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.