Dinosaurs are forever

Dinosaurs are extinct. They wouldn’t be happy in this age. Nobody would care for them as pets and they could never find their shoe size. They wouldn’t fit, but only for the reason that they didn’t evolve.

Even at their size, might wouldn’t always be right. These days, we like fair play and finishing off an opponent just because you have car-crushing pincers does not make for good sportsmanship.  Some people say it took a meteor to finish them off. I think they just ate their own babies.

Animation makes them fast, but I think they were slow. A lack of self-reflection retards one’s reflexes and they didn’t have hand mirrors. If they did, they would probably have feared their own image as a threat to their dinosaurisism. It’s not like their genetics resisted change. Sitting at the top of the food chain probably helped maintain their self-deceit.

Oh, I just think about dinosaurs because I saw one in concrete decorating the front of a guesthouse here. While other parts of present Laos were submerged, Savannakhet was a paradise on earth for dining dinosaurs so now their big bones resurface once in a while, if you know what I mean.

Full moon

It was a full moon if that makes any difference. Everything that could possibly go wrong for the speech contest happened. The computer and projector failed, mics went silent, nobody thought about turning on stage lights, MCs froze like deer in bright lights when life didn’t match their scripts.

I saw it coming. I couldn’t track down people for a whole weekend of dress rehearsals. I told the lip sync artists five times to bring a backup CD player. They remembered their false eyelashes, but not their music. Lip sync looks really bad when there’s no sound.

I had told myself to let it go, to keep a calm smile despite the worst. I moved to the back of the hall just to be sure I wouldn’t interfere, but once the videos that I had lovingly spent hours on played at 80 % speed, dragging ever moment into pain and boredom, I found myself in the control room before anyone could strap me down. “Shut it off! It’s so bad! Stop it nowww! It’s only later that I wondered if the whole audience could hear.

The four speakers were unruffled. At least they didn’t show it. They were prepared. Each day I saw them get better. One female student would stay until late in the dark hall, practicing each hand movement and turn of the head. Memory lapses were just prolonged breaths or a flutter of an eye. They were poised and nearly flawless. They rose like phoenixes above the disaster.

The event ended in a scattered mess. Speakers didn’t get their prizes and certificates, pictures weren’t taken and sullen rectors and deputies quickly shook hands and ran home wondering why they had bothered.

People tell me it wasn’t that bad. Students have told me this is usual, but I was disgraced. Was this my lesson? Was it hubris calling for a hard fall?

Trying to repair pride is probably as damaging as tripping over it, but the next day I find myself dusting off my trampled wings and strategizing again. My article about the contest will be in the Vientiane Times the next day. The guests from the northern college say it went “smoothly” (hah) and that they’re ready to implement new ideas back home. They’re talking about a national competition now. Will I be able to look back one day and laugh at this folly?

I feel bad not having had the chance to congratulate the speakers afterwards. The next morning I text messages to them and get one back full of happy icons. I see two in passing, one on a motorbike and another through an open window. We exchange big smiles. It’s a private smile between us that speaks a lot. On this day, it’s a happiness that has no bounds.

I know their day on that high stage is a turning point for them. Passing through the birth canal, prickled with nerves and personal fears, students come out the other end as a different person. They look shiny and confident and comfortable in a bigger world. I think they’ve flown from a nest and that’s why they look so radiant and airborne. I feel privileged to have been a witness and will always hope to see their happy gait again somewhere.

Shining stars

It’s the 30%, maybe the 5% or even the one in a million that reminds me I can’t give up. The reason is because one shining star can save the world and maybe even Laos.

Mr. K is my neighbor. I don’t see him behaving as the best student in his class. I seem him in his daily life, which can be more honest and revealing. This morning I see him dressed and ready to go somewhere with the aura of intention that demands the question, “Where are you going?” After all, it’s a Saturday.

