Songs of the Love Nights of Laos (Wan-Pak Nights)

Disty and I are home now. We arrived on Friday night. Sometime during the sleep-altered, jet-lagged night, Disty discovered a book on Andy's shelf called The White Nightjar. One of the life projects I came home with is to help collect Lao literature in Lao, help create a list of the 100 (or so) classical works of Lao, and help arrange for their publication in Lao PDR in Lao language. Much of the literature is oral and is or will be lost, unless someone collects it all and writes it down. Much of the written works were etched on palm leaves, some of which is being preserved by the Digital Library of Lao Manuscripts (DLLM), where I visited with David Wharton in Vientiane and will write about my visit and their important work soon.

I will also post something soon about The White Nightjar, but, this morning, as I was googling to find low lying Lao literary fruit, I found these three snippets in a collection called The Garden Of Bright Waters: One Hundred And Twenty Asiatic Love Poems, translated by Edward Powys Mathers, and published in 1920. Now, I am hunting down the original sources from which Mathers translated—let me know, if you know. But after reading these, I thought, what a lovely way to come back home. I especially love the lines: If I had the moon at home/I would open my house wide/To the four winds of the horizon,/So that the clouds that surround her/Should escape and be shaken away.

At the eighth evening of the waxing or waning of the moon, when even Buddha has no fault to find with love-making in the thickets. Songs, of which I have translated three, are sung on these nights to the accompaniments of the "Khane," a pan-pipe of seven flutes; some being reserved for the singing of the wandering bands of girls, and others for answer by the youths.


MISADVENTURE

Ever at the far side of the current
The fishes hurl and swim,
For pelicans and great birds
Watch and go fishing
On the bank-side.

No man dare go alone
In the dim great forest,
But if I were as strong
As the green tiger
I would go.

The holy swan on the sea
Wishes to pass over with his wings,
But I think it would be hard
To go so far.

If you are still pure,
Tell me, darling;
If you are no longer
Clear like an evening star,
You are the heart of a great tree
Eaten by insects.
Why do you lower your eyes?
Why do you not look at me?

When the blue elephant
Finds a lotus by the water-side
He takes it up and eats it.
Lemons are not sweeter than sugar.

If I had the moon at home
I would open my house wide
To the four winds of the horizon,
So that the clouds that surround her
Should escape and be shaken away.

KHAP-SALUNG

Seeing that I adore you,
Scarf of golden flowers,
Why do you stay unmarried?
As the liana at a tree's foot
That quivers to wind it round,
So do I wait for you. I pray you
Do not detest me....

I have come to say farewell.
Farewell, scarf;
Garden Royal
Where none may enter,
Gaudy money
I may not spend.




THE HOLY SWAN

Fair journey, O holy swan with gold wings;
O holy swan that I love, fair journey!
Carry this letter for me to the new land,
The place where my lover labours.
If it rains fly low beneath the trees,
If the sun is hot fly in the forest shadows;
If any ask you where you are going
Do not answer.
You who rise for so long a journey,
Avoid the roofs at the hour when the sun is red.
Carry this letter to the new land of my lover.
If he is faithful, give it to him;
If he has forgotten, read it to him only
And let the lightning burn it afterwards.

Big Brother Mouse

I had known Sasha Alyson many years before, as a publisher in Boston. Now, six years after he arrived in Laos and probably more than fifteen years since I saw him last, he and I meet in Luang Prabang and talk about publishing. He has done a remarkable job setting up, with his Lao business partner, Kamla, a children's book publisher. Via email before I arrived, he invited me to go on a trip with his team to a village school and, later, have dinner, together.

I arrived at his office, alone, ready to leave at 8 am. I did not know what to expect, and I was slightly nervous about the trip. The team, as I later thought I heard them called, "The Mice," were packing the van with refilled, water-cooler-sized bottles of juice, plastic cups, boxes of pencils, a ream of paper, and books. I spoke with Sasha for a bit before we headed out. He was staying behind. There were six Mice, and I found a place in the back of the van in the rear left seat and sat next to a young man who spoke English well.  The van was like every other mini-van I have been in in Laos: a Hyundai with a rear bench seat that sits three, a center bench that sits two with a jump seat to its right that folds down and then folds up and away from the sliding rear passenger door, and a front seat bench seat that seats three. They have an air conditioning unit at the top above the second seat and pointing towards the rear, which my experience has been gets used whatever the weather.

It was chilly when we left, morning fog thick and moist. I was dressed only in a polo shirt, long pants, and sandals, figuring that comfort and packing light were important, so I was a bit cold, as we left. We headed north out of Luang Prabang, the plan was to go to a primary school in a village about 50 km away, where the teachers have arranged a morning with the Mice. Where we are going and what we are doing was still a bit unclear, but I suspected it would become more obvious when we got there.

As we headed out, my  seat partner and I spoke half in Lao, badly, and half in English, better. He told me a little bit the book party and how he came to work at Big Brother Mouse. There were five other men in the van and a woman: all  Lao and all working for Big Brother Mouse doing book parties; all were very friendly and, as the day progressed, I learned that each enjoyed working and playing with the children. They were a committed and engaged group of young people. Unfortunately, I do not remember any of their names.

This has been a problem for me in Lao, and I was hoping to get each to write his and her name down, so I could remember them by name, but I did not have the chance, so each will remain vivid in my memory, but without a name. In the front seat was the driver, who like other drivers in Lao needed a bit of macho to take the wheel. He was dressed in a khaki fatigue-like jacket, with shoulder straps and a patch. Next to him in the center front seat was a woman, dressed in a white down jacket with a pattern of black geometric Mickey Mouse heads and decorated with words in black Roman characters that were not quite French and not quite English, as far as I could tell. She seemed to be the girlfriend of the driver, as she occasionally leaned against him in a loving way. To her right was a young man I could hardly see in the van, wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt, whose job when we got to the school was to take pictures, although he may have been sitting directly in front of me on the second bench, and a young man in a gray striped shirt may have been in the "shotgun" seat, in front. I couldn't quite see well enough. On the right seat in front of me was a young wood block artist, dressed in a blue shirt with red trim and matching blue pants. He wore a blue and white striped scarf tied around his neck and carried a blue shoulder bag, trimmed with large red pom poms. His dress looked artsy or vaguely Akha, one of the ethnic minority tribes in Lao. He was very friendly and he and I "chatted" a little, using my 100 or so words of Lao, which include random days of the week, numbers, colors, animals, and food. As we drive, I construct sentences like: I have five red chickens and a dog named Microwave in America. Although, truly, I can't remember if I actually spoke that line or if I only thought I did. It was more difficult when he responded, but I tried to keep smiling, whatever came my way. I have learned, but haven't always mastered, that smiling and staying calm serves everyone well in Lao, whatever the situation. And I was determined to follow that rule throughout the day.

As we traveled, the city of Luang Prabang, which is about the size of Portland, ME, disappeared into a suburban collection of open shops made of cinderblock and palm, with thatched and tin roofs standing side by side, open spaces, small ponds, goats, cows, water buffalo, chickens, ducks, rice fields, bicycles and motorbikes. The road is paved, but we move further and further from the city and the landscape starts to look similiar to the view from the bus ride from Vientiane to Luang Prabang. After about three quarters of an hour driving north, we take a right off of the main paved road onto a smaller dirt road that is bordered by a good-sized river on the right. We follow this road through mountains and some of the most beautiful vistas imaginable, past small villages with buildings and children and animals as close to the road as is possible to put them and have them not run over, although we see a cat dead by the side of the road and everybody in the van looks back and remarks.

I am trying to absorb what it might feel like to be one of the Mice, and I sat in the back, being and feeling, but there are many moments I do not understand without language, this was one of them, and I vowed to continue learning Lao. As we drove, the sun came out and the dusty road was illuminated in golden brown, while around us was green palm and blue sky. The road was rough, and I wondered how many vans the Mice go through, who owns the van, and, a little fearfully, if these vehicles ever break down.

