to leave it locked in the municipality
classroom.
Tuesday morning I arrived at 8am to set up the classroom. My stomach turned to stone when I saw that every piece of company equipment left in the classroom overnight was actually gone. I
frantically called Thonglith, and he came running, assuring me that
someone had probably just locked them up somewhere safe (but I thought
the classroom was safe?) overnight. The class took off for Vat Phou, and Kecia and I remained, waiting. We
sat in the classroom for 3 hours, waiting, waiting, waiting...as the
clock ticked on, our hopes that someone had just tried to "help" dimmed
and the realization set in that someone really had stolen our projector,
Kecia's laptop, and the portable printer (which was brand new, ugh). Everyone
we worked with was so embarassed, they called in the mayor, numerous
officials in dark olive-colored military suits passed through the
hallway and peeped at us over their decorated epaulets. Thonglith
was nowhere to be found, and when we called him for progress reports,
he informed us that the mayor had called everyone together, then later
that the police were out searching for the items, etc, etc. And yet nothing surfaced. It was a frustrating morning, to sit and do nothing while $2000 worth of company equipment was MIA – and here, we could barely communicate. There was nothing to do but feel helpless.
It was quite the scandal – after all, this project is pouring $20,000 of capital DIRECTLY into this town. Immediate suggestions were that maybe an enemy of the mayor had stolen the items to cause the mayor to lose face. Many suggested as well that because this is such a small town, and the loss of face so humiliating to the Lao
(the director of a national ministry was here, after all, as well as
every official in the province), that the items would likely
mysteriously reappear. We crossed our fingers, but we aren't holding our breath. Meanwhile Thonglith pulled me aside and apologized profusely. He
was so embarassed and felt culpable, because he had promised me the
class would be locked and that I could leave the equipment here. The mayor came and apologized. The Lao participants apologized. It was clear that everyone was unhappy, apologetic, and humiliated.
Later that afternoon, our Thai partner J called from Paxse. She
might be the kindest person I have ever met in my life, and brings a wealth of experience and knowledge to the table. I was surprised to see her number on my phone – her flight back to Bangkok was due to leave in 30 minutes or so. She
had just heard about the theft – she and her colleague were
departing the Paxse museum when Phone Phanh (pronounced Pon Pan) came
jolting up in a dusty white pickup truck, waving a sheet of paper signed
by the mayor (in Lao, of course). Phone
Phanh nervously explained that he had to search their luggage for the
missing items – as if they would have EVER stolen our
equipment. As J related this to me, I was so embarassed, and apologized profusely. I
had a very clear mental image of the chubby Phone Phanh, sweating in
the midday heat, with his shock of black hair in his eyes, ripping J's
pants, underwear, and shampoo out of her neatly organized bag in the
parking lot of the museum. With perfect grace, J replied, "Oh no, it's ok, now I have a good list of what's in my luggage."
It
was so perfect, so graceful a response to such an awkward situation,
such a perfect roll with the punches, to carry oneself with that kind of
reserve struck me as wonderful, beautiful – something to aspire to. To be able to carry that kind of grace in a situation so absurd and unfortunate...
The
theft must have bought us some good karma, though, because otherwise,
the workshop has been coming along nicely, thanks to some loaner
equipment, and our fantastic participants. Getting to know them, and the young Italians working with the architectural fondazione, has been a wonderful experience. We
sit in the evenings in long tables in outdoor pavilions and eat
together, and inevitably someone buys a crate of beer ($12 for 12 x
½-liter bottles) to share with everyone. The Burmese are
wonderful – they are very sweet to me, and Aye Nilar has invited me to
visit her in Yangon, and then Myo Jyaw, who works in Mandalay, chipped
in to invite me north. The idea of seeing Burma, a country so closed to Americans, with friends is an incredible enticement. The
Vietnamese participants, who are mainly from Hanoi, are excited to show
me around their city for the few days I will be there and have promised
to show me a good time. They are exploring Paxse today, because they heard a rumor that there are Vietnamese there. Apparently
there is no one on our side of the Mekong who makes baguettes, so a
Vietnamese in Paxse makes them and then delivers bags of them, swinging
from the handlebars of his moped, over here to Champasak every morning. I aspire to someday catch a glimpse! The Italians, Mara, Rico and Beatrice, are young architects and archaeologists working at Vat Phou – they are kind, and open. Rico
has been especially generous to us, taking us on personalized tours of
the site and always offering to help carry something or fix something. One evening after class I had to take the videocamera back to my room. With
his quintessential cigarette hanging out of his mouth, he grabbed by
camera bag and wedged it into the front of his moped (where usually children sit/stand). He climbed on, ash spilling onto his pantleg, and said, "Well you are riding? Orrr not?" So
I got on board, shakily clasping the back bar to steady myself, and we
were off, speeding down the road of dark red packed earth, me perched
precariously on the back.
