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.