After an hour or so, we arrived at the school, a tree-limb gate that is closed. One of the Mice hopped out and opened the gate, and we made a u-turn at the next available roadside shoulder, about 50 meters away, and turned into the schoolyard. The yard was a grassy rectangular field, with classrooms on two contiguous sides. On the left, a kindergarten room; in front of us, three primary grade classrooms, with a door for each and wood-slatted windows on front and back. When we arrived, the students were in their classrooms, and we parked to the left of the primary grades building. Once out of the van, it didn't take long for the students to run out of their classrooms and make 6 lines stretching out into the schoolyard, the students facing the classroom. On some lines, perhaps the younger grades, the students each put a hand on the shoulder of the student directly in front.  As I inspected these precision lines, I had my first glimpse of the dress, features, height, cleanliness, and health, and I felt, uncomfortably, like a colonial lord inspecting his subjects. The students were greeted and I was introduced, either as a curiosity or as an honored guest, I couldn't tell, but I was asked to say something, so, in my broken Lao, I told them my name. In unison, they all said: "Hello, Mr. Phil" and I greeted them back in English. I still didn't know exactly why we were here or my role. In a dream later that night, I made a speech, in Lao, telling them how I liked reading and how I hoped they would learn to love reading as well. But there, being asked to speak extemporaneously in Lao to a group of children, I told them I was from America. They didn't understand my 4 word sentence and looked blankly.

One of the Mice asked if anyone had heard of America, but none had. Thank goodness nobody had yet taught them what we did to their country and how every day 3-6 Lao people are casualties of unexploded ordinance that we secretly (if you can bomb secretly) dropped on Lao over thirty years ago, in order to root out hidden communists from the caves in Eastern and Central Lao and so that the bombers did not return from their sorties with ordinance still on board. Lao is the most bombed country in the world's history. As an American, I stood there this day, under the blue sky, many of the children dressed in previously white Adidas school shirts, and, red blood filling my face, all I could think about was my embarrassment. But for these children, a warm, genuine smile was all that they needed to know that I was not here to hurt them, that I loved children and the Lao people and, that I wished I could undo whatever had been done.

After the introductions, the children went back into the classrooms, and I was asked to distribute the pencils and paper to the students, a job that seemed highly ceremonial, as I went from student to student, presenting paper, first, then another round to present the pencils. For each who said "Kop Chai," I replied "Bopinyon." Through my eyes, I tried to make eye contact and connect with each, as if my short day, here, would only be fulfilling if I came home with 100 friends.

The Mice instructed the students to draw pictures, and in each of the classrooms, on the Mice drew pictures on the blackboard for the students to copy. In the younger classrooms, they were simple heads and eyes and noses and mouths and flowers, which turned out to be a far more popular subject for their art. In the oldest classroom, the students were shown had to draw a mouse and cheese, although I imagined that few of the students had much cheese, as cheese is not very prevalent in the Lao diet. I wondered what Lao mice eat.

I wandered from class to class, but I was most engaged with the kindergartners and spent a good part of a half hour with them on the matted floor, giving them compliments, taking their pictures, helping them hold the pencil or make a circle with it. They were astoundingly beautiful, as children are, and I realized how much I love the little ones; how much I miss getting on the floor and drawing or building together. These are not things I get to do much any more, but there is nothing for me more therapeutic, when the rest of the world seems so unfair, then to hunker down with the little ones and feel their innocent potential. These children are locked in by poverty; but as we sit, I dream that somehow showing a child how to hold a pencil, touching their little hand, looking in their eyes and getting them to see we are the same, will somehow magically release them and give them an opportunity to learn to express themselves and expect something beautiful in their lives. Certainly, selfishly, it gave me hope for myself.

After drawing the children ran out to the yard to play games. They formed a large 100-student circle and were asked to clap. "Clap once." They clapped once. "Clap twice." They clapped twice. Things got more difficult as the Mouse in the army jacket now had a whistle and tried to fool them by picking up speed, changing the rhythm. He would occasionally say "Clap zero," and anyone who clapped was asked to come inside the circle. At first I hovered on the outside of the circle, taking pictures, but soon I joined in, honing my Lao numbers and clapping skills. When 15 or so students were in the center, these children were asked to hold out their hands, at which point, the mouse in the striped gray shirt poured baby powder into each person's cupped hands. Then on the count of three, they were told to put their cupped hands on their faces, so that they were covered in white. They then made monster poses and feigned an attack on their friends in the circle. Everyone thought it was hilarious. These "losers' were then eligible to compete for books, each had a balloon tied on his or her ankle and when the whistle blew, they needed to stomp on the balloons of their rivals, so that only one was left with a balloon un-popped. As the game continued, my money was on a tough little girl with a beautiful silver necklace, her blue school sein tattered but elegant. She won and victoriously and proudly received a book as a prize.

More games and more prizes. The second called for the students to jump and spread their arms when an animal was named that flew. For some unknown linguistic reason, they were continuously tripped up by water buffalo ("kwai"). Eventually, there were a pair of winners who each received a book.

When the games were over, we dolled out snacks, and I seemed to be the ceremonial snack provider, although it felt uncomfortable to be in this colonial role. I realized that someone needed to fairly distribute the cookie and juice that the Mice brought along, and I realized this was expected of me, as part of my unspoken role as the foreign provider, even though I provided nothing. I respected their request and stood at the head of the line, distributing a cracker to each child, trying again to make contact with each child. Then, again, we repeated the process with the juice.

After snacks, they went back to their classrooms, where they were treated to stories by the Mice, who held up color illustrations on cardboard to illustrate their stories. One of the stories was about a water buffalo and one about a boy with diarrhea, who was trying to find a place to relieve himself: first pigs disturbed him, then a snake, etc. I'm not sure I completely understood the story or why it was chosen for the children, but they were riveted by the tale, so I guess it was meaningful to them. The Mice did a great job telling the stories which seemed to be written on the back of each picture, because they kept glancing there, but, clearly, they were ad-libing a bit and knew the stories well. This made me think that this oral story-telling was very important, and I made a mental note that in a country without a large body of written literature, oral stories were important to preserve. Sasha and I briefly discussed this on my way out of town, but I think this is very important.

After the stories, the children were given a talk on books, shown various kinds and invited to pick one up and take it home for lunch. Perhaps three or four copies of some 30 or so books published in Lao by Big Brother Mouse were being donated to the school, and the children each had one to take home. After they picked out their book, I distribute three more sheets of paper for them to take with the book, after all of this they lined up in the schoolyard for a farewell ceremony, where once again I was called upon to present: this time Big Brother Mouse t-shirts for the school faculty. After the ceremony the children ran off to go home for lunch, and we retired to a special lunch provided by the faculty.

We sat down to a big bowl of fish soup filled with whole fish about three inches in length; a delicious sauerkraut-like fermentation that they called "peko," but a few days later in the marketplace it was referred to as something different; a green chili sauce; sticky rice; and a whole bar-b-qed fish. This was a fishing community, and this was a very special lunch. About halfway through, after I was deftly avoiding the fish in the soup, they offered me Lao lao, a pure alcohol drink made from sticky rice, and here I was able to make up for my lack of soup fish-eating. I had two small glasses, enough to make the bumpy ride home easier to handle.

At lunch we talked about food I liked, food we eat where I come from, our monks at home, being a monk (only one of the ten men had been one), and the beauty of the children. We left at about 1:30, saying many thank yous, with many invitations to come, again, or to come to America and stay at my house in Boston.

The ride home was quietly satisfying. About halfway down the dirt road, my wood-block artist friend asked if I mind if they played music on the cd player. I replied only if it was good and Lao, but what came on was Thai pop, which I enjoyed nonetheless. The ride back seemed longer than the ride there, but the music made it impossible to talk, so I just settled in, looking out the window, deep in thought about the beauty of the place, the children, and the Mice and whether my being there was for anyone but me.

Vat Hoxieng

We got a call from Andy's friend Phet, yesterday morning (Sunday) in Luang Prabang. He arranged a service for Andy and wanted us to meet him at the Wat at 10:30 am.