After a long week in class and working in the heat of the day at the site, we were all ready for a break on the weekend. We
had a field trip: but because the ferries that come over to our side of
the Mekong cannot hold anything much bigger than a pickup or a Lao
sawtheng bus (a converted pickup with benches in the back and a shade, we had to take
our buses to the ferry, board a "passenger ferry" (two canoes tied
together and a platform built over the top) over to the "mainland" and
then boarded our giant tour bus to visit the ruins at ToMo, the
waterfalls at Phonepheng, 2km north of the Cambodian border (and the
Pearl of the Mekong), and then we took a delightful boat cruise through
the Si Phan Don (4000 islands). The Mekong fragments
around, well, 4000 islands, and the result is a confusing myriad of
small canals and beautiful islands where you could easily get lost and
never want to leave should your charioteer not know his way around.
We
stopped on an island to sit on the beach (suspiciously enough our boat
drivers picked a beach near a Laolao distillery, which some participants
eagerly explored). The water was so clear, a shade of
light tropical green, and the sun so bright and warm that many of the
men modestly removed their pants behind stands of trees and then charged
for the refreshing water of the Mekong. At one point, I
turned around, and I saw my boss Jeff make a beeline for the water, which he attacked like a water
buffalo. It was hilarious. After splashing
in the banks for a bit, burning with the midday heat, I finally gave in –
Rico lent me his palleu to replace my cargo pants and I was in. The
water was glorious, and the current strong, so it was lovely to float
past the beach and then try to dogpaddle your way back up for another
ride. There were some chicken fights for national pride,
but those quickly gave way to international pairings and then pure
simplicity of floating happily in the water.
Once we attempted to dry off, we got back to Champasak and had dinner. Our
party captain and handler, Thonglith aka Top called "the party bus"
(our usual sawtheng) and we headed out to a "beek fest-tee-val." Half an hour later, we showed up...at a pagoda! There is apparently an annual festival at the monastery/pagoda, and the yard was shaking with the noise from a Lao band onstage. Crates
of Beerlao were being ferried back and forth, rice cakes with caramel
distributed, children eagerly boarded the ride (a carousel, operated
manually, no joke, the guys grabbed the bars and literally pushed it
into motion), and people gyrated to the Lao pop music. Meanwhile,
on the fringes of the yard, the monks bundled down in their saffron
robes to attempt to sleep on the decks of the pagoda. Simon, one of our instructors, joked, "This is perfect. If my wife calls, I can honestly say, 'But honey I'm at the pagoda!'"
I
will be very happy to be home, but there are things here that I will
miss which stand in clear relief to the life that I usually lead: the
sudden fall of night here, like a curtain, heavy and absolute blackness;
the translucent geckos who flock to the halos of light at night to
feed, the bugs that swarm the light in an uncontrollable, primal frenzy –
upon which the geckos snappily choose for their buffet dinner; the
simplicity of life, needing only $5 a day to eat like a king – and the
people who live and work here who aren't concerned with paper, receipts,
regulations, or rules – they just trust you to pay them what you owe
before you leave; you can walk alone at night on the inky streets in
complete safety; the stencil of my birkenstock on my big toe from days
and days in sandals; the simple pleasure of iced coffee – thick and
silty, but it grows on you; fresh watermelon, bananas, and fruit that
doesn't have a name in English; a hammock in the shade...life here is pure in a way that my frenetic LA
life is not. It is an addicting simplicity, and despite
some things that have happened, my time here has served to instill a
profound respect for humanity, and a realization that at our core, we
are much the same. Amphon, an archaeologist here at Vat Phou, can barely speak English and I no Lao, but we can talk about his 3-week old daughter and how hard it is for him to get some sleep. Dian, a Lao
transexual from Vientiane who works in the restaurant here, can tell me
about her dreams to be a chef, and how someday she hopes to open a bed
& breakfast of her own. I don't know the Khmer word
for hungry, but Heng and I can sit together and pass each other more
food with an easy twitch of the eyebrow or knowing smile. And
barriers of culture all break down when we are dancing in the field of a
monastery until 2am, cheering on Rohit's Bollywood dancing, the Khmer's
articulated apsara-style dancing, and Simon's very British attempts at
rhythm.
When I stop to think about this, I cannot feel
anything but extraordinarily blessed, that I can be here and share this
moment with these people.
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