Lao work is like playing dodge ball in heavy traffic – or whatever metaphor will work explaining that you can’t always get where you want to go, work is sometimes slowed to a halt and that accidents happen On the other hand, there are always ways to simply jump on another bus and try another direction.
I get a new idea and chew until its finished. The other day I found an empty storefront for rent right across from a major high school. The owner said he’d rent for 6 million a year (Something like $700 US). I wanted to rent for one day and give it a try. The floor just needed sweeping and I didn’t care about the sand lot in front or the reinforcing cables strewn around in the back. I needed a table, two chairs and some string to hang up books and make it attractive. Shop is open for business. No problem.
I had to talk to the son to get his permission. We were on the phone for more than 40 minutes. No language, English or Lao could convince him. I wouldn’t give up because he had no legitimate excuse. “The room’s not finished”. He said. “For me, it’s not a problem.”, I would say once or twice or eventually shouted three times to try to get through. It’s like those forest fire warning signs. We start with damp, cool and safe and progress to red-hot flaming. I went in for my final power shot. “You’re privileged. You’ve had a chance to be educated. Most people in Laos don’t have that chance. I don’t want this room for my own interests. I’m trying to help you country so that this miserable state of education doesn’t have to last forever. Do you understand? Why can’t you help me? I’m only asking for one day.”
I can sense a change in tone. He’s softening. I have the phone to his father to see if they can agree on a final deal. My phone battery is ready to give out, but he gives in. I’ve got a day.
His mother says, “He’s a stubborn bastard, isn’t he?” I can’t believe she’s saying this. I apologize for being so rude. “You weren’t rude at all. You talked kind of loud, but he’s got a stone head. My daughter-in-law is much more reasonable.”
They tell me that ten, mind you, ten people have called to rent the place and each time he’s said, “Oh, ho hum, I don’t know.” I’m the eleventh and the first to get through to him. Not bad for broken Lao. Not surprising for stubborn Martin.
Shop is open
We hand out flyers in front of the school gate across from our new shop. It’s after eight and the late students are streaming in. The stream includes late teachers. They’re ready to close the gate and then there’s a reverse stream of students leaving. It’s like a fish ladder with not many fish spawning. What’s going on with this school?
I decide to use my thick skin and get my way into the school. A teacher takes me to the administrator and I get ready for another stubborn moment. He understands, but clouds over saying that he’d need to clear it with this committee and that committee and that we’d need a microphone. I can see the read stamps.
Then I go again for the power point. “I don’t have time. I’ve come from Vientiane to promote books. You don’t have time, because your school and your country is bleeding. I’ve seen students streaming out of this school and I’ve seen students finish higher education with knowledge so low that they are unemployable. I just need three minutes for each class. It’s not just about books sales, it’s about inspiring them to study, to use their brains and give themselves a decent future.”
He gives in. I get three classes. The teacher takes me around and I end up getting to talk to eight. He’d be ready to take me to all 74, but I’m losing my voice. The students are OK. They’re fairly responsive and what you’d expect from teenagers, but many classes don’t have a teacher or if they do, they seem too sullen to be good educators.
I expect a flood of students to come and buy books. By lunch, we’ve sold one. We eat lunch and call it a day. This is not where we need to sell books. BounNgeun wants to sell at the ethnic orphan high school that he graduated from. He says it’s poor, but the teachers are strict, they care more and he feels he got a decent education. He’s convinced that students will pay for books with their own money.
We chalk it up as a learning experience. Later, a private school administrator describes the situations as “weird”. It’s “weird” she says. It’s weird that students say they want an education, but don’t know the value of a book. She says country kids want to study, but can’t. She says city kids have the chance to study, but don’t. It’s another mysterious, but convincing formula that can explain education in Laos.
It takes a bit of stubbornness. It takes stamina to explain to people about something they have no concept of. It takes persistence to stick with something that doesn’t promise quick results. It takes stubbornness to say, “No, we don’t have to settle for this.” There’s got to be something better than this.