We met Phet three years ago. He was a monk at the Wat. One of our favorite photos of Andy was taken that day, as Andy, Phet, Chip, Disty, and I sat around the porch of the Wat, Andy and Phet chatting in Lao. The photo is a close up of a smiling Andy and his monk-friend Phet. We cherish the picture for many reasons: the happiness of Andy, the spiritual overtones, the memory of the day, and the pleasing colors and composition of the image. Two days after taking the photo, we waited in the van for Andy as he went back to the Wat to give Phet a dictionary and some money, but he had left, and Andy was sad that Phet disrobed. But Phet went on to finish school, majoring in English studies.

Phet is now a travel agent in Luang Prabang, arranging tours into the villages, elephant rides, kayaking on the river. He also sometimes leads them. He knows a great deal about the villages, as he comes from a small village a few hours north of Luang Prabang. He and Andy went there and harvested rice together, Andy meeting his family.

Phet had been trying to reach Andy's cell phone and email, with no success, so he emailed Disty, recently, and she told him the unfathomable news: Andy had died. This was very hard for Phet. It is always difficult to understand the relationships of people, more difficult to understand when one is no longer alive. But Andy had meaning for Phet beyond the weeks they spent together, no doubt the reverse was true. Two wonderfully alive people coming together, with dreams of achieving what the other had.

Phet wanted to do something for Andy and himself and us, and Disty, whom he calls Mum, told him we would be in Lao this month and we would get together with him in Luang Prabang.

On Friday night, Phet met us at our guesthouse on the motorcycle that Andy helped him pick out a few years ago. He was not wearing a helmet. He looked smaller than he did in robes, with slicked hair, an Ed Hardy jacket, and designer jeans. He knew the woman at the desk; they had gone to school together and were friends of friends. We left and walked around the city to get some dinner, Phet occasionally passing friends and explaining to each in Lao what he was doing. He was clearly very popular. We ended up at a grouping of tables surrounded by paper lights. We were the only ones at this restaurant overlooking the Nam Khan river and, on the opposite shore, the airport side of the river, a new spectacular guesthouse lit up in the night, with long steps toward us winding down to the river. We had dinner together, or should I say, we had dinner while Phet spoke and watched. He ate nothing but water. Every once in a while, interrupting the stillness of the warm evening, as we talked we would hear a splash, as if a huge carp were playing in the river. At the time, I disregarded it as an interruption in an otherwise still night, but after yesterday, I now think it was Andy.

***

The morning was foggy and chilly. We arrived at the Wat exactly at 10:30. It is on the south side of the night market on Chao Fa Ngum Road. There are long stone steps up to the top. On the banisters of the steps, one on each side, mouths open to the street, are a pair of silver-painted Nagas. These were in disrepair when we were here last. Now they were shining and newly painted, a sign of the city's prosperity and progress which has been focused on preserving the Buddhist heritage.

Phet was standing about 20 meters in from the top of the stairs and he greeted us quietly and took us up the rickety and dangerously banister-less wooden steps to the dormitory to his room which has since been occupied by his younger cousin. We went in and the five of us stood in the 50 square foot space, filled with a white board with English lessons, a WWF poster, a calendar with a pretty Lao or Thai woman, and a low single bed on the floor with a saffron monkish decoration around the base. Phet's cousin was wearing a knit saffron cap, as the morning was still cool and cloudy.

Phet prepared our offerings, which he put all in a plastic bag, and I took in the space, wondering what it would be like to live here. It felt a bit like a college dorm. The young monks here in Lao are there mostly to get an education, and most, I believe, will move on, like Phet, to enter the world. For me, right now, this pragmatism about being a monk does not quite fit my idealized notion of monasticism, but it is definitely the reality of the Lao culture.

We left the dorm, down the rickety steps, upon which Chip gently helped Disty and, then, me. We crossed the cement grounds of the Wat and came to the door of a building at the rear, in which the Abbott was seated cross-legged, and we sat with our legs folded under us, facing him. Phet's cousin brought some glasses of water for us for the ceremony. The Abbott began to chant quietly, and we put our hands under the offerings for him. At one point he turned to Phet and asked Andy's name, and Phet told him, in Lao, a bit about the circumstances and pronounced Andy's name, which the Abbott repeated a few times and then went on chanting for a few minutes. It was over rather quickly and we took our glasses outside to pour the water into the roots of the trees.

I chose my tree carefully, thinking all the while of our Wat back home and the kindness of our monks and Ajahn Mongkone's loving community. I thought about how we were half a world away, now connected through this love, in a place we remembered warmly through the experience and photo. I began to pour the water: four beautiful brown and red chickens and a rooster rustled in the leaves. I poured more and the clouds disappeared and I could feel the warm air surrounding us. I poured more, a nun in white appeared at the Wat next door, removed her sandals and sat and watered the flowers. I poured some more, and at that moment, as I emptied my glass and stood up, a lone bell at the top of the temple was blown by the wind and rang. The three of us gathered and, facing the trees, our backs to the Wat, we cried for our lost Andy and this connection a world away.

We asked Phet about Andy's ashes, some of which we brought. He disappeared and ten minutes later came back with a proposal that we build a stupa among the others into which we entomb the ashes. None of us felt then or now that we wanted to confine Andy to such a place, that, rather, we should pour him into a river, let him flow into the sea, play with the carp, the seabirds, the sunlight, so that we can find him, again.

We left and thanked Phet, knowing we would see him again.

Napakuang Resort

Napakuang is well-known in the Vientiane Province, Napakuang means Deer Field, in the past this field was full out of deer, they had been living here for a long time. It belonged to rice field after people had settled village after moving from the north of Laos during the second war. It still keeps only smell of deer in the present time. So it makes visitors being closer forest and mountain easily.

We have well prepared our experienced team to welcome you whether you are from abroad or not. Let’s your weekend relax is a great holiday.!
—From the Napakuang website (http://www.napakuang.com)

The place we stayed for two weeks, while the team did its training at the hospital is called Napakuang or Napa Kuang Resort. In Lao, there are no spaces between written words, and though the two separate words Napa Kuang mean "Deer Field," as we enter the gates of the resort, I see the sign "Napakuang." To the right, just past the gate, there is a statue of three deer. The deer no longer roam the rice fields around the property. Napakuang is located at the edge of Ban Thinkeo, at the west end of the dirt road that winds through Ban Thalot.

When we first drove in, it was hard to get a sense of the place. On the left, or south side, of  the large parking area in the center of the property is a two-story building with what looked like hotel rooms. On the southwest side of the parking lot, there is a small hut with three cement walls and a thatched roof. Ten meters to the south of this is another larger similar building. On the north, there are beautiful plantings, a fish pond, a building, and an open porch.

We all checked in and received our rooms. Disty and I had what they had called a "Deluxe" room. And as we walked into what would be our home for the next two weeks, it was certainly comfortable, with a big double bed on the left, a combination wooden valet and dresser on the right. The room featured air conditioning, a tv, and a more-or-less western-style bathroom. Since we brought very little, it didn't take very long to unpack and explore.

I wanted to see the badminton courts and the fishing house that is advertised on their website, which I thought would be my entertainment in what I thought would be leisure time. I headed out with my computer in hand, in case I could find some internet. There were signs everywhere that there was free Wifi at the restaurant, so I headed in the direction I thought would be the restaurant, across the parking area, towards the north and the porch. There was a pervasive smell in the air of burning wood and plumeria.

The fishing house was not recognizable and was being used as a bath house by the locals who seemed to live on the east side of the house along a dirt road. Below the porch where I stood, between me and the fishing house, down 10 rickety stairs, was the badminton court. The badminton court looked abandoned, unpainted, no net, but it did have a judge's chair and a pair of light stands, one at each side of the net, each holding a 4 x 4 piece of plywood angled toward the court and dotted with a combination of incandescent bulbs, fluorescent lights of various sizes, and strings of wires. It looked forlorn and abandoned. I was disappointed, because I hoped I would be able to play and replace my usual diet of tennis with some similar activity. To the left of the badminton court, an empty rectangular dirt pit, the length of the badminton court and perhaps 3 meters wide, lay.

The porch I was standing on was level to the parking lot and rooms. To the west of the "athletic center," there was a small lake with a bridge to an island with a cluster of new cottages. The restaurant part of the resort overlooked the lake, but it was roped off and people were busy putting varnish on the floor. It smelled awful.

There were a few tables in a terraced sitting area below the restaurant to the east and overlooking the lake and courts. I sat at one of the six picnic tables made from tree trunks, opened my computer, and was magically connected to the world and my New York Times home page, all the news that's fit to print.

We met that afternoon as a team in one of the two conference rooms at the resort, a beautiful room in a building just to the east of the path to the badminton courts, set up with three long rows of tables, with seating for about 100 people in a hotel elegance that was befitting heads of state. Here the 12 of us met and talked about the week ahead and prepared for the next day's events, cotraining training and our opening party.

By evening, the floors of the restaurant were dry, the smell was gone, and we ate up on the porch of the restaurant at a table in the northwest corner overlooking the lake. Everyone in our group was still in a combination of time zones, and we retired early to our rooms. Many of us filtered out to this spot during various times of the night and morning, over the next few days, sleepless from time change and feeling the need to prepare or catch up with the incessant work of the training. This area became our unofficial headquarters.

The first morning, I woke early in the dark, around 3, found my way to the porch and listened to the plaintive cries of the kittens and the chickens and the cows on the hills around. After sunrise, at about 6:30, we were served a breakfast of eggs, bacon, ham, french bread and butter and jam, and lettuce and tomato. And the young women who were our servers prepared cafe Lao at a small table set up by the railing overlooking the lake. The morning air was foggy and cool, maybe 55 degrees F, as it would be every morning throughout our stay. Later in the day, it would warm to 80 or so, but the morning air was cool enough so that I wore a sweater.

The first day proved to be the rule of our training: be prepared to change. This was partly due to what I would term "facts on the ground." It created a need to be constantly ready to do something new or redo something already done. This day, Sunday, we were preparing for cotrainer training, which did not happen, and the opening banquet, which did.

Before we needed to get ready for the banquet, we explored a bit outside the gates, down the dirt road about 5 minutes walk, past the puppies and chickens and turkeys and lovely neighbors, into the market, where we found almost everything we would need, for sale. I bought shampoo and shaving cream in a tube, and we wandered through the marketplace looking for exotica and reminders of home.

Guests arrived at about 6 and filtered into the conference room where everyone from each team, Lao and HLI was introduced. A few speeches were made, and we moved to the dinner part of the evening, back out at the restaurant, perhaps 60 of us at long tables. A Lao band hired by HLI started playing and we all began dancing, notably the servers joined us and everyone in the place was in a large circle dancing the lamvong, men on the inside women on the outside. We were taught a few moves by the Lao women, doctors and servers, but every once in a while each of the non-Lao among us would throw in a little twist or watusi, which would set everyone into fits of laughter. One song had us holding our ear or raising our arm or lifting our leg as instructed by the singer as we moved counterclockwise, three steps forward and two steps back. This definitely broke the ice for our group, and we all danced until the wee hours of the evening. By 9:30, we were all in bed and ready to meet up again at some untold hour of the morning to fight off sleeplessness and prepare for the first day of our training.

***

During a long a busy week for us, the badminton courts were painted and the lights repaired. It turned out that the dirt rectangle next to the badminton courts was a bacci court. On the weekend, Chip and I found badminton racquets and birdies ("pik gai") in the market. Badminton was the connection to the community and Napakuang became like home to me. The servers became friends, the neighbors became our badminton partners, and I learned to count, exhort, and play in Lao. I also learned to appreciate Lao hospitality and kindness towards us and each other. Each evening the courts would be full of people of all ages, some playing some just hitting, some just standing around, all on one court.

As the two weeks went by, the resort was home to many government agencies and NGOs—the Red Cross, Concern, The Ministry of Transportation, Ministry of Foreign Affairs—an ever-changing who's who of Lao development a few hours from the city. The place would alternately be hopping and desolate, but the feeling of the place remained constant. It was a first class place to stay, with a first-class athletic facility, although the fishing house was never used for anything but a community bath house, as far as I could tell.

Lao-Vientiane Hospital

The two weeks we spent teaching in Vientiane Province at the Lao-Vientiane Provincial Hospital, I am sad to tell you, were remarkably within my comfort zone. The work, which was constant and all-consuming, was not unlike the work at home in the way that I engaged with it. This has led me to believe that the experience of work is a deeply personal one, but one that is within a small range. We specialize. We bring to it what we carry. Our baskets full of what we have been taught, what we believe to be right, and a way of seeing the world. Perhaps, if I worked in a rice field, as Andy did, or as a river boat driver or carried rice over my shoulder, like poor Justice, in a pair of evenly-weighted woven baskets or climbed the green and brown mountains with a basket strapped to my back, like the many little boys and girls I saw from the VIP bus, and spent the day collecting firewood for my mother, I would feel different. Or, perhaps, like Ajahn David, whom I met last week in Vientiane, I could leave the world as I know it, become a monk, move to the forests to meditate among the last-remaining tigers and elephants, who are themselves in crisis, and engage with my world in a different way. I have come away feeling that I will need to be more uncomfortable to do something really important.

We spent the two weeks training three groups: the hospital staff, the district health workers, and other hospital administrators. The training was divided into clinical, English, and leadership classes. I spent the time leading up to the training preparing book materials for the training. I had prepared three books for the team: 1) a clinical training book of PowerPoint slides with English versions on left hand pages and Lao versions, translated by doctors from the hospital, on the right and 2) a small behavioral health book comprised of Lao-translated chapters from Where Women Have No Doctor and 3) a small reproductive health book comprised of Lao-translated chapters from Where Women Have No Doctor. I was most proud of the first book which was helpful to the clinical trainees and solidified in black and white the importance of getting the Lao right. The second two books were iterations, as I see it, on something I may or may not do in the future but that has broad importance to the Lao people, creating literate and accurate handbooks for health for the Lao people.

Much of my time was spent keeping organizing and collecting new PowerPoint translations and/or English presentations in a format that was appropriate and thinking about the best ways to distribute this information going forward. In order to make sure there was an authoritative collection, I would store them on my computer and parcel them out to others using usb drives. Not an ideal solution for collaboration in the field, and if we do this, again, I would want to bring along a small computer network from which trainers and trainees could access and add content. I spent a remarkable amount of time walking from the little house that was our headquarters located on the outer edge of the hospital grounds through the back entrance of the open air hospital restaurant—where people were always washing pots and dishes outside, tending the open fire, chopping vegetables, rolling rolls on the outside tables—through the 6 table restaurant into the open air walkways surrounded by well-tended gardens to the main office, where I would ask for help copying. The ladies of the office were very nice to me, always correcting my Lao, eventually succumbing to English when things got complicated: like the time, towards the end, when I needed certificates of completion printed in color, and the office staff and I spent half an hour working it out in Lao, until one of my most accomplished English students, Xaiphone, came by and was able to interpret.

I also helped Chip, as the A-V team, making sure that everyone had what they needed in the classrooms. I, also, when nothing else was needed, doubled as the photographer, taking pictures of classrooms, people, events. Disty and I gathered over 1,000 images of the two weeks and put together a slide show that I showed to the musical accompaniment of "We are Family" at the final ceremony, on Thanksgiving day. I will try posting it, somehow.

I also spent every day, from 12-1:30, helping to teach and, occasionally, teaching on my own an English class comprised mostly of nurses. I enjoyed this immensely. It was fun and energetic. But I wondered, constantly, about the value of teaching English, and they knew far more than we taught them, and I worried we were teaching down. I came to love this group of people and wish that I could have engaged with them even more.

***

By the way, I am sitting outside in Luang Prabang, with time now, writing this. A pair of brown large dogs just jogged by, one wearing a faded red t-shirt.

***

The hospital is located in the Phonhong District of Vientiane Province. Laos is divided into eighteen Provinces and each of these into multiple Districts. Vientiane Province, with its seven districts is distinct from Vientiane Municipality, which comprises the urban area surrounding the capital city. Vientiane Province is located just north of the capital city of Vientiane. It is relatively wealthy. It has easy access to the city, high literacy rate and level of education, employment, services, transportation, and health care. The hospital was built over the last decade with support primarily from the Duchy of Luxembourg. It is a beautiful one-story building that provides the necessary infrastructure to deliver healthcare to the Province.

Health Leadership International has gone there to train the people in the hospital and those who deliver care throughout the District. They use a "train the trainer" model to drive knowledge and expertise top down into the districts and villages that need it most.
Their approach is different from that of other NGOs operating in health care, here in Laos. I have started to believe that their approach leaves the most opportunity to let the Lao people find the tools to deliver their own solutions, thereby leaving the smallest cultural footprint. The people of Laos need so much, and they need to find creative ways to deliver "modern" life-sustaining care, without sucking the life-blood from their culture.

From the statistics we see, it is clear that pre- and postnatal care are areas of great need, with Laos statistically twice the World average in infant mortality. Every 8 in 100 children born in Laos will die before they reach the age of 5. I hope there is a way to stop the hurt of losing children. I want to find something meaningful to do.

In Luang Prabang

I am sitting in Luang Prabang. It is Friday, December 4, early—6:29 am. We arrived last night after a long, beautiful, and meditative bus ride from Vientiane, winding north.

We were scheduled to get the 8 o'clock VIP (air-conditioned) bus from Vientiane, but the bus company's pickup tuk tuk didn't arrive until 7:45 and we were picking up others along the way, so we arrived late, but in time for the 9 o'clock bus. No one was sure there was an 8 o'clock bus. The 9 o'clock bus we were put on was a beautiful electric pink double decker, it's upper story windows dressed with scalloped pink tasseled curtains. We had our choice of seats, which were comfortable-looking, reclining, and velour-covered. Each seat pair had different amounts of legroom and we pick the ones opposite the steps to the mid-cabin exit door, which also, we discover, are the steps to the bathroom. We left slightly before 9. We were on this road before, and I recognized many things along the way—the rock formations, the road-side villages, the danger around every curve. Our driver is young, careful, but tough and always a bit out of control. He drove in a compartment on the first floor of the bus with his wife/girlfriend at his side. There are two other guys who were engineers/assistants who occasionally did helpful things. We stopped often for unknown reasons. Sometimes people got off or on. Once for our driver to pee by the side of the road overlooking the most amazing view of mountain and valley, green with palm and thatching and not a person to be seen or to be seen by. We stopped for lunch. We had a bowl of fe (soup) provided by the bus company at a roadside guest house—noodles, soup, a few small pieces of chicken, greens. About five hours into the journey we began heading downhill. Brakes screaching, the smell of asbestos, rubber, metal burning, the driver or friends turned on Lao music, and we were suddenly in a movie: music up, pink curtains dancing, sun setting, hurtling down the mountain to the holy old city of Luang Prabang. The nine hours disappeared with the light. We moved through time and space. I know we had been here, before; I know we will be here, again. It was comforting in its familiarity and safety, It was comforting in its strangeness and danger.

We found the guesthouse that Andy picked out for us when we arrived three years ago. I remember Disty and I meeting Andy and Chip, who had been traveling together. How we strained our necks in customs at Luang Prabang to get a glimpse of Andy, whom we hadn't seen in over six month. When we did, I was taken aback at how handsome and healthy he looked. He brought us by tuk tuk to this lovely simple guesthouse that he had picked for our comfort. Of course, last night, we wanted to stay here again, and in a city of change, this guesthouse is as I remember.

Luang Prabang does not smell the same. The thick smokey air is gone, replaced by the neutral smell of cleanliness. I am sitting in an open sitting area on the porch of the Sayo River Guesthouse, in one of a pair of wooden, padded love seats made from the trunk of a tree, across from the Mekong, waiting for the monks to arrive for alms. The two men at the desk have just awakened, removed the mosquito netting from around them, folded up the cot, and have wandered across the street to the river. There is no sign of the monks—no women lined up on their beautiful Lao-woven mats ready to give sticky rice, snacks, or money.

Money is everywhere here. There is opulence and good taste is every new building. It is not possible we discovered, in the center of the city to get a simple Lao meal. This is progress, but I am very disappointed that the smokey air has been cleared and that the simple sound of bare feet has been replaced by an empty silence.

The women are all off to work now, setting up their stalls on the river. The two men from the guesthouse are now playing badminton in the monkless street and a dog is barking. This city is a sign of progress and how gentrification can beautify, lift a place out of poverty, and suck the life-blood out. But I am confused, wouldn't Walt Disney have kept the monks, the incense and the alms-giving in the picture?

Disty has just come back for her run and reports that they changed the route of the alms giving and that hundreds of tourists are taking pictures of them in the center of town. The two men are finished playing badminton. I get a cup of coffee from the desk.

I miss the Luang Prabang we were in with Andy—the first and most lasting impression of Lao—looking at his beautiful face as I had my first taste of Laap and Beer Lao at the simple restaurant on the river's edge. Thank goodness the Sayo River Guest House is still here. We are blessed, and I will gladly give up something for that.

Happy Thanksgiving

I am thankful for my family, my friends, food, my house, my health, my animals, and the chance to be in Laos. Today, we were given a baci ceremony at the hospital. A baci ceremony imparts good wishes and luck on the honorees, and we were blessed, as we have been for the last two weeks by the people of Laos, the hospital staff, and the doctors and nurses with whom we are working. My wrists are covered by the strings tied to them by each individual who wished my good health, happy journeys, wealth, and that we come back again next year. The ceremony was attended by 100 people and at the beginning Disty, Chip, and I were called up and the Hospital Director and our leader dedicated the two weeks we just spent to Andy. I weeped. I think it was probably not culturally appropriate, but I am giving myself a pass on this one. Each of the 12 volunteers was given a personalized handmade tray with his and her name woven in, a handmade metal ornament, and a certificate.

I miss you all and wish I could be there or you could be here to share this day. But we are safe in Laos, as are the turkeys who live up the lane, whom Disty caught in the picture above. Happy Thanksgiving.

To Napa Kuang Resort

We arrived in Vientiane at the Hongkham Hotel. There we were to meet up with most of our fellow trainers: Phoumy, Reba & Cam, Billy & Julie, whom we had not met before, and Bill and Suzie, whom we had met a month earlier in Boston. We had known them as voices on the phone, and it will good to put faces with names. They all had arrived the day before, after crossing the Friendship Bridge, and had spent the night at the Hongkham. We will be returning to this hotel in two weeks, after we finish the training at the Lao-Vientiane Hospital and come back to the city, where Disty will teach at the University.

Our fellow trainers had gone out for a walk and had not yet returned, so Chip and I wait in the lobby, while Disty went off to change money. I realize I should take this opportunity to do something productive, so I ask at the desk in my best Lao (not good): Excuse me, but where is the bathroom? If the lobby bathroom is any indication, this new hotel will be quite comfortable. One curious feature, for fellow bathroom aficionados, the wall between the men's and women's room was a half wall and stopped about seven feet up.

The hotel is located a few doors down from the hotel where we stayed three years ago when Andy, Chip, Disty, and I were here last. It is curiously not hard seeing these places we shared with Andy. They bring up very warm feelings of being all together. In my previous post, I forgot to mention the toll booth we had passed on the way to Vientiane which seemed curiously funny and random on the dirt highway last time we were here and curiously like home to me this time. The places here in the city where we were all together are familiar; when we get to the countryside, it will be new and different, with no memories of being with Andy, which in some ways may be harder.

After a few more minutes, our group arrives back, and we meet them all, load the two vans and one pickup truck with the six Rubbermaid tubs we brought filled with books and t-shirts and medical supplies and the fourteen tubs brought by the West Coast contingent, minus one that was missing at the airport and two that were still in route, filled with more books and supplies, everything we needed for three weeks of training.

Bill and Suzie joined us in our van with Keo and Sone, as we headed toward the Napa Kuang Resort, whatever that meant. The road was familiar. It was the same road we had driven south from Luang Prabang to Vientiane three years ago, but now we were heading north, into the province of Vientiane and to Bon Thalot.
Along the way, we stopped at a roadside market, where we bought fried banana chips, which we ate on the ride.

We spent the ride getting to now one another, better. Swapping stories about our most amazing experience traveling. I chose to tell the story about being in Thailand in Tamafiwan in the Lao-speaking part in the north. We had come to visit Andy's friends, Ouie and Anat. We were staying at Ouie's house. One late afternoon, we went to visit, Luong Bob, Andy's 70ish, ex-pat friend and former employer at the organic farm there. He was too ill to come outside and so he spoke with us from the second floor of his house, wooden shutters open, he sat at the window, as if he were in a stage production of Romeo and Juliet. We all sat on the ground under his window as the sun was setting and then said goodbye. Andy had already arranged for his friends to show us a sustainable house they had built on the grounds of a Wat nearby. As we left Luong Bob's, each of us hopped on the back of a motorcycle. Mine was driven by a man named Tao I had never met before. We drove on a rutted dirt road and into the woods along a rooted path. We came to a wooden bridge as the evening light was darting through the forest. The light was a golden brown as we crossed the bridge and suddenly came into a clearing of perfection: immaculate buildings at the edge of a circular road that bordered a flowering pond. Coming towards us all in white walked a solitary Buddhist nun, bathed in the muddy light. She radiated purity.

About an hour later, we came to a fork in the road. Sone pointed to the right and said the hospital was that way and that we would be going left towards the Napa Kuang Resort. We made the left and drove a few kms into the marketplace of Bon Thalot—past the bus station, where you can get a bus back to Vientiane every hour each day—into the impossibly crowded streets of motorcycles, pedestrians, trucks, dogs, cows, chickens, cats. There they are building a newer, more spacious market to alleviate traffic congestion. I think that it may be good for them, but I am still not sure that, for the people of Laos, all "progress" is good. They are a poor country, by many standards, but it is a rich, beautiful, and happy country to the eye and ear. A few moments later, we drive through the gates to the Napa Kuang Resort and into a large parking area surrounded on three sides by outbuildings.

Getting to Laos

The flight from Hong Kong to Bangkok was short. Once on the ground, we picked up our tubs, put them on three luggage carts, rolled through customs and immigration, and went to meet the greeter from the Floral Shire Hotel. By the time we stored our tubs at the baggage check, changed some money, and took the short ride in the van from the airport to the hotel, it was 7:45 pm. We tried a little Lao on our driver, but he spoke only Thai. After turning off the airport access road, we were surrounded by the sights and smells of Bangkok, and memories of being here with Andy in 2006 came flooding in. Every motorbike brought a pang of fear: be careful young woman, family, father, mother, child. Why do some survive; where is the equity in that? The tuk tuk drivers, the markets, the street food: all "ahan dta,"  a feast for the eyes. We turned down a narrow street, where even more details of peoples lives were packed into even smaller spaces: cars in kitchens, dogs in restaurants, a snooker table in a garage that had become a night club. We pulled into the Floral Shire, a fairly new and attractive building at the end of the street. The room was clean and fresh; the hotel obviously well cared for by Floral, the young woman who ran the place. We were put into Tulip 4, a two-floor suite with a circular stair and a blacony (from which we could smoke, accoring to the sign). We were in the three comfy beds by 8:30, asleep by 9, and I was awake by 11:30 pm, ready for the day. What day? It would turn out to be a very long and unsuccessful night in Bangkok trying to get some sleep.

Morning finally came, and we went downstairs to breakfast in the garden. At 7 am, it was already getting hot. We had an hour to eat and get back in the van for the airport. Breakfast was American: a fried egg, toast, frankfurter-like sausage, fruit, an unnamed lunch meat, tomatoes, cucumbers and a carafe of Nescafe.

Off the airport to fly to UdanThani, Thailand, pick up our tubs, check them into Thai airways, head through security and onto the short 55 minute flight to UdanThani, near the border crossing at the Friendship Bridge. Although we didn't know it, we had a celebrity aboard the flight—teen idol Zoomi, and when we landed and rolled all of our luggage outside the baggage area, his fans were screaming, shooting pictures, carrying electronic placards with his name in neon lights. Amidst all of the excitement, Sone, our guide into Laos, was waiting for us when we arrived. We loaded our tubs into the van, and our driver Keo and Sone took off for Laos. Along the way, we chatted in simple Lao and more complicated English. Sone, or Sonny, who was born in Laos, lived in Germany for over a decade. Keo, the driver, said very little, and I presumed he spoke no English, but it turned out that he and Sone are neighbors and had lived in Germany together. Sone had been hired by our NGO to help with arrangements on the ground, something he is very good at.

About forty-five minutes after we were picked up, we got to the border of Thailand and Laos which is the Friendship Bridge. The Friendship Bridge spans the Mekong, the natural boundary that the French and British used to demarcate their colonial interests. This created the divide between countries but not people, as there are more Lao-speaking people on the west side of the river, in Thailand, than there are in all of Laos.

Sone made the border crossing easy, as he guided us on where to stand and what forms to fill out. In the meantime, Keo drove through the border with our tubs and other bags, leaving us without any customs issues. All we had to do is smile and say "Sawaidee" "Kup Kuhn Kup" on the Thai side and "Sabaidee" and "Kop Chai" as we entered Laos.

From the Friendship Bridge, it was a short ride to Vientiane, where we were meeting the rest of our team. As we neared the capital, Sone decided it would be best to stop and have a little lunch at a restaurant along the roadside not far from the Beerlao factory. One of our Lao teachers back home, Ajahn Wern, has a brother works on a farm near here, and I think we must have been close to his house. We had brought along a pair of hiking boots, a few shirts, and a jacket for Ajahn Wern's brother. We will be delivering these to a Wat in Vientiane, when we return in a few weeks.

We walked into the restaurant, which was filled, according to Sone, with people from the city who had come to have a great meal at a great price. As we walked in, we stopped at the entrance and washed our hands in the sink and sort of dried them on a towel that had probably been there since the restaurant opened. We sat down at a table overlooking the farmland with a large pond or lake next door. Goats were playing on the other side of the water. Sone ordered us fe (soup) and he and Keo and I ordered some Beerlaos. Ahh, Beerlao. There is something about it that makes it taste better than any other beer. Light and cold, drunk with ice, it is the perfect pairing for spicy Lao food. The fe and beer were delicious, and all the memories of being here with Andy came flooding in. The smells, the sounds, the sights, the people. Who could not love this country? There we were sitting down for our first meal, connecting, finally, with the place that Andy loved.

We crossed the main street, carefully avoiding the motorcycles and cars, and got back into the van to head into Vientiane proper and meet up with our soon-to-be constant companions and take the ride into the province to our site.

List of Publishing-Related Things I Want to Figure Out or Do in Laos (Take 1)

Not necessarily in this order...
1. Can I help? How?
2. How much of health care need is due to lack of health information? What are the other needs?
3. Is electronic distribution of content a possibility to remote areas? How best?
4. What are the language barriers? How many languages? Written or oral? Literacy?
5. Is it Health or Culture improved content delivery can most help? Or something else?
6. Is there a use and place for a POS (Print on Site) device like the Espresso? What about power, maintenance, supplies?
7. What percent of the population have cell phones? In rural areas?
8. What electronic devices will be widely available in remote areas?
9. Meet people in the Minister of Culture and Information's Publishing and Libraries Department
10. Meet Madame Dara and David Wharton and learn about the Palm Leaf digitizing projects. Think about digitizing. Visit Atiz in Thailand on way home?
11. Spend a lot of time at Dokked Books and meet Duang Duane.
12. Meet Peter Kovet. Other writers. Colin Cotteril?
13. Think about translations into Lao. Meet Ajahn Siri at the university.
14. Find out more about Sasha's Big Brother Mouse project.
15. Honor Andy.

String Ceremony

It is 2:12 am Lao time. We are passing over Godhavn after passing Godthab in our Cathay Pacific  Flight CX0841 from JFK->Hong Kong. I will look these godly places up when I am able to get online when we arrive in Bangkok this afternoon.

We have 10:28 left in our flight, and I have had brunch and watched the Pixar movie Up and read a few stories in a collection of short stories, Mother’s Beloved published by Silkworm Books, with an introduction by Peter Koret , written by the late, most prominent Lao author, Outhine Buonyavong.

In strict opposition to everything that is right in the world, we are blessed with seats in business class, thanks to our American Airlines Citibank MasterCard, with which we have freely bought groceries and other goods over the last decade. The MasterCard racks up an airline mile for every dollar spent; we used the miles to buy our tickets and had enough to fly Business Class one way. That’s probably enough food to feed a Lao village for a lifetime; but, nonetheless, it is a very cushy ride. We will take our usual rightful place in Economy Class upon our return home to Boston on December 12.

There is a camera under the wing of the plane that I can select on my personal monitor in my pod. It looks desolate out there. Perhaps we are flying over Greenland or the Arctic, now. The camera quality is not good, but there’s also an interactive map that lets me see where on our flight path we are. I am listening to the track “Mesk Elil”  on Souad Massi’s Honeysuckle album, and everything in the cabin is dark, except the reading light and the video monitor and my computer. If you could find the track and play it while you read this, you would understand my mood.. Someday , books may look like that, bringing in visual, audio, and textual components to create literature of a sort, with different more salient leitmotivs that allow someone like me to manipulate my audience. For now, all I can do is tell you that I keep replaying the song.

I have been thinking about music and its effect on me as a trigger for bouts of sobbing. I am worried that recently I have become like (or returned to being) a seventh-grade girl (sorry to any reading this) as I drive in my car and listen to the same songs over and over that all take on new meaning of loss. Like “Dreams on Fire” from the Slumdog Millionaire soundtrack, which I have taken to be about Andy:

You are my waking dream

You’re all that’s real to me

You are my magic in the world I see

You are the prayer I sing

You brought me to my knees

You are the faith that made me believe

Dreams on fire

Higher and higher

Ashes burning

Right on the pyre

But then again, the dark secret of my musical taste is that I have always been a sentimental listener, feeling a cosmic emptiness through music that makes my voice quake as I belt out my falsetto versions of my favorite dark sentimental songs that I embue with my own meanings. I only do it when I’m alone. Don’t tell Disty. Perhaps it’s healing.

But, I got sidetracked, what I really want to write about is the ceremony that we were invited to attend on Wednesday night by Ajahn Bounxay in an email he sent us on Sunday. He said that the monks at Wat Buddhabhavana wanted to have the ceremony to give us good luck on our journey.

The monks have been our teachers over the last six months, teaching us Lao language and Lao culture and Lao Buddhist practices. They have invited us into their community and have opened their hearts to us. In Laos and other Buddhist places in the world, the monks have a very high status. In Lao, there are special pronouns and words reserved for use in speaking with monks, they sit higher and eat earlier than others.  They make Buddhism seem very appealing, and there are probably some of my friends and family think I will become a Buddhist. I am not sure I could ever be a Buddhist, because I have this issue with all religion. Nevertheless, I love these monks and the community around the Wat and they have loved us back as evidenced by the invitation. We are connected to them, and through them to Laos.

By the way it is now 4:40 am—8:13 left in the flight—and I haven’t gotten to my point—the string ceremony. We left the house tired and stressed and arrived at the Wat at 4 pm on Wednesday. In the sala (sanctuary), everything was ready for us and they sat us in plastic lawn chairs that had been setup for the meditation class that was scheduled for later that evening. Jason, a novice monk, was asked by Ajahn Wern to fill a metal dish a third full with water.

Seven monks were there, including Ajahn David, an American-born monk, who explained with patience and detail the ceremony and its meaning. First saffron-colored, string-thick, long tapers were cut  for each of us: the circumference of each of our heads, another the distance between our throats and belly buttons, and another the length of the tip of our fingers to our elbows. These represented us. These tapers were intertwined into one long braid.

After responsive chanting about Buddha, Dhamma, and us, the monks drew a spool of string from the hand of Buddha through the hands of the monks and around our necks. Ajahn David suggested we relax and meditate on the auspicious chanting. As the monks chanted, Ajahn Bounkeau lit our tapers and I became transfixed by the fire and water. He found a way to make the flames dance in the water, as the monk’s chanting vibrated inside me. I was in this state until Ajahn Bounkeau took out a brush and sprinkled us with water. This is a common ritual and every time it happens it startles me. And each time I vow the next I will not be startled. But I am.

We were then presented with bracelets and blessed. It was quite moving. I wanted to make a speech thanking them, but all I could get out was: Thank You for opening your hearts to us. I hope they all know how important they have been to me and what a blessing they have bestowed upon us.

5:10 am. 7:44 left, and we haven’t even had lunch, yet. I hope I don’t run out of time.

Getting Ready to Go

Spent a busy day getting all the last minute details finished. Tubs all packed and weighed; filled with newly printed books, t-shirts of hearts and lungs, certificates, blank paper, suturing material, Resusci Annes, catheters, some miscellaneous clothes, shampoo, contact lens solution, razor and shaving cream, etc. Hopefully, we will be able to check these 49 pounders all the way through to Udan Thani. Flight leaves at 6 am. Our friend and Disty's running partner, MJ, picks us up at 4:15. Stay tuned; with 24 hours in the air, there will be time to reconstruct the events of the last few months.

Library Genome Project

My family must trace back its DNA to Alexandria. Libraries are in our genes.

As far back as I remember, libraries were a major part of our family. Libraries and bathrooms. In fact, we used to call the bathroom the library, when I was growing up in our one-bathroom home in Levittown, NY. As a peculiar corollary, many in the family had a peculiar need to use the bathroom, whenever we entered a library. We went to the library as other families would go to the movies. And our house was full of books from the library. More than anyone every would or could read.

My father certainly carried the gene and perhaps, as well, my mother. My brother became a reading specialist. My sister got a degree in linguistics, became a teacher and writer. And I became a publisher.

My wife, Disty, consumes books, but I wouldn't say she has the gene. But the gene is very dominant. Like right-handedness, dimples, or hanging, rather than attached, earlobes. The library gene was passed to my children, Andy and Chip.

Andy, a collector of books about everything, bought books and borrowed books and spent most of his time in libraries, soaking up knowledge and feeling comfort in the Petri dish of his ancestral genetic material.  When he went to visit Marlboro College, Andy returned excited that he had met the librarian and that the library was open 24 hours a day. Four years later, almost finished college, while he was home writing his final "plan of concentration", what to Marlboro is like a thesis to other colleges, he and I spent many days building shelves in his room to house his highly organized and amazing collection of books on his special interests: psychology, pharmacology, philosophy, poetry, sustainability, and, of course, Southeast Asia. He left for Southeast Asia a year ago this past May, with every book just so. A library-like organization. We all go into his room, since he died, and breath in his soul that lives in his books surrounding his room.

Tomorrow, we go to Marlboro for the first time since Andy's graduation last year, which he didn't go to because he wanted instead to head to Southeast Asia to get started with life. We go, tomorrow, to honor Andy with a collection of books in his name at a place that is marked with his genetic stuff—The Marlboro College's Rice-Aron Library. Tomorrow, we will dedicate The Andrew Pearson Zuckerman Collection on Southeast Asia. It is a wonderful gift from my mother, to whom and for which we are all so grateful. These few words will mark the collection: "Andrew Pearson Zuckerman (1984-2009) graduated from Marlboro College with High Honors in 2008. He wrote his Plan of Concentration on 'Poverty in Laos.' This collection honors his love of the Lao people, among whom he lived and died, and his love of Marlboro College, where his generous spirit will live on through his loving friends."

As my DNA dictates, I'll no doubt hit the bathroom before the ceremony begins.

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For anyone wishing to contribute books or money, contributions can be sent to: The Andrew Zuckerman Collection/Aron-Rice Library/Marlboro College/2582 South Road/Marlboro, VT 05344-0300

Follow the Reader

Yesterday, I attended a conference in Newburyport, MA sponsored by Firebrand, a company that provides back-end software that helps publishers track and generate marketing information on books and authors. We are just starting to use the software through our relationship with Ingram Publisher Services. Firebrand is a 20-plus person organization that has been around for 20-plus years and is now getting its due at a time when publishers are finding that generating accurate and enriched metadata and content is becoming more and more important. Not just from a marketing perspective: the tea leaves in the publishing cup are definitely reading a revolution in what we think of as a book. Fran Toolan, the warm and brilliant visionary who is Firebrand, put together an energetic program that is one of the greatest bargains in the publishing conference schedule.

The theme of this year's 2nd annual conference is: "Follow the Reader."  And it is described on the conference website:

Borrowed from the name of the popular blog hosted at NetGalley.com; it seems a very appropriate context for us all to be thinking as we take the time to explore the changes and challenges in publishing today.  After all, it is the readers, who serve as the ultimate arbiter of taste, and ultimately the people who support all of us through their purchases.  As technologies become simpler and more ubiquitous, we all need to keep our eyes on what READERS are doing and how they want to be served by our industry.

The keynote address was given by Andrew Savikas, VP of Digital Initiatives at O'Reilly Media, publishers of the famous computer books with the animals on the covers. Andrew made the case that publishing, at least for O'Reilly and their international audience of computer geeks and wannabe-geeks, the trend is clear. More delivery of books and other content to smartphones via apps and ebooks. With the world's population skipping the infastructure of the landline telephone, more than half the world's population has a cellphone. That means that for many remote populations, they now have the only library/bookstore they need, right in their hands.

As we begin preparing for our trip to Laos, I am inspired by the opportunity to deliver medical information to places where there are no doctors. As publishers are trying to solve their own problems, perhaps the greatest victory will be for, as an example, the mother in Laos whose child has just been burned.

Happy Birthday

Today is Andy's birthday. I woke up this morning thinking about the Lao medical dictionary I am working on with the monks from Wat Buddhabhavana. Disty is making a feast tonight for Chip, who is fasting today, and me and my mother, Selma, and my brother and sister-in law, Larry and Carol. I will spend most of the day reorganizing the library room where Andy is. We did some work on the west side of the house, and I needed to paint the windows and walls. That is now done, and I can put everything back into place. It will be peaceful spending time puttering around with his spirit swirling in my head. I guess that is surprising to me—how often I want to be immersed in the reality of his death, which means, mostly, in the end, celebrating his life.

I think I figured out how I am going to present the Lao medical dictionary online and in print. I built a mysql database for sukhapaab.org this morning, and I am now thinking about the sturcture of the tables and fields. What I am hoping is that it will be useful for Lao people. When I have a test of the dictionary, I will put a link to it here. I am hoping that will be in the next week.

Yesterday, I went to the Wat at 10 am for a meeting to discuss future plans for a senior/youth center for the Lao community. Ajahn Mangkone invited Disty and me to join the group. The Wat has been a place of great connectedness for me: learning Lao, giving service to the Lao community, and encouraging calm and happiness. Ajahn is an advanced soul; I will do anything Ajahn asks.

At this meeting, there was a long discussion of death and dying and how Lao people were much more in touch with the process, about the open cremation and how relatives would pick up the bones and personal articles, such as rings and jewelry, of the deceased with long chopsticks. I couldn't help thinking about Andy, as I saw him last, touching his hair and hoping he would be safe on his journey.

Where There is No Doctor

When we first decided to volunteer for Sukhapaab, I had a brief conversation with Susan Reba McIntyre ("Reba"), who is the Executive Director of Health Leadership International and Sukhapaab, about what might be involved in publishing for our first trip this coming November. She asked if I was familiar with Where There is No Doctor, published by the Hesperian Foundation. I was not. After I got off the phone with Reba, Disty, who was familiar with the book, produced a copy from Andy's library. Of course.

I later learned that, according to Wikipedia, "Where There is No Doctor is the most widely used health education book in tropical and sub-tropical developing countries. Based on David Werner's experiences at his Project Piaxtla in western Mexico, it was originally written in Spanish as Donde No Hay Doctor. It has since been revised and has sold over one million copies and been translated into over 100 languages."

Reba then sent me a Lao translation of the book, along with a Lao translation of Where Women Have No Doctor, also published by the Hesperian Foundation. The Lao translation was produced by the Mennonite Central Committee in Vientiane, capital of Laos. The texts were typed with a Lao typewriter. She told me that these were the essential materials they had used and would like to use in our upcoming November Lao training program. Furthermore, she sent, along with the books, cds of the books in pdf (they were typed with Lao typewriters, so no digital keystrokes were captured), Lao fonts, and miscellaneous other useful information. My role with Sukhapaab would be to figure out how to print and publish these in various forms. And in the process, create meaning for myself, Sukhapaab and, most importantly, the Lao people.

Pasa Lao ພາສາລາວ

Before he died, Andy learned to speak Lao fluently and was learning Khmu and perhaps a few other ethnic languages. Pasa Lao, as the language is known in Lao, is the language of the Lao people and the official language of Laos PDR. Lao is a Tai language of the Kradai language family. Today, there are between 15 and 25 million people who speak Lao, if you include the people of Isan, in the northeast of Thailand. It is a tonal language, with most dialects using six tones: middle, high, rising, high rising, high falling, and low falling.

When Andy died, Chip, Disty, and I each and all decided we would like to learn Lao. I can't remember exactly how we all came to this decision, but I remember looking through Andy's things that came back with his body—language books, music tapes, boxes with Lao print, a wooden token, a Lao computer keyboard—each of them speaking to me: Learn Lao, Dad. And over the last many months, I have faithfully followed the clues I am being given to the scavenger hunt of meaning that is now my new life.

Through many connections, including the people we are joining in the Sukhapaab project, we found Wat Buddhabhavana, where we discovered Venerable Ajahn Mangkone Dhammadharo (in photo at left) and the other Lao monks and people who are now patiently teaching us Lao. But woe to poor Ajahn Bounxay and Ajahn Wern, our beloved teachers, I am an intolerable student, with a poor memory and a laughably deaf ear for the tones and unusual sounds of a beautiful musical language. Nevertheless, the hour and a half that I spend in Lao class every week makes me joyful. I have learned the alphabet and can read and type, now, slowly. Enough so that I can start to prepare books for our journey and find meaning in helping to publish medical books and help distribute content in Pasa Lao through print, web, and cell phone, with a lot of help from my friends.

Connected

We are all connected. On March 7 of this year, a week after my son Andy died in a motorcycle accident in Bokeo Province in Laos, there was a memorial service. Andy was loved by many and, not surprisingly, the Old Town Hall of Bedford, MA was overflowing with family and friends of Andy, of Chip (my younger son), of Disty (my wife), and of me. I don't remember everything about that day, but what stands out is that I floated on a river of love. Each person who came to hug me and whom I hung onto like a life raft was connected through their own loss: fathers, mothers, siblings, children, friends, whomever. And each whispered a story that drew me up and reminded me of how important it is, even in the face of inevitable loss, to love. And as I bobbed in the fresh, dark and turbid river of loss—nauseous, out-of-body, and barely conscious, I could feel the rivers of each of our lives rushing together, tributaries in what I've learned is life's greatest river. Without our family and friends, we surely would have gone under. And now we are connected like never before.

This November 12, Chip, Disty, and I go to Laos to honor Andy. We join Sukhapaab: Disty teaching medicine, Chip teaching English, and I publishing medical books and blogging—each of us trying to connect with our lost beloved brother and son through the people he loved and the place he intended to invest with his life, Laos.