Landing
There are only 10 people on the plane. Once we reach Ponsavan at 1,000 meters, just 40 minutes from Vientiane, we hit a cloudbank and I don’t see the sun for several more days. It’s a barren windblown place and the old man who gets off the plane before me heads in the wrong direction, towards a cow in the fields rather than to the terminal. The fields are bare and still pockmarked with American bombs dropped 40 years ago and this province is only now beginning to recover.
1,000 books is kind of a gamble. I’ve checked into a guesthouse and am looking at ten enormous boxes of books shipped in by bus. I’ve gotten money from a foundation and will subsidize book sales here in Xieng Khoung. I just picked this place from a map and got on the plane without any contacts, confident that I would somehow find them.
Xieng Khouang astounds me. Despite the buried bombs in the fields that still take off limbs, people’s spirits seem undaunted. Life is grim, but that only seems to feed their determination. It’s not like in Luang Prabang where rich tourists are mesmerized by the performances of poor students and end up making every day Christmas.
In the course of five days I visit most of the major schools in Ponsavan, the capitol of Xieng Khouang Province. I explain what I’ve brought and most people get it immediately, inviting me to visit classrooms and helping to sell books. One glance and they assess the books as useful and are eager to get them into the classrooms. I let teachers collect 12,000 kip a copy (usually selling for 17,000 in the city) and keep 2,000 for their efforts. The books are a hit and I am busy carting books by the hundreds to the various schools.
Usually, I’m given a brief. “OK, today we’ve got ten classrooms with around 40 students each. You’ve got five minutes for each.” Students leap up to greet us formally with palms held together. They shout out in unison, “Good morning teacher” and “How are you?” I find myself snapping into entertainment mode. “What’s in my bag? Can you guess? A dog? A cat? A water buffalo?” They respond to “water buffalo” and I know their level is not that low. Kids in this age group are sponges for language.
These schools are mostly private. Many use the facilities of public schools, but offer services that students are willing to pay for. Motivated by the bottom line, the administrators and teachers are eager to use new curriculum and learn new teaching methods. I banged my head on the wall for two years in Luang Prabang and never got this far. What a difference a province can make.
Teachers’ Training College
Finally, it’s time to go to Teachers College. My initial plan was to bring books here since it’s where the next generation of teachers are supposed to be trained. It’s far from town and there’s a headwind. The library is closed, the Self Access learning center is locked and nobody is in the English Resource Center room. The stairs are dirty. Students seem to be participating in a sports event, but it looks more like they’re doing mock military drills.
I’m wary of approaching the main administrative building because people there usually give me institutional reactions. I get the name of one English teacher and look for him. He tells me there is really no way to sell in the classrooms because nobody knows the book yet. He is uncooperative and I kind of let him know I think so.
I’m ready to give up when an aggressive student comes up. “May I help you?” He starts a barrage of questions and I return the questions as if it’s a contest. I get tired of the, “See? I can speak English” demonstrations. He wins me over though. Wong thinks the books will sell and offers to show them to his friends.
I like his spirit and let him know he gets a cut for every sale. His technique is not very refined. “Wanna English book?” “Hey, buy it, it’s only 12,000 kip.” He claims that his friends respect him because he is the best in his class. They follow his advice. It’s afternoon and most are hanging out in their miserable wood dorms. It’s cold and damp. Most say without thinking, “I don’t have money” though one student says so while pulling out his phone. It’s not an iPhone, but it has a finger swipe screen. We visit more of his friends. Those who do buy almost seem embarrassed to show that they are serious about studying. Wong admits that most spend their money on useless things. It’s 4:00, but there seems to be a lot of drinking.
Now, there is a leisurely exodus towards the classrooms. These are students heading to English class, but they seem apathetic and silly. The most active speaker is drunk. I’m tempted to say, “I’m not impressed with your school and think it’s hopeless” but Wong is a good sport and I think he already knows. A cluster of older students buy, but most of the younger students claim to have tight wallets. I give Wong some money for his efforts, some book samples and my contact number. I know I’ve met one of the small handfuls that will leave this place with some useful language skills.
I’m heading for my parked bicycle when someone makes direct eye contact and asks where I’m from. It’s the same English routine, “Oh, so you are from A-me-ri-ca” exaggerating the “r” to show that he’s studied English. He’s drunk, but I suspect he’s a teacher because he looks more like 28 than 22. He offers to help me, though he irritates me. He’s drunk and late for his class.
He says his classroom is far. I’m confused since it’s not the building that I just visited, but as is common at Teachers’ colleges, there are two tiers; regular students and “special students”. The regular students, according to some people, mostly come on scholarships. It either means they’ve gotten good scores or it means they’re connected. They basically have a free ride and this might explain the apathy. The “special” students are special because of the special fees they pay. They support the financial operation of the school.
The walls are slat wood, the desk are wobbly and the floors concrete. It’s dark. It’s not the building that’s so miserable, but the system. It seems that the more money students pay out of their own pockets, the lower the quality of the teachers. That’s how I see it. I’ve seen fairly trained, fluent teachers in classrooms that are clean and orderly. Here, there is a drunk teacher who doesn’t care about being late. I know this is the most neglected yet most important group of people. They want to learn. I can tell by the expressions on their faces. The students look slightly older. They wear oversized suit jackets and look at me intently like I’m some kind of opportunity that hasn’t come by in the last ten years.
I think the teacher is starting to figure out what might happen. He says he should just take book orders and collect the money later. I agree, but also want to unload the 80 books I’ve brought on my bike. 12,000 kip is a nightmare when handling change so I suggest I sell at the moment for 10,000 and he can take new orders for 12,000 in the future. I introduce the books. There’s a suspended moment when I think I might have to continue explaining. Then like the bell of an auction, the orders start coming in. Everyone is reaching for their pockets. I’ve got a pile of books cradled in my arm and walking around like a flight attendant, “Which book would you like?” These discerning consumers know what they want and within 10 minutes some 50 books have been sold. I estimate that almost every quiet, desperate, intent student has bought one.
The teacher is visibly upset. He’s chewing on pumpkin seeds and confused at what has just taken place. He has seen something equivalent to his month’s wage exchange hands in ten minutes. For sure, I want to give him a sample of the basic book, but then realize the tourism book is sold out. He’s upset. “I’m the only teacher who allowed you to sell in the classroom!” A pumpkin seed is dangling from his indignant lips. “Here’s my contact, you can call me”, I offer. “No, you call me”, he says. Fine, but I don’t know his number. He asks again, almost suspiciously if I have another tourism book and I shake my bags as if being frisked to show they’re all gone. Unfortunately, he recalls all my bad images of a teacher and I don’t try very hard to appease him. Why didn’t he think of buying a book for himself in the beginning anyway?
I’m bicycling back under heavy clouds. I regret handling it badly because I don’t think I’m going back. It’s not just the book sales, but the other students I’ve abandoned who might need a book. I feel like I’ve hastily thrown a thin lifeline to these desperate students without making sure everyone is safely aboard.
I’m racing back on my bicycle because I’ve agreed to go be at another school at 5:30. The teacher’s been waiting for me and he quickly consolidates the classes. I’m given time to explain the book. This time I’m careful and explain that I’ll leave books for him to take orders. I don’t want to make the same mistake again, but he doesn’t respond to my accommodations. The teacher keeps giving me mixed messages. “Why don’t you explain more about the book?” Why don’t you blah, blah, blah. Finally, he says go ahead and sell at 10,000. The buying rush is not as intense as the wood shack, but sales are good. I want to pack up, but he still doesn’t seem satisfied and wants help with pronunciation. No problem except that I’m supposed to explain phonetic symbols. I’m supposed to make the sound for a phonetic symbol. Well, “a” can be “a” in “father” or “a” or “fat” or “a” in “fate”. This is not a lesson I want to do. Then he asks me to explain the differences in the ending sounds of “s” in “boys” and “s” in “books”. This is the nightmare English class that I know happens throughout the entire country though I try not to think about it. These excruciatingly useless books that pop up everywhere like mold.
I give it a try without the teacher’s book. I try something active. I use gestures to drill vocabulary and within minutes, even the most sullen student is laughing. Everyone is attentive and focused, but the teacher still doesn’t get it. “Are you hungry?” I ask the students. “Well, I am, so I’m going home now, thank you.”
They ring the bell and while heading out I realize I haven’t been introduced to the other two teachers. I show them the books and explain that they can sell them if they wish. They seem nice enough, overjoyed actually and that worries me. Maybe they think the books are for free.
Weeks later after I’ve gone back to Vientiane. Wong calls me a few times. “You know, there are a lot of students here who really want the book.” I explain that one is sold out and the other is being sold at a bookstore in town. He doesn’t seem convinced. I guess people like their books delivered by hand.
The library
There is a nice library in Xieng Khouang. It’s nice and clean and neat. Two Japanese organizations support them. It looks like a nice Japanese library. There are no users, only the lonely looking librarian. He says one organization finishes its term in November and he doesn’t know what to do. He says there is a demand for technology and language books, but the English section isn’t sufficient. I propose that he sell books and explain that a bit of revenue could make the library more independent or even just give him some pocket money, but he is to shy to say that he’s not interested or has the ability. These are the Japanese aid agencies that take my business cards, ask for free samples and never call back. I guess I have to bring the books myself. Ha ha, beat you to it.
The educational advisor
Someone has come looking for me. His first question is, “You’re not making a profit, are you?” He’s the pedagogical advisor for the regional ministry of education and saw the book somewhere. I apologized that I hadn’t come to meet him first or followed government protocol by starting at the top before going down, but another administrator is shaking her head and dismissing my apologies. This man has fought his own battles. He explains how he pushed through English education years ago when he was told the only useful languages were Russian and Vietnamese. He says he was hassled in the 80s for simply being a monk and liking books. He has persisted.
He is in full support of the books. He likes how they are bilingual and specific for tourism and daily communication. Apparently, regional governments have full control over 20% of curricular decisions and he says I have the green light. If I can bring something good for elementary school, I will have full support in getting them distributed too all rural schools in the entire province. Wow. Guess it’s time to start writing again.
Now the plan is to introduce the books to 17 classes. They end up more like pep rallies. The kids are kind of whipped up into an excited frenzy and after class a crowd moves downstairs to buy books. Two girls are following me down the stairs, “We want to talk to you.” I’m trying to answer while someone else is asking, “What’s your name and where do you live?” He looks like a teacher, but he says he’s a student. He’s kind of gushing like a groupie, “I really like your book. I’m really interested in it.” I think I should be signing autographs or something, but I’m more concerned that books aren’t lost in the chaos. There is a pushing crowd for books. Afterwards, the teachers are muttering about a missing book and how it must have been a naughty student thief. Someone mentions something about books that disappear from libraries.
Finishing up
I’ve got lots of questions for the pedagogical advisor. I want to know what’s ticking in Xieng Khouang. He says the province is well known for producing high performing students. He says it’s because of its revolutionary history, because of poverty and because of regional pride. I think it’s because of the people I’ve met. Someone else later tells me that people are not spoiled like in Luang Prabang and have learned to do things themselves rather than wait for free handouts. He does finish by telling me to ask the Americans to help more. “Don’t you think it’s ironic that the Americans drop the bombs and the Japanese come to clean them up?” Aid organizations like to build schools, but he says, “Schools aren’t band-aids for bombs.”
I’ve left 50 books with a teacher from one school. I remember someone else giving me a slightly skeptical look when I agreed. Now I can’t contact her and nobody at the school that she said she would sell them at knows her. I’m getting nervous, not so much at the thought of losing 50 books, but at the thought of being duped. I wait at the school and one teacher is especially concerned. He says that he will call me in the afternoon and take me to her house if necessary. What I’m most curious about is how others react. In one scenario, people would pretend they have nothing to do with it. If I’m being shafted, I’m being shafted. To my relief, I sense that everyone feels responsible. They feel their communal credibility is at stake and I suspect someone has called her. “Get your butt over here, quick.” I’m just about to leave when she comes up with a big plastic bag full of books. She’s sold only a handful. She thought they were gold nuggets that were going to turn instantly into cash, but didn’t realize that it’s in the sales.
I should be tired after a week of whirlwind contacts, but there’s no stopping. I’m told that we’ll visit another private school and then go for dinner. We don’t coordinate well and don’t have any books to show at the school. I’m supposed to talk to the owners and give them advice, but they seem oddly distant and wooden. When I get this response, it lights a fuse. I get loud and dramatic. Someone says that I should write a book on how to make Lao liquor. I snap back, “I’m not taking orders. I’m just trying to do something that Lao people should be doing. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m working 3 times or 5 times or 10 times more than anyone else.” Nobody argues back, but a teacher says that he wouldn’t have the energy to do active English teaching for eight hours a day. It’s bait for a tired me. “I’m 48 and do you hear me complaining about being tired? Why should a young person be saying something like that?” The irritation comes from the well intended, but inappropriate suggestions I sometimes hear. “Where is the French book? Why don’t you add accent marks? Why don’t you reduce the price? Why don’t you write a dictionary?” I’m probably directing my anger at the wrong people, but the wooden administrator shows subtle signs of comprehension. Someone else is trying to send me subtle signals that it’s time to go. “Yes, yes you speak Lao so well.”
Now we’re going to dinner. I’m quiet on the motorbike ride back and still kind of stunned/sullen/full of remorse over my outburst. When I walk into their modest wooden house I think, “gee these faces look familiar.” I’ve seen his wife before and this guys looks familiar too. He’s the one who I snapped at about the Lao liquor and his wife is one of the teachers at the school. It always confuses me when the same people appear in unexpected places playing what I think are different roles. This time I try to make polite conversation because the guy still wants to talk about Lao liquor.
The hospitality puts me to shame and snaps me out of my bad mood. Sweet coffee and dinner helps too. The sticky rice is tasty, probably locally grown. Sometimes I don’t know if eating a lot is complimentary or impolite, but I eat my fill. I don’t mind that the local specialty of fermented swallow is not on the table. We have a bit of beer and talk like we’ve really got a great plan on how to make education work. They give me advice and ask for suggestions. They show me books that work and critique the parts that don’t. They talk like they know why it’s worth the effort. It’s about being professionals and making a good income for their family. It’s about doing something well and enjoying the satisfaction of good results. It’s about knowing why education is important and why it’s important to provide it for as many people as possible.
It’s a dream to me if it were possible to get books into the countryside. With just my bike, I have my limits. The teacher says he can do it. He can find the time. He can find the right people and he says it’s no problem getting books out to villages 100 km away. “They want the books”, he says. I know he can do it because he just sold 200 books in three days. He’s made the equivalent of a months’ wage. My fingers and toes are cold now and it’s time to go.
It’s pitch black out and Lao whiskey man helps me with his headlight. It’s cold and I ride as fast as I can to warm up. I think it’s a bit ironic. There are places far more beautiful in Laos. I don’t like the cold wind, the barren hills and the town spread out on a slight incline. At the same time, it’s taken two years to find a place like this. It only takes a few good people to make something really big happen. I’ll have to come back. Maybe it’s what the pedagogical advisor meant when he said that the Americans need to come back and help. Schools aren’t band-aids, but by the look on the faces of the wood shack students, a book is way better than a bomb.