He says he’s going to go to the Internet shop to look for pictures. He’s going to be teaching in a local school from February 2011 as part of his teacher training and wants to prepare things for his students. This is not a homework assignment. This is something motivated by the desire to use a Saturday well. He’s going alone so I know this is his own idea. You can’t start to imagine how exceptional this is.

I recognize his intentions because I have high hopes of spending a productive Saturday too. He’s noticeably deflated when told the electricity is out for the entire day. His plans for a productive day are shot.

He has an urge to search for information and this is very rare. Most are content with what’s fed to them in class, no matter how nonsensical it is. He already knows that there is more outside the little box he’s been trapped in.

His first Internet search did start with a class assignment. Was the teacher really so clever as to know how hard it would be to find “significant female Lao leaders?” They had to be dead too. I helped Mr. K search since I didn’t think he’d think to use the word “significant”. We found cabinet members, but they weren’t dead yet and wiki only had two sentences on them. He didn’t feel it was enough despite my urging and once we clicked away, he couldn’t find the page again for the next few days of searching.

“Martin, I’ve spent 4,000 Kip looking and have to come home with nothing.” I reminded him that he spends much more money at school for many more hours and probably comes home with less. Suddenly, he measures his own learning, be it by the clock or by Kip. It’s a new standard and there’s a new urgency.

He’s already tried the library, but it’s usually closed and the librarians don’t know Dewey from “don’t have”. I made Mr. K promise to get himself to a real library some day in his life, a library where the more esoteric his question, the more respect he’d get.

There are many things I have to ask him to believe since he’s never experienced them before. How would he know? He’s surprised to hear that dress codes aren’t the most important thing in American schools. I tell him, “People are judged by their minds, not by what’s on their feet,” and this surprises him.

Shining stars are lonely people because their lights are not reflected. If anything, they are envied or used by others. They don’t know that they are seeing things that others can’t see yet. People will try to pull them down, at least until their success and truth becomes undeniable dazzling. That’s what I urge them to aspire to.

Mr. K is listening seriously. I know he understands. It’s a weight and responsibility that many shining stars didn’t ask for, but once they’re lit, it is not acceptable for them to go back.

Med students

Sometimes I catch myself becoming a little too Lao. Things that seemed odd at first become natural, like the idea of eating insects. But there are limits. If the smell of burning plastic ever becomes fragrant, I’m going home.

Years ago I remember having a strange conversation in which some guy would pepper every comment with precise percentages. “74% of the people in this district want to study English.” “98% believe that educating their daughters is important.” “I ended the conversation when he said something about 100% of some ethnic minority being liars.

Recently I was pressing medical students for percentages. Being good students, they were resistant. “How can we quantify what you’re asking for?” I wanted to know the breakdown of students at the medical school. How many are studying, how many are drifting and how many are there for completely other reasons. The student gave in and came up with numbers. 30% are learning, 20% are not and 50% are there because their parents want them to be doctors.

I felt that my intuitive assessment had been confirmed and was impressed with the 30%. At the Teachers Training College the rate of competency can’t be over 5%. Some who are more precise say 3%. Just this morning one student asked me in a new hybrid of Lao/English, “Jao si go where?” Does that scare you? These are future teachers.

I’d be really scared if these were the students operating on me, but so far, the med students seem more legitimate. Not only are the books selling like toasted rice balls, there are students with an entrepreneurial streak who have caught on. They’re buying books for 12,000 and selling for 17,000. They pay cash first. You can’t imagine what a relief this is to me and how much of a total nightmare it is to leave books on consignment.

I spent many years and tens of thousands of dollars to develop something I thought could be used as an English language curriculum only to be greeted with blank stares. I made these books in direct response to the miserable things schools are insistent on using. One teacher complained that if they used my books, I would make too much money.

I talked to someone who has done education work in Africa and is convinced that the language education field throughout the world is a dead-end, especially when money is thrown at it. Medicine is not my specialty, but let’s hope the next time you’re on a Lao operating table, this investment pays off